Poetry of America (1943) from The Wines of Gala by Salvador Dalí. Photo: SALVADOR DALI
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Books of the year 2017, part three: chosen by Joan Bakewell, Michael Moorcock, Olivia Laing and others

The New Statesman's friends and contributors recommend their top reads from the last 12 months.

Read part one of our guide to the best books of 2017 here, and part two here.


Olivia Laing

I’m obsessed with Civilisation & Its Malcontents (Ma Bibliothèque) by the artist and film-maker Sarah Wood, a bewitchingly brilliant extended essay on Freud and Brexit. It’s a roaming rumination on the nature of civilisation, populated by rats and dead parents and set in the ruins of Rome. It’s also the sanest take on Brexit that I have read, using a psychoanalytic lens to probe the fears and hatreds that lie beneath the proliferation of borders in the world today.

Speaking of borders, Sarah Schulman’s revelatory Conflict Is Not Abuse (Arsenal) is also vital – an urgent, cogent handbook for navigating and defusing our accelerating hostilities.

Michael Howard

I read A Dance to the Music of Time, Anthony Powell’s great saga of 20th-century society, many years ago and greatly enjoyed it. Hilary Spurling’s biography Anthony Powell (Hamish Hamilton) brings one back into his world with the insights that come from the added context that she provides. It is written with an elegance that does full credit to its subject. And it is strangely comforting, in an age when politics is suffering a battering from all sides, to discover that the politics of publishing before the war – and perhaps even today – could be just as vicious as anything we see at Westminster.

Melvyn Bragg

In 1995, Robert McCrum, in full sail as an outstanding editor and author, was felled by a severe stroke. His determination not to let it interrupt his career was remarkable. Every Third Thought (Picador) – part autobiography, part meditations on death, part interviews – is seasoned by telling references to a wide range of literature. It is moving, intellectual and unsentimental. I think it will become a classic.

Ian McEwan’s brilliance as a stylist and surprise plotter finds a fitting subject in Nutshell (published in paperback this year by Vintage), which is Hamlet as told from inside the womb. Up there with his best.

Brendan Simms

I was completely absorbed by Tony Connelly’s Brexit and Ireland (Penguin Ireland), exploring the dangers, the opportunities and the inside story of the Irish response, which I picked up on the way back from my home town of Dublin. Leaving aside the rights and wrongs of Brexit, for which there is a perfectly defensible argument on the British side, the book shows that it is an unmitigated catastrophe for Ireland. The threat to the “peace process” in the form of the border question is well known, but Connelly shows that the implications for the Irish Republic extend to the entire economy and its relationship with the EU.

Michael Brooks

Decades from now, our generation may be judged on how we reacted to the arrival of artificial intelligence. Astonishing advances – from DeepMind’s go-playing algorithms, controversial implementations by Facebook, AI-influenced courtroom decisions and the creeping spectre of killer robots – make this subject worth urgent attention, especially as its proponents argue that AI could still be the best thing that ever happened to us. With Android Dreams: The Past, Present and Future of Artificial Intelligence (Hurst), Toby Walsh, an AI expert based at the University of New South Wales, has written a sober, thoughtful and fascinating book that walks non-experts through the technology, examines its strengths and shortcomings and draws sensible conclusions about its likely impact.

Michael Prodger

Martin Salisbury’s sumptuous The Illustrated Dust Jacket: 1920-1970 (Thames & Hudson) drips with period flavour and shows how false the distinction between fine and applied art can be. Eric Ravilious, Edward Bawden and Edward Ardizzone were among those who happily crossed the line to join specialists such as Brian Cook and Cecil W Bacon to produce supremely stylish jackets that were often superior to the books they wrapped.

Mr Lear (Faber & Faber), Jenny Uglow’s biography of Edward Lear, the creator of superb bird illustrations, Mediterranean views and nonsense verse, shows a man as varied as his work but considerably sadder.

