Hafsa Qadeer

Al Madam Ghost Village When the Desert Reclaims the Dream By Hafsa Qadeer On a flat horizon of wind-brushed dunes southeast of Sharjah, a dozen pastel-toned houses and a small mosque sit quietly, half-swallowed by the desert. Known as the Buried Village, or Al Madam Ghost Village, this forgotten outpost is more than a curiosity for offbeat travelers. It is a mirror held up to the UAE’s early experiments with modernity, one that reflects not failure, but an unfinished story. A Settlement Meant for a New Era Built in the late 1970s, Al Madam was part of a government initiative to settle Bedouin tribes, particularly the Al Kutbi, into permanent homes. The concrete houses were simple, functional, and arranged around a modest mosque. It was a microcosm of the national ambition of the time: to shift from nomadic life into structured community living, as the newly formed UAE rushed toward a modern statehood. But within a decade, life in Al Madam quietly unraveled. Families left behind furniture, toys, and open doors as they migrated toward cities with better infrastructure, jobs, and services. The desert, unbothered by time, returned to reclaim the settlement, filling living rooms with sand, burying courtyards, and wrapping the minaret in its soft, patient grip. Why Was It Left, and Why Has It Stayed That Way? Harsh environmental conditions played their part. Sandstorms often rendered daily life unbearable. Water supply was inconsistent. The houses, though practical, were not designed to withstand the full force of the desert’s slow invasion. As urban centers like Sharjah and Dubai boomed, Al Madam was gradually emptied, not by disaster, but by disinterest. The bigger question today, however, is why the site has remained untouched in a country where real estate is often measured in millions of dirhams. Why has no one repurposed, restored, or even claimed these ready-made homes? The answer lies in a blend of legal, environmental, and cultural hesitation. The land likely falls under protected heritage jurisdiction or sits in a bureaucratic grey zone with unclear ownership. There are no utility lines or paved roads. The cost of retrofitting this remote area far outweighs any commercial return. And unlike other abandoned villages, such as Ras Al Khaimah’s Al Jazirah Al Hamra, which has been partially restored for tourism, Al Madam has been left to exist on its own terms. Preserved or Forgotten? There are no visitor centers or ticket booths. No curated signs or glossy brochures. Just wind, sand, silence, and stories, if you know where to look. In this untouched state, Al Madam offers something rare in the UAE: authenticity. It has not been stage-managed into a heritage attraction. Instead, it stands as a quiet, decaying relic of the nation’s formative years. Some locals whisper about jinn, blaming the supernatural for the mass departure. But the more grounded truth lies in the slow bureaucracy, environmental impracticality, and perhaps an unspoken national choice: to preserve this place as a living memory rather than a revived destination. What the Desert Tells Us Al Madam is more than a ghost village. It’s a reminder that not every planned community, no matter how well-intentioned, becomes a success story. It’s a meditation on how ambition meets nature, and how not all of the UAE’s past can, or should, be glossed over with development. In a country defined by hyper-modern skylines and luxury lifestyles, this buried village is a quiet monument to resilience, abandonment, and the fragility of vision. For those who make the hour-long drive from Dubai or Sharjah, it offers something no mall or tower can: a raw encounter with a chapter of the nation that time didn’t quite erase, but chose not to rewrite.

The UAE’s Rise as a Destination for Eco-Spiritual Retreats By Hafsa Qadeer Not all pilgrimages are religious. Some are made in silence. Others, in search of silence. In the UAE, where dunes ripple like golden prayers and the stars still speak in ancient patterns, a new form of journey is calling. One not toward temples or cathedrals, but inward. Welcome to the era of eco-spiritual tourism, where seekers come not just for sightseeing but for soul-searching. And in the heart of the desert, they are finding what cities rarely offer: space to remember who they are. Where Silence Becomes Sacred In a world addicted to noise, the Empty Quarter, the Rub’ al Khali, is becoming full again. Not with caravans, but with consciousness. Wellness travelers now hike into these vast landscapes not to escape, but to connect. To walk barefoot on sands older than civilization. To trade Wi-Fi for wisdom. Retreats near Liwa and Al Marmoom offer no televisions, no schedules, no distractions. Just yoga mats under acacia trees. Stargazing after dates and Arabic coffee. Quiet mornings where even thoughts arrive gently. Here, the desert does not demand. It invites. Faith in Nature, Not Away from It In the UAE, faith and nature were never separate. Bedouins once charted routes by stars and prayed by the movement of the sun. That rhythm remains. Only now, it is being reintroduced through curated experiences, Quranic reflections under the night sky, eco-conscious iftars during Ramadan, and guided hikes that incorporate Islamic philosophy and sustainability. The desert is not merely a backdrop. It’s a spiritual teacher, reminding us of scale, humility, and patience. And as the climate crisis deepens, these retreats also teach reverence, for land, for balance, for the future. From Luxury to Legacy This is not luxury wellness in the Western sense. It’s not about detox juices or infinity pools. Instead, it’s minimalism with meaning. Solar-powered tents, plant-based Emirati meals, heritage storytelling around campfires. Retreats are run in partnership with local tribes, blending ancestral wisdom with modern mindfulness. Tourists are no longer just guests. They become part of a preservation story, of dunes, of traditions, of values. Because healing, in this part of the world, comes not from excess, but from returning to what matters most. The New Global Seeker The UAE’s positioning as a spiritual retreat hub isn’t accidental. In a post-pandemic world, travelers seek more than Instagrammable moments. They want transformation. They want to unplug, but not from meaning. They want space, but not emptiness. And the Emirates, with its openness and infrastructure, offers both solitude and safety. From German therapists to Indian yoga instructors, the country is now a melting pot of healing traditions, attracting seekers from East and West alike. All drawn to the same thing: peace, in its most elemental form. Tourism with a Soulprint The desert does not sell you a version of peace. It quietly hands it back to you. And in the UAE, this has become tourism’s newest and most powerful currency. It is not mass-market. It is soul market. A journey measured not in steps or souvenirs, but in stillness and surrender. And so, as the world spins faster, the UAE remains one of the few places bold enough to say: Come. Slow down. Let the sand carry what you can no longer hold. Let the silence remind you, you are already whole.  

