Around Arabia in 20 Days: UAE - Unrequited Arab Elegance

Beyond the dust and white haze of the city was a neighborhood-like place. All gated with stone walls and iron gates. I didn't realize why that was necessary, so I just assumed they didn't' have security systems like ADT with a police force at their fingertips--but soon it really struck me why the extra precautions. 

My aunt lived in a little palace. 

A villa, they called it. Four stories of marble floors and glittering chandeliers, curving staircases and light fixtures made out of stained glass. Elegant sink-right-in couches and gorgeous curtains and tapestries.  

"Pardon our dust," she had said. "We're revamping our pool." 

Talk about a water wonderland. A beautiful deep pool with waterfalls running along the outside. Barstools in the water next to a marble countertop. I didn't get what they were revamping. 

I was to be sharing a room with my sister on the third floor, which alone had five bedrooms. The floor above had two more. I was told this was the room my cousin slept in when she would visit my aunt. She lived in an apartment complex with her husband and daughter but would come sleep at her mom's when her husband was busy or sometimes she would pack both their bags and tell him they were going to go to the villa and spend the day barbecuing over there, and then sleep in the villa that evening. He wouldn't complain. 

Despite the hubbub downstairs, the first thing I did was set my bags down and excused myself to sleep. It was a rather lame move but jetlag would do that to you. So I slipped my shoes off and wondered for a moment why the ground couldn't just be carpet, until I figured out two plausible reasons; one, it was high maintenance with the dust billowing outside; and two, it was much too hot for carpet. The coolness of the floor actually felt kinda good. 

After my rather long nap (did i seriously just sleep for four hours), I made myself look somewhat presentable and I trudged downstairs--and was greeted by more cousins and aunts and we all chittered about nearly everything jovial under the sun. Any talk of Syria or the heaviness that came with that topic was set aside. We were honored guests, after all! 

It seemed that I had missed the feast my aunt had cooked up. It was all food I was vaguely aware of or had seen in different variations. "Is that Kebab Hindi?" I asked.

"No, it's Fettet Basha" she replied, "It's kind of the same but there's a different flavor sauce. It's an Emirati dish."

"Okay, is that Labaniyyeh?" I asked, pointing to another dish.

She laughed and shook her head. "That's Shiekh Mihshee." 

I raised an eyebrow and took a scoop of each. They weren't so bad, but I concluded my mom was a better cook. 

**

I did not feel the hype that everyone talked about regarding Dubai. It was...nice. I would call it the Arabic version of our cities. Their gigantic Dubai Mall was colossal, filled with American and European brands. Everything was over-the-top pricey and the overall atmosphere reminded me of Somerset Mall, except more Arabs and the ever-present smell of atter (musk). You would be surprised, though. There were nearly as many Asians as Arabs, and I say that because you don't see many Emiratis there. Dubai is like a melting pot of its own in the East, much like America is in the West. Maybe it is heading in that direction. There is a large population of Filipinos and it seemed that they were the clerks of every store, every McDonalds and Wendy's and Subway. So did the Emiratis not work or something? I wondered, but never really voiced my opinion.

You may wonder, what differentiates the Emiratis from other Arabs? 

I cannot give you an exact answer, as anything might come out stereotypical, but I will attempt to explain my own observations in hope that it will put it to light. I feel that most Arab countries on the gulf have a similar dress. The men wear the thawb (white robe), sandals, and on their heads a shumagh (that red-and-white-checkered-thing) or a ghutra (white, smaller piece worn over a white hat) with an igal (black headband) on top. No, they do not all wear it but it's something that I've only seen in UAE, Saudi, and Kuwait. I was among too many Syrians to get to talk to someone and ask. Besides, I would have trouble understanding them anyway since their dialect is much thicker and more guttral than the Syrian one.

Now women...ah, yes... I envy their hijab styles because I don't know how it stays on their heads. It seems to be billowing freely in the wind and yet not a strand of hair shows. They wear the headscarf in a loose manner. The way I wrap my hijab is I wrap it twice around and pin it on the side. I believe their shawls are longer, so they might wrap it twice or three times, and then the last layer is very loose, but in any case it looks gorgeous. They wear the Abaya (black robe). You would think it's unflattering but my goodness, I've not seen Abayas more gorgeous than the ones in the Emirates. Some are even slightly more fitted around the waist too. Glittering sequins and diamonds and beads, all with a matching shawl of the same design. I wanted to buy one over there, but they were somewhere between one to two thousand dollars. I was probably looking at one of the more posh stores, surely.

For both of these cases, they are not mandatory dress. i don't know why they prefer to wear it, but it was a very to-each-their-own situation. They might not understand why I don't wear it as they do, and I may never understand why they do, but we just set it aside as a culture difference, and I'm very okay with that. 

