André Carrilho
Show Hide image

The army of one

How the writings of an al-Qaeda strategist inspired the spate of small-cell terror attacks in Britain and other Western countries.

Again. The attack on London Bridge and Borough Market on  3 June has claimed seven lives, with many more people still receiving intensive care for critical injuries. Within hours of the terrorist attack – the third within as many months in England – Islamic State released a statement claiming responsibility, as it did for the two outrages in the UK that immediately preceded it. At least one of the three attackers, Khuram Butt, had a long history of extremist activism and associations in Britain. He was a member of one of the Islamist networks that emerged during the 1990s and then proliferated after the al-Qaeda attacks of 11 September 2001. Although most of the preachers who founded these groups – such as Omar Bakri Muhammad, in the case of Butt and al-Muhajiroun – are no longer in the country, their legacy endures.

Bakri founded al-Muhajiroun (meaning “the emigrants”) in 1996. Now outlawed, it was a radical group committed to the re-establishment of a caliphate. After Bakri was finally excluded from the UK in 2005 (he is now in prison in Lebanon), he was succeeded by Anjem Choudary, the well-known British jihadist who assumed leadership of the network. From its inception, al-Muhajiroun embraced ever greater extremism, declaring support for Osama Bin Laden, for the 9/11 attacks and for al-Qaeda. Scores of its members have been convicted of terrorist offences. Choudary was sentenced to five and a half years in prison in September 2016 for supporting IS.

Several individuals from his network have travelled to Syria in recent years. Among them are Abu Rahin Aziz, originally from Luton, who became involved in active attack planning for IS operations against the West. He was killed in a US drone strike on Raqqa in 2015. Another prominent member of the group, Abu Rumaysah from London, moved his wife and five children to IS-held territory. Along with another British member of the group, Mohammad Ridha Alhak, Rumaysah is believed to have appeared in execution videos for IS.

Those who have remained at home can be found on the edges of terrorist plots. Butt, a 27-year-old British national born in Pakistan, was featured in a recent Channel 4 documentary about British supporters of Islamic State. He glorified and revelled in the barbarism of IS.

Butt will not be the last British jihadist to carry out a terrorist outrage in this country. The London Bridge attack may have seemed chaotic and amateurish but that is the jihadists’ purpose. And behind even the most unsophisticated attack is a considered strategic theory of global jihad, the antecedents of which are long and extend from Afghanistan into Yemen and Syria.

***

Al-Qaeda concentrated on carrying out the 11 September 2001 attacks with such tunnel vision that it gave little consideration to what might come next. The group reasoned that the US would be forced to respond to the atrocity, as Bill Clinton had done in 1998 after groups affiliated with Osama Bin Laden bombed US embassies in Tanzania and Kenya. The Clinton administration launched a series of retaliatory cruise missile strikes against sites associated with Bin Laden in Sudan and Afghanistan. But the response was otherwise muted.

Nonetheless, al-Qaeda had learned an important lesson. Push the US hard enough and the president will be forced to act – which is what al-Qaeda wanted. What the group had not anticipated was the ferocity of American resolve.

As the Taliban melted away after the US invasion of Afghanistan in late 2001 – and with much of its leadership captured, or killed, or on the run – al-Qaeda feared it had overreached. What good had the 9/11 attacks achieved if the global jihad movement would now crumble?

This provoked an intense debate within the movement about its future. Two competing schools of thought arose, which were considered mutually exclusive until Islamic State’s emergence brought them together.

The first view came from a theorist called Abu Bakr Naji (this is a pen name). Naji argued that al-Qaeda should promote an asymmetry of fear by adopting especially brutal and gruesome tactics. He believed Western societies were ultimately weak and lacked the resolve to endure the long war. Instead, he reasoned, jihadists should continue to escalate their depravity and barbarism. This would in turn allow them to re-establish formal control over territory as the Taliban had done, creating safe havens and launchpads for future attacks.

Naji’s view was robustly opposed by another theorist, Abu Musab al-Suri (a nom de guerre for Mustafa Setmariam Nasar, a Syrian strategist within al-Qaeda). He argued that the American response to 9/11 was too severe and that the group would never be able to regain the freedom it had enjoyed under the Taliban. The global jihadi movement would have to embrace the new reality.

According to the Norwegian scholar Brynjar Lia, who has written an authoritative biography of Suri, he opposed the 9/11 attacks precisely because he feared al-Qaeda would be unable to withstand the ferocity of the US response. When it eventually came, Suri felt vindicated.

