Thirty Years of Karak

by Yasmin Gomes

Editor’s Comment: Yasmin was our winning entry for the Writing competition “Their Past, Our Future”. Hers is a story that traces a line from her childhood in Yemen to a textured and varied life in the UAE.

-- Louis Garratt

“I am late, I am late,” I was screaming in my head; I just could not find my car keys! I needed to be out fifteen minutes ago to make it to work in Jebel Ali Free Zone, at the OTHER end of Dubai. How could I still not manage my time at the ripe old age of 40? Get a grip on yourself, Yasiii!!

Once I realized there was no way I was going to reach work on time, I decided to stop by my usual Keralite-owned cafeteria for some emotional support juice: Karak Chai. I needed it. It was Monday morning, the traffic would be brutal, and I was already o to a wonky start. I drove up to the cafeteria and gave a tiny honk to catch the waiters’ attention. I looked up at the foggy sky; winter had finally arrived in Dubai.

I ordered my usual: “Ek keemah paratha and ek karak chai,” and immediately started salivating at the thought of taking a huge bite and having that warm, oily kheema juice flood my mouth and sometimes dripping down my chin when I am not careful.

Looking out the driver’s window, I couldn’t see the tip of Burj Khalifa through the thick fog. As I looked around, a Tesla pulled into the cafeteria, an Emirati man behind the wheel. He gave the same order but with an Arabic touch: “Wahed keema, wahed karak.” The Keralite waiter nodded from side to side, signalling his understanding. On the other end, a young British fellow, probably just done with his morning jog, pointing animatedly at the menu: “One egg sandwich.” Again, the Keralite waiter nodded vigorously.

This is my Dubai… or rather, this is my UAE. It has its language, its own rhythm, uniquely its own. And it cannot make sense to a person unless they have lived it.

I may not be Emirati, but I have been here for more than thirty years. There is no other place I can possibly call home. In fact, I feel downright homesick in other countries where the population feels more uniform. It makes sense—people belong in their own nations—but I need to see abayas, smell bakhoor in government o ices, watch Indian dresses, blonde hair, African voices, and tiny Filipinos heading to work in the morning. Dubai is basically a mini-Earth compressed into one city.

We even speak modified versions of English and/or Arabic so we are understood better. Anyone who has lived in the UAE for a while will have picked up some Emirati slang, some Indian song lyrics, some Tagalog words, plus whatever their friend circle speaks. I can easily flirt in Tagalog, but I still don’t know how to say “left” or “right” in this language. And thanks to my Iranian friends, I know some choice Farsi insults: “Khak tu surat” is one of my favourites, and I’ll keep it PG so this gets published!

The waiter delivered my karak and paratha. I unwrapped its foil wrapping, stuck into my mouth, and then proceeded to use both hands to reverse the car out of the parking lot.My morning drive from Jumeirah Village Circle to Jebel Ali usually takes thirty minutes, but with the fog and my tardiness, Wave showed a fifty-five-minute travel time. Was I screwed? Yep! It was an incredible start to the work week.

As I bit into my paratha, memories of my life in Dubai flooded me along with spicy warmth of kheema. We came to the UAE in 1988, living in Deira near the Chamber of Commerce in a shared apartment with another family—much to my mother’s dismay. She didn’t like sharing a kitchen with another woman, but my dad was adamant; it was a good way to save money. I was two years old, fresh from Yemen, and the desert filled me with such wonder and an incredible feeling of freedom. I was in the sand constantly.

I remember these details so vividly because I still do them to this day. The first thing I do when I go camping in the desert is take o my shoes and bury my feet deep in the sand, wiggling my toes. That, to me, is what home feels like.

Desert sand is different. It holds you, molds itself around you, gives way—but never fully gives in. Like Dubai, this sand has an attitude.

I remember a school safari trip, the full moon bathing a nearby dune in silver light. It was so bright I could see every line in the sand, like henna etched into the dune itself. It called to me, and I obeyed—climbing to the top, leaving behind the noise of excited classmates.

