She's the Lost Saudi's Princess

Chapter 2

Amara "Mara" POV

The bell rang, signaling the start of my break.

A wave of chatter filled the classroom as my students, a mix of Emirati, British, and Indian children, eagerly packed their bags.

"Miss Aquino, are we having a quiz tomorrow?" little Fatima asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Not tomorrow, Fatima," I reassured her with a smile.

"But we will have one next week, so make sure you review your notes."

As the last of the students filed out, I sank into my chair, feeling the familiar ache in my feet.

Teaching is rewarding, but exhausting.

I glanced around my classroom, a space I had slowly begun to personalize with posters of classic novels and colorful student artwork.

It isn't much, but it is my sanctuary, my little corner of Dubai.

The door creaked open, and Ms. Davies, the headmistress, poked her head in.

"Amara, do you have a moment?"

I straightened up, my heart skipping a beat.

Ms. Davies was a formidable woman, known for her strictness and her sharp eye for detail.

"Of course, Ms. Davies. Come in."

Ms. Davies entered the classroom, her gaze sweeping over the room.

"Just wanted to check in and see how you're settling in, Amara. Are you finding everything to your liking?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, trying to sound confident.

"The students are wonderful, and the staffs are very supportive."

Ms. Davies nodded, her expression softening slightly.

"Good, good. We're happy to have you, Amara. You have a natural talent for teaching." She paused.

"I also wanted to remind you about the upcoming cultural festival. We're encouraging all the teachers to participate and showcase their heritage."

My heart sank.

The cultural festival.

I had completely forgotten about it.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"I'll start thinking about it."

Ano kaya ang pwede kong ipakita?

(What can I showcase?)

I wondered, my mind racing.

I wasn't sure what I could contribute.

Should I cook adobo?

Perform a tinikling dance?

My knowledge of Filipino culture felt inadequate, especially compared to the rich and diverse backgrounds of my colleagues.

As Ms. Davies left, Omar, the Arabic teacher I had met during orientation, popped his head in.

"Amara! You look troubled. Everything okay?"

Omar is a kind and cheerful soul, always ready with a joke or a helping hand.

He had quickly become one of my closest friends at the school.

"Just the cultural festival," I sighed.

"I'm not sure what to do. I feel like I don't have anything special to offer."

Omar chuckled.

"Don't be silly, Amara! Everyone has something special. You could teach us some Tagalog phrases, or share some Filipino folk tales. The possibilities are endless!"

"Maybe," I said, feeling a little more encouraged.

"But I still feel a bit lost. I miss home, you know?"

Omar's expression softened.

"I understand. It's not easy being away from your family and your culture. But you're not alone, Amara. We're all here for you."

He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Besides, I heard there's going to be a talent show at the festival. Maybe you could surprise us with your hidden singing talent?"

I laughed. "You wish! I can't sing infront of big audiences."

"Well," Omar said, grinning,

"maybe you can dance then? I've heard Filipinos are amazing dancers."

"Now you're just teasing me," I said, playfully shoving him.

As Omar left, I couldn't help but smile.

Despite my initial hesitation, I know I had to participate in the cultural festival.

It is an opportunity to share my culture with the world, to honor my heritage, and to make Mama proud.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of grammar lessons, vocabulary quizzes, and classroom discussions.

As I graded papers during my last free period, my mind drifted back to Karim.

I replayed our conversation in my head, savoring every word, every gesture, every stolen glance.

Habibti.

He had called me habibti.

The word felt foreign and exotic on my tongue, yet somehow, it felt right.

I wondered what he was doing at this very moment.

Was he thinking of me too?

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, jolting me out of my reverie.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

"Thinking of you, Amara. - K."

My heart skipped a beat.

K.

It had to be Karim!.

How had he gotten my number?

I quickly typed a reply:

"Karim? How did you get my number?"

A few seconds later, another message popped up:

"A magician never reveals his secrets. 😉"

I giggled, feeling a rush of excitement.

He is so charming, so mysterious, so different from anyone I had ever met before.

"Looking forward to seeing you next week," I texted back.

"Me too, habibti," he replied.

"Until then, ma'a as-salama." (Go with peace) -K

I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through my chest.

It is going to be a long week, but I knew I could get through it.

I had a new purpose, a new source of inspiration, and a new reason to look forward to each day.

And maybe, just maybe, I am finally starting to find my place in this strange and wonderful city.

As I packed my bag, ready to head home, Omar poked his head into the classroom again.

"Amara, are you free for dinner tonight? A few of us are going to a Lebanese restaurant, and we'd love for you to join us."

I hesitated.

I am tired, and I really wanted to just relax and talk to Mama on the phone.

But I also knew that it was important to build friendships and connections in Dubai.

"I'd love to, Omar," I said, forcing a smile.

"Just let me call my mother first, to let her know where I'll be."

