“Ramadan is 30 days of inshallah,” says Emirati stand-up comedian Abdullah Al Qassab, as he invites us into his majlis for an intimate iftar with his family last weekend.
We had suggested meeting at a restaurant in Dubai, but the 30-year-old, who has two young sons, insisted we taste his mother’s heirloom recipes in his Sharjah home.
“Emirati food is a lot like Indian food,” says Al Qassab, who is undergoing military training. “It’s all about the carbs. The same pakoras [fritters] and samosas, but we call them sambosas. I’ve always thought that has something to do with Bombay being renamed Mumbai.”
When Al Qassab scored a job with Gasco as a facility officer four years back, he moved out of his family home and to the capital, where he now resides with his wife and children. His 12-hour work day also encompasses a flourishing career in the media as an Abu Dhabi TV presenter, volunteering with charities and mentoring students at universities. But that’s not all. The craft that does full justice to his boisterous personality is the one in which he can talk for hours to spread mirth.
“It’s a slow Ramadan this year,” he says as we sit down cross-legged on the blue-and-gold carpeted floor of his majlis, while his mother and wife place Vimto, luqaimat and harees next to a basket of fruits, Hyderabadi biryani and kebabs. “This is the first year I haven’t done charity comedy shows. That’s why I’m not in the hospital.”
He says he has more time to spend with his with mother and four siblings this Ramadan.
After handing me some dates and water, Al Qassab picks up a glass of Vimto to break his fast.
“I have Crohn’s disease and discovered that fasting isn’t very good for my digestive system. In Abu Dhabi, we always have grilled food but in my mother’s house, these are cheat days. I always go for the fried stuff.”
We move on to our first serving, and in no particular hierarchy of dishes, Al Qassab begins with a plateful of classic tabbouleh, while I sample the homemade potato and onion pakoras. The relaxed setting triggers a childhood memory for him.
“I remember the period just before sunset used to be so chaotic for us,” says Al Qassab. “The children would be sent to our neighbours house to share dishes and they would be at our house dropping off food. We knew everybody and what they were eating and this would go on until athan. No one rings the bell now, which is sad.”
But he also believes that tradition has been replaced with a much better one: “Now we have iftar distribution everywhere at the signals, at labour camps. And everyone – Muslims and non-Muslims – pitch in. That is very beautiful.”
During the holy month, Al Qassab also gets involved in food distribution drives. Last week, he worked with other volunteers to feed 1,600 labourers in Al Quoz. The artist and public speaker has also been heavily involved with the Breathing Numbers project by Emirati philanthropist Muna Harib, travelling to Jordan to support Syrian refugees in the Zaatari camps.
As we move on to our second serving – we both make a dive for the sugar syrup-dipped luqaimat – Al Qassab talks about the roller coaster of emotions he feels wearing many hats.
“We met a refugee who I had become close to,” he recalls. “We had shared stories, and he had told me he had fallen in love. I remember the day I had to do this fun assignment of scuba diving for work, I got a call on my way to the shoot that he had passed away. I then had to face the camera and smile. That was very difficult.”
The pensive mood doesn’t last – Al Qassab has a knack for diffusing tense situations.
“They always choose me for these adventurous jobs at work,” he says with a laugh. “That’s because I don’t think twice before agreeing. I have so many stitches that my mother has lost count.”
As we tuck into our final helpings – I opt for the Arabic spice-rubbed tandoori chicken while Al Qassab has potato cheese balls – he tells me he’ll be at a crossroads in his career after military training ends in September. Along with pursing a masters programme in public relations and psychology at Zayed University, comedy and public speaking will definitely be on the cards.
“Much to my wife’s annoyance,” he adds as an afterthought. “She hates it because I always have jokes on marriage and she sometimes is the butt of some of them.”
At this point, his wife, Muna Abbas, jumps into the conversation.
“I want to kill him sometimes,” she says with a smile. “We always have an argument after his routines.”
“But she is my inspiration,” Al Qassab says quickly, with a grin.
aahmed@thenational.ae
