logo
Abu Dhabi Awards celebrates 20 years honouring community spirit

Abu Dhabi Awards celebrates 20 years honouring community spirit

The National24-07-2025
The Abu Dhabi Awards have recognised more than 100 people making a difference in the emirate over the past two decades and nominations are now open for the 12th cycle.
Among those already recognised are a pioneering radiologist and a champion for the disabled.
Here, The National takes a look at previous winners, why they were put forward by their communities and what it will take for the next batch of nominees to be among the winners.
Dr Essam El Shammaa
When the UAE's Dr Essam El Shammaa returned to Abu Dhabi in 1976, he came on unpaid leave from Great Ormond Street and the Royal Free Hospital in London.
He had no plans to stay for long and wanted to remain in the UK but he soon "fell in love with the people" in the Emirates, he told The National.
His early work with ultrasound, especially in detecting a baby's gender, sparked controversy at the time but a conversation with UAE Founding Father, the late Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan, reassured him that he had the country's full support.
One of his early breakthroughs came during a routine ultrasound when he accidentally dropped a metal tool and saw the foetus flinch.
'I called my colleagues and said, 'babies can hear',' he said. 'They laughed. So I showed them. I dropped different tools and each time, the baby flinched.'
His message today is as direct as ever: 'Don't upset your wife. Don't yell at her. The baby can hear you. And if you upset her, her body produces more adrenalin – that baby is going to be born hating you for upsetting their mother.'
He was also the first to advocate husbands being allowed into Corniche Hospital, which at the time was restricted to women only.
'Fathers would have a baby, see them from afar, but never develop that connection,' he said. 'But if they're there from the first ultrasound, from the very beginning, they form stronger bonds.'
He remains an adviser at the hospital with the imaging department where he first worked. He was recognised with an Abu Dhabi Award in 2021.
Theban Al Mheiri
Theban Al Mheiri was 23 when the car taking him to the airport at the start of a journey that would see him travel to the US for an English language course, crashed.
'When I woke up, I thought I was in the afterlife,' he recalled. 'Everyone around me was wearing masks. For a moment, I thought I could be in heaven or hell. I was terrified.'
Within seconds, he realised he was in a hospital. And then came the harder truth: he had lost movement in both legs.
Mr Al Mheiri slipped into a period of deep depression. He mourned not only the use of his legs, but the version of his life that no longer existed – the one that was heading abroad, filled with possibility.
But over time, that sorrow transformed into resolve. 'There's no reason to be upset forever,' he said. 'You have to find your purpose and help others find theirs, too.'
And that's exactly what he did – Mr Al Mheiri went on to become one of the UAE's most dedicated advocates for the disabled.
Over the past three decades, he has helped thousands navigate the emotional, physical and societal challenges of living with a disability.
Mr Al Mheiri's work has helped bring attention to the simplest yet most profound daily struggles – such as the difficulty of using a toilet or navigating inaccessible public spaces.
'I don't want people to put themselves in our shoes,' he said. 'I want them to understand that these challenges are real. We just need time and support to overcome them."
His message is simple but deeply felt: "Never give up.' He was recognised with an Abu Dhabi Award in 2017.
The organisers
'The awards recognise people who unite and inspire through their actions,' says Mahra Al Shamsi of the organising committee. 'They embody unity, compassion and giving.'
Every year brings new stories, from medical pioneers to environmental champions to disability rights advocates.
'We're not limited by nationality,' adds Amal Al Ameri. 'These values; goodness, selflessness, helping others, are universal.'
What are the awards?
Nominations for this year's Abu Dhabi Awards are now open and anyone, from children to seniors, can submit a hero on the official website, including a special form for younger nominators.
Held under the patronage of President Sheikh Mohamed, the awards recognise those who have shown exceptional dedication and commitment to serving the country.
Eligible candidates are:
Citizens, residents, or visitors whose good deeds have benefited the UAE.
People whose international contributions reflect positively on the Emirates.
Individuals whose voluntary work, advocacy, or public service made a lasting impact.
Once submitted, nominations go through a research and review phase where a team evaluates each candidate's impact. Finalists are then reviewed by a panel of judges, who make the final recommendations.
The recipients will be honoured during a special ceremony, where President Sheikh Mohamed personally awards each winner the Abu Dhabi Medal. The date for this ceremony is yet to be confirmed.
Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

'Majlis': Arabic word for sitting room is rooted in the traditions of the Gulf
'Majlis': Arabic word for sitting room is rooted in the traditions of the Gulf

The National

timean hour ago

  • The National

'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.

