10ft from the sun is, I have quickly learned, how summers feel in the UAE. Whether you’re a person, a cat, a gecko, or a bird, chances are if you’re outside, you’re either sweating uncontrollably and/or with your tongue sticking outside your mouth. My very first morning here I was woken up not by the sunlight, but rather by a constant knocking on my bedroom window, only to find, in disbelief, a murder of crows with their beaks wide open pecking (or begging?) their way in. I swear I am not making this up. Birds here actually hang around windows a lot. My guess is that they stand next to it because they feel the coolness coming from the AC inside and lean against the window in the hopes someone will take pity and let them in? This is still an ongoing mystery.
Truth is, no matter how much I anticipated the heat, nothing really prepared me for it, not even hot, humid Virginia summers. Humidity is another factor not taken into consideration in preparation for my move here. While I do live less than 5 miles from the desert, the proximity to the Gulf makes the humidity surprisingly high. Over the past 12 days I have been in Sharjah, humidity levels have kept at 50% in average, with temperature indexes at a minimum of 48 degrees Celsius (118 degrees Fahrenheit) during the day, which means that being outside is the same as constantly being in a sauna, with the added bonus of a constantly beaming sun. I am not kidding when I say constantly; it wasn’t until a couple of days ago that I saw something resembling a cloud for the first time since arriving. The sun does not shine here; it burns deep through your skin. Nothing can eclipse the sun, and there is no hiding from it. The sun is the absolute monarch of this land, an omnipresent ruler: it can be felt even at night, as temperatures do not drop below 36 degrees Celsius (98°F). Tree shades are high commodities, as the green from tropical and temperate regions give room to the dusty yellows and pinks of the desert. While in the western hemisphere people take refuge in the ocean and rivers in hot summer days, in this part of the world people vacation to the beach in the winter, because walking on sand on a summer day here, might as well be the same as walking on burning coal, and 10 minutes sunbathing is enough to roast anyone like a turkey.
Still, the intense heat does not seem to bother the people of Arabia. As a matter of fact, some consider it a blessing, as it brings them one of their most prized riches: dates. Indeed, the vast majority of trees on the university campus are date palm trees, which are not only incredible for being some of the only plants to flourish in these harsh conditions, but are equality magnificent, regal-looking trees that make the campus look like an oasis, and go hand-in-hand with the culture of this amazing land.
Another great example of this dynamic – my personal favorite, and perhaps most obvious – is Arab people’s relationship with their clothing. The abaya, the traditional dress of women, and its male counterpart, the thawb or thobe, not only cover their bodies from neck to toe, but are also most often accompanied by their respective head pieces: the shayla (which sometimes leaves only the eyes uncovered), and the guthra (rectangular scarf), worn on top of the kufiyyah (small cap). To make matters worse in terms of heat, females only wear black. Always. During the summer. Under the sun. In the desert. Even though I was born and raised under western traditions and beliefs that, for instance, associate the color white with holy, spiritual, godly figures, Emirati women, drenched in somber flowing silks, are some of the most mystifying and dramatically beautiful images I have ever seen. Every day walking through campus, I try my best to be discrete while I, in awe, observe and admire them float by as the personification of beauty and elegance, discipline and heritage. While I still have much to learn about the history and tradition of Arab dress, it is already clear to me that much of the traditions of the Muslim world have much less to do with intolerance – as it seems to be the perception perpetuated in the West – and much more to do with ideals of respect, forbearance, and honor as means to maintain their legacy and culture. It is also true that countries situated on the Arabian Gulf such as the UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Oman, are strongly conservative societies, ruled by the deeply rooted religious values of Islam. But how is that any different than conservative Christians in the United States or Brazil? I am starting to find that it is, in fact, not different at all, except for the name of their prophet. Although I may be stating the obvious, I still think it is important to say it and to write it, because nowadays most of what people in the west read and see about this side of things is either twisted, perverse, tragic, or just plain wrong. Most people avoid the Middle East, whether in the news they avoid reading or in their leisure travels. We have all given in to a pervasive media that has turned Arab culture synonymous with doubt and fear. What a horrible oversimplification of such rich, complex, and diverse part of the world. I myself am guilty of that. When a friend referred me to the position I now happily hold at the American University of Sharjah, my initial thought was that I didn’t want to live in the Middle East. I am so incredibly glad I reconsidered it and decided to apply for it. Why not? I thought to myself back in December. While I could (and did) think of a million reasons to not come, discovering this part of world and its people for the past 14 days have been reason enough to make it all worth it. Over the few months prior to my move, I heard from my family, from friends and friends of friends, how brave I was to be making such a bold change. I often responded that I’m not sure I’d say making the decision was brave, but going through with it has definitely tested me to my core and took every last fiber of my soul to stay strong and hold on. Coming here required an incredibly challenging trade-off: parting with a culture, giving up two countries, leaving two homes, being apart from the most amazing and supportive family, and from a loving, miscellaneous web of friends, to go live in an entirely different, unknown culture, as a young, single female in a profoundly patriarchal, conservative, religious society. There’s still a part of me that wonders if I made the right decision. The very first day I woke up in my new apartment, I will admit, was one of the worst, most difficult days of my life. Nothing prepares you for the combination of culture shock and isolation that comes from being in a place in which everything and everyone is utterly strange and all you crave is the comfort of familiarity. I started this post talking about the heat because it too, proved to be unexpectedly isolating. Everyone talks about the seasonal depression that comes with winter in the northern hemisphere, but no one mentions how lonely desert summers can be, with its desolate streets and temperature-controlled closed environments.
My first day was spent crying and lamenting to my parents and best friend that I had made a terrible mistake while starring out the windows into lifeless roads and dry land. I wonder if what I experienced that day compares, in the tiniest of fractions, to what incarcerated people must feel in solitary confinement; or what men in the military in Iraq and Afghanistan must go through; or what refugees must endure in their crusades to a new, unknown, promised land. These are the real brave people. Because while I did take a leap of faith, my trade-off is to temporarily give up on things and people that are a phone call or plane-ride away. Their trade-off is their lives. This perspective reminds me of my privilege and of how my being brave is not dependent only on myself, but also on the people around me, near and far. On my very first day here, in isolation and despair, I found comfort not only in the familiar voices and words of my parents and my best friend (bless their hearts), but also in the kindness of strangers: the university maintenance man who gracefully explained there was nothing wrong with the hot water, but rather I was turning the knob to the wrong side; the supermarket bagging agent who kindly went back and weighed my vegetables for me because I wrongly assumed they were weighed at the register; the cashier who patiently helped me sort through my foreign currency money. Those people made me regain my strength and made my leap of faith worthwhile. Those people make me hopeful for the wonderful days to come.
