- Relished a dinner at Freej Swaeleh in Kuwait City—savoring the sumac, pomegranate molasses, and the fresh lemon tang of a fattoush salad before my entrée. My Qatari students would always tell me that the food in Kuwait was better. I wondered why—until I tasted the first bite of meat from the half chicken with lightly fried skin. It arrived on a bed of sweet and savory machbous rice, like a jewel on a lush pillow.
- After my conference in Kuwait, spent time with two guests visiting Doha for a tennis tournament. They watched tennis matches for ten hours each day while I worked, returning late at night as I was preparing for bed. Like a parent, I would wait up to ensure that they arrived home safely. Though, the only danger they might have faced was an Uber driver taking a circuitous scenic route around the West Bay skyscrapers.
Glowing wooden dhows
twinkling in the cold water
along the corniche
- Once my guests departed, organized a training session for my course team. Paid for all the meals and drinks out of pocket, without the slightest possibility of reimbursement from the department (not that I expected it). Later, I welcomed the trainer, thanked her for her time, and then wrote an article about the training for the department newsletter. The machinery of work keeps turning, powered by unnoticed effort: vain hopes of tipping the cosmic scales in one’s favor.
- The next morning, a man teaches class before driving to the community college campus on the dusty outskirts of Doha. Dressed in a suit, he arrives at the gate, where a security guard of African descent stops him.
Security: “Why are you here?”
Man: “For the conference.”
Security: “What conference?”
Man: “You know…THE conference!”
A beat. The security guard sighs, picks up a phone, and mutters a few words in Arabic. After a pause, he nods, then leans forward.
Security: (calmly) “Sir, the conference is actually at another building in the city center.”
Silence. A moment of realization. The truth settles like fine desert dust. The man simply nods, thanks the security, and drives back into the city—swallowing the impulse to think his time is the only time that matters.
Both he and the security guard small cogs spinning in the clockwork of the same universe.
- Finally, spent part of the weekend grading student writing… planning classes for the start of Ramadan… and reviewing midterm exams. If an unelected billionaire asked me to justify my work output in five bullet points, I’d recount my memorable dinner in Kuwait City and my dreams of running soft diplomacy projects in developing countries during the last decade of my career. But those dreams were dashed with his budget cuts.
I could have been teaching the Saban[1] residents on a tiny volcanic island how to transcribe their folklore in English. And now, what will become of their stories?
Or, my story?
After I am gone, my children quickly forget how I filled my days during my fleeting lifetime.
[1] Saba, an island in the Caribbean Netherlands, known for its rugged cliffs, rainforests, and English-speaking community.
Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash
opusculum 