I stood there breathing it in. So, this is what this land smells like, I thought. Dry. Cold. A hint of smoke and fire.

Then something slithered.

I scrambled down the dune, which is harder than it sounds. You don’t really run on soft sand—you ski. Not ideal when you think there’s a snake behind you. You want to bolt, but one wrong move and you’ll tumble down with sand landing in unspeakable places.

I told you—this sand has an attitude.

Grinning at the silliness of my school kid self, I took my exit with focus. Missing an exit in Dubai is reincarnation—one wrong turn and you’re on a side quest. Not today, exit demon. I was already late.

As I merged back onto the road, the foggy, dewy streets and familiar tra ic signs nudged me with memories of Dubai in the late 80s and early 90s. My brother was born in 1990 at Al Wasl Hospital (now Latifa Hospital) and I recently notarized his birth certificate. The original was marked with a simple signature; today it’s a hologram sticker. Dubai has come a long way in just over five decades, racing toward an increasingly digital future. I sometimes wonder where that original signatory is now, in this AI-driven city where even robots point the way forward.

Back then, Dubai still had 80s décor, earthy autumn tones lingering from the 70s. I remember it most vividly at the first Hyatt Regency near Deira Creek. Dad was a chef (still is), either working or interviewing there, I can’t quite recall, but I was fascinated by the Dawar restaurant. When the lift doors opened, a chef uncle—everyone was an uncle to me—spotted me and flashed a huge, warm smile. I felt both protected and welcomed. I would leap across the circular space, mesmerized by its curvature: no matter where I stood, I could see everything. Compared to Sana’a, Yemen, Dubai felt like a sci-fi movie.

I know it sounds unreal that I remember so much, but I have a knack—almost an eidetic memory—for moments charged with feeling. It’s a double-edged sword. Sometimes it serves me well; sometimes not so much. My Emirati ex-husband, for one, never quite appreciated that particular skill.

Driving along, it struck me that the UAE had always felt like home. I was born in Yemen, and our traditions overlapped: the white cotton floor cushions and mattress covers trimmed with colourful piping were in our living room long before I ever saw them displayed at the Shindagha Museum.

We use the same golden metal kettle through generations. We fill it with aromatic tea, an insane amount of sugar, and spices, and boil it over coal, even though we have a gas stove. Somehow, it just doesn’t taste the same any other way. This kettle travels with us when we go camping, carrying tradition and flavour wherever it goes, a bridge between our Yemeni roots and life in the UAE.

Going to the desert almost always means a glass of tea or a small white china cup of traditional Arabic coffee. Even if you don’t make it on the spot, you will stop at a cafeteria for a to -go cup of Karak Chai, emotional support juice through and through.

There are traditions and rituals written on paper, but the deeper ones live in your soul. It’s a connection between you, the desert, and the sky, unbreakable, and unforgettable. I saw this firsthand in Bonn, Germany, when my ex-husband was sent there for orthopedic care.

My ex had several broken bones from the waist down, and since the Germans are famous for orthopaedic care, Dubai sent him there to see if a full recovery was possible. Many Emiratis stay long-term because the treatment takes ages. So how do they bring a piece of home with them? You guessed it—they bring the golden metal kettle, among other things. They built a mini community, families visiting for dinner, men meeting over shisha and backgammon. I once beat the crap out of my ex at backgammon. My mom had warned me, “Never defeat your husband in anything; it’s bad for his ego.” Maybe that’s why the marriage went south so fast. I didn’t keep track of what was “bad” for his ego.

Better slow down… speed limit is 80 km/h on Hessa Street; I keep forgetting. Don’t want another fine from Dubai Police. For someone who’s lived here forever, I STILL get fined. You’d think I’d be used to it by now! Dubai police are actually fun; they joke with you, discuss why you shouldn’t be fined, and even share chocolates.