Art by CW Bacon (1905-1992) from The Illustrated Dust Jacket (Thames & Hudson)

Fiona Sampson

Like his previous novel Zone, Mathias Énard’s Compass (Fitzcarraldo Editions) far outstrips even its own astonishing technique to create a brilliantly lit, wholly addictive world of post-colonialism and romantic obsession. It’s also a virtuoso feat by the translator Charlotte Mandell.

One of the poetry events of the year, oddly overlooked here, was surely the publication of Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda Poems (Bloodaxe), translated by the leading American poet Forrest Gander and handsomely presented with bilingual text and holographs. Discovered in 2014 and issued in the US last year, these are emphatically not literary leftovers, and they give us Pablo Neruda at his full emotional and imaginative stretch.

Ray Monk

Samaritans (Endeavour Press) by Jonathan Lynn is a darkly funny satire of the American health system by the co-creator and co-writer of Yes Minister and Yes, Prime Minister, which serves as a timely warning of the creeping privatisation that threatens to destroy the NHS.

Another important warning is given in Grazed and Confused?, a report published this year by an international team of scientists led by the Food Climate Research Network at Oxford University. It is downloadable from the web and I recommend it to anyone who wants to understand the devastating effects that animal farming is having on our environment.

Mike McCormack

The best novel I read this year was Tim Parks’s In Extremis (Harvill Secker), a frantic and minutely observed comedy of family, marriage, life and death. There is something in the synaptic twitch of Parks’s prose that brings us closer to the pressures and rhythms of a lived life than the work of any other contemporary writer I can think of.

I have three different translations of Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet, each of them substantially different. And now Serpent’s Tail has published what is subtitled “The Complete Edition”. It’s hard to explain how this modernist hymnal of boredom, fatigue, dejection and jadedness is so beautiful and life affirming. Perfect winter reading.

Philip Hoare

Michael Franks’s stylish, dysfunctional childhood memoir of 1970s Hollywood and his outrageous Aunt Hankie, The Mighty Franks (Fourth Estate), reads like a Truman Capote story. It was so good that I had to read it twice.

From overheated California to the frozen top of the world: Horatio Clare’s Icebreaker (Chatto & Windus) sails with a phlegmatic Finnish crew into threatening and threatened polar waters: “The sea remains the last place to which you can run away.” Clare’s witty prose, filled with vivid descriptions, bears witness to the melting skin of our fragile planet and all that its loss might mean for our souls.

Shiraz Maher

When it comes to writing about Islamic State in new and interesting ways, Graeme Wood has form. For the Atlantic in 2015, he authored a wildly influential essay on the ideas driving the group, exploring how “Islamic” it really is. “The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths,” he found. “It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs.”

That investigation has given rise to a book on the same subject, The Way of the Strangers: Encounters with the Islamic State (Allen Lane), in which Wood expands and builds on his essay. One of his great achievements is that he transforms an otherwise depressing and dense topic into something that is not just accessible but, at times, even amusing, while losing none of his analytical rigour – think a mixture of Louis Theroux and Jon Ronson surveying Islamic State’s global network of supporters.

Joan Bakewell

Death haunts us, and in Lincoln in the Bardo (Bloomsbury) George Saunders mines the many ways it does: the Gothic, the sentimental, the fearful and, above all, the grief-stricken. As more of us are living longer, we know loss and grieving better and the culture is increasingly encouraging us to talk about it (I broadcast about it).

As the role of women undergoes yet another convulsion, it’s good to read, in Lyndall Gordon’s Outsiders (Virago), of the robust intelligence of five women who made a powerful contribution. The work and lives of Emily Brontë, George Eliot, Mary Shelley, Olive Schreiner and Virginia Woolf are well known. Gordon’s thesis sets out just how original and brave they were – and at what cost. We owe them much.

