On Guest-Editing The UAE Issue: Laure Assaf and Deepak Unnikrishnan

We spoke to anthropologist Laure Assaf and writer Deepak Unnikrishnan about guest co-editing Wasafiri 122: The UAE Issue, which aims to move away from monolithic representations of the region. They discuss their personal histories in the emirates, surveillance, family, transience, theorising the UAE in real-time, and more.

Why did you choose to edit this issue? 

Laure Assaf: When Deepak approached me about co-editing this issue, I had been working with a group of artists and researchers on an exhibition named Being Borrowed. On Egyptian Migration to the Gulf (created by Farah Hallaba and Farida Youssef), which we hosted at NYU Abu Dhabi (NYUAD). This was my first time stepping out of strictly academic work, and it was a highly rewarding experience. Similarly, Wasafiri crosses the bridge between academic texts, fiction, poetry, and art. It felt like the ideal way to pursue this quest for other modes of engagement with the UAE — the place I study, but also the place I’ve inhabited for a long time now. 

Deepak Unnikrishnan: I am not sure if spending your youth in Abu Dhabi, raised by Indians, means anything. For a while, I was convinced our histories didn’t count. That my people didn’t matter to conversations about the Arab world, that we weren’t seen to be a part of the region, that our lack of Arabic (perhaps) didn’t give us a seat at the table. 

With the UAE special issue, I hope we can activate conversations between different communities across the emirates. Some public-facing. Others that could (possibly) happen in private, where questions, sensitive and/or otherwise, are asked. What do we do when we reside in a hyper-surveilled state? What do we do when our people are being bombed, but we are afraid to speak? How/when/what do we critique in a system that’s an absolute monarchy? What does it mean to give something back without being subservient? What does it mean to leave something behind, regardless of citizenry?  

It is time for different communities, spread across the UAE, to start talking/listening to each other, irrespective of lineage/passport privileges/politics. 

Why was it important for you to move away from a model of ‘transience’ when conceptualising the UAE?
 

LA: Transience is real: a common experience in the UAE is that many people around you come and go. At the same time, the focus on transience tends to erase the experiences of those who do not move — whether they formally belong or not. And it obscures the multiple ways through which those who are here temporarily shape and transform the place and have made it what it is. Our ambition was not so much to propose a different model, but to stop and listen to the people who are here, who have been here for a while, and who intend to stay. And to ask: what are they thinking about?

We’ve talked much about temporariness in the past decades: what are the topics we now want to lay out on the table? 

DU: I think speaking about belonging is a done deal for some of us. Call us second or third generation, long-term transplants; just don’t call us third culture. Talking about belonging, claiming shit, felt edgy even close to a decade ago. Not anymore. Partly because the country has recognised the need to push/urge some people (and their children) to stay, which explains schemes like the Golden Visa, or pushing adverts celebrating everyone’s place in the country. And once the state has begun to participate in conversations about belonging, it is time, in my opinion, to recalibrate and think about other things.

This doesn’t mean transience goes away, but transience is felt differently by different parts/classes of UAE society. There is also more to the transient experience than thoughts about the homeland. Frankly, some of us have been transient for so long, we need to be called by other names; and we have other interests besides pining for home. At the same time, we are not afraid to talk about home either. On our own terms, though. This includes Emiratis too, who (do) come from mixed families and may have Emirati elders dreaming in Swahili. Transience isn’t, arguably, our be-all and end-all. That’s what we are trying to push back against.    
 

Is it important that we move away from applying typically Western-centric/-produced theories of statecraft, migration etc. onto the UAE, and develop alternate vocabularies locally instead? 

LA: There is a specific kind of exotic gaze directed at the UAE, and at the Gulf countries in general. Unlike other forms of exoticism and Orientalism, it does not derive from likening these countries to the West’s distant past (like for societies depicted as ‘primitive’), or from seeing them as radically ‘Other’ (like the opposition between Orient and Occident). Rather, it perceives them as embodying a more extreme, future version of the West’s neoliberal, capitalist societies. This makes critique easy; it also makes it simplistic and fallacious.  

What I like about anthropology is its commitment to building theory from the ground up. Theory is not an external 'thing’ that we apply to an object to check if the hat fits; it is carefully built from the empirical realities we observe and take part in. The question, then, is rather: what can the UAE teach us about theories of statehood and migration? How does this context displace some of the assumptions of these theories, and how can it help us improve and refine them? In their own way, many of the contributions to this issue offer a glimpse of an answer. 

DU: I also believe some of the vocabularies we need, from languages within and outside the English canon, have existed for some time. That’s why conversation, between generations and communities within the UAE, needs to be more frequent, before the memories fade. I am part of a generation that has figured out how to leave (perhaps), but I think there’s much use in learning how to tell stories about a place, irrespective of whether you are part of it or not, or whether you continue to live there.   

The language, to explain a state of a place, must also be homegrown. 

