Over the past two years, I have been invited to several majlises during business trips to Abu Dhabi. Majlis (مجلس), Arabic for “a place to sit.” A thousand years of time has settled inside that one word.
The first time I went, even the word itself was unfamiliar, so it was hard to imagine the atmosphere. I thought it was probably just some kind of networking party. But as soon as I stepped inside, a scene completely different from what I had imagined unfolded. It was warm and quiet. There was no agenda, no program, and no host. People were simply sitting together in a circle.
What exactly is this? Why do people gather like this and spend their time so slowly?
The majlis I remember most was a friend’s birthday party yesterday. He is, without question, the UAE’s biggest otaku, and he runs the largest anime café in Dubai. Since I had received many rare-edition TCG cards from him over the years, we brought cosmetics and TCG cards from Korea as gifts.
The place was his cousin’s farm in Sharjah. Sharjah is quite a distance from Dubai. It was an hour and a half by car from our accommodation in Abu Dhabi. Having a farm in this part of the world means something special. It means having green grass in a country built on the desert. A place where every drop of water and every blade of grass is the result of effort. In fact, it is less a farm than a carefully tended garden in the middle of the desert.
As soon as we left the highway, the world changed. The buildings disappeared, and golden dunes stretched endlessly into the distance. When I opened the window, dry air rushed in. The smell of sand. Once camels began to appear in the distance, we were almost there.
The sun was setting. A desert sunset is quite different from one in the city. The sky changes quickly, as if someone had thrown paint across it. From orange to pink, from pink to purple, and then, before you know it, deep navy blue. The stillness of that moment was truly beautiful.
We got out of the car at the farm entrance and walked for a while before someone approached us. Faces I had never seen before. The guests who had arrived ahead of us welcomed us as if they had been waiting for us for years. They lightly kissed our cheeks, patted our backs, and led us inside. How could people we were meeting for the first time feel so natural?
Neither the friend hosting the farm nor the birthday friend had arrived yet. But no one seemed to care. Even without the host, the place was already running warmly.
Suddenly, I thought of my grandparents’ house in the countryside when I was young. Whenever we visited for the holidays, older relatives I was meeting for the first time would call me by name. “Aren’t you Seojun? Oh my, you’ve grown so much!” Then they would keep offering me things. Have you eaten? Try this. Refusing was pointless. Before I knew it, something would be in my hands.
That is exactly what a majlis is like. As soon as I sat down, dates and Arabic coffee appeared. They poured only half a small cup, and whenever I emptied it, they filled it again. You have to gently shake the cup from side to side to signal, “That’s enough.” If you don’t know that, the coffee keeps coming forever.
They also offered karak, a tea like strong milk tea. As soon as I took a sip, the sweetness of the spices spread through my mouth. Why do they offer so much? Is the act of drinking and eating together itself the beginning of a conversation for them?
The sofas were arranged in a square. It was a layout where everyone could see one another’s faces. When I sank into a low cushion and folded my legs, the tension somehow left my body. In one corner, people were smoking shisha and talking. Water-pipe smoke rose slowly with the scent. The desert night was colder than I expected. My shoulders hunched each time the wind brushed my collar.
When you go to a new majlis, most people are strangers, so it is always hard to join the conversation at first. English and Arabic flowed back and forth, and of course I could not understand a word of Arabic. Still, strangely, I did not feel uncomfortable. No one thought it odd that I was simply sitting and watching people. I felt that I was allowed to just be there. I felt welcome even without participating.
It brings up a strange feeling. In Korea, when I go to a gathering, I feel pressured to do something actively. I have to join the conversation, say something meaningful, introduce myself, and network. Here, there is none of that.
Instead, these are the kinds of things people talk about. Did you see the camel race? The youngest one finally learned to ride a bicycle. Where did you buy this coffee?
It is wonderfully trivial. That is why I like it.
“How long do I have to stay?”
“Come when you feel like it, and leave when you feel like it.”
It is an answer without pressure. The door is always open. Anyone can come and go at any time. There is no set ending. When the conversation naturally runs dry, that is when it ends.
When did we start setting an end time for gatherings? When did we start having conversations while preparing to say, “Well, I guess that’s it for today”?
The food came out around 9:45. The locals, who were used to eating lunch late, did not seem particularly hungry, but the people from our company, myself included, were so hungry our stomachs were practically stuck to our backs.
They opened up a table prepared with buffet-style food. Lamb and spiced rice. When the lid came off, the scent of saffron spread through the air. Several of us sat around and ate with our hands. They say hunger is the best seasoning. It tasted heavenly. No, there was a seasoning even stronger than hunger.
We left around 11 p.m. The birthday friend came out to see us off at the farm entrance. It was a large farm, so the entrance was quite a walk away, and he told us various stories as we walked. Stories about the beginnings of his family, and about the history of his cousin and his farm. His farm is right next to the farm of the cousin who had come that day, and he apparently keeps two lions, one white tiger, and three cheetahs.
When I got into the car, I was tired but light. We drank coffee, talked, and ate. That was all, but somehow I felt full. Why was that? Why did I feel so filled up inside?
In the world I live in, most conversations have a purpose. We exchange information, persuade, or negotiate. When I meet someone, I have to get work done. The meeting itself has become a cost. I hate wasting time more than anything.
A majlis is different. There is no purpose and no agenda. You simply sit together. That is all. But perhaps that is exactly the strongest foundation holding a community together.
Once again, I thought of my family’s house in the Korean countryside. During the holidays, the adults would sit on the wooden floor. The television would be on, but no one would be watching it. They peeled apples and persimmons, shelled chestnuts, and talked endlessly. Back then, I found it boring. I just wanted to go play with my cousins. Now I understand that those were the very moments that made the family a family.
Time is not money. Time is a relationship. The amount of time we spend slowly together determines the depth of a relationship.
When I have an important conversation from now on, sometimes I should find somewhere comfortable to sit instead of a conference room. Erase the agenda. Turn off the timer. Just sit in a circle together and let time pass. Without rushing to a conclusion. Without deciding when it will end.
Because perhaps only after those moments have accumulated does a real conversation finally begin.
Sharjah, a green garden in the desert