Beyond the Itinerary The Rise of Gig Tourism in the UAE By Hafsa Qadeer In the glowing corridors of Dubai’s Media City and the vibrant alleys of Abu Dhabi’s creative districts, a new kind of traveler is checking in, not with suitcases, but with laptops, lighting kits, and USB mics. They are not tourists in the traditional sense. They are creators. Coders. Musicians. Digital freelancers. And they’ve turned the UAE into something unexpected: a temporary home for global gig workers on the move. This is the quiet ascent of gig tourism, where the traveler isn’t escaping work but carrying it with them, and where leisure and labor no longer sit in opposition but fold into one hybrid experience. It is a response to a world reshaped by remote work, borderless business, and the craving for lifestyle mobility. In 2025, the UAE’s tourism strategy reflects this shift. With streamlined remote work visas, pop-up co-living hotels in Ras Al Khaimah, and desert co-working retreats near Al Ain, the country is not just welcoming gig tourists, it is designing for them. These visitors come for a month, sometimes six, merging weekend dives in Fujairah with weekday UX workshops for global clients. They blur timelines, cultures, and currencies, and they are drawn not only by luxury but by possibility. Dubai’s DIFC cafes have turned into daytime studios. Ajman’s beachfront resorts host creative sprints. Sharjah’s heritage homes now house digital nomads working on podcasts, zines, and virtual galleries. In this gig tourism wave, the UAE becomes less a stopover and more a canvas, one where workspaces look like glass domes in the desert and inspiration flows from both the skyline and the souk. But this is not just economic opportunism. There is something soulful in the exchange. Artists collaborate with Emirati designers. Musicians sample the echoes of old mosques. Developers build blockchain solutions while sipping qahwa beneath mashrabiya windows. The country’s centuries-old rhythm of trade and hospitality simply adapts to a digital tempo. And in this dance of gig and glide, a new narrative is emerging, one that celebrates not escapism, but belonging on your own terms. A tourism not defined by ticketed attractions but by lived, working moments. It’s the sound of a Zoom call from a date farm. A design sprint at a Bedouin tent. A photo shoot in a recycled shipping container turned studio. Gig tourism, at its core, invites us to imagine a different kind of movement, one that isn’t seasonal but fluid. Not leisure-first but life-first. It transforms the UAE from a place you visit into a platform you build from. In the end, what draws people here isn’t just sun or spectacle. It’s the promise that in this country of speed and stillness, you don’t have to choose between career and calling. You can have both.

The Revival of Desert Nomad Routes Mapping Memory in the UAE’s Empty Quarters By Hafsa Qadeer Before highways, there were hoofprints. Before GPS, the stars. And before cities crowned the coast, the UAE was a rhythm of tents, wells, and movement, its people forever in dialogue with the dunes. In 2025, a quiet reclamation is unfolding: the ancient nomadic routes once lost to modernization are being revived, not as mere heritage displays, but as immersive journeys for modern pilgrims of culture and consciousness. This isn’t just tourism, it’s time travel. Across the Rub’ al Khali, or Empty Quarter, guided camel caravans now retrace the ancestral trails of Bedouin tribes. These aren’t theatrical re-enactments. They are curated experiences shaped by historians, geographers, and tribal elders who still carry oral maps in memory. The routes stretch like spines across the desert, some leading to forgotten caravanserais, others to seasonal oases that still bloom beneath the heat. Along the way, travelers are taught the language of the land: how to read the wind in the sand, how to pitch a goat-hair tent, how to navigate using the shimmer of the horizon. And at night, there is silence, the kind that humbles ambition. You sit by a fire, cradling gahwa brewed over coals, and listen to stories that predate borders. You don’t just hear the past. You inherit it. This revival is more than cultural, it is ecological. New-age desert camps are designed for minimal impact: solar-lit, waste-free, and built with materials that decompose into the earth. Camels are not props, but companions raised ethically by breeders who see them as kin. Even food is sourced from desert farms practicing ancient permaculture methods. The UAE’s Ministry of Culture and Tourism, in partnership with anthropologists and local tribes, has invested in digitizing and preserving these routes. Yet the spirit of the experience remains analog, slow, embodied, deeply present. For younger Emiratis, especially, this has become a pilgrimage of identity. Schools now organize desert immersion programs, where students learn the nomadic survival arts not as nostalgia, but as resilience training in a changing climate. Artists, too, have joined the caravans, turning sand prints into sculpture, poetry, and film. A new creative desert movement is emerging, one that paints the journey, not the destination. Tourists from across the globe now come not just to see dunes, but to understand why they matter. They leave their Wi-Fi behind. They leave their agendas at the edge of the last gas station. And what they gain is not just a photograph, but a recalibration of pace, of purpose. In an age of acceleration, the desert teaches us to move differently. Not forward. But deeper.