Show Hide image

The reputation game: how to control the way we appear in the eyes of others

From Harvey Weinstein to Taylor Swift, celebrities have become their own PR agents – and we are following their lead.

In Reputation, translated into English by Stephen Holmes and Noga Arikha, the Italian philosopher Gloria Origgi writes that we all have “two egos, two selves”. There is the physical and mental sensation of being you. Then there is the version of you that exists in the social world – a hazy, shifting, warped image of the real thing.

This is your reputation. It is you, because it derives from your actions, and also not you, because it is composed of other people’s opinions. It is a portrait of you that you didn’t commission and don’t own. Origgi is interested in the power that this second self exerts over the first. A person’s reputation can push him towards certain decisions instead of others. It can make him feel pride or shame. It can open doors or slam them shut.

“We think we know someone, but the truth is that we only know the version of them that they have chosen to show us,” writes Taylor Swift in the essay that accompanies her new album, Reputation. In reality, we know the version that other people have shown us. As Swift knows only too well, a person’s image is never wholly under her control. Our reputations are always filtered through the sentiments, prejudices and interests of others, which in turn influences how we see ourselves. In 1902, the American sociologist Charles Cooley coined the term “looking-glass self” to describe how we regard ourselves through the eyes of others. The looking glass is a distorting mirror.

Today, everyone’s second self is encoded in contrails of data: pictures, ratings, clicks, tweets, searches and purchases. Corporations and governments rake over this information and fix us in it: we are subjected to the scrutiny applied to celebrities but without the fame or the free stuff. In one possible future, everyone will be ranked like hotels on TripAdvisor. In one possible present, in fact: the Chinese government is implementing a scheme that will give each of its 1.4 billion citizens a score for trustworthiness, with the stated aim of building a culture of “sincerity”.

In the West, even without the intervention of the state, we have created a system in which everyone can be held accountable to their public image. As Swift writes, hers is the first generation with the responsibility of “[curating] what strangers think of us”.

Since nobody can opt out of having a reputation, we have to learn how to manage it. In other words, we need to become our own PR agents. The Reputation Game is written by two people from the PR business, David Waller and Rupert Younger. They introduce a useful distinction between two types of reputation: capability and character. The first refers to competence in a specific task, such as cooking a meal, providing mortgages, or making aircraft engines. The second refers to moral or social qualities. Someone can have a great reputation for competence, while at the same time being regarded as slippery or unpleasant. Uber is good at what it does, but you wouldn’t invite it home to meet your mother.

Capability reputations are sticky: they take a long time to wash away. An author who writes great novels early in his career can produce many mediocre ones before people start to question if he is any good (naming no names, Salman Rushdie). Character reputations are more flammable, especially in a world where social media can instantly detonate bad news. A strong reputation for competence defends you against character problems, but only for so long, as Uber is finding out. When your character reputation is destroyed, competence becomes immaterial.


I’m Harvey Weinstein,” he used to tell people. “You know what I can do.” The news about Weinstein broke after these books went to print, but both have something to say about it. Weinstein had a powerful capability reputation that protected a sullied but serviceable character reputation. Actually, he had two capability reputations. As well as being someone able to get artistically ambitious movies made, he was perceived, in Hollywood, to be capable of destroying anyone who crossed him. This latter reputation stopped women talking and journalists publishing. It acted as his flood barrier. Only when his reputation as a successful movie maker went into decline did the dam break.

Reputation is a second-order phenomenon. It is not constituted merely by what people know about the person or entity concerned but by what people know about what other people know. As Origgi puts it, “Reputations are maintained by a circulation of true or false opinions about opinions.” Before his defences collapsed, Weinstein’s monstrosity was hinted at in magazine profiles, joked about in the comedy series 30 Rock and flagged up by Courtney Love. In the aftermath of his fall, Hollywood insiders spoke about how his behaviour was an open secret. “Every­body knew” became the new “Nobody knows anything” (the screenwriter William Goldman’s often-quoted axiom about the movie industry). But until everybody knew that everybody knew, Weinstein was safe.

