It’s amazing how quickly humans develop new habits. Making sure all the windows are ajar before we go to sleep, calculating the distance of the booms in the sky by their sound, and ensuring the children shove their shoes, clothes, plates, toys, blankets, and other items out of the view of the camera before they go online have all become mechanical now — as has scrolling through the live updates on Al Jazeera and X to monitor the latest threats.

I limit myself to once an hour when I’m at home. When we’re with friends, I don’t scroll at all; we simply discuss all the possible motives for attacking the Gulf states, contingency plans such as driving over the border to Oman, or how deeply Donald Trump must be implicated in the Epstein files to be fighting Israel’s war in the first place.

When this whole thing broke out, we were celebrating my daughter’s birthday in a water park. The children were busy splashing and squealing on the slides and barely noticed the low-flying aircraft and thunder of the jets overhead, but it felt deeply ominous.

I was anxious, like everyone else, but pretty blasé at first. After all, we live far from American targets in a sleepy part of the country of no interest to Iran whatsoever. I also had eight kids in a water park to deal with first, which was arguably more stressful, and I couldn’t help but feel annoyed when the country declared a week of online schooling, while the golf courses remained open.

It seemed unnecessary to foist this waking nightmare upon parents, especially single parents, trying to work, keep the house from descending into a swirling chaos of the various items I mentioned above, while providing tech support to children whose microphones somehow get magically muted and online classroom links fail to load.

When war noise becomes background noise

But the irritation quickly turned into a sober, cold reality when a drone was intercepted down the road from us, and anti-missile defences later propelled into the sky, one after the next, creating an almost Dalian contrast to the feathery palm trees and golden sands they soared above. 

Explosions in the sky jolted us from our beds, and the community WhatsApp groups started to light up brighter than the skies.

“Did you hear the booms? What was it?” “That one shook my building!” “Should we go underground to the car park?” “Are any of the airlines flying out?” “Is the Omani border open? “I heard some people were getting out via Saudi Arabia.” “I’m on the 18th floor, I’m scared.”

The chatter was almost endless, and the fear palpable, tamed only by the resident Lebanese, who’ve weathered so much worse that they almost laugh in the face of everyone else’s apparently overblown fears. 

We can almost see Iranian soil from our coastline, and since they have now lobbed over 180 missiles and 900 drones across the water, we are firmly in their flight path.

Sitting on my friend’s terrace yesterday afternoon, drinking lemonade after a sleepless night, every noise made me twitch, from the slamming of a door to the shrieks of the children playing and the roar of a fighter jet.

She smiled, “At least here we know these sounds are the UAE defending us,” she said. “In Lebanon, it’s Israel attacking. You have no one to defend you there, only God.”

Even her children had learned from a young age during their family visits to that country to equate “Israel” and “bomb” together, and they naturally assumed the explosions above the UAE meant the usual attackers were on the offensive again.

She assured them that the noises of impacts were interceptions, not hits, and the result of a sophisticated anti-missile defense system protecting everyone who lives here. Every gut-wrenching boom was much further away than it seemