I only know slightly more than nothing about these far flung lands for having traveled to them, and while it's not enough to have a strong clear opinion about what's going on, it's enough to make me curious and sympathetic. The photographs of young Egyptian men and pieces like this about the issues young Arabs are dealing with took me straight to a warm Doha night by the pool in ASAS twin towers. A young security guard - the manager for the night shift - named Amro had invited me to have a soda with him by the pool.
We had met Amro in not-so-dignified circumstances - our affinity for late nights in the steam room and sauna didn't officially fly with building policy, since the girls would sneak into the men's locker room to hang out with the bro bros (long after any sane male residents would be down there). Consequently, security had occasionally crashed our party and sent the ladies packing, until one night Hollin started chatting with friendly Amro, who admitted he didn't really care, and as long as we turned the steam and heat off when we left they'd leave us alone.
Anyways, Amro would occasionally come hang out with us, maybe to practice his English, probably because he was bored at work, and one day asked me if I would like to have a soda with him that week. We met at the beginning of his shift, and I learned that he was from Egypt but had worked in Doha for several years. He didn't love it, but his previous work in Egypt as an English teacher was too frustrating to return to. It was next to impossible to find a job in Egypt, and those who were employed as teachers made fractions of what he earned as a security guard in the Gulf. Amro supervised the Nepali guards contracted to work for the building. At one point, when the fire alarm system in our building didn't work, one task of these guards was to sit in a dark hallway on each floor with an emergency horn, serving as a human fire alarm for an eight hour shift. For an impressively fluent English speaker with ambitions to teach young Egyptians, the job seemed a bit stifling.
But he had no intention of returning to Egypt. The Gulf was where money was, and back home there was no hope for change. So Amro had resigned himself to life in Doha, interacting with English speakers whenever possible to keep working on his English. The best he could hope for was to work for Qatar Gas, which paid better than the gig at ASAS. I rarely saw him after that night he bought me a warm Sprite. Within a few months, I had left Doha to seek opportunities in my homeland. I wish for the same were possible for Amro and his countless brothers scattered throughout the Gulf.
