City of Service
Abu Dhabi’s economy is heavily reliant on its oil and gas production, which fuels its skyscrapers and branded luxury lifestyle. 88% of its inhabitants are immigrants, mostly hailing from South Asia, Africa, Southeast Asia, and other Arab states. Many of these immigrants have been living in the country for decades, with only a relative handful being awarded citizenship. No matter how long you have stayed in the UAE, no matter how much you have contributed to this country, it is usually not possible to gain Emirati citizenship. You can only be born into it.
I myself am an immigrant in the UAE. A young Indian woman with a temporary visa. How does one forge an autonomous sense of belonging in a city that will never accept you? Many young men, for instance, turn to religion. Islam is the predominant religion of the UAE. Plagued by a blanket of loneliness, these men turn to sites such as the New Muslim Center, which offers free classes, resources, and—most importantly—a place of community and faith where they can gain a kind of anchoring in their place of residence, something weightier, albeit intangible, than a visa with an expiration date.
After both my student visa and the institutional sheltering from my university NYU Abu Dhabi expired after I graduated, I had no place to go but here. Home wasn’t an option—Botswana’s borders are still closed, and there are no job opportunities. I am also not a citizen of my home country. India, in the midst of COVID-19, is in shambles. I have also never lived there; belonging, although sanctioned by the existence of my concrete, secure passport, felt more tenuous than ever.
Being an artist, creation has always been my antidote to the uncertain or destructive forces in my life. This year, I threw myself into photography. I turned the lens outwards. Even during lockdown, I obsessively photographed my university community, hoping to hold on, in a way, to my surroundings and see it in new ways.
After lockdown eased, I went back out, now masked and armed with copious amounts of hand sanitizer, to the little alleys and concealed shops of Abu Dhabi’s streets. This city is built on service—the history of the entire country rests on the backs of laborers who have come from my own country and a myriad of other developing countries where opportunities are scarce for millions. The skyscrapers, airplanes, retro buildings, photo studios, and restaurants in the UAE have been built and continue to exist because of the service that laborers continue to provide.
I attempted to capture the people and places that—apart from the flow of institutional funding—help run the city’s daily economy. Despite their legal status, immigrants are the very seams and stitches that hold together the fabric of the UAE.
