Sparse

The Rise of Spiritual Materialism When Healing Becomes a Luxury Good Crystals cost more than diamonds, manifestation has become merchandise, and enlightenment now comes with a price tag. Is spirituality the new luxury industry? By Ami Jain I’ll admit something uncomfortable: I own a $180 rose quartz face roller. I’ve attended a $350 sound bath in a luxury hotel. I have a collection of crystals on my windowsill that cost more than my monthly groceries. And last year, I paid 1,200 dirhams for a “chakra alignment session” that, if I’m honest, felt more like expensive theater than spiritual breakthrough. I’m not proud of this. But I’m also not alone. There was a time when spirituality meant disappearing from the world: retreating inward, renouncing attachment, seeking truth in silence. Today, it arrives in satin boxes with gold-foil branding, infused with jasmine-scented aura sprays and accompanied by a QR code linking to a guided meditation voiced by a celebrity. Healing is no longer hidden in Himalayan caves. It’s displayed on marble vanities and Instagram grids, hashtagged and beautifully lit. Across the world, and especially in luxury capitals like Dubai, Los Angeles, and London, spirituality is being rebranded. Not as a sacred path, but as a lifestyle aesthetic. Sage bundles are sold beside designer candles. Crystals are no longer tokens of metaphysical belief; they are investment pieces with certificates of authenticity. Breathwork retreats cost more than a month’s rent. And the language of spirit – alignment, frequency, manifestation, energy—now circulates through influencers, brands, and billion-dollar wellness conglomerates. We are witnessing the birth of something extraordinary and troubling: spirituality as a status symbol. From Sacred to Sellable Spirituality is no longer about withdrawal. It is about display. Manifestation journals come in limited-edition leather with rose gold edges. Tarot decks are reimagined by fashion houses like Dior and Hermès. Crystal-infused water bottles promise “cellular awakening” for 450 dirhams. Even incense, once a humble prayer tool, now comes in hand-blown Murano glass holders retailing for the price of a flight to Bali. Walk into any luxury mall in Dubai – Dubai Mall, Mall of the Emirates, City Walk and you’ll find entire boutiques dedicated to what I can only call “aspirational spirituality.” The Wellness Shop. Conscious Crystals. Higher Self Home. Names that promise transcendence but deliver aesthetics. And people are buying. Not necessarily out of vanity, but out of longing. Layla, 31, a marketing director in Dubai, describes her journey into spiritual materialism with surprising self-awareness. “I started buying crystals during the pandemic. I was anxious, isolated, desperate for something to believe in. The first one was a small amethyst for maybe 40 dirhams. Then selenite towers. Then chakra sets. Then custom pieces from boutiques. Before I knew it, I’d spent thousands. Did they heal me? I don’t know. But having them made me feel like I was doing something for my spiritual health. Like I was investing in myself.” That phrase -“investing in myself” – is everywhere now. Self-care as capital expenditure. Healing as ROI. Enlightenment as asset accumulation. Dr. Nadia Al-Rashid, a psychologist practicing in Dubai Healthcare City who specializes in wellness culture, sees this pattern frequently. “Clients come to me after spending enormous amounts on spiritual services and products, feeling emptier than when they started. They’re confused because they’ve done everything right: the crystals, the courses, the cleanses. But they’ve confused spiritual consumption with spiritual practice. You cannot shop your way to enlightenment.” Yet the industry keeps growing. The global wellness economy reached $5.6 trillion in 2024, with the spiritual wellness sector – including meditation, mindfulness, and “metaphysical products”- accounting for over $120 billion. In the UAE specifically, the wellness market has grown 287% since 2019, with spiritual services and products among the fastest-growing categories. When Manifestation Becomes Marketing Manifestation once meant quiet trust in divine order. Now, it means curated Pinterest boards, 1,100 dirham “abundance workshops,” and personalized prosperity candles promising “financial ascension.” I attended one of these workshops last year at a five-star hotel in Downtown Dubai. Forty women, most in athleisure and designer accessories, gathered to learn how to “call in wealth.” We journaled. We visualized. We repeated affirmations about deserving abundance.  