Fu*ked Up in Dubai!: One determined Welsh Mother Real-Life Nightmare by Emily Brook

Author:Emily Brook
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2022-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

Ramadan 2010

Now, I flew from the UK on July 29th, expecting to fly home on the 9th of August. Ramadan, in 2010, started on Wednesday, the 11th of August, so initially, I wouldn’t have even been there for the start. Or so I theorized. For those of you who don’t know what Ramadan is, it is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, and is observed by Muslims worldwide as a month of fasting to commemorate the first revelation of the Quran to Muhammad according to Islamic belief. It would continue for 30 days until Thursday, the 9th of September.

Deep inside, I still hoped that I would be flying home on my pre-booked ticket. However, I had now entered the gates of Arabic hell. I didn’t know what the hell was happening, and my gut feeling was that I was at the very beginning of this saga. And I knew I was petrified as to how it would end. There was discussion on other people’s experiences and personal knowledge of the legal system and laws, but this didn’t seem to pacify me.

There was an urn of tea at the cell door, which I was told not to drink too much of, as they said it was drugged with something to pacify the inmates. I ended up drinking a lot of it, as it relaxed me and helped me to sleep throughout the day. Days were long, and along with the overcrowding, it was dismal. I would have tornado moments of anger and violence towards the police officers and their favouritism and treatment of those in the system. Along with the isolation of not speaking Arabic, trying to read, understand the proceedings of your case or even making your way around prison can be incredibly difficult if you cannot communicate. I would go to the cell door and ask whoever was on duty what was happening to no avail. It was so repetitive, and I realised that freedom was priceless.

Depending on who was on duty, and whether they could be bothered to do their duties or give their duties to the Arabic inmates, the phone could be used. Again, being in the first cell, we were given extra time. I can remember the first time I could phone. I bought a card from the officer and was literally shaking with panic and desperation with the need to speak to those I trusted the most, my family. It rang with that strange foreign beep, as I leant my head against the wall and held onto the receiver for dear life willing someone, anyone, to answer it. And then someone picked it up. It was my brother and I simply exhaled, ‘Thank God!’ My brother explained to me that he had been trying to get in contact with the British Embassy and that they were now aware I was being detained in Bur Dubai, on drugs charges. He informed me that a representative would be coming to see me as soon as it was possible.

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