Showing posts with label Dubai. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dubai. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Where are my words and why does it matter that I cannot find them now? You are not here to hear them.
I thought to call you last week for some puzzle I was faced with, but opted out of disturbing you with such a trivial thing. I wish I'd instead taken a moment to dial your number just to say 'Hi dear friend. It has been too long. I miss you. How are you doing?'
You taught me Tareq, so many things by simply being. Where are the words to express that you have been with me every step of my way? And why must I find them when you are not here to hear?
These are the questions as those we once pondered together till dawn, dear friend, and now they are simply words lost in the wind. My life will never be the same with the knowledge that you are not here to respond. Your voice I'll never again hear. So selfish I am in this way - thinking of me when it's your turn to shine. And you loved me anyway - how much that says about you.
I miss knowing you are always there, already. I love you and am so glad I made sure you knew when your ears were able to receive.
I have cried for two days now Tareq, and I'm certain I'll cry many more. I know you would not approve... But I hardly ever listened to you anyway. At least not right away. Perhaps when my eyes have had a moment to dry and my heart is ready for the next blow, the lesson you're meant to teach me now dear friend, will make itself clear.
Until then, please world let me mourn this tragic loss for humanity too many of you never knew.
I thought to call you last week for some puzzle I was faced with, but opted out of disturbing you with such a trivial thing. I wish I'd instead taken a moment to dial your number just to say 'Hi dear friend. It has been too long. I miss you. How are you doing?'
You taught me Tareq, so many things by simply being. Where are the words to express that you have been with me every step of my way? And why must I find them when you are not here to hear?
These are the questions as those we once pondered together till dawn, dear friend, and now they are simply words lost in the wind. My life will never be the same with the knowledge that you are not here to respond. Your voice I'll never again hear. So selfish I am in this way - thinking of me when it's your turn to shine. And you loved me anyway - how much that says about you.
I miss knowing you are always there, already. I love you and am so glad I made sure you knew when your ears were able to receive.
I have cried for two days now Tareq, and I'm certain I'll cry many more. I know you would not approve... But I hardly ever listened to you anyway. At least not right away. Perhaps when my eyes have had a moment to dry and my heart is ready for the next blow, the lesson you're meant to teach me now dear friend, will make itself clear.
Until then, please world let me mourn this tragic loss for humanity too many of you never knew.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
I find myself browsing the UAE classifieds looking for potential positions and feel my eyes swell up with tears, my throat tighten and my stomach turn itself inside out until there’s a hollow tugging pull in all directions. I am terrified of that place. I’m terrified of what it once made me and has the potential to make me again. I’m terrified of how dangerous it really is, with its ass backwards laws and consequences and unexplained actions. I half fear that customs will grab me at the airport as I enter for some unknown, unseen crime I’ve committed (or even just been accused of committing) and been charged with in absence, without ever being made aware of it.
I’m stuck between a rock and a real hard place right now.
It’s literally been months since I’ve spoken to my son. No one ever answers any of the telephone numbers I have for him and his father is useless at encouraging him to call me. After a night of dreaming about my baby boy being in my arms again, I woke this morning knowing I’ve about had enough of this.
Sometimes I curse my own morals and the fact that I couldn’t, wouldn’t and didn’t kidnap him and somehow bring him home with me.
I called Dubai Police. It took four or five different telephone numbers I’d found online before I finally found one that didn’t just ring and ring. The man who answered was kind and gentle, but about as useless as I recall the majority of the UAE population to be. He told me to contact the UAE Embassy in Ottawa as they should help me. I explained I have tried to contact the UAE Embassy in Canada multiple times in the past for various reasons and I am never able to get through (as like most government offices in UAE, no one answers their Embassy phone here, either). He asked me to hold then came back with a local Dubai telephone number for me. After making me take it down, he explained it was the Canadian Consulate’s number in Dubai. They should help me. Of course, I’d have to wait until their tomorrow morning, or our current evening, to get an answer.
So I called the Canadian Consulate this evening. The man who answered the phone spoke with a thick Arabic accent and was so rude I called him out on it. He transferred me to a kind lady, who again couldn’t help me at all. Apparently, the only way I can get the UAE authorities to look into this, is to go back to the UAE myself and file a complaint with Dubai Courts. The only other possible option I have is to somehow give someone who is there, who is willing and able to help me fight for this, power or attorney. Of course, to give power or attorney to someone there, I have to do it in the UAE Embassy in Ottawa – or go to the UAE again.
Dealing with this country is spinning round and round, as fast as you can, in place. You don’t get anywhere and every now and then you find yourself so fucking dizzy you are left with a combination of severe pain and nausea.
So for now, I think I’m going to tuck myself into bed where I’ll cry myself to sleep. I’ll wake up tomorrow and hope being this far from my baby is less hard on me, than it is every other day. And I know it won’t be. So I’ll hope that the days will pass quickly and soon he’ll be old enough to come to me on his own, that he chooses to, and that when he does, he forgives me the choices I’d had to make that have kept us apart for so long.
I’m stuck between a rock and a real hard place right now.
It’s literally been months since I’ve spoken to my son. No one ever answers any of the telephone numbers I have for him and his father is useless at encouraging him to call me. After a night of dreaming about my baby boy being in my arms again, I woke this morning knowing I’ve about had enough of this.
Sometimes I curse my own morals and the fact that I couldn’t, wouldn’t and didn’t kidnap him and somehow bring him home with me.
I called Dubai Police. It took four or five different telephone numbers I’d found online before I finally found one that didn’t just ring and ring. The man who answered was kind and gentle, but about as useless as I recall the majority of the UAE population to be. He told me to contact the UAE Embassy in Ottawa as they should help me. I explained I have tried to contact the UAE Embassy in Canada multiple times in the past for various reasons and I am never able to get through (as like most government offices in UAE, no one answers their Embassy phone here, either). He asked me to hold then came back with a local Dubai telephone number for me. After making me take it down, he explained it was the Canadian Consulate’s number in Dubai. They should help me. Of course, I’d have to wait until their tomorrow morning, or our current evening, to get an answer.
So I called the Canadian Consulate this evening. The man who answered the phone spoke with a thick Arabic accent and was so rude I called him out on it. He transferred me to a kind lady, who again couldn’t help me at all. Apparently, the only way I can get the UAE authorities to look into this, is to go back to the UAE myself and file a complaint with Dubai Courts. The only other possible option I have is to somehow give someone who is there, who is willing and able to help me fight for this, power or attorney. Of course, to give power or attorney to someone there, I have to do it in the UAE Embassy in Ottawa – or go to the UAE again.
Dealing with this country is spinning round and round, as fast as you can, in place. You don’t get anywhere and every now and then you find yourself so fucking dizzy you are left with a combination of severe pain and nausea.
So for now, I think I’m going to tuck myself into bed where I’ll cry myself to sleep. I’ll wake up tomorrow and hope being this far from my baby is less hard on me, than it is every other day. And I know it won’t be. So I’ll hope that the days will pass quickly and soon he’ll be old enough to come to me on his own, that he chooses to, and that when he does, he forgives me the choices I’d had to make that have kept us apart for so long.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Why the hell is the UAE blog world so quiet about it? I was expecting thought-provoking posts among at least one of my favourite UAE blogs, Life in Dubai, UAEian, or Buj Al Arab but no; not even is there mention of it in The UAE Community Blog.
I’m amazed, about as amazed as I am startled by this news.
I feel. And I don’t know what it is I feel about it.
I’m sad, yet I am not saddened by his execution. I believe in the death penalty for murders and there is no doubt Osama Bin Laden was a murderer. He was a mass murderer of Atheists, Christians and Mulsims alike. He deserved to die. But to hear the American soldiers ‘took custody’ of his body and that he was buried at sea (such pretty words for his remains were tossed thoughtlessly into the middle of the ocean and he was denied any form of humane burial) disgusts me at my core.
His punishment was his death. The world is a safer place without him.
But abusing his remains and cheering about his demise is for the sake of the living. What disgusting people we are to laugh at and dance like mad-mobs in the face of death – anyone’s death. Those who lost loved ones at Osama’s hands will not be dancing today – they’ll feel a possible form of closure and no doubt rekindled pain because even Osama’s death cannot bring back the lives he took.
Osama’s execution is indeed a great step towards anti-terrorism; a great accomplishment that will mark our future. But it also proves human beings are disgusting things.
