Miles To Go Before I Sleep

by Jackie Nink Pflug

  It was especially dangerous for Americans traveling abroad. For the first time, average American citizens were being singled out as victims of bombings, hijackings, shootings, and other acts of terror. The Ayatollah Khomeini, ruler of Iran, declared open season on Americans, and much of the Arab world followed suit. U.S. support for Israel enraged extremist groups claiming to represent Palestinian interests.

  In the TWA hijacking, PLO terrorists forced the pilot to land in Algeria. For the next three days, the hijackers ordered the plane back and forth between Algeria and Lebanon and murdered U.S. Navy Diver Robert Stetham. Eventually, about seventy hostages—including thirty-nine Americans—were taken from the plane and held for fourteen days in various Beirut locations by Amal, a Shiite Muslim militia. They demanded the release of more than seven hundred Shiites jailed by Israel to end their siege.

  PLO terrorists on the Achille Lauro shot and killed Leon Klinghoffer, a sixty-nine-year-old wheelchair-bound retiree from Garden City, New Jersey, and threw him overboard.

  In the United States, security was stepped up at many government and military installations. Air traffic to Europe slowed to a trickle as thousands of Americans canceled or postponed vacations and business trips, deciding it was just too dangerous to risk going abroad.

  Many friends warned me not to go to the Middle East.

  Before starting the 1985–86 school year, I’d flown back to Houston to plan my wedding with Scott. I was sitting in Barb Wilson’s kitchen, writing out wedding invitations, when news of the TWA hijacking flashed on the screen.

  “Jackie, look at this,” Barb said.

  I looked up from what I was doing and focused on the television.

  For a couple of minutes, we silently stared at the screen and listened to the voices of TWA Capt. John Tesstrake and the hijackers who were pointing a loaded gun at his head.

  “Jackie, you know if you go overseas, that’s a real possibility,” Barb said, with concern.

  I said, “Oh, Barb, don’t be ridiculous. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen to people we know—and it sure isn’t going to happen to me.” I assured her everything would be okay.

  I was determined not to live my life in fear. That’s exactly what the terrorists wanted to accomplish by randomly terrorizing average Americans. They wanted to inject fear into all of our hearts—to make us pull back and retreat from our involvement in the world.

  I never really thought much about terrorism when I was living overseas. I never would have considered letting the fear of terrorists stop me from fully living my life or pursuing my dreams.

  Yet I couldn’t very well close my eyes and pretend that we weren’t living in a war zone. While we were living in Egypt, Scott was a daily reader of newspapers that were filled with stories of conflict and tension in the Middle East. He closely followed the TWA hijacking and other activities by terrorists. Hijackings and terrorist acts were everyday occurrences in this part of the world.

  One afternoon in late October, I was walking through downtown Cairo when I saw a small crowd of Western-looking people gathered outside the American embassy. A shopkeeper told me they were survivors from the Achille Lauro hijacking getting ready to return to the United States.

  My curiosity was piqued by these men and women. I’d never talked to someone who had been hijacked. Wow, I thought, that must be exciting. I wanted to hear their stories.

  The Athens airport was an international hot spot all that summer and fall. On June 18, four days after the TWA hijacking, the U.S. State Department issued a travel advisory warning American travelers to avoid the Athens airport. But the advisory was lifted on July 22—four months before I flew into Athens—after careful inspections by the International Air Transport Association and the Federal Aviation Administration led to tighter security. Both agencies ultimately labeled the Hellinikon one of the world’s “best guarded” terminals.

  Extra security had been added recently. On November 20, the day Scott and the girls arrived in Athens, sixty people were injured, including twenty police officers, in an ugly street riot. Radical student protesters who blamed the United States for supporting a military dictatorship in their country from 1965 to 1971 tried to firebomb the American embassy in Athens.

  Walking through the airport, I noticed that the number of security guards had been tripled or quadrupled from just two days earlier, when I flew into Athens from Cairo. I could feel the tension and fear of terrorism in the air and see it in people’s eyes.