Gerry Brakus

In a year of great political upheaval, escaping from reality has been even more of a priority than usual. One book that is sure to send you on a wonderfully surreal journey is Salvador Dalí’s The Wines of Gala (Taschen). First published in 1977, this new edition is faithful in its reproduction and, with observations such as “Whoever has drunk wine can forgive drunkenness,” it will guide me smoothly through the festive season.

Closer to reality but more dreamlike in feel is Exile by Vasantha Yogananthan (Chose Cummune). The third book in the photographer’s A Myth of Two Souls series, it is inspired by the Ramayana, which is beautifully evoked in this fairy tale of a book. Finally, I find myself frequently revisiting Mimi Mollica’s photographs in Terra Nostra (Dewi Lewis), for a dose of unsettling and very real Sicilian life.

The images in Exile by Vasantha Yogananthan are inspired by the Ramayana. Photo: Vasantha Yogananthan

Stuart Maconie

There are a lot of “How to Be” books around these days and a lot of them are awful. Robert Webb’s How Not to Be a Boy (Canongate), however, is true to the spirit of the first and best of these modern memoirs, Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman, in that it is funny, terrifically well written and has a core of quietly defiant proletarian anger glittering at its core.

Chris Renwick’s Bread for All: The Origins of the Welfare State (Allen Lane) makes a gripping human story out of the wisest and most progressive policy achievement of any government in the history of the world but doesn’t shirk the nuts and bolts of politics and sociology. Struggled for, sacralised and now besieged, the welfare state deserves books this good.

Leo Robson

For anyone who has ever spent time trying to compose a piece of non-fiction of any length, the word “godsend” does not adequately describe John McPhee’s Draft No 4 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), a masterclass in practising what you preach as you preach it – in showing as well as telling the prospective journalist or memoirist or narrative historian, or the all-too-human pro, how to devise a structure, take a note, choose a verb and nail a fact. Though McPhee’s work as a reporter involved him in more outwardly strenuous tasks – hiking, canoeing, and so on – this book is a testament to his decades of excruciating graft at the desk. Kevin Davey’s Playing Possum (Aaaargh! Press), a fantasia spun from the vast mythology that has grown around TS Eliot, is brave and brilliantly executed.

Melissa Benn

Lucy Crehan’s Cleverlands: The Secrets Behind the Success of the World’s Education Superpowers (Unbound) is a must-read for anyone interested in how we can create a world-class education system. Crehan sets out on a journey to Finland, Canada, Japan, Singapore and Shanghai to find out how learning relates to national cultures, expectations and limitations. Her final chapter, setting out the five principles that shape high-performing and equitable systems, should be photocopied and stuck on the office wall of every politician responsible for education in this country.

On the fiction front, I enjoyed Kamila Shamsie’s Man Booker-longlisted Home Fire (Bloomsbury Circus), which does a great job of bringing Sophocles’s Antigone into the world of Skype and Isis. Shamsie’s writing resonates on the human, political and lyrical plane but its topicality, tight plot and vivid characterisation also suggest a film script in the making.

Tom Gatti

Maria Apichella’s Psalmody (Eyewear Publishing) is a thrilling narrative poem that not only tells a gripping love story but plays with the psalm form to meditate on faith in the modern world. I’ve never read anything quite like it.

On the back of Patricia Lockwood’s brilliantly anarchic memoir, Priestdaddy, Pen­guin has finally published her second poetry collection, Motherland Fatherland Home­landsexuals in the UK. Pastoral verse meets porn spam in work that walks a line between hilarity and horror. A gloriously oddball talent.

Henry Marsh

By far the best book I read this year was Robert M Sapolsky’s Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst, a wonderfully lucid, scholarly and witty account of the biological basis of human behaviour, starting with the neuroscience of nerve cells, neurotransmitters and hormones and ending with history and anthropology. Once you have read it, you will see neither yourself nor your fellow humans in the same way as before.

