Disllusionment in Dubai

If you've ever suffered an identity crisis, take solace in the fact that you will never beat my score. I've globe trotted a bit in my early childhood, from my native Pakistan to my current humble dwelling in Canada and I proudly declare to all that I've lived in five different countries. A very conservative Pakistani upbringing in an arab country where most of my classmates were expatriate kids of various nationalities, is a recipe for what my wife refers to as an 'ABCD'; Alien Born Confused Desi (desi is the annointed term for anyone from the Indian subcontinent, confused as in not knowing where one's root belong).
"May Allah always Preserve you...may Allah always Preserve you...", I whispered, as I crossed the Dubai creek on an abra, a traditional water taxi that generations of arabs and expat workers use daily for a meagre fare of 50 fils, which is equivalent to about 15 cents. I was praying for the well-being of Dubai, the city of gold.
A young Moroccon sat next to me, chatting with his Iranian counterpart in english. The ride lasts ten minutes and I embark on the other side of the Dubai creek called Bur Dubai, the downtown core of the city.

I had a twelve hour transit stop on my return to Toronto after having completed a short family visit to Pakistan, which I spent walking around the city. Dubai bustles at sunset, draped in neon lights and a carnival atmosphere of screeching Mercedes tires, illegal road-side vendors and magnificent super malls. A sea of nationalities converge on the pedestrian sidewalks each evening as the scorching heat subsides, each face a testimony to some hard and much sought-after dream. The Dubai creek glitters at night in the lights of arabian dhows that gently move across the water, mostly traditional merchant vessels from the sub-continent. They are charming to look at against the backdrop of modernity, a nostalgic reminder of her humble beginnings.



Starting 1950 and onward, Dubai grew from a small community of local arab tribes into a humble port city that offered small merchant vessels from Asia a place to dock and refresh. With the discovery of oil in the seventies came an uprecedented economic boom that transformed a sleepy coastal town of pearl-divers and fishermen, into a modern infrastructure of 1 million inhabitants. Approximately 85% of these residents are expat workers, as they're popularly referred to, from diverse ethnic backgrounds and nationalities. I knew this city where I grew up, like the backseat of my car.


I disembarked the abra, almost loosing my balance in an effort to look graceful whilst hopping off the small, turbulent dinghy (I'm sure I heard the Indian boat operator snicker).

It was thirty minutes after sunset and Dubai had come to life. I walked past a long line of docked merchant vessels, whose crew were either off-loading their small cargo or preparing for their next journey. The cargo was typically food-stuff or consumer electronics. Illegal workers and poor labourers from the Indian sub-continent often earn a few extra dirhams in the evenings from whatever chore they can find on this spot.

An attractive European lady in her thirties walked uneasily past a group of Somali sailors, obviously lost in the labriynth of crates and pallets stacked with goods alongside the concrete off-loading area. A ship captain from one of the local sightseeing dhows that take you on a dinner-cruise along the Dubai creek beckoned me to consider, to which I refused in the typical arrogant manner of Dubai expats, by not acknowledging his mere existence and continued to walk silently.


If you ever embark on a personal walk through downtown Dubai at night, then every few minutes you will come across something charming, something exquisite and exotic that couldn't offer the same appeal anywhere else in the world.

I observed a group of four or five Pakistani men, squatting in a circle on the hard concrete, obviously illegal workers who had over-stayed their visas. There is an abundance of such workers that no one will admit to. It's an overhead expense a lot of businesses, especially the construction sector, would prefer that itremain cheap and plentiful. It is a sad reality that the likes of Amnesty International will never understand, because it is not deliberatly planned to be that way. It is what it is.

My walk up the creek ended with a detour I made through the City Center Mall, reminiscing days gone by as I watched a new generation of angry, playful high school seniors take my place.

Within the hour, I had arrived at the airport mosque and sat in its veranda, enjoying the cool night, massaging my swollen feet as I thought of how desperately I would miss this moment. I used to pray at the same mosque, years ago, when I wasn't married, when I was younger and able to fall in love at the drop of a hat, when life didn't hold much responsibilty.


An Indian laborer lay in the same veranda of the mosque, fast asleep, with what appeared to be his personal belongings that he used for a pillow. Years ago, I would have thought nothing of it, just an Indian laborer who was meant to be that way; someone who revolved around the center of the universe that was my life. Someone who didn't feel the pinch of poverty and desperation, because he was meant to be poor. But a few years of living away from home had changed my perspective on things. I sensed his plight and reflected on so many similar paradoxes in the city of gold.

As I rose to head toward the airport, I remembered moments in time that I had spent in the courtyard of that very mosque. I am not a religious man per say, but I do have some fundamental religious beliefs. Indeed, what goes around comes around.
"May Allah always Preserve you....may Allah always Preserve you", I whispered as I glanced at the poor soul who lay asleep in the veranda.

I was praying for Dubai.