I read this quote on Facebook today, fake or not, so very apt it is:
International news and disgraceful human beings aside, life keeps me busy (in such a fantastic way, I’m loving my course!), my body is still adjusting to the changes (and my new-no-time diet), and Lars and I are well. We’re making time for tea time every-single-day, whether it be breakfast on the patio, a few minutes on the couches in a dark room late at night, or lunch at the Chinese place near my school because we won’t fit in a few minutes throughout the day otherwise, we squeeze it in and make it work. We are sincerely happy.
We’re in love with our new tenants (what wonderful people they seem to be!) and life overall is pretty darn good – so I won’t complain too much, even if people in general suck right now.
Monday, January 10, 2011
I woke up this morning to a surprise. For a few days now, I have been trying to get in touch with my son, and for a few days he has been trying to call me right back. But with exactly 12 hours difference, it means one of us is almost always sleeping. This morning, he sent me his very first, ever, text message:
Ali has had his own mobile phone since he was 3-years-old. During the divorce of his father and I, it was about the only way I could get in touch with him while his father was around. And now, it means I can usually get in touch with him without having to go through the hoops of talking to my former in-laws. I’m fine with that – so please leave your criticism about cell phone and kids at the door.
Seeing this text message warmed my heart. Of course, the first thing I did when I opened my eyes was called him and he sounded lovely – as always. He politely asked me to hold while he talked to his cousin, then he enquired about whether or not I wore glasses. He remembers a photo with me wearing sunglasses. He explained that no one helped him with the message; he sent it all by himself. He told me he loved and missed me and mentioned that his health was good. He said that he’d like more mail from me – so I’m going to make a point of sending him just that. And finally, he explained that he was getting an average of 92% in school this year.
I miss him.
Ali has had his own mobile phone since he was 3-years-old. During the divorce of his father and I, it was about the only way I could get in touch with him while his father was around. And now, it means I can usually get in touch with him without having to go through the hoops of talking to my former in-laws. I’m fine with that – so please leave your criticism about cell phone and kids at the door.
Seeing this text message warmed my heart. Of course, the first thing I did when I opened my eyes was called him and he sounded lovely – as always. He politely asked me to hold while he talked to his cousin, then he enquired about whether or not I wore glasses. He remembers a photo with me wearing sunglasses. He explained that no one helped him with the message; he sent it all by himself. He told me he loved and missed me and mentioned that his health was good. He said that he’d like more mail from me – so I’m going to make a point of sending him just that. And finally, he explained that he was getting an average of 92% in school this year.
I miss him.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
I love shiny things, which is one reason I adored Leah S’s nickname for Lars, ‘Shiny Lars’ – the implication being, I help make him shiny. In return, he sure helps keep me shiny too: both literally and metaphorically.
As the legal proceedings for my mom’s estate slowly come to an end, I was recently called into the law office to collect the necklace my mom had left me, the bracelet she left to my sister Kelly and the large Ruby and diamond ring she left to my brother Jesse. Each piece is stunning, though I certainly was left the prize of the lot. The 18k specialty gold chain was appraised more than 15 years ago for over $7500, the matching bracelet left to Kell, more than $2000. More importantly, the necklace was purchased by the one of the Sheikhs in Dubai in 1993, of my father’s choice to bring home to my mom as a gift, with hopes she’d agree to go to visit them the following year. It was all partially about helping her make up her mind about moving us all out there eventually. The following year, when my mother did go with my father to visit, they bought the matching bracelet and my mom made up her mind. We were moving to Dubai. My mother wore the set up until it was believed the weight of it was causing her nerve damage in her arms. So in 2005 when they returned to Canada from Dubai to visit, it went from her neck to the safety deposit box. It was her all-time favourite piece of jewellery, with family history that helped mould the rest of our lives together and I am honoured to wear it now. I am thankful my beautiful sister Kelly will have the matching bracelet.
The ruby ring is almost iconic of my mom, the design so traditionally hers. The quality is perfect excepting the damage created in her last years when she started soldering rings together to make room, or free up fingers, for new additions to her collection. This ring in particular was soldered to the diamond engagement ring my father gave her, that she willed to Sheila, that disgrace of a human being; I hate to refer to as my sister. We expect that ring will be pawned in no time.
My brother, in financial hardship has offered to sell me the ruby ring for a few hundred dollars. I have agreed to purchase it (believing it’s probably worth less), wanting to keep this icon in our family and not trusting that it will last long with him, as he has a very transient lifestyle and very few possessions he holds on to; excepting his computer. Since I don’t have the cash at this moment, I’m so very thankful for Lars to be there, to help make me shinier than he has already.
Still wearing the very first bracelet my father gave my mom, and in possession of the $5 cheap Abalone ring – the very first piece of jewellery he ever bought her, I’m starting to feel a lot like her. My hands resemble hers (you’d be quick to call me a gypsy with all these rings – as many teased her); my neck and wrists also decorated as hers were, I feel heavily shiny and a heavy presence of my mom with me. For some reason, I also feel a lot of guilt. I feel like the jewellery is not mine, but hers. I feel like it should still be decorating her lively self. I feel like my mom should still be alive to wear her own precious pieces.
I wonder if those feelings will ever change…
As the legal proceedings for my mom’s estate slowly come to an end, I was recently called into the law office to collect the necklace my mom had left me, the bracelet she left to my sister Kelly and the large Ruby and diamond ring she left to my brother Jesse. Each piece is stunning, though I certainly was left the prize of the lot. The 18k specialty gold chain was appraised more than 15 years ago for over $7500, the matching bracelet left to Kell, more than $2000. More importantly, the necklace was purchased by the one of the Sheikhs in Dubai in 1993, of my father’s choice to bring home to my mom as a gift, with hopes she’d agree to go to visit them the following year. It was all partially about helping her make up her mind about moving us all out there eventually. The following year, when my mother did go with my father to visit, they bought the matching bracelet and my mom made up her mind. We were moving to Dubai. My mother wore the set up until it was believed the weight of it was causing her nerve damage in her arms. So in 2005 when they returned to Canada from Dubai to visit, it went from her neck to the safety deposit box. It was her all-time favourite piece of jewellery, with family history that helped mould the rest of our lives together and I am honoured to wear it now. I am thankful my beautiful sister Kelly will have the matching bracelet.
The ruby ring is almost iconic of my mom, the design so traditionally hers. The quality is perfect excepting the damage created in her last years when she started soldering rings together to make room, or free up fingers, for new additions to her collection. This ring in particular was soldered to the diamond engagement ring my father gave her, that she willed to Sheila, that disgrace of a human being; I hate to refer to as my sister. We expect that ring will be pawned in no time.
My brother, in financial hardship has offered to sell me the ruby ring for a few hundred dollars. I have agreed to purchase it (believing it’s probably worth less), wanting to keep this icon in our family and not trusting that it will last long with him, as he has a very transient lifestyle and very few possessions he holds on to; excepting his computer. Since I don’t have the cash at this moment, I’m so very thankful for Lars to be there, to help make me shinier than he has already.
Still wearing the very first bracelet my father gave my mom, and in possession of the $5 cheap Abalone ring – the very first piece of jewellery he ever bought her, I’m starting to feel a lot like her. My hands resemble hers (you’d be quick to call me a gypsy with all these rings – as many teased her); my neck and wrists also decorated as hers were, I feel heavily shiny and a heavy presence of my mom with me. For some reason, I also feel a lot of guilt. I feel like the jewellery is not mine, but hers. I feel like it should still be decorating her lively self. I feel like my mom should still be alive to wear her own precious pieces.
I wonder if those feelings will ever change…
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Monday of this week was by far the worst workday of my entire professional life. From the moment ‘I got into the office’ (I don’t actually physically go into my office, I remote in from home) until the moment I left it seemed my boss was kicking my ass. Add to that multiple technical issues and system malfunctions and the day chopped up to pure hell. The rest of this week has followed the same suit. My stress levels are through the roof and it seems in my history with this company, they get that way once or twice a year. Stress is causing me to be careless, to miss the obvious and to offer below-personal-standard results to any task. I am making way too many mistakes and right now and as a result of which I do not feel as though I’m any good at what I do. Feeling like this, only encourages more mistakes and negativity, and it’s a viscous cycle…
Now I’m not a big, ’follow-the-signs’ type person, but I can’t help but think these are the signs I should be listening to when it comes to making a decision about going back to school. In fact, I can’t help but think I’ve made up my mind and if it’s at all possible, I’m going. Now, to get my academic records from Dubai is where the problem is…
Despite all the bad that seems to be, there’s a been a lot of good as well… Last night while at work Lars came into my home office and handed me a card, signed by the dog. All it said inside was, “You have to go pee.” Call it coincidence, or call it whatever you will, but it was time for a bathroom break and coffee refill. I punched out of rotation and made my way to the bathroom, stopping for a long hug along the way. In his arms, he turned my face towards the door and my new elliptical. I shrieked with pure joy.
