Show Hide image

Nomadic utopia: will Dubai’s many worlds ever find a common cultural identity?

A city dominated by expats tries to fully imagine itself.

In November 2017, the magificent, spotted Louvre Abu Dhabi finally opened. The museum has courted controversy from the get-go, not least because the Abu Dhabi government has reportedly leased the iconic French brand for the enormous sum of €400m for 30 years.

To those following the cultural development of the region, however, the expenditure is no surprise. Abu Dhabi is following in the footsteps of Dubai – a city experienced at planting Western cultural cuttings into its Middle Eastern soil.

One of Dubai’s oldest art galleries, the Majlis Gallery, was founded in the historic Bastakia district in 1989 by British expat Alison Collins. More recently, the sprawling and amusingly alien “Irish Village” in Dubai has managed to create such an authentic Irish pub experience – replete with dark-wood pub benches under green-and-white Guinness umbrellas – that it won the 2016 award for “Irish Pub of the Year”, beating off competitors from Ireland itself.

NYU Abu Dhabi and the long-awaited Guggenheim Abu Dhabi are part of the same cultural movement. And while that culture may seem confusing and eclectic, it’s taking root in Dubai and Abu Dhabi, and may come to define this region of the world.

So, what are the characteristics of this new culture? What are its strongest influences?

A union of port cities

It’s not easy to classify Dubai’s culture. It’s a city of many different worlds: the dirty, cramped living quarters of its South Asian labourers; Bur Dubai’s tea stalls and Indian restaurants crowded with taxi drivers; giant hoardings of Bollywood celebrities; old-school dhow rides and sheesha cafés; the manicured but cheerful European-style JBR Riviera; the city’s flashy lights á la Vegas.

To most, this cultural mish-mash seems inauthentic and unsustainable. An article in The Telegraph protested about Dubai: “Either you’re a playground for tourists or you’re a deeply conservative Islamic state. […] you can’t be Ibiza and Saudi Arabia at the same time.”

But perhaps the tendency to pick and choose the best of various identities – Eastern and Western, despotic and liberal – is part of the city’s genetic code.

Mishaal Al Gergawi, an Emirati intellectual who was recently quoted in the New Yorker, believes that the United Arab Emirates, a federal monarchy made up of multiple emirates, of which Dubai and Abu Dhabi are just two, was always an “impractical” idea. “Seven emirates, six rulers, sceptical colonisers and ambitious neighbours. . . What were the odds, really?” he wrote in 2014.

But, Al Gergawi continues, the Emirates managed to come together, and stay together. “Taking different things from different places, [the UAE] remains within the concept of a union of port cities: always pragmatic, seeking peace and developing commerce, and at first tolerating and eventually thriving on cultural multiplicity.”

The third-culture kids

If Dubai’s culture imports “different things from different places”, what are the identities of its residents, who may not hold citizenship but can spend their formative years, if not decades, living there?

Expats make up more than 80 per cent of the population of the UAE, with 60 per cent from a South Asian ethnicity, and Persian, English, Hindi and Urdu all common languages. Will residents continue to identify with their native cultures, or do they adapt to Dubai’s hybrid culture?

Kings’ School Dubai, considered one of the best schools in the city, has been analysing the issue for a long time, because its diverse student body hails from all over the globe – from the Emirates themselves, but also from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, France, Jordan, and 69 other countries.

Most of these students are what sociologists would call “third-culture kids”.

Third-culture kids don’t fully relate to the cultures they were born into, having left home young. Nor do they connect entirely with the local Emirati culture in Dubai.

Instead, these children develop a hybrid third culture. They attend friends’ Diwali, Eid, and Christmas parties. They hum along to world music, even if they can’t interpret its lyrics. And, according to the Kings’ School’s blog, their diverse accents frequently converge into a unique “mid-Atlantic twang.”

Dubai’s adults also show many signs of this third culture too, be they expats who’ve left their home towns to rediscover themselves, or the region’s rulers who have slowly been adapting to a more liberal, more Westernised form of Islamic life.

Kings’ School Dubai’s headmaster Alan Williamson notes that third-culture kids in his school tend to have many close friends, instead of just one best friend. As he puts it to me: “You may move away next year, so I need two or three other friends.”

It is easy to be disdainful of Dubai’s easy-come, easy-go, tax-saving residents, and wonder if such a nomadic population could ever settle down long enough to develop a culture. Williamson, though, argues that the transient nature of Dubai’s population engenders its own culture – and a positive one, at that.