"Great!" Omar said, clapping his hands together.

"We're meeting at Al Ustad Special Kabab around 7:30. It's supposed to be amazing."

I nodded, feeling a little more energized.

"Okay, I'll see you there."

As I walked towards the teachers' lounge to make my call, I couldn't help but wonder what the evening had in store for me.

Would I meet new people?

Would I learn more about Dubai's culture?

I dialed Mama's number, my heart filled with anticipation.

I couldn't wait to hear her voice, to tell her about my day, and to share the small victories and challenges I had faced.

I wanted to hear about her day too, to know if the new medication was helping, and to reassure her that everything was going to be alright.

Her voice was my anchor, my connection to home, and the one thing that could always chase away the loneliness and uncertainty that sometimes crept into my heart.

Mama's voice was a little stronger tonight, a welcome change from the past few weeks.

She told me about her day, about the neighbors who had visited, and about the delicious sinigang that Aling Ising had made for her.

It was the small, mundane details of her life that I craved, the comforting reminders of home that made me feel less alone in this foreign land.

Hay, Mama, miss na miss na po kita (Oh, Mama, I miss you so much).

I told her about my students, about the cultural festival, and about the Lebanese dinner I am going to with my colleagues.

I carefully avoided mentioning Karim, sensing that it was still too early to share such a big thing.

"Mag-ingat ka palagi, anak," Mama said, her voice filled with concern. (Take care always, my child).

"Dubai is a big city, and you need to be careful."

"Opo, Mama," I replied. (Yes, Mama).

"I will. Don't worry about me. Just focus on getting better. Ako na po ang bahala dito." (I'll take care of everything here)

"I'm trying, anak," she said, her voice weakening slightly.

"I miss you so much. Ang hirap talaga pag malayo ka." (It's really hard when you're far away)

"I miss you too, Mama," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

"But I'll be home soon. Promise 'yan (That's a promise). Just as soon as I have enough money for your surgery."

"Don't rush, anak," she said.

"Take your time. Huwag mong pilitin ang sarili mo (Don't force yourself). I don't want you to sacrifice your happiness for me."

"You are my happiness, Mama," I said, my eyes filling with tears.

"Everything I do, I do for you. Ikaw lang ang mahalaga sa akin (You're the only one that matters to me)."

We said our goodbyes, our voices choked with emotion.

As I hung up the phone, I felt a familiar pang of homesickness, a deep longing for the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of home.

Naku, Mara, tigilan mo 'yan! (Oh, Mara, stop that!)

I scolded myself, trying to shake off the wave of melancholy.

Kailangan mong magpakatatag (You need to be strong).

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to shake off the lungkot (sadness).

I had a dinner to attend, and I needed to put on a brave face and try to enjoy myself.

Para kay Mama (For Mama), I reminded myself.

After all, Mama wouldn't want me to be sad.

She would want me to make the most of my time in Dubai, to embrace new experiences, and to find happiness wherever I could.

Kaya ngiti na, Mara! (So smile now, Mara!)

I changed into a simple but elegant dress, a vibrant shade of blue that Mama had always loved.

I applied a touch of makeup, trying to conceal the dark circles under my eyes.

As I dabbed on a bit of blush, I studied my reflection in the mirror.

My skin, usually a warm golden brown, looked a little pale tonight.

My eyes, dark and almond-shaped, seemed to hold a hint of sadness.

Kailangan kong magpakatatag (I need to be strong).

I noticed the subtle curve of my nose, the high cheekbones that framed my face.

For the first time, I saw a hint of what Karim had mentioned – something vaguely Arabic in my features.

Maybe it was the way my eyebrows arched, or the slight olive undertone to my skin.

Whatever it is, it made me feel a little closer to this land, a little less like an outsider.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, I reminded myself that I am strong, I was capable, and I was going to make Mama proud.

Kaya ko 'to (I can do this).

I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, determined to have a good time, even if it was just for a few hours.

Sige na, Mara, laban! (Come on, Mara, fight!)

....................

Al Ustad Special Kabab was a small, bustling restaurant filled with the aroma of grilled meats and exotic spices.

The walls were adorned with photos of celebrities and dignitaries who had dined there, a testament to the restaurant's popularity.

I spotted Omar waving at me from a table in the corner.

"Amara! You made it!" he exclaimed, as I approached.

"Come, meet everyone!"

He introduced me to a group of teachers from the school, a diverse mix of nationalities and personalities.

There is Fatima, the bubbly English teacher from London; David, the reserved history teacher from Canada; and Aisha, the witty science teacher from Egypt.

"Welcome to the team, Amara!" Fatima said, giving me a warm hug.

"We're so glad you could join us."

"Thank you," I said, feeling a little more relaxed.

"I'm happy to be here."

