Like many groundbreaking investigations, this global exposé began with a simple lead. In late February 2024, Farhaan Wasti, a friend from Dubai, contacted me about a situation involving a mother of two from my hometown.
Rose Jehan, a physiotherapist, had travelled to Dubai from Lucknow in search of employment. When job opportunities proved elusive, she accepted a digital marketing position offering a salary of Dh3,000, along with accommodation and meals.
For many South Asians facing unemployment in their home countries, it seemed like a lifeline. Little did Rose know, however, that this seemingly promising offer would soon reveal its dark side. Before long, she found herself ensnared in a cybercrime syndicate run by Chinese scammers engaging in forced labour and human trafficking.
In a desperate voice message to Farhaan, Rose described how she was held captive and forced to defraud people with promises of additional income, only to drain their bank accounts. Her passport had been confiscated and her phone remained under the custody of her employers from 7.30 a.m. to 8.30 p.m., during which period she impersonated a representative from a purported Mumbai-based company called Coin DCX Company. When I tried to reach her after work hours, she became frightened and hastily ended the call.
It took many days of gently persuading her through text messages before she finally opened up. “Please help me,” she pleaded. “I’m holed up in a cramped seventh-floor apartment with six other girls from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Our workspace is on the ninth floor. We’re trapped with Nigerian security guards monitoring every exit. It’s like a jail.”
“Do you ever get to step out for food or something?” I inquired. “No, the meals are served in the call centre,” she replied. “Breakfast is just bread with tea. Sometimes, if the company’s had a good run with their scams, they toss in some butter. Lunch is at noon, dinner at five. It’s usually watery daal, kabooz, noodles, hummus, and salad.”
From Rose’s detailed account, I could imagine the scene of her workplace: a crowded room filled with nearly a hundred men and women, each hunched over a computer, generating lists of Indian cell phone numbers to call throughout the day. Their mission? To entice unsuspecting individuals with deceptive part-time online income opportunities. Rose described her gruelling schedule, working thirteen-hour shifts for thirty days straight.
“Every day, each of us makes anywhere between 700-800 calls, all of which are recorded, with many randomly monitored by our Pakistani handlers,” she explained. “The moment I finish one call, another appears on the dialler. Yesterday, I took Rs 5,00,000 from a retiree’s account. His life savings, gone in an instant. It weighs heavily on my conscience, leaving me unable to sleep.”
I had read about how Chinese syndicates recruit individuals in locations such as Bangkok, promising job opportunities, only to traffic them to countries like Myanmar and Cambodia. The UN reports around 2,20,000 people in Southeast Asia trapped in these scams. Surely, this can’t be happening in the UAE, I told myself. I assumed it was a rare case or some idiot trying to establish operations here without understanding the consequences.
I believed I could intervene by contacting the Indian consulate and Ajman Police to rescue Rose and the other girls and shut down the operations within a day or two.
However, the more I delved into the racket, the clearer it became how ignorant I was. The realisation hit me hard when I discovered that the UAE had become the global epicentre of cyber scams. These schemes enslaved not merely a few dozens or hundreds, but thousands of computer-literate and educated young people across high-security compounds in Ajman, Ras Al Khaimah and Dubai.
Before the COVID-19 pandemic, cyber syndicates predominantly operated from China, Cambodia and Myanmar. However, a crackdown prompted them to seek new havens. In 2023, Chinese authorities pressed charges against 2,80,000 individuals involved in cybercrimes, marking a 35.5 per cent increase from the previous year. Additionally, China targeted cybercrime syndicates in the border areas of military-ruled Myanmar, resulting in the extradition of 31,000 suspects. Faced with mounting pressure, the cybercriminals sought sanctuary in other countries, with the UAE emerging as a favoured destination.
The cyber slaves told me they face harsh financial targets and quotas. Failure leads to fines, termination and sometimes torture, including electric shocks, isolation, physical punishment, waterboarding, starvation and sexual exploitation.
A Vietnamese man who escaped from a compound shared chilling videos. They depicted men being stripped naked, waterboarded and subjected to tasering.