“I think it builds a really strong, happy community,” he says. “You know you might just be here for four or five years. You need to make the best of it. And that goes for staff, parents, and students.”

He cities the example of a city-wide challenge called ‘Dubai 30x30’ (its shiny brochures were lying on his office desk) which urged residents to be physically active for 30 minutes a day for a month. “In London,” says Williamson, “that would just fall flat on its face. Nobody would do it. But here, everybody was doing it. Everybody buys in.”


A common complaint about Dubai’s lack of a unified culture is that Emiratis and expats rarely “hang out” together at the city’s many restaurants, bars, or nightclubs. “The reality in Dubai is that most of us live in an expat bubble,” Annabel Kantaria wrote in The Telegraph recently. “Yes, our friends may come from 200 other countries – but do we have many Emirati friends? Unlikely.”

Even on the virtual meeting grounds of social media, cultural unification is rare. A friend of mine who moved from Mumbai to Dubai some years ago notes that wealthy, dolled-up Emirati girls document their lives publically on Instagram. But they are almost never on dating apps like Tinder, which tend to be populated by Dubai’s expats. In other words: look, but don’t touch.

Williamson, however, says his student body isn’t divided by cultural differences in drinking and partying because “alcohol and drugs don’t dominate the youth culture here, as they do in many other parts of the world.”

“The children here are lovely,” he continues, smiling, “in terms of how naïve they are. They’re not that street wise. They tend to go to malls together.”

Malls, in fact, are one of the only and strongest cultural unifiers of the region. Dubai Mall, Mall of the Emirates, and their ilk are perhaps the only public spaces frequented by all members of this third-culture city: locals and expats, tourists and residents, men and women, the old and young, the rich and the slightly less rich. The offerings at the mall are correspondingly lavish: Dubai Mall includes an aquarium and underwater zoo, more than 200 restaurants and cafes, including hipster joints like the Cereal Killer Cafe and upmarket cupcake shop Hummingbird Bakery. 

Living in the present

It’s hard to say if the bulk of Dubai’s residents ever see the city as home. Most expats can’t earn citizenship, even if they settle down permanently. And while a great number of nationalities work in Dubai as employees and managers, business owners invariably remain Emirati.

But what about third-culture attitudes to nationality and “home”? Do the children of Dubai think of it as home?

“I come from a really small rural area in Scotland,” Williamson says. “When I speak about home, I know exactly what home is. But I don’t think third-culture children recognize home like I do.”

He describes how some of his pupils say they come from “England,” but when pressed to specify where in England, they have no response.

“Their parents probably left home when they were two or three, and that child, in a fascinating way, doesn’t feel overly attached to any country. For them, home is wherever they are. You have to make the moment you are in real, and strong, and stable. Home is Dubai now, but home might be Singapore next.”

If this set of traits applies to Dubai’s adults too, no wonder it’s difficult to pin down the city’s culture.

Because no matter how one defines culture – a unique set of behaviours and traditions ingrained into the people of the nation; the group of histories and events that a nation chooses to identify with – it is always rooted in the past.

In the case of Dubai, however, most expats seem to practice the ideal of “living in the present”. Dubai’s modern cultural markers aren’t particularly visible or tangible, and they aren’t pegged to the past: old cobblestone streets, or pierogi recipes passed from grandmother to granddaughter, or kitschy memorabilia from old movies.

Instead, the culture of Dubai is more psychological, a utopian vision shared by its nomadic residents, at times naïve, but reportedly happy. And while this modern culture brewing in Dubai may seem invisible, it exists all the same.

An artist's version of the Reichstag fire, which Hitler blamed on the communists. CREDIT: DEZAIN UNKIE/ ALAMY
Show Hide image

The art of the big lie: the history of fake news

From the Reichstag fire to Stalin’s show trials, the craft of disinformation is nothing new.

We live, we’re told, in a post-truth era. The internet has hyped up postmodern relativism, and created a kind of gullible cynicism – “nothing is true, and who cares anyway?” But the thing that exploits this mindset is what the Russians call dezinformatsiya. Disinformation – strategic deceit – isn’t new, of course. It has played a part in the battle that has raged between mass democracy and its enemies since at least the First World War.

