There is the bubble of Saadiyat Island, and then there is the bubble of privilege. The bubble of Saadiyat secludes you from the worries of the outside world, while the bubble of privilege elevates you above the worries of people outside your social class. Now, the bubble of privilege is a concern, because it lets you stay inside your air-conditioned apartment and look down from your fancy windows at the construction workers in the scorching heat. It drives you to the point where you think of people below your class as being inhuman — someone incapable of emotions — and you continue to drink from your bottles of sparkling water, while someone near you is unable to work because of gut-wrenching thirst. The bubble of privilege makes you feel superior to the point that you become indifferent to others.

Once, when I stepped outside the Saadiyat bubble, I found myself almost entrenched in another bubble. My heart still sinks with guilt every time I think back to that day, but what upsets me the most is that this was the time I noticed the cruelty of privilege — the other times, it goes unnoticed.

While waiting in the passenger’s lounge to board my flight to Islamabad, Pakistan, from Abu Dhabi, I felt excited to share a space with many Pakistanis and couldn’t wait to be home after four months. The familiarity of Urdu phrases made me feel at ease.

I saw a girl, probably in her 20s, heading in my direction. She had looked confused about where to sit earlier, but the empty seat next to me gave her some sort of satisfaction. She was wealthy. I could tell from her Nike shoes and Michael Kors bag. And she approved of me; it wasn’t difficult to tell. After all, we were both privileged people from the same city.

The announcement for boarding followed. She initiated a conversation with me while we queued to board the plane. We spoke of where we lived in Islamabad and I learned that she was flying home after spending holidays in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. My attempts to speak in our mother tongue were politely ignored, but one thing caught my attention, and I’m deeply regretful that I never had the chance to answer, since my turn to board came and I was never to see her again. She mentioned how much she hated the crowds on this specific route, saying that it was an embarrassment to our nation, Pakistan.

There were migrant workers all around. All those late night conversations at my university, in which I defended their rights, status and ambition to complete foreigners, came rushing back to me. How were the Pakistani laborers in the UAE an embarrassment? And how was I, or people like me, any better than them?

I didn’t have a chance to reflect on what she said until I entered the plane and took my seat. A man, wearing roughly-used shalwar kameez, holding a tiny Nokia phone to his ear and speaking Pashto, sat on the seat next to mine. He was probably a migrant worker in the UAE.

My first thought, which I’m extremely ashamed about, was if I should ask to get my seat changed. Why did I even think that? Was he annoying me? Was I better than him? Because my phone was a lot more expensive and my clothes looked quite Westernized? My initial thought was disgusting, but I pushed it back and welcomed the man to his seat. I remembered what the girl said and it made me feel uneasy.

He barely spoke during the flight and couldn’t understand when the air hostess asked him what juice he wanted. In order to make myself feel better, I helped him. He gave me the warmest smile, and I wanted to tell him how much I valued his determination to live in a foreign country to earn for his family. But I remained quiet and concentrated on the screen in front of me.

At the end of the flight, he offered me a piece of gum as a token of his gratefulness. And contrary to what I’ve been told about not to take anything from strangers, I put the gum in my mouth. I was happy to share something with the man, considering the great disparity of our lives.

As the class gap grows bigger than ever, the more indifferent we become to the lives of others. We live in our own protective shells, in which we think that speaking fluent English, spending holidays abroad and wearing designer clothes elevate us above the suffering of others. The bubble of Saadiyat sometimes facilitates our entry into the bubble of privilege, but the latter — the bubble of privilege — is the one to watch out for, as that is the one we must dismantle.

The next time you see someone — someone who is perhaps not as privileged as you might consider yourself to be — make sure you exercise kindness that allows you an insight into their world. On Saadiyat, we are not only secluded from the city, but also from people whose problems vary from ours. So take that extra step that makes you feel the universality of human strength and emotion.