A not-so-tall story about tree names

Knowing the names of trees - and instilling a curiosity in my daughters, for the plants surrounding us - is important to me.

Red flame tree. iStock photo

Knowing the names of trees is important to me. Not everyone seems to agree. The general response is that trees are good things to have around, but getting too fancy about them is just overloading our already crowded brains.

People are quick to agree that deforestation is a bad thing, the Amazon rainforest must be saved and that trees help purify the air. I’m left moaning like a romantic fool as I insist on ­finding out what a tree is called or lamenting the lack of a tree app on my phone. At times, I secretly wish the tree would just whisper its name to me as I pass by.

In the neighbourhood where I grew up, trees were not ­really a priority – what was important was expanding your family, building houses and ­ensuring that the aerial electric and phone cables were not damaged by said trees. Trees ­belonged in parks. Those that persevered on the streets ­escaped the attention of an overzealous municipal authority, by shaping themselves to the balconies and garages of newly built houses, or by proving themselves valuable by providing shade – to children playing cricket on the street, for the plastic tables and chairs of tea shops or for queues of people outside tandoors on a hot summer afternoon. The trees with wise, old branches and a generous spread were the ones I loved best – peepul, neem, banyan, tamarind and mango.

My daughters know my ­penchant for tree names. “Yes, we know, this is the flame tree,” they say in unison when we go out for a walk in our community in Dubai, pointing to one of the many trees “flaming” with clusters of fiery orange blossoms. Every year, in early summer, the flame trees (pictured above) explode with stunning colour and life, when everything else seems to be ­giving up.

Not long ago, the jasmine trees were in full bloom, tall and slender with dark, glossy, green foliage. When the tree flowers, in spring and autumn, it becomes smothered in clusters of white tubular flowers. At night, the scent is heavenly. Another tree I adore in my neighbourhood is the golden shower tree. You’ll recognise its beautiful light green foliage and magnificent clusters of yellow flowers.

There’s also the frangipani, with a name that sings and qualities that are almost mythical – from symbolising immortality to love and healing.

A lot of my “tree love”, as my children call it, is actually directed at them. Not long ago, my daughter, who’s 7, came to me late at night saying she couldn’t sleep. When I asked her why, her response was: “I can’t stop thinking about acid rain.” More recently, she was extremely anxious when we were going on a holiday to an island. “All islands are about to sink because of global warming.” Poor thing.

Nature, to her, is all about disasters, loss and anxiety. It’s all very well to teach kids about the environmental threats we face, but should they not also learn to appreciate nature outside their doorsteps? Familiarising ourselves with the trees and plants around us is a way of strengthening our own roots in a ­locality.

This, you may argue, is pointless, since we all move from city to city and country to country so much more now. True, but I still argue to the contrary, precisely because of this. Cultivating an interest in nature around us, wherever we are, helps quell the anxieties of living and belonging in a new place – a condition we will all increasingly find ourselves in.

Shumaila Ahmed is a Dubai-based gardener, teacher, researcher and writer.