If Musk Does Not Like Muslims, He Should Abandon Their Money

I recently watched Elon Musk’s interview with The Economist. I recommend it, not simply because it offers a glimpse into how one of the world’s richest men thinks, but because it demonstrates how crude prejudice can be disguised beneath grandiose language about civilization, demography and humanity’s future.

At one point, the interviewer asked Musk directly whether he was opposed to Muslims. He hesitated, murmured and eventually retreated into the familiar vocabulary of civilizations clash and incompatible values. It was an unimpressive performance from a man routinely presented as a visionary genius: banal cultural chauvinism wrapped in the language of historical destiny.

As I watched, I found myself thinking about the enormous quantities of money flowing from Muslim-majority countries—particularly the Gulf states—into Musk’s companies and personal empire.

Saudi Prince Alwaleed bin Talal and Kingdom Holding rolled over their Twitter stake, valued at approximately $1.9 billion, when Musk acquired the platform and transformed it into X. They later invested hundreds of millions of dollars in xAI. HUMAIN, the Saudi artificial-intelligence company owned by the Public Investment Fund, reportedly invested $3 billion in xAI, with its position subsequently converted into shares in SpaceX following corporate restructuring.

Qatar contributed roughly $375 million to Musk’s Twitter acquisition through Qatar Holding, while the Qatar Investment Authority later participated in financing rounds linked to xAI. The UAE’s MGX has also been involved in Musk-related artificial-intelligence investments. The Oman Investment Authority, meanwhile, has accumulated exposure to SpaceX, xAI and Neuralink.

The relationship extends well beyond passive financial investment. xAI has discussed constructing a 500-megawatt data centre in Saudi Arabia. Musk’s Boring Company has been involved in plans for an underground transport system in Dubai. Starlink has reached commercial agreements with Qatar Airways and Emirates. Taken together, Gulf money committed to Musk’s businesses can plausibly be estimated in the range of $10 billion to $15 billion, without counting future infrastructure projects and service contracts whose value could eventually reach tens of billions.

The contradiction is striking. Governments whose societies and religions are treated as civilizational threats are helping to finance the man promoting that worldview. Yet the deeper problem is not merely that regional wealth is enriching someone who expresses contempt for the region. It is the economic and political structure underlying these investments.

The Gulf possesses capital, energy, strategic geography, expanding domestic markets and some of the world’s largest sovereign wealth funds. Yet these advantages are repeatedly used to purchase minority stakes in projects created and controlled elsewhere. The region provides financing, electricity, land, consumers and political access. Musk and similar entrepreneurs retain technological ownership, managerial authority, intellectual property and the power to determine the direction of development.

This is not technological sovereignty. It is technologically upgraded rentierism.

The old rentier model exported oil and imported finished products. The emerging model exports capital and energy while importing platforms, algorithms, satellite services and artificial-intelligence systems. The commodities have changed, but the hierarchy remains intact. Gulf states supply the material foundations; foreign corporations control the technology, knowledge and strategic architecture built upon them.

Investment in successful global companies is not inherently irrational. Sovereign wealth funds are expected to diversify assets and generate returns. Nor is complete technological self-sufficiency realistic or necessarily desirable. The issue is one of proportion, ambition and power. What does the region receive beyond financial exposure? Is there meaningful technology transfer? Are local research institutions being developed? Are engineers and scientists acquiring the capacity to design, manufacture and govern these systems independently? Does the region gain ownership over critical infrastructure, or merely privileged access to services controlled abroad?

In too many cases, the answer is disappointing.

The billions invested in Musk’s empire could have supported regional semiconductor research, satellite manufacturing, advanced telecommunications, artificial-intelligence laboratories, cloud infrastructure and public universities. They could have funded institutions capable of attracting Arab scientists working abroad, training thousands of engineers and creating technologies adapted to the linguistic, economic and social needs of the region.

Instead, Gulf capital often appears content to purchase proximity to another man’s vision.

This is why Musk’s remarks matter. They expose the political meaning of economic dependency. The problem is not simply that a wealthy foreign entrepreneur dislikes Muslims. The problem is that the region continues to finance a global technological order in which it remains subordinate—even when those commanding that order openly describe its people as a civilizational danger.

A region with this much wealth should not remain a passive investor in other people’s futures. It should possess the confidence to build its own.