As the UAE cuts funding for its citizens to study in Britain over the government’s refusal to ban the Muslim Brotherhood, Dilly Hussain recounts his experiences with Emirati students whose lives in the UK are regulated by state control, fear and isolation from practising British Muslims.
This week the United Arab Emirates restricted funding for citizens to study at British universities over tensions with the UK’s refusal to ban the Muslim Brotherhood, excluding UK institutions from state scholarships and contributing to a 55 percent drop in Emirati student visas since 2022.
This decision made me reflect on my own numerous encounters with Emirati students in the UK and I would like to share those experiences with you.
Over the past 12 years, I have met and spoken with dozens of male Emirati international students studying in the UK. These encounters took place in my hometown of Bedford, where some attended local colleges or universities, as well as during my time as a student at the University of East Anglia in Norwich between 2006 and 2009.
I have also met Emirati students while delivering lectures for Islamic Societies (ISOCs) at more than 30 universities from 2015 through 2026, and in informal settings such as gyms, where I briefly befriended a few.
Several consistent patterns emerged from these repeated, direct interactions.
Keeping away from Muslims
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Most of the Emirati students I met were studying aeronautical engineering or related engineering disciplines. Many told me that the Emirati government had explicitly instructed them not to discuss Islam or politics on campus, and not to engage in religious activities beyond the bare minimum.
Participation in Eid gatherings, iftar events, or informal socialising with non-Emirati Muslims was strongly discouraged. According to them, only Jumuah and Eid prayers were permitted. Keeping a long beard (with a trimmed moustache) or regularly attending mosques for the five daily prayers was also frowned upon.
A pervasive sense of paranoia was common. Many believed they were being monitored and expressed particular distrust of Saudi and Egyptian students. As a result, most deliberately isolated themselves from other Muslims, both on campus and in the wider communities where they lived. Several were involved in partying, alcohol consumption and drug use, although this was not unique to Emirati students.
I personally know at least three who privately identified as atheists. Others appeared to be using their time abroad primarily to delay or avoid mandatory national military service in the UAE.
All of the students received substantial monthly stipends from the Emirati government, typically ranging from £4,000 to £7,000. They were understandably cautious about doing anything that might jeopardise this financial support, which further reinforced their reluctance to engage socially or religiously.
To be fair, none of the Emirati students I encountered were arrogant, rude or disrespectful. All but three identified as Muslim. However, unlike Saudi, Egyptian, Qatari, Malaysian or Pakistani students — who at least attended Eid or iftar events organised by ISOCs or local mosques — none of the Emiratis I met participated in non-political communal Muslim activities.
These observations are not mine alone. University chaplains, imams and others who interacted with Emiratis through taxis, food businesses and the hospitality sector have independently corroborated similar patterns.
Muslim Brotherhood bogeyman
In my view, the UAE’s concern is not simply fear of Muslim Brotherhood influence, although this features prominently in official narratives. Rather, it appears to fear its youth interacting with practising, educated British and Western Muslims who take their faith seriously and often possess a stronger grasp of basic Islamic knowledge and global Muslim affairs than many secularised Emirati youths.
Based on my experience, Emirati students are unlike any other Arab or Muslim international student group I have encountered. They tend to be reclusive, socially withdrawn and largely disconnected from wider Muslim life on campus or in local communities. Some even adopted dress and aesthetics associated with Black American rap culture, which I found striking.
On the rare occasions when religion or politics were discussed, they were consistently hostile toward the Muslim Brotherhood, Saudi Arabia and Salafism. Discussions of Israel or Palestine were strictly avoided.
I do not believe the UK will suffer significantly if fewer Emirati students choose to study here, as other Gulf Cooperation Council students and foreign investment continue to support British universities.
There is also a growing perception among Muslims in Europe and the West that the UAE functions as a subordinate ally of Israel, promoting a perennialist or reformist religious agenda. Some suspect that a small number of Emirati students may act as security service assets tasked with monitoring Western Muslim communities and other Arab students, although this remains speculative.
These observations are based on personal encounters and recurring patterns. In light of the UAE’s 2025–2026 decisions to sharply restrict government scholarships and remove most UK universities from approved lists — citing fears of “Islamist radicalisation” on British campuses — these experiences feel increasingly relevant.
The numbers reflect this shift: Emirati student visas fell by 27 percent in the year ending September 2025. Whether this isolation was intentional from the outset or a response to perceived risks, one conclusion seems clear: the UAE is intent on keeping its youth at a distance from the kind of engaged, faith-centred Muslim life that exists in countries such as the UK.
