Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

The Departing #2: EU citizens who have left will not return

“May the last European shut the door behind them.”

In the second of a series on the precarious situation of EU nationals in the UK since the Brexit vote, we look at those who have already left. Read the first article here.


In 2016, Wibke Hott, a 44-year-old German national who then lived in Wallasey, near Liverpool, found her young daughter crying in her room. “I hate Theresa May,” the girl said. “Why is she tearing my beautiful life apart?” Hott had no answer – she herself had been crying in front of the news. “I was in a state of shock,” she says. “Mentally and physically.” The Brexit vote, she says, “felt like they were pulling the blanket from under us.” As an EU citizen, she suddenly found herself in limbo over her right to remain. “Surely nothing that has happened since 23 June [2016] can stand up legally,” Hott says, adding that as she’s retelling her story, her hands are shaking.

During the EU referendum campaign, Hott kept repeating: “If they vote out, we’re going to have to move out of principle.” So they did: on 28 August, her family moved back from Wallasey, where they had bought their house in 2005, to Fürth, a small town near Nuremberg, in Germany. “It was bonkers,” she says of the move, but necessary. Hott was running a family centre providing help for young parents and “the government was closing them all down”. Brexit was “the final straw”: “It felt like they turned the spotlight on me,” she says. “I’ve been a good immigrant, paid taxes, improved people’s lives with my work. It’s such a toxic and horrific thing to do.”

“We really don’t think we’ll be back, even if they cancel Brexit. I have no faith in this government.”
Wibke Hott with her family

Adapting to another culture, even one’s own, can be a struggle after years abroad. For Hott, it’s the fact that in Germany, “banks and shops closed on Sunday”. Returnees need to adapt at work, too. Boris Adryan, 41, a German national who researched computational biology in Cambridge until he moved to Frankfurt after Brexit, now works in the data industry. “[My wife and I] left Germany right after our PhDs, so we never had the experience of working in industry in Germany”, he explains: they only knew the British working culture. When they moved back, they had to “observe very carefully for a few months, not to be completely out of the frame of expectations”.

To some, the UK was more like home than their country of origin. Ralph Stanewsky, 53, moved back to Germany in October 2016 after ten years in the UK. “After being away such a long time, you don’t feel at home anymore, you feel like foreigners,” he told me. “At work, the German system is very hierarchic. In England everyone says 'you', here [in Germany, ‘du’ is for close acquaintances and ‘Sie’ to mark respect] it’s very complicated and people can get offended if you don’t say ‘Sie’.” Because he moved to Muenster, a region he is not originally from but had found a job in, his family also had to make new friendships. Stanewsky worried that his children would struggle, but “they adjusted better than we did”, he says. The family still watches the BBC and CBeebies on the telly.

“I'm not regretting that we went back, it just takes time.
I will always love London.”
Ralph Stanewsky

For some, returning is harder than leaving. Since Murielle Stentzel went back to France in September, after eight years in Kent, nothing has been easy. “The administration is giving me a headache,” she tells me. “It’s really complicated to exist as a French citizen.” She doesn’t have a French bank account or social security number and France imposes a three-month period, called “délai de carence” (or, as Stentzel calls it, “a real pain”) to process the files of returnees like her. “I have been penalised in the UK and now I am penalised in my home country,” she says.

Stentzel did not want to leave the UK, but the economic and political uncertainty unleashed by Brexit forced her out. She lost her job soon after the referendum. Her company immediately lost European contracts after the vote, and as she was still on probation at the time, she was let go because they couldn’t “afford to hire someone from the EU”, she says.

Despite the government's assertions to the contrary, Stentzel quickly found that her status in the UK had changed. For any job she applied to after that, she was asked if she had the right to stay in the UK. “Some adverts specified ‘British nationals only’,” she says, before pointing out: “That’s still illegal until March 2019.” Unemployed and having to claim benefits, in February 2017 she received one of the erroneously sent letters from the Department for Work and Pensions informing her that she had lost the right to stay in the country, which was not true. “I felt like I would always be a foreigner, a burden for the state,” she says. Add in some abusive and xenophobic comments on the bus, and Stentzel’s decision was made: “My health was taking a toll, I wasn’t sleeping. I said, ‘I’m done’.”

