Friday night had been a gentle escape. Dinner with friends, laughter spilling onto the streets, then a slow, contented amble back to our Abu Dhabi home, just ten minutes from the soft sands of the Corniche. After a quarter-century welded to the relentless grind of London, we had traded it all for this: a different rhythm, a quieter light, a life after the children flew the nest. The UAE sells itself as a sanctuary, and for eight years, we had believed it.
Saturday morning, the illusion began to crack. The news arrived not through official channels, but via the Newcastle United Abu Dhabi Supporters WhatsApp group—hardly the BBC, but effective enough. Israel had bombed Tehran. President Trump's rambling speech had christened it "Operation Epic Fury," yet even then, the hint slid off me like water. A bit of bother? Surely not here.
Then the Plane Finder fans went into overdrive. WhatsApp lit up with images of yellow aircraft streams desperately rerouting, avoiding Iran, avoiding the region, avoiding us. Airspace closed. Minutes later: reports of loud bangs. We flicked on the TV, but it lagged behind the digital chaos. Photos flooded in—puffs of smoke where missiles died in the sky, plumes rising from the empty desert. Some accurate. Some pure fiction.
My building's chat group erupted into a frenzy. I had seen nothing. Heard nothing. Even when the television finally caught up, showing explosions in Dubai and Abu Dhabi, it felt like a movie—until I recognised the backdrops. Places I knew. Places I had walked.
Then came the sounds. Muffled. Distant. Like thunder from another storm. Luckier than most, we listened from our 13th-floor window, and nothing rattled. Nothing shattered.
My wife, Cath, did what any Briton would do in a crisis: she decided we needed the shops. The mall, one of the largest in central Abu Dhabi, sits just downstairs. And what does one need when the sky is falling? Bottled water. Toilet roll. The essentials of British composure. No panic in the aisles—though more people than usual were glued to their phones, scrolling for news, for truth, for reassurance.
A delivery driver stopped me, thrusting his screen toward my face. AI-generated nonsense: missiles crawling slower than fleeing crowds in some generic Gulf city. Later came the real images. The ones that stop your breath. A hotel struck. Debris falling. A life lost.
The UAE authorities and the UK embassy were models of calm clarity: shelter in place. Stay home. We obeyed.
But nothing prepares you for the sirens.
They scream from your mobile phone—whether it's on or off, whether you're awake or not. They tear through the dark and grab your heart and squeeze. At 12.30 a.m., just as sleep had finally claimed us, it shrieked. Then again, five minutes later. Just to make sure we were paying attention.
The building's WhatsApp ignited once more. "I'm taking the kids to sleep in the car in the basement!" "I've set up camp beds away from the windows!" Understandable. Prudent, even. I weighed my options: the back of my Kia Rio, or my own bed. I chose the bed. Some risks are worth taking.
The night passed in fragments—fifth sleep punctured by distant booms. Morning brought clarity: the airport had been targeted. Another tragic death. The airport closed. And with it, our world shrank further.
Now a new problem, personal and pressing. My in-laws have been visiting for a fortnight. They cannot leave. Not for the foreseeable future. They are no trouble—lovely people, truly—but there are medicines to renew, appointments in Todmorden that will not wait. Fingers crossed they fly home soon. Otherwise, I may join the 20,000 stranded tourists, checking into a hotel at UAE expense, sampling Arab hospitality in the most unexpected way.
The rest of the weekend passed in uneasy quiet. Attacks continue elsewhere—drones, missiles, most intercepted. Not within earshot. Not yet. No more alarms. Just the familiar echo of Covid protocols: work from home, stay inside, wait.
I look out the window. The streets are quiet. But it's Ramadan, so that proves nothing.
We wait. We watch. We hope it will not be long before we feel again what we once took for granted: that this is the safest place in the world.
0 Comments