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facts & arguments

Drew Shannon/The Globe and Mail

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

It was noisy and busy at 1 in the morning at Islamabad International Airport. I heard the boarding call for my flight to Toronto.

I had said goodbye to my sister and father through a haze of numbness, and spent the last hour hunched over my luggage writing a letter to my mother that would not be sent. She had refused to come and see me, her 19-year-old daughter, fly off to Canada as a foreign student: For a single girl to go away on her own was unheard of and, well, against societal (and, to some extent, religious) norms.

I was a week late for the fall, 2001, undergraduate orientation week, but that was low on my list of recent worries about getting out of Pakistan. I'd been afraid my dad might change his mind about paying my tuition, or that I might cave in to the guilt trips my family laid on me regularly for a full year before finally relenting. I was scared of somehow screwing up this opportunity.

I dragged my slightly oversized carry-on bag as I made my way to the plane. The pilot was standing at the door of the Pakistan International Airlines flight. As my bag brushed past him, he gave me a dirty look and hissed that I should know better than to bring a bag that size on the plane. He told me it should have cost $100 American in a tone that said: "You obviously don't have that kind of money."

Too shocked by his sheer rudeness to say anything, I kept my head down and went inside the cabin to find my seat. It was in the smoking section (yes, in 2001, pre-9/11, some airlines allowed you to smoke on board). Again, I did not dare protest.

My ticket had been booked only two days earlier: My father had been hoping I'd change my mind, and now this seat was the only seat left.

I sat down next to a Pakistani man in his late 30s. He greeted me as I settled into my seat. I greeted him back, awkwardly. In my segregated culture, I had never had a face-to-face conversation with a male stranger before. I wasn't sure how this was going to turn out. I turned away to create a bit of distance. I knew I would talk to him at some point, but just then I wanted to be as alone as possible.

I looked around the crammed cabin. There were families, individuals, couples, even a kid travelling by himself. All of a sudden I felt very old and tired. My heart was numb, even though I knew I was doing the right thing. I pushed these thoughts out of my head. My emotions were far too powerful to be expressed in public.

After 15 minutes or so, my neighbour spoke to me again.

"Hi! My English name is Carl and my Muslim name is Khalil and I'm a gay man," he said. He pronounced Muslim like non-Muslim Westerners do – "Mos-lem."

I was a little shocked. Surely, I thought, any brown folks living in the West would stick to only one name, preferably the Muslim one. The part about him being a gay man was not as shocking for me, though I was surprised he would be so open about it – we were still in Pakistani territory, on a Pakistani airline. He seemed harmless, so I decided to be friendly.

"My name is Amna and that's my only name," I said. He smiled and the ice was broken.

We chatted comfortably on and off for the rest of the flight. He told me about when he came out to his family in Canada and how they had initially been disappointed, but eventually accepted it because they loved him. He told me about all the travelling he'd done, and, most importantly, he told me what Canada was like even before I saw it for myself.

In the first hour of conversation, I learned that in Canada you can have two names, you can sleep with whomever you want and your parents just have to deal with it, and that you can be in a relationship and still flirt with the cute male steward. I had no idea the steward was gay until Carl flirted shamelessly with him when he brought us our Coke and tea. "He is definitely gay," Carl smiled as he sipped his tea. I was again too surprised to say anything. I didn't know you could tell if someone was gay if they didn't tell you directly.

Carl and I spoke about music. He seemed to favour rustic folk music from Pakistan, while I preferred contemporary. Perhaps he found the folk music exotic, since he'd grown up in Canada.

I told him why I was going to Canada. On paper it was to go to university, but really it was so that I could just be myself. I took my personal freedom seriously, and had grown up feeling odd in conservative Peshawar, where family is considered more important than anything else.

Carl smoked continuously, and I held my breath a lot during the flight. I was newly independent, but hadn't learned yet how to react in unfamiliar situations.

Years later, it struck me how very Canadian the whole experience was.

I've never regretted my decision to go to a far-away icy land to live my life as I wanted. Eventually my family came around as well, and admitted I had made the right decision. Canada has been my teacher, my saviour and a place where I will always feel welcomed.

Amna Bakhtiar lives in Toronto.

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