My first trip to the Middle East introduced me to new ways of living and people whose stories were so surreal that I eventually filed them under magical realism. One day I accidentally sat in the women’s section of a bus and spent ten uncomfortable minutes wondering why every woman dressed in black seemed personally offended by my existence. On another occasion, I discovered that being greeted with kisses on the cheek by a group of men was perfectly normal. Every day brought a new lesson.Or a new mistake.
I’ll always be grateful to Kuwait for that.
It was a country I barely knew before moving there, yet it welcomed me, challenged me and taught me things I desperately needed to learn at that stage of my life.
By the time I boarded my final flight, even the airport signs had stopped speaking English.
Everything was in Arabic.
The bathrooms had also evolved beyond anything I had previously experienced.
Instead of toilet paper, there was a mysterious little hose attached to the wall.
I decided not to ask questions.
Not yet.
When I landed, I was greeted by a friendly fifty-degree heat wave.
The kind of heat that makes you wonder whether human life was ever supposed to exist outdoors.
On my first day at work, a sign taped to the wall welcomed me.
“Welcome Yavo.”
And just like that, Javo became Yavo.
I met the team, including the legendary Muhammad, head of Human Resources, payroll, benefits and, as far as I could tell, anything preventing the company from descending into complete chaos.
A few weeks later, Muhammad invited me to dinner.
He took me to a local restaurant where we sat cross-legged on the floor eating majboos with our hands.
After teaching me the proper etiquette of eating without cutlery and listening patiently as I explained the wonders of bacon and alcoholic beverages, he told me how he met his wife.
Fifteen years earlier, Muhammad had arrived from Egypt chasing the same dream that attracts many people to Kuwait.
The Kuwaiti dinar.
The strongest currency in the world.
One dinar is worth more than three U.S. dollars.
Tempting, to say the least.
He moved in with his aunt, a kindergarten teacher.
One afternoon, at twenty-two years old and with all the confidence that age provides, he announced:
“I’m ready.”
His aunt looked up.
“Ready for what?”
“To meet someone and get married.”
As luck would have it, one of her colleagues had a niece who was also apparently ready.
A meeting was arranged.
The night before, Muhammad barely slept.
These and other profound concerns kept him awake until dawn.
When the day finally arrived, he left work early.
His colleagues suggested a haircut.
One of them lent him a tie.
Everyone seemed unusually invested in the outcome.
When he arrived, his aunt introduced him to Razan’s father.
Then he met Razan.
At least one concern disappeared immediately.
She was beautiful.
The evening passed over tea, sweets and conversation.
Muhammad spoke with everyone.
The ten-year-old nephew obsessed with football.
The elderly uncle who still talked about bacon after a trip to the United States.
The cousins.
The parents.
The neighbours.
The only person he didn’t speak to was Razan.
The following morning, the interrogation began.
“So?” his uncle asked over breakfast. “Did you like her?”
“You certainly talked a lot,” his aunt added.
Muhammad sighed.
“Honestly, I never got a chance to speak with her.”
His aunt smiled.
“Then we’ll arrange another meeting.”
And they did.
This time, she conveniently disappeared into the kitchen to make stuffed grape leaves, a task complicated enough to guarantee them some privacy.
Somehow, that conversation led to more than fifteen years of marriage, three children and a life
built together in a country that welcomed them both.
Not bad for a list of pros and cons.