Time for Tea: Reminiscing Routines

Kuwait, 2002

My baba is a man of routine, it's almost religious. So I know what happens after lunch; it's time for his afternoon nap. Clad in his short-sleeved striped pyjamas, he retreats to his bedroom, leaving me alone in the loudly quiet living room. In my little five-year-old head, time suddenly stops at 2 p.m. In an attempt to escape the unrelenting Gulf heat, families return home from their morning engagements, street vendors close up shop, and once lunch is devoured, the city falls fast asleep.

Since I never got into the habit of napping, the limbo-like state of those afternoon hours feel torturous to me. It’s as if a traffic stop has been added to motion and time. I become very aware of the mundane details of the empty living room: my cheap coloring books on the floor, the attached balcony drying our laundry, Art Attack and Hi-5 on the Kuwait Channel, which suddenly switches to the Athan when it is time for Asr Prayer, ending with Sheikh Al Shaarawi’s voice reciting the dua for prayer. Though preoccupied with these details drinking up my attention, I remain impatient. Waiting for time to unpause when my baba wakes at 4 p.m.

Quietly tiptoeing to the kitchen, carefully dragging a little wooden chair behind me, Farah is on her way to make shai for her baba. I used to be a short thing, but with my chair, I could reach great heights. I hoist myself up to get the essential component of Egyptian tea-making: two crystal glasses. Egyptians don't do puny mugs or delicate porcelain cups. As an unspoken cultural custom, tea has to be drunk from a traditional crystal glass. I turn on the kettle and begin to prepare the tea just like how he showed me and probably how his parents showed him. One spoon of loose black tea. Three spoons of sugar. One spoon of crushed mint leaves.

Baba wakes up from his brief afternoon slumber and groggily takes over from where I left off. He pours the boiled water into the first glass, then takes the other glass, pouring from glass to glass repeatedly until cooled from a piping hot to a deep warmth. Usually, he likes to show off and pretend he is one of those Moroccan tea vendors, pouring the tea as high as he can without missing (which is only sometimes successful). Once he is done with his show-stopping performance, the shai is split for both of us.

Nestled on the couch, baba and I conclude our tea routine with a new episode of his favorite show, The Bold and the Beautiful on Ch 33. Sipping sweet shai as the cliffhanger unfolds on the TV screen, just as the passage of time resumes once more.

Cairo, 2013

Cairo, the real city that never sleeps, especially as the aura of the Arab Spring resiliently thrives in its streets. Emotions of a dissatisfied population coming to a boil. The end of Friday prayers calling forth the tides of neglected youth to flood the urban landscape. The inclusive slogan of bread, freedom, and social equality now transformed into crackling energies between rival camps. Blurring the true mission and values of revolution with hazy religious and political contention.

Tea is no longer an afternoon affair in this space and time. My teenage self spends her summer afternoons in her ’ameto’s (aunt's) cozy apartment along the Nile, reading a newly acquired book from the Diwan Bookstore. Diwan is my favourite bookstore, a space where I have always felt a cultural richness and significance. Since Kuwait does not have many spaces that encourage literacy like bookstores and libraries, Diwan became the main place where I could acquire titles and genres I would never find back home. Situated at the end of 26th July Street in Zamalek, I met the quintessential quirks of urban Cairo: the chaotic orchestra of car horns reflecting drivers impatiently desperate to pass through, the various kiosks selling books, snacks, flowers, and fruit and vegetable produce, the mixed-use buildings with eclectic architecture divulging a colonial past, an Egyptian charm, and an unforeseeable future. Arriving at Diwan, the bookstore’s interior mutes the humbling loudness of the lively Cairo streets, slowing down the passage of time. Unlike in my childhood, I welcome the pause, as it allows me to explore and read each title and blurb of books on knowledge-filled rustic wooden shelves for as long as I please, tilting my head slightly to read each title.

By the time I come back, ‘ameto is busy in the kitchen, making her wholesome dishes filled with tenderness, love, and care. Fried Nile tilapia generously marinated in cumin and lemon that she handpicked from Hajj Hassan’s stall in Souq al Sayyida, where my teta once roamed. Pickled eggplants bought from Hajja Nagat submerged in vinegar and stuffed with garlic and walnuts, coolly contrasting the hearty roz bl sharia. Her meticulous nature when preparing food typically means lunch is served promptly, at 6 p.m. My books stupefy me into a daze that is only broken by the aromatic scent of our meal and calls to set the table.

