Karama: An Immigrant Neighborhood Transformed

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Jan 19, 2021 Arabian Peninsula
A part of Karama in transition, with ongoing construction, sparsely populated or vacated buildings, and the new Dubai frame visible in the distance. Photo by author. A part of Karama in transition, with ongoing construction, sparsely populated or vacated buildings, and the new Dubai frame visible in the distance. Photo by author.

Karama: An Immigrant Neighborhood Transformed

By : Bhoomika Ghaghada

In the early 2000s, my mother and I regularly frequented the open-air shopping market in Karama, one of Dubai’s oldest and most densely populated neighborhoods. The sensory overload of this downtown neighborhood is emblazoned on my memory: gaudy bags, shoes, and clothes spilled out of shop fronts. Chatter echoed from the concrete balconies of identical modern three-story buildings. Cyclists whizzed by. Bollywood music crackled from portable radio sets. Customers haggled in Hindi, Urdu, and Tagalog. The smell of samosas and leather filled the air. Desi (South Asian) salesmen flanked the door of every shop, rapping “Madam, leather bags, shoes, jeans.” 

When I returned to Karama in 2018, I got lost trying to locate this familiar market. Dust from a new interchange had not yet settled. Scaffolding and traffic cones were everywhere. A new tourist destination, the Dubai frame, built and marketed to offer sights of both the historical neighborhoods of “Old Dubai” and the fancy skyscrapers of “New Dubai,” loomed in the distance over an eerily empty neighborhood (Figure 1). Upscale cafés had replaced inexpensive cafeterias. A local landmark, the SANA Fashions building, had disappeared. In its place stood a large crane. Rows of older buildings with chipped paint and exposed brick stood next to walls with bright state-sponsored street art, a mix of decorative and nationalistic symbols in graffiti (Figure 2). Glass panels on new buildings gleamed against adjacent wood accents.

Figure 1: A part of Karama in transition, with ongoing construction, sparsely populated or vacated buildings, and the new Dubai frame visible in the distance. Photo by author.

Figure 2: Sponsored street art in Karama's central open-air market. Photo by Alex Dunham, Time Out Dubai.


You will rarely read about Karama outside local news, but it is historically significant to the city and its immigrants. Located close to the Dubai Creek—a lively trading port that predated the formation of the nation-state in 1971 (Figure 3)—Karama served as an affordable space for Dubai’s South Asian immigrants for over forty years. Close coordination between the city-state and private developers since the early 2000s has accelerated redevelopment efforts there, leading to the rapid transformation of Karama’s landscape, demographic composition, and wider cultural identity. Middle-class South and Southeast Asian residents have been increasingly expelled from this once-affordable space that now caters to the wealthy. Not only has the neighborhood lost much of its middle-class transnational identity, but it is also being erased in the media and from the collective memory of Dubai. The livelihoods and lifestyles of Karama’s former inhabitants are threatened as the space for economic participation diminishes with the establishment of more exclusive, privatized, and upper-class modes of living and leisure in the area.

 

Figure 3.


Karama’s buildings predate the landmarks that have become synonymous with Dubai. In 1978, before the sail-shaped Burj Al Arab that adorns Dubai’s license plates, and the older but still iconic World Trade Centre, were built, the Dubai government erected Sheikh Rashid Colony in Karama. Sponsored by Sheikh Maktoum bin Rashid Al Maktoum, this modernist low-rise building complex provided low-cost housing for immigrant workers and their families. The seventeen blocks of this colony (also known as the “7000 buildings” because of its AED 7000 annual rent) had rent pegged at $1,900 a year, which remained stable for years. The low rent and immigrants’ heritable “tenancy rights” encouraged many lower-middle-class immigrant families to set down roots in Dubai, despite having no legal rights to the land (Non-UAE nationals can own property only in demarcated freehold areas, or buy leasehold property [not the land it is built on] for up to 99 years). 

In a city where over eighty percent of the population is made up of “temporary guest workers,” Karama is one site where longstanding transnational presence has sedimented in a network of downtown neighborhoods that also includes Bur Dubai, Deira, and Satwa. This is all the more important since migrants to the UAE and other Gulf countries are reliant on precarious residency visas that are tied to their employer and must be renewed every three to four years. Although new long-term residency visas are available to an elite few, there is no clear path to citizenship. Expats in Karama and other downtown neighborhoods are not, and neither do they seek to be, political participants. They exercise their belonging and agency—which may include commentaries on, and critiques of, the state—through economic participation and building communities like Karama. South Asian “bachelors”—men who migrated without family members to work in the Gulf—and families feel at home, small-scale business owners have survived, and skilled workers who may not speak English may still find work (Figure 4). Familiar people, food, languages, and lifestyles in these areas have made Dubai an attractive and accessible place for South and Southeast Asians to migrate to for economic opportunity and community.