In your Editorial, titled 'Skin in the Game', you say ‘In some ways, family, chosen or otherwise, holds the issue together’ — can you expand on what this means? 

LA: The stories in the issue talk about various forms of attachment, and of its counterpart, which is loss and longing. Family is one of the guiding threads, partly because it is what ties people to the UAE, sometimes painfully. It is also what allows us to come back to these larger questions in unexpected ways: it is through family that migration is re-coded as distance; a meal as a home country; a scent as a loved one; a grocery aisle as a sneaky romantic corner; belonging as staying. Family is also a source of comedy, or alienation. The mixing of genres permitted by Wasafiri offers a multifaceted perspective. 

DU: In a place where transience is irrefutable, it can be easy for outsiders to be flippant and claim nothing’s real, because people are passing through. But transience also produces churn, meaning fixed definitions about labels like 'family' are often revised. At the end of the day, family is (arguably) the issue’s fulcrum, appearing as ghosts, language, food, war, desire.  

While there is a successful, commercially booming visual art scene in the country, the literary scene feels less established. How would you like to see it develop and why is that important (thinking especially of your Editorial statement ‘The UAE’s heartbeat is polyglot’)? 

DU: I would argue the literary landscape isn’t bleak, just quiet. If you resist the glam (writers winning prizes abroad; well-attended lit fests), and look at what people have been doing, there’s hope. Ahmad Makia’s work is a good example of this. He resists the urge to sell a thousand copies of everything he produces; but what he puts out there (presently, through hyperhouse) has heart and soul. And he has been doing it for a while. His literary/trans-disciplinary project The State, which he co-founded with the gifted Rahel Aima back in the day was ahead of its time, and their special issues have achieved mythical status. The State may have folded but traces remain.  

The core issue is access and audience, because not everyone can afford to make it as an artist/writer in the UAE. Because there’s no option, if you are a visitor, to be unemployed, to fail, because you need actual work to back your right to remain. Except if you are Emirati, of course. But there’s also more conversation to be had about writers who make work in Arabic, books that deserve to be translated/heard/promoted.    

Frankly, some of us have been transient for so long, we need to be called by other names; and we have other interests besides pining for home.

We also need literary/art critics who aren’t afraid to share their opinion, especially if the work feels meh. Arguably, the public-facing art and literary scene in the country is an insular space, where polite banter feels like the safest option. For the scene to grow, especially in the literary sphere, we need the critics to (respectfully) step up. For that to happen, we need to greenlight their right to critique. They don’t have to be rude, but if they are more demanding of themselves, those who write and make work will also be forced to up their game.   

We need to talk about language when we talk literature, because English isn’t the only language that makes sense in our ecosystem. For example, in languages like Malayalam, Tagalog, Arabic, writers have been going about their business, trying to make sense of the place, for a while. I’m hoping that translators and publishing houses, within the UAE and abroad, are taking note, because these books deserve to be read.   

I would also love to see institutions with money, within the arts and beyond, taking risks with home-grown writers, not only established raconteurs, because some of our writers need time. There’s an obsession, within the UAE and beyond, about success. That’s fair, but give the writers a fair shake at least.  

What surprised you most during the process of producing the issue? 

LA: Because we had refrained from assigning a well-defined theme, I was very curious to see what kind of texts we would get, and how they would resonate – or not – with each other. In the end, I’m surprised at how consistent the issue feels. That may be a by-product of having read and re-read everything so many times (!), but I see so many common threads running through the texts, and the images as well. The interviews, in particular, articulate these well: it has to do with growing up; with family and community; with safety, surveillance, and risk, also, and the way these are handled and navigated. 

DU: We wanted to give creators the space to think about what they wanted to do, and whether they wanted to proceed with caution/care/anarchy.  It is an odd thing, fear. But in a place so surveilled, concerns are normal. To be frank, it was important to watch out for all concerned, because most of our contributors live in the country and/or return to it periodically. But it was also interesting/surprising to see where contributors (prospective and/or otherwise) drew the line. During the drafting stage, some contributors wanted to know if their text felt too critical. Others accused us of pandering to the state, of not being critical enough.  

The tensions from those exchanges made me think a bit. For the sake of self-preservation and steady income, had I compromised my politics and acquiesced to the will of the state? Truthfully, no. But had I forgotten how to rage? Had I placed my roar on mute?   

The Gulf and the UAE as ‘monoliths’, often riddled with stereotypes, remains a pervasive narrative across media internationally. Aside from this Wasafiri issue, what further reading/texts/artworks/cultural works would you recommend to curious audiences who want to challenge their own perceptions of the UAE and the wider region? 

LA: In the academic sphere, two books I’ve been inspired by are Anh Nga Longva’s monograph on Kuwait, Walls Built on Sand (1997), and Soraya Altorki and Abu Bakr Bagader’s study of Jeddah (Jidda, Umm al-rakhā wa-l-shidda, 2006).  