It should be read in conjunction with Stephen Bernard’s terrifying and eloquent Paper Cuts (Jonathan Cape), an extraordinary personal account of the psychological consequences of sexual abuse by a Catholic priest. As Sapolsky explains, early experiences can change our brains for ever. If as much money was spent on improving childhood as is spent on cancer research and treatment, prolonging old age (since cancer is primarily a disease of later life), the world would be a much better place.

Michael Moorcock

Iain Sinclair’s Lights Out for the Territory (1997) began a psychogeographical sequence remaking and rediscovering London’s history through individuals and local ambience, and his elegaic The Last London (Oneworld) concludes it. Where JG Ballard lauds the sexual aesthetics of the M25, Sinclair gives voice to those living and working beneath it, creating fresh narratives to replace those that the developers steal from us.

I loved Le Coup de Prague (Aire Libre) by Jean-Luc Fromental and Miles Hyman. Their noirish comic book speculates about Graham Greene’s visit to Vienna following the Second World War, inspiring The Third Man. Moodily drawn and sardonically written, it’s a fine example of an adult graphic novel.

Geoff Dyer

My favourite discovery this year was the reissue of Eve Babitz’s Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, the Flesh and LA (New York Review Books). First published in 1977, it’s a collection of linked, neurotically funny, autobiographical stories about the kind of stuff you would expect from southern California in the 1970s. The sensual pleasures of the prose are overseen by a blue-sky metaphysics. (In a modernist dream house in Palm Springs where every door and window slides, Babitz’s companion realises that life is intolerable without doorknobs.) There’s no satire here – that would be too easy. It is more like a series of intoxicated love letters that have the potential to become an endlessly postponed suicide note.

Frances Wilson

Jacqueline Yallop’s memoir, Big Pig, Little Pig (Fig Tree), is a beautifully written and quietly devastating account of raising two young pigs on her smallholding in the south of France. They are charming and intelligent beasts with twirling tails, knobbly knees and bristly black manes. They hate courgettes, laugh with glee in hosepipe showers and enjoy sashaying down the lane, snacking on hawthorn bushes. Is it anthropomorphic, Yallop wonders, to note that the bigger pig is introverted and wise, while the smaller one is extroverted and a tad selfish? Just as we think we’re in the realm of Babe or Charlotte’s Web, the book turns into the George Orwell essay “Shooting an Elephant”.

Ed Smith

I enjoyed Robert Seethaler’s The Tobacconist (Picador). The novel sets up a tiny tobacconist’s shop in 1930s Vienna as a window on to a street, a city and a continent, all drifting into conflict. It shows how fiction can use the personal to explore the biggest themes. Staying in the 1930s, I read Giorgio Bassani’s elegiac 1962 novel The Garden of the Finzi-Continis, having been given the exquisite Folio Society edition. There’s so much to admire, especially its restraint. It’s a book in which you do not get the romantic resolution you thought you wanted but get instead the deeper satisfaction of experiencing a truthful – albeit painful – rendering of imagined events.

Gavin Francis

The two new books that have most enthralled me this year – the ones that I have read and reread – were first published in their home countries years ago. The first, Maggie Nelson’s Bluets, was published by Seattle’s Wave Books in 2009 but has found a UK publisher with Jonathan Cape. It takes the form of 240 fragments or “propositions”, each a distilled meditation on grief, recovery and redemption. The second, Olga Tokarczuk’s Flights (Fitzcarraldo Editions), was first published in 2007 by Wydawnictwo Literackie in Krakow. It is both a novel and an intricate anatomy of travel, occupying a playfully ambiguous zone between fiction and non-fiction. 

This article first appeared in the 16 November 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The plot to stop Brexit

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As one of Abu Dhabi’s unofficial citizens, when will I get to call my country home?

Abu Dhabi is my home and it is where I come from, despite the utter illegality of my claim. 