I learnt of a heartbreaking incident involving a Bangladeshi man who suffered a fatal heart attack at a scamming compound in Ajman. Eyewitnesses recounted how they pleaded for an ambulance, only to be callously refused.
When I spoke to Rose the following evening, she was worried about her colleague Laxmi. A young Indian girl from Punjab, Laxmi had been denied medical aid despite running a fever. “I begged them to let her see a doctor,” Rose said. “But they silenced me, insisting that nobody leaves this place.”
Over the course of three days, I identified four scamming compounds in Ajman, along with one each in Ras Al Khaimah and Dubai. In some instances, these gangs had control over entire buildings, effectively imprisoning thousands of cyber slaves within their confines. One particularly fortified compound, located behind Ajman’s Al Ain Hotel, stood as a daunting fortress, guarded by vigilant Nigerian security personnel, and monitored by CCTV cameras. It was within these imposing walls that Rose and countless others were held captive, leaving me with no recourse but to observe from a distance in my tinted glass car.
On Dubai-Al Ain Road, the Chinese scammers had taken over a cluster of buildings. Parked outside was a truck van with an antenna protruding from its back. When I showed its picture to a telecom expert, he explained that it was a cell tower designed to bolster communication networks. Given the large number of people using mobile devices simultaneously, such a measure was necessary for ensuring a strong signal.
I had heard rumours of a major operation running from Ajman’s Grand Mall, but what I saw exceeded my expectations. Up to eight scamming compounds operated openly there. I observed hundreds of young men and women flowing into and out of the building. Unlike the compound behind Al Ain Hotel, the workers here had more freedom. I caught up with some of them during their smoking break. For many, it appeared to be their first job. “Why do you do this?” I inquired of a young Pakistani man in his mid-twenties as he lit a cigarette and took swigs from a packaged box of labaan. “Give me a job with the same perks, and I’ll quit today,” he chuckled. Another young man told me that he used to feel guilty, but not anymore. “It’s just a job to me now. If I don’t do it, someone else will. There are plenty of people who would take my place gladly.”
As I conversed with the workers wearing company lanyards around their necks, a troubling comparison dawned on me: were they fundamentally different from burglars? While burglars invade homes, these individuals breach banks. I couldn’t shake off the concern for their future. Their initial employment thrust them into a world where criminality seemed routine. How would this influence their paths? Would they hold onto any semblance of morality? Before my eyes, I witnessed the potential cultivation of thousands of future criminals. Who’s to say how many might eventually establish their own scamming enterprises?
I was desperate to meet Rose, but she needed an outpass to leave, and there was only one way she could obtain it: by meeting her daily target of twelve clients. Every evening, I would drive down to Ajman and linger near her building, locally known as the Chinese Tower, hoping she would achieve her target, even though it meant more lives being ruined. Then, finally, on 11 March 2024, the first day of Ramadan, I received the green signal around mid-afternoon. Rose informed me that she could leave at 10 pm That evening, after Taraweeh prayers, I took my wife Eram and headed to Ajman. She insisted on joining me, having heard my accounts of the dangers from previous visits. I didn’t object; I welcomed her company for the long drive and having someone to hold the phone camera.
Usually, for such assignments, I would use my Kia Mohave or Mercedes E300, both equipped with tinted windows. However, that day, the SUV was parked elsewhere, and the Mercedes had a flat tire, so I reluctantly took my official Mazda 6 Saloon, which had clear windows.
I parked a little further down the building where Rose worked, to avoid the CCTV cameras and patrolling guards. At 10.15, Rose arrived, quickly taking her place in the back seat as we drove away. There was little time to spare so we didn’t venture far. Instead, we found a rundown mandi restaurant nearby, offering separate dining areas for families with floor seating. It was an ideal spot. Handing the camera to Eram, we ordered some food while Rose recounted her tale, describing every detail.
Rose said her Pakistani handler, Ahmad, referred to them as “opening batsmen”. “We’re the ones who make the first call, initiate conversation, and assign people simple tasks like posting Google reviews and liking YouTube videos,” she explained. “The handlers and Chinese gang monitor our calls as we stick to a script.”