In the literary field, two main strains of texts particularly speak to me. The first is the literature produced by authors who grew up in the Gulf – those whom we might call, for lack of a better term, ‘second generations’, legally maintained outside of the citizenry, but very much part of these urban societies and with an intimate knowledge of them. Hajji Jabir’s Samrawit, set in Jeddah, and Deepak’s Temporary People, set in the UAE, are two very different and fascinating examples of it. The second strain are novels by young women writers from the Gulf, addressing broader historical and geopolitical mutations through the point of view of minority voices. This is the case of writers like Badriya al-Bishr in Saudi Arabia, Reem Al Kamali in the UAE, and Jokha AlHarthi in Oman, with the beautiful Celestial Bodies.  

Finally, the UAE has a wealth of curators whose work explores Gulf societies through a profoundly anthropological lens. Some of them have published catalogues of their exhibitions, which are deep, provocative dives into a certain topic: what comes to mind is Murtaza Vali’s Crude, and Salem AlSuwaidi’s Khaleejiness and Ybna Al3eid. 

DU: I would like to acknowledge my suggestions are English-centric. If I were to compile another list, I would place English on the margins.  

1. I miss Kerning Cultures. Their episodes were dope; their crew was fire. There has been nothing like them before or since; and the fact that they had episodes in Arabic and English increased their dope factor.  

2. Every few months I type Reem Falaknaz’s name into my browser. I like the way she thinks. But I am also partial to photographers/documentarians who are interested in landscapes and people. Some of Brian Kerrigan’s pictures, for example, straddle that line between the surreal and the unreal.  Farah Al Qasimi, who is pretty much an established artist now, has an edge to her work too, especially her film Um Al Naar. 

3. Around twelve years ago, Yasin Kakande wrote An Ambitious Struggle. It was his memoir about boyhood, before leaving Uganda for Dubai, where he made his way as a reporter. The book begins with his birth, charting his trajectory as a member of the press, but its publication also came at personal cost, deportation.  

4. 'Treading Gulf Waters' by Ahmad Makia feels like research about slang and codes, the body reimagined and multi-gendered.  

5. During the pandemic, the writer Anjan Sundaram wrote 'No Direction Home', an essay in The New York Review of Books. Sundaram grew up in Dubai and the essay is as much about his father as it is about himself.  

6. Before Noor Naga’s If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English came out, it appeared as an excerpt in Granta. Noor spent some time in Dubai but also claims Alexandria as one of her cities.  

7. The Barjeel Art Foundation.  

8. I am a great admirer of writer and architect Todd Reisz’s Night School initiative, commissioned by the Jameel Arts Centre. Into its fourth iteration, it is a superb example of an arts incubator, an intense lab where admitted candidates talk shop, learn and engage with each other, as well as with select guests.  

9. Rahel Aima has a book in her, which I hope she finishes soon. When it comes out, I’ll be first in line to buy it.  

10. I’d like to end with Tarek Al-Ghoussein’s Odysseus series, which he couldn’t complete because of his passing. The work is part-documentation, part-quest, the artist hoping to document the 215 islands near Abu Dhabi’s coast.  

For the sake of self-preservation and steady income, had I compromised my politics and acquiesced to the will of the state? Truthfully, no. But had I forgotten how to rage? Had I placed my roar on mute?  

How did you hope – and continue to hope – this issue will impact the UAE’s creative ecosystem? 

LA: We hope this issue will be a starting point, not an end. Our objective was not to come up with a representative sample of the creative scene in the UAE; this would have been a very different endeavour. Rather, we have sought to offer a snapshot of a specific time, and specific actors, in the evolution of this scene. Our hope is to initiate conversations: we will be organising some of them in the coming months; but more broadly we invite responses, feedback, critique.  

I hope people identify gaps in what we’re presenting and are prompted to fill them; recognise elements that resonate with them, or statements they disagree with, and manifest this. One thing we would have wanted to do, and couldn’t for various reasons, is make the issue multilingual: there’s nothing I would like more than to see it reappropriated, debated, and discussed across the various tongues that make up the UAE’s landscape, here and elsewhere. 

DU: The issue may do nothing long-term. But if it could be the start of something, then our hope is that we are advertising the need to talk, across disciplines and people, beyond the academy. To learn from what it means for someone like Juan Gonzales, a theatremaker by training, to work in a country that positions him differently. To wonder what Emirati-ness means, irrespective of whether your family is mixed or pure, to complicate the definition of local, and to see those conversations as something useful, not sabotage. To share our histories with each other because we are alike and different. And to have productive dialogue about making work in an environment policed for safety and control.   

Ultimately, we would like to continue the discussion(s), beyond our lifetimes, to have them in different languages, to translate the volume, to have other volumes. To set something in place, even if the people who are part of this issue may leave/stay/be in-between places, if they are so lucky. To make sure people know, whether they are our own, or strangers in some hypothetical used bookstore in the distant future, that we were never tame — just unsure. 

Photo credit for Deepak Unnikrishnan: Phillip Cheung