The War with Iran: A Perspective from a Gulf State Migrant

As one of the thousands of Levantine migrants (originating from the Levant region, including the countries of Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, Jordan etc.) whose families are now in the Gulf in pursuit of a better life, my world shattered the morning of the 28^th of February. I had returned home from my studies in the UK for a quick visit with my family and to attend a family event. That morning, my mother woke me up claiming the war had started. “What war?” I asked, certain that my home country, Lebanon, was once again under attack.

Photo by Lara Jameson on Pexels 

I suddenly hear an explosion.

My mind begins to race, and the realisation that the Gulf is involved hits me. I open my phone and skim my notifications: “US base hit in Bahrain”, in the United Arab Emirates (UAE), Qatar, Kuwait… I cannot process the words displayed on my screen, and my inability to wrap my head around the facts emphasises how unthinkable the situation felt just a few days ago.

Manama, Bahrain, February 28. REUTERS/Hamad I Mohammed

Growing up the way I did meant I was privileged; I was fortunate enough to think “No, not me, not here”. My parents made sure that I would not have to experience any of this, not the way they did.

As a child of the Levantine diaspora, you often hear bits and pieces of your parents’ childhoods, as they rarely give you full stories. The environment my parents grew up in was not ideal, as the 70s and 80s were a time of civil and regional war in Lebanon. I’ve heard stories — my father hearing that his parents’ home had blown up while at the market, my mother and her family being in their apartment when their building’s roof was bombed. There was little to no acknowledgement that it was difficult for them to survive, that it affected them heavily, or that they did their best to shelter my siblings and me from similar experiences. However, these sentiments became apparent as I grew to find meaning in the actions they took and decisions they made.

See, when I was five years old, a bomb detonated next to my school in Beirut, and while I cannot recall the event, my parents have rarely spoken of that day.

It is a regular Tuesday when they hear an explosion. Within minutes, they are notified through word of mouth that it comes from a building near my school. At the time, both my parents work at opposite ends of the city, and before mobile services are restored, they rush to my school from their respective offices. My mother picks me up and takes us home. My father arrives a few minutes later and requests to pick me up. As minutes go by, the expressions of panic from the school staff grow, and my father quickly understands that I cannot be located. His mind immediately takes him to the worst scenario it can conjure. He believes I am taken or hurt and is immediately terrified. Eventually, the mobile networks come back up, and my father gets in contact with my mother, learning that I am safe at home with her.

That day, my parents decided that they would not watch my siblings and I endure what they did. Shortly after, my parents found a way to relocate to the UAE. It was an emerging haven for skilled Arabs offering safety, stability and a better life. I began my studies there and received a gold-standard education, which helped me to later pursue my bachelor’s and now my master’s degree in the UK. All the while, I was, to a certain extent, sheltered from the chaos of Lebanon, the civil unrest, corrupt politics and financial instability. Not to say that my home country isn’t a beautiful place where I wish I could have grown up, but simply to highlight that the move brought opportunity, a tolerant, friendly environment, and an international upbringing exposing me to a variety of cultures and ways of thinking, where many felt they belonged.

I have always been grateful for the decision my parents made. The larger part of my family later also relocated, and we built a community here with a strong support system. Thus, I feel connected to Dubai, the city I grew up in, which is why I am shocked as the events of the 28^th of February and subsequent days are unravelling.

Videos of fires — in familiar neighbourhoods and places I frequent — have spread across social media, instilling fear and anxiety amongst residents and myself. I soon understood that interceptions of incoming attacks are causing debris to fall, leading to fires. And, as the numbers are published later that day, highlighting the number of missiles intercepted and drones stopped, I realise how, despite the reality of the current situation, I am still privileged. My version of war includes Wi-Fi, family and friends gathering, and access to everything I need in a country that is going far to keep all those within it safe. Thankfully, the government is well-equipped, and all fires are extinguished in a timely and safe manner. The injuries are minimal, and the deaths are extremely limited. The days following the 28^th of February have felt calmer; however, regional tensions are increasing. The short-term resolution for these ongoing events in the region feels less and less likely.

Oscar Chan on Pexels

The airspace is mostly closed to protect civilian safety, which has left a number of tourists stranded here and some residents unable to return home. I am amongst those affected by these closures, as I was meant to be back in the UK by now to resume classes and complete my degree. I am worried about when I will be able to return, the impact this delay will have on my studies, and the broader impacts these events will have on others. However, the government has made efforts to ensure everyone’s needs are met, including extending stays free of charge and providing free accommodation and food. Repatriation flights have also now commenced, as the airports open for a couple of hours a day.

Companies are asked to take care of their employees, businesses are giving back to the community, and schools have gone online, adopting systems aimed at catering to all circumstances. The headlines do feel heavy and some are finding it difficult to cope at the moment, but as I’ve read in local newspapers, mental health helplines and consultations are open to those struggling, and support groups have been organised to help us carry each other through.

I would be lying if I said I’m not on edge, that I don’t worry when I hear a jet circle around my area or the loud sounds from interceptions. But the opportunities the Gulf has offered my family and the degree to which it is equipped to uphold order, extend generosity and ensure the safety of citizens, residents, and visitors keep me grateful for the roots I have built and the life I have the privilege of pursuing here.

With every day escalating, my home country of Lebanon is becoming increasingly impacted by this war. While my family back home is currently safe, the number of civilians harmed and infrastructure damaged is devasting. These conflicts in the Middle East are affecting many across the region, and my thoughts and prayers are with all those who are affected by these events.