It reaffirmed a long-standing view of his that the global jihad movement could succeed only if it was decentralised. Suri had begun to advocate decentralisation in the early 1990s, arguing that formal hierarchies did not well serve the jihadist cause. At the time, militant groups were being rounded up in Egypt, Libya and Algeria because their members congregated in large structures.

The most formative influence on Suri’s views, however, was the uprising led by the Muslim Brotherhood in the Syrian city of Hama in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He wrote about the experience in a 900-page book, The Islamic Jihadi Revolution in ­Syria. The uprising was brutally repressed by President Hafez al-Assad, father of Bashar al-Assad. Too much centralisation and formal structuring had caused the revolution to be lost, Suri reasoned. What the movement needed was smaller and more autonomous cells, which could wage a form of low-intensity guerrilla warfare, grinding down the local populations.

Although Suri had been formulating his ideas since the early 1990s, it was only after 9/11 that they coalesced into a coherent theory. Towards the end of 2004, he published his seminal work, The Global Islamic Resistance Call, which outlined his vision for the future of the global jihad movement.

Suri took a more strategic view of terrorism and its outcomes than Bin Laden or his al-Qaeda network. They obsessed about “spectacular”, large-scale attacks such as the 1998 twin embassy bombings, 9/11, the Madrid bombings, or the 7 July 2005 attacks in London. Suri welcomed the successful execution of these attacks but above all what he wanted was continuous, low-level action of the kind we are now experiencing in Britain. Despite overt displays of resilience and camaraderie, these have succeeded in making the public more fearful and angry.

“The jihad of individual or cell terrorism, using the methods of urban or rural guerrilla warfare, is fundamental for exhausting the enemy and causing him to collapse and withdraw,” Suri wrote in The Global Islamic Resistance Call.

To justify indiscriminate attacks on civilians, he invoked verse 8:60 of the Quran, which states: “And prepare against them whatever you are able of power and of steeds of war by which you may terrify the enemy of Allah and your enemy and others besides them.” The passage is often invoked by jihadi theorists to rationalise acts of mass and indiscriminate terror. “This generous verse has ordered preparation for the purpose of terrorising the assailants’ and God’s enemies among the infidels and their servants,” Suri wrote.

He interpreted its invocation to “terrify the enemy” broadly, arguing that “terrorism is a religious duty, and assassination is a Prophetic tradition”.

This is what is known as the doctrine of the “army of one”. The idea is simple: individuals are empowered to carry out deadly and destructive attacks without an overriding command-and-control structure. Having no command structure makes their attacks harder to intercept and oppress. The reality is, the antecedents of the threat we face in Britain today were first theorised in the mountains of the Hindu Kush more than a decade ago.

***

Al-Qaeda’s central leadership favoured Suri’s doctrine, believing that Naji’s approach was too fantastical. What Suri offered was a simpler, more tangible vision of how the global jihad movement should proceed.

However, it was al-Qaeda’s branch in Yemen (known as AQAP) that capitalised most on this doctrine. Under the spiritual tutelage of Anwar al-Awlaki, a Yemeni-American cleric who was eventually killed in an US drone strike, an aggressive doctrine of global jihad was launched.

What made Awlaki so dangerous was not just his charismatic appeal, but his experience of living in the West. He understood the motivation of Western Muslims and knew how to radicalise them.

AQAP published a magazine called Inspire, a precursor to the glossy IS magazine Dabiq, which has glorified as well as inspired attacks against the West. Inspire published Abu Musab al-Suri in English translation. Much of his work is untranslated and remains lost in Arabic texts, making it inaccessible to many Western Muslims. AQAP changed this by bringing the most devastating sections of his writing directly to readers in the West.

Most importantly, Inspire created and promoted a programme of Open Source Jihad (OSJ), which is the strategy of inspiring lone-actor attacks. It offered simple instructions for launching unsophisticated attacks on civilians: pipe bombs, stabbings and vehicle-based assaults.

The impact was considerable. According to original research by Alexander Meleagrou-Hitchens in his forthcoming book on Awlaki, between 2009 and 2016, of a total 212 terrorism cases in the United States, 66 plots could be directly linked to the cleric in one form or another. Put another way, Awlaki was responsible for or inspired almost one-third of all terrorism cases in the US over a seven-year period.

“In this section, the OSJ [Open Source Jihad], we give our readers suggestions on how to wage their individual jihad,” is how Inspire magazine described its OSJ programme. “It allows Muslims to train at home instead of risking [sic] a dangerous travel abroad.” Awlaki explained that this was “a disaster for the repressive imperialistic nations . . . America’s worst nightmare”.