We are stuffed by 7 p.m. To alleviate the food coma, a cup of yansoon (anise) tea. Naturally sweet and warmly golden-colored, like sunsets painting the Nile, yansoon has a distinct yet subtle licorice taste and fragrance. Served in the same traditional crystal glasses. One sachet of ISIS yansoon tea. No sugar. With maybe a slice of homemade cake on the side. Warmed by the herbal delight and the duvet, we peacefully watch a random Egyptian musalsal or Set el Beit, an Egyptian culinary channel featuring housewives sharing their signature recipes alongside hilarious family anecdotes.

Sharjah, 2017

In desperate need of a pick-me-up after class, my friends and I venture off to get karak. Departing the gates of University City, distinct in its Arab-Islamic style domes with black metal columns ornate with gold details, a relief suffuses our beings from the institutional rigor and security surrounding us inside. Trekking through greenery and long-winded paths, we immerse ourselves in casual conversation and humorous banter. Although a ten-minute trip by car, with each step we shed a vestige of academic formality. As we approach our destination, the infrastructure around us becomes increasingly unpolished and random. There is less greenery, more incomplete construction sites, open fields filled with weeds and local shrubs, and a lack of pavement paths which means randomly walking on the road and actively avoiding passing vehicles and trucks.

Al Jah Cafeteria is a piece of the city brought to us. The paths and infrastructure become more desolate, the mismatched seating, green bushes decorated with fairy lights, a simple laundromat, and a mosque. As we draw near Al Jah, our approaching presence is sensed by Mohammed Ali, one of the men who work there. He usually anticipates our arrival and has our regular table set up by the time we get there. His kind and compassionate spirit is that of an older brother. When one of us is sick, he specially prepares chicken soup and lemon tea for us. He knows all the orders that make each of our days better. As constants in each other’s lives, absence and longing is strongly felt when either side is away, where we often ask when will he come back from India to see his family and when will we visit again after graduating and working away from University City.

Flipping through the pages of the torn-up cafeteria menu, we second-guess what our souls might need today.  As for tea, we order with utmost certainty. As regulars, the stream of orders typically goes like this: Wahed karak. Wahed lemon tea. Oh, make that two lemon teas. Karak horlicks. Wahed Sulaimani tea with na'na. And wahed karak thani.

Mohammed Ali turns to one of my friends, who is scanning the juice menu. Enta shu reed? Galb Awarni el youm? He can always tell when we’re having a rough day. For my friend, the antidote is Awar Galb, a vanilla, mango, and strawberry juice mix notoriously dubbed the Heart Ache. The humble tea, a constant companion to warm our nights, sometimes has to be set aside to give a myriad of juices the chance to dance on our taste buds and spark discussions of flavors galore.

The combined forces of karak sips, endless chatter with friends, cheap food, and the humbling aura of the cafeteria keep me sane. Cafeteria hangouts are not meticulously timed classes or group project meetings. There is no need to take notes or pre-plan an itinerary because it does not actually matter what we do or discuss. Here, we are allowed to exist, lose inhibitions, and be carefree. I can put aside my commitments and responsibilities and be myself in my most natural state – vibing with the homies, playing random board games, and speaking in run-on sentences about the trivial and the casual.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

Clinging to familiarity and tangibility, my postgraduate experience started with exploring Abu Dhabi city. While I never lived in Abu Dhabi (AD) before, the city’s essence and infrastructure is reminiscent of the spaces I grew up in Kuwait. I would find parallels to my personal narrative with the sentiments of my friends, their childhood anecdotes, and spatial attachments to the city. Their parents would also recount to me their migration stories and what AD was like way back when. Like a childhood home, I formed attachments with the streets, the stories I had lived through on Hamdan Street, Madinat Zayed, and at Yousef Centre. A reflection of my favorite places in Kuwait, Abu Dhabi became a point of reflection and growth.

