Who Cares for the Caged Bird?
The Dungeon Economy
Chapter 3
Since the UAE gained independence from the British in 1971, its economy has grown exponentially. The word “growth” loses its meaning in the country; for what multiplies simply for the sake of expansion is commonly known as a virus. Popular belief attributes the state’s economic rise to its seemingly infinite oil reserves, booming tourism industry, and competitive real estate market. Little is said about the millions of Dirhams spent by the caregivers of those incarcerated in lawyers’, court, and visa fees, and inside the country's prisons. These expenses mean big business, and they are large enough to support whole civilizations. Indeed, a sizable part of the state’s economy is upheld and propelled by a vacuous dungeon economy, mostly invisible and underground, built on the backs of those incarcerated and their caregivers who source funds from their home countries.
Caregivers disclosed to us the absurd and often unwarranted amounts they were quoted by lawyers for the bare minimum forms of representation. Some lawyers charged as much as 300,000 Dirhams (close to 68 lakhs in Indian rupees) for a mere appearance in court. Those with lower fees, or lawyers acting on a pro bono basis, were widely thought of as inefficient and lacking impact. Others shared a few of the country’s alien practices. For instance, to secure her husband’s release on bail, one caregiver had to identify and pay an individual willing to place their passport in court. This passport was considered collateral—an asset to warrant the loan of her husband’s freedom. In order to give up their passport, forgoing travel and other liberties associated with such a document, the owner expected a monthly payment.
Hundreds of citizens and residents in the UAE are engaged in this work, from local Emiratis to minimum wage migrant laborers. The nation’s courts place a certain value on each kind of passport: The passports of Emiratis who own businesses are most valued, whereas those of migrant workers are least valued. Everyone will find themselves somewhere along this hierarchy; while the latter may charge a few thousand Dirhams every month, the former could charge upwards of 30,000 Dirhams (just under seven lakhs in Indian rupees). The court will only accept a passport in appropriate equivalence to the severity of one’s prison sentence (that is to say, only an Emirati’s passport could free someone from the most stringent punishment), and this may mean exorbitant monthly fees. Forgoing this expense, another caregiver chose to place her own passport in court to secure her husband’s release, knowing fully well she would walk into a cage of her own making for the sake of what she called her duty as a wife.
A snapshot of Sheikh Zayed Road in Dubai, a hub for commerce and leisure.
The word “growth” loses its meaning in the country; for what multiplies simply for the sake of expansion is commonly known as a virus.
In a similar vein, several caregivers noted that they had become responsible for ensuring that their incarcerated family members had enough of an allowance while in prison to purchase basic items such as food, calling minutes, and clothes. While jailed in central prison, individuals are expected to buy any additional items they may require at inflated prices. Quite literally a dungeon economy! One caregiver affirmed, “Nothing is free, you also have to pay for food inside.” Another caregiver, whose husband is vegetarian, had to ensure she sent him enough funds to buy curd to eat with the rice he was served as there was typically no alternative to meat, particularly on Fridays. All the women we spoke to, however, made note of how they would send their loved ones money to make phone calls. Those incarcerated are given calling cards with unique identification codes, and money could be “filled” on these cards to make phone calls at specified times using the community payphones located inside Al Awir, similar to public call offices. This is how caregivers remained in touch with their husbands or brothers, enquiring after their health, discussing the updates of their cases, or simply chatting as they would have “on the outside.” What is the value, after all, of a loved one’s voice?
What is the value, after all,
of a loved one’s voice?
Securing the funds for these expenses, as caregivers explained, was an exercise in both strategy and sacrifice. Many caregivers begged and borrowed for money, taking out sizable loans or selling their gold or few plots of property back home to free their family members (or at least ensure them a degree of comfort). Some were able to sign off on loans offered by their workplaces and banks, others had to borrow from friends and family members. And they did this even with the explicit understanding that their efforts were ineffective. They recognized that they were being “squeezed” by the dungeon economy and its actors, anyone who could make a profit out of the anxieties of the women plunged into a world unfamiliar to them. Caregivers more often than not sacrificed their personal monetary gains to support their incarcerated family, forgoing their careers and the financial security they had once built for themselves and their loved ones. Today, several of the women we spoke to find themselves in a state of precarity and financial anxiety, unsure of how they will move forward or where their next meal may come from.
Caregivers thus find themselves trapped in an endless cycle of funding their own marginality. This underground market, fueled by caregivers on the fringes, sustains not just those incarcerated but the idea of prison itself. In the UAE’s calculations of gross domestic product—and in those of other countries in the world at large—where are these expenses disaggregated and highlighted? The invisible nature of the dungeon economy keeps the prison industrial complex intangible despite its very real ramifications and its centrality to the way we live our lives.
Caregivers thus find themselves trapped in an endless cycle of funding their own marginality.
Two Indian passports.
This passport was considered collateral—an asset to warrant the loan of her husband’s freedom.
A caregiver's pouch with Dirhams.
“Nothing is free, you also have to pay for food inside.”
Vignettes of life in the UAE. (Elsheshtawy, 2010)
Phone calls from UAE's central prisons are marked "Unknown."
The Arabian Sea.