The concept of friendship has always been a slippery slope for me. This stems, in part, from the mysterious abduction of my brother. He was fifteen, on his way to meet a friend, when he was kidnapped – Bollywood-style, with a chloroform-laced handkerchief, probably an Omni van too. He returned home three days later, dazed and disoriented. My parents wondered if his friend was involved, especially since there were no ransom calls. I was only eight at the time, and that incident instilled in me a healthy dose of suspicion about the world. “People are not what they seem to be,” my parents cautioned. “There are masks underneath masks.”
Add to this the complexities of being queer and having a Muslim surname, and a significant chunk of typical teenage experiences was off-limits. No sleepovers, no late-night parties, no inviting friends over for games. But we all crave these personality-defining adventures, and I rebelled against my parents’ rules, making plans with friends and sneaking out in the dead of night.
Earlier this year, sitting comfortably in my business class suite aboard an Emirates flight from Dubai to London, I encountered a different kind of friendship – one far removed from the usual parameters that define it on solid ground. A long flight is a transitory space, a kind of limbo. You don’t know what awaits you on the other end, and it’s completely acceptable if your interaction with a stranger turns sour. Unless, of course, you decide to urinate on your fellow passenger after getting drunk.
A few hours after takeoff, I found myself at the Emirates 380’s redesigned Onboard Lounge, its glossy takeaway bar open to first and business class passengers seeking respite from the monotony of a long flight. It was just before lunch, and I noticed a man in his forties, Greek numbers tattooed on his lower wrist, furiously sketching a large building in his notepad. Intrigued, I asked him what he was doing, fully expecting a dismissive “don’t-annoy-me-and-let-me-work” response. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I’m just trying to replicate this building I saw in the movie O Drakos (1956).”
Over the next half-hour, I discovered that he was a teacher, preferring to be called by his second name, Papageorgiou. He shared his deep affection for the silliness of O Drakos (a film about an anxious man mistaken for a ruthless criminal who rules the underworld until his act is up and gets killed by gangsters). He also regaled me with tales of his birthplace, the island of Folegandros, brimming with witches and magic. “You must be wondering how a teacher like me can afford a business class ticket,” he said as I tried to absorb these strange and disconnected snippets of information. “But anything is possible if you save enough. Life is too short to be living based on the stereotypes associated with your role. As we say in Greece, ‘Eleftheria i thanatos’ – freedom or death.”
I wished him well and returned to my seat for lunch, but I didn’t see him again when I went back to the bar. Papageorgiou, with his flannel shirt, wavy hair, and unnaturally long sketching pencil, was a refreshing break from the usual passengers you would expect to encounter in a business class lounge.
His replacement at the bar was Lydia Wong, a Cantonese opera singer from Hong Kong. She looked like a character straight out of a Wong Kar-wai movie: cheeks flush with rouge, lipstick so red it was almost black, and a heavily embroidered purple long coat. She spoke about the lost art of Cantonese opera and how, unless you work for a luxury hotel, you are relegated to stretching your vocal cords at the corner of Temple Street in exchange for a few dollars. “China is slowly eating the soul of Hong Kong,” she proclaimed like an oracle. “Soon there will be nothing left of the original city. We will have to make do with our claypot rice and those rickety trams of the old world going ding-ding.”
I had loved Hong Kong during my visit the previous year, more than any other city I’d been to. Probably because I never set foot in the “old” Hong Kong of Miss Wong – the one where opera singers have to beg on Temple Street. When I told her this, she took a long sip of her Pimm’s Cup, a gin-based cocktail, and offered me her place to stay the next time I was in the city. Miss Wong wanted me to experience the remnants of the old world still gently nibbling away at the stillness: dimsums at 4 AM at Su Hing, a walk in the golden light of the evening by the Shing Mun River, and roasted pigeon with Blue Girl beer at Oi Man Sang.
If I ever visit Papageorgiou’s Greek hamlet or Miss Wong’s generous home, it would naturally be against my parents’ wishes. The thought that their child is living with a Greek teacher who consumes wine and is in turn consumed by buildings appearing in ’50s movies or a Cantonese opera singer who lives life on the edge is enough to send chills down their spine. Maybe the next time they try to throw a wrench in my adventures, I’ll tell them what Papageorgiou told me: “Freedom or death.”
Queerness and Islam were never mutually exclusive for me. But the cautious world my parents tried to shield me from shaped my perception of friendship. Meeting Papageorgiou and Miss Wong, both defying societal expectations and living life on their own terms, forced me to re-evaluate my own understanding of freedom and the power of embracing the unknown. Their stories reminded me that life is too short to live based on stereotypes, and that sometimes, the most unexpected encounters can be the most rewarding.