This man stops at nothing to please me. He has moments of stubborn arrogance and ego, but so do I. And knowing that, I do believe I’m the luckiest girl on earth with the man who was built just for me.
Now I’m not a big, ’follow-the-signs’ type person, but I can’t help but think these are the signs I should be listening to when it comes to making a decision about going back to school. In fact, I can’t help but think I’ve made up my mind and if it’s at all possible, I’m going. Now, to get my academic records from Dubai is where the problem is…
Despite all the bad that seems to be, there’s a been a lot of good as well… Last night while at work Lars came into my home office and handed me a card, signed by the dog. All it said inside was, “You have to go pee.” Call it coincidence, or call it whatever you will, but it was time for a bathroom break and coffee refill. I punched out of rotation and made my way to the bathroom, stopping for a long hug along the way. In his arms, he turned my face towards the door and my new elliptical. I shrieked with pure joy.
This man stops at nothing to please me. He has moments of stubborn arrogance and ego, but so do I. And knowing that, I do believe I’m the luckiest girl on earth with the man who was built just for me.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Lars and I have been having a blast, preparing the other suite for us. I live in a big house. In fact, it’s so big; there are 2 basement suites. My father finished the one I moved into around this time last year, when he asked me to move back home. At the time, we rented the other incomplete suite out at a fraction of its value. The renter (who rarely paid rent at all, actually) moved out, and Lars and I have decided to move in there – to a space that’s ours, rather than him and I staying in a space that’s mine with a few of his things thrown in the mix. We need to finish it before we can move in (as I’m spoiled that way – and my dad sees the value in the house increasing with 2 complete basement suites anyway), so it means, shopping, building, dry-walling, more shopping, painting, and more shopping even. So far, we’re re-modelling the kitchen, have bought a great black stove (with 5 ceramic burners!) and a fridge to match, new cabinets for the kitchen (enough to build an island, YAY!) and flooring.
At this very moment, Lars is next door and I can hear him dry-walling away. He’s really very good at it and considering it’s exactly what he decided to make a career out of when we met, that’s an excellent thing in all areas. Anyway, we’ve now spent countless hours together working away, and I can honestly say… I love working with him. He’s competent, strong, and inspired. He helps me when I need him to lift something heavy or move something awkward – and he helps fix my rookie construction mistakes (and he does it with a smile!). Then, when we’re all tired and dirty we get to shower, then lay down and cuddle up at night, in one another’s arms, knowing that’s exactly where we belong.
I keep waiting for the romance to die. I expect it. I wonder about it. I ponder whether or not that time will come. And then he holds my hand, or comes in here just to hug me, or sends me a BBM just to say he loves me. My thoughts easily move to how lucky we are to have found each other… Each other’s forever I’m sure.
~*~
In some not-so fun news… I tried calling my son this morning and as usual he didn’t answer his cell phone. I called the house (something I really dislike doing because it means long uncomfortable conversations in Arabic with my former in-laws!), and his toddler cousin answered – only to tell me my son was travelling before hanging up the phone. This pissed me right off and I sent my ex-husband a raving email, pretty much letting him know I was sick and tired of him not keeping me in the loop on what’s happening my son, and I threatened legal action if he doesn’t smarten up. My baby is going on 9 years old now. I’m sure if I just went to Dubai, the UAE courts would let him decide where he wanted to live. And I’m sure they would eventually give me legal right to travel with him. But it takes going to Dubai. It takes retaining another lawyer. And it would take years, and years in their court system. I don’t know if I can handle any more time in those kangaroo courts. God knows I’ve spent way too much time in Middle Eastern courthouses as it is.
Anyway… I’m still waiting on a response. Lets hope it’s favourable one.
While ranting out about issues in the UAE, I should mention my bank issue is STILL not sorted out and I still don’t have my bank card, despite doing everything they asked, AND more – even sending TWO friends with letters and my passport copy to the bank trying to sort it out. Fucking monkeys, the entire country is run by them.
Anyway… it’s enough ranting for now. There are so many great things to think about… like curling up with my Lars in an hour or so.
At this very moment, Lars is next door and I can hear him dry-walling away. He’s really very good at it and considering it’s exactly what he decided to make a career out of when we met, that’s an excellent thing in all areas. Anyway, we’ve now spent countless hours together working away, and I can honestly say… I love working with him. He’s competent, strong, and inspired. He helps me when I need him to lift something heavy or move something awkward – and he helps fix my rookie construction mistakes (and he does it with a smile!). Then, when we’re all tired and dirty we get to shower, then lay down and cuddle up at night, in one another’s arms, knowing that’s exactly where we belong.
I keep waiting for the romance to die. I expect it. I wonder about it. I ponder whether or not that time will come. And then he holds my hand, or comes in here just to hug me, or sends me a BBM just to say he loves me. My thoughts easily move to how lucky we are to have found each other… Each other’s forever I’m sure.
~*~
In some not-so fun news… I tried calling my son this morning and as usual he didn’t answer his cell phone. I called the house (something I really dislike doing because it means long uncomfortable conversations in Arabic with my former in-laws!), and his toddler cousin answered – only to tell me my son was travelling before hanging up the phone. This pissed me right off and I sent my ex-husband a raving email, pretty much letting him know I was sick and tired of him not keeping me in the loop on what’s happening my son, and I threatened legal action if he doesn’t smarten up. My baby is going on 9 years old now. I’m sure if I just went to Dubai, the UAE courts would let him decide where he wanted to live. And I’m sure they would eventually give me legal right to travel with him. But it takes going to Dubai. It takes retaining another lawyer. And it would take years, and years in their court system. I don’t know if I can handle any more time in those kangaroo courts. God knows I’ve spent way too much time in Middle Eastern courthouses as it is.
Anyway… I’m still waiting on a response. Lets hope it’s favourable one.
While ranting out about issues in the UAE, I should mention my bank issue is STILL not sorted out and I still don’t have my bank card, despite doing everything they asked, AND more – even sending TWO friends with letters and my passport copy to the bank trying to sort it out. Fucking monkeys, the entire country is run by them.
Anyway… it’s enough ranting for now. There are so many great things to think about… like curling up with my Lars in an hour or so.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I’m frustrated and annoyed with the world. Every little thing seems to bother me.
My UAE ATM card expired last month. I have spent the last 7 days trying to get them to courier me a new one. It’s meant more money on my phone bill than I have in their bank, and more frustration than the money is worth. I’d close the fucking account, only they’re the best in the UAE so I’ve been told (what a fucking joke), I’m not there to open an account with anyone else and I’ll need to deposit money there when I sell my apartment.
Though it seemed to be common procedure for them to courier cards to people, they have this stupid form they need filled out, that cannot be sent via email, but must be faxed – both to you and back to them once filled. Initially, they couldn’t seem to get the fax to me – it took three phone calls and countless minutes on hold. When I finally do get it, realize it’s asking very simple details, fill it out and try to send it back, I learn they’ve given me an incorrect fax number. So finally, I resort to emails via my online banking account. The response is absolutely absurd and so fucking common it’s expected when dealing with them.
~*~
~*~
~*~
~*~
Yet again, one more reason I’m fucking glad I don’t live there anymore. When an economy depends on cheap labour. They tend to get and give cheap service across the board.
That’s not the only thing that’s annoying me. I meant it when I said everything is. It’s been forever since I’ve had the chance to get to the gym. Since Lars moved in, it feels like I’m constantly cleaning up, or cooking, or simply exhausted (from playing with him of course) or working on some other household project that I don’t get any real ‘me’ time. I need my fucking ‘me’ time. I’m annoyed because my garden hasn’t been built yet, and my compost worms aren’t multiplying fast enough. I’m annoyed because house suddenly feels too small for all this ‘stuff’ – I’m a minimalist and after my mom died I became the owner of countless cat trinkets and other ornaments. I’m annoyed because my brother has lost yet another job. I’m annoyed because I’m fucking annoyed. So I must be PMSing. I don’t have the patience for anything.