Letting ordinary people pick governments depends on shared trust in information, and this is vulnerable to attack – not just by politicians who want to manipulate democracy, but by those on the extremes who want to destroy it. In 1924, the first Labour government faced an election. With four days to go, the Daily Mail published a secret letter in which the leading Bolshevik Grigory Zinoviev heralded the government’s treaties with the Soviets as a way to help recruit British workers for Leninism. Labour’s vote actually went up, but the Liberal share collapsed, and the Conservatives returned to power.

We still don’t know exactly who forged the “Zinoviev Letter”, even after exhaustive investigations of British and Soviet intelligence archives in the late 1990s by the then chief historian of the Foreign Office, Gill Bennett. She concluded that the most likely culprits were White Russian anti-Bolsheviks, outraged at Labour’s treaties with Moscow, probably abetted by sympathetic individuals in British intelligence. But whatever the precise provenance, the case demonstrates a principle that has been in use ever since: cultivate your lie from a germ of truth. Zinoviev and the Comintern were actively engaged in trying to stir revolution – in Germany, for example. Those who handled the letter on its journey from the forger’s desk to the front pages – MI6 officers, Foreign Office officials, Fleet Street editors – were all too ready to believe it, because it articulated their fear that mass democracy might open the door to Bolshevism.

Another phantom communist insurrection opened the way to a more ferocious use of disinformation against democracy. On the night of 27 February 1933, Germany’s new part-Nazi coalition was not yet secure in power when news started to hum around Berlin that the Reichstag was on fire. A lone left-wing Dutchman, Marinus van der Lubbe, was caught on the site and said he was solely responsible. But Hitler assumed it was a communist plot, and seized the opportunity to do what he wanted to do anyway: destroy them. The suppression of the communists was successful, but the claim it was based on rapidly collapsed. When the Comintern agent Gyorgy Dimitrov was tried for organising the fire, alongside fellow communists, he mocked the charges against him, which were dismissed for lack of evidence.

Because it involves venturing far from the truth, disinformation can slip from its authors’ control. The Nazis failed to pin blame on the communists – and then the communists pinned blame on the Nazis. Dimitrov’s comrade Willi Münzenberg swiftly organised propaganda suggesting that the fire was too convenient to be Nazi good luck. A “counter-trial” was convened in London; a volume called The Brown Book of the Reichstag Fire and Hitler Terror was rushed into print, mixing real accounts of Nazi persecution of communists – the germ of truth again – with dubious documentary evidence that they had started the fire. Unlike the Nazis’ disinformation, this version stuck, for decades.

Historians such as Richard Evans have argued that both stories about the fire were false, and it really was one man’s doing. But this case demonstrates another disinformation technique still at work today: hide your involvement behind others, as Münzenberg did with the British great and good who campaigned for the Reichstag prisoners. In the Cold War, the real source of disinformation was disguised with the help of front groups, journalistic “agents of influence”, and the trick of planting a fake story in an obscure foreign newspaper, then watching as the news agencies picked it up. (Today, you just wait for retweets.)

In power, the Nazis made much use of a fictitious plot that did, abominably, have traction: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a forged text first published in Russia in 1903, claimed to be a record of a secret Jewish conspiracy to take over the world – not least by means of its supposed control of everyone from bankers to revolutionaries. As Richard Evans observes, “If you subject people to a barrage of lies, in the end they’ll begin to think well maybe they’re not all true, but there must be something in it.” In Mein Kampf, Hitler argued that the “big lie” always carries credibility – an approach some see at work not only in the Nazis’ constant promotion of the Protocols but in the pretence that their Kristallnacht pogrom in 1938 was spontaneous. (It is ironic that Hitler coined the “big lie” as part of an attack on the Jews’ supposed talent for falsehood.) Today, the daring of the big lie retains its force: even if no one believes it, it makes smaller untruths less objectionable in comparison. It stuns opponents into silence.

Unlike the Nazis, the Bolshevik leaders were shaped by decades as hunted revolutionaries, dodging the Tsarist secret police, who themselves had had a hand in the confection of the Protocols. They occupied the paranoid world of life underground, governed by deceit and counter-deceit, where any friend could be an informer. By the time they finally won power, disinformation was the Bolsheviks’ natural response to the enemies they saw everywhere. And that instinct endures in Russia even now.