  Before boarding my flight back to Cairo, I stood in a long line to have my bags checked for guns or explosive devices. The airport security guards made us put our suitcases on a long metal table and open them for inspection. As I watched them sifting through other people’s bags by hand, I thought, I could have a gun in my bag and no one would know it. I was irritated and concerned by the sloppy way that the guards were pawing through our luggage.

  My thoughts were interrupted when two Greek men cut right in front of me in line. I bristled with anger. Who did these jokers think they were? Whatever happened to common courtesy? I wanted to tell them off, then decided not to bother.

  After walking through the airport metal detector, I looked down at my watch to check the time: it was 8:27 P.M. My mind drifted back to the volleyball tournament. The girls must be playing by now…. I wondered how they were doing….

  My irritation at the two Greek men soon faded as I settled in a long line waiting to board the plane. As I looked around, I noticed a group of beautiful Arab children laughing and playing in the terminal. This group of eight to ten year olds was a joy to behold. Their little faces and dark shining eyes were glowing with positive, hopeful energy. Their proud parents stood close by, talking with one another while keeping a watchful eye on the kids.

  My love for children is what led me into teaching. In Cairo, I taught special education classes for children this same age. One of the kids in this group reminded me of a little girl I taught at CAC. She had the same wonderful, infectious smile and the same glowing tan skin as my student Alysha.

  “Passengers on EgyptAir Flight 648 nonstop service to Cairo may now begin boarding,” a Greek man’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. Finally, the line was moving. I began talking to a Canadian woman who was traveling with her baby. I helped her carry the baby carriage down the stairs to where the plane was waiting.

  I shivered slightly in the blowing wind as we climbed up the stairs leading to the front door of the plane.

  After stepping into the plane, I quickly found my third row aisle seat. I liked being near the front of the plane, closer to the center of action.

  I reached up to stow my carry-on bag in the overhead bin. As I turned back to sit down, my gaze fixed on a passenger sitting across the aisle.

  I found myself staring into the piercing blue eyes of a young, curly-haired man. He wore a well-tailored sport coat and tie, and looked like a businessman. He was attractive, solidly built, with finely chiseled Semitic features. A good-looking man.

  Two very attractive, refined, well-dressed women were sitting next to the handsome stranger. The women both had dark hair and dark eyes. One of them looked at the man with a little extra interest.

  But something was wrong. The curly-haired man seemed agitated or upset. He didn’t talk to the two women. Instead, he clutched his briefcase tightly and was dripping with sweat. He looked very controlled, as if he was determined to do something and nothing was going to stop him. He kept shifting his eyes from the front to the rear of the plane. I felt the fear in his eyes, and thought maybe it was his first time flying.

  A flight attendant approached our seats and then stopped. She looked down at the floor and pointed to a black briefcase blocking the aisle. “Whose briefcase is this?” she asked a male passenger.

  “It’s not his! Leave it alone!” the curly-haired man yelled back at her and snatched the briefcase.

  It seemed odd. Was he on drugs? I quickly dismissed the thought and settled back in my seat.


  As I flipped through the pages of my magazine, flight attendants at the front of the plane demonstrated how to use the life jackets under our seats in case we had to make an emergency landing. They also showed us how to fasten our seatbelts and use the oxygen masks, should the cabin suddenly depressurize.

  I looked up briefly, then returned to my reading. What’s the big deal? I thought. How hard can it be to use one of these things? You just stick it over your mouth and breathe.

  My mind was already back in Cairo as we taxied for takeoff. I was glad to be going home. I was thinking about my students and classes the next day and the Thanksgiving dinner that friends were preparing for my arrival. I felt so grown up and “civilized.” Here I was, Jackie Nink Pflug, from Pasadena, Texas, jetting back and forth between two of the world’s most ancient civilizations—the center of so much culture, philosophy, art, and science. What a trip! My dreams were coming true.

  We were cleared for takeoff shortly after 9 P.M. As the engines roared, I plopped the new Springsteen cassette into my Sony Walkman. “Born in the USA” was blaring in my earphones as we lifted off the ground and steadily ascended to cruising altitude.

