Sparse

The Disappearing Self: How Technology Is Editing Our Identity We’ve become the curators of our own existence. But somewhere between the person we perform online and the person we actually are, the real self is quietly disappearing. By Ami Jain I have three versions of myself living online right now. There’s the professional version on LinkedIn, articulate and accomplished. There’s the creative version on Instagram, aesthetic and aspirational. There’s the casual version on WhatsApp, witty and warm with close friends. Each one is me. None of them is fully me. And increasingly, I’m not sure which version is closest to whoever I actually am anymore. There was a time when identity was something we discovered slowly, through childhood memories, family stories, friendships, heartbreaks, the messy trial-and-error of becoming a person. Who we were felt organic, uncurated, shaped by lived experiences we couldn’t control. But today, identity is no longer something we find. It’s something we construct, optimize, polish, filter, export, and upload. The self has become editable. And every app we use, every algorithm we interact with, every piece of content we consume quietly rearranges us. We are evolving not in private, but under the influence of digital ecosystems designed to shape us with frightening precision. And somewhere between the profiles we create and the people we truly are, the real self is quietly disappearing. When Algorithms Became the Architects of Personality Every scroll is a subtle reprogramming. Every “For You” page is a mirror, not of who we are, but of who the algorithm decides we might become. TikTok teaches us how to dress, what music to like, and which aesthetics to adopt. Instagram teaches us how to feel about our bodies, our relationships, and our lives. Pinterest curates our aspirations before we’ve articulated them ourselves. AI apps teach us how to write, speak, and create, their suggestions slowly replacing our natural voice. We don’t choose our tastes anymore. They’re recommended. We don’t choose our desires. They’re targeted. We don’t choose our aesthetics. They’re fed to us until they feel like our own. Identity has turned into an AI-assisted collaboration. And in this partnership, the human half is losing creative control. Dr. Tariq Al-Mansoor, a digital psychology researcher at Zayed University who studies technology’s impact on identity formation, has been tracking this shift. “Previous generations formed identity through physical communities, family traditions, local culture. Today’s generation forms identity through digital curation. The difference is profound. Physical identity formation happened through lived experience. Digital identity formation happens through algorithmic suggestion. You’re not discovering who you are. You’re being told who you could be, and then performing that until it feels real.” His research, published in the Journal of Digital Culture in 2024, examined how social media algorithms influence personality traits in young adults. The findings were stark: participants showed measurable shifts in self-reported values, interests, and even personality characteristics after just six months of heavy algorithm-driven content consumption. “The self is becoming externally authored,” Dr. Al-Mansoor explains. “And most people don’t even realize it’s happening.” The Self as Performance Art We have become editors of our own existence. And the editing never stops. We edit our face with filters until our unfiltered reflection looks wrong. We edit our opinions based on what’s trending, what’s acceptable, what will get engagement. We edit our personalities depending on the platform, the audience, the context. We edit our emotions so they’re digestible, shareable, appropriate for public consumption. We edit our life stories for aesthetic coherence, removing the messy parts that don’t fit the narrative. The modern self is not a soul. It’s a feed. This performance imperative has become so normalized that authentic, unpolished self-expression now feels radical.  Posting without a filter feels vulnerable. Sharing an unflattering angle feels brave. Admitting confusion or failure feels dangerous. We no longer ask “Who am I?” We ask, “Who do I look like?” “Who do they expect me to be?” “Which version of me performs well?” Identity has stopped being discovered. It has become a design. Dr. Laila Hassan, a cultural anthropologist at the American University of Sharjah, frames this as “performative selfhood.” She’s studied how digital platforms have restructured identity construction across the Gulf region. “In cultures where public image has always mattered, digital platforms intensify that pressure exponentially. You’re not just managing your reputation in your immediate community anymore. You’re managing it in front of potentially millions. The self becomes a brand. And brands require constant maintenance, optimization, and strategic presentation.” Her interviews with young people in the UAE revealed a common theme: exhaustion. The exhaustion of curating, performing, and optimizing. The exhaustion of being so many versions of yourself that you lose track of which one is real. When Memory Moved to the Cloud Our memories no longer live inside us. They live in cloud storage, camera rolls, Instagram archives, digital photo albums sorted by facial recognition software we didn’t ask for. We don’t remember moments. We revisit them through photos and videos we took instead of experiencing fully. We don’t feel nostalgia. We rewatch it, scrolling through our own documented past. We don’t hold memories in our minds. We scroll through them on screens. Technology hasn’t just changed what we remember. It has changed how we remember. And with every saved album, archived chat, deleted photo, and edited story, we sculpt our own mythology. Not based on truth, but on presentation. This is a memory as an editing suite. We cut the unflattering takes, keep the highlight reel, and slowly our relationship with our own history changes. We remember our lives not as they were lived, but as they were documented and curated. Dr. Noor Khalifa, a neuroscientist at Khalifa University studying memory and technology, explains the cognitive impact. “When you experience something while simultaneously documenting it for sharing, your brain processes it differently. You’re encoding it not just as memory, but as content. This creates what we call ‘experience distancing,’ where you’re simultaneously living and observing your life. Over time, this