The United Arab Emirates tends to lure three types of Western scribblers to its shores. First off the plane are the well-heeled jingoists, many of whom hardly ever seem to leave Abu Dhabi or Dubai's airports and hotels. Despite the oppressive heat, these intrepid correspondents take to bashing “morally destitute” Emiratis with great gusto, pausing to wax lyrical on their hatred of that “scorched, soulless land of labour abuses” or to condemn the country's obsession with Vegas-style kitsch. Finally, their “patience frayed”, they find themselves “snapping” and take their leave, citing their dreadful experiences as further proof the West should dread the dark cloud of Arab oil money, or Islam, or both.

Next come the neoliberal Orientalists, who attempt true-to-life portraits of this sandy, oil-rich Eldorado, where life is good under the tax-free sky and red-lipped young women in abayas clutching Gucci bags stride confidently into university lecture theaters and government jobs. A litany of clichés invariably follows: dhow rides along the creek, camels, sheesha cafés, elusive Emiratis in blingy rides, indoor snow-skiing and cosmopolitan shoppers in gargantuan, Disneyesque malls – perhaps a wee glimpse of despotism here and there, yet not enough to spoil the happy picture.

Finally, there are the fly-by reporters, who prowl the gardens of the UAE's otherness for the inspiration they're unable to find back home in London and New York. Their takes on the UAE range from the chronically confused, such as denying the country's tight censorship, defending its sodomy laws, or comparing Dubai to “an unreliable Tinder date” – to the embarrassingly naïve, turning the UAE and its highly complex society into exotic curios. Adam Valen Levinson's The Abu Dhabi Bar Mitzvah: Fear and Love in the Modern Middle East, for instance, was deemed so problematic that a magazine which ran an excerpt was forced to issue an apology. For the latter writers, life in the Emirates is so “confusing and eclectic” that they are forced to wonder whether “such a nomadic population could ever settle down long enough to develop a culture”, as an article in the New Statesman recently put it, which depicted the UAE's foreign-born residents as hardly ever seeing the country as their home. I am glad to say the reality is altogether different.


Abu Dhabi is my home and it is where I come from, despite the utter illegality of my claim. After all, I am not a citizen of the United Arab Emirates, nor could I ever hope to be. Acquiring Emirati citizenship is almost impossible and besides, I don't even look the part: being white-skinned, whenever I speak Arabic my interlocutors assume that I'm Lebanese. As the son of an Iranian father and an Italian mother, and raised almost entirely in the UAE's capital during the 1990s and early 2000s, my statistical designation throughout my childhood was clear. I was a guest worker's dependent, alongside my mother and younger brother. Thus, although I come from Abu Dhabi, I am not Emirati.

Regardless, the island of Abu Dhabi is the only place I think of as home. It is where my parents' romance blossomed, where I was conceived and where I was reared. My father, a leftist forced to abandon Iran at the end of a barrel in 1979, had worked on and off in Abu Dhabi since 1980. As such, I have few memories of Venice, my birthplace, where my mother was obliged to go a couple of months prior to my birth, since unmarried pregnant women were required by UAE law to return to their countries of origin.

Abu Dhabi is where I spent my childhood and adolescence. I planted saplings in Mangrove National Park, just off the T-shaped island's eastern shore. I whiled away hours at the Cultural Foundation, then the city's only public library, next to Qasr Al-Hosn, the ruler's abandoned 18th century fort, where I devoured Abdel-Rahman Munif's Cities of Salt novels, which chronicle the rise of the Gulf's oil kingdoms. I slept feet away from the ruins of the Nestorian monastery on Sir Bani Yas island; and I visited the old pearling grounds of Abu Al-Abyad, which once provided locals with their only tradable commodity before oil. I grew to know the city and its people's language, culture and history well. However, like all the male children of guest workers, at age 18 I was forced to leave, and I have re-entered the country ever since as a tourist. Despite having spent close to two decades in the UAE, each return visit has been limited by the 30 day visa stamped on my passport on arrival. Notwithstanding, Abu Dhabi has shaped my outlook and sensibilities more than any other city I have lived in. Much as I have tried to deny it at various times in my life, I am an Abu Dhabian.

