Workers in Qatar's Industrial Area live in groups of seven crammed into one room. Dust, rubbish, poverty: there is no glitter and no World Cup here, but suffering and fear. And alcohol under the counter. A report from the slum that nobody should see.
The six Indians laugh. Her buddy is asleep when they show their guest their stuffy, run-down room in which the seven of them live cooped up. Tired, the sleeper rolls over. Looks puzzled around - and laughs. It's an absurd situation. Shouting in unbelievable misery. ludicrous. And yet so symbolic of the stark contrasts in Qatar. The richest nation on earth. The organizer of the pompous, dazzling World Cup 2022. The land of glitter, sparkling high-rise buildings, huge shopping malls - and unbelievable, hidden poverty.
Twelve square meters. Five inch mattresses. Close to close, right next to each other on the floor. Thin blankets, a few old pillows. No table, no chair, no window, no mirror. A small sink, a refrigerator, an electronic stovetop with two old pots and a colander. Next to it are seven toothbrushes in a yoghurt pot. A small shrine to the formless creator god of the Sikh religion, to which the seven Indians belong, and a few turbans hanging from a nail adorn the otherwise bare walls. It stinks of young men, unwashed bedding and stale air. The makeshift mini air conditioner installed in the corner is not working.
The young men live in one of the many shelters in Qatar's so-called industrial area. A good thirty minute drive outside of Doha. This is where the construction workers who build the World Cup stadiums, skyscrapers and roads live, the taxi drivers who drive western tourists and football fans through the glittering worlds of Lusail and The Pearl and the waiters, cooks and security guards who work in the noble five-star hotels -Restaurants and hotels of the Qatari capital are working. They come from India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, the Philippines, Sudan or Egypt.
misery, dust, garbage. The streetscape of the Industrial Area is desolate. Loud circular saws, even louder trucks thundering by. An emaciated dog looking for food in the dirt, a filthy cat that shies away from every pedestrian. Overflowing dumpsters flank small, unpaved streets. "Made in Turkey" is written on them. Cozy sidewalks, huge shopping malls or football merchandise? No, the World Cup is far away here.
Finding someone willing to speak to a journalist and show their accommodation is difficult at first. Although there are many workers - exclusively men, their clothes soiled by grease from the workshops or rubble from the construction sites - on the streets, most of them are easily intimidated. The sight of a European on the streets causes astonishment. Others don't speak English. A Pakistani who has just bought some vegetables from one of the little kiosks on the street corners would like to, but his five roommates are on night shifts and are now asleep. A kind of local boss, an elderly Indian, then invites us into his half-collapsing Nissan and then into the cinder block.
Before entering the room of the seven Sikhs, all in T-shirts and shorts, their shoes are kicked off in front of the thin plastic door. "Sit down," Arjan says, pointing to the mattresses. His cousin Ranveer and the others also take their seats. Life in their home takes place lying down or cross-legged. The mattress is so imperceptible as if you were sitting directly on concrete. Arjan, 28, has been a taxi driver in Qatar for eight years, and Ranveer has also been a driver, but not as long. That's why they both speak a little English - which is a requirement for the job - and they translate for their friends. One gets up and prepares tea, serving it in metal cups. Too much sugar for a German. Laughter again. "We Punjabs love sugar," Ranveer says happily.
The young men stop laughing during the conversations. When they talk about their families back home, their eyes drop to the ground. Arjan has a one-year-old son whom he has never seen and will not see for a year. Ranveer recently got married and had only known his wife back home for a month before the wedding.
The Sikhs pass around sweets. Her deep sadness and desperation behind the facade of the smile is impressively noticeable. Laughter becomes the means to somehow cope with the difficult circumstances. Mental problems are widespread among migrant workers. "Of course, the accommodation is not good," says Arjan, "but there are worse." After all, you get along well with everyone in the room and in the house. One player is playing around with a deck of playing cards, shuffling them over and over again.
About 550 people live in their four-story concrete block. Five to seven per room. There is a dirty toilet and a worn-out kitchenette on each floor. There are also a few showers on the ground floor. The whole thing has something of a cattle shed with several enclosures, the place offers so little privacy and humanity. It's dusk and many workers return from their shifts, undress and change in the yard under towels tied around their waists. Dirty work clothes off, loose swim shorts on. Get out of the heavy construction worker boots and into old flip-flops.
There are no chic cafés like in the Souq Waqif or fine restaurants like on the glittering peninsula The Pearl, which offers World Cup fans a world of spectacle and splendor in Doha. Nothing is pretended in the Industrial Area. Instead, worn-out sofas, excavators and wrecked cars line the roadside. Flies, which have been eradicated in the high-rise capital because migrant workers remove all rubbish immediately, are buzzing around. The only small restaurant far and wide offers the workers rice and chicken without cutlery. In front of the cottage is a sink with a soapy mixture in a yellowed water bottle.
