Who says influencers contribute nothing to society?

WHERE would we be without social media influencers to show us what the inside of rented private jets look like when parked on the tarmac, or where they just had the best free lunch of their lives?

For years, a chorus of curmudgeons (possibly envious print journalists, possibly people who pay for their own meals) denounced these by-products of the attention economy as parasites, hissing bitterly that influencers contribute nothing to society.

Dubai happens to disagree. In fact, the emirate has a gross domestic product target for them.

Influencers have a huge role to play in one of the most glamorous soft-power operations in modern history. For them, Dubai built Creators HQ, a content hub at Jumeirah Emirates Towers that is part of a plan to attract 10,000 influencers.

The project has a 150 million dirham (S$52.1 million) support fund and offers influencers studio space, mentorship programmes, visa assistance, help with setting up companies, and hundreds of workshop and networking events a year, probably on the assumption that influencers, like potted plants, thrive on attention.

On top of all that support and love, the influencers get tax-free personal income, which can be a big deal; the average TikTok creator in the United Arab Emirates rakes in 490,000 dirhams a year.

A creator economy

No one is talking small potatoes here. Dubai is betting that people posting videos of themselves eating at rooftop restaurants and unboxing luxury goods will, in aggregate, generate billions.

The emirate wants the creator economy to account for 5 per cent of GDP by 2031.

Meanwhile, it gets an organic-looking tourism campaign created by people who post aspirational content to their combined audience of billions, who get a peek at a marvellous place where the buildings are tall and shiny, the cars are Italian or German, no one pukes at yacht parties, and nothing bad ever happens.

What could possibly go wrong? Funny you should ask.

Iranian missiles have clouded the picture. Dubai’s appeal, to influencers and through them the wider world, is that it is a safe, modern and prosperous oasis, a gleaming corner of stability in a turbulent region. That is not the brand, but the product.

This image matters in a place where nine out of 10 residents are foreign nationals, most of whom chose to be there and can choose to skedaddle.

Yet, even as prices for private jet flights out of Dubai have soared, influencers have apparently rushed to proclaim their faith in the UAE’s leaders to keep them safe, many at the same time, many using similar wording.

This led some to wonder aloud whether, having suckled at the teat of policy, these content creators were now compelled to praise the pasture.

But Dubai’s social media cheerleaders need little prodding from officials to put “Everything Is Fine. No, Really” posts on their content calendars. Their follower counts, incomes and livelihoods all depend largely on the oasis being real. Self-interest obviates coercion.

Until recently, things had gone swimmingly for Creators HQ. Half a year after its launch, it had attracted more than 2,400 influencers to Dubai to join the 50,000 already there.

However the conflict turns out, most of the world will be hoping for calmer skies. Particularly those of us who feel that Dubai can have all the influencers it wants. And keep them.