Figure 4: Ads for roommates, specifically “bachelors.” Photo by author.


This reality has been rapidly changing with the redevelopment of Karama, which began in 2012 when Sheikh Rashid Colony was demolished to make way for new construction projects. Karama’s proximity, at the edge of the old city and adjacent to New Dubai (visible in Figure 3), affected the perceived rent gap (visible in Figure 3)—the difference between how much the current property earns in rent compared to the rent it can earn once redeveloped. This rent gap became apparent and significant enough in 2014, soon after Dubai won the bid to host Expo2020. There was plenty of vacant land in Dubai, but two factors made building in undeveloped areas less attractive. First, Dubai was hit hard by the 2008 global financial recession. A bulk of real estate projects were put on hold and many were canceled. With the help of its neighbor city, Abu Dhabi, the Dubai real estate market would recover over the next five years. Second, developing new areas on the outskirts of the city was a relatively costly endeavor with a slower return on investment. It involved greater planning, land preparation, and setting up comprehensive infrastructure—inner roads from existing arteries, metro lines, and water and power lines. This financial reality made Karama an attractive site for redevelopment and capital expansion.

Karama’s connectivity to New Dubai was reinforced by the government. In 2016, the Dubai Roads and Transport Authority, a Dubai Government arm, announced a $160 million plan to ease traffic flow specifically to and from Karama, making it better connected to the artery that is Sheikh Zayed Road. The development of two bridges, including an eight-lane underpass and a four-lane flyover, began in 2016 and the bridges were opened in February 2018 (Figure 5). These roadworks and improvements included the widening of inner roads along Karama Shopping Complex. Eviction notices were handed out in sequence to residents of older buildings located along the newly widened roads.

Figure 5: New flyover in Karama, constructed to ease traffic flow. Photo by author.


Catering to wealthy ex-pat families often from the Global North and young Western-educated couples, whose design aesthetics are shaped by Architectural Digest and Pinterest, these projects ultimately increased the neighborhood’s property value. The new buildings—Wasl Hub, Wasl Duet, and Twin Towers (Figure 6)—reflect the experienced ease and connectivity that upper-middle-class city-dwellers enjoy. Amenities facilitating this lifestyle, like many other self-contained gated communities in Dubai, can be found within or near the building: Underground parking for cars, gyms, and pools for fitness and leisure, and grocery chains carrying a larger range of imported products, delivered straight to your home. 

Figure 6: Wasl Hub, one of the many new developments in Karama. Photo by author.


Assumptions about the new dwellers’ languages (English & Arabic) and tastes (upper-middle-class) are built into the space surrounding these buildings. While Karama’s older typing centers—which facilitate the preparation and translation of immigration documents to Arabic—feature signs in Malayalam and Hindi, the new typing center under Wasl Hub advertises itself exclusively in English, assuming the new audience is fluent in English. “Fusion” cuisine restaurants have replaced restaurants serving country-specific cuisine. Chains like Maya Supermarket have replaced previously unbranded, stand-alone groceries. New cafes serve espressos and lattes, replacing cafeterias where coffee had only one form: Nescafe instant coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Stores selling South Asian and Filipino foodstuff and tailors specializing in altering South Asian dresses and shirts (salwar kameez and kurtas) have dwindled (Figures 7, 8, and 9).

Figure 7: Grocery store with Indian foodstuff in Karama. Photo by author.

Figure 8: One of the only remaining tailoring shops specializing in altering kameez and kurtas in Karama. Photo by author.
 

Figure 9: A sticker near Wasl Hub advertising a grocery store selling Filipino foods. Photo by author.


The everyday, community-driven immigrant residential experience that Karama is known for is being replaced by a more affluent space of “performative living” built around consumer choice. Not only has this led to an ongoing housing crisis for the middle class in Dubai, but slowly, the structures that supported informal and familiar modes of movement and gathering have also begun to disappear. These include “rough” and free parking lots where friends gather, as well as cafeterias where huddling on the sidewalk is the norm. The introduction of tinted glass exteriors on new buildings has altered the quality of the public space outside it. Restaurants with outdoor seating have privatized the sidewalk. Most lots have been paved for paid parking or blocked with tape for upcoming developments. The neighborhood is less walkable than before. These changes have socially disrupted and affectively unsettled the remaining low-income and middle-class population in Karama. 
The everyday, community-driven immigrant residential experience that Karama is known for is being replaced by a more affluent space of “performative living” built around consumer choice.