As we settled into our seats, the waiter arrived with a tray laden with mezze, a selection of small, flavorful dishes that are typically served as appetizers.

There was hummus, baba ghanoush, tabbouleh, and warak enab (stuffed grape leaves).

"Try everything, Amara!" Aisha said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

"Lebanese food is the best food in the world!"

I took a bite of the hummus, savoring the creamy texture and the subtle tang of lemon.

It was delicious!

"This is amazing!" I said, my eyes widening with delight.

"I told you!" Aisha said, beaming.

We spent the next few hours laughing, talking, and sharing stories.

I learned about their lives in Dubai, their experiences as expats, and their hopes and dreams for the future.

I felt a sense of connection with them, a sense of belonging that I hadn't felt since leaving the Philippines.

As the evening progressed, the conversation turned to more personal topics.

Fatima shared her struggles with finding a good apartment in Dubai, David talked about his passion for history, and Aisha spoke eloquently about her love for Egypt and her desire to make a difference in the world.

"So, Amara," Fatima said, turning to me with a curious smile.

"Tell us about yourself. What brought you to Dubai?"

I hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to reveal.

But I knew that these people were my friends, my support system in this foreign land.

"I came to Dubai to earn money for my mother's medical treatment," I said quietly.

"She has a heart condition, and she needs surgery."

A hush fell over the table.

Everyone looked at me with sympathy and understanding.

Omar, who had been particularly attentive all evening, placed a comforting hand on my arm.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Amara," David said, his voice filled with compassion.

"We're all here for you if you need anything."

"Thank you," I said, my eyes filling with tears.

"That means a lot to me."

Aisha reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it gently.

"Don't worry, Amara," she said, her voice soothing.

"Everything will be okay. Inshallah." (God willing).

Omar chimed in, his voice warm and supportive.

"We're your family here, Amara. Just let us know if there's anything at all we can do to help."

I managed a weak smile.

"I hope so," I said.

We continued to talk and laugh, but the conversation had shifted.

The mood was more somber, more reflective.

I realized that these people were more than just colleagues; they were my friends, my chosen family.

And I knew that I could count on them to be there for me, no matter what.

As we were getting ready to leave, Omar pulled me aside.

"Amara," he said, his voice serious.

"I know it's not my place to say this, but... don't be afraid to ask for help. We all have our struggles, and it's important to lean on each other when we need it."

I looked at him, my heart filled with gratitude.

"Thank you, Omar," I said.

"I appreciate that. You are a great friend to me."

He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"That's what friends are for, right?" He paused, then added in a lower voice,

"And... if you ever need someone to talk to, any time of day, don't hesitate to call me. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, feeling a warmth spread through my chest.

"I will."

We said our goodbyes to the others and stepped out onto the bustling street.

The Dubai night was alive with activity, the air filled with the sounds of music and laughter.

"I'll walk you back to your apartment," Omar said, gesturing towards the direction of my building.

As we walked, we talk about everything and nothing.

Omar told me about his childhood in Lebanon, about his dreams of becoming a famous poet, and about his frustrations with the Dubai traffic.

I listened intently, enjoying his company and the easy camaraderie that had developed between us.

When we reached my building, I turned to him, my heart filled with gratitude.

"Thank you for everything, Omar," I said.

"For dinner, for the company, and for being such a good friend."

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that made my heart flutter.

"Anytime, Amara," he said.

"Just remember, you're not alone here. We're all in this together."

He paused, then leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper.

"And... if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or someone to share your kushari with, you know where to find me."

I laughed, feeling a little lighter. "I'll keep that in mind," I said. "Good night, Omar."

"Good night, Amara," he replied.

"Sweet dreams."

I watched as he walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd.

As I turned to enter my building, I couldn't help but smile. Despite the challenges and the uncertainties, I was surrounded by good people, people who cared about me and wanted to see me succeed.

And that, I realized, was a blessing worth cherishing.

As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I couldn't help but think about both Omar and Karim.

Omar was kind, supportive, and a true friend. He offered a sense of stability and familiarity, a comforting reminder of home.

Karim, on the other hand, was exciting, mysterious, and a little bit dangerous. He represented the unknown, the thrill of new experiences, and the possibility of something more.

Ano ba 'yan, Mara? Naguguluhan ka na naman! (What is that, Mara? You're getting confused again!).

I scolded myself. It was too early to be thinking about romance. I needed to focus on Mama, on my job, and on building a life for myself in Dubai. Love could wait.

But as I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn't help but dream of a warm smile, a gentle touch, and a whispered word in a language I was just beginning to understand: Habibti.

The next morning, I woke up with a renewed sense of determination.

Today was a new day, a new opportunity to make a difference, to help Mama, and to make my dreams come true.

And no matter what challenges lay ahead, I knew that I could face them with courage, with grace, and with the unwavering support of my friends and family.

Kaya ko 'to! (I can do this!)