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In Idlib, Syrian civilians refuse to let the ideals of the revolution die

Caught between the Assad regime and Islamist extremists, some are still coming out to protest. 

Saraqeb is just one of many cities, towns and villages in Idlib, a north-western province of Syria on the border with Turkey. Its location means that it has long held strategic importance: in the past, Idlib was a step on the Silk Road, a stop off point for traders coming from Anatolia and Europe. Today, it connects cities like Homs, Aleppo, Damascus and Idlib City. 

Before I was forced to leave Syria, I visited Saraqeb on several occasions. I was struck by how friendly the people were (as well as how good the food was). However, after seven long years of war, life in Saraqeb is beyond anything the human mind can imagine. Russian airstrikes in support of Assad continue to target houses, markets and even hospitals. The regime too is targeting the city: at the beginning of February, civilians were struck by deadly chlorine gas, leaving at least 20 dead, and it also has reportedly used sarin gas. The footage of children suffocating, and people screaming as they choke from fumes is hard to escape. The regime does not care how young their victims are, or whether they are too frail to hide. Instead, it deliberately targets civilians in order to strike fear in those it seeks to control.

If this bombardment were not enough, Saraqeb’s civilians have also been caught up in the bitter and ongoing clashes between rebel groups on the ground. This includes extremist groups like Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), which has evolved from the al-Qaeda terrorist network, which took the town by force.

Saraqeb in 2012, one year after the protests began

This March will mark seven years since the war in Syria began. Half a million have been killed and many millions have been displaced. To us Syrians, they are more than just numbers – they are our friends, family and neighbours. The other week, I learned that three members of my own family were killed in airstrikes in Idlib. Sadly, there is nothing unique about my case: most Syrians have lost loved ones. 

As a journalist and human rights activist, I myself was forced to flee the Assad regime with my young son, after we faced threats and persecution from the regime’s security forces. While I am truly grateful that we are safe and alive, I know that many others have not been so fortunate.

The Assad regime has characterised itself as the only bulwark against the terrorists, as it refers to all rebels indiscriminately. The rebels point out that the Assad regime itself terrorises civilians, but must also face up to the fact that the threat from terrorism and extremist militias is growing and transforming. In reality, civilians continue to suffer, both from the rule of Assad, and the threat of terrorism – two forces as callous as each other.

Syrians protesting in Idlib in 2011

Syria is a diverse country, where those of different faiths and ethnicities have lived together for centuries. Growing up in Damascus, it was common to have friends from different faiths. We came together to mark each other’s holidays, gathering in mosques and churches alike. For example, although my family is Muslim, every Christmas we went to Bab Tuma, an ancient Christian neighbourhood near our home, to see the Christmas lights and hear the songs. Most Syrians are moderate Muslims who believe in God and want to live in peace.

The butchery, suffering and sectarianism we see today is especially devastating, considering the conflict was rooted in a peaceful call for democracy. In 2011, as the Arab Spring spread across the region, protestors took to the streets in Syria calling for civil rights and an end to harassment by the security services. The Assad family had ruled the country as a dictatorship for decades. Those original protestors demanded peace and human rights. They wanted democracy, the establishment of a pluralistic democratic system and the elimination of the security state.

Despite the peaceful nature of the protests, Bashar al-Assad sought to crush the uprising through a brutal crackdown which included killing and imprisoning hundreds of protesters. Then he did something else, that would prove far more strategic – he released a large number of jihadists from prison. From then on, he claimed that peaceful protestors were “jihadis” colluding alongside terrorists.

The regime duly heightened its already ruthless response. This included carrying out mass arrests, openly firing at civilians and using sexual violence and torture in the form of electrification, burnings and beatings. Often, children were targeted. Security forces would kidnap anyone accused of taking part in demonstrations and detain them in the country’s secret prisons, under the most inhumane of conditions. Nobody knows the true numbers of those harmed and kidnapped. I know mothers who still wonder what has happened to their children.