In a competitive field, perhaps the show trial is the Soviet exercise in upending the truth that is most instructive today. These sinister theatricals involved the defendants “confessing” their crimes with great
sincerity and detail, even if the charges were ludicrous. By 1936, Stalin felt emboldened to drag his most senior rivals through this process – starting with Grigory Zinoviev.

The show trial is disinformation at its cruellest: coercing someone falsely to condemn themselves to death, in so convincing a way that the world’s press writes it up as truth. One technique involved was perfected by the main prosecutor, Andrey Vyshinsky, who bombarded the defendants with insults such as “scum”, “mad dogs” and “excrement”. Besides intimidating the victim, this helped to distract attention from the absurdity of the charges. Barrages of invective on Twitter are still useful for smearing and silencing enemies.


The show trials were effective partly because they deftly reversed the truth. To conspire to destroy the defendants, Stalin accused them of conspiring to destroy him. He imposed impossible targets on straining Soviet factories; when accidents followed, the managers were forced to confess to “sabotage”. Like Hitler, Stalin made a point of saying the opposite of what he did. In 1936, the first year of the Great Terror, he had a rather liberal new Soviet constitution published. Many in the West chose to believe it. As with the Nazis’ “big lie”, shameless audacity is a disinformation strategy in itself. It must have been hard to accept that any regime could compel such convincing false confessions, or fake an entire constitution.

No one has quite attempted that scale of deceit in the post-truth era, but reversing the truth remains a potent trick. Just think of how Donald Trump countered the accusation that he was spreading “fake news” by making the term his own – turning the charge on his accusers, and even claiming he’d coined it.

Post-truth describes a new abandonment of the very idea of objective truth. But George Orwell was already concerned that this concept was under attack in 1946, helped along by the complacency of dictatorship-friendly Western intellectuals. “What is new in totalitarianism,” he warned in his essay “The Prevention of Literature”, “is that its doctrines are not only unchallengeable but also unstable. They have to be accepted on pain of damnation, but on the other hand they are always liable to be altered on a moment’s notice.”

A few years later, the political theorist Hannah Arendt argued that Nazis and Stalinists, each immersed in their grand conspiratorial fictions, had already reached this point in the 1930s – and that they had exploited a similar sense of alienation and confusion in ordinary people. As she wrote in her 1951 book, The Origins of Totalitarianism: “In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true.” There is a reason that sales of Arendt’s masterwork – and Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four – have spiked since November 2016.

During the Cold War, as the CIA got in on the act, disinformation became less dramatic, more surreptitious. But show trials and forced confessions continued. During the Korean War, the Chinese and North Koreans induced a series of captured US airmen to confess to dropping bacteriological weapons on North Korea. One lamented that he could barely face his family after what he’d done. The pilots were brought before an International Scientific Commission, led by the eminent Cambridge scientist Joseph Needham, which investigated the charges. A documentary film, Oppose Bacteriological Warfare, was made, showing the pilots confessing and Needham’s Commission peering at spiders in the snow. But the story was fake.

The germ warfare hoax was a brilliant exercise in turning democracy’s expectations against it. Scientists’ judgements, campaigning documentary, impassioned confession – if you couldn’t believe all that, what could you believe? For the genius of disinformation is that even exposure doesn’t disable it. All it really has to do is sow doubt and confusion. The story was finally shown to be fraudulent in 1998, through documents transcribed from Soviet archives. The transcripts were authenticated by the historian Kathryn Weathersby, an expert on the archives. But as Dr Weathersby laments, “People come back and say ‘Well, yeah, but, you know, they could have done it, it could have happened.’”

There’s an insidious problem here: the same language is used to express blanket cynicism as empirical scepticism. As Arendt argued, gullibility and cynicism can become one. If opponents of democracy can destroy the very idea of shared, trusted information, they can hope to destabilise democracy itself.

But there is a glimmer of hope here too. The fusion of cynicism and gullibility can also afflict the practitioners of disinformation. The most effective lie involves some self-deception. So the show trial victims seem to have internalised the accusations against them, at least for a while, but so did their tormentors. As the historian Robert Service has written, “Stalin frequently lied to the world when he was simultaneously lying to himself.”

Democracy might be vulnerable because of its reliance on the idea of shared truth – but authoritarianism has a way of undermining itself by getting lost in its own fictions. Disinformation is not only a danger to its targets. 

Phil Tinline’s documentary “Disinformation: A User’s Guide” will be broadcast on BBC Radio 4 at 8pm, 17 March