Kidnapped by Gaddafi

The man offers me a date. “Very good dates. My wife buys them at our local market.”

I take the date and eat it. The skin is dried and tough, not at all like the store-bought dates from the States. He watches me carefully, waiting for my reaction. I nod appreciatively and swallow. We’ve been waiting together at the departure gate for about ten minutes. The Cairo airport is shabby by western standards, and there are very few amenities in the terminal. I am grateful for the tough date.

The man yawns, and I remark that perhaps we’ll get some sleep on the five-hour flight to Nairobi. He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can never sleep on a plane. I was kidnapped once while flying. Since then, I am always nervous when I fly.”

The man is Egyptian, I’ve learned, a salesman for construction equipment and destination-marketing books. I think that is an odd combination, but I do not question it. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, well-dressed, graying hair and an easy smile.

“What do you mean, kidnapped? Your plane was hijacked?”

He nods solemnly, then chuckles at my look of incredulity. “It was in 1996,” he tells me. “I was flying from Luxor to Cairo. We were about to land when the pilot told us we were being diverted. Nobody knew what was happening. There was a man who told us to stay in our seats. Eventually we found out we were being kidnapped. We were afraid he would take us to Israel. We were a little bit relieved when we found out we were headed to Libya instead. Israel would have been very difficult. Things in Gaza were not so well at the time. Of course most of the other passengers were tourists from Canada and Europe and Japan. They were not so happy.

“We landed in a Libyan town not far from the Egyptian border. We had to stay seated for hours. Eventually, the police came aboard. They had arrested the kidnapper. We were taken to a very luxurious hotel and fed very good dinner. It was very fancy.”

The man shook his head. “Moamar Gaddafi came to greet us. We waited for him, all together, all the passengers, at the hotel. It was a very strange experience. The TV film people were there, from CNN and the BBC, with their cameras. Colonel Gaddafi came and shook the hand of every passenger while they filmed. He was wearing a ridiculous tribal robe with gold threads. He was trying to look like an African tribal chief, I guess. Anyway, he shook all our hands while the news crews filmed.”

“You shook the hand of Colonel Gaddafi?”

“Yes. He was very friendly to us, but he was crazy, you know. Like your Donald Trump.”

When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Mubarak was the Egyptian president. He said he was sending a rescue plane to pick us up, but instead they flew us home on the hijacked plane the next day. We spent the night in a luxury Libyan hotel, but we were very relieved when we returned home.” He looked at me with a grimace. “This is why I am a nervous flyer. Even though it was so long ago, I never forget. You never forget such a thing. It is for this reason I never sleep on a plane.”

He opens the bag of dates and offers me another. Even though I don’t really want it, I take it anyway. We both sigh, and I eat it, chewing the tough fruit and looking at the waiting crowd, wondering about my fellow passengers.