Simultaneously it was very difficult to report on what was going on. Journalists like me were threatened with physical violence. Many of my former colleagues were attacked. In the absence of free speech, the regime tried to cover up the human rights abuses it was committing and spout out its own propaganda that the uprisings reflected violent extremism. It was due to this exceptional violence in response to civic activism that unrest escalated into war.

Over the succeeding years, though, the nightmare described by the regime’s propaganda became true. Terrorist organisations flocked to the region. A whole host of rebel groups began to operate.

Ordinary people found themselves caught between the Assad regime, rebel groups and the rise of Islamist terrorists like Daesh, Jund al-Aqsa and Jabhat Fateh al-Sham. Over the years that followed, the original protestors had to watch as these terrorists hijacked our calls for change, falsely claiming the revolution had symbolised a call for extremism and using it as an opportunity to try to implement their own poisonous agenda. In reality, they were just as opposed to the principles of the revolution as Assad.

Islamist fighters shortly after the capture of Idlib in 2015

The extremists may operate under different names, but they share a primitive vision of Islam, including implementing strict Sharia law and building a pan-Islamic “caliphate” or state. Many of these terrorist groups also share similar roots, which can be traced back to Al-Qaeda in Iraq in the early 2000s. According to their reactionary and highly distorted interpretation of Islam, anyone who fails to comply with their strict vision is subject to extreme violence and death, resulting in the repression of both Muslims and non-Muslims alike. 

The most notorious of these groups is Daesh, also known as Islamic State. Daesh’s hypocrisy towards the unlucky populations under its grip knew no bounds: its fighters stole resources, and looted archaeological treasures, but watched civilians starve. Its propaganda machine pumped out videos of militants handing out food and medical supplies, but on the ground its fighters simultaneously carried out public executions and raped young girls. Daesh controlled Syrians by acting as the judge, jury and executioner. Not only that, but it seized the country’s economic resources, including its oil fields.

Since the start of the revolution, control over Idlib has shifted back and forth, with power exchanging hands between the regime, rebel forces and groups like Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). A Salafi-Jihadi militant group with strong ties to Al-Qaeda, HTS only emerged as a fighting force early last year. It was effectively a rebranding exercise, to reflect a merger between various terrorist factions linked to al-Qaeda, such as Jabhat Fateh al-Sham (formerly al-Nusra Front), the Ansar al-Din Front and Jaysh al-Sunna. By pooling their soldiers and weapons into one repugnant pot, the militants were able to capture Idlib City in the summer of 2017. HTS is hated by locals, but its leaders have managed to build support by forming coalitions with other terrorist and rebel groups, including Daesh defectors, and foreign fighters from other Arab states. Its modus operandi is mass arrests, murder and violence. 

In Saraqeb, local residents had tried to establish some basic order by setting up their own elected council. HTS militants took it over. Although the organisation had tried to court popularity by positioning itself as a pro-revolution and anti-Assad force, its real sentiments were symbolised by the militants publicly stamping on a pro-revolutionary flag. Freedom to protest was equally quashed: militants responded to an anti-HTS demonstration by detaining worshippers at a mosque at gunpoint, and firing at civilians. Just as with the Assad regime, to criticise HTS is to fear imprisonment– so much so that Idlib’s Al-'Aqab prison has become a symbol of HTS power. This holds a heavy irony, since under Assad, prisons in the country were also symbols of repression.

HTS has tried another Daesh tactic – using its grip on the economy to gain political power. It established its own “civil department” to oversee the provision of electricity and food, and militants also took over a food market by force. The paradox is of course that while HTS hands out food in exchange for power, it has blocked external agencies from delivering desperately-needed aid. Its militants have seized aid convoys and imposed significant restrictions on humanitarian organisations. This includes the confiscation of offices and warehouses, with reports this has stopped more than 50,000 families from receiving humanitarian aid, including food and blankets. The HTS commander, Abu Mohammed al-Jolani, declared looted money would be returned to its rightful hands, prisoners would be freed and displaced civilians would be returned to their villages. These promises were of course never fulfilled.