In a psychology experiment conducted in 1968, people were asked to fill out a questionnaire while waiting for the experimenter to return. As they did so, smoke was pumped into the room. When participants were working alone, they reacted or reported the smoke almost immediately. When they were in groups, they were slower to act, waiting even to the point at which they were choking, because nobody wanted to be the one seen to be panicking unnecessarily. They took surreptitious glances at the others, and when they saw them not reacting, they didn’t react either. The function of a fire alarm, then, is not just to let everyone know there is a fire – it is to let everyone know that everyone knows.

In the case of Weinstein, the New York Times and the New Yorker sounded the alarm – or rather, they amplified an alarm sounded by the women who agreed to go on the record. Suddenly, everyone acknowledged the fire. But there was already plenty of smoke, circulated by his many victims in preceding years. Waller and Younger note the role that gossip plays in keeping reputations in check. It “helps flush out the boss who is lazy, the head teacher who is a bully or the colleague who is untrustworthy”. This is true, but bullies, idlers and cheats don’t get flushed out until the gossip is publicly validated.

Reputations are made up of opinions, but some opinions count more than others. As Origgi writes, reputation has formal and informal ingredients. The first category includes official qualifications, institutional imprimaturs and endorsements from the powerful. In any system, there are gatekeepers with the power to raise up or pull down reputations; to admit or exclude individuals from the circles of the capable or good. Weinstein’s iron grip on the machine of validation was what enabled him to get away with his behaviour for so long. He was assisted by the heads of Hollywood studios and talent agencies, who are mostly male. The word “valid” is rooted in power: it derives from the Latin word validus, which means potency. Men are the validators.

Then there are the informal ingredients of reputation: rumour, innuendo and gossip, all of them are disreputable. As Origgi puts it, “Informal reputations have a terrible reputation.” When Theresa May launched her leadership campaign in 2016, she said, “I don’t gossip about people over lunch,” and we all understood. Gossiping is a sign of low character. To refrain from it indicates probity, to ignore it is good judgement.

But I don’t trust people who don’t gossip. There is something cold and bloodless about them, and I have always felt as if they are hiding something, from others or from themselves. I think Origgi is probably right when she suggests that the disdain for rumour and gossip conceals “a drive for authoritarian control”. Formal reputations can be established by a few individuals at the top of a hierarchy. Gossip is egalitarian and subversive.

While Weinstein maintained his power over the media, what kept the story of his abuses alive was women talking to women, in whisper networks, text messages and WhatsApp groups. Gossip is conventionally characterised as feminine. While this is partly a result of the male horror of intimate conversation, it’s also because, for centuries, it has been a weapon deployed by women in an asymmetrical battle with adversaries in possession of all the heavy artillery. Gossip is dangerous because it is unaccountable, but it is what you resort to when you do not have a seat at the tribunals at which reputations are made or broken. It is the smoke you pump into a room when nobody will let you in.


Of the two books, Reputation is the funnier and the more serious. Origgi is ravenous for insights whatever their provenance, and her book is a giddy blend of cross-disciplinary perspectives. Reputation can be recondite – it includes sentences such as: “Thus, just as ontogeny does not recapitulate phylogeny, so ontology does not recapitulate philology.” (I mean, duh.) But it mixes crunchy intellectual provocations with literary allusions, catty takes on academic life and some juicy riffs, including one on why Origgi’s highly educated friends invest magical powers in certain doctors. There is even an author selfie, taken with a slightly uneasy looking Tim Berners-Lee.

The Reputation Game, which is aimed at a business audience, is a more sober affair.
David Waller was a journalist for the Financial Times and is now a management consultant. Rupert Younger was the co-founder of Finsbury, a successful PR firm, expensively acquired by the advertising group WPP in 2001, and he went on to found the University of Oxford’s Centre for Corporate Reputation. Younger is described in the book as a “leading academic” who is “a member of the senior common rooms” at two Oxford Colleges. I confess I don’t know what that means – free biscuits? – but it sounds impressive, which tells us something about the reputation game.

Waller and Younger are nothing if not well connected, and they interviewed a vast array of eminences, including Reid Hoffman (the co-founder of LinkedIn), the novelist Hilary Mantel, the rapper Jay-Z
and, rather inexplicably, the disgraced stockbroker Bernie Madoff. These conversations yield almost no memorable quotations whatsoever – but then, successful or prominent people do not automatically make good interviewees. Quite the opposite: their reputation, or their institution’s reputation, imposes tight constraints on what they can or cannot say, and they are usually too well practised in public speech to say anything interesting.

