Turkish Food in Dubai, Coffee and Dissidence

Last night, I met A. for dinner. A.interned with us this summer and has been invovled in several programs we have run. I assumed we'd get food in Abu Dhabi, but he decided because the roads were relatively empty, we might as well go to Dubai. Now, this is about 90 minutes away if one drives at a speed legal in the United States, but apparently it's normal to go to Dubai for dinner or a movie. Perhaps this is a consequence of living in an economy largely fueled by oil.

We went to a delicious Turkish restaurant in the Mall of the Emirates. I went to Istanbul and Selcuk with my father over winter break, and the food made me feel a little like I was home because I remembered eating it with my father. Unfortunately, my delight far exceeded my appetite. I ordered a Turkish variation on dolmas (they had nuts inside them which gave them an interesting texture,) a pumpkin-yogurt soup, and lahmajoun, which is a thin piece of bread covered with a mix of ground beef, tomatoes, and basil and sliced like a pizza. I was too full by the time I got to my lahmajoun, so I'm looking forward to eating it for lunch.

After dinner, we met A.'s friend D., a Bulgarian commercial model (lots of models in my life lately) for coffee. We talked about the World Cup for a while, and then got into an argument about the source of violence in South Africa/whether it would be ready to host in time. (My ability to have neutral, nonpolitical conversation is apparently nonexistent.) D. is about to get married to an Australian and move to Sydney. She's lived in the UAE for the last ten years and is really sorry to go.

D. and A. had a nostalgic conversation about Abu Dhabi in the late nineties that was exactly like the conversations people have everywhere about changes in a place they love. "It used to be so nice," D. said. "People were so relaxed and friendly and you could walk on the Corniche for hours. Now everyone is always in a hurry and works too hard. It's not the same." Then they talked about how much worse traffic has gotten, and complained about the number of new development projects. D. worried that buildings were being built everywhere without accompanying increases in roads or parking. At first, A. blamed the changes on these projects, and then they both settled on a different landmark, the death of Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan al Nayhan in 2004 and his replacement by his son, Khalifa bin Zayed al Nayhan.

A. focused on the Khalifa government's rollback of the fuel subsidies, which mean the price of gas has more than doubled in the last three years. D. discussed the plight of the migrant workers, who make about 600 dirhams (about 160 dollars) a month. A. worries that there isn't enough support for public higher education, pointing out that only 11% of emirati adults hold a Bachelor's degree. (D. thinks this is because emirati youth don't want to study, but A. thinks cost is a big factor, especially when marriages cost 200,000 dirhams [60-70 thousand dollars], so even youth who are comfortably off must sometimes choose between marriage and education.) What alarms them both is that the government is making so much money off oil and foreign investments and it's difficult to see how that revenue is benefiting the population.

The 'story' I've heard about the UAE many times is that it is a government unusually conscious of the hazards of dutch disease, a government that takes great and creative pains to avoid this plight. While the government has been very successful diversifying the economy away from oil into financial services and real estate, and has wisely invested oil revenue abroad, it seems that it hasn't devoted the same focus to increasing human capital. Many young emirati who don't need to work just don't work. This gap in the development of a skilled workforce isn't an economic problem because the UAE can recruit ex-pats with the required skillsets, luring them with its generous tax policies.

By the end of this conversation, D. was visibly upset. She wondered what A. could do about the need for public education, and suggested that he write a letter to the paper and see how much public support there was for the idea. He said if he were to write such a letter, he'd get thrown in jail for a few days. All her proposed solutions were met with similar responses.

I think in general, people here like the government just enough-- and receive just enough government benefits-- that they are too happy and well-off to feel that they live in a repressive state. Also, it's very much a rentier state-- because they have no affirmative duties to the state, the things they receive from the state are perceived as largesse rather than the duties of the state.

One thing that strikes me is the way a quiet climate of fear seems to be a larger factor than actual government actions. There is an almost nonexistent state presence. I almost never see cops or security guards. People are worried about what other people might do. I got a ride home from a British girl at work yesterday who is dating another British expat. Sometimes they stay over at each other's apartments, and she worries that if someone in her building started disliking her, they could report her to the police and she'd wind up in jail or sent home. I'm almost positive the police would turn a blind eye, but the very fact that she's afraid is a powerful comment on the climate.

