When I was in my early twenties, living in a foreign land where I had no friends, a Pakistani man spoke to me at a local restaurant. He was a tall, rotund fellow with a jovial manner, and he was a Muslim. He just sat down at my table, asking me if I minded if he joined my meal — I didn’t. Spoke to me about his homeland, his father and mother and his foreign co-workers in Scotland where he used to work…
By the time it was time to pay, I excused myself: “I’ll go and pay, Sir,” I said. He put his hand on my shoulder and said: “Don’t bother, the restaurant is mine. The meal is on me!” I was amazed by his generosity. I’d frequently dine in his place after that, and he’d often let me eat for free. I’d insist on paying and he’d tell me there was no need: “The restaurant is a passion project,” he would say, “my main business is electronics. I really don’t need the money, trust me…” This man had four daughters, and he saw to it they were well-educated. He told me no child without an education has any future, regardless of gender. His mother, he said to me, had been a scientist back in Pakistan.
This man helped me through some tough times, as did some other Muslim friends of mine. Why would I bash their religion? He spoke of his faith often, and with reverence. I responded respectfully, too. My friend said Islam stood at the base of his generosity. And nothing he or any of my other Muslim friends ever did ever gave me any reason to doubt that.
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