My parents, for their part, wouldn't think of themselves as Abu Dhabians. Nevertheless, they were perfectly happy to spend their lives in the UAE, and absurd as it might seem, in their long decades there they hardly gave a thought to the inevitable prospect of one day being forced to leave. We weren't alone: approximately 86 per cent of the UAE's population is currently made up of foreigners. Although over the years I have grown used to seeing my hometown pointlessly praised, or derided, for having the world’s most expensive hotel, the world's largest theme park – and rather bizarrely for a majority Muslim country, the world's most expensively decorated Christmas tree – this is the record Abu Dhabi should be chiefly remembered for: the world's highest number of foreign-born inhabitants.

Families stroll down the Corniche

Since the late 1960s, the world's nationalities have spilled into the UAE, supplying it with nurses, doctors, teachers, lawyers, shopkeepers, service workers, entertainers and police forces. For certain Westerners, the UAE is a revolving-door country in which to spend a lucrative two or three years. We, though, defined ourselves as long-termers and hardly ever came into contact with such opportunists. My father, who speaks four languages including Arabic, was an architect employed by an Emirati prince. The masons, carpenters, electricians, drivers and foremen he worked with were almost entirely from South Asia and the Middle East. There were times when, despite my father's stories of his Emirati friends and my few Emirati classmates, I thought that I lived in Little India: a solid 60 per cent of that 86 per cent majority was – and remains – composed of people from the Indian subcontinent, mostly men employed in the construction and transportation industries.

Our Abu Dhabi wasn't as tall then: the island's neighborhoods were mostly capped at five or six stories and stubby palm trees still jutted out of the gardens of crumbling villas built in the wake of the 1970s oil boom. The polished steel and glass skyline that can be seen today was still being sketched on the drafting board. The famously heavy, humid air was always pregnant with two kinds of sounds: the call to prayer five times a day, and the drone of 24-hour construction sites. The sandstorms and sea-salt constantly lashed against the cheaply-built beige apartment blocks, which were studded with the loud but vital external AC units that rattled precariously on their sandy perches. Tagalog, Malayalam and Hindi tinkled constantly in my ear. I went to school with Arabs, South Asians and Africans, ate Afghan bread fresh from the downstairs bakery and was more familiar with Bollywood than Hollywood, perhaps owing to our living above a cinema that played double-bills of Hindi hits every night. Although there were a few Westerners, they largely kept themselves confined to their own residential enclaves, schools and beach clubs.

Our fellow long-term, informal Abu Dhabians exhibited no desire to leave, but also made no attempt to entrench themselves, either. Foreigners cannot own property in the Emirates, they can only lease it. Since naturalisation was deemed impossible anyway, the general understanding was that there was no point in doing anything about it. The longer the permanence in the UAE, the shorter the visits back to their real, supposed homes became. While first-generation immigrants remained somewhat more connected to their origins, their children were often horrified by the prospect of ever having to leave, even though they mostly knew this was inevitable.

The choice facing all male children at the age of 18 is this: find employment and thus secure a sponsor for your visa, or else attend one of the country's franchise Western universities. The first is a near impossibility, since businesses in the Emirates do not hire untrained adolescents, especially foreign ones. The second is exorbitantly expensive. (Unmarried daughters are allowed to remain in the family fold.) Knowing that that my parents could not afford to continue paying for my education in the Emirates, I applied to several institutions in the UK, where, thanks to a clerical error, I was offered a place at university at the lower “home” fee rate, then just slightly over a thousand pounds.

Adapting to life in Britain, I often reflected on how, despite causing me a great deal of pain, my illusion of permanence in the UAE had nevertheless been an incredible gift. Such an illusion was denied to millions of other informal Emiratis. Visitors to the cities of the Emirates over the past few decades will have all stumbled on the same inescapable sight: the striking preponderance of men, in particular the millions of South Asian labourers who spend their lives in the UAE entirely alone, denied the option to bring their families over. While many could afford to do so – at a stretch – they are systematically blocked by strict entry quotas based on their countries of origin, no matter how long they've lived and worked in that country.

