For more than seventy minutes, Ali bin Hassan, whose real name had long been overshadowed by his famous nickname, “Samson of Arabia”, spoke about his humble beginnings as a poor young man in search of work. One day, he left Dubai for Bahrain, where fate led him to develop the muscles that would eventually bring him widespread fame. He turned his physical strength into a career in public performance and entertainment.
He travelled across the Arab world, from Kuwait to Egypt, and from Egypt to Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan, reaching as far as Libya, Sudan and Syria. Wherever he went and performed, the Arab press celebrated him. He also received recognition from Arab leaders, including King Hussein and Gamal Abdel Nasser, among others.
First known as “Samson the Mighty”, he later became “Samson of Arabia”, a name so widely recognised that generations came to know him by his nickname rather than his real name.
After a long journey, he returned to his homeland, the UAE, where he continued performing feats of strength across the country before eventually retiring as age, children and family responsibilities became part of his life.
Unlike the biblical Samson, whose hair was cut by Delilah, this Samson, whose legendary namesake provided the film’s opening, lived to see his children and nearly thirty grandchildren. Although he appears to be over eighty, his presence at the screening, seated in a wheelchair, his eyes now dimmed by age, lent an almost mythical atmosphere to the cinema.
Director Nasser Al Dhaheri told his story through the memory of the man himself, a memory that proved to be as strong as the muscles he once possessed. Ali recalled incidents, encounters and turning points from decades earlier with remarkable clarity. His recollections contained fragments of history, but even more of humanity.
This was the documentary Samson of Arabia, directed by my colleague Nasser Al Dhaheri, which we watched on Saturday evening at an event organised by the Al Owais Cultural Foundation. What stayed with us most was not the displays of strength that had made the man famous, but the story of the human being behind that strength.
Between the poor young man who left Dubai in search of a livelihood and the elderly man who came to watch his life unfold on screen lay a lifetime of dreams, adventures and experiences.
Perhaps the most moving scene was not on the screen at all, but in the cinema itself. There sat Samson of Arabia, a man who once drew crowds eager to witness his muscles and extraordinary feats of strength, now watching an audience revisit the story of a power that belonged to the past. His body could no longer respond as it had in his youth, yet the man remained present through his name and his memories. Time had taken its toll on his body, but it had not taken away his story.
Here, I believe, lies the human value of the film and the significance of what Nasser Al Dhaheri has accomplished. He did not choose a figure who shaped political history, led a war or left behind books and intellectual works. Instead, he turned his camera towards a man who built his reputation through physical strength and became a popular hero in his time.
Newspapers followed his exploits, audiences eagerly awaited his appearances, and people spoke of his achievements, perhaps sometimes exaggerating them, as people often do when telling stories about their beloved heroes.
For the history we read in books is not the whole of history. Another kind of history lives in people’s memories, in their stories, photographs, songs, playing fields, markets and cafés. It is shaped by individuals who may never find a place in official records yet occupy a lasting place in the hearts and minds of the generations who knew them. When such people pass away, something of their time disappears with them unless someone takes the trouble to preserve their stories.
A popular figure does not have to be great by conventional standards to deserve documentation. Sometimes it is enough that the person was part of people’s lives, and that their story tells us how people lived, what they dreamed of and how they created their heroes before modern media and social networks transformed the meaning of fame and the ways in which it is achieved.
Samson of Arabia is one such example. He travelled through numerous Arab countries at a time when journeys were far more difficult than they are today. He earned a place in the affections of different audiences, united by their admiration for a man who had turned his strength into a livelihood and a source of fame. His life also offers a glimpse of an Arab era when newspapers, festivals and popular performances could create stars whose fame sometimes rivalled that of entertainers and athletes.
This is why we need more documentaries about such figures. Not to glorify them or surround them with an aura of heroism, but to listen to them and allow them to tell their stories, with all their joys and sorrows. True documentation does not turn human beings into monuments. It restores their humanity and gives future generations an opportunity to discover a world they never experienced.
How much we need such work in the UAE, and across the Arab world, as generations who witnessed the years of nation-building and transformation grow older, carrying memories rich in details that never made their way into history books. How many sailors, pearl divers, merchants, artists, athletes and storytellers still carry stories worth preserving before their voices fall silent forever?
I left the screening of Samson of Arabia thinking about the long distance between a young man who left Dubai in search of work and an elderly man who returned decades later to sit before a screen showing the story of his life. Between those two journeys lies a story worth telling.
Perhaps the finest thing Nasser Al Dhaheri has done is to give Ali bin Hassan back the name that had long been hidden behind “Samson of Arabia”. The hero was known to everyone. But the man behind him needed someone to sit with him and listen to his story.