Videoke is therapy: why karaoke nights keep kabayans in the UAE going

There is a moment in every videoke night in the UAE when the microphone becomes heavier than the week that just passed. Someone starts the opening notes of a song we have all sung a thousand times, and suddenly the flat in Satwa or Deira or Al Nahda stops being a temporary room with borrowed furniture and becomes a little bit of home. The TV screen glows, the lyrics scroll, and the voice that comes out might crack or drift off-key, but nobody minds. In fact, everybody joins in. That is the magic of videoke in a foreign land. It is not about singing well. It is about being heard, being together, and remembering that we carry the Philippines in our throats wherever we go.

Ask any kabayan in the UAE what they miss most about home and the answer will often circle back to sound. The jeepney hum, the rain on galvanized roofs, the laughter of aunts arguing over lechon, and yes, the unmistakable blast of a neighbour's videoke machine at full volume on a Sunday afternoon. Here in the Emirates, we cannot wheel a karaoke unit onto the sidewalk or let it echo into the street the way we might in a province. But we adapt. We cluster in living rooms, in shared accommodations, in modest studio flats where the furniture is practical and the sound system is sacred. A videoke machine, or even a decent speaker and a microphone plugged into a phone, becomes the hearth of the Filipino home abroad. It is the first thing that gets set up after the rice cooker, and honestly, it might be used more often.

There is something genuinely therapeutic about belting out a song after a twelve-hour shift. The body keeps tension in strange places, in the shoulders that carried boxes, in the jaw that smiled through difficult customers, in the chest that held back words we could not say to a boss. Singing loosens all of that. When we hit a high note or simply try to, the breath has to go somewhere. Lungs expand, shoulders drop, and the worries that seemed so enormous at 6 a.m. shrink to a manageable size by the second chorus. Psychologists call this emotional release. Kabayans call it, more simply, pahinga ng kaluluwa. A rest for the soul. And unlike a nap or a cup of coffee, it works best when shared. The joy multiplies every time someone else picks up the microphone, every time the whole room shouts the bridge like it is an anthem, every time a shy newcomer is gently handed the mic and discovers that they are among friends.

Of course, living in the UAE means learning a different kind of harmony, one that involves neighbours, building management, and the gentle art of knowing when to stop. Most kabayans who have been in the country for a while know the unwritten rules by heart. Singing starts after dinner, usually on a Thursday or Friday night when the next day is a rest day, and it wraps up well before the late hours. Sabay-sabay kasi tayo, but not sabay-sabay magulo. The trick is balance. We keep the volume at a level where the person next door can hear enough to tap their foot but not enough to feel invaded. We close the windows so the sound stays in the room, and we check with the building's rules the same way we check the expiry date on groceries. This is not a burden. It is part of being a good neighbour, which, come to think of it, is a very Filipino value too. In the Philippines, we lower our voices during fiesta novenas and respect the elderly who sleep early. Here, we simply learn a new rhythm, and the videoke night is sweeter because it is respectful.

In shared flats, the etiquette becomes even more refined. The microphone is a communal treasure, passed around with the same care as a bowl of pancit. Everyone gets a turn, but regulars know which songs belong to whom. There is always that one kuya who only sings the classics, Freddie Aguilar and Asin, songs that speak of mountains and rivers and a homeland that feels both far and near. There is the ate who owns every Regine Velasquez ballad and treats every performance like a personal concert, complete with dramatic pauses. Then there is the group who turns any OPM hit into a rowdy, off-key, utterly joyful group number. And of course, no videoke night in the UAE is complete without the songs that seem to be legally required at every gathering. "Killing Me Softly" will come out, and so will "My Way," delivered with such conviction that Frank Sinatra himself would nod in respect. "Dancing Queen" makes an appearance. A Whitney Houston song gets attempted, fails gloriously, and is loved more for the attempt. Then someone requests "Tadhana" or a recent hit that the younger ones know, and the older ones pretend to complain but secretly enjoy it.

For those who have just arrived in the UAE, finding a singing crowd is easier than it seems. Filipino communities in places like Bur Dubai, Karama, JLT, and the sprawling residential blocks of Sharjah all have their own rhythms, but the invitation is usually the same. Someone overhears a Tagalog conversation in the grocery, or on the metro, or in the building elevator, and the next question is inevitable: taga-saan ka? From there, it is only a matter of time before you are invited to a gathering that includes food, kwento, and eventually, a microphone pointed in your direction. Do not be shy. The first few notes may wobble, but the room will carry you. That is the unwritten contract of videoke among kabayans. You do not need a beautiful voice. You only need to be present, to be willing, and to let the song do what songs have always done, which is to connect one heart to another.

The mental health benefits of this ritual are not small. Being an OFW means building a life in two places, and the heart often aches for the one you left behind. There are birthdays missed, graduations watched through a phone screen, and parents who grow older between every visit. A videoke night does not erase that longing, but it makes it bearable. When a kabayan sings "Ngayon at Kailanman" or "Sana Maulit Muli," the song carries the weight of every missed hug and every unspoken I love you. And because we sing it together, with all our complicated emotions, something shifts. We realise we are not alone in our homesickness. The person next to us misses their mother too. The one across the room is saving up for a child's tuition. The one by the window is counting the months until they can go home. In that shared space, our individual burdens lighten because they are shared, sabay-sabay naming dinadala.

There is a beautiful irony in the fact that we sometimes sing "Home" or "I'll Always Love You" with tears stubbornly held back, and yet we leave those sessions feeling lighter, more grounded, more ready to face another week of work. The song gives us permission to feel. The group gives us permission to feel it together without judgment. And the UAE, with all its diversity and its own unique tempo, gives us a place to practice this small act of homekeeping. We may not have the wide-open provincial nights where music can drift across rice fields. But we have our flats, our neighbours who tolerate us because we tolerate them, and our Thursday evenings carved out for something sacred.

So if you are in the UAE and you have been feeling the weight of distance, find a videoke night. Bring food to share, even if it is just biscuits and instant coffee. Let someone hand you the microphone, and do not apologise for your voice. Sing the song that reminds you of your mother. Belt out the power ballad that makes no sense except to your own heart. Laugh when you miss the high note. Cheer when your friend hits it perfectly. And when the night ends, when the last song fades and everyone helps pack up the speaker and the microphone, thank the people around you. Because in a country where we are all a little far from home, the greatest therapy is simply this: singing together, sabay-sabay, with the warmth of a family that chose one another. That is videoke. That is healing. And that is how we keep going, one song at a time.