So despite there being dishes to be done, floors to be clean, and flowers to be tended to I’m going to finish my coffee, say ‘fuck it’, take a shower and head on out to the gym.
My UAE ATM card expired last month. I have spent the last 7 days trying to get them to courier me a new one. It’s meant more money on my phone bill than I have in their bank, and more frustration than the money is worth. I’d close the fucking account, only they’re the best in the UAE so I’ve been told (what a fucking joke), I’m not there to open an account with anyone else and I’ll need to deposit money there when I sell my apartment.
Though it seemed to be common procedure for them to courier cards to people, they have this stupid form they need filled out, that cannot be sent via email, but must be faxed – both to you and back to them once filled. Initially, they couldn’t seem to get the fax to me – it took three phone calls and countless minutes on hold. When I finally do get it, realize it’s asking very simple details, fill it out and try to send it back, I learn they’ve given me an incorrect fax number. So finally, I resort to emails via my online banking account. The response is absolutely absurd and so fucking common it’s expected when dealing with them.
To whom it may concern,
I have been trying to fax you all a 'Cardholder Request Form', your bank insists on having in order to send me a new ATM card as mine has expired, for the last 72 hours. The fax# you gave me 011-971-4-221-4839 does not work.
Are you not equipped to handle email? Can I email you scanned copies of the documentation? Or can I please just give you the information here, so that you can courier me my bankcard at my expense as agreed on the telephone (Service Request # XXXXXXXX).
Here is the information requested on your form:
Cardholder Name: XXXXXXX
Card #: XXXXXXX
Card Expiry Date: XXXXX
Branch: XXXXX
Residence tel: XXXXXXX
Fax: XXXXXXX
Mobile: XXXXXXX
Email: XXXXXXX
I need you to re-issue the card with a valid date, please and courier the same to me.
I have lived in Canada for the last 3 years and believe I have updated you guys on my current address in the past. It is very frustrating that I have to do this again now.
Please respond to this email as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
XXXXXXX
Dear Customer,
Kindly note that cards are only delivered to addresses within the UAE. Should you wish to have your card delivered abroad please confirm the following:
Complete address abroad ( with a po box no/pin code/zipcode mandatory)-
Complete contact details abroad:
Complete contact details (mobile and landline- abroad):
Please note that the courier company cannot ship without a po box no/pin code/zipcode .
Please confirm that you will be in your current location for more than 7-10 days and agree to bear the courier fees.
Once you agree to the above conditions and would like us to send your card abroad, kindly contact us on 009714 3160316 (available 24hours) to place your request.
Thank you for choosing EmiratesNBD.
Regards,
Mir
EmiratesNBD
Dear Mir (or whoever else responds to these emails),
Do you guys even read your emails before you reply? I have given you all the details requested in the 1st email I sent about this. And I'm only emailing you because the people who answer the phones at your customer service 04-3160316 are incompetent and useless. I have already made 3 phone calls to them without help. I have now spent more money on my phone bill calling your bank than I have holding in my bank account with you.
Please re-read my email, see that I have agreed to have my atm card couriered to me here in Canada, and see I have given you all required details, and then respond with something helpful, rather than waste anymore of my time. If you do not understand this, please have your supervisor read my emails and respond rather than trying yourself.
Sincerely,
XXXXXXX
Another note..
CONTACT your local courier, as you are mistaken. I work with one daily. A courier does NOT deliver to PO boxes, but only to street addresses! You should already have mine on file. But here it is again for the 15th time:
*********
*********
******
Thank you.
Yet again, one more reason I’m fucking glad I don’t live there anymore. When an economy depends on cheap labour. They tend to get and give cheap service across the board.
That’s not the only thing that’s annoying me. I meant it when I said everything is. It’s been forever since I’ve had the chance to get to the gym. Since Lars moved in, it feels like I’m constantly cleaning up, or cooking, or simply exhausted (from playing with him of course) or working on some other household project that I don’t get any real ‘me’ time. I need my fucking ‘me’ time. I’m annoyed because my garden hasn’t been built yet, and my compost worms aren’t multiplying fast enough. I’m annoyed because house suddenly feels too small for all this ‘stuff’ – I’m a minimalist and after my mom died I became the owner of countless cat trinkets and other ornaments. I’m annoyed because my brother has lost yet another job. I’m annoyed because I’m fucking annoyed. So I must be PMSing. I don’t have the patience for anything.
So despite there being dishes to be done, floors to be clean, and flowers to be tended to I’m going to finish my coffee, say ‘fuck it’, take a shower and head on out to the gym.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
I felt his lips on my cheek as I slept this morning. I heard him whisper, though I can’t recall what it was he was saying, they were certainly sweet–somethings. He slipped out of bed and into his work cloths long before I was ready to wake up at 9am. When I woke, the coffee was still warm and I the words “You’re My World” were carefully placed on top of the machine. I love his sweet reminders of how much I mean to him. I love how much he means to me. And I love that he met my father last night and they seem to get along just fine.
Much to the world’s dismay, I didn’t leave for Squamish, obviously. My sister went into my office at 4pm (knowing my shift starts at 3pm). My colleagues are harassing me about why I’m not there yet. And I think despite my boss knowing I’d be arriving tomorrow, she half hoped I’d show a day early (as I often do when scheduled to go, as a surprise). But if I go tomorrow, I get to spend one more night in his arms. And, it’ll be just one more sleep before I can pick up rice-crispy squares (I have been craving them for a week or so now!) from a very old school friend who recently purchased a house in Squamish, and promised me she’ll bring some to work on Friday for me! I really should just go to her house tomorrow before going to the office.
With my dad’s return comes stress. Money is a huge stressing factor in this house. We have renters that don’t pay rent, and assets like property and land that don’t make an income. We have my mother’s estate, the legal proceedings sucking out any reserves we may possibly have. And as we attempt to get rid of the renters, I contemplate selling my apartment in Dubai. I hate the idea of going back there – in fact; I have paranoid fears about it. What if I get caught at Customs and thrown in jail for some miniscule amount of marijuana found on my shoe because I accidentally stepped on someone’s roach here? Stranger things have happened. And I’m fairly certain it’s common for people to be busted at Dubai airport for ‘carrying’ un-useable amounts of drugs. What if my prescription drugs are illegal there, and I end up thrown in jail for them? Again, this is not an uncommon occurrence at Dubai airport.
I have other fears and anxieties about going back as well. I have fears about seeing my ex husband, fears about not wearing hijab anymore and what he’ll have to say about that when it comes to my son. I have fears about reversing all the healing I’ve managed to do since I’ve been back. The UAE is poison to me. It took 12 years to destroy who I was, who I am, and turn me into something really fucking ugly. It’s taken about 3 years, but I’m starting to fix all that. I’m putting the pieces back together and I’m able to finally live my life the way it was meant to be. That’s a huge thing to only be achieving as you approach 30-years-old. What if even a moment in Dubai tears that all down again?
I was walking dead by the time I left there. It’s a miracle I survived long enough to make it here.
Just thinking about it makes my stomach ache… And then I remember going back to Dubai would mean at least a month away from him. How to make a bad thought worse, or a little anxiety full-fledged anxiety attack! It would also mean seeing my baby boy. He alone would be worth the trip. If only I trusted it wouldn't kill me.
He’ll be home from work any time now. He’ll hug away my stresses. And perhaps point out that the chest pains I was feeling yesterday may have very well been stress and I need to stop thinking so much.
Much to the world’s dismay, I didn’t leave for Squamish, obviously. My sister went into my office at 4pm (knowing my shift starts at 3pm). My colleagues are harassing me about why I’m not there yet. And I think despite my boss knowing I’d be arriving tomorrow, she half hoped I’d show a day early (as I often do when scheduled to go, as a surprise). But if I go tomorrow, I get to spend one more night in his arms. And, it’ll be just one more sleep before I can pick up rice-crispy squares (I have been craving them for a week or so now!) from a very old school friend who recently purchased a house in Squamish, and promised me she’ll bring some to work on Friday for me! I really should just go to her house tomorrow before going to the office.
With my dad’s return comes stress. Money is a huge stressing factor in this house. We have renters that don’t pay rent, and assets like property and land that don’t make an income. We have my mother’s estate, the legal proceedings sucking out any reserves we may possibly have. And as we attempt to get rid of the renters, I contemplate selling my apartment in Dubai. I hate the idea of going back there – in fact; I have paranoid fears about it. What if I get caught at Customs and thrown in jail for some miniscule amount of marijuana found on my shoe because I accidentally stepped on someone’s roach here? Stranger things have happened. And I’m fairly certain it’s common for people to be busted at Dubai airport for ‘carrying’ un-useable amounts of drugs. What if my prescription drugs are illegal there, and I end up thrown in jail for them? Again, this is not an uncommon occurrence at Dubai airport.