Around Arabia in 20 Days: Reunions Part 1

Stepping out of the plane was like walking into a blow drier turned on high heat. I immediately missed the cool breezes I left behind in Michigan and had a longing to get back to them. I shed out of my sweater as I walked, my nerves everywhere as we were that much closer to meeting relatives. 

Once we claimed our bags, we headed out to the welcoming gate as I liked to call it. A sea of faces staring eagerly at every person that walked out through the doors, hoping it was their loved ones. We pushed forward until we saw an eager wave towards the back. My uncle. Moments later I was buried in hugs and tears, from person to person between cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, all cooing admirations while ushering us to the cars. I clung to my uncle the most. Uncle Maher. He was one my favorite people ever.

Walking outside, I had no idea how I was supposed to breathe in this air. It was hot and humid. I bet I could have made scrambled eggs on the hood of a car. 

I rode with my two uncles, both of them my mom's younger brothers. I listened to them chat for a little while, not really sure what to say. It wasn't until they addressed me that I spoke. True, I understood them perfectly, but the hard part was actually answering them. I hadn't realized how bad my Arabic had gotten, and I supposed it was because I had nowhere to practice it. We went to Syria every summer for as long as I could remember. But it had been three years since I had been around people who only spoke Arabic. Needless to say it was difficult to retain words when speaking to them. 

When people think UAE, they think of Dubai. My aunt lives in Sharjah, though, which is about 30 minutes away from Dubai. Sharjah has a higher concentrations of Arabs. The roads reminded me of Syria, and a strange nostalgia thrummed through me. Here I was, with relatives in a familiar-looking place, yet we were hundreds of miles away meeting in a country where one of my aunts happened to live. At least we were all together again. 

While driving around, I saw little to no pedestrians and the city felt hazy. I think no one could stand around in the heat longer than a few minutes. There were many cars though. So many, in fact, that I could hardly see the road in front of us. "No one's out on the streets," I remember commenting aloud. 

"You should've been here last week, Khaal," my uncle said, "It's like you brought the heat with you. No one can walk around in this." Khaal. Short for Khalo, which meant "uncle." I liked the ring to it. That use of names seems to be an Arab thing. Since I call him Khalo, he calls me Khalo. Similar to how my mom calls me mama. It's like they call you what they want you to call them. The thought amused me when thinking about it, but I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Around Arabia in 20 Days: Burgers, Planes, and Eternal Sun

Leaving felt like I had been plucked from my warm bed and thrown into a world of blue-donned officers, neck pillows, and smelly sneakers. Which, for the record, was exactly what happened. We had an early flight taking us to DC, and from there, a connection flight direcly to the UAE. Gratefully, the first flight was smooth for the most part, though, due to a storm that had floated around the area we were stuck on the ground for another two hours. I was beyond tired and slept off most of it, so it posed no trouble for me. 

I hate airports. 

Upon landing in DC, I am faced with glares and stares, as if I didn't belong. Sometimes I wonder if everyone in the airport is a grouch, or is it because they don't want me flying. I wish people would smile when they look me in the face, I know I make it a note to. My foul mood changed upon zeroing my eyes to my favorite burger joint: Five Guys. No, I was not passing up this opportunity. So I had some and tried not to hum in delight. It was then I had realized it was the first thing I'd eaten in hours. After my filling meal and staring disapprovingly at my parents' choices in salads and light soups, we went to the terminal and sat around waiting for our flight. 

The one thing I hate more than airports is getting on the plane. I'm frightened to look people in the eye because I could feel their eyes on me. I considered smiling but no one smiles upon getting on a plane! Come on now. So I resorted to put on my tired-act in which I look down at my floor and guide my carryon through the tight aisle, which wasn't so hard considering it wasn't a lie. 

Now many people ask, "How on earth do you survive a thirteen-hour flight?" That's easy. Movies.

With TVs behind every seat with the latest hollywood movies, tv shows, hit albums, and even games, there is so much entertainment to be had. I watched three movies and listened to maybe an hour's worth of music provided. When I wasn't watching a movie, I was sleeping or playing Temple Run on my phone. Not to mention eating bland, curry-chicken and unseasoned rice, cold bread, and frozen butter. Not my favorite dish I'll be honest. I brought my laptop to write my story, but I had no inspiration to write a single word abroad--wait, that's a lie. I wrote a few sentences, but none were sufficient.  

"Hana, don't forget to pray," my mom tells me as she passes by to go to the lavatory. 

