A GUIDE TO SURVIVING THE GULF
Monita Pesumal writes about karak, culture shocks and everything in between
Making friends abroad isn’t so much about networking as it is about survival
If anyone had told me that I’d spend the better part of my adulthood navigating the labyrinth that is expat life in the Gulf, I’d have laughed out of sheer naivety. Many years later, I’m still standing – with a passport full of visa stamps, a wardrobe full of mismatched winter gear and enough stories for a Netflix series!
Life as a Sri Lankan expat in the Middle East is in equal parts hilarious, heartwarming and frustrating. So here it is – not a ‘how-to’ manual but a personal heartfelt guide to surviving abroad.
EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE Moving away from home means you pack your entire world into 30 kg – or 40kg if you plead with the lady or gentleman at the check-in counter.
But no one tells you that the heaviest baggage is invisible. It’s the guilt of not being there for birthdays, weddings and hospital visits. It’s the ache of hearing your mother’s voice crack when she says “we miss you.”
In Qatar, I used to get these pangs of homesickness – especially on weekends when the silence became unbearable. I remember craving my dad’s jokes more than kiribath. And I love kiribath.
Learn to Blend in No matter how many years you live in the Gulf, how many jars of za’atar you consume or how flawlessly you say ‘Inshallah,’ you’ll always be the expat… and that’s okay.
Qatar taught me this gently – the locals embraced me like a long-lost cousin, laughing at my broken Arabic, correcting me lovingly and inviting me to their homes during Eid.
That said, the dual identity struggle is real.
In Bahrain, I’m the Lankan girl with the spice rack and a growing karak addiction. Meanwhile in Sri Lanka, I’m the expat who finds Galle Road traffic a little too intense. You learn to live in the in-between – belonging everywhere and nowhere, all at once.
Build Your Tribe My first real friend in Qatar was a South Indian colleague who sat beside me and shared her tuna sandwiches.
She became my ride or die, my family away from family. We laughed at bad office politics, travelled together and even got lost in Doha’s spaghetti road system more than once.
Making friends abroad isn’t so much about networking as it is about survival. Your tribe won’t just be drinking buddies or brunch pals; they’ll be the ones who take you to the doctor, bake you a cake on your birthday and sit beside you when the homesickness hits hard.
Learn the Local Hacks When I moved to Qatar, I converted every price tag to Sri Lankan Rupees, leaving many Zara dresses hanging sadly on the racks.
With time, I learned that survival means letting go of some habits and picking up new ones – such as bulk buying during sales season, learning the art of brunch reservations and keeping a spare abaya in your car… just in case.
And karak chai will become your lifeblood – imagine the most perfect mix of sugar, spice and a hug in a cup. It’s how I’ve survived long workdays, heartbreaks and the occasional existential crisis.
Career Curve balls One of the hard truths of being a Sri Lankan expat in the Middle East is the invisible hierarchy based on nationality. I have collaborated with brilliant people of all backgrounds but I’ve also felt the sting of being overlooked for roles simply because my passport wasn’t the right colour.
However, Bahrain offered me room to grow in my own way. Although it’s a smaller market, I found freedom in the creative chaos. I carved a space in marketing and media, made mistakes, picked myself up and learned to shout a little louder in rooms where my voice wasn’t the first one heard.
EMBRACE THE CULTURE Qatar and Bahrain are vastly different in pace and personality but they share something beautiful: hospitality. I’ve been to Iftar dinners, Diwali events hosted by Arab friends and local weddings where I didn’t have a clue as to what was going on but danced anyway.
I’ve also embarrassed myself trying to speak Arabic. I once tried to compliment someone’s cooking and ended up saying something about a ‘happy fish.’ People appreciate the effort nonetheless – just throw in a shukran here and a yallah there – and you’re set.
KEEP THE FLAME ALIVE No matter how many hummus platters I devour, nothing replaces the joy of spotting a Maliban Marie biscuit at the local hypermarket or hearing Manike Mage Hithe on someone’s speaker in the parking lot.
I recreate home with my messy attempts at oven baked fish cutlets. I light a little oil lamp on poya days. I hoard seeni sambol like gold. Because that’s what home is – it’s not always a place. Sometimes it’s a smell, a snack or a song that reminds you who you are.
And Be Kind to Yourself You’re going to have days where you question why you left home – days when your air conditioner breaks down, your visa is delayed and your lunch is a sad supermarket salad.
But you’ll also have days when you’re driving down a palm lined road, sun on your face, friends by your side… and you feel like you’ve built something special.
Because you have.