I have other fears and anxieties about going back as well. I have fears about seeing my ex husband, fears about not wearing hijab anymore and what he’ll have to say about that when it comes to my son. I have fears about reversing all the healing I’ve managed to do since I’ve been back. The UAE is poison to me. It took 12 years to destroy who I was, who I am, and turn me into something really fucking ugly. It’s taken about 3 years, but I’m starting to fix all that. I’m putting the pieces back together and I’m able to finally live my life the way it was meant to be. That’s a huge thing to only be achieving as you approach 30-years-old. What if even a moment in Dubai tears that all down again?
I was walking dead by the time I left there. It’s a miracle I survived long enough to make it here.
Just thinking about it makes my stomach ache… And then I remember going back to Dubai would mean at least a month away from him. How to make a bad thought worse, or a little anxiety full-fledged anxiety attack! It would also mean seeing my baby boy. He alone would be worth the trip. If only I trusted it wouldn't kill me.
He’ll be home from work any time now. He’ll hug away my stresses. And perhaps point out that the chest pains I was feeling yesterday may have very well been stress and I need to stop thinking so much.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I talked to my son yesterday. He proudly told me he now has 3 mobile phones, “Two are LG, the other one is Nokia,” he beamed. “Mama likes Nokia best,” I tell him. To which he agrees, so does he. Like mother like son…
It’s unfortunate that since his dad gave away his last cell number, he hasn’t updated me on the new ones. And Ali can’t remember his own – not when they’re being changed all the time. I’d love to once again be able to call him directly, rather than speaking to my ex-in-laws on their house line. The conversations are always so uncomfortable. They’re great with me, I gave them their first grandson, but I’m still the girl who divorced their eldest son.
Ali’s angry with me for not being there, which makes me a little angry with myself. I wish I could be there with him. I wish that country wasn’t so plastic, full of plastic people. I wish it didn’t destroy me as it does. He’s also angry because his father tells him he’s not allowed to come here yet, “How do I get there alone, mama?” He asked me, followed by, “I can’t go all the way to Canada alone! There’s no one to take me.” I promised him the minute his dad said it was ok; I’d jump on a plane and go get him. I will keep that promise, if it costs me my job and everything else on this side of the planet.
You don’t fly to the other side of earth for a day. It’d be a month-long trip at the minimum. And it’d probably give me a chance to clean up some other messes left behind there, like my apartment, my vehicle, etc. All of that feels like a catastrophe waiting to happen these days… It all needs to be dealt with soon. I have too many un-manned assets there. And I can’t seem to get a grip on them from over here.
Anyway, when I got off the phone with him I immediately sent his father an email asking him to reconsider sending Ali out here. This morning he replied to say, “I got both your emails but I am at work. I will reply to them tomorrow.” It’s so like him to avoid uncomfortable confrontation. He doesn’t want to send our son here. He’s terrified that I’ll either keep Ali here, or Ali will choose to stay.
It scares Lars to know I may pick up any minute and leave for the other side of the planet for so long. But he knows I’ll come home to him. It feels a little like our relationship is meant to teach us both some patience in some ways. And it’s all good, because we’re learning together.
Conversations with his sister last night and his mom this morning have left me with a huge smile on my face. It’s a beautiful day. And there are many beautiful possibilities waiting for us all…
It’s unfortunate that since his dad gave away his last cell number, he hasn’t updated me on the new ones. And Ali can’t remember his own – not when they’re being changed all the time. I’d love to once again be able to call him directly, rather than speaking to my ex-in-laws on their house line. The conversations are always so uncomfortable. They’re great with me, I gave them their first grandson, but I’m still the girl who divorced their eldest son.
Ali’s angry with me for not being there, which makes me a little angry with myself. I wish I could be there with him. I wish that country wasn’t so plastic, full of plastic people. I wish it didn’t destroy me as it does. He’s also angry because his father tells him he’s not allowed to come here yet, “How do I get there alone, mama?” He asked me, followed by, “I can’t go all the way to Canada alone! There’s no one to take me.” I promised him the minute his dad said it was ok; I’d jump on a plane and go get him. I will keep that promise, if it costs me my job and everything else on this side of the planet.
You don’t fly to the other side of earth for a day. It’d be a month-long trip at the minimum. And it’d probably give me a chance to clean up some other messes left behind there, like my apartment, my vehicle, etc. All of that feels like a catastrophe waiting to happen these days… It all needs to be dealt with soon. I have too many un-manned assets there. And I can’t seem to get a grip on them from over here.
Anyway, when I got off the phone with him I immediately sent his father an email asking him to reconsider sending Ali out here. This morning he replied to say, “I got both your emails but I am at work. I will reply to them tomorrow.” It’s so like him to avoid uncomfortable confrontation. He doesn’t want to send our son here. He’s terrified that I’ll either keep Ali here, or Ali will choose to stay.
It scares Lars to know I may pick up any minute and leave for the other side of the planet for so long. But he knows I’ll come home to him. It feels a little like our relationship is meant to teach us both some patience in some ways. And it’s all good, because we’re learning together.
Conversations with his sister last night and his mom this morning have left me with a huge smile on my face. It’s a beautiful day. And there are many beautiful possibilities waiting for us all…
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
What matters…
I miss you Zorana.
I ran alone tonight. I ran hard. I ran from what I was feeling. I ran to cleanse. I ran until I felt a jinnie (Authu bi Allah min ashaytan ir regime) behind me. I saw his shadow, shorter than myself, running beside me. I gasped. My heart raced, and I started to panic. I spun and ran as hard as I could towards the light. And you flashed in my mind. I saw you seething, not breathing as you growled in my direction. I watched your eyes roll back into your head, before finally your face softened and you whimpered my name. I heard the thunder of his chanting holy words. I saw myself run towards you and heard my husband and the Mullah yell at me simultaneously to leave you crying on my livingroom floor – because it wasn’t really you at all.
And for a moment tonight, I felt foolish as if I didn’t believe my own story. But I know it was true. I know it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. And I know for a moment tonight, I was at risk myself.
I miss you Zorana. I love you terribly and wish you were with me at nights like tonight.
I miss you Zorana.
I ran alone tonight. I ran hard. I ran from what I was feeling. I ran to cleanse. I ran until I felt a jinnie (Authu bi Allah min ashaytan ir regime) behind me. I saw his shadow, shorter than myself, running beside me. I gasped. My heart raced, and I started to panic. I spun and ran as hard as I could towards the light. And you flashed in my mind. I saw you seething, not breathing as you growled in my direction. I watched your eyes roll back into your head, before finally your face softened and you whimpered my name. I heard the thunder of his chanting holy words. I saw myself run towards you and heard my husband and the Mullah yell at me simultaneously to leave you crying on my livingroom floor – because it wasn’t really you at all.
And for a moment tonight, I felt foolish as if I didn’t believe my own story. But I know it was true. I know it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. And I know for a moment tonight, I was at risk myself.
I miss you Zorana. I love you terribly and wish you were with me at nights like tonight.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
When I was 17 or so, I lost the love of my life. Every relationship I’ve had since then has been compared to what I considered perfect. I did not believe there were two people on the planet more compatible than he and I, and until today I still picture what he and I had as the epitome of true love.
Sure, I’ve loved many people since. It’s just that none of those loves have been as pure, as innocent, as all-consuming as the love he and I shared. We lived in a dream world. And it was a dream world we built together.
It’s been more than 10 years, and a part of me still loves him. I still think about him almost every day.
A few days ago I was talking to a friend here about relationships and love, and naturally A’s name came up. The following day I found myself Googling his name. I didn’t really expect to find anything, so when links popped up and I found him in a photograph taken just a few years back at a work function where he was handing out awards, my heart dropped, my breathing paused and I could do nothing but stare.
His hands were just as beautiful in the photo as they were when they were wrapped around mine. His face hadn’t changed. He was stunning to look at.
For an hour or two my whole world seemed to stop. I had to know what he was doing with himself. I had to know if he had ever married, if he enjoyed his job, how many of his teenage dreams came true, and most importantly I needed to know he was happy. I cried for a bit, as memories rushed through my mind and I thought of how badly I still wanted him.