In the early 1990s, visitors to Abu Dhabi's Corniche, the broad waterfront boulevard on the western shore of the island, would be struck by the sight of thousands of South Asian laborers in their distinctive blue overalls. Back then, the Corniche was one of those few places where Emiratis and foreigners, and the poor and the rich could mingle. On Thursday nights, labourers would pose in front of the Corniche's Volcano Fountain, an 80 foot water feature lit by bright crimson lights at night, making the drops look like lava.

There, they would snap photos of themselves to mail back to their families. The ideal stance involved leaning one elbow against the trunk of a palm, with the sputtering Volcano in the background. The rest of the week, the labourers were restricted to the construction sites and their accommodations in hangar-style shacks outside the city limits, on the mainland.

The Volcano, which grew into one of the city's most beloved landmarks, was demolished in 2004. It made way for a sleeker, broader Corniche, yet one that was ultimately far more exclusive. Today its beach pavilions and cafés are the bastion of the middle class, part of a trend that has seen the city grow more segregated. Although the UAE is a cacophony of cultures and nationalities, the government's unwritten policy is straightforward: one is welcome to live there so long as one silently subscribes to its system of apartheid by consent. While foreigners are free to mix, the UAE's informal hiring practices mean that jobs are allotted almost exclusively according to race: East Asians are employed in service industries and as maids, construction workers are South Asian, lower middle-class jobs go to Arabs and managerial positions are the near-exclusive preserve of Westerners, leaving the friendly, languid Emiratis perched alone on top. You are free to live here and make your money however long you can, the Welcome Sign should say, but never fool yourself into thinking you'll ever remain. The PS should also read: if you don't like it, leave.

Despite the terrible odds presented by this game of roulette, there is no short supply of willing gamblers. For better or worse, the UAE remains a beacon of potential prosperity. It is the promised land to the Subcontinent's poor, a safe haven for the Arab world's elites and a tacky oddity ripe for the plucking to the West's middle classes. Precisely because of that, most of the aforementioned would happily accept Emirati citizenship in a heartbeat, and therein lies the problem. Rather than open the floodgates, the answer, it seems, is to make the process a near impossibility, no matter how long one has lived there.

A group of Filipino men take a selfie 

Abu Dhabi has certainly grown larger, denser and richer in recent years. It has also become visibly unhappier. For expatriates, visa restrictions are increasingly tough. A new law making “good conduct certificates” mandatory to get work permits came into effect on 4 February 2018. Meanwhile, despite the UAE government making no distinction between short-term opportunist and those whose families have made the UAE their home for decades, generations of residents now feel both estranged and at home. Many Abu Dhabians ejected at eighteen do, after all, come back. As the Abu Dhabian writer Deepak Unnikrishnan recently explained, his unexpected return to his city in 2015 led to a “difficult” re-adjustment: “Mentally, it was as though I couldn’t return to the city I had left, as though someone had changed the locks to my home without telling me.”

It is fittingly ironic, then, that the UAE's government newest obsession just so happens to be happiness. In February 2016, the UAE became only the fourth country in the world after Bhutan, Ecuador and Venezuela to appoint a Minister of State for Happiness. Dubai's PR-savvy ruler – and self-styled poet – Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al-Maktoum even went so far as to pen a slim tome entitled Reflections on Happiness & Positivity (Explorer, 2017). In it, he wrote: “What makes us proud of our United Arab Emirates is not the height of our buildings, the breadth or our streets or the magnitude of our shopping malls, but rather the openness and tolerance of our nation.” It is nevertheless unfortunate to see that Al-Maktoum's openness and tolerance does not stretch to include the millions of expatriate men and women who built his principality in the first place.