I’ve had plenty of run-ins (not proud of this). Once, behind Al Mulla Plaza (when it was open), I went to check out Al Ahli horse riding club. Took a wrong U-turn, meant for oncoming traffic. Something felt off, but I blamed my driving skills. An older policeman stopped me: “Did you NOT see ME? I was fining other cars right in front of you!” I laughed and said, “I assumed it was for other reasons! So, I kept driving.” We were both laughing outright now; with a wide grin, he handed me an AED 400 fine and sent me on my merry way.

Then there was the policeman directing tra ic near Deira Clock Tower every morning. Ya Allah, what a smile! I saw him every day on my commute to Warba Centre. His grin was enormous, like a sunflower leading the way, spreading warmth to everyone in morning chaos. It was as if sunshine itself had taken human form just to make people feel good before they started their day.

Another time, my mom was heading to Al Maktoum Airport, leaving without checking fuel, mobile credit, or network. She called me mid-journey: out of fuel, in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, a dawriya was on its rounds. The policeman filled her tank, refused money. My mom gives me heart attacks like this all the time. My ex-husband thought it was adorable, always teasing, “Khalti kakuta—Aunty is cute!” I’d fire back, “Katkuta fieinak – cute my foot!”

It was perhaps that sense of fragility that made leaving the UAE in 1991 so surreal and returning in 1994 during the civil war in Yemen. That was a very frightening experience: the sound of bombs and rifles at night, water shortages, adults speaking in hushed voices, and faking smiles that twitched at the corners.

My mother, my personal hero, handled two small children all by herself in the middle of a war. I was seven, my brother four. I can only imagine how paralyzing it must have been—one child in each hand, the world o -kilter. She decided to escape Yemen as war refugees, leaving her homeland behind. From Aden port to Djibouti, then Ethiopia, finally Muscat, Oman, where my dad had settled as a chef in a big hotel chain. I didn’t realize how psychologically violent it was until much later. Trauma buries itself in your subconscious, waiting to surface in monstrous, unpredictable ways. Like a hydra made of nightmares, it multiplies when provoked.

Of course, this is from a child’s lens. The details are patchy, built more from the fear on my mother’s face than from facts. My memory was good back then, but I still felt safe, not yet on high alert. That came later. After the war, trauma sharpened it. My brain started hoarding details, trying to predict danger before it could find me.

We stayed at a refugee camp in Djibouti, a French military base. The food was on another level, served by rugged, fit, uniformed French men. I had octopus for the first time—didn’t like the chewiness then, still don’t. But it showed me how ugly human nature can be at its core.

Maybe that’s why I have a thing for men in uniform. Even my ex was a customs officer at Dubai Airport. I first saw him “undercover,” which was hilarious—he was the most un-undercover Emirati ever. Might as well have had “EMIRATI” flashing on his forehead. That was the very first red flag I ignored in this relationship.

I gripped the steering wheel tight; I don’t like this part of my life. It’s heavy, murky, and slightly suffocating. I can joke about it and write about it, but I am not totally okay with it. We stayed in Oman for less than a year, then came back to the UAE, this time to Sharjah. Oman had never felt safe for me; we were mostly housed in a resort, within staff accommodation for the hotel itself. Although luxurious, it was not a good place for children. Expat parents are often too busy and too tired to keep watch over their children; it’s a bad formula any way you look at it.

I remember the car ride from Dubai Airport to our apartment in Sharjah in 1994. There were only two buildings sitting in the middle of the desert, sand everywhere, and one single road cutting through it. Everything else was just paths carved out by cars coming and going. It felt wide open, but this time it didn’t feel safe or like home. It felt dry, hot, and unforgiving. That’s what fear does, it colors your view. The first time I came to the UAE, the desert felt freeing and expansive. After a war, your brain starts scanning for shelter. In a desert, you don’t see much of that. The desert didn’t change. I did.

Our neighbors were an Emirati family, the Al Zarounis. They owned the building, and as the only Arab families there, it made sense that we gravitated toward each other. My brother and their son disappeared into video games and endless snacks. Whenever my brother went missing, I was sent upstairs to retrieve him. Once those games started, the world stopped existing.