I picked up the phone and called his office.
The man who I spoke to wasn’t the same carefree, life-filled, optimistic, calm man I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. He was polite and graceful as I knew he always would be. He asked about me and mine and he didn’t try to hang up the phone at the first opportunity I gave him. But the man I spoke to was miserable. He sounded unhappy beyond belief. He was pessimistic. He was broken. 10 years had taken their toll.
So many days have passed. And so many moments I’ve wondered what could have been. Yesterday, I found out. Had I been by his side today, I’d have been just as miserable as he was. Had I gotten what I’ve wanted for years now, I would not be half as happy as I am today.
When we were together, we truly shared one heart. And if I had to feel today what I can feel you’re feeling, I think I’d have to kill myself. I love you. I always have and I always will. But I think you’ve finally given me the closure I needed to know I’m better off without you.
Sure, I’ve loved many people since. It’s just that none of those loves have been as pure, as innocent, as all-consuming as the love he and I shared. We lived in a dream world. And it was a dream world we built together.
It’s been more than 10 years, and a part of me still loves him. I still think about him almost every day.
A few days ago I was talking to a friend here about relationships and love, and naturally A’s name came up. The following day I found myself Googling his name. I didn’t really expect to find anything, so when links popped up and I found him in a photograph taken just a few years back at a work function where he was handing out awards, my heart dropped, my breathing paused and I could do nothing but stare.
His hands were just as beautiful in the photo as they were when they were wrapped around mine. His face hadn’t changed. He was stunning to look at.
For an hour or two my whole world seemed to stop. I had to know what he was doing with himself. I had to know if he had ever married, if he enjoyed his job, how many of his teenage dreams came true, and most importantly I needed to know he was happy. I cried for a bit, as memories rushed through my mind and I thought of how badly I still wanted him.
I picked up the phone and called his office.
The man who I spoke to wasn’t the same carefree, life-filled, optimistic, calm man I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. He was polite and graceful as I knew he always would be. He asked about me and mine and he didn’t try to hang up the phone at the first opportunity I gave him. But the man I spoke to was miserable. He sounded unhappy beyond belief. He was pessimistic. He was broken. 10 years had taken their toll.
So many days have passed. And so many moments I’ve wondered what could have been. Yesterday, I found out. Had I been by his side today, I’d have been just as miserable as he was. Had I gotten what I’ve wanted for years now, I would not be half as happy as I am today.
When we were together, we truly shared one heart. And if I had to feel today what I can feel you’re feeling, I think I’d have to kill myself. I love you. I always have and I always will. But I think you’ve finally given me the closure I needed to know I’m better off without you.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Sodomy Sentence Reduced to Molestation ~*Gulf News
"The convict's lawyer, Ali Al Abbadi, argued: "My client didn't sodomise the schoolboy... the forensic report confirmed that the boy was not sodomised (there were no signs of any intercourse) but the examination showed that there were signs of sexual interaction which occurred due to possible molestation.""
What I want to know is exactly what examinations can determine whether a person has actually been penetrated, or just “molested?” Sounds like a crock of shit to ignorant little me. Any rapist/child-molester deserves capital punishment.
And while I’m on the topic of child abuse, watch this movie (the whole thing available in parts on YouTube). It’s heartbreaking.
"The convict's lawyer, Ali Al Abbadi, argued: "My client didn't sodomise the schoolboy... the forensic report confirmed that the boy was not sodomised (there were no signs of any intercourse) but the examination showed that there were signs of sexual interaction which occurred due to possible molestation.""
What I want to know is exactly what examinations can determine whether a person has actually been penetrated, or just “molested?” Sounds like a crock of shit to ignorant little me. Any rapist/child-molester deserves capital punishment.
And while I’m on the topic of child abuse, watch this movie (the whole thing available in parts on YouTube). It’s heartbreaking.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Yesterday, I woke up and left for work as usual. It’s was just past 6am, and for the first time since I got here, I had to idle my car for a good 10 minutes so the ice, not frost but thin layer of ice, would melt off my windshield. It’s getting fucking cold. Soon, everything will be covered in a pristine white blanket of snow. I am not looking forward to it.
I pop into the UAE blogs less frequently these days. The stereotypical bullshit bores me. I can’t help but wonder where the curiosity, flare, even uniqueness of UAE bloggers have gone in general. I guess with the demise of the infamous blogs like Balushi, or Sex & Dubai, the entire community suffered. It’s a pity really, because once upon a time, the UAE blogging scene was entertainment. Or perhaps it’s just me and how much change I’ve been subjected to?
I’m finally learning the value of the dollar, and what it’s like to not really have enough. I’m finally learning that life really is what I make it. Which reminds me, if you have an hour or so, watch this clip and all the subsequent ones (if you haven’t already seen the movie):
This is the first of 12 or so clips on Youtube for the movie, ‘What the bleep do we know’.
My mom is still crazy, my dad is still fighting the battle. I believe right now, my mother is being charged with credit card fraud for using my dad’s credit card without his knowledge. It’s the card company themselves who are pressing the charges and not necessarily my father. In addition to all of that, there is question as to whether or not I’ll be selling my flat in Dubai. The expenses of the separation are far beyond what my father anticipated, and if it comes down to him having to sell off the million dollar house he worked his whole life for and just completed building, or me giving up some studio in Dubai, you can bet your ass I’ll let go of the flat. That may very well mean I’m heading back there sometime soon. It’ll be so good to see my son.
I miss him. I miss him more than words can describe. I want nothing more than to hug and hold him these days. I know he misses me too.
I pop into the UAE blogs less frequently these days. The stereotypical bullshit bores me. I can’t help but wonder where the curiosity, flare, even uniqueness of UAE bloggers have gone in general. I guess with the demise of the infamous blogs like Balushi, or Sex & Dubai, the entire community suffered. It’s a pity really, because once upon a time, the UAE blogging scene was entertainment. Or perhaps it’s just me and how much change I’ve been subjected to?
I’m finally learning the value of the dollar, and what it’s like to not really have enough. I’m finally learning that life really is what I make it. Which reminds me, if you have an hour or so, watch this clip and all the subsequent ones (if you haven’t already seen the movie):
This is the first of 12 or so clips on Youtube for the movie, ‘What the bleep do we know’.
My mom is still crazy, my dad is still fighting the battle. I believe right now, my mother is being charged with credit card fraud for using my dad’s credit card without his knowledge. It’s the card company themselves who are pressing the charges and not necessarily my father. In addition to all of that, there is question as to whether or not I’ll be selling my flat in Dubai. The expenses of the separation are far beyond what my father anticipated, and if it comes down to him having to sell off the million dollar house he worked his whole life for and just completed building, or me giving up some studio in Dubai, you can bet your ass I’ll let go of the flat. That may very well mean I’m heading back there sometime soon. It’ll be so good to see my son.
I miss him. I miss him more than words can describe. I want nothing more than to hug and hold him these days. I know he misses me too.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Whenever I think I’m starting to miss Dubai, Youtube is all I need:
Home sweet, home:
~*~
I don't know if this says more about Dubai, or the presenter here:
~*~
I should have learned to ski while I was there... Maybe then I'd have reason to drive 30 minutes north of here, and hit the slops!
Home sweet, home:
~*~
I don't know if this says more about Dubai, or the presenter here:
~*~
I should have learned to ski while I was there... Maybe then I'd have reason to drive 30 minutes north of here, and hit the slops!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
The international documentaries made on Dubai are careful with their camera work. It’s rare that you’ll see the skyline, littered with cranes and construction workers almost dangling from their deaths tens of stories up, without harnesses. The architecture looks brilliant on the outside. Sleek glass windows, buildings so tall from the ground you imagine they touch the stars at night, marble flooring, and in some of the higher-class hotels, faucets plated in pure gold. Look a little deeper and you’ll see the walls are cracking under the paint less than a year after construction was completed, the wiring is a mess causing random mini-explosions, plumbing backs up and the building itself is no more stable than a shack.
I fell into the trap of buying an apartment in Dubai. It wasn’t a month later that, that the air conditioner (a vital instrument for living in the UAE) stopped working. It wasn’t two months in when the toilet decided to continually flush itself with a constant rush of water making its way through the bowl, increasing my electricity and water bills to shocking amounts. It was the very first week I was there, that the pipes under my sink broke and my kitchen flooded. So very pretty on the outside, but its core is complete and utter crap. Still, that lovely little piece of property is worth about 33% more now, two years later then it was when I purchased it. Why? The illusion of Dubai is simply that grand!