The instructor, a wellness influencer with 380K followers, spoke confidently about quantum physics and energy frequencies. It felt empowering. It also felt deeply, uncomfortably capitalist. “Manifestation has become the modern prosperity gospel,” says Dr. Amira Khalil, a cultural studies professor at the American University of Sharjah who has researched spiritual commodification. “It places cosmic responsibility on the individual – not just to heal, but to succeed financially. And in doing so, it turns spiritual growth into a premium product. The message is: if you’re not wealthy, healthy, and thriving, you haven’t manifested correctly. It’s spirituality weaponized as meritocracy.” At luxury wellness expos in Dubai and Doha, companies now offer custom “vibration analysis” and crystal consultation services that match your “wealth frequency.” Boutiques sell “5D ascension packages” and “quantum abundance activations.” In London, wellness influencers host manifestation masterclasses that promise to unlock your “Rich Girl Era.” What used to be prayer is now a sales funnel. Zara, 23, the sustainable fashion activist I know, attended one of these events and left disturbed. “The entire thing was about attracting money, luxury, success. Nothing about compassion, service, or actual spiritual development. Just: visualize the Chanel bag, align your frequency to receive it. It was grotesque.” But is it? Or is it just spirituality meeting its moment in late-stage capitalism, doing what everything else does: adapting to market demands? The Aesthetic of Enlightenment Here’s what I keep coming back to: there is something almost poetic about how our search for the divine has become beautifully packaged. And perhaps that’s exactly why it’s working. Luxury spirituality offers aesthetics that genuinely soothe the nervous system. In a chaotic, overstimulating world, beauty becomes a portal. A rose quartz sphere on a bedside table may not guarantee emotional healing, but it looks like softness. A mala bead bracelet may not dissolve karmic patterns, but it

We Don’t Believe in Fate Anymore and That Changes Everything When did we stop surrendering to destiny and start trying to design it? And what have we lost or gained in the process? By Ami Jain My grandmother believed in fate with a certainty I’ve never felt about anything. When good things happened, it was God’s plan. When bad things happened, it was God’s plan. When my parents met, when her husband died, when I was born—all written in the stars, predetermined before time began. There was comfort in that worldview, I think. A kind of peace that comes from surrendering control. I don’t have that peace. I have vision boards. I have manifestation journals. I have a Notes app full of affirmations I recite while making coffee, trying to reprogram my subconscious to “align with abundance.” When something goes wrong, I don’t think “It wasn’t meant to be.” I think, “What did I do to block this? What limiting belief sabotaged my manifestation?” Somewhere between her generation and mine, something fundamental shifted. Fate was once the architect of human life—the great invisible force that explained why kings rose and empires fell, why lovers met across crowded rooms, and why tragedies struck without warning. People surrendered to it because to resist fate was to resist God, the cosmos, destiny itself. But today, in an age of manifestation, quantum realities, and subconscious reprogramming, a radical transformation has occurred: We no longer wait for fate to find us. We believe we can create what we desire. And with that single cultural shift, the entire human story is being rewritten. When Destiny Became Optional For centuries, the narrative was simple: Your life is written in the stars. Astrology charts determined your nature, arranged marriages aligned with planetary movements, and fortunes were foretold in coffee cups and constellations. In the UAE and across the Arab world, fate—al-qadar was understood as divine decree, something to be surrendered to with grace and faith. “In Islamic tradition, qadar is one of the six pillars of faith,” explains Dr. Hassan Al-Tamimi, an Islamic studies scholar at Zayed University. “It means accepting that everything happens according to Allah’s will and knowledge. This doesn’t mean fatalism or passivity, but it does mean recognizing limits to human control. There’s comfort in that—knowing that ultimately, you’re held by something greater than yourself.” But the modern mystic—and I use that term loosely—no longer just bows to destiny. She curates it. She sets intentions under the new moon. She scripts her desires in gold-embossed journals titled “Manifest Your Dream Life.” She speaks affirmations into bathroom mirrors, not prayers into sacred spaces. She is not waiting for divine will. She is calling her future into form. We have shifted from What will happen to me? to What will I make happen? Layla, 31, who grew up in a traditional