Ah, UAE snacks. That’s a whole story on its own. I’ve bonded with many a UAE kid over them. First, the legendary Oman chips. No idea who makes them, but thank you for not messing with perfection. No wild flavors, no rebranding, just chips. The classic move was samoon bread, Red Cow triangle cheese, crushed Oman chips, and a dash of Eagle Tabasco. Absolute heaven. They’re everywhere now, even coating shrimp tempura in fancy restaurants. Thinking about them makes me consider stopping at a petrol station. No, no. No time. No space for the calories. Oh wait, a truck just passed by loaded with palm trees wrapped in burlap. Very Dubai.

There’s something about childhood snacks. They’re time machines. The smell, the taste, the effort it took to buy them with pocket money. Thinking about them sent me straight into the chaos of Haq al Leila giveaways at work.

I was lucky to land a job in a prestigious family-owned company in Dubai in 2012. The company was founded in 1935 after a British trading ship needed hands to o load its cargo. An accident turned opportunity. That’s how Dulsco was born. Working there made me feel even more embedded in the story of Dubai and the UAE. It carried that unmistakable “I can” attitude of Dubai, expanding into new areas and creating something out of nothing. It was a solid learning ground.

The chairman then was Mr. Abdul Aziz, may he rest in peace. We adored him. We called him the Emirati Santa Claus, jolly, generous, and always up for young-employee shenanigans. His granddaughter Hind worked in IT, and we clicked instantly, like long-lost sisters. Around that time, Emiratization was gaining momentum, a national effort to bring more Emiratis into the workforce, and from it came the Haq al Leila initiative, led by Hind. Naturally, I joined her as the marketing attaché within the company.

The idea was simple: traditional giveaways on each employees desk, along with a small pamphlet explaining Haq Al Laila. Celebrated on the fifteenth night of Sha’ban, just before Ramadan, it’s a night where children dress up, go door to door singing “Atoona Haq el Laila,” and collect sweets and nuts in decorated bags. It’s one of those traditions built on generosity, community, and togetherness across the Gulf.

Picture this: two young women in abayas, surrounded by mounds of sweets and snacks for 300 employees, plus some Filipino helpers, creating a mini assembly line like Ford’s factory. Mini chocolates, sugared almonds in baby pink and blue, small burlap bags for the traditional look, “eyeglass candy” shaped like an English 8, tiny cups of jello, Kopiko—my one and only co ee to ee—Abu Walad cream biscuits, and chocolates disguised as golden coins. We passed each bag down the line, assembled sets, and finally tied on the explainer tag as the finishing touch.

It was chaos, fun, and a little bit of mayhem. I so wish I had my youth back, I wouldappreciate it even more the second time around, it was that nonsensical.

I had many adventures with Hanoodi; one of my absolute favorites was her black Mercedes G-Wagon. In Dubai, your car isn’t just a car—it’s your personality, your status, your public identity. So when H.H. Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum was spotted in a G-Wagon with the number “1” plate, Dubai basically lost its collective mind.

Hanoodi pooled all her mental, emotional, and financial resources to snag a pre-owned black G-Wagon. We lost it the day she got it to work, jumping and squealing around the car at 8 a.m. in the company parking lot. I hope no one saw us. Of course, a Dubai car isn’t complete without a “special” plate. Dubai plates were too pricey, so Hanoodi scored one from Ajman. I don’t remember the exact number, but it was colourful and popped like crazy against the sleek black G-wagon.

One male Emirati co-worker walked by, squinted, and said, “Shnu haz, arqam Space Toon?- What is this, Space Toon numbers?” I nearly died laughing. He was right. Before satellite TV, we all grew up on analog channels. Space Toon was the Arabic kids’ channel, channel 33 the English one. That plate? A deep UAE-kid reference. If you didn’t grow up here, you would never get it.

Television was a fundamental part of my childhood. It was how you got to know the news and what is trending. Entire eras of my life are stored in TV memories.