Life in Dubai is much the same as most of these buildings. It is picture perfect on the outside, but disturbed at its core. Visit Dubai for a week and you’ll fall in love; stay there a few years and you’ll learn to despise just about everything about it. Dubai teaches you one thing really well, and that’s how to become a plastic person. The only problem with being plastic is, plastic can’t comfort your heart – nor can the plastic people you end up surrounded by. Material things take lead, while arts, emotions, anything that makes us human is forced on the back burner.
There isn’t a proper jazz club in Dubai. There isn’t a coffee shop where one can go and watch local talent, whether it be stand up, poetry readings or even a play. All of Dubai’s entertainment is imported for a short while – long enough to put on a show or two, then sent back home. In a place that populated, there has to be talent there somewhere. But who is actually looking for it? Who is willing to embrace it? And who is able to hold on to their own talents while the whims of personal belongings, and picture perfect life charades are taking over everything they do?
In the 12 years I lived in Dubai, outside of English class in school I met only one poet. He was a brilliant writer and most likely could have made something of himself on that talent alone. But he was Indian. And life in Dubai taught him that wasn’t ok. For months he lied to me and everyone he knew, taking on an assumed local identity, concentrating more on what people thought of him and how he could further deceive us of his roots, than he possibly could his writing. I don’t imagine he’s writing still. I don’t even know if I ever actually learned his first name. But he was a talent Dubai and Dubai’s society lost out on.
Dubai is an illusion. From the fairytale cities, to the Barbie-doll type people, there is no real life there; just plastic, paint and a decaying core.
I fell into the trap of buying an apartment in Dubai. It wasn’t a month later that, that the air conditioner (a vital instrument for living in the UAE) stopped working. It wasn’t two months in when the toilet decided to continually flush itself with a constant rush of water making its way through the bowl, increasing my electricity and water bills to shocking amounts. It was the very first week I was there, that the pipes under my sink broke and my kitchen flooded. So very pretty on the outside, but its core is complete and utter crap. Still, that lovely little piece of property is worth about 33% more now, two years later then it was when I purchased it. Why? The illusion of Dubai is simply that grand!
Life in Dubai is much the same as most of these buildings. It is picture perfect on the outside, but disturbed at its core. Visit Dubai for a week and you’ll fall in love; stay there a few years and you’ll learn to despise just about everything about it. Dubai teaches you one thing really well, and that’s how to become a plastic person. The only problem with being plastic is, plastic can’t comfort your heart – nor can the plastic people you end up surrounded by. Material things take lead, while arts, emotions, anything that makes us human is forced on the back burner.
There isn’t a proper jazz club in Dubai. There isn’t a coffee shop where one can go and watch local talent, whether it be stand up, poetry readings or even a play. All of Dubai’s entertainment is imported for a short while – long enough to put on a show or two, then sent back home. In a place that populated, there has to be talent there somewhere. But who is actually looking for it? Who is willing to embrace it? And who is able to hold on to their own talents while the whims of personal belongings, and picture perfect life charades are taking over everything they do?
In the 12 years I lived in Dubai, outside of English class in school I met only one poet. He was a brilliant writer and most likely could have made something of himself on that talent alone. But he was Indian. And life in Dubai taught him that wasn’t ok. For months he lied to me and everyone he knew, taking on an assumed local identity, concentrating more on what people thought of him and how he could further deceive us of his roots, than he possibly could his writing. I don’t imagine he’s writing still. I don’t even know if I ever actually learned his first name. But he was a talent Dubai and Dubai’s society lost out on.
Dubai is an illusion. From the fairytale cities, to the Barbie-doll type people, there is no real life there; just plastic, paint and a decaying core.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Completely tossed the other night and dealing with heartbreak I called the boy and asked him why he did what he did to me. A little over a year after the breakup, he has little to say except, “I’m deeply sorry for what I did to you. I miss you terribly and thinking about the love we shared almost brings me to tears. I still love you”.
There’s a lot to say about that and any comparisons that can be made between boys from the west and local boys. Both of them can be assholes, but local boys seem to be more passionate about their women (and note the plural). They seem to take better care not to inflict pain on a casual basis, where as boys from the west are colder, less considerate and can seem emotionless though more often than not, they’re faithful.
Since being home, I’ve learned to miss a few of the comforts a local boy would offer. I miss being almost force-fed when I’m not really hungry but clearly haven’t eaten enough. I’ve missed being dropped off at the entrance of a shop rather than a block away in the parking lot. I’ve missed being picked up when I needed a ride – and even when I didn’t really. I’ve missed being asked if I needed anything while he’s on his way to me. I’ve missed the small surprises. I’ve missed knowing that at 3am if I had a craving for a donut or pickles, he would be more than happy to go pick those things up for me. The list goes on and on, but to sum it all up I’ve missed being spoiled rotten.
But are those little things worth the pain that comes with knowing 9 times out of 10 he’s probably spoiling someone else alongside you? To be honest with you, I’m not even sure I know the answer to that one anymore.
There’s a lot to say about that and any comparisons that can be made between boys from the west and local boys. Both of them can be assholes, but local boys seem to be more passionate about their women (and note the plural). They seem to take better care not to inflict pain on a casual basis, where as boys from the west are colder, less considerate and can seem emotionless though more often than not, they’re faithful.
Since being home, I’ve learned to miss a few of the comforts a local boy would offer. I miss being almost force-fed when I’m not really hungry but clearly haven’t eaten enough. I’ve missed being dropped off at the entrance of a shop rather than a block away in the parking lot. I’ve missed being picked up when I needed a ride – and even when I didn’t really. I’ve missed being asked if I needed anything while he’s on his way to me. I’ve missed the small surprises. I’ve missed knowing that at 3am if I had a craving for a donut or pickles, he would be more than happy to go pick those things up for me. The list goes on and on, but to sum it all up I’ve missed being spoiled rotten.
But are those little things worth the pain that comes with knowing 9 times out of 10 he’s probably spoiling someone else alongside you? To be honest with you, I’m not even sure I know the answer to that one anymore.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Chapter II?
~*~
Nationality plays the biggest role in your life in Dubai, with it being one of the most racist multi-national societies on the planet, if not the most. Walk into any coffee shop or restaurant and survey the tables. The first thing you’ll notice are how each table has its own nationality and invisible borders seem to separate each of the races as starkly as black on white. This mentality spread as far back to my days in an International High School there, where the school cafeteria was just as divided. I remember disliking this reality as a naive teenager and attempting to change it.
A new Indian girl had joined a few weeks after school started. She didn’t seem to click right away with those of her own nationality and it wasn’t uncommon to find her eating alone during lunch. I invited her to eat with us, partially out of sorrow and partially because at that time, I believed I could fix the world of all its ailments. She refused. A few days later, I attempted again and to my utter surprise she jumped up and screamed at me that I hated her and I did so because she was Indian. She then burst out in tears and ran out of the cafeteria. Coming from Canada and before this instance not really grasping the depth of racism I was shocked and disgusted by the accusation. I never did talk to her again. It was only years later that I realized how it must have felt for her, after having her parents beat it into her that all white people thought they were superior and since we thought so, we must be. I shit you not, later in life I have come across Asians who argue that the only reason Canada is a better place to live than the UAE is because Canada is run by white people (a complete loud of crap, but believed by many just the same) and the UAE is run by brown people.
Despite that being as far from the truth as possible for most new comers to Dubai, eventually westerns are given a superiority complex and find themselves in an ongoing battle with locals about who in fact rules their country, because despite the largest part of the population being Indian or Asians, they simply aren’t competent enough to take on the roll – it must be the Arabs or the westerners. Look at any job listing in the local papers and three out of four times, you’re going to find a requested race. Next to managerial or leading high paying positions, Westerners or locals are requested. Next to low paying administration or secretarial jobs, you’ll find Indians, Pakistani or Filipinos being requested. I dare anyone to find a domestic help, construction labour, or table waiting position in a restaurant, offered to locals or westerners. No, no, those low paying, low respected jobs are reserved for the lesser races – who cares if they have experience and degrees that make ours look like they came out of a cereal box!
There is an invisible racial hierarchy in Dubai that tourists may fail to see, but those living there know where they stand. And there are a number of generalizations that can be made about each race based on that race living and working in the emirate. At the top of the racial hierarchy you’ll find the locals and the westerners, each of which complaining that the other thinks they rule the UAE. Most other nationalities will simply call it even between the two, once they put aside their own racial preferences.