Emirati citizenship grants one instant access to a host of socio-economic privileges unavailable to the UAE's foreign-born inhabitants, and is granted solely by royal edict. The rationale for such exclusivity is simple. Citizens enjoy lavish benefits, including a college fund, free health care, a guaranteed job in government, and access to a government Marriage Fund. Open up citizenship, and the less than a million existing Emiratis would be politically overwhelmed overnight. While a provision exists in Emirati law which allows expatriates to apply for UAE citizenship after a 20 year period, it is almost never put to use. UAE society is thus bitterly divided. The expats resent the Emiratis' privileges, while Emiratis quietly worry about losing the reins of their own country. Mixed marriages between Emiratis and foreigners are actively discouraged, with Emirati women forbidden from marrying foreign men altogether.

Meanwhile, informal Emiratis have been there for decades longer than the actual country has existed. One of my father's oldest friends during his early years in Abu Dhabi was an engineer. He was both a third-generation expat Emirati and a Palestinian. His grandfather had left his village in Galilee in 1949 and had wound up in the northern emirate of Ras Al-Khaimah, where he had started a chicken farm. By my early teenage years, this Emirati Palestinian clan counted over twenty individuals, who occupied various posts in both private businesses and government enterprises. Their story mirrored that of many Palestinians after the Nakba, who alongside the Lebanese, Egyptians, Iranians, Indians and Pakistanis, played a vital role in the building of the modern Gulf petrocracies. Unfortunately, the supply of willing workers long appeared inexhaustible. Each new conflagration in Israel-Palestine prompted a new flight of migration, and so the Palestinian immigrants in the Gulf were largely treated as expendable. While the UAE's government has always made a public show of its sizable contributions to Palestinian charities, it has never extended the warm hand of citizenship or long-term residency, which is precisely what the overwhelming majority of expat Emirati Palestinians both want and deserve.

A pragmatic solution to the woes of expatriate Abu Dhabians remains as distant now as it was when my family first moved to the UAE. However, their cause – and the overall issue of an individual's right to place – is nevertheless a global cause for concern. In his Reflections on Happiness & Positivity, Sheikh Mohammed claims to have taken cues from Aristotle, Ibn Khaldun and the US's Founding Fathers to reach his conclusion that “tolerance is no catchphrase, but a quality we must cherish and practice” since “the government's job is to achieve happiness”. For the moment, however, the UAE's interpretation of happiness excludes almost 90 per cent of its people.

Whether the UAE survives as a functional state may well largely depend on its ability to retain and absorb its long-term expatriates. It is time for the country to attempt what Benedict Anderson called a “sophisticated and serious blending of the emancipatory possibilities of both nationalism and internationalism”. The UAE is no paradise for migrant workers, but meanwhile those nomads and their children have developed a culture the rest of the world should finally begin to contend with. Last year, the UAE Pavilion at the Venice Biennale featured non-Emirati residents, such as Vikram Divecha and Lantian Xie. Deepak Unnikrishnan's novel Temporary People (Restless Books, 2017), which explored Abu Dhabi's hidden nuances through a sequence of interlinked stories tinged with magical realism, was recently published to highly-deserved acclaim. Dubai has even become home to exiled artists like Ramin Haerizadeh, Rokni Haerizadeh and Hesam Rahmanian.

For all that the Western world likes to caricature the UAE, the question of citizenship is not one confined to the expatriates of Abu Dhabi. Los Angeles, the city where I currently reside, is presently home to thousands of “Dreamers”, beneficiaries of the Obama-era legislation that protected the children of people who entered the US illegally, many of whom now face a very uncertain future. As for me, the familiar sight of pump jacks and foreign migrants outside my window keeps my memories of home – and hopes for a better future there – alive. Impractical or not, Abu Dhabi is my home, and I don't need a passport to prove it.


This article first appeared in the 16 November 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The plot to stop Brexit