I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, thinking about the many houses I’ve lived in over the years—26 in total across my 46 years of life. Despite all the moving, one constant anchored me: my 12 years at the same school in Abu Dhabi. The school buses could go anywhere in the city, so no matter where we lived, I never had to change schools. That stability kept me grounded, even as we hopscotched across neighborhoods.
It all started in a flat on Nadi Syahi, in the Tourist Club area. Before that, we lived on Hamdan Street, one of Abu Dhabi’s older streets. I remember my grandfather sitting at the small grocery shop downstairs, handing me lollipops or chocolates whenever I came down. Those moments are etched in my memory. A year later, we moved to the Tourist Club flat, where I started first grade. I’d wait for the school bus in the early winter mornings, the world still dark outside. That same building saw the opening of a Baskin Robbins, and on its launch day, they gave out free ice cream. I must’ve gone down every hour for an orange-flavored cone—a flavor I’ve never seen since.
Then came our first villa, on the Corniche. It had a backyard where I started playing football. Weekends (then just Fridays) were spent visiting my grandparents in Al Ain. Their traditional house in Al Yahar had a garden where my grandmother grew lettuce and tomatoes. Later, they built a simple concrete pool, filled with hose water, where we’d splash around as kids. Summers were spent begging to stay with them longer, snuggling with my grandmother at night.
We moved again, this time to a small house near the passport office. It barely had a yard, but it was our first villa. After that, we lived in a compound at ADCO, where I became the unofficial keeper of the small football field. I’d arrange games for the neighborhood kids, a role I loved. Later, we moved to Al Karama, where we lived in three different houses. One was a three-story villa that used to be the Chinese embassy. My father built me a room on the roof, complete with its own toilet—a unique experience.
Throughout all this, my school remained my anchor. The buses went everywhere, even to Al Wathbah and Shamkha, so I never had to change schools or leave my friends. To this day, I’m still in touch with some of them.
At home, my sister and I created our own worlds. In one house, we turned a half-circle window into a football goal, pretending to hold tryouts with rubber balls. I’d invent backstories for each “player,” and my sister, the goalkeeper, would decide who made the national team. In another house, we used empty fragrance bottles as skyscrapers, driving toy cars around them. We’d play with toy soldiers and zoo animals, building entire cities and farms. When relatives visited, we’d act out plays from books, assigning roles to everyone.
Our rituals were simple but sacred. During school days, I’d wake up early, take the bus, and return home for lunch. My mother insisted we finish our plates, much to our dismay. After homework, we’d eagerly wait for the one hour of cartoons from 4 to 5 PM. That hour was magic. The rest of the day was spent playing with my sister, creating stories and worlds.
Holidays were even more imaginative. We’d wake up late, watch Kuwaiti comedy plays like *Bye Bye London* or *Laulaki*, and stay up late playing. Once, I convinced my sister to create her own magazine, inspired by *Majid*. We’d sell each other puzzles, and I’d always make mine impossible to solve, pocketing an extra dirham in the process.
Looking back, I realize how much my parents encouraged our creativity. They gave us the space and time to be kids, to build worlds out of nothing. And in a way, that’s what home became for me—not a place, but a feeling stitched together by imagination, siblings, and the steady rhythm of rituals.
So, to anyone who’s ever felt unmoored by frequent moves, know this: home isn’t lost in the shuffle. It’s carried in the stories you tell, the games you invent, and the people who make every new place feel like yours.