Just below them, you’ll find the Arab nationals from countries like Syria, Egypt, Lebanon and Palestine. This nationality takes up few of the moderate to low paying jobs, and can somewhat rarely be found in the higher paying, more prestigious ones. However, when they do land such a job, they’re the first to flaunt it by taking out excessive bank loans to create the facade that they’re living the high life. This nationality is the one that drives beat up, old BMW’s and get ridiculed for thinking their cars are the shit, or should they stumble on a big enough bank loan, they’ll drive Mercedes spending their very last dirham (local currency) on it, along with a matching brand-named wardrobe, while having a barren flat to live in and little food to eat at home. And at the end of the day, who can blame them? If you don’t look good in Dubai, you must not be anyone!
The next tier is where the eastern Europeans fit in. The women in this category are more often than not accused of prostitution and you’ll rarely find them working a job away from serving tables at a shisha or coffee shop. They’re widely believed to have one purpose in Dubai, and that’s to find a rich local to marry for the sake of getting that all too famous Emirati passport. I lived with a Russian girl once. She was one of the hardest working, innocent sales people I’d ever come across -- but I must be wrong about that because UAE society says so.
The lowest form of life according to this hierarchy, are the Asians, whether they be from India or China, labourers even get their own lower-class, cheaper shopping centers. You’ll find that these are people who built this country and continue to make it thrive. They’re also the least paid the least respected and for some reason (perhaps the long, underappreciated days working in the sun?) the worst smelling. God forbid! Many of the major shopping malls have forbidden bachelors (another loose term given to the labour workers who build the country) from being in them – God forbid they clash with the shiny, picturesque interior. No nightclub will allow them entrance and many residential buildings have forbidden them from taking up residence in them. On the other side side of the coin, Asian or Arab taxi drivers will bypass another Asian or Arab for a western looking traveller a block or two down the street, based on the generalization that Westerners travel to less congested places, and they tip better*2.
One of the more complex observation of a society as racially fucked up as this one, are the numbers of people who actually seem to suffer racial identification crisis. Ask an Indian or Arab who has a Canadian passport where he’s from and he’ll tell you he’s Canadian, despite not having ever lived a day there. Ask an Eastern European who has married a national where she is from and she’ll tell you she’s local, despite having no local blood in her. In Dubai, there too much attention is paid on race, denying your race, judging others by their race, or denying you’re racist, when the truth be told... If you’ve spent enough time there and still come out claiming you’re not racist, you’re a liar and no Dubain (excepting those in denial) will believe you.
I’ve been back in the West more than a year now. I’m still trying to shake the idea that life is really only skin deep. I know some former Dubains who despise the UAE based solely on that that disgusting transformation of their once non-bias personality, conceived while residing there.
~*~
Should I continue? I think I'm going to have to. I'm just having too much fun writing... (And it's been a while!)
Nationality plays the biggest role in your life in Dubai, with it being one of the most racist multi-national societies on the planet, if not the most. Walk into any coffee shop or restaurant and survey the tables. The first thing you’ll notice are how each table has its own nationality and invisible borders seem to separate each of the races as starkly as black on white. This mentality spread as far back to my days in an International High School there, where the school cafeteria was just as divided. I remember disliking this reality as a naive teenager and attempting to change it.
A new Indian girl had joined a few weeks after school started. She didn’t seem to click right away with those of her own nationality and it wasn’t uncommon to find her eating alone during lunch. I invited her to eat with us, partially out of sorrow and partially because at that time, I believed I could fix the world of all its ailments. She refused. A few days later, I attempted again and to my utter surprise she jumped up and screamed at me that I hated her and I did so because she was Indian. She then burst out in tears and ran out of the cafeteria. Coming from Canada and before this instance not really grasping the depth of racism I was shocked and disgusted by the accusation. I never did talk to her again. It was only years later that I realized how it must have felt for her, after having her parents beat it into her that all white people thought they were superior and since we thought so, we must be. I shit you not, later in life I have come across Asians who argue that the only reason Canada is a better place to live than the UAE is because Canada is run by white people (a complete loud of crap, but believed by many just the same) and the UAE is run by brown people.
Despite that being as far from the truth as possible for most new comers to Dubai, eventually westerns are given a superiority complex and find themselves in an ongoing battle with locals about who in fact rules their country, because despite the largest part of the population being Indian or Asians, they simply aren’t competent enough to take on the roll – it must be the Arabs or the westerners. Look at any job listing in the local papers and three out of four times, you’re going to find a requested race. Next to managerial or leading high paying positions, Westerners or locals are requested. Next to low paying administration or secretarial jobs, you’ll find Indians, Pakistani or Filipinos being requested. I dare anyone to find a domestic help, construction labour, or table waiting position in a restaurant, offered to locals or westerners. No, no, those low paying, low respected jobs are reserved for the lesser races – who cares if they have experience and degrees that make ours look like they came out of a cereal box!
There is an invisible racial hierarchy in Dubai that tourists may fail to see, but those living there know where they stand. And there are a number of generalizations that can be made about each race based on that race living and working in the emirate. At the top of the racial hierarchy you’ll find the locals and the westerners, each of which complaining that the other thinks they rule the UAE. Most other nationalities will simply call it even between the two, once they put aside their own racial preferences.
Just below them, you’ll find the Arab nationals from countries like Syria, Egypt, Lebanon and Palestine. This nationality takes up few of the moderate to low paying jobs, and can somewhat rarely be found in the higher paying, more prestigious ones. However, when they do land such a job, they’re the first to flaunt it by taking out excessive bank loans to create the facade that they’re living the high life. This nationality is the one that drives beat up, old BMW’s and get ridiculed for thinking their cars are the shit, or should they stumble on a big enough bank loan, they’ll drive Mercedes spending their very last dirham (local currency) on it, along with a matching brand-named wardrobe, while having a barren flat to live in and little food to eat at home. And at the end of the day, who can blame them? If you don’t look good in Dubai, you must not be anyone!
The next tier is where the eastern Europeans fit in. The women in this category are more often than not accused of prostitution and you’ll rarely find them working a job away from serving tables at a shisha or coffee shop. They’re widely believed to have one purpose in Dubai, and that’s to find a rich local to marry for the sake of getting that all too famous Emirati passport. I lived with a Russian girl once. She was one of the hardest working, innocent sales people I’d ever come across -- but I must be wrong about that because UAE society says so.
The lowest form of life according to this hierarchy, are the Asians, whether they be from India or China, labourers even get their own lower-class, cheaper shopping centers. You’ll find that these are people who built this country and continue to make it thrive. They’re also the least paid the least respected and for some reason (perhaps the long, underappreciated days working in the sun?) the worst smelling. God forbid! Many of the major shopping malls have forbidden bachelors (another loose term given to the labour workers who build the country) from being in them – God forbid they clash with the shiny, picturesque interior. No nightclub will allow them entrance and many residential buildings have forbidden them from taking up residence in them. On the other side side of the coin, Asian or Arab taxi drivers will bypass another Asian or Arab for a western looking traveller a block or two down the street, based on the generalization that Westerners travel to less congested places, and they tip better*2.
One of the more complex observation of a society as racially fucked up as this one, are the numbers of people who actually seem to suffer racial identification crisis. Ask an Indian or Arab who has a Canadian passport where he’s from and he’ll tell you he’s Canadian, despite not having ever lived a day there. Ask an Eastern European who has married a national where she is from and she’ll tell you she’s local, despite having no local blood in her. In Dubai, there too much attention is paid on race, denying your race, judging others by their race, or denying you’re racist, when the truth be told... If you’ve spent enough time there and still come out claiming you’re not racist, you’re a liar and no Dubain (excepting those in denial) will believe you.
I’ve been back in the West more than a year now. I’m still trying to shake the idea that life is really only skin deep. I know some former Dubains who despise the UAE based solely on that that disgusting transformation of their once non-bias personality, conceived while residing there.
Should I continue? I think I'm going to have to. I'm just having too much fun writing... (And it's been a while!)
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Me
- Tainted Female
- No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.
My Blog List
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"UN Delegation" (Microfiction)4 months ago
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Hello 2014!12 years ago
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40 CONSCIOUS years!12 years ago
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Pink Pudding13 years ago
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Another year has passed14 years ago
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allo allo..14 years ago
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See you in Oz?15 years ago
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Downtown15 years ago
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