How the Iran War Cracked Dubai’s Liberal Facade

On Tuesday, reports that an enormous Kuwaiti oil tanker had been set ablaze by an Iranian drone attack at Dubai Port made headlines across the globe. Cable news anchors pontificated on the possible environmental toll were the Al Salmi’s cargo of two million barrels of crude discharged into the blockaded Strait of Hormuz.

In the end, the fire was contained without any significant spill, according to local authorities, and the vessel’s 24 crew members emerged uninjured. Still, it was one of the most significant strikes by Tehran of the war so far—and remarkable for another reason: despite its prominent location, virtually no footage of the ship ablaze emerged at all.

At a time when ubiquitous smartphones provide immediate testimony of missile and drone attacks across the Middle East—including in Iran, Israel, and Lebanon—all that emerged of the Al Salmi was a single long-lens agency photo of smoke billowing across the lapping water. Eventually, the Kuwait Petroleum Corporation issued a handout photo of the damaged ship—but only after the flames had been extinguished.

It would be curious enough for Dubai—the most populous and avowedly liberal state in the United Arab Emirates (UAE)—given it flaunts itself as the Middle East’s sybaritic oasis, whose 4 million inhabitants enjoy a sunbathed lifestyle somewhere between New York and Las Vegas that is flaunted by an army of well-heeled influencers. But add in the fact that a slew of international news outlets maintain UAE bureaus and the blackout is even more puzzling.

The reality is that the Iran War has the UAE showing its true authoritarian colors as its government scrambles to control the conflict narrative, cracking down on anyone sharing photos of missile and drone attacks and their aftermath. For Dubai, where young, rich, and glamorous influencers endlessly parrot the city’s claim to be “the safest city in the world,” the shift has been especially profound—not least as tens of thousands of foreigners have fled.

After an Iranian drone struck a residential tower in Dubai’s expat enclave of Creek Harbour on March 12, three survivors were arrested after sending photos of their damaged home in private messages simply to reassure relatives they were safe. Days earlier, 21 people were detained for sharing news of attacks in a private group message. Even these acts were deemed to have violated fuzzy cybercrime laws, which make it an offense “to broadcast, publish, republish or circulate false news, rumors or provocative propaganda that may incite public opinion or disturb public security.” Offenders face deportation, two years in prison, as well as a fine ranging from AED 20,000 to AED 200,000 ($5,450 to $54,500.)

They are just some of the “hundreds” of ordinary folk arrested under these laws since the Iran War began, says Radha Stirling, CEO of Detained in Dubai, which provides legal and diplomatic assistance to foreigners in strife. “That is probably a conservative estimate.” Security officials accost people on the street and insist upon examining their smartphones, or even turn up unannounced at homes with the same demand, says Stirling. “It’s everyone from a Filipina maid all the way to a multi-millionaire. It’s a really broad and draconian enforcement of the law.”

UAE Attorney General Hamad Saif Al Shamsi justified the crackdown since sharing content on Iran’s missile attacks could incite panic and create “a false impression of the country’s actual situation.” However, it’s less clear why accredited international journalists are also in the crosshairs, several of whom have been detained for several days simply for doing their jobs, sources tell TIME.

Sara Qudah, regional director for the Middle East and North Africa at the Committee to Project Journalists, says UAE-based reporters tell her confidentially that “they are under strict rules not to publish or to speak to any media outlets about what is happening.”

Of course, few should be surprised. The very idea of Dubai has always entailed the suspension of reality—a tightly choreographed tableaux of happy-go-lucky opulence nestled between intolerable suffering in Syria, Gaza, Yemen, and elsewhere. Its existence is owed to the kafala system, whereby migrant workers’ legal status is tied to employers, giving them significant control over immigration and providing an avenue for abuses. As urban theorist Mike Davis puts it in his 2010 Fear and Money in Dubai, Dubai is “a strange paradise” that feels like an “unpublished sequel to Blade Runner or Donald Trump on acid.”