A Syrian family flees shelling in a town in Idlib province, June 2013

Idlib now stands as the last rebel-held province outside Assad’s control, and “victory” over the area is being prized above any human cost. As the cradle of many of the early anti-Assad protests, Idlib’s civilians had called for democracy from the start of the revolution. These protests were not only peaceful, but cross-sectarian – uniting Syrians in a common desire for political freedom.

Today, Idlib is one of the most dangerous parts of the country. Last year, representatives of Russia, Iran and Turkey signed a deal establishing four “de-escalation zones” to bring about a ceasefire and allow in much needed aid. Despite Idlib being one of these zones, Russia is continuing to relentlessly bomb the area in its support for Assad. The deal has been broken by both the regime and by Islamist rebels.

This means Idlib is now facing one of the worst humanitarian crises the region has ever seen. Children are malnourished. The daily airstrikes destroy what little infrastructure remains. In an ultimate act of barbarity, Assad has also used chemical weapons on his own people, causing victims to foam at the mouth before dying. Families have nowhere safe to hide – my own relatives were struck by shelling last week as they went to buy vegetables, bread and candles. Siege tactics have led to mass starvation: hundreds of thousands are deprived of food and clean drinking water, leading to yet more disease and death. Each day, dozens and dozens are killed. 

A boy being rescued from a destroyed house in Saraqeb, 2013

Impossible though it may seem, there are still attempts to hope in this hell on earth. Idlib’s residents are increasingly coming together to publicly reject HTS. There are reports of demonstrations demanding an end to violence, with protests taking place in Saraqeb, as well as the nearby town of Maarrat al-Nu’man, which also has a strong anti-Assad movement. Local civilians frequently take part in huge demonstrations against HTS, chanting slogans of freedom. These activists know that there is a great deal at stake: they face being killed, arrested and imprisoned. On the other hand, they know that if they do not resist HTS, they risk losing any hope of democracy in the future. These demonstrations are powerful evidence that civilians are determined to see their towns freed from terrorism of any form. 

Without a trustworthy government, in the hardest times of all, civil society is stepping up to the plate. This includes the NGOs trying to get aid to the one million civilians in need of medical supplies, food and water, and the No Lost Generation scheme helping children catch up on the education missed during years of war. Organisations are helping to empower women and teach them vocational skills. Such groups recognise Syria’s future will be stronger if all minorities, faiths and genders play their part.

Although Syria is thousands of miles away, there is a lot that communities across the world can do to help. First, the humanitarian situation is so dire that help is needed to prevent disease and starvation escalating among those still trapped in the region. This includes the important work of volunteers like the White Helmets, who rescue those trapped in bombed-out buildings, and the important work of internationally recognised aid organisations such as those part of the Disasters Emergency Committee. Despite efforts to block aid they are doing what they can to save children, women and the elderly stuck in this ‘no-man’s land’. Second, it is essential that the international community remains united with those in Syria who want a democratic solution, free from Assad and free from terrorism. That is why we need the international community to continue to apply pressure on Russia to cease its bombing and its support for Assad, so that we can work towards a peaceful political settlement.

Maarrat al-Nu’man, 2018

Idlib is therefore proof, and an important lesson for the world. The fact that activists in Idlib have continued to reject those who oppress them and stand up for liberal democratic values is in many ways astonishing –and they deserve our respect and solidarity. The revolution started with a simple call for democracy and ordinary Syrians still believe in this.

Syria is my home. It’s where I was born, where I went to school and where I began my career as a journalist and human rights activist. For people like me who have campaigned for change for so many years, we will not give up until civilians are safe. The last thing these people want or deserve is yet more violence and that is why innocent civilians must continue to be our priority. It is also why democracy must remain the ultimate prize for anyone who cares about Syria.

Bahia Mardini is a journalist and human rights campaigner. She was an information media consultant in the National Coalition for Syrian Revolutionary and Opposition Forces, and was the director of the media office of the opposition delegation in the peace negotiations in Geneva 2012. Since fleeing her home in Syria, she is now based in the UK, where she is a founder of Syrian House, an organisation dedicated to helping Syrians in the UK access information and support. 

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Families stroll down the Corniche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A group of Filipino men take a selfie 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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