Some of my earliest memories are of children’s programs: Captain Majed, Tamtoom, Al-Ragheef Al Ajeeb, and Dragon Ball. I absolutely hated Yaseen in Captain Majed; he annoyed me so much, while Omar was pure comic relief. Everyone had opinions. Everyone had favorites.

Then there were the dramas and variety shows. Back then, Kuwait was leading the Gulf in television, cinema, and radio. Now Dubai has caught up and in many ways surpassed it, especially with short films and animations like Freej and Shaabiat Al Cartoon.

Ramadan and Eid revolved around the television. Ramadan meant Tash Ma Tash in our household—a Saudi series that ran for 19 seasons. I think it started in 1993; I was nine and my brother was four. We’d gather around the TV after iftar to watch it. The concept was so simple, but it was based in real life, so it really resonated.

Eid meant masrahiyat, theatre productions like Bye Bye London and Bisat Al Faqeer. Anything with Abdul Hussain Abdulredha and Souad Abdullah was guaranteed gold. One of my absolute favourite clips is the song sequence in Bisat Al Faqeer where they fly to India on a magic carpet. I was on the floor laughing because I understood both Arabic and Hindi; the jokes hit twice.

One of the most OG channels back then was Ajman TV. It had this Sudanese host, Tajtooj (may he rest in peace). He let every single caller win—which somehow made it even more fun to watch.

As a family, we even remember the exact day H.H. Sheikh Zayed passed away (may he rest in peace). The anchor was crying as he announced it on air. I got goosebumps just writing that sentence. For us kids in the UAE, he was Baba Zayed, from Eid Al Etihad songs to school assembly speeches. He was deeply loved, and his loss was genuinely felt. I didn’t get the privilege to meet him but had the good fortune to meet H.H. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum while organizing an event at the World Trade Centre. That’s such a Dubai thing. You can randomly run into the rulers of the land. There are guards, of course, but it’s not extreme. No scary weapons. No heavy uniforms.You can ask for a photo. They wave back when you see them driving past on Jumierah Road or near Zabeel Palace. Our very own Dubai celebrities. It’s all very chill.

I love nothing more than driving in the winter, with the AC o and the window rolled all the way down, the air crisp and cool. It fills me with excitement for all Dubai winter activities. One of them is Global Village. I am not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed that I have been in the UAE longer than the 30-year jubilee Global Village is celebrating this year.

I remember bits and pieces of the very first Global Village in 1996-97; it was in a parking lot-type area near Dubai Creek. Dry, dusty, arid. It is a feeling for me, not a memory. And now this feeling of a dry cold, yet dusty & arid, is my definition of fun. That is what gets switched on when the first winter winds start blowing toward the end of October. The first Global Village was like a fancy carnival. I mostly remember the games. Simple ones. Throw a ring over a bottle, shoot a target, and win a stuffed toy. I wanted this massive stuffed banana; it was human, or rather, it was a kid-sized stuffed toy. I tried so hard to win it and failed. I am still sore about it, thirty years later! I want to win it, not buy it—it doesn’t mean the same to my inner child if I just hand in a credit card to get that stuffed banana.

The rides were quite basic compared to now. A merry-go-round with badly painted horses—I am telling you, one of those horses was schizophrenic—the eyes were all over the place! The rides included little bumper cars, a house of mirrors. The things that really stuck with me were the little stalls. Coloured sand art in bottles. Names written on grains of rice. And of course, luqaimat. Back then, it was usually one hajiya wearing a burqa, a nice mukhawara with a Thobe Al Thor over it (Emarati traditional wear), making them in a perpetual bad mood. Now it’s 5 or more women making the luqaimat… also in a perpetual bad mood, but with better organization, a card machine, and more topping options like Dibs and honey.

It is our family tradition: first get a plate of luqaimat, THEN start roaming around the village. We go every year. My mother spent a total of AED 500 on that 1st Global Village trip; my brother and I felt like royalty! We left the village when it closed, around midnight, and the city was already in bed. We had to walk on the main road for a while till we could find a cab. We were tired, sticky, dusty, and oh so very happy!

