'Majlis': Arabic word for sitting room is rooted in the traditions of the Gulf
Stemming from the trilateral letters jeem, lam and seen, and derived from jalasa (to sit), our Arabic word of the week literally means 'a place of sitting'. Over time, the physical form of the majlis changed, but the core function remained: a space to gather, discuss, reflect, seal bonds and even heal wounds.
One of the earliest uses of the term can be found among the Bedouin, where the majlis served as the beating heart of each community. It was a space where poetry was recited, grievances heard and disputes resolved. The tribal elder would preside over the gathering, with family members extending hospitality and welcoming those who came seeking guidance, judgment or social connection.
With urbanisation, the majlis evolved in form but not in function. In Gulf homes today, it remains a central feature – a formal sitting room typically reserved for receiving visitors, often gender-segregated, and designed for both comfort and ceremony. Typically adorned with a thick carpet and low cushions, the space is furnished with ornate coffee pots, incense burners and dates set aside specifically for guests.
In addition to private homes, there are also communal majalis (the plural of majlis) that serve as local gathering spaces for weddings, condolences and community meetings. Many are named after the suburbs they serve, such as Majlis Al Bateen or Majlis Baniyas.
The term is backed by some institutional weightage: the UAE's Federal National Council, a consultative parliamentary body, is commonly referred to as Al Majlis, while Saudi Arabia's Majlis ash-Shura serves a similar advisory function. These bodies reflect the original spirit of the majlis as a site of counsel and collective decision-making.
The majlis has also made its way into local television, often serving as the setting for talk shows. On Qatar's sports broadcasting network Al Kass, for example, football pundits sometimes hold post-match discussions in a studio styled as a majlis.
But as vibrant as the exchanges on offer, the majlis is also a space for listening. Arabic hospitality is known for its unhurried pace, in part because it places value on attentiveness and presence. Events are rarely rushed, and occasions and gatherings are often advertised not by exact time, but from one prayer time to the next. The purpose is to provide a calm atmosphere that encourages perspective.
This is perhaps why the majlis is inscribed by Unesco as part of the intangible cultural heritage of the Arab world. Its purpose serves as a reminder that a cohesive society is built on dialogue that fosters connection and tolerance.
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'Majlis': Arabic word for sitting room is rooted in the traditions of the Gulf
While it refers to a sitting room, the majlis is about much more than furniture and floor plans. Stemming from the trilateral letters jeem, lam and seen, and derived from jalasa (to sit), our Arabic word of the week literally means 'a place of sitting'. Over time, the physical form of the majlis changed, but the core function remained: a space to gather, discuss, reflect, seal bonds and even heal wounds. One of the earliest uses of the term can be found among the Bedouin, where the majlis served as the beating heart of each community. It was a space where poetry was recited, grievances heard and disputes resolved. The tribal elder would preside over the gathering, with family members extending hospitality and welcoming those who came seeking guidance, judgment or social connection. With urbanisation, the majlis evolved in form but not in function. In Gulf homes today, it remains a central feature – a formal sitting room typically reserved for receiving visitors, often gender-segregated, and designed for both comfort and ceremony. Typically adorned with a thick carpet and low cushions, the space is furnished with ornate coffee pots, incense burners and dates set aside specifically for guests. In addition to private homes, there are also communal majalis (the plural of majlis) that serve as local gathering spaces for weddings, condolences and community meetings. Many are named after the suburbs they serve, such as Majlis Al Bateen or Majlis Baniyas. The term is backed by some institutional weightage: the UAE's Federal National Council, a consultative parliamentary body, is commonly referred to as Al Majlis, while Saudi Arabia's Majlis ash-Shura serves a similar advisory function. These bodies reflect the original spirit of the majlis as a site of counsel and collective decision-making. The majlis has also made its way into local television, often serving as the setting for talk shows. On Qatar's sports broadcasting network Al Kass, for example, football pundits sometimes hold post-match discussions in a studio styled as a majlis. But as vibrant as the exchanges on offer, the majlis is also a space for listening. Arabic hospitality is known for its unhurried pace, in part because it places value on attentiveness and presence. Events are rarely rushed, and occasions and gatherings are often advertised not by exact time, but from one prayer time to the next. The purpose is to provide a calm atmosphere that encourages perspective. This is perhaps why the majlis is inscribed by Unesco as part of the intangible cultural heritage of the Arab world. Its purpose serves as a reminder that a cohesive society is built on dialogue that fosters connection and tolerance.
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My business partners and I had just moved into the gleaming new offices of our production company. It was an upgrade from working on our dinner tables and out the back of cafes. Now we had glass partitions and iMacs. A fresh start. We'd arrived. At about 5pm, we were told the generators would be shutting off. There would be no air conditioning for the rest of the day. Reluctantly, we packed up and left early. An hour later, the office was gone. I never went back to collect the debris. During one of my sleepless nights after the blast, I measured how far that office was from the site of the explosion. It was 900 meters away. The blast damaged buildings 10km away. I bumped into our landlord for the office at a wedding in Lebanon recently. He told me how the glass exploded into shards and stabbed every wall. How a security guard on duty in the building had been in a coma for weeks after the blast. If we'd stayed, we'd all have been killed or maimed. 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I hear stories of the architects who stepped in to ensure it was restored just as it was. But I feel guilt five years on, dwelling on that day. With the ongoing genocide of Palestinians a few hundred kilometers away, with the destruction wrought on Lebanon by Israel in the past two years, with the sectarian violence in Syria. The list goes on. It feels strange to carry August 4 as my trauma. I lost nothing that day. After all was said and done, I was lucky that day. But it is trauma, laced now with shame. Because others lost everything. 220 people died. Thousands were maimed. The city was broken. We have a Lebanese habit of not really reflecting. A lot of our trauma is not post-traumatic, because we are still in the phase of being traumatised. It is tempting to say 'that was five years ago and many horrible things have happened to us and others around us in that time". All of that is true. But avoiding trauma – and the systemic dysfunction that led to it – is not a solution. 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