Who Cares for the Caged Bird?
All Circus, All Clowns
Chapter 2
There are many who claim our legislative systems across the world, democratic or otherwise, are broken. In response, we say: the system works exactly as it was intended. Nowhere is this clearer than in the UAE, where a fair court hearing, let alone this strange thing we call justice, is a distant and elusive dream. The caregivers we spoke with described to us what is commonly known as a monkey court, with individuals acting out their roles as if they were putting on a chimera theater show of all the various courtroom dramas they had watched. We learned that a judge would read a document written in Arabic and pass a judgement also in Arabic, all while those accused were paraded in and out, dressed as ghosts of their past selves in white uniforms from the country's central prisons.
Often, even their imprisoned family members could not explain the laws they had broken or what they were guilty of. One caregiver shared that during the first few days of her husband’s imprisonment, she was allowed to meet with him in a police station. The couple sat alone in a room, afraid to break the silence that had settled like a fog within those four walls, both husband and wife in a state of inertia. Where does a woman turn when companion and state almost become one and the same? She confided that she had to navigate her feelings of resentment and anger, both towards the state and her husband, as she independently acquired the new language of UAE law. She would go on to spend several hours of every day for three years reading official documents from courts, lawyers, banks, and more, attempting to understand the legislation so she could free her husband. These documents remained stacked atop what was once her husband’s side of the bed—a paper companion for many a sleepless night. She was determined to be nobody’s fool: she would not let anyone take advantage of her perceived naivety.
In a country where only local Emiratis are legally permitted to work as advocates, these caregivers could give them a run for their money. Many would sprint daily from lawyers’ offices to police stations to courtrooms in the dry heat of the Arabian summer, headless chickens on the splintered chopping block of bureaucracy. They would navigate the country’s poor public transport system with few linkages to its judicial institutions (and the prison itself) and weather the disappointment of lawyers leaving their offices early, were they ever present at all. Several evolved into expert negotiators, convincing judicial actors to serve in their favor. However, one caregiver noted that while she wished she had better understood the law beforehand, there was really nothing concrete to know. This experience nonetheless, several women explained, left them feeling accomplished: despite all odds, they managed to understand the law of a foreign land and bring their loved ones home. Reflecting on her long journey to secure her brother’s release, one caregiver stated with the sort of laughter one only earns after much grief, “It was a good learning experience for me.”
Despite engaging lawyers and ensuring they had all the right documents, the caregivers understood that the law of the land is something they had little command over. They expressed a sense of hopelessness against the tedious processes and convoluted legislation they had to confront. When asked if one caregiver felt her brother had had a fair trial, she responded vehemently in the negative. “It is their law,” she said. “Their law is like that. We cannot say anything to them.” One could argue that the pursuit of law is truth, or justice, or accountability, or even punishment. But these words held no meaning in the lives of those imprisoned, nor in those who cared for them. In reality, the process of securing their loved ones’ release was the punishment, and caregivers who often had little to do with the imagined crime were its casualties. Navigating the burden—or responsibility—of securing their family members’ release as caregivers became heavier as a result of the state’s puzzle piece legislation, deciphered only by long-tenured rubber stamp judges or impotent lawyers with hungry pockets. Indeed, several caregivers acknowledged the futility of engaging a lawyer in the first place. “Lots of cheating happens,” one caregiver shared. “They promise a lot of things. You know, you go to a lawyer here and they will say, ‘Oh, your husband is in [jail], no problem! I will get him out tomorrow!' That never happens, and they ask for an advance which is always lost.”
“It is their law,” she said. “Their law is like that. We cannot say anything to them.”
“They promise a lot of things. You know, you go to a lawyer here and they will say, ‘Oh, your husband is in [jail], no problem! I will get him out tomorrow! That never happens, and they ask for an advance which is always lost.”
Where does a woman turn when companion and state almost become one and the same?
Many would sprint daily from lawyers’ offices to police stations to courtrooms in the dry heat of the Arabian summer, headless chickens on the splintered chopping block of bureaucracy.
An Emirati lawyer in his office in Dubai. (Wheeler & Thuysbaert, 2006)
The Public Prosecution in Dubai, where the Emirate's criminal cases are processed. (2023)