As FIFA and Qatar boast of progress for workers, set up a "legacy fund" for reparations (which human rights organizations have criticized as insufficient) and hailed the World Cup as the best ever, cables that serve as clotheslines hang with underpants , T-shirts and towels in front of the rooms of Arjan, Ranveer and Co. They are perfidiously reminiscent of the many small World Cup flags that adorn the boulevards in Doha. Down in front of the ground floor are scuffed sofas, a row of washing machines and a multi-faucet water dispenser. Next door, a concrete factory rumbles loudly. There is a junkyard across the street. The squalid neighborhood, where every house is either industry or one of the multi-storey workers' blocks, makes the words of FIFA and government officials catch slogans.
The Sikhs' small room costs 1,700 riyals per month, the equivalent of around 460 euros. The seven of them each pay a monthly salary of around 250 euros - that's the monthly minimum wage introduced in 2021 (after all, the first in the Gulf region) - still pays 65 euros for the run-down place. As a result, Arjan and Ranveer can hardly put any money aside for the family back home. "It's tough," they admit. However: "It's still better in Qatar than in India. There's only corruption there and no jobs. That's why we're here."
The men know that life is not fair for them. You feel it every day. However, they are used to not complaining. That could cost her her job in Qatar. And possibly even the visa. Fear reigns among workers. And cash. "We need money," says Arjan, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "It's always about the money." Be silent.
Only one of the group works in construction, he is a crane driver. For the others, such jobs are "too dangerous". You know the stories of construction workers who have had an accident or collapsed. "It's just too hot here in the summer." So someone who has only been in Qatar for two weeks gets his driver's license first. That takes three to four months. Cost point: up to 1000 euros. In the first few years, migrant workers in Qatar often only pay back money they have borrowed from somewhere and do not earn anything themselves.
Another view of the dusty streets. According to local sources, some of the small shops sell alcohol under the counter. Beer, wine and liquor are banned in Qatar, only selected 5-star hotels and wealthy Europeans can purchase a special license. However, workers in the industrial area are said to drown their pain and suffering in hard liquor and even suffer from alcoholism. When asked, the approximately 60-year-old Indian kiosk owner takes a critical look. Mistrust. He looks at the floor, thinks, and shakes his head.
Next attempt with two younger men in front of the store. They also consider which answer would be the right one. But at that moment the old owner rushes over and suddenly knows. He points to the next street corner, to the "red sign". There would be alcohol "underground". He gestures with one hand under the other.
The red sign turns out to be one of the many car workshops. Three Nepalese sit in front of several dismantled vehicles. When asked about alcohol, they grin in embarrassment and look at each other. Fear resonates with them too, they don't trust strangers. But they immediately welcome him and offer a seat. They have been working in Qatar for 20, 14 and 12 years. One has even been in this workshop for two decades, he lives in a small container between scrap metal and car tires. He stretched his laundry on a line between the vehicles.
The three men think Thomas Müller and Lionel Messi are great. They don't have a TV for the World Cup games. After trust has been established, the subject of alcohol comes back to the table. Qatar is very strict, in Nepal 95 percent of the people drink, they finally say. And in fact, alcohol can be bought illegally in the workshop. But: "Not today", they apologize.
Back in the block of flats, where they only ask in awe after the World Cup games. This world is so far removed from theirs that they cannot give it a thought. The young men initially agree to take photos of themselves and their room. But Rajan intervenes. That could cause major problems and entail penalties because Qatar prohibits showing the workers' housing, cattle sheds. fear reigns. Goodbyes with a handshake. no laughter
Getting back to the glitzy world of Doha on public transit isn't easy. The nearest subway is an hour and a half's walk away. No FIFA helpers. No "Metro This Way". In this way, the migrant workers are completely excluded from public life outside of the industrial area. A classic ghetto in a strict class society. No one should stray into the Industrial Area. The Qatari government wants to use all its might to hide the forbidden city, the suffering at the gates of the metropolis, from tourists, journalists and Qataris in order to preserve the appearance of perfection. To hide the incredible inequality. To outshine the horror of poverty with pompous wealth.
Night falls over Qatar. Skyscrapers, hotels and malls sparkle on the horizon from afar. At some point, palm trees, grassy areas, trees, and greenery appear again at the roadside. None of that exists in Industrial Area. Only dust, misery, dirt, noise. In the middle of the richest country on earth.
