Mira Al Hussein is an Emirati sociologist specializing in the Arab states of the Gulf. Her research focuses on state-society relations, citizenship, migration and women's rights in the region. She holds a PhD from the University of Cambridge.
In 2017, speaking at the Mohammed bin Salman Foundation's Tweeps Forum on "Countering Extremism and Terrorism," United Arab Emirates Foreign Minister Sheikh Abdullah bin Zayed wagged a finger at Europe for its presumed leniency toward Islamists, citing "political correctness" and what he described as a false assumption that Europe understood Islam "better than we do." Nearly a decade after those statements, Abu Dhabi has taken its battle to the West, targeting an ideology that is more trace than structure — an idea rather than an institution. Following January 2026 reports that the UAE had suspended scholarships to the United Kingdom over alleged campus radicalization linked to the Muslim Brotherhood, the story again circulated widely, often uncritically and without context. The roots of this decision, however, lie in a series of controversies that shook the UAE in 2021.
That year was bruising for the UAE. British media carried a steady stream of damaging revelations about the country and its ruling elites. In February 2021, the story of Latifa — the runaway daughter of Dubai's ruler Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum — resurfaced after British outlets published a secretly recorded video in which she claimed to be held against her will. No sooner had that story faded than another emerged exposing the UAE's use of Israeli Pegasus spyware to target U.K. citizens and Emirati expatriates, including a member of the House of Lords. In parallel, the £500 million divorce case between Dubai's ruler, Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum and Princess Haya of Jordan, continued to unfold.
In the post-Arab Spring period, the UAE increasingly portrayed its adversaries — both domestic and international — as the "Muslim Brotherhood," a label used to delegitimize local grievances and dismiss setbacks abroad.
- Mira Al Hussein
By mid-2021, the UAE began talks with the University of Cambridge about a multi-sector, £400 million partnership. But the talks collapsed after U.K. media drew attention to a series of controversies surrounding the Emirates, including the imprisonment of British academic Matthew Hedges. In the following months, sustained pressure from media, human rights groups and student and academic associations mounted, urging Cambridge to reconsider the partnership due to the UAE's poor human rights record, intolerance for academic freedom and illegal surveillance operations within the United Kingdom.
For Emirati students, 2021 brought uncomfortable exposure to critical media coverage of the UAE — reporting rarely seen at home. That exposure, combined with what Abu Dhabi viewed as a coordinated media campaign against it, likely triggered the suspension of scholarships for the 2022 academic year. The move was also intended as a punitive response to perceived U.K. hostility. In this regard, the UAE interprets hard-hitting international media coverage not as a democratic exercise of holding power accountable, but as an assault conducted by its adversaries.
At the time, a former Emirati diplomat called me, seeking to understand what had triggered the backlash against the Cambridge deal. When I mentioned widespread talk of the UAE spying on a House of Lords member, the diplomat protested: "There's no evidence of that." Denial, I would later recognize, is the official standpoint against critique — regardless of evidence.
The House of Lords member in question was Baroness Manzila Pola Uddin, a hijab-wearing Muslim woman who was among several British Muslim politicians to sign a 2006 open letter criticizing former Prime Minister Tony Blair. They argued Blair — a close associate of the UAE — drove a destructive Middle East policy that fueled extremism.
In the post-Arab Spring period, the UAE increasingly portrayed its adversaries — both domestic and international — as the "Muslim Brotherhood," a label used to delegitimize local grievances and dismiss setbacks abroad. Critics were conveniently lumped under the catch-all term "Islamists," tapping into what Abu Dhabi perceives as a deep-seated Western fear and mistrust of Islam.
But the UAE's efforts go beyond those who are visibly Muslim. In the summer of 2023, the French investigative outlet Mediapart revealed an operation allegedly orchestrated by Emirati intelligence services targeting prominent European Muslim politicians, journalists and rights activists. The campaign reportedly relied on a Swiss private intelligence firm, Alp Services, to compile dossiers and launch smear campaigns falsely linking targeted individuals to the Muslim Brotherhood.
