Keeping the faith
One of the great privileges of flying is observing and respecting the various cultures that come your way. On the airplane you might notice a man with a black top hat, long curls extending from his sideburns, and a fairly long beard. Nine times out of ten, he is Jewish, or more specifically, a Hasidic Jew.
I was scheduled to work on a flight to Munich one September evening when I got pulled off, and rescheduled for a Tel Aviv flight. A Jewish group had requested a male flight attendant, and on that particular flight there were none. I was delighted because I had never been to Tel Aviv, but the flight attendant who was pulled off was not overly amused. While I am no expert on the Jewish faith, I was told that it had to do with women and their monthly cycle.
When sundown was determined, half of the plane was standing, chanting and praying. It was an unusual and interesting sight to see, but it made toilet access quite impossible.
On my return flight, I was in charge of a little boy six years old, who was flying by himself (known in airline terms as an “unaccompanied minor”). He was seated next to a Hasidic man.
The man called me over, and insisted that the little boy be moved to another seat. He said he did not want to sit next to an “obviously spoiled non-Jewish brat.”
I tried to move the child, but it was a full flight so I couldn’t reseat him.
The man decided to take it upon himself to try and educate the little boy on how bad his parents’ religion was, and how the little boy lived a corrupted life-style, and so on. The little boy, not thrilled with insults about his parents, eventually fell asleep and there was peace for the time being. The little boy woke up and luckily enough the man had just fallen asleep.
Toward the end of the flight, I was serving breakfast at the front of the cabin and looked back on the boy to see if all was well. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him doing something rather curious. I couldn’t quite make it out. He was standing on his seat and bending over the man with a pair of scissors (this was pre-9/11).
Oh my God. No!
I wanted to yell out to him but every one was sleeping. With one snip of the scissors the right lock of the Hasidic man’s hair was severed. I ran back to prevent World War III. The boy just sat there with the biggest smile on his face, holding up the strand of hair and looking at it, as the man continued to slumber away.
I got the little boy’s bags and moved him up to first class in a hurry, for fear of what this man might do when he woke up. Imagine the amount of time it must have taken him to grow it, and more importantly, it was part of his religion. I put the lock of hair into his bag to avoid further embarrassment, and waited for the worst to happen.
We were on our final descent when the man finally woke up. A curious thing happened; he didn’t notice it was missing. He was bound to discover his loss if he went to the restroom, but luckily he was too late for that, because the seatbelt sign was on. I hid from the man, but kept an eye on him just in case. We landed, and he deplaned without noticing.
I didn’t have the heart, or the guts, to tell him.
The boy stood at the door with the captain’s hat on and waved a big smiling goodbye to the man when he got off. He merely waved back in disgust, and disappeared into the sea of people.
I don’t know if it was my imagination or not, but I could have sworn that I heard a yell of despair when I exited the plane. I walked a bit faster.