I first met Benedicto—or Ben in 2013. I had just started making business trips to Qatar, and my company, Mannai, had leased a few well-set-up apartments in a building at Al Mansoura. It was my first visit to this Arab country, and everything felt new: the weather, the city, the culture and the people.

Room allocation for our business trips was managed by the travel team back at our Pune office. Usually, it was two people to an apartment, and many of my colleagues already had obvious and familiar roommates. But since I was new to the Doha travel circuit, I was still to be paired.

One day, while my travel documents and visa were being processed, a travel team member reached out to me with a strange question.

“Are you sure you want to share the apartment with Ben?” he asked.

The Party Evening with Ben - June 19, 2013

That question raised my eyebrows. “Why do you ask that?” I responded, clearly curious.

“I’ve heard he’s not an easy-going person. Several of our Indian colleagues have complained about him in the past. He’s usually allocated an apartment by himself,” the agent explained.

Interesting, I thought. I soon found out that Ben was from the Philippines, and that his lifestyle, especially his food habits, were quite different from what we were used to. I was curious rather than cautious, so I gave the go-ahead.

When I landed in Doha, Ben wasn't home yet. His room was locked—which, I later learned, was always the case when he was away. I took my time exploring the apartment, familiarizing myself with what would be my temporary home. Later that evening, I finally met Ben.

He greeted me warmly, and I did the same. He politely asked if I had any issues with his things in the fridge.

“What’s in it?” I asked, unsure of what to expect.

Ben walked me over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside was a big stingray fish—its smell instantly filling the air. There were other non-vegetarian items as well.

“I don’t mind, Ben,” I said, catching his reaction. “I usually eat out anyway—never really have time to cook.”

That was my first impression of Filipino cuisine—interesting, but a bit odd to my Indian palate. Ben seemed relieved to know I wasn’t put off. I think that’s when he realized I was easy-going, and that was the beginning of our unexpected friendship.

In the trips that followed, I was often allocated to stay with Ben. Over time, we started getting to know each other better. One day, Ben invited me into his room. It was… a world of its own. Messy, yes—but filled with personality. Posters covered the walls, including celebrity pictures, and a few quotes he said he believed in deeply. There were also all kinds of unique items he had collected over the years.

He spoke about his family—his wife who lived in the United States, and his daughter who stayed in Europe. A family spread out across the globe. I sensed a story there but didn’t want to pry too much into his personal life.

The following Friday, Ben seemed unusually quiet. I asked him if everything was okay.

“I want to take you out, Neeraj, for a small party in the evening. Are you okay with that? We can go to an Indian restaurant—or anywhere you like,” he offered.

“Of course,” I said. “Who says no to a party? But… what’s the occasion?”

“It’s my brother’s death anniversary today,” Ben replied, his voice slightly breaking. “I loved him very much. And you, Neeraj… you remind me of him.”

“Aww,” I said, touched, as I gave him a hug with my left arm.

“Let’s go to a Philippine restaurant then,” I declared.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and just like that, we both burst out laughing.

That evening, we honored his brother’s memory in the way Ben knew best—with food, stories, and quiet companionship. And in that moment, thousands of miles from home, we both found something rare—a friendship built not on similarity, but on respect and open hearts.

Few years back, I had the chance to step inside this iconic structure rather than just admire it from afar. What I discovered was far more than I expected.

From the moment I entered, I felt both welcome and intrigued. Fanar is not just for Muslims—it’s a bridge between cultures and faiths. For non-Muslim visitors like myself, the center offers a range of immersive, educational, and genuinely unforgettable experiences. I was introduced to the basics of Islamic faith through an informative and engaging crash course that felt more like a conversation than a lecture. The staff were kind, patient, and happy to answer questions—no matter how basic or complex.

One of the highlights of my visit was the opportunity to attend khutbah—the Friday sermon—delivered in English. This thoughtful gesture makes Islamic teachings more accessible and understandable for international visitors. Before the prayer, a staff member kindly explained mosque etiquette: where to sit, what to wear, and the dos and don’ts within the mosque. This respectful orientation helped ease my nerves and deepened my appreciation of the spiritual and communal experience that the mosque represents.

Fanar also offers Arabic language courses, guided tours of the mosque, and rotating exhibitions that explore Islamic art, history, and culture. Whether you have a few hours or a few days in Doha, a visit here will leave a lasting impression.

As I left the building that day—its spiral minaret standing tall behind me—I realized that Fanar had shifted from a distant architectural curiosity to a place of personal connection and learning. It’s more than a landmark; it’s a welcoming invitation to understanding.

If you're ever in Doha, don’t just admire Fanar from a car window. Step inside—you’ll come out with more than just photographs. You’ll come out with perspective.