Redevelopment, Aligned with Brand Dubai


In the 1990s, Karama looked like the rest of Dubai. Beige modern buildings had popcorn-textured walls. Box air-conditioning units hung out. Rough parking lots where residents socialized were a common sight (Figure 10). In the early 2000s, this changed. The older creek neighborhoods became less important in the development narrative of Dubai, skewing in favor of spectacular developments by star architects in newer parts of the city. In its quest to be recognized as a global city, Dubai incorporated elements of established cities like New York and London into the New Dubai landscape. Decision-makers emphasized luxury and consumerism: tall glass skyscrapers, man-made water features, large shopping malls, five-star hotels, entertainment venues, gated communities with central air conditioners, built-in gas supply, and underground and over-ground paid parking spaces. This became the poster for New Dubai, a geographical area encompassing almost everything south of Dubai World Trade Centre. 

Figure 10: Older modern buildings with box A/Cs, balconies and rough parking lots in Karama. Photo by author.


In less than two decades, Dubai’s center shifted as its identity also changed. Through tourism advertisements, media images, and narratives of wealth, prosperity, and consumer freedom,state-aligned actors and businesses curated an image of Dubai with two components that were productive for capital: “modern” (read luxurious, convenient, and consumable) and “traditional” (read Emirati and Arab). Solidified and packaged for marketing on the global stage, Dubai positioned itself as the ideal place to live, work, and visit for the world’s upwardly mobile, wealthy, and resourceful, skewed towards citizens of the Global North with already-powerful passports. Redevelopment priorities, delineated by public and private forces, informed Brand Dubai.

Like the neighborhoods of Bur Dubai, Deira, and Satwa, Karama was only featured in the  Brand Dubai media narrative through glimpses of old souks and dhows, with its residential, non-consumable, and transnational components rendered largely invisible. Karama’s absence and relative insignificance to the larger narrative, which is productive for capital, minimized resistance to and provided justification for accelerated redevelopment. Redevelopment in Karama has been followed by projects in Deira (Deira Enrichment Project), Marsa Al Seef on Deira Creek, and the extended Dubai Creek (Jewel of the Creek).

Raced, Classed, and Gendered Expulsions


The inflation in post-redevelopment rent was astonishingly high: rent in new buildings in Karama was forty-two percent higher than in older buildings, the remaining of which are slated for demolition.[16] While older buildings charged between $8,200 and $10,500 annually, new buildings cost $19,000 to $25,000 for one and two-bedroom apartments. The new rents rest comfortably at the very top of the middle-class range of salaries in Dubai. Others within this class do not earn enough to cover this new rent. Salaries for middle-class employees have not seen any significant raises in the last five years either. This impacts South and Southeast Asians in Dubai more, since they often earn less than their Western or Arab counterparts because compensation packages are designed to reflect “salary expectations based on country of origin.” This nationality-based hierarchy among low-income and middle-class workers is well-documented, where Asians are paid up to twenty percent lower than Arab nationals, and forty percent lower than white US/European nationals for the same job and without generous schooling and travel packages. Most also do not have the privilege of employer-sponsored accommodation and have to pay rent out of their salaries. 

The redevelopment and attendant gentrification of Karama, therefore, impact South and Southeast Asians disproportionately. Many have been forced to leave the neighborhood, city, and often country, exacerbated by the layoffs following COVID-19. These raced expulsions are also gendered, as the accelerated changes in Karama affect women’s quality of life drastically. Middle-class South Asians in Karama live in close quarters, often share languages, values, and cultural understanding. They even shop at the same stores. Being embedded in a familiar community allows South Asian women greater mobility and agency. I saw this firsthand with my mother, who fearlessly navigated through and bargained in Karama market with salespeople in Hindi yet did not feel the same sense of comfort interacting with salespeople at shopping malls. Community affords women greater freedom in some areas, since neighbors may share responsibility for the children. Daycare facilities are difficult to find in Dubai and hiring a nanny is expensive. Karama, in its density, also provided a critical social network that significantly increased the resources and knowledge (about the UAE and their home countries) available to women in these communities. 

