I thought my biggest challenge in Abu Dhabi would be adjusting to the heat; instead, it was confronting the heat of my own entitlement.
I was offered a two-year job contract in Abu Dhabi, in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Moving to the Middle East in 2012, at the tail end of the Arab Spring revolutions, was, to say the least, a little daunting. But I was also excited about the prospect of living somewhere so culturally different from my past living experiences, especially Paris, where I’d been for the last eight years.
So, I accepted, packed up, and left Paris a month later. As the airplane passed over Abu Dhabi to land, I saw the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque out the window. It reminded me of the first time I flew over Paris and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night.
A new country. A new adventure.
All-inclusive in my new employment package was the living arrangement. When I arrived, my employer assigned me an Emirati guide who told me they had two in‑city apartments available for me to view.
I visited both and ended up taking a 2‑bedroom, 2‑bath apartment on the 17th floor of a building downtown, nestled along Khalifa Bin Zayed Avenue and just two blocks from The Corniche, a lovely waterfront boardwalk that was full of life at all hours of the day.
The apartment had sweeping views of the city. And not only was it rent-free, but the heat/air-conditioning and utilities were all included as well. All I had to do was set up Wi‑Fi. I was even given a special bonus of 30,000 dirhams to buy furniture for it (~$8,500.00).
I didn’t like the flooring in the apartment, though. They were these old-looking ‘70s tiles, an off‑white color of small, flat stones or tile pressed in with specks, and they mostly looked dirty rather than cream. And each day as I walked in from work, the tiles bothered me, always reminding me of those old‑school Brach’s Nougat candies my grandmother used to leave out with ribbon candy for my brother and me; we’d gobbled up the latter and ignored the nougats.
And the layout of the apartment was a bit odd as well, with the kitchen being very small and not open to the front room; because it was designed for the woman or servants to be cooking out of sight of the people they were serving.
But I kept saying to myself, You get what you get when they give it for free.
Like many of the high-rise apartment buildings in downtown Abu Dhabi, there was a doorman who monitored the comings and goings of everyone.
One day, on my way in I stopped to ask the doorman, Rajesh, questions about the underground parking and then fell into conversation with him.
I asked, “Where are you from, Rajesh?”
He replied, “From a village near Chennai.”
I leaned against the kiosk. “My cousin lives in Bombay now.”
He smiled. “They be very different. All parts of India very different.”
“When did you come here?”
“Since three years, miss.”
I asked, “You’re always working! Every time I walk by this kiosk, you’re here.”
He nodded in that side‑to‑side gesture unique to his culture. It usually meant yes, agreement, or understanding. “Yes. I work 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. all the week.”
Surprised, I asked, “Wait. All seven days of the week? You don’t get a day off?”
He shook his head.
I blinked. We were both immigrants in the UAE. But his reception and conditions here were clearly a far cry different from my own.
I said, “Seriously? Twelve hours a day, all week long? Aren’t you exhausted?”
He shook his head emphatically. “Oh no, miss. It much better than others. With air‑condition, and I can sit down.”
I remembered the stories of immigrant workers brought in from India and Indonesia to work on the construction of high-rise buildings in the blistering 110‑degree Middle East heat. So maybe, by comparison, this was better.
I asked, “But working all night, that must be hard? I’d be sooo tired.”
He again shook his head. “Oh no, miss. Like other immigrants, I share one room with seven men. They come and go all night. All night! Oh. It terrible. So much noise. You can never sleep! But I work all night here and they gone all day, so I can sleep. It very good. I am very lucky.”
Lucky?
All around the world, even in the USA, how immigrants are treated is nothing short of shocking. It’s not as if I hadn’t known it before, but this was another stark, unavoidable reminder.
I asked, “Okay, uh, so, you share a one‑room apartment with seven other men? Are there bunk beds?” I knew from other stories how small it probably was, how cramped, and the lack of privacy, bustle, and noise.
He nodded side‑to‑side.
“Do you have a front room or kitchen?”
“No miss. Not really.”
Feeling worried for him, I asked, “Without any days off, then do you go back to India to see your family?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot since they took my passport. But I hope next year I can see my family.”
I stared. Taking someone’s passport away was inconceivable to me. How does one human look at another and decide they deserve this? How does anyone justify treating people with such disregard? Stunned, I asked, “They took your… so you have not seen your family in years?”
He nodded side‑to‑side. “But that is okay, miss. I make many more money here. My wife and children have big home.” He smiled broadly, pride emanating from him.
He was proud.
He was happy.
He felt grateful and lucky.
All for a situation that I found utterly and completely reprehensible.
But of course I did.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was in the lucky 10% of richest people in the world. My family hadn’t been rich. They had no money to help me through college. I’d moved out when I was seventeen due to a very hard home life (I won’t bore you with the gory details) and worked full‑time while putting myself through college. I’d busted my behind to get where I was. And yet, and yet, I still knew I’d had it easy compared to many in the world. Most Americans were very well off, even if they didn’t know it; and most didn’t know it because they’d never left the USA.
I knew that to most in the world, I had always been very rich, no matter what my childhood had looked like.
I was shocked, but I could also see how proud he was. And maybe, by comparison to his life before in India, maybe this was a better situation for him.
It’s always a matter of perspective.
I couldn’t take that away from him.
I nodded slowly. “Of course. That is, um, wonderful what you’ve done for your family.”
He smiled broad and without restraint, pleased.
I left and went to the elevator, my mind full of this. I hit the button, staring at nothing, like a zombie.
The doors opened and I entered.
The doors slid open and I stepped out, barely aware of my surroundings. His words still echoed in my mind, heavy on my heart.
It was a new country. A new adventure.
But the treatment of immigrants was the same as everywhere else I’d ever been.
I walked to my apartment door on the 17th floor, with sweeping views of the city.
I stepped in and set my purse down on the entryway table, the one I’d bought with my contract bonus for my large, free apartment.
And I looked at the tiles.
The tiles.
The off‑white tiles.
I couldn’t believe I had been actually complaining about the color of the tiles.