In all of the hustle and bustle, excitement, and cluster loving that brought 2011 to a close, a few events slipped through the cracks that I would be amiss to neglect shedding some light upon. The most important of these (at least according to most locals that I unscientifically and fictitiously polled) was the 40th Annual UAE National Day. Amid all of the negativity and sarcasm that I normally spout, I can still take a moment to recognize that just 40 short years ago the majority of Emiratis were still traveling around in nomadic tribes, herding camels, collecting dates, and just trying to provide a basic existence for their families. This is easy to forget in the face of such rapid development and gaudy excess.
About a month before the actual National Day (December 2nd, for those of you keeping track), people everywhere began the celebration ramp-up. Cars were covered in either the red, white, black, and green of the UAE flag or the likeness of Sheikh Zayed sporting sunglasses and a sneer. Buildings were illuminated with multicolored spotlights that occasionally proclaimed this year's slogan, "Spirit of the Union." Organizers were flown in from around the world to plan festivities at Sheikh Zayed Stadium, right down the road from me. Not to be outdone, schools around Abu Dhabi incorporated some manner of celebration into their daily morning assemblies.
These celebrations took varying forms. There was anything from the classical favorite of potato sack races, to the classical favorite (at least in this area) of a man angrily and unintelligibly shouting a poem in Arabic for 10 minutes and everything in between. As with any other morning assembly, I always did my best to feign understanding and politely listen, in order to set a good example for the kids, cause it's all for the kids. Ever the gracious hosts and proud countrymen, my Emirati colleagues did not allow me to remain on the sidelines for long.
One morning as I stood with my class of 30 drowsy 10th graders doing my best to keep them in something that vaguely resembles two straight lines, amidst all of the Arabic that was usually spouted from our tinny and distorting set of ailing speakers, I heard something that I actually understood, "Arabic, Arabic, Arabic, Mr. Richard, Arabic, Arabic, Arabic." I had no idea what it was referring to or if I was supposed to do something. Luckily, my students had heard enough to understand and began shouting at me to join a handful of other teachers and administrators gathered under a 40 foot long UAE flag at the front of our courtyard. Thoroughly confused, I made my way and asked what I should do. Someone motioned for me to stand at the end of a line of about eight similarly confused individuals.
As I stood there appreciating my new vantage point about two feet higher than usual and much more at the center of attention, I noticed someone reaching under a folding table covered with a table cloth to mess around with what looked like a few milk crates. Suddenly, I saw him reach into one and pull something out...something alive. It wasn't very big. At first I thought it was some sort of rodent, but I quickly realized that it was a bird, a pigeon or a dove maybe. If it was a dove, then it was a dirty one. He then took this pigeon/dove and thrust it into the hands of the first person in my line. Crap, what was going on here? As quickly as he delivered that first pigeon/dove, the Steve Irwin of rural Abu Dhabi reached right in, grabbed another one, and expertly gave it to the next person in line. I still didn't know what was going on, but it dawned on me that everyone in line was going to be manhandling a possibly wild and diseased bird. I crossed my fingers that just like everything else in the UAE, this was a poorly planned activity, and they would run out of birds before my number came up. Just in case my hopes were to be once again dashed into the sand, I took a moment to observe the techniques that the other teachers were using to control these birds. They all seemed calm enough, the teachers and the birds. One hand around the neck seemed to exert the bulk of the control, with maybe the other hand around the body, just in case.
I held my breath as each bird was in turn taken from its cage and delivered to its captor. Certainly there couldn't be eight birds in there, I hoped. As luck would have it, this was the one time that someone actually planned correctly, and there were more than enough birds for everyone. Everyone else looked as calm as could be. As I tensed up when my pigeon/dove delivery came, I felt like they were all looking at me judgmentally, thinking, "What, don't you strangle birds in front of a thousand people all the time?" I felt sorry for my bird as avian husbandry clearly did not come as easily for me as it did my Arabic counterparts. My poor pigeon/dove kept struggling and straining to fly away as I simply gripped tighter and tighter.
Up to this point, I still had no idea what we were actually doing with these birds besides potentially asphyxiating them in at least one case. Suddenly, someone gave us the universal sign for "let those birdies fly," and let them fly we did. I couldn't let mine go fast enough. It was later recounted to me that I appeared to let my pigeon/dove go in rather dramatic fashion. I can't disagree with this assessment. That bird received every bit of encouragement it could from me to get up in the air. Let's just say that there was a lot of follow through with that release as I pushed it up into the air as high as I could reach.