The story of Karama points to an accelerating trend of writing over the unspectacular in the UAE, uprooting residents who have put down roots, and wiping away sediments of the long history of exchange, movement, and settlement between the Gulf and South Asia. If current trends persist, a richer, more transient, Western, and whiter middle class will replace Dubai’s current residents in the next few decades, reflecting the city’s new relationship with the world. 

Since a strong middle class has gained ground in the Global South, the shrinking of affordable space in Dubai, the Middle Eastern “American Dream,” will be felt keenly. It will be locally disenfranchised populations of South Asia who will be most affected (Christians and Muslims, religious minorities in India, for example, are more likely to migrate out). South Asian and Southeast Asian expatriates are already at a disadvantage in the global immigration hierarchy. They have limited mobility due to their passport ranks. Trends in the Global North (particularly, the United States, United Kingdom, and Europe) of tightening borders, growing nationalism, and the nationalization of jobs, with quotas for South Asian immigrants, will also mean fewer immigration opportunities for these groups.
Aug 27, 2020 Lebanon
Noor Tayeh By :
Noor Tayeh

COVID-19 and Urban Marginalization in Saudi Arabia

Cities in the Arabian Peninsula, from Dubai to Mecca, often elicit images of cosmopolitanism, utopianism, and ambitious urban mega-development schemes. In recent years, with increased global interest in labor politics and the oppressive labor regimes within the Gulf states, these same cities have also become notorious for their enclaved urban structures, which segregate spaces not simply along class lines but based on ethnicity and nationality. Yet the less affluent urban geographies inhabited by low-wage expatriate workers remain marginalized in most journalistic and academic discussions. Highlighting the plight of these workers, who have borne the brunt of the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, has never been more urgent. It reveals how spatial and social structures of marginalization are a threat to urban welfare in contemporary neoliberal societies. Taking the form of a longstanding systematic exclusion from civil rights and basic infrastructure, this marginalization undermined expatriates' right to the city and placed them in a particularly vulnerable position. As the home of the third-largest migrant population in the world, and ranking among the top fifteen countries in terms of COVID-19 Cases, Saudi Arabia presents a critical case study to understand these spatial politics and advocate for a post-pandemic urban policy based on sustainability and inclusion.

Geographies of Infection


The spatial fragmentation at the heart of most of the peninsula’s cities is rooted in the social structure that draws boundaries between the indigenous and the foreigner or “stranger.” The stranger here is the expatriate worker who occupies a variety of jobs, whether in the rare skilled professions such as in medicine and engineering or in the more common domestic service and menial labor whose role is instrumental to the very building and functioning of cities. Labeled as "guest workers," their encounters with city life revolve around their work experience, which is considered temporary and lacks prospects of citizenship within the countries they build. This temporariness, along with the sponsorship system (kafala) that governs it, are the main ingredients of their marginalized existence.   

 In Saudi Arabian cities, as in other neighboring ones, nationality and social status govern geographies and typologies of living following a specific structure: many locals reside in detached units within suburban-like neighborhoods; middle and low-income Saudis along with some skilled migrant professionals live in apartments and flats; and the rest of the low-skilled migrant workers live in various accommodation types scattered around the city. The dwellings of the latter group, who are often single men, are restricted to their work locations and provided by their sponsor employers. In most cases, they do not have the option of moving elsewhere without violating their work visa.     

In the capital, Riyadh, migrants make up thirty-six percent of the city’s overall population. Low-skilled migrant workers occupy dwellings that range from designated camps on the city outskirt to rented shared units in mixed-use buildings along commercial corridors. The majority occupy cheap accommodations in the old city center within neighborhoods such as al-Dirah and al-Shemaysi, once vibrant commercial districts that declined as the city expanded to the north. These areas maintained a level of commercial activity for low-income residents along with affordable housing options for the most marginalized in the community, seventy-eight percent of whom are migrants.

Across the otherwise sprawling capital, accommodations for migrant workers were marked by overcrowding and unsanitary conditions. Where individual space in housing units across the country ranged between forty-two to sixty square meters per person, migrants had about four square meters per person, usually restricted to the area of their bunk bed. The barracks-style living facilities in particular became perfect breeding grounds for COVID-19. According to the Saudi Ministry of Health, around seventy percent of the infected cases in the country were registered among migrant groups during the first wave in March. As migrants’ accommodations became foci for the virus during the first surge of the pandemic, Saudi authorities announced them as “places of danger.” The pandemic has severely exacerbated the already poor conditions of low-wage migrant workers.