Emirati family but now attends weekly manifestation workshops, embodies this transition. “My mother says ‘Inshallah’ and means it—God willing, whatever He wills. When I say it now, I’m not sure what I mean. I still say it out of habit and respect, but in my mind, I’m already visualizing the outcome I want, trying to energetically pull it toward me. It feels like I’m honoring tradition while also… not quite believing it anymore.” The Gospel of Self-Creation Manifestation culture has not just introduced new spiritual practices. It has fundamentally restructured our relationship with reality. Destiny says: It was meant to be. Manifestation says: You made it be. Destiny says: This is your path. Manifestation says: You choose your timeline. Destiny says: Accept what comes. Manifestation says: Demand what you deserve. Even astrology, that ancient system of fate-reading, has evolved. It is no longer primarily predictive—it’s become a tool for energetic optimization. Modern horoscopes don’t tell you what will happen; they tell you how to get what you want to happen. Your birth chart isn’t fate; it’s your user manual for reality-hacking. Sana, 22, a psychology student, is deep in manifestation culture. “I’ve manifested my university acceptance, my apartment, even specific experiences. I genuinely believe I’m creating my reality. When I read about the law of attraction or quantum physics—even if I don’t fully understand it—it makes sense to me in a way that ‘God’s plan’ never quite did. I want agency. I want to feel like I’m the author of my life, not a character in someone else’s story.” This is the new spiritual paradigm: radical self-determination. You are not subject to fate. You are the source of it. Your thoughts create your reality. Your energy determines your experience. Your vibration attracts your circumstances. It’s empowering. It’s also exhausting. The Hidden Cost of Control On the surface, this shift seems liberating. If fate isn’t fixed, then anything is possible. If destiny isn’t assigned by cosmic forces beyond your control, then the universe becomes a mirror of your effort, intention, and self-worth. But this modern spirituality carries an emotional cost that we don’t talk about enough: If everything is self-created, then every failure is self-inflicted. Dr. Noor Siddiqui, a psychologist who practices in Dubai and has worked extensively with young professionals experiencing burnout and anxiety, sees this burden constantly. “Manifestation culture has created what I call ‘spiritual blame.’ Clients come to me devastated not just because something didn’t work out, but because they believe they caused it not to work out through insufficient belief or blocked energy. The psychological toll is enormous.” Did your manifestation not arrive? You must not be “aligned.” Did your relationship not work out? Your vibration must be off. Did the opportunity pass you by? You didn’t call it in hard enough. Are you struggling financially? Your scarcity mindset sabotaged your abundance. Where fate once gave us comfort—This was meant to happen, and I can find meaning in it—manifestation often gives us guilt, I must have blocked this, I failed spiritually. We killed destiny and inherited full responsibility for everything that happens to us. And that responsibility is crushing. Fatima, 24, describes

The Museumification of Heritage When Culture Becomes an Exhibit We’re preserving our cultures so intensely that we’ve stopped living them. And the most beautiful traditions are becoming the loneliest. By Ami Jain I was standing in Al Fahidi Historical Neighbourhood last Thursday, watching a group of tourists pose for photos in rented Emirati attire. The abaya was pristine, the ghutra perfectly draped, the backdrop authentically aged coral stone. They looked beautiful. They looked performative. And I wondered: when did heritage become a costume we put on for the camera and take off when the shoot is done? There’s a quiet tragedy unfolding in the most beautiful places in the world. We are preserving our cultures so intensely that we are no longer living them. Across continents, from Rajasthan’s palaces to the restored souks of Dubai, from the alleys of old Cairo to the marbled courtyards of Fez, heritage is not disappearing. It is being curated, polished, ticketed, filmed, hashtagged, and placed gently behind velvet ropes. Our traditions, once lived and breathed, are now displayed. What was once memory is now a museum. What was once language is now calligraphy on a gallery wall. What was once the rhythm of life is now an event scheduled on a tourism calendar. And the question is no longer “How do we save our heritage?” The question is quietly becoming: Can a culture still be called alive when its primary mode of existence is