I was there during the Beirut port blast - and my life has never been the same since
I was there during the Beirut port blast - and my life has never been the same since

The National

timean hour ago

  • The National

I was there during the Beirut port blast - and my life has never been the same since

On August 4, 2020, I thought I was going to die. I've had some near misses in my life – high-speed car crashes, terrorist attacks – but I never thought I would actually die. There was something about the sound of the blast that day and how it knocked my mother and I off our chairs on a balcony in the hills overlooking the Beirut port. The way it cracked through the air, it felt final. It felt like something you don't survive. In the hours after the blast, we couldn't locate my father. He had been in the offices of An-Nahar by the port that day. I sent frantic voice notes to my wife in London. I avoided messaging my sister in Paris, to not bring her into what was becoming a nightmare. Part of me was sure I'd never see any of them again. In the frantic hours after the blast, as we tried to understand what was happening, all everyone could think of was that another blast would come to annihilate the rest of us. The day before had been a happy one. 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. I still don't understand how we weren't. For weeks afterward, I was wrecked. I cried constantly. Friends would message just to check if we were alive. Not metaphorically. They would text those exact words. 'Do you think we're alive?' It felt like I shouldn't be. Like none of us should. Beirut felt like a city of the walking dead. For weeks, I rewatched the footage of bloodied survivors walking through the streets I call home. I would spot friends and then I would be too worried to call and ask about them, guilty that I hadn't thought about them earlier. But who do you call when your entire city has blown up? Where do you start? Trauma is a strange thing. You think it's in the past, but it lives in your body. I often tell myself enough time has passed. That August 4, 2020 doesn't haunt me anymore. Then someone brings it up and I start to remember it in my bones. Weeks after the blast, my father told me that after the explosion, he decided to just stay seated where he was in the building as the roof tiles collapsed around him. He was just awaiting his fate. 'Where is an 80-year-old man going to run to?' he said. Then I saw security footage of that moment circulate on social media. I saw my father accept his fate. But then I saw the young journalists who ushered him out. They would not let him accept it. That is the story of that day to me. The helping hands that emerged from everywhere to carry those who couldn't carry themselves. The NGOs that popped up to fix the doors and windows of those who had been left penniless by Lebanon's overlapping crises. The people who set up food banks and offered shelter. Today in Lebanon, I see a country emerging from what happened that day. One of the areas most affected in Gemmayzeh is thriving again. My fears that developers would come in and destroy its heritage in a land grab have proven unfounded. 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. I say I lost nothing that day, but that's not entirely true. Explosions from war or assassinations felt horrible but legible. I could assign some reasoning to the criminal intent behind those acts. This blast felt worse – senseless, rooted in neglect. It felt like the very structure of the country had betrayed us. I've never looked at life the same way since that day. It broke something in me. Since then, I've only returned to Lebanon for funerals and family emergencies. Like a reluctant relative, doing the bare minimum. I know many people who feel the same – who left that day and never looked back. But now that my relationship with the country is on the mend, I realise that it wasn't what I was turning my back on. I was trying to run away from what that day made me feel. The blast shattered any illusion that I might control my life. It made me realise how close we are to everything ending every minute of every day. And yet I feel guilty that I sometimes forget that day. Guilty that I try to forget the people who died - because remembering them means confronting the fact that I didn't. For years, my relationship to Lebanon was defined by all the trauma I hadn't lived. I moved there in 1997, after the civil war. During the decade I spent there on and off, people often dismissed my opinions with: 'You didn't live through the worst of it". Not sharing the collective trauma made me less Lebanese. In a perverse way, an entire city shared a collective, instant trauma that day. We owe it to those who lost everything that day to mark it, to memorialise it. The blast – and the lack of accountability that followed it – were caused by chronic neglect and corruption. If we use our trauma for anything, it should be to ensure that something like this never happens again and that we can look forward to a day where we bond a nation through our joy rather than our pain.

Abu Dhabi industrial facility suspended over air quality violations
Abu Dhabi industrial facility suspended over air quality violations

Dubai Eye

time3 hours ago

  • Dubai Eye

Abu Dhabi industrial facility suspended over air quality violations

Operations at an industrial facility in Abu Dhabi's Mussafah area have been temporarily suspended for violating environmental standards, including excessive air emissions. The Environment Agency – Abu Dhabi (EAD) took action after community complaints about strong odours and air pollution prompted inspections, which confirmed a negative impact on local air quality. The EAD says monitoring and inspections will continue as part of ongoing efforts to ensure a cleaner and more sustainable environment. The agency is urging all industrial facilities to strictly follow environmental regulations to protect public health and preserve the natural surroundings. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Environment Agency - Abu Dhabi (@environmentabudhabi)

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into a world of global content with local flavor? Download Daily8 app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store