Neoliberalism, Crisis, and Political Inevitability 


In light of the pandemic, the very nature of the contemporary global neoliberal social structure was shaken. Local governments worldwide were forced to assume the frontlines of containing and combating the viral outbreak and mitigating its economic detriments. This was a problem that could not be solved through "individual entrepreneurialism." New forms of politics, therefore, emerged that unprecedentedly increased the role of local authorities in civic affairs. 

In Saudi Arabia, the situation was no different. Authorities had to make difficult decisions despite their severe economic consequences. In early March, as the first cases of infection were announced in the country, domestic and international travel were suspended. Authorities implemented lockdown measures that included a ban on gatherings and the closure of schools, businesses, and places of worship. Total and partial curfews were announced in all cities along with a system of stringent penalties in case of violation. This continued until June, when the authorities started gradually easing restrictions on economic activities. They also enhanced medical capacities by increasing the supply of workers and equipment, both within existing facilities and the recent pop-up clinics (Tetamman) for testing and triage, providing free care to everyone, including visa violators. The response also included the deployment of a number of digital platforms in various languages to raise awareness and deliver fact sheets, provide medical assessments, and manage movement permits during curfew. The efforts to combat the novel virus were a result of the mobilization of several state actors, including the Ministry of Health (MOH), Saudi Center for Disease Prevention and Control (Weqayah), and the General Commission for Survey, among others.      

The first infection cases among migrant communities in the country were detected in six slums in Mecca. The authorities subsequently isolated the neighborhoods of al-Nakkasah and Ajyad, preventing entry or exit. Days later, the entire city was under full curfew. The Ministry of Health sent medical teams to these areas to conduct mass testing and provide medical care. Similar field testing took place in all infected areas in large cities, typically inhabited by a majority of migrant workers. As the crisis deepened, the Ministry of Municipal and Rural Affairs (MOMRA) was deployed to address the outbreak among workers and, on 13 April, formed a committee to do so. The committee sought to temporarily house migrants in school buildings. Around 3,400 buildings were dedicated to this effort. 

MOMRA Also passed several regulations for a set of design standards for migrant dwellings to ensure healthy living arrangements. These regulations mandated durable safe structures for housing workers with adequate space of twelve square meters per person, proper lighting and ventilation, adequate sanitation and dining facilities, and the widespread availability of hygienic products and protective equipment. MOMRA inspection teams gave employers forty-eight hours to rectify the situation and relocate their employees to prevent overcrowding. To facilitate the relocation, MOMRA created an online platform allowing residents to register vacant property available either for rent or donation. Thousands of properties were quickly identified and thousands of workers were relocated there. By late May, infection rates among migrants decreased by fifty percent. However, a second wave of infection began as a result of easing lockdown measures, with total cases in the country doubling shortly thereafter.
Amidst the crisis of COVID-19, the “displacement of crisis” functions again through the expulsion of expatriate workers which became a legal mechanism to transfer health and economic burdens to other countries.

The sponsorship system, or kafala, which aimed to privatize the management of the migrant workforce to relieve authorities from such a responsibility, is one major cause of this health crisis. Under private sponsorship (either individual or institutional), and in the absence of regulations, workers were subjected to exploitative practices. The jail-like overcrowded living arrangements were one flagrant example. The kafala system restricts the movement of workers and does not permit them to change residence or employment without authorization from the sponsor, which prevented migrants from enhancing their living and working conditions. Deportation, or the threat thereof, is another tool that sponsors could deploy if they were to terminate employment contracts. The government, however, eased up these restrictions during the pandemic, thereby allowing legal migrants to accept other jobs. Nonetheless, on 22 April, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs offered voluntary repatriation (awdah) through an online application that facilitated departure after obtaining approval from migrants' home countries. This welcome move nonetheless placed the financial burden on workers themselves, who largely had to pay for the trip. By mid-July, over 47,500 people were repatriated. Large-scale deportations of illegal migrants were also reported during the pandemic, despite government assurances. Jadwa Investment estimated that around 1.2 million foreign migrants will leave the country in 2020.  

Such developments recall discussions of the social structure in Gulf cities, one that is based on the temporariness of expatriate workers and how it operates in times of adversity. Adam Hanieh argues that this spatial structuring of class has provided a "spatial fix" which enabled the "displacement of crisis" away from the Gulf to migrant-source countries. He uses the 2008 global financial crisis to demonstrate how Gulf states avoided much of the social consequences of unemployment when funding for real estate projects was suspended by expelling thousands of migrant workers. Amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, the “displacement of crisis” functions again through the expulsion of expatriate workers, which became a legal mechanism to transfer health and economic burdens to other countries.

