In a world where the voices of Emirati women are often overshadowed, we felt it was time to create a dedicated space for their stories to shine. Yalsa With Alyazia: Conversations With An Emirati Woman is born from a desire to celebrate and amplify the diverse experiences of Emirati women—Each month, it offers a glimpse into the everyday realities and quiet inner worlds of women who are often spoken about, but rarely heard from directly.
I never thought I’d be the one to write this. A happily married Emirati woman, opening up about love and dating in the UAE? It almost feels like a betrayal— of my family, my culture, my community. But someone needs to say it.
I’m talking about love. That heart-thumping, butterfly-inducing feeling that, in my society, you’re either supposed to marry into, or publicly pretend doesn’t exist. Unless, of course, it’s with a pre-approved suitor, handpicked by the family. Which, to be fair, works out well for some. But if you’ve ever dared to step outside the matchmaking mold, chances are your love life has played out behind closed doors. Cue the suspense music. Think Bridgerton, but without the dramatic violin solos or fabulous gowns.
I’ve never dipped my toes into the chaos that is this muddy dating pool, which I’m so fine with. But like any curious human being, I’ve been observing the “dating scene” in the UAE, and my friends, it’s a show. The drama is real, but it’s usually happening behind closed doors. A series of discreet DMs, hidden dates, and an intricate choreography of hide-and-seek.
There was a time when our version of flirting happened on chatrooms like Heart Chat— a mysterious little corner of the internet filled with flirty teens and suspiciously grown-sounding men with names like Aladdin23 and WonderBoy86. Then came MSN Messenger. For those of us growing up in the ‘90s and early 2000s, MSN wasn’t just an app. It was the social lifeline. We’d log in after school and chat for hours— friends, crushes, even total strangers.
These platforms were the Emirati equivalent of a first date, except there was almost zero risk of getting caught by your family. I mean, your mom could be standing two meters away from you, but if you were on MSN, it was like you were living in a parallel universe where no one knew anything. Hours of banter, sharing music and movie interests, and the illusion that maybe, just maybe, this was turning into a real emotional connection. Juvenile? Maybe. But let’s not knock it; I know plenty of couples in their 30s and 40s today who first connected over a screenname and a nudge.
Fast forward to now, and the scene has evolved. Young Emiratis are meeting everywhere now— co-ed universities here and abroad, work, and (gasp!) mixed gatherings. They’re even getting set up by mutual friends, colleagues, and, yes, social media—Instagram, in particular, or as one of my best friends likes to call it: The “unofficial Tinder.” You can like, comment, slide into someone’s DMs, and a connection forms. And still, in 2025, despite all this progress, dating remains a quiet, mostly hidden affair. It’s (mostly) happening in secret. For the older generation, it’s something shadowy and shameful. For the younger ones, it’s a world of loopholes, a system where the rules are bent, broken, or flat-out ignored.
I still remember the cultural whiplash I felt when a British girl asked me, on the very first day we met, if I had a crush or was dating anyone. I was 21. It felt like she was asking me if I belonged to a secret society. Among Emiratis, relationship talk is private. Like, really private. You only share this stuff with your inner circle, if at all.
But beyond the secrecy and the social pressure, there’s also just… math. There are only about a million Emiratis in the world. That’s it. Within that million, you’ve got different ethnic groups—Arab Emiratis, Persian Emiratis, Balushi Emiratis. And often, we’re only allowed to marry within our specific tribe or social circle. When you subtract all the people who aren’t emotionally available, aren’t interested in marriage, or simply don’t match—suddenly, that pool becomes a puddle. A shallow, very complicated puddle. And just when you think it can’t get smaller, you remember: we’re not even really allowed to date in the first place. It’s no wonder everything feels so impossible.
And look, while I’m happily married today, my love story wasn’t as simple as it might seem. I had to fight for my husband. And let me make it clear: this wasn’t some forbidden romance with a man from another country or religion. My husband is Emirati, just like me. The issue? He wasn’t from the same inner social circles as my family.
When my husband’s family first approached mine, my parents immediately figured out that I was involved with their son. I tried to pretend otherwise, but they weren’t buying it. My secret was out and let’s just say my parents weren’t exactly thrilled. They weren’t concerned about his social class or his status; they just didn’t know his family. And in our society, unfamiliar means unsafe.
Was I conflicted? Of course. I had cousins urging me to just delete his number and move on, because it was never going to happen. I questioned everything: Was I being selfish? Disrespectful? A bad daughter? But I loved him. So, I fought for him, not because I didn’t respect my parents, but because I had to prove that love— real love— was worth more than these invisible boundaries drawn between families. It took years for my family to finally accept him. Now? They adore him. And our two kids didn’t hurt.
But not everyone gets a happy ending. Take my friend— Let’s call her Hind. She was secretly in an on-and-off relationship with a guy, Abdulla, for nine years. Nine. She waited, he hesitated. Different social classes. He promised he’d propose. Then, just like that, he got engaged to his cousin. Same week. Because his family pushed him.
It gets worse. Abdulla kept texting her, calling her— even admitted he sometimes slipped and called his wife by Hind’s name. The twist? His wife was a former classmate of Hind’s. Part of her friend group. Hind had to act normal. Smile. Stay in touch. All while hiding her heartbreak from the world. Because no one even knew they had a relationship in the first place.
This story is a lot more common than you’d think. In our society, your partner isn’t just someone who makes you happy. They have to be a match— for your family. Is he from the right background? The right tribe? The right circle? If the answer’s no, you’re often forced to choose: your family or your future.
And for Emirati women, the pressure runs deeper. Our romantic lives are still governed by these old-school codes that don’t seem to budge. Society encourages us to be educated, independent, and strong. But the moment we express those desires in our personal lives? Yeah, it’s a different story. Men don’t get scrutinized like women do. If a man is in a relationship, it’s not scandalous. But as a woman, you might find yourself constantly walking the fine line between what you want and what society thinks you should want.
I get it. The urge to conform. I almost did. But I’m glad I didn’t.
My parents saw I was serious, and eventually, they listened. They saw that love isn’t some wild fantasy— it’s real. And it shouldn’t have to clash with family loyalty.
There’s a delicate balance we have to navigate. A way to honor tradition while also making space for authenticity. Love and loyalty shouldn’t be at war. We shouldn’t have to keep choosing between our families and our hearts. It’s time we stop pretending these contradictions don’t exist. Let’s start having the hard conversations—the honest ones. And maybe, just maybe, we can make room for a future where we can truly have it all: love, respect, and the freedom to choose our own paths.