Initially, victims are promised small sums ranging from Rs 200 to Rs 500. But as their trust is gained and involvement deepens, they are ushered into a larger Telegram group with hundreds of participants. Here, they are coaxed into paying subscription fees for tasks that promise greater financial rewards. The fraudsters employ deceptive tactics, using fabricated screenshots of individuals purportedly earning significant sums to lure in new victims. “We collectively defraud hundreds of people daily, and when our illicit gains surpass Dh1,00,000, pre-recorded applause and cheers echo through the room.”
She outlined the hierarchy within the scam centre. At the bottom were telesales agents like herself. Above them were receptionists, responsible for grooming the callers. Then came the teachers, and at the top were the “killers”. The latter two categories could rake in thousands of dollars daily in incentives, given their expertise in hacking.
I reached out to four Indian victims, including Rupal, an assistant professor from Udaipur whose numbers Rose had shared. Each confessed to losing anywhere between Rs 50,000-10,00,000.
Bewildered by my unexpected call, they bombarded me with questions: Who are you? How did you get my number? Can I trust you as a journalist, or are you another scammer? Amidst the barrage of inquiries and expletives, I patiently explained my role as an investigative journalist. Slowly, their scepticism gave way to relief as they realised I was there to uncover the truth behind their losses. With a sense of catharsis, they eagerly recounted their experiences, hoping that their stories would lead to justice, or at least some form of resolution.
Sadly, not everyone made it out alive to share their story. Rose told me about a couple in Hyderabad who, after losing their life savings, took their own lives. They posted a video on their Telegram before ending it all.
“Could the video have been faked?” I asked.
“I’m not sure; I didn’t see it myself. But those who did were deeply disturbed and believed it was real. Just the other day, a victim posted a video of himself cutting his wrist. These kinds of incidents happen all too often. Some people vent their frustration at us, while others resort to extreme measures.”
We said our goodbyes with heavy hearts as we dropped Rose back. “Can’t you stay?” I asked as she stepped out of the car. “I’ll retrieve your passport and settle the company debts.”
She offered a weak smile. “What about the other women inside? If I don’t return, they’ll become suspicious and move their operations elsewhere.”
It made sense.
Outside Grand Mall, I met an Indian man who sheepishly revealed his specialisation in pig butchering or romance scams – an insidious operation employing social media, dating apps, WhatsApp and text messages to ensnare victims. Starting with seemingly innocuous conversations that feigned errors, the scammers gradually earned the trust of their targets, ultimately persuading them to invest in cryptocurrency trading under false pretences.
Victims were directed to download apps or visit websites secretly controlled by the scammers, leading to devastating financial losses. My mind drifted to my stories in Khaleej Times recounting the stories of individuals hit by these scams. A father of five in Ajman lost $47,000 while seeking a second wife on Tinder, while an IT director in Dubai was drained of $1,47,000. Similarly, an Indian businessman in Abu Dhabi lost $2,00,000, and an Emirati mother in Sharjah over $2,75,000. Pig-butchering scammers have likely stolen more than $75 billion from victims worldwide, a figure surpassing previous estimates, as per a recent study.
I pondered how many of these scams occurred in the UAE and whether any were perpetrated by the wiry-framed man with frizzled hair whom I had met.
I also marvel at a striking paradox: while taking chunks of Indian land along its border, China is also nibbling away at Indian bank accounts worth millions of dollars daily, using its own people to do so. So much for calls to boycott Chinese products.
I have alerted the UAE authorities and the Indian consulate in Dubai, but now, I’m in a tense waiting game, aware that dismantling such a deeply rooted network won’t be easy. It’s a heavy burden knowing that with each passing hour, thousands are falling victim to financial deception. My heart aches for the cyber slaves, hoping for their freedom. And as for Rose, I hold onto the hope of one day meeting her as a free woman. Without her courage, there would be no crackdown, no story to tell.
Excerpted with permission from The Maz Files: Scoops, Scams And Showdowns, Mazhar Farooqui, Westland.