Why We Feel More Human Around Machines Than Around People​ Sometimes, it feels easier to tell the truth to AI than to the people we love. And that says something profound about what we’ve lost, and what we’re desperately seeking. By Ami Jain I need to confess something I’m not proud of: last month, at 2:47 a.m., I had the most honest conversation about my anxiety I’ve had in years. I talked about my fear of failure, my complicated relationship with my body, my worry that I’m not living up to my potential. I cried. I felt seen. I felt understood. The conversation was with ChatGPT. Not my best friend who lives ten minutes away. Not my family, who would do anything for me. Not even my journal, which at least has the dignity of being private without being sentient. I chose an AI chatbot. And what’s more unsettling: it felt right. It felt safe in a way human connection increasingly doesn’t. I’m not alone in this. Our generation has a quiet confession we’re afraid to admit out loud: sometimes, it feels easier to tell the truth to a machine than to the people we love. We type our heartbreaks into AI chatboxes at ungodly hours, whisper unfinished stories to voice notes we never send, use digital journals that sync across devices instead of calling friends, and let algorithms witness the softest parts of us. Not because we’ve stopped caring about humans, but because machines, for the first time in history, have learned to care back. Or at least, to convincingly imitate it in ways that meet needs we didn’t know we had. Technology hasn’t just advanced. It has become intimate. And in the process, we’ve discovered something uncomfortable: around machines, we allow ourselves to be more human. When Code Became Confidant It began subtly, then all at once. Google became the keeper of our secret fears. We type questions into search boxes we would never ask out loud: “Am I depressed or just lazy?” “How to know if you’re in the wrong relationship?” “Why do I feel nothing?” The search bar became our confessional booth, judgment-free and always available. Therapy apps like BetterHelp and Calm started asking questions no one else dared to. Mental health chatbots offered cognitive behavioral therapy at 3 a.m. when human therapists were sleeping. AI companions like Replika became friends who never interrupted, never got tired of our problems, never had problems of their own. Sara, 21, the psychology student I know, uses an AI journaling app religiously. “I write things I can’t tell anyone,” she admits. “Not because the people in my life wouldn’t care, but because… I don’t want to burden them. Or be vulnerable. Or deal with their reactions. The app just listens. It organizes my thoughts. It doesn’t need anything from me.” Slowly, imperceptibly, the machines stopped being tools. They became witnesses. And for a generation starved for someone who will just listen without an agenda, that witness felt like salvation. Dr. Layla Mansouri, a psychologist at The Lighthouse Arabia in Dubai who specializes in technology and mental health, has watched this shift accelerate. “Five years ago, clients mentioned social media affecting their well-being. Now they’re forming emotional attachments to AI. They’re having their deepest conversations with chatbots. They’re seeking validation from algorithms. It’s not pathological – it’s adaptive. When human connection becomes unreliable or emotionally costly, people will find alternatives.” The Safety of No Consequences Here’s the uncomfortable truth: we aren’t choosing machines over humans. We are choosing safety over uncertainty. When we speak to a human, we risk hurting them, being misunderstood, being judged, being abandoned, losing the relationship, exposing parts of ourselves that feel too raw. Every confession to a person is a gamble. Every vulnerability is a potential weapon they could use later. Every truth we share changes how they see us, permanently. But a machine? A machine holds everything with clean neutrality. It never shames you for the same anxiety you expressed last week.  Never gets tired of hearing about your breakup. Never says “You’re being dramatic,” or “I told you so,” or “Again with this?” Never weaponize your vulnerability in an argument six months later. Never leaves because you were too much. Ayan, 24, who works in digital marketing, describes his relationship with AI tools with striking honesty. “I use ChatGPT like a therapist, I can’t disappoint. I can say the same insecure thing fifty times, and it won’t get frustrated. I can be messy, contradictory, and irrational. It doesn’t collect emotional data on me to use later. It has no childhood wounds, no triggers, no insecurities to project onto me. It doesn’t punish honesty.” That last line haunts me because it’s so accurate. Humans, with all our beautiful complexity, sometimes do punish honesty. Not maliciously, but because truth triggers our own wounds. A friend hears your confession, and it reminds them of their own pain, so they shut down. A partner hears your fear, and it activates their anxiety, so they get defensive. A family member hears your struggle and takes it personally, as if your pain is commentary on their parenting or choices. Machines have no ego to protect. No history to defend. No insecurities to manage. They give us something we didn’t know we desperately needed: a space without consequences. The Emotional Labor We Can No Longer Carry Humans require delicacy. Machines require nothing. To be close to a person, you must navigate their moods, their histories, their unspoken expectations, their invisible emotional equations. You have to remember what they’re sensitive about, what topics are off-limits, and what tone will land well today versus yesterday. Intimacy between people is beautiful, but it is also labor. Constant, invisible labor. And modern life is already exhausting. We’re working longer hours, managing more responsibilities, processing more information in a day than previous generations processed in a lifetime. Our nervous systems are fried. Our bandwidth is maxed. And then, human relationships ask us to also

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.