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.
A few months ago, I was doing what I often do at night: scrolling through my phone, laughing at memes, and saving cooking videos for tomorrow’s dinner when I stumbled across an Instagram ad. At first glance, it seemed harmless—a familiar face, a British influencer based in Dubai, doing her thing. But then I paused.
She was in Global Village, spinning around in what she called a “beautiful abaya.” She enthusiastically pointed followers to where they could buy these beautiful abayas. Except… they weren’t abayas. They were kaftans—flowy, bedazzled, lovely kaftans—but nothing like the abayas we Emiratis wear every day.
Now, I’m not one to pick fights in comment sections. Assuming this was an innocent mistake, I messaged her—politely, I promise—and explained the difference. She thanked me and said she appreciated it. I believed it until moments later when she posted another kaftan, again calling it an “abaya.” That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t an innocent mix-up. She knew the truth but didn’t care—as long as it got her views and likes.
So when the UAE announced a new law banning non-Emiratis from wearing our traditional attire or using our dialect in ads, I nodded in approval. I’m tired of people cosplaying as us for engagement.
Let’s be clear: genuine curiosity and appreciation are always welcome. But what we’re seeing online isn’t appreciation; it’s marketing. There’s a stark difference between respecting culture and packaging it into a skit. The kandora isn’t just a flowing robe, and the abaya isn’t a fashion trend—they carry history, values, intention. Our dialects aren’t cute sound bites—they hold the voices of grandmothers, the rhythm of our stories, jokes that only make sense if you grew up here. You can’t learn that from a reel, and you definitely shouldn’t sell cologne while pretending you did.
The UAE is unique. Unlike many Western countries, where immigrants are often expected to fully assimilate into local customs, the UAE hosts a vast expat population—far outnumbering the relatively small Emirati community—but doesn’t demand full cultural assimilation. Here, you’re encouraged to respect local customs, but there’s no expectation to abandon your own identity.
Emiratis, despite being a minority in their own country, hold tightly onto traditional dress as a powerful symbol of their national identity. In a landscape where over 85% of the population is made up of expatriates from all over the world, the kandora and abaya have become more than just daily wear—they’re anchors. They visually affirm who we are in a place where we are vastly outnumbered, quietly asserting our presence amid the global swirl that surrounds us. These garments are everyday declarations of heritage, dignity, and belonging. They connect us to our past, signal our values, and serve as a reminder that, even in a hyper-modern society built on rapid development and diversity, our roots run deep.
This law targets the performative acts, not tourists or expats genuinely engaging with our culture. It’s about the influencer adopting our accent—peppering sentences with “wallah” and “habibi”—to sell oud. Or the one filming himself in a bisht like it’s a Halloween costume because he thinks it makes him look wealthy. Even worse, the woman dressed in an abaya, suggestively eating luqaimat (sadly, that example is real).
We’ve all seen it, maybe even laughed—I know I have—especially when someone mispronounces “Bu Saeed” so badly it sounds like a sushi order. But behind the humor, something deeper stirs.
Growing up Emirati, surrounded by symbols with profound meaning, only to see them reduced to an aesthetic, feels alienating. It makes you feel like a guest in your own identity. While someone else profits off “local content,” real locals watch from the sidelines, wondering how their lives became someone else’s marketing plan.
Authentic representation comes from within—from us. We’re not silent or invisible, and we don’t need others to speak for us; we simply need space to speak for ourselves. We are the agents of our own definition. We understand the true significance behind the kandora, the abaya, and our dialect—not because we studied it, but because we live it. This law draws a respectful boundary, clearly stating our identity isn’t content, our traditions aren’t props. You’re welcome to appreciate, but not to profit from performing them.
To my fellow Emiratis who shrug and say, “It’s not that deep”—maybe it is. One ad, one outfit, one influencer—these incidents add up, slowly eroding our voice, replaced by hollow echoes. Our stories deserve to be told by those who genuinely understand them. We deserve to decide how we’re represented, especially in a world where attention is currency, and culture is easily exploited. We’ve been flattened into stereotypes for decades—deserts, camels, oil wealth. Now, we finally have the power to say, “No, this is what our culture truly is,” and we should embrace that power.
This law won’t completely stop cringe-worthy content, but it sends an essential message: Your culture might be your niche, but ours is our life—please treat it that way. This is about pride. Proud enough to protect something sacred, to say the kandora isn’t a costume, the abaya isn’t just “a vibe,” our dialect isn’t a punchline. We refuse to be caricatures.
If you’re questioning whether it matters—it absolutely does. Every young Emirati scrolling online internalizes what they see. Let them see authentic representation. People who sound, dress, and are like them—not filtered imitations. Ultimately, it’s simple: if you love our culture, respect it. Don’t remix it into something unrecognizable for views. And to the influencer still confusing kaftans with abayas—girl, no hard feelings, but maybe don’t make it a series.