  As the “Fasten Seatbelt” signs went off, I lowered my seat back to a comfortable position and took off my headphones. Since I love making new friends, I offered some caramels to an older Egyptian man sitting next to me. We chatted a while. He was curious about why I’d come to live and work in Cairo. I told him about my love for children and travel and asked about his family. Egyptians are very family oriented and love talking about their children and spouses. My new friend was delighted when I asked to see pictures of his wife and two handsome young sons.

  After talking a while and listening to more music, I caught the smell of deli sandwiches drifting my way. The flight attendants were moving up and down the aisle, passing out dinner trays. I hadn’t eaten much before we left, so I was looking forward to the in-flight meal. As the flight attendant edged toward my seat, I heard some commotion behind me.

  When I turned around, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  The curly-haired man who had been sitting across the aisle from me was now standing in the aisle with a gun in one hand and two grenades in the other. He was tugging at the safety pin of one of the grenades with his teeth, but couldn’t remove it.

  The two pretty women who were sitting next to him looked terrified. The one who was sitting in the middle seat, right next to the hijacker, had a look of terror and hysteria on her face. She leaned toward her friend, trying to get away from the curly-haired man.

  This can’t be! This can’t be happening. Why isn’t somebody doing something? Why are we all just sitting around? We have to do something!

  I was seized with fear and panic. It was the worst feeling of my life.

  I turned around again to confirm the terrible scene, desperately hoping I’d imagined it. But it was no mirage. The curly-haired man was still there, grimacing with fear and anger. The nightmare was real. We were being hijacked.

  People panicked and started getting up out of their seats and reaching into the overhead bins to check their money or carry-on bags.

  “Sit down and shut up! Get back in your seats!” the hijacker screamed at a group of Filipinos sitting in the back.

  We froze from the horror of it all.

  “Are we going to be okay?” I asked my Egyptian seatmate, desperate for reassurance. His head was bowed in prayer, and he said nothing.

  Time seemed to stand still. It was as if I had entered a completely different type of reality—my worst nightmare was being played out right in front of my eyes.

  “Don’t move!” the curly-haired hijacker shouted in Arabic and English.

  To protect myself, I instinctively leaned forward and covered my face with my hands and silently whispered, “Oh, my God!” This is it, I thought, I’m going to die. My whole life was suddenly and unexpectedly about to end.

  In quick succession, two sharp blows landed on my head. Slowly, I lifted my head. The curly-haired man was standing over me, digging the cold, hard steel of his six-shooter revolver into my skull.

  “Are you scared, lady?” he asked in a mocking tone.

  I held my breath, trying to control my quavering voice and shaking hands.

  “No, I’m not,” I gulped.

  On that cue, my Egyptian friend snapped out of prayer and began shouting at the hijacker in Arabic. The hijacker yelled back in Arabic. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but knew the old Egyptian was trying to protect me.

  With the gun still at my temple, I put my hand on the Egyptian’s knee. “It will be okay. Don’t do this,” I said.

  In my mind, I saw the hijacker saying, “Look buddy, don’t argue with me”—then Bang! The curly-haired hijacker left my side when the old Egyptian stopped arguing and returned to prayer.

  A second hijacker with straight hair stood up and forced his way into the cockpit and confronted the EgyptAir copilot, Imad Bahi-El-Din. At first, Bahi-El-Din thought it was a prank. He half smiled at the hijacker—his entrance was so theatrical. On taking a second glance at the grenade in his left hand and the pistol in his right, however, the copilot knew this was no joke.

  The group hijacking the plane called itself the “Egypt Revolution.” They ordered the pilot to change course for Libya. But the captain, Hani Galal, warned there wasn’t enough fuel to make it.

  The captain radioed several countries, asking permission to change course and land—but every request was refused.