And of course, winter in Dubai is wedding season! One of my favourite pastimes is attending Emirati weddings. We lose our minds. I don’t know what the men do on their side, but the women literally come out of a fashion magazine. Traditionally, women celebrate in their ballroom and men in theirs until the groom comes to take his bride home. But before that, it’s party time. Back in the day, live bands would perform behind a curtain; now it’s more chic to have a stylish female DJ rock the night.One thing never changes: songs from the Kuwaiti band Miami, all the rage in the ’90s. No matter the age group or economic standing of the guests, one or two Miami songs will be played. The DJ goes, “Fikoum tarab?, - Do you feel the music? ” and we answer, “Away- Yes” Then she says, “Fikoum wanasa? , - Are you ready?” and we scream, “Aywa.” And then she lets the music loose. You know it’s a good party when the women leave looking dishevelled, heels abandoned under tables, and branded purses forgotten, just having a blast on the dance floor.

Then the groom’s entrance is announced, and we magically transform from hooligans into the epitome of feminine elegance, demurely seated around tables in sparkly abayas and scarfs perfectly in place. If only they knew… two minutes ago, Shaima was putting Shakira to shame on the dance floor!

Dang it! There is just so much traffic! Why did I decide to spend those extra 15 minutes trying to balance my left eyeliner with my right? Dubai traffic is like baking a macaron—timing is everything. Just a few minutes late, and you are stuck in a bottleneck with everyone leaving for work at the same time. A few minutes too early, you end up twiddling your thumbs at the o ice waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. I took my mobile phone o its car holder, looked left, and looked right, watching for Dubai police—no more fines! There were no discounts this year on traffic fines! Sometimes Dubai offers discounts on National Day, but not this year.

Furtively, I started googling when Ramadan is in 2026. February! Yes—a winter Ramadan. Ramadan in Dubai is another special experience. The roads glitter with lights and decorations, and the city has put a modern twist on it in recent years. Many tents now offer Iftar and Suhoor packages with live music. My ex-husband and I covered many of these when the trend started. My favorite is at the Anise restaurant at the InterContinental Dubai Festival City. It isn’t the fanciest, but it is very well done.

Back in the ’90s, it wasn’t so grand. No extravagant decorations, no live music, no dressing up for Suhoor. It was more of a family and neighbours a air. We made large amounts of food and sent it to our neighbours before Iftar; it didn’t matter if they were fasting or not. Our table was always overflowing with dishes from all over the world, thanks to our neighbors. You visited family for Iftar, and Suhoor was really just about drinking 1.5 liters of water before Fajr—the hunger was fine; it was the thirst that got you. Small cafeterias would sell fried snacks like samosas and pakoras in the streets, a setup exclusive to Ramadan. This still happens in inner areas like Karama or International City, not so much in modern Dubai.

The Ramadan tents then were different. They had long rows where people breaking their fast were served dates, water, and haleem—a slow-cooked, spiced porridge made of wheat, lentils, and meat—among other things. Mom used to send my brother to get haleem from these tents; it was such a treat! These tents still exist but are few and far between. Now there’s the Ramadan Aman initiative, where volunteers hand out Iftar meal packages to people driving during Maghrib. I miss the tents; the sense of community was tangible. Non-Arab Muslims would wear their little white caps to signify it was Ramadan. The rules were stricter: food outlets had to cover windows during the day, eating in public was frowned upon, and there was less music on the roads.

Still, many of us keep an entire Ramadan wardrobe. Our outfits more modest, flowy, and austere. After all, it is the holy month of Ramadan.

At last, the o ice loomed ahead. Memories of desserts, parathas, and Ramadan tents were dusted o by the tire of my car, but the present pulled me forward. I have to admit I had lived such a rich life in Dubai, in the UAE. I parked my car and walked the few steps into the office lobby.

Amabel was at the reception, bright-eyed as ever.

“Good morning, Amabel,” I said, grinning. “You look very Maganda this morning.”

She grinned back and waved me off.

See? I told you; I can flirt very well in Tagalog.