On the way home, I asked A. lots of questions about everything. I tried to absorb his answers, but I wish I'd had a tape recorder. Here are the segments I remember, out of order and unrelated:

A: …for them, going to Iraq is like a guaranteed first class ticket to heaven. It’s the easiest way to get one. That’s why there are suicide bombers every day.
B: Is it a more guaranteed route than being a suicide bomber in Palistine?
A: Well, it’s much harder to get into Palistine.
B: How much of this do you think is due to poverty or the lack of other opportunities?
A: It is definitely a major factor, especially in Saudi Arabia. There, when someone is unemployed, it is their best option. Everyone can serve God by defending their country, getting rid of invaders. But in Islam, you can also serve your country by becoming educated and supporting your family and building your community, and anyone who has that choice will not choose to die. This is why in the UAE we have very very few people who go to Iraq. They hold onto the chance that they could help their community, find some way to impact 10,000 people and this chance, this opportunity is much better than being a suicide bomber.

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B: What country in the region do you think has the best model?
A: The UAE. Saudi is too closed. Qatar, closed. Oman is like the UAE. Kuwait is much too open. Bahrain is also too open. The UAE is a good mix of open and conservative.
B: What if I throw in Iran?
A: Iran is too open.
B: Oh?
A: Don’t look at the government. Look at the people. Look at the Iranians and how they behave when they come to Dubai.
B: So what criteria are you using for “open” and “closed?” Drinking? Dress?
A: Yes, drinking and dress. Also, the places where culture intersects with religion. My discussion is more about culture than religion and people often confuse the two. For instance, in a closed society, men and women don’t meet before marriage. In a liberal society, they may do all sorts of things before they marry. In some families, brothers and sisters can’t all sit together. In my family, for instance, we all sit together, but my sisters stay covered. This is a good balance.

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B: What happens to people who speak out against the government?
A: They go to jail.
B: How heavy-handed is the government? What is jail like?
A: There was this one dissenter, I think he was a dean at a university who then resigned who spoke out against the government. He was instead tried in court for having a relationship with a European women. It is impossible that he would have had a relationship with this women. She was old. Another man who tried to start an organization to change the government was going to be arrested but went into exile instead. I think Amnesty International is working on his case. Sometimes people disappear and their families have no idea what happened to them. In general, it’s not arrest itself. You can talk to your friends and family about the government. But if you write a letter to the paper or something, or try to organize people, you might be thrown in jail for a few days. What happens more often is that if you were to write an article critical of the government, the editor would refuse to publish it. It’s more that there’s a climate of fear for everyone. When people get in trouble, it is usually not the government, but the authorities under the government.
B: In the U.S., university professors can sometimes get away with saying things other people wouldn't say. How about here?
A: No, definitely not. We can't even talk about the situation in Iraq or the goverment or anything.
B: So there aren't political science classes, or international relations classes or government classes?
A: No. I took one required class, the UAE and the GCC (Gulf Cooperation Council), but it was all sociology, not politics. We couldn't ask why something was the way it was, the teacher would say, "No, that's politics."

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In my Latin American Politics Class, we spent a lot of time discussing "political space" and the ways it could be created or repressed. It's hard for me to see how political space will open here, because the average local is too materially comfortable to want to take the risk and go to jail. Also, people seem to have thoroughly accepted the government's constraints. What does a "pedagogy of the oppressed" look like for the fantastically wealthy? What does it look like for people who have no rights and want desperately to hold onto their small opportunity within the system?

I spent a lot of college involved in GOTV efforts. I worked for my campus newspaper, first in the news section, then opinions, and then wrote my own column. Most of my friends, in one way or another, could be described as activists. However, I don't think it was until this point that I realized just how great it is to be able to do these things. As I criticized our management of the Iraq War with A., I felt an overwhelming joy that I could, and have, said these exact same things in the classroom, in the airport, in the capital city, in front of the White House, to my superiors, on the internet and in the newspaper without fear. I have the right to vote against leaders I disagree with, and to encourage others to do the same. Best of all, I have the right to fight and work against the things I hate about my country. In a democracy, an individual always has a source of hope, however distant. I'm glad to be from a place with so much scope for optimism.