When I first saw the name of the exhibition, The Boys Are Alright, at Bayt AlMamzar, I was immediately captivated. Then I read the concept: the show brings together works by Ahmed AlMulla, Ahmed AlSharhan, Gaith Abdulla, Hamid Al Najjar, Jumairy, Khalid Al Amimi, Maktoum Al Maktoum, Mohammed AlMaktoum, Mohammed Singel, Talal Al Najjar, and Ziad Al Najjar, and it reflects on boyhood, adolescence, and the ways memory reshapes them over time. But what do all these artists have in common? They all used to study at Rashid School for Boys. All of this created such a vivid image that I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t dive into it.

That is why I decided to speak with Jumairy, an Emirati artist and the curator of the exhibition (and, of course, also an alum of Rashid School). I want to know everything: from the works, ideas, and artists to the teachers of the school and the inside jokes still popular among its former students.

The Boys Are Alright is showing at Bayt AlMamzar till October 26, 2025.

— So, Jumairy, The Boys Are Alright. The idea of the exhibition is to gather all the guys who used to study at Rashid School for Boys, right? And you are one of them — you studied there. Can you tell me from the very beginning: how did this idea come about? Who first thought of it?

— It all started at Art Dubai 2024. I was having a conversation with a friend. At one point, she mentioned my name — “Jumairy” — and Talal Al Najjar happened to be nearby.

The thing about me is, I don’t really put myself out there. I don’t show my face on social media. So obviously, Talal had no idea what I looked like, even though I had been to his exhibitions and he had been to mine. I have always avoided talking to new people — I like to stay in my comfort zone.

Anyway, he overheard my friend say my name, walked over, and asked if I was Jumairy. I said yes. His very first question to me was: “Why do you follow Ms. Clark on Instagram?” For context, Ms. Clark was our English teacher. I had no idea Talal had also gone to Rashid, so that completely threw me off!

That moment triggered something for me — I thought, if I know Talal’s practice but didn’t realise he went to Rashid, then who else in the arts also came from there?

Fast forward a couple of weeks to the Cultural Summit. I was sitting with some friends, including Talal and Ziad Al Najjar. I invited them to join for dinner afterwards — by then, after that Art Dubai encounter, we were a bit more familiar. Over dinner, we ended up talking about our practices. At one point, Ziad laughed and said, “It’s funny — it feels like all of us are approaching masculinity in different ways through our work.”

And that is when it clicked for me: Rashid School, masculinity, boyhood. Later that night, I was driving from Abu Dhabi to Dubai, just turning the idea over in my head — who else could be part of this? And then — this is the funny part — I was listening to Kylie Minogue’s song with Robbie Williams, Kids. In the bridge, they sing, “⟊use the kids are all right.” And that is when the title came to me, right there in the car.

By the time I got home, close to 3 a.m., I couldn’t let it go. I sat down at my laptop for two hours, drafting the idea: who to reach out to, how to structure it as an archival exhibition, but also bring in new commissions. By 6 a.m., I had written the full text and sent it to Gaith. He replied almost immediately, confirming a date.

So, everything fell into place in less than 24 hours.

— So, what was Rashid School for Boys like? Could you tell me a bit more about it, especially for those who never studied there?

— I think there are layers to understanding Rashid School. On one hand, how it was different from other schools in Dubai and the UAE; on the other, how being in an all-boys school shaped the way you navigate that world — as a boy, as a man — and how you try to make sense of your purpose.

What made Rashid School for Boys unique — and the same for Latifa, its female counterpart — was the sheer variety of classes. You were pushed to explore different skills. The sciences, with proper chemistry labs. Sports, with a strong program. The arts, with theatre, English literature, and music. Even design technology — we built furniture. There were so many opportunities to build a solid foundation, so that by the time you left school and went to university, you had the skills to pursue any career.

But for me, what really stood out were the arts and creative classes. At that time, in the UAE, no other schools offered anything like that. And that is something we wanted to highlight with this exhibition — the idea that if we hadn’t had those tools to express ourselves creatively back then, maybe we wouldn’t be able to express ourselves now, whether through words or emotions.

I think giving young men the tools to be creative — to express themselves through art before they even have the vocabulary to articulate their emotions — is an important step. Later, when they do start articulating, they can do it more comfortably, mindfully, consciously. That is how it felt to me, at least, when approaching this project and reflecting on the impact the arts had on us.