  The situation was desperate. Galal and his copilot warned the hijackers that the plane would crash into the sea unless it landed on the Mediterranean island of Malta, a tiny country about the size of Rhode Island, between Sicily and North Africa. He radioed Malta and was initially denied permission to land. After explaining our dangerous position and pleading with Maltese officials, they reluctantly gave in.

  In the main cabin, one of the hijackers ordered a flight attendant to translate his instructions. “Nobody does anything but what I say,” the hijacker’s helper told us. “Do what I tell you, and nobody gets hurt.”

  On our way to Malta, the hijackers donned black masks and moved passengers sitting in the front of the plane to the rear of the plane. I was the last passenger from the front section to change seats, and I was moved to the last row aisle seat, next to another hijacker. I could see he had glasses on underneath the mask.

  From my new position, I could see some of the children standing up in their seats and facing toward the back of the plane. These sweet, innocent little faces staring back at me were the same ones I’d seen in the airport terminal just a few minutes ago.

  I looked over and saw two attractive women sitting right across the aisle from me—the pair appeared to be a mother and her daughter. I later learned that Mrs. Guadelupe Palla de Ortiz De Pinedo and her daughter, also called Guadelupe, were two very popular and famous actresses who had appeared in numerous Mexican film, television, and stage productions. They were ending a two-month European holiday which had taken them to Britain, France, Spain, Switzerland, Belgium, Italy, and Greece.

  After we were settled in our new seats, the hijackers began rounding up our passports. In shock and stunned silence, we raised our hands over our heads as ordered.

  One hijacker forced a crew member to assist him in collecting our passports. In twos, they systematically approached each of us. The hijacker held a gun to our bodies while the flight attendant frisked us for possible weapons. They threw each passport into a briefcase.

  I sensed a sinister purpose behind this move and considered ways to disguise my citizenship. I remembered the earlier conversation I’d heard between the two Mexican women. Maybe I could pretend to be Spanish. I had short, black, curly hair, a dark tan, and, in Texas, people often mistook me for Mexican. I studied Spanish in elementary and high school and remembered a few basic words and phrases. It might work.

  My appearance might fool the hijackers. Yet my Levi jeans and Nike running sho
es pegged me as distinctly American….

  The hijackers approached a well-dressed, broad-shouldered man near the front of the plane and demanded his passport. He reached into his jacket pocket—and pulled out a gun. He was a plainclothes EgyptAir security guard assigned to our flight as a safety precaution.

  Bang! The first shot rang out. More followed. In the chaos and confusion, twenty-two bullets were fired; some hit the passengers and the aircraft, others ricocheted in all directions. I hid behind the seat in front of me to escape the hailstorm. The bullets badly damaged the plane’s cabin and fuselage, and, in a matter of seconds, we dropped like a rock, losing twenty thousand feet of altitude. This caused the cabin to depressurize and left us gasping for air. It was pure pandemonium. Passengers were screaming and shouting amid total chaos.

  During the descent, there was a sudden swoosh as the orange oxygen masks dropped from above. I pulled mine over my face, but no air came out. I couldn’t get it to work—and I was suffocating. I kept hitting the thing, desperately trying to make it work. The hijacker wearing glasses underneath his mask was standing beside me. He saw me hitting my mask, coughing, and suffocating because I couldn’t get any air.

  Because I hadn’t been listening to the flight attendant’s instructions, I didn’t know that you have to yank the cord to get air flowing through the mask.

  The hijacker hit the male EgyptAir flight attendant sitting next to me on the shoulder and muttered something in Arabic. A week before, I’d started learning Arabic, but I didn’t understand what he was saying. Instantly, the Egyptian man gave me his oxygen mask and I could now breathe. The hijacker had ordered him to help me. The two of us shared the mask from then on.

  I turned to thank the hijacker. He said nothing.

  In the blaze of gunfire exchanged by the hijackers and guards, several passengers were wounded. One of the hijackers, the curly-haired man I’d noticed shortly before takeoff, was killed in the gunfire; the EgyptAir security guard lay bleeding near the front of the plane. It turned out that there were three other security guards on board, but they were not able to get to guns that were stowed in the overhead compartments.