Manarat Al Saadiyat, Abu Dhabi
Manarat Al Saadiyat was an experience from the moment I walked in. We were greeted with Arabic coffee at the entrance, a small but grounding gesture that made me feel immediately welcome. The walls were wide, the ceilings stretched tall, and sunlight poured into the space like it belonged there. The whole place felt open, breathing, alive.
There was a section just for children—tables full of paints and crayons, corners themed around artists like Picasso and Frida Kahlo, even a space for digital art. I sat down and made flowers “like Frida would.” Being surrounded by kids, I felt like one myself again—free, playful, soft.
Further in, I stumbled upon a gallery that stayed with me. An Indian artist had created an exhibition for the love of mothers. There were videos of his mom peeling oranges, making garlands. A lullaby in her own voice drifted through the space. In the middle of the room was a seat, just like in most galleries, where you could sit and lose yourself in the work. And I did. I sat there, listening to the lullaby, staring at the simple gestures of a mother’s hands, and I felt my own memories surface. I thought of my mother. I almost cried. It was beautiful—how something so ordinary could become art, and how art could dissolve into memory until you couldn’t tell which was which.
Another exhibition took me in a completely different direction. This one was about plants growing in forgotten places—small green rebellions pushing out of pipes in dirty alleys, or clustered on balconies in the middle of tall grey cities. Each picture was a reminder of how much people love nature, even when they’re surrounded by concrete. How they carve out small gardens just to hold onto peace. Looking at them, I felt like the artist wasn’t just documenting plants, but quietly asking us: if we love nature so much, why do we live in ways that kill it? If a tiny leaf can bring us peace, why do we cheat ourselves out of a world filled with it?
The more I walked through Manarat, the more I felt the warmth of the place. There were spaces to just sit and create, corners to reflect, galleries that pulled me deep inside them. If I lived nearby, I know I’d spend whole days there. And if I had a child, I’d leave them to draw and play in that art space, certain they’d be safe and happy. Even the theatre there, though empty that day, felt full of possibility.
Being in places like this makes me feel like myself again. I don’t need to harden up, don’t need to prove or perform. I can just be soft, sophisticated, sweet—the way I truly am. People sometimes say those traits are weakness, that softness doesn’t survive in the world. But I know they’re my strength. And in art spaces like this, I feel it more clearly than anywhere else.
If you ever find yourself on Saadiyat Island, I would tell you to go. Let yourself be greeted by the coffee, sit among the light, make something with your hands, or just lose time in the silence of an exhibition. Manarat isn’t just a place to see art—it’s a place to feel, to soften, and to remember who you are.
