Dalia Husain

Dubai, United Arab Emirates, was once a place where the scent of the sea lingered in the streets, where we ran barefoot on the sand without worrying about the weight of glass and steel pressing down on us. I remember my father taking me to the souks, the merchants calling out prices, the gold glinting under warm, flickering lights. Back then, the city was small, intimate. Now, I look around and barely recognize it.

I was smart enough to see the transformation coming. While others held on to old ways, I built my career on the new Dubai. Real estate—first small apartments, then luxury villas, and now, entire skyscrapers filled with penthouses that no one truly lives in. At 48, I have ten employees working under me, handling deals for the ultra-rich. The commissions are obscene. My name carries weight. I have everything I once dreamed of.

And yet, I feel a slow, steady pull away from all of it.

People speak of Dubai’s brilliance, its audacity, its ability to shape land from water and carve islands from sand. But no one wants to talk about what it costs. The cooling systems that hum endlessly because these glass towers trap heat like ovens. The artificial islands that required 600 million tons of sand, destroying marine habitats, shifting coastlines, and leaving an invisible scar on the ocean floor. A city built to impress, without a thought for what it takes to sustain it.

I tell myself I am not responsible for it, but I’ve been part of it. Selling dreams that float on borrowed time. And if that were the only thing troubling me, maybe I could still live with it. But it’s not.

My brother has been arrested twice. No real charges, just suspicion, whispers about his life. He walks a tightrope in a place that celebrates wealth but polices love. The second time I went to pick him up, I saw something in his eyes I cannot forget—fear, but also resignation. As if he had finally accepted that he would never be safe here.

I have achieved more than I ever thought possible, but at what cost? I own property, but I do not feel at home. I have money, but it buys me nothing I truly need.

Perhaps it is too late for regret. But it is not too late to leave.