Below multiple storeys of a building bearing semblance of an old-style independent cinema, “Now Showing” posters, mainly featuring Indian films, are either hung outside the main door or visible through the glass door and windows. This is the outer facade of The National Cinema on Najda Street at Al Markaziyah. It occupies only parts of a tall building: the ground floor is the ticketing area, and the floor below it is the cinema. A friend and I decided to roam inside. We gazed blindly at a movie poster, without understanding any characters printed on them, and scrutinized the odd-looking bunch of hair coming out of nowhere beside an actor’s ear.

“This is an interesting place to write about,” I thought.

Reflecting on it now, I could not help but be put off by my own ignorance and superficiality. I had decided to write a story about the cinema when all I had done was wander around as a clueless outsider, admiring a place that exudes an air of connection with the migrant community. There are a couple other cinemas in downtown Abu Dhabi, Al Mariah was only a few streets away. Why National Cinema? My prevailing subconscious thought that perhaps the word “national” in the name implied that the place is part of something deep-rooted in the community.

While the thought lingered, a man sitting on a bench by the window, called out to us and told us the name of the movie poster we were staring at, and generously explained to us the gravity of the film in Indian Cinema.

We sat down with the man. He introduced himself as “Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia,'' a demeanor emblematic of his passion for films. We watched a film together and while there were English subtitles, Lawrence was motivated by an agency to open our eyes to the feat a Malayalam film could create. He explained to us how the producers effectively depicted the power rivalry between the characters in Ayyapanum Koshiyum, the film we were watching. We met a few days later to carry on with our conversation, and I came to understand that the arts — filmmaking and singing — have always had a place in his heart, but he had to pursue a job in commerce for financial stability. His work demands him to live on a ruptured sleeping schedule. Going for a movie every now and then cheers him up, even though that means he would have to stay up for the night. For two hours, he divulged stories of passion, memory, love and of loss.

Lawrence has an interesting story to tell. However, I thought long and hard about whether I have the right to tell his story, even though he was happy to have me write about it. This column, “People of Abu Dhabi” came about because I often get intrigued by stories of people I live among. However, I am conflicted about documenting people and their stories. I struggle with what makes a story valuable enough to be written in an article. I struggle with representing and portraying the people whom I have only met for days. I struggle with telling stories of the city as a new member of the place. I struggle with the discussion on the ethics associated with this process. I struggle with talking to people not on the basis of understanding them as people but as research subjects. I stepped into the cinema that day thinking that I have to write a piece in a week — the approaching deadline comes with pressure. I see Lawrence as a friend, but the thought of making him the center of my article and the mouthpiece of what the cinema means as a social space lingered.

Humans of New York photographer and author Brandon Stanton tells stories of people that he often only spent less than a day with. His work was criticized for misappropriating the struggle of others and for “flattening humanism” in a place where inequality persists. Yet, his work is simultaneously celebrated for its appeal to the audience through relatability of themes of disease, loss and failure. I attest to the fact that the photoblog intrigues me to finish reading the short stories all the time. I definitely enjoy Stanton’s work, but I do not know whether I could say that I “like” it. Lawrence’s stories may not be as profound as those documented in Humans of New York. Does that mean that his stories are less “valuable” to be shared? Does that mean that the telling of his stories could be more likely acquitted of misappropriation? I do not know.