An international school in Dubai invited me to speak to their staff and students about my work. I accepted the invitation gladly. I had never been to Dubai and I was curious to go there.

In Harper’s Magazine, I had read an article by Negar Azimi about Dubai. Azimi writes, among other things, about the world’s first producer of camel-milk chocolate. Of course, the world’s first producer of camel-milk chocolate is based in Dubai.

Before I left, a fellow war correspondent told me that he was forced to spend a few days in Dubai on his way from Amsterdam to Kabul. The plane to Dubai, he insisted, was filled with Russian prostitutes.

Sin City in the Middle East—that’s how I pictured in Dubai, and I wanted to see it for myself.

Before my departure, a few small problems came up. Perhaps it’s better to speak about “sensitivities” instead.

The teacher who had invited me told me that certain issues could not be discussed in Dubai.

Taboo were drugs, alcohol, sex, Jews, Israel and religion itself.

Some books I had written, the novel The Jewish Messiah for example, disappeared from my biography discreetly.

Perhaps I should have protested, but I’m in favor of assimilation and above all, I deemed my curiosity more important than my principles.

On an early Sunday morning, I arrived in Dubai. A woman from the international school whisked me through immigration. I guess the school had hired her to make sure that no immigration officer would mistakenly believe that I was a Mossad agent.

After having read about the free fall of Dubai, abandoned buildings, ex-pats fleeing the Emirates with debts, etcetera, I was surprised to see a thriving Dubai.
The Mall of the Emirates was crowded, the famous artificial ski-slope inside the mall was open, and as far as I could see several people were enjoying the possibility of winter sport in the desert.

I had selected a few texts to read for the students and the staff, mainly excerpts from my journalistic work.

The sensitivity of the United Arab Emirates had become my sensitivity, so much so that I decided to omit a reference to a synagogue in Budapest.

You never know when you’ll step on somebody’s toes.

After the reading for the students and a Q&A, an interview with a local journalist was arranged. The journalist was an Indian woman—there is a huge Indian community in the Emirates—and she asked me how the school had managed to invite a Jewish writer without any problems from the authorities.

“Can we speak about this?” a secretary of the school asked a teacher who was both present during the interview.

“If we are sensitive,” the teacher answered.

One of the ugly side effects of the authoritarian state is the self-censorship that sneaks in and that is hard to get rid of.