But while marketing itself as aloof from worldly troubles, the UAE also stands accused of brazenly stoking them. Far from the leased Lamborghinis and 24-hour pool parties, U.N. monitors say the UAE is a key backer of anti-government rebels in Sudan’s blood-soaked civil war, which has killed more than 400,000 people and displaced over 11 million since fighting broke out in April 2023. While UAE vehemently denies fueling conflict, it's hard to escape a sense of chickens coming home to roost.

Of course, the UAE prefers to portray itself as a haven of business-friendly predictability, while reveling in a long list of superlatives, such as boasting the world’s tallest tower, biggest mall, and busiest international airport. Golden visas provide wealthy expatriates tax-free living, while from February a new “influencer license” has helped inculcate an aspirational mirage of a city that styles itself as the capital of the Global South.

“Similar to how Hollywood developed [with film], and prior to that theater and literature in Europe, the UAE is really the city that is developing in the social media age,” says Zoe Hurley, author of Social Media Influencing in The City of Likes: Dubai and the Postdigital Condition. “They’ve been really savvy and very strategic in using methods of influence.”

In the wake of the first attacks, many influencers swiftly pivoted from fashion and lifestyle to covering the war, posting videos of missiles zooming overhead and huge queues outside liquor stores, all while lamenting “It’s not meant to be happening here!” and issuing tone-deaf complaints about airport delays being “really annoying actually cause we have got events.” However, before long creators were posting eerily similar content heaping praise on the official response, while regurgitating platitudes about the UAE’s steadfast leadership.

While the UAE’s absolutism has never been far from the surface, it’s unclear what the lurch toward overt authoritarianism will mean for Dubai going forward. After all, nobody moves to the Emirates in search of democracy; the enclave’s draw has always been its reputation for safety and carefree affluence. But the ongoing missile strikes and daily security alerts have shattered that myth of security—since the onset of hostilities, the UAE has weathered 1,977 drones, 19 cruise missiles, and 433 ballistic missiles, reports its Defense Ministry—and it remains to be seen how damaging the draconian security crackdown has been to Dubai’s self-styled insouciance.

“The UAE is so much about public perception and they’re trying to protect that image,” one British expat based in Dubai tells TIME, asking to remain anonymous given the sensitivity of the situation. And it may work on many of its residents. “People will just accept that it’s more of a dictatorship than the West, but they won’t accept less safety.”

Certainly, Dubai retains many fans who have made their lives there and are willing to defend its reputation. After all, the endless stream of Western influencer content misrepresents the city’s demographics. Out of the 85% of inhabitants who are foreigners, some 60% are South Asian, and nearly half of those are Indians, predominantly from the southern state of Kerala. Many have taken to countering exaggerated narratives in Indian news media, posting images of themselves outside the Burj Khalifa to refute erroneous reports that it was ablaze. Others have turned to humor to denigrate the severity of the situation.

“When we talk about the image of Dubai as a safe haven, someone from India and Pakistan may still say … Dubai is way more secure for everyday life,” says Sreya Mitra, an associate professor of mass communication at the American University of Sharjah. “South Asian influencers post at 2am from a Ramadan food festival and say ‘I’m out here and I couldn’t have done it in Delhi,’ which is notoriously unsafe for women.”

Indeed, Dubai has proven itself resilient in the past. It was hit hard by the 2008 financial crisis, COVID-19 pandemic, and most recently 2024’s devastating floods, which shut the airport, left entire neighborhoods under water, and caused over $3 billion of damage. The difference is that those calamities were largely external shocks, as with the Iranian attacks, while censorship and draconian arrests are entirely self-made and self-defeating.

While many long-term expats are determined to wait out the crisis, there are also plenty who baulk at the new militarized atmosphere and constant missile alerts, with schools and universities teaching remotely amid Iranian threats, and a high risk of being stranded with Dubai International Airport still operating at just 60%. Curbs on free speech only add to the disquiet.

“Had they simply focused on defending the country from missiles and the drones, I think they would have come out looking praiseworthy and actually improved their image in the long term,” says Stirling. “But rounding people up under these cybercrime laws has caused quite long-term damage.”