I was reminded this morning that just over a year ago, I returned home from Thailand via a three-day stopover in Qatar. Coming from the humid tropics of Southeast Asia, Qatar felt, in a word, otherworldly. Even the sun and sky seemed different here, the light paler, the sky reflecting the muted hues of the desert.

As I skimmed through my photos, I remembered the sights, sounds, and smells that greeted me when I stepped off the plane, along with the hospitality of the Qatar Airways staff. I may have flown in economy, but for this leg of the journey, I opted for the Al Maha service when the plane touched down in Doha; it was worth every single penny.

On the drive to the hotel, I chatted with my driver, a friendly man from Sri Lanka. I asked him about his homeland and what had brought him to Qatar, and he seemed genuinely happy to talk. He, in turn, asked about where I was from. When I told him about the Pacific Northwest and Seattle, he smiled, clearly intrigued by this unfamiliar corner of America.

As the hotel drew nearer, I became increasingly aware of just how immaculate everything was—from the lines on the asphalt to the grass and wildflowers along the road. At the same time, the city felt almost unreal, like a world created in the minds of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. I couldn’t wait to get out and explore it.

As often happens when traveling, our conversation eventually drifted toward food. I asked him where he and his family liked to eat, and he offered a few recommendations. When we arrived, I thanked him, tipped him, and he carried my luggage into the hotel—a small gesture that I don’t think he carries out for everyone.

While waiting to check in, I noticed framed photographs of the Emir and his father hanging prominently in the lobby. I studied them first as rulers, then simply as father and son. Both projected authority, but the son’s face carried a kindness—almost a hint of playfulness—that suggested temperance and a genuine affection for his country. Whatever their governing formula was, it appeared to be working, at least within my limited perspective.

The woman in front of me in line, wrapped in her hijab, noticed my gaze and commented on the photos, explaining who they were and asking where I was from. I admitted I had seen the Emir on the news but knew little beyond that; American media rarely does a good job explaining who foreign leaders are or the societies they represent. She suggested I visit the National Museum of Qatar to better understand the Al Thani family and the country’s national journey. I thanked her and mentioned that I was a historian—her recommendation was right up my alley.

As the line inched forward and our conversation continued, I asked her about her hijab and if she felt any particular way about it. I explained that as a part of my master’s program, I had studied the history of women in the Middle East and was genuinely curious about the garment. After all, it’s a controversial topic in the West.

She chuckled and said it was just a part of her daily existence and didn’t think anything about it. As the conversation proceeded, she explained that she found it liberating and gave her freedoms that women in the West would envy if they understood it.

Before I could ask her anything further, it was her and her companion’s turn to check in. I thanked her and wished them a good holiday before stepping forward myself. The exchange lingered with me. Many Western feminists would strongly push back against what she had shared, yet she spoke with pride that went beyond religion or social expectation. It was a quiet reminder that empowerment is not universal in form, and that feminism is not a one-size-fits-all concept.

After checking in and refreshing myself, I stepped back outside to find food and get my bearings. I don’t know if I will ever forget my first evening in Doha. The air was dry, the breeze off the Gulf was warm, and the light was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The greenery was lush, the air scented with sandalwood and fresh bread. As the sun set, the city filled with people shopping, dining, socializing, and heeding the evening call to prayer.

I wandered until I found a restaurant my driver had recommended. My first meal: chicken wrap, fresh salad, and a melon soda, was simple and memorable. It felt familiar to a meal that I would eat back home, but was just different enough to be its own distinct thing. The proprietor and I spoke briefly; I don’t suspect he sees many patrons who look like me. When he asked what I was doing in Doha, I told him I was passing through on my way back to America and wanted to take advantage of the stop to see as much of his country as I could. Like my driver, he pointed me toward places he enjoyed visiting with his family that don’t always make it into tourist brochures. I thanked him, finished my meal, tipped him, and walked back to my hotel.

I came to understand quickly that while I couldn’t experience everything Qatar had to offer, what I did experience mattered. I was there over Easter, and this was my first time in a Muslim-majority nation. Christians are permitted to worship in Qatar, albeit with modest restrictions—no public proselytizing and worship limited to designated spaces. Still, the Christian population is sizeable enough to support several Roman Catholic churches and a Greek Orthodox church. There may have been more, but I didn’t wander into the weeds too much on this topic.

As I took everything in, I couldn’t escape the feeling that this land would have been familiar to Jesus. It closely matched how I had long imagined the region described in the Bible—ancient, grounded, and deeply human. There is something about this part of the world that feels at once familiar and surprising, rooted in tradition yet confidently modern, shaped by people proud of their culture, convictions, and the direction they’re heading.

One evening, while dining along the waterfront, I watched families strolling the promenade with their physically and mentally disabled relatives, enjoying the night together out under the moonlight. No one appeared rushed or anxious. People were relaxed, eager to talk, and openly proud of their home. They were simply living their lives, and it was beautiful to witness.

As an American, I wondered how they lived so calmly with the threat of Iran, just on the other side of the Gulf? Traditionally, the Arab states and Iran don’t always see eye-to-eye. I suppose, in many ways, it’s not unlike how the people of Taiwan live with the ever-looming threat of China on their front door. What I can say is that people there just get on with it, and I suppose it’s the same thing here. I also wonder how America might be a different place if we were surrounded by larger, more powerful, and potentially more hostile neighbors? Would we be as calm, cool, and collected as these folks strolling along the promenade?

A year later, I still think about Qatar. Like everywhere else, it has its problems. By American standards, are they really free? In some ways, yes, in others no, but the people are warm and generous, and I am not one to insult my host when I am a guest in their house. Faith traditions often speak of loving our neighbor, and travel teaches us who our neighbors really are. What I found in Qatar says our neighbors in the world are lovely people who celebrate their lives in ways that we all do. I sometimes wonder what became of the driver, the woman in the hijab, and the families walking along the water that night. Whatever comes next for the Middle East, for Qatar, and for the people I encountered along the way, I hope the warmth, generosity, and quiet resilience I experienced there endure.

They deserve to.