observation rather than participation? I was standing in Al Fahidi Historical Neighbourhood last Thursday, watching a group of tourists pose for photos in rented Emirati attire. The abaya was pristine, the ghutra perfectly draped, the backdrop authentically aged coral stone. They looked beautiful. They looked performative. And I wondered: when did heritage become a costume we put on for the camera and take off when the shoot is done? There’s a quiet tragedy unfolding in the most beautiful places in the world. We are preserving our cultures so intensely that we are no longer living them. Across continents, from Rajasthan’s palaces to the restored souks of Dubai, from the alleys of old Cairo to the marbled courtyards of Fez, heritage is not disappearing. It is being curated, polished, ticketed, filmed, hashtagged, and placed gently behind velvet ropes. Our traditions, once lived and breathed, are now displayed. What was once a memory is now a museum. What was once language is now calligraphy on a gallery wall. What was once the rhythm of life is now an event scheduled on a tourism calendar. And the question is no longer “How do we save our heritage?” The question is quietly becoming: Can a culture still be called alive when its primary mode of existence is observation rather than participation? When the Past Becomes Performance Let me be blunt: we live in an era where the past has become content. We wear traditional garments not to attend rituals, but to attend photoshoots. We visit heritage villages not to reconnect with ancestry, but to collect aesthetic proof that we belong to a lineage. We frame our cultural identity in Instagram squares, measure our connection to roots in likes and shares, and mistake documentation for experience. Culture is no longer something you are. It is something you display.  In Dubai, beautifully preserved sites like Al Fahidi, the Sheikh Mohammed Centre for Cultural Understanding, and the reconstructed souks are stunning.  They are also increasingly settings, not communities. We walk through narrow coral-stone alleyways with cameras raised higher than our hearts beat. Tour guides recite histories that are no longer inherited, but narrated. Professional. Scripted. Perfect. Mariam Al-Khaja, 29, a cultural heritage consultant who works with the Dubai Culture & Arts Authority, sees this tension daily. “We’re doing important preservation work,” she tells me over coffee in a modern café that overlooks one of those very heritage sites. “But sometimes I wonder if we’re creating living history or elaborate stage sets. When a space is primarily experienced by tourists and performed by guides, what are we actually preserving?” Across the world, the pattern repeats. In Kyoto, tea ceremonies are booked by the hour on Airbnb. In Marrakesh, riads once home to multigenerational families are now boutique hotels selling “authentic experiences” to people who will leave in three days. In Jaipur, traditional block printing workshops cater almost exclusively to visitors seeking Instagram content, not locals seeking textiles. We are not practicing heritage. We are witnessing it. And witnessing, no matter how reverent, is still a form of distance. Dr. Salim Al-Mansoori, a historian at UAE University who has spent two decades studying Emirati cultural evolution, puts it more sharply: “There’s a difference between preservation and fossilization. Preservation keeps something alive by allowing it to breathe, change, and remain relevant. Fossilization freezes it in time as an object of study. We’re dangerously close to the latter.” The Aestheticization of Identity Heritage has become visually louder, spiritually quieter. This generation, raised on the currency of images, has learned to translate belonging through aesthetics. Wearing a kimono, a ghutra, a sari, or an embroidered abaya is no longer primarily about ceremony. It’s about semiotics. It tells the world: I come from somewhere meaningful. My identity is worth archiving. And yet, the deeper meaning slips. I see it in my own life. I wear traditional Indian clothing to certain events, and I look beautiful. People compliment the embroidery, the colors, the drape. But when someone asks me the significance of a particular design or the regional origin of the style,  I often don’t know. I inherited the aesthetic, not the knowledge. I mimic the shape of culture while losing its temperature. Fatima, 24, an Emirati university student I spoke with, described a similar experience. “I can wear an abaya beautifully. I know which brands are trendy, which styles are traditional, which fabrics are premium. But my grandmother? She could tell you the name of every weaving technique, the symbolism of patterns, the appropriate occasions for each style. Her knowledge was embodied.