That's right. Since I was travelling, I could pray Maghrib and Isha, the last two prayers of the day, together and shorten them. Thankfully, I had already done wudu, the ablution ritual that I must perform before prayer. I had done it at the airport. i was about to hold it off, since the sun was just setting. (I would have hours, right? Wrong.) As I watched my movie, I couldn't help but notice the sky was not getting darker. Confused, I stared out the window and caught rays of a rising sun. The sky was indeed getting lighter. Oh God. 

A moment later I was praying, knowing that God would forgive me for this little debacle. Not fair that we're travelling east! We experienced no evening time. And thus, I prayed Maghrib, Isha, and Fajr; the morning prayer. All in quick succession. I will forever tell that story to my Muslim friends. They get quite a kick out of it. 

***

"Flight attendants please be seated for landing--" 

I opened my eyes, groggy and numb from my little brother's head on my lap. I nudged hiim awake and stretched my buzzing feet. At last. 

I was ready to get off the plane. 

Around Arabia in 20 Days: Catalyst

TRAVEL BLOG. Hello. I am going to be posting a series of stories from my travels to a few countries in the Middle East last summer. Here's the first part. I named it catalyst for a variety of reasons.

--

If you would have asked me back when the Arab Spring started in Tunisia on whether Syria would rise up, I would have laughed. Of course not! Everyone knows the Syrian army is brutal, molded from the battles with the French many years before. In a country where mentioning the president's name negatively can result in your "accidental death" or "mysterious disappearance," you would not think anyone would ever dare rise up. Not with a rope of brutality hanging around them like a noose.

I couldn't be more wrong.

Since the unrest that began in Syria three years ago, it has been a stressful, devastating time for the Syrian people. What started as peaceful protests in my parents' home country has resulted in violent attacks from the government, leading to over 100,000 deaths and 2 million refugees. Cities outside the capital had it the worst from the start, and no major protests happened in beautiful Damascus, one of the oldest cities in the world and a place I call my second home. Regardless, there had been kidnappings and gunshot sounds, and thus, we did not risk traveling there for the summer, as had been a tradition every summer for as long as I can remember. For three years, I had not seen any relatives other than my immediate family, save for one cousin who had moved to Texas. We relied on communication via Skype, WhatsApp, Viber, Voxer, and think of any other app that had a call/chat option. We used them all. There had been more and more protests on the outskirts of Damascus, and both of my uncles' houses were affected, and in result, they moved into my grandmother's house which was more in the heart of the city, in a small suburb that had a name most don't know about. Every summer that passed we would ask if they were doing okay, and they said yes, but did not want us to come in fear of something happening, and all was fairly well. Until last Spring. 

I woke up and scrolled through my Twitter feed, a habit I had picked up since the revolution began there. My twitter was ten percent school friends, ninety percent Syrian news coming from sources inside the country as well as people who have connections to people there. That morning, the whole feed was filled with news of a big explosion that rocked Damascus near Dar el Shifa hospital. My heart flew out of my chest. I jumped out of bed and was downstairs in less than a minute, facing a tear-faced mother on the phone. 

My grandparents' apartment complex was bombed. 

The building structure was strong enough to keep it all from collapsing, but every window, door, vent covering and loose object was thrown into turmoil. On that day, we told them to get out. It was no longer safe. They had barely made it out with their lives and we could not bear to lose them.

I wish I could say that was when they decided to go, but alas they were adamant. Syria was their home, and they did not want to leave. 

So they fixed the home and mended their wounds. We stayed on even more frequent contact, and I checked the news and twitterfeed more frequently. 

It was a few months later when another scare happened. This one right in front of the family pharmacy. For my relatives, that was the final straw. Though they suffered minor wounds both times, it was their hearts that could not handle any more stress. So a few weeks later, they took a plane to United Arab Emirates to live with my Aunt, who had the unfortunate luck of moving back to Syria only a few months before the beginning incidents, and promptly moved back early on. 

After these events, we decided it has been too long, and my parents planned a trip to visit them all. I hadn't known about my other displaced relatives, since I was never close to them. I hadn't realized I had relatives in Lebanon, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and even one in Egypt. My parents showed me an itinerary and I was shocked to see that we would be going to three of those countries. Not only that, but the whole trip would take only 20 days. We would be leaving our home in Flint, Michigan and fly to the UAE and stay there for two weeks. We would then go to Lebanon for three days, and Kuwait for one. Three countries in 20 days? That's hardly enough time to breathe when around relatives, no less ones you haven't seen in ages. 

Needless to say, I was nervous. There was a level of excitement there unmatched by any recent events that have come to pass--but there was also a hint of fear. I was going to be meeting relatives who've been through traumas, survived bombings, and have lived nightmares day after day. I didn't think talking to them again would have the same laughter or feel like the same company. I also remember ending on a bad note with a few cousins, and I hoped to reconnect with them. As the travel day grew nearer, my apprehension grew along with it.