The displacement of crisis took another form too. Saudi authorities attempted to mitigate the economic impacts of COVID-19 by passing several stimulus packages to safeguard private enterprises that had suffered financially as a result of the pandemic. The packages, however, only benefited national citizens who applied for assistance, altogether excluding expatriate workers who made up around eighty percent of employees in the private sector. These faced greater precarity and were left with few real options: unpaid leave, changing employment, or returning to their country of origin. The authorities defended these measures as continuations of the labor nationalization policies, known as Saudization, that started decades ago to replace foreign workers with Saudi nationals through a set of incentives for private enterprises. However, unpaid leave and job losses posed financial challenges for many low-income workers as well as some vulnerable Saudi communities. To assist both groups, the Ministry of Human Recourses and Social Development established a fund with twenty-five million SR in April. Partnering with several charities, the fund established the "our food is one" initiative to provide food baskets for those in need. It is unclear though if a wide range of low-income workers have benefited from such initiatives.

Saudi authorities’ marginalization of low-wage expatriate workers has led to the long disregard for their dismal living conditions. The authorities only intervened, as they did during the pandemic, when these workers posed a threat to the health of the “nation.” The ability to devise and enact housing regulations on such short notice, and during times of social and economic duress, only amplifies the fact that the decision not to do so in the past was a political one. Also, as migrant workers continue to bear the majority of the economic burden of the crisis, their financial security and overall wellbeing remains jeopardized. Unsurprisingly, state interventions were increased only to the necessary extent of protecting public health while shifting a great deal of risk to individual migrants who are treated as a national security threat that should be removed. This highlights how neoliberalism operates in migrant-destination countries and how it contributes to systematic structures of injustice.    

A Trajectory for Reform? 


The COVID-19 crisis highlighted where many cities went wrong, with most early responses calling for a capacity increase of healthcare infrastructure, including hospitals, testing, and tracing capacities. These calls were detached from health conditions in the urban environment and the underlying socio-economic inequalities which determined geographies of infection. Instead, sustainable housing infrastructures should be seen as the main defense mechanism against infectious diseases, forming the cornerstone of urban welfare. The pandemic has shown that the commodification of housing has especially hindered sustainable city-building initiatives. Adequate housing was recognized in the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights as part of the right to an adequate standard of living, and it was at the center of the New Urban Agenda announced during Habitat III in 2015.

In the case of Saudi Arabia, the commitment toward sustainable development was announced in 2014 through the Future Saudi Cities Program (FSCP), which aimed to align with the UN New Urban Agenda's call for the creation of inclusive and prosperous cities. The FSCP deployed different indices to determine prosperity levels in Saudi cities, including a social inclusion index. Yet, expatriate workers are not part of this index and are mentioned as mere numbers in demographic data. For a city to be truly inclusive, all social groups must be presented. To this end, reconciling concepts of temporariness and sustainable livelihoods based on the right to the city should be explored.

The post-pandemic Saudi city should place social equity at the center of urban living, paying more attention to those on the margins whose suffering was foregrounded by the COVID-19 crisis. A recent report by Amnesty International declares that "COVID-19 makes Gulf countries’ abuse of migrant workers impossible to ignore," pointing out that the pandemic poses an opportunity for reforms that entail all aspects of expatriate workers’ lives. Such reforms should consider adequate living conditions, fair pay, health care, and rights of domestic workers, among others. 

While the recent housing regulations issued by the Saudi authorities is a step in the right direction, some concerns can be raised as a result of these regulations being labeled as pandemic precautions. Such regulations should be a permanent practice providing the needed safety net to protect low-wage expatriate workers’ rights for adequate living conditions and should not be viewed as a crisis pop-up solution. Furthermore, the fact that many foreign workers will be in precarious conditions as long as they remain excluded from governmental financial support calls for immediate action to ensure the protection of their livelihoods in the long term.  

Disasters and global pandemics cause destruction and suffering, but they also present opportunities for change. The encounter with COVID-19 has revealed that sustainable political choices need to be made to challenge the old economic, environmental, and social models of city governance that are contributing to the creation of various inequalities and vulnerabilities that threaten urban welfare. This could be the wakeup call that cities need to initiate positive change that leaves no one behind.