The notion of sending CVs, cover letters to grey walls, and blank emails repulsed my freshly graduated mind. What do I do with all this sudden free time? I sought my own value. So I dedicated myself to taking up new experiences and explorations I did not have time for previously. Stability could wait. AD was the perfect place to explore this need to reflect, having spaces where I could relive moments where time could stop again, and as a new city, it was a clean slate, where I could dictate where my time went and stayed.

Late Abu Dhabian nights: once again, I find solace in a routine centered around tea. Going out on late weekday nights with my friend Joy to get boba tea for ourselves and her family. Entering her home, her dog Kimchi greets me, excitedly jumping on me and offering me a slipper (indicating that she wants to take a walk). As I continue into the hallway, her dad lyrically exclaims “my lost daughter has returned!”. And finally, her mom, brother, and I typically jump into conversation and plan our next trip to Hamdan Street. Once we take note of her family’s boba orders, we head to Ochado Cafe, a boba store that is across the street from Wahda Mall.

The storefront is quite tiny, so the outside of Ochado becomes the space where Filipinos and their electric scooters convene. A string of Tagalog and Bisaya conversations are heard here, from dilemmas on what to order to rants about coworkers that are driving them insane. Immersed in this space, Joy and I, both of mixed Filipino heritage, feel right at home and empowered to speak in our not-so-fluent Filipino.

We enter the tiny shop greeting the sweet Filipina ate at the counter. Hello ate musta? Mabuti naman po, anong gusto niyo? That's our cue to order. As always we order five, considering us and her family. We always want to try new flavors but we usually end up ordering the same ones. Isang Blueberry Cheesecake. Atsaka dalawang Classic Milk Tea. Isang Green Tea Rock Salt. At isang Taro po.

After paying and stamping our loyalty cards, we explore the lively Little Manila strip this store is situated on by the time they prepare our order. Kabayan solidarity at its finest is found here, as it is a physical manifestation of the type of aspects that encourage Filipino-ness. The multitude of Filipino restaurants here like Kabayan Zone and Ortego’s Deli satisfy the diaspora’s desire for a taste of home. Filipino supermarkets with all the self-care and food essentials that could cure any kabayan's homesickness spell. Ukay-Ukay stores, encouraging culturally-embedded thrifting practices, where a thrill is felt digging through fashion treasure troves and scoring one-of-a-kind pieces for one’s own or to share with loved ones.

My milk tea offers me refreshment and comfort once home. The chewy tapioca pearls, my favorite part, makes the experience all the more fun. I find myself with a caring second family and a home away from home, as their family’s third child. I invest myself in the Indian singing and dancing shows which her father explains to me, but already feel so familiar to the Filipino shows I watched as a child. There is home-cooked Filipino food on the table, that her mom usually prepares to alleviate any homesickness I might feel.

As I sip my tea on their black leather couches, overgrown bamboo plants, filled balikbayan boxes, and shelves filled with family photos and souvenirs surround me. The tribal Ifugao wooden statues seemingly protect the wooden cabinets that they are placed on top of. Sounds of Indian music and random family chatter and scents of garlic and soy sauce waft around me. How quintessentially Asian and multicultural these features are, I find even more parallels from my childhood home. Nestled on the couch, I calmly take a deep breath. I conclude a tea routine surrounded by family, who have allowed me into their hearts as I have allowed them in mine.

Here, Now

As I pick a random tea bag from my drawer, now in a stage of my life where I am not settled in one place or one time, tea still remains a constant in my life routine. I am neither committed to only one routine or one type of tea. I consume it for varying reasons and needs. It can offer a moment to reminisce, a moment to focus, or maybe a moment of silence. But more importantly, tea can offer a moment of gentleness, to consume rather than be consumed. To take in your surroundings rather than them taking you. As you read this, I hope you take an opportunity to reflect on what can be your moment of gentleness, to remember memories and people that you value. To remember you can stop sometimes, and pause time to immerse yourself in moments worth living.

Farah Fawzi Ali (she/her) is a Filipina-Egyptian researcher and writer based in the United Arab Emirates with a BA in Political Science from The American University in Cairo. She is mainly interested in cultural research, with a focus on postcolonialism and history in the ASEAN and SWANA regions, the interplay of media and visual arts with sociocultural realities, and environmental sustainability. She is a member of the third iteration of The Assembly at Jameel Arts Centre. She also writes book reviews and promotes thrifting practices online on her Instagram. Follow her @LearntHuman