The story of how the authors secured an interview with Madoff is at least amusing. They write to him, care of the Butner Federal Correctional Institution in North Carolina, asking if he will correspond via email. He agrees on the condition that they send $200 to cover some mysterious “costs of correspondence”. The authors agree. Madoff asks them to wire the money to a PO box in Des Moines, Iowa. They do so, but don’t hear anything back, so they write asking if he received the funds. He tells them that he hasn’t, gives them a new address and asks them to try again. They send another $200 and wait. Again, nothing. They chase it up. “I am at a complete loss,” Madoff replies. So they send more money, this time by a different route. Only then does Madoff confirm that he has received the funds.

He then proceeds to relate, in his emails, what he calls “my tragic history”: a version of events in which he emerges, miraculously, as the wronged party, beset by aggressive investors and trapped by the vagaries of financial markets. Bewilderingly, the authors appear to take Madoff at his word and invite the reader to feel sympathy for him. Their naivety is hard to explain, except, perhaps, by the deep-rooted instinct of PR professionals to paint clients in the best possible light. The Madoff chapter closes with the words, “After many years of success, he has lost the reputation game.” Isn’t life cruel?

Maybe there is a contrarian reading of the Madoff story that accords with his version of it, but to make that case, one would need, at the very least, to interview the victims of his former reputation: the many investors, not all of them rich, whom he first deceived and then deprived of their money in order to enrich himself. Waller and Younger interview only one other person on the subject. He does confirm Madoff’s account – but then, he is Madoff’s attorney. A reluctance to make character judgements is also evident in Waller’s and Younger’s discussion of Russian oligarchs, who are admiringly portrayed as “tough, smart and uncompromising” entrepreneurs, rather than as, say, unscrupulous and exploitative chancers.

Waller and Younger reserve some of their warmest words for people in their own profession. PR entrepreneurs “display an unstinting appetite for bringing people together. Night after night, their homes are open to editors, ministers, ambassadors, EU commissioners and CEOs… who are invited with the promise of fine wines and electrifying conversation.” How enchanting! That crinkling noise you can hear is the sound of chocolate spheres being unwrapped from gold foil.

I wonder if crooks, oligarchs and dictators are invited, too. If you recuse yourself from character judgement, presumably anyone is welcome as long as they are powerful. Yet – as Tim Bell recently discovered – even PR titans are vulnerable to the perception of amorality. (Bell Pottinger, the company Bell co-founded, imploded after accusations that it had helped stir up racial tensions in South Africa on behalf of a client.)

Waller and Younger describe the role of a PR executive as a network broker: a “junction box” through which people from different spheres of influence can connect. It’s an oddly passive self-conception, and perhaps it explains why The Reputation Game is such an oddly passive book. Waller and Younger assemble abundant material – interviews, case studies, summaries of academic research – but they don’t impose themselves on it, which is good practice for hosts but not authors.

Fresh insights or provocative opinions are altogether rare in these pages. In their place, we learn, “Timing is an inestimably important factor in politics”; that reputation “is not always fair”; and, “Authenticity is important in today’s complex and uncertain world.” A discussion of the post-power reputations of Bill Clinton and Tony Blair – an interesting question – weaves and wanders without so much as stubbing its toe on an interesting answer. When everyone is a potential guest, judgement cannot be risked. I only hope they never interview Harvey Weinstein. 

Reputation: What It Is and Why It Matters
Gloria Origgi
Princeton University Press, 272pp, £24.95

The Reputation Game: The Art of Changing How People See You
David Waller and Rupert Younger
Oneworld, 304pp, £18.99

Ian Leslie is the author of “Born Liars” and “Curious: the Desire to Know and Why Your Future Depends on It” (Quercus)

Ian Leslie is a writer, author of CURIOUS: The Desire to Know and Why Your Future Depends On It, and writer/presenter of BBC R4's Before They Were Famous.

This article first appeared in the 10 January 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Toddler in chief

Show Hide image

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 10 January 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Toddler in chief