— Were the teachers more strict? Or was that not really the case at Rashid School?

— There were rules. At the end of the day, it was a school. You couldn’t mess around too much. Some teachers were stricter than others, but overall, it wasn’t the kind of school that forced you into a specific mould. The strictness was more about actual troublemaking, like any normal school.

For example, I remember one big rule: no candy. You couldn’t bring doughnuts, no sugar, nothing. Of course, being teenagers, we always found ways to sneak it in. And then you would get caught, get in trouble.

— What did it mean to “get in trouble” in your school?

— I don’t know! I was trying to be a good student, haha! The only time I ever actually went into detention — just for that one hour — it wasn’t even my fault.

— So, all of you come from Rashid School, even though you graduated in different years. I am sure there must be some inside jokes or shared memories between you. Maybe a teacher you all remember, a classroom that still comes up in conversation, or a story that always gets told? I would love to hear everything!

— I think it was definitely the teachers. That is the common thread between all of us. Some of them had been there since the school was founded in 1992.

Take Mr. Swinney, for example. We all have stories about him. He was head of the sixth form, so he was responsible for us. He was strict, but in a no-bullshit way. At the same time, he was a free-spirited hippie who loved classic rock, and he would introduce us to all these amazing bands. His attitude was: you will follow the rules, because I am preparing you for the world.

I am still in touch with him, actually. He texted me this morning from the UK, asking for photos of the show. That is the kind of connection that lasts.

Another thing about him was that he always gave students nicknames. With so many similar-sounding Arab and Emirati names, he came up with nicknames to remember us all. And they were usually tied to a personality trait or interest. For example, Ahmed AlSharhan, who was in the show, got nicknamed after Mr. Swinney’s friend, Keith.

I also remember the non-uniform days. They usually happened in response to global catastrophes, such as the tsunami that hit Japan. On those days, you could come to school out of uniform, but you had to donate money.

By the way, I always managed to get into trouble with the Arabic and Islamic teachers on those days, though. I was deep in the emo phase. I would show up in the skinniest black jeans and band T-shirts. They hated it. Back then, in the 2000s and early 2010s, being a MySpace kid was practically synonymous with being a Satanist — which, obviously, I wasn’t. But I thought it was hilarious, so I kept pushing the boundaries of what I could wear.

— Okay, let’s talk about the exhibition. Firstly, I love the poster! I even remember drawing a tornado in my copybooks.

— To be honest, when I started working on this exhibition, I was always scribbling in my notebook. Always. It looks messy, but I prefer paper — I carry a notebook everywhere, just writing, scribbling.

Our first meeting together — and by “together,” I mean the core group at the time: me, Talal, Ziad (he wasn’t able to join that meeting though), Maktoum, and Gaith. I had already sent them the full text after Gaith confirmed the dates. It was about two and a half pages long — descriptions, keywords, paragraphs, fragments of thought — basically everything I wanted the exhibition to explore. Themes like emotional scars, the question of whether boys are allowed to cry, and what fatherhood means.

So at that meeting, I opened my notebook. And the first thing I did was apologise. I said, “I’m so sorry, my handwriting is bad — it is just a lot of scribbles.” Because that is how I had been conditioned since school, to think my handwriting was awful.

And then Maktoum looked at it and said, “No, I like your handwriting.”

I was honestly shocked — no one had ever said that before. And that is what sparked the idea that maybe I should embrace it instead of hiding it. That is why the logo of the exhibition is literally my handwriting.

— Now, let’s talk about the works themselves. Can you tell me about them? What are the artists — the former pupils of Rashid School — expressing through their pieces?

— So, the exhibition itself has two very specific sections. There is the introduction gallery, and then there is the one that is more directly tied to the school. They are not labelled that way for the public — visitors wouldn’t necessarily distinguish them — but that is how I structured it for myself, to understand the narrative and how to build it.

For example, in the introduction, I wanted to explore the idea of emotional scars. That was one of the first themes I shared with the group. Ziad Al Najjar created works that really captured that. He used a tattoo gun and tattoo ink on latex sheets, making these psychedelic, dark figures. We showed four of them, though he created more. Central to his contribution is a large-scale sketch, also using the tattoo technique, titled Brotherly Love. It shows two peasant boys fighting with swords. It is such a powerful piece — stunning when you see it. For me, it represents the scars we carry. And the fact that he titled it Brotherly Love, and that his brother was also part of the show, added another layer of meaning.

We also explored healing, especially through the work of Maktoum. He has been researching this handicraft called “Hiss,” a procedure of honouring and healing the spirit of an animal after sacrifice by soaking it in indigo and tying it in a very specific way. Within the exhibition, the practice is used as a metaphor for healing memory and self.

So we moved from scars to healing, and then deeper into the textures of school life itself. For instance, we included a text piece by the writer Khalid Al Amimi. He wrote this piece about the strange sort of “seduction” between a student and the fire alarm — that temptation to punch the alarm just to escape the classroom.

Another work came from Hamid Al Najjar, who was introduced through his cousins, Talal and Ziad. What makes Hamid unique is that he is the only one in the show who didn’t graduate from Rashid School. He had been there since KG1, his entire education, but the school shut down when he was in grade 11, just one year short of graduating. His piece reflects that. He made a beautiful video called Building Blocks, where he films himself constructing a childlike, robot-like sculpture out of blocks. It feels playful, nostalgic, but there is also this bittersweet undertone about being cut off before finishing something. The video is an hour long, but every so often, he jumps into the frame for half a second, just to startle the viewer.

It is really funny — sometimes when I am in the gallery, walking around, I will suddenly hear a random scream. And I know immediately: someone is watching Hamid’s video and just got startled!

But alongside the playful works, we also have deeply sentimental pieces. For example, we included a letter loaned to us by Mohammed AlMaktoum. It was written to him and a small group of classmates from the class of 2011 by a teacher named Ms. Wafa. She wasn’t a subject teacher — she worked in administration — so most of us didn’t really interact with her directly. But Mohammed kept that letter, and for me, it felt important to include it, because it reflects those unexpected connections with teachers who shaped us in ways we didn’t always realise.

Ms. Wafa also appears, indirectly, in Talal Al Najjar’s work. His piece is about jumping the school wall — sneaking off to the grocery store or the mall, as many of us did. But once, when he actually did that, there was an unrelated incident at school. They couldn’t find him, assumed he was hiding, and Ms. Wafa ended up calling his dad. So he was blamed for something he hadn’t even done.

We also have a site-specific installation by Ahmed AlMulla. Back in school, he had painted a large work that later went missing. We spent almost a year trying to track it down, but couldn’t. So for this show, he created a light installation that traces the memory of that painting. He built a massive three-by-three-meter wooden panel, backlit, almost like a glowing silhouette of something lost — the missing spirit of the painting we couldn’t recover.

Then there are the newer faces, people not usually part of the art scene. For instance, Mohammed Singel, who painted a beautiful work back in school, three boys standing with their backs turned, looking toward the future. He titled it Three Figures, One Me. It was the last painting he made at age sixteen; he didn’t continue with art, even though he had real skill. I wanted to bring that painting into the show, to honour that part of his journey.

Another is Ahmed AlSharhan, whose work looks at the site of the school itself. He started by searching Google Maps, trying to locate traces of Rashid School after it was demolished. For him, it was part of a larger reflection — turning thirty, dealing with what he called a midlife crisis, and revisiting places from his past. His grandfather’s house was already gone, and he assumed the school would at least still be there. Discovering it wasn’t was shattering. So his contribution is a series of sand-like patches, screenshots taken from Google Earth, each one trying to pin down fragments of memory and place.

And then there is Gaith Abdulla’s sculpture of two people hugging, placed in the garden of Bayt Almamzar. I wanted the show to begin with a hug — and for that same gesture to be the last thing you see as you leave.

What I really wanted to emphasise with the exhibition is that it is not just about the school itself. It is about the broader experience of growing up as men. We fought, we became friends, we were misfits, we were bullies, we got bullied. And that is okay. In my curatorial text, I write that no matter what we went through, we should carry acceptance and love for ourselves — even for the kids we once were. Because at that age, we were still exploring life. Making mistakes is part of it. And sometimes, years later, you can even become friends with your former bully — once they have made peace with themselves too.