My students have turned in their final papers and taken their exams, getting progressively more bleary-eyed with exhaustion as the last week of the term grinds on. ‘Tis the season of emails sent at 2am, with requests for deadlines to be extended. ‘Tis the season of students clutching ever-larger cups of tea or coffee with white-knuckled intensity. And then almost as if a switch has been flipped, everything goes silent and the queues for airport-bound taxis lengthen, as the students head for a well-deserved winter break, scattering to family around the world. Some of us will join that migration, heading to wherever it is we also call home; others will stay put, revelling in Abu Dhabi’s perfect weather and uncrowded beaches.
In between marking exams and reading student papers, I’ve been hunting around for gifts for relatives in the US, which has meant some delicious moments sampling the wares at the Bateel date store (dates with candied citron wins hands down), and some time in the online world of “American Girl” dolls, looking for gifts for my nieces. For me, as the mother of two boys, American Girl is a foreign realm. Did you know that you can buy a “healthy smile” set, which includes stick-on braces and “headgear”? You can also buy your doll a set of crutches, or a pet doll-puppy, complete with collar and leash.
In mid-December in Manhattan, it is cold and wet, maybe snowy, and dark by 4.30pm. It’s weather that cries out for homemade soup, warm bread, thick stew. In defiance of Abu Dhabi’s warmth and sunshine, we had some friends over the other night and I cooked precisely those things, although we kept the terrace door open to enjoy Abu Dhabi’s far from wintry air. We’ve even acquired a Christmas tree, which we splurged for, shutting our eyes to the carbon footprint of a live tree being shipped to Abu Dhabi.
And so on the surface of things, it looks like an ordinary pre-holiday season. But this year a darker note thrums just below the surface. As I shop for dates, click on American Girl outfits or slice onions for soup, I can’t shake thoughts of the suffering in Aleppo or Yemen. As I work with students on their final papers, my thoughts return to the millions of refugee children stranded all over the world – unhomed, unschooled, undone, an entire generation in the process of being lost.
It’s true that this time of year is often when people turn their attentions to those less fortunate than they. People put in a dutiful day volunteering at soup kitchens and shelters, and in cold-weather places such as New York, there are often coat drives and other donation opportunities to alleviate the suffering of those in desperate straits. But doesn’t it seem as if the ranks of the suffering have swollen to unimaginable numbers this year? And because of social media, it is almost impossible to ignore or discount this suffering or, indeed, our own privilege: the privilege of buying dates, or doll clothes, or even the very simple privilege of a roof and a stove and food to share with friends.
Sometimes the world’s problems seem so huge, the conditions so intractable, and my own efforts so paltry – donations here and there, attempts to educate myself and my family about world events, conversations with my students – that I feel like crawling under the bed and staying there. Notice, please, in this list of woe that I’ve not even included the rogues’ gallery of a cabinet being assembled by the president-elect. Nope, not saying anything about that.
On the other hand, if we all crawl under our beds in despair, then the forces arrayed against hope will have won. So I’m not going to crawl under the bed. Instead, I’ve deleted American Girl and clicked over to Heifer International, where, in the names of my nieces, I’m going to donate two goats to an impoverished family. Are these goats going to save the world from itself? No, of course not. But we’ve got to start somewhere, and for me, right now, goats are the season’s perfect gift.
Deborah Lindsay Williams is a professor of literature at NYU Abu Dhabi