Perhaps our pigeon/dove release was meant to symbolize peace and unity or something along those lines. I still don't know, as it has never been explained to me. What I do know, is that my bird was happy to be released, and I was happy to release it. As it left my hands, it quickly flew up towards our partial roof before turning back to head for the big, blue, desert sky. It never quite made it there as it flew straight into one of the numerous windows that line our courtyard. Don't worry, it was okay, just a bit dazed. It hung out for the rest of the day with our regular resident pigeons. You know, the ones that spend their time shitting on everyone, and I am pretty sure there is some solid symbolism in that.
 | ||
| Baba Zayed looking like he's seen better mornings |
These celebrations took varying forms. There was anything from the classical favorite of potato sack races, to the classical favorite (at least in this area) of a man angrily and unintelligibly shouting a poem in Arabic for 10 minutes and everything in between. As with any other morning assembly, I always did my best to feign understanding and politely listen, in order to set a good example for the kids, cause it's all for the kids. Ever the gracious hosts and proud countrymen, my Emirati colleagues did not allow me to remain on the sidelines for long.
One morning as I stood with my class of 30 drowsy 10th graders doing my best to keep them in something that vaguely resembles two straight lines, amidst all of the Arabic that was usually spouted from our tinny and distorting set of ailing speakers, I heard something that I actually understood, "Arabic, Arabic, Arabic, Mr. Richard, Arabic, Arabic, Arabic." I had no idea what it was referring to or if I was supposed to do something. Luckily, my students had heard enough to understand and began shouting at me to join a handful of other teachers and administrators gathered under a 40 foot long UAE flag at the front of our courtyard. Thoroughly confused, I made my way and asked what I should do. Someone motioned for me to stand at the end of a line of about eight similarly confused individuals.
As I stood there appreciating my new vantage point about two feet higher than usual and much more at the center of attention, I noticed someone reaching under a folding table covered with a table cloth to mess around with what looked like a few milk crates. Suddenly, I saw him reach into one and pull something out...something alive. It wasn't very big. At first I thought it was some sort of rodent, but I quickly realized that it was a bird, a pigeon or a dove maybe. If it was a dove, then it was a dirty one. He then took this pigeon/dove and thrust it into the hands of the first person in my line. Crap, what was going on here? As quickly as he delivered that first pigeon/dove, the Steve Irwin of rural Abu Dhabi reached right in, grabbed another one, and expertly gave it to the next person in line. I still didn't know what was going on, but it dawned on me that everyone in line was going to be manhandling a possibly wild and diseased bird. I crossed my fingers that just like everything else in the UAE, this was a poorly planned activity, and they would run out of birds before my number came up. Just in case my hopes were to be once again dashed into the sand, I took a moment to observe the techniques that the other teachers were using to control these birds. They all seemed calm enough, the teachers and the birds. One hand around the neck seemed to exert the bulk of the control, with maybe the other hand around the body, just in case.
I held my breath as each bird was in turn taken from its cage and delivered to its captor. Certainly there couldn't be eight birds in there, I hoped. As luck would have it, this was the one time that someone actually planned correctly, and there were more than enough birds for everyone. Everyone else looked as calm as could be. As I tensed up when my pigeon/dove delivery came, I felt like they were all looking at me judgmentally, thinking, "What, don't you strangle birds in front of a thousand people all the time?" I felt sorry for my bird as avian husbandry clearly did not come as easily for me as it did my Arabic counterparts. My poor pigeon/dove kept struggling and straining to fly away as I simply gripped tighter and tighter.
Up to this point, I still had no idea what we were actually doing with these birds besides potentially asphyxiating them in at least one case. Suddenly, someone gave us the universal sign for "let those birdies fly," and let them fly we did. I couldn't let mine go fast enough. It was later recounted to me that I appeared to let my pigeon/dove go in rather dramatic fashion. I can't disagree with this assessment. That bird received every bit of encouragement it could from me to get up in the air. Let's just say that there was a lot of follow through with that release as I pushed it up into the air as high as I could reach.Perhaps our pigeon/dove release was meant to symbolize peace and unity or something along those lines. I still don't know, as it has never been explained to me. What I do know, is that my bird was happy to be released, and I was happy to release it. As it left my hands, it quickly flew up towards our partial roof before turning back to head for the big, blue, desert sky. It never quite made it there as it flew straight into one of the numerous windows that line our courtyard. Don't worry, it was okay, just a bit dazed. It hung out for the rest of the day with our regular resident pigeons. You know, the ones that spend their time shitting on everyone, and I am pretty sure there is some solid symbolism in that.