Its effects were felt not only in the United States. In May 2010, Roshonara Choudhry, a then 21-year-old university dropout, attempted to murder Stephen Timms, the Labour MP for East Ham at his constituency surgery in London, because he had voted in favour of the Western war in Iraq. During her trial, Choudhry explained how she had been motivated to stab Timms during a constituency surgery after she became a devotee of Awlaki and his OSJ programme.

The murder of Fusilier Lee Rigby by Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale in May 2013 was another Awlaki-inspired plot. Rigby was attacked on the streets of Woolwich, south-east London. His attackers first rammed him with a vehicle and then stabbed him with knives.

Documents seized by the United States following the raid in which Osama Bin Laden was killed show that the al-Qaeda leader was uneasy about AQAP’s strategy. He felt that attacks using vehicles against civilians were wrong as well as amateurish. And he believed they were so brutal that they would reduce support for violent jihad.

***

Islamic State has never worried about public opinion. It emerged in 2003 after the invasion of Iraq, in a period when the murderous Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a Jordanian, was leading the organisation. Unlike al-Qaeda’s central leadership, which found itself on the defensive in Afghanistan, Zarqawi, who revelled in barbarism, was presented with an opportunity to confront some of the group’s biggest enemies – America and Britain – in the heart of the Arab world.

In these circumstances, he favoured Naji’s nihilistic doctrine of brutality. His methods have been played out in Syria and Iraq, producing especially egregious acts of barbarism against the local populations over which IS has ruled. Yet, for the group’s attacks in the West, it continues to embrace Suri’s model of decentralisation.

IS has produced significant amounts of literature promoting gruesome attacks in its followers’ home countries. In its Rumiyah (Rome) magazine, one infographic promotes truck attacks, describing their use as “just terror”. It advises readers to acquire a vehicle that is “large in size, heavy in weight” and which has a “slightly raised chassis and bumper”. Among its suggested targets are “congested streets, outdoor markets and large outdoor festivals”.

Another infographic disseminated by the group on social media advises supporters to “kill the civilians of the crusaders, run over them by vehicles [sic]”.

The Nice attack in 2016 which killed 86 people demonstrated just how effective a relatively unsophisticated plot carried out by a lone actor can be. This is one of the ways in which terrorism works: a successful attack gives confidence to others, inspiring and emboldening imitators. The wave of terrorism that is now sweeping the UK is born of this.

Terrorists will take encouragement from others and we have seen comparable spikes in attacks across the European continent, with the French and Germans enduring periods of similar activity.

***

None of this occurs in a vacuum. For many years we allowed radical preachers such as Omar Bakri Muhammad, Anjem Choudary, Abu Hamza and others to preach on the streets and in the mosques of Britain. They spread a deadly message of separateness, telling young Muslims not to identify as British. In many cases, they invoked the very same verses of the Quran as al-Qaeda theorists such as Abu Musab al-Suri in order to spread their message.

A leaflet produced and distributed in 2006 by the same network from which Khuram Butt emerged brazenly glorified terrorism of the kind he unleashed in London. “Jihad against the Kuffar [infidels], the enemies of Allah, puts fear in their hearts and terrifies them,” it stated. “This will give Islam victory, humiliate its enemy and put happiness into the hearts of believers.”

Al-Muhajiroun frequently celebrated terrorist atrocities at home and abroad. What we have, therefore, is a culture in which young men are growing up in Britain who are divorced from our society and its values. They are invested in the fortunes of foreign conflicts instead, exposing us to the turbulence of distant wars. Once it was Yemen and Anwar al-Awlaki who posed the greatest threat to Britain, when al-Qaeda regrouped and established a base there. Yet the potency of his message sharply tailed off after he was killed in 2011.

There is a lesson to learn. The message of leaders and movements, however ideological, still requires them to have an active presence. When they are killed, or pushed back through military action, their potency is much reduced.

In recent times, Islamic State has been able to project a message of momentum and success. Now that the group is suffering significant setbacks in Mosul – where it has practically lost the entire city – its prestige is diminished. Its de facto capital in Raqqa, Syria, is also being slowly encircled by coalition troops.

As with the efforts in Iraq, reclaiming the city will be difficult and dangerous, but Raqqa will fall. In the meantime, attacks from the “army of one” will only intensify and increase in frequency, yet this is a critical phase through which we must pass if the overall threat from IS and other such groups is to be defeated decisively. Our security can only be built over their ruins.

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and Deputy Director at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 08 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Election special

Getty
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 08 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Election special