“It's difficult to go back to France. They have no clue how hard it is.”
Murielle Stentzel, who went on French TV to speak about EU citizens in the UK

Not all jobs are easily transferable, locking some EU citizens and their families out of the option of escaping Brexit by moving away. Hott, the German national formerly based in Wallasey, is clear she was lucky: her British husband works in renewable architecture and easily found a job in Germany. He started work the Monday after their move. Hott’s training in therapy, however, is not recognised there. “I know people who want to go but can’t, their jobs are not translatable, or they can’t afford it,” she says. “They’re trapped.”

Jennifer Mueller, from Germany, who has lived in the UK for 22 years, hasn’t yet decided to leave, but she echoes this feeling: “I have been away from my country of birth for so long, my English is now better than my mother tongue, my qualifications aren't quite 'right' for the job market, it's all scary. I am truly a citizen of nowhere.”

Finding a place to live can be different abroad, too. Hott emptied the house they owned in the UK, and plans to eventually sell it. The mortgage for that house in England was much lower than their current rent in Germany, despite searching hard, but her family have helped with finances and given them furniture.

Brexit is also having a knock-on effect on popular destinations for those quitting the UK. Adryan, the Cambridge graduate now based in Frankfurt, says he can see how the UK’s decision to leave the EU is influencing housing prices in his new city: “Every time someone says something related to Brexit in London, there is a rise of around €10,000 in house prices a week later,” he says, joking that he “has been bitten by Brexit twice”. Adryan moved a few months after the vote, but had wired his savings back to Europe in late 2015. “If we had waited after the referendum, our savings would have been significantly lessened,” he says.

In such a move, family and friends become the main support network. Adryan had to uproot his three children, all born in the UK. Some things get easier, like having grandparents “an hour’s, and not a day’s, drive away” for babysitting, but some get more complicated: “My middle son struggled to adapt”, he says. “He feels the most British and would have wanted to stay.” Adryan hopes to save to send him to a British boarding school.

For others, though, Brexit means leaving family behind. Stentzel, the French national struggling with her return to her home country, doesn’t have any relatives in her new area, a small village near the coastal town of La Rochelle. With no current income in France, she cannot apply to sign a lease on a flat and pays her landlady directly for a small, expensive room with “the bare minimum”. She has left her daughter and granddaughter in the UK and she doesn’t know whether she will be able to visit them for Christmas. “My savings are already fading,” she says.

The more EU citizens leave, the more British spouses will follow. Chris Kay is a Brit married to a German national. He met her while living in Berlin from 1993 to 2005 before they both moved to the UK. In June 2016, correctly anticipating the referendum result, Kay made plans to leave and found a teaching position at the University of Saarbrücken, Germany, near the French border. He loves it there, he tells me: “There are European flags in people’s gardens here. You’d never see that in the UK.” As the spouse of a German national and with ten years of his career already spent in the country [unlike the UK, right to remain isn’t lost by spending time away], Kay thinks he will have no trouble applying for German citizenship.“I refuse to get my EU passport taken away from me,” he says.

“Structurally, I don't see where the UK is going.”
Chris Kay, Brit married to a German national

For Europeans who invested so much in their UK life, Brexit means heartbreak. “I chose the UK over France because of open-mindedness and tolerance,” Stentzel explains. “Before the referendum, I totally embraced the country, which I loved. I considered applying to citizenship. This country changed so much.” Jennifer Mueller agrees: “May the last European shut the door behind them.”

If the Brexit vote played a major – sometimes decisive – role in many EU nationals’ decision to leave, the course of action taken by the British government in the months that followed has had an impact too. Months after finding her daughter in tears, Hott remembers watching the news during the 2016 Conservative conference and thinking: “Are you kidding me? How did these people come up with this? I’m not going to walk around with an identification number!” It got to a point when it was giving her an “ulcer and stomach cramps”. The utter lack of clarity, she says, was the worst: “Theresa May says “You’ll have the same rights”, and then David Davis says “No, they won’t”! It’s insane. I don’t understand how they cannot grasp what this does to people.”

However hard it is to leave, those who have done so don’t look back. “As a non-British citizen, it [leaving] was the only thing I could do,” Hott says. “All of a sudden, I don’t meet the standard, I am not welcome anymore.” She tells me of the disbelief expressed by her friends in Germany when she talks about Brexit and how the British government treated her and other European nationals. “It feels like such a bizarre experience”, she says, “We’re here, we’ve escaped, but sometimes we wonder, did this really happen, was it all that bad?” She laughs nervously. “And then we watch the news and say yes, it did, and we’re not going back.”

Pauline Bock writes about France, the Macron presidency, Brexit and EU citizens in the UK. She also happens to be French.

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.