To maintain influence, Abu Dhabi also aligns its efforts with Western, right-wing populism, including anti-immigrant and anti-Muslim rhetoric, ensuring that Muslim, minority and progressive voices remain constrained and manageable.
- Mira Al Hussein
Those named included Samia Ghali, a former French senator and member of the Socialist Party, who expressed shock upon discovering she was on a list of more than 200 people in France alone. Another case involved Zakia Khattabi, Belgium's former environment minister, reportedly on a list naming 160 Belgian individuals.
Both Ghali and Khattabi are not identifiably Muslim, nor have they built political careers around Muslim-related issues. Ghali is affiliated with the Socialist Party and campaigns on local security-related issues, while Khattabi is a member of Ecolo, a progressive, pluralist and environmentally focused political party. Perhaps Ecolo's strong stance against fossil fuels and commitment to a rapid transition to renewable energy made Khattabi an especially relevant target, alongside her Arab and Muslim heritage.
For the UAE, the participation of Muslims and Arabs in the machinery of democracy is itself a threat. These communities not only maintain ties to their countries of origin but are also deeply familiar with regional politics, investing in the trajectories of their ancestral homelands. That dynamic threatens Abu Dhabi's counter-revolutionary designs, especially when activists rally to influence their governments' policies toward the UAE. Thus, to preempt collective mobilization that might undermine its geopolitical and financial interests, it has often sought to discredit and malign these communities.
Integrated Muslims and Arabs in the West present a distinct challenge. Their capacity to win elections and credibly represent wide-ranging communities runs counter to the UAE's authoritarian template, which favors pliant, apolitical minorities abroad and obedient subjects at home. This anxiety explains the relentless smear campaigns against U.S. Reps. Ilhan Omar and Rashida Tlaib. Political independence — particularly independence resistant to right-wing politics — dilutes Abu Dhabi's leverage.
To maintain influence, Abu Dhabi also aligns its efforts with Western, right-wing populism, including anti-immigrant and anti-Muslim rhetoric, ensuring that Muslim, minority and progressive voices remain constrained and manageable. Yet those challenging the UAE's strategic and business interests in the West are mostly neither Muslim nor Arab. Undeterred, Abu Dhabi frames their activism as the work of "political Islam" and subversive actors seeking to capture Western politics and manipulate Western society. It further utilizes lax lobbying regulations to advance this effort.
In the context of the January suspension of scholarships, the UAE is testing its ability to influence British politics and other national political trends by tying economic deals and political cooperation to its long-standing campaign against political Islam. In this regard, London's 2025 proscription of Palestine Action as a terrorist organization, though overturned, was an instructive moment, encouraging Abu Dhabi to expand similar efforts elsewhere.
When outlets first reported about the UAE suspending U.K. scholarships, three years had passed since the decision had effectively taken place — a move Abu Dhabi never officially announced. In January 2024, during a visit to the Emirati embassy, I asked a diplomat why scholarships had been cut, as many students with university offers were suddenly told they were no longer eligible. The diplomat brushed it off: "We just want students to try different destinations."
A loud protest interrupted our conversation, led by a group of Amhara — an indigenous ethnic community involved in a war with the Ethiopian government, which benefits from UAE-supplied drones. Curious, I asked, "What are they protesting?" The diplomat shrugged: "Who knows? We have a protest every other day by those who come up with false allegations against us."
The Amhara are not Islamists, nor predominantly Muslim or Arab, but it would be unsurprising to see these, or similar labels, applied to yet another supposed enemy of the UAE. To grasp the breadth of grievances linked to the UAE's political and commercial interventions worldwide, the label "Islamist" cannot meaningfully encompass every community touched by Emirati aggression. Still, Abu Dhabi continues to muddy political waters with the indiscriminate use of the term. Yet like other once-potent but poorly scrutinized epithets, the label — diluted by relentless overreach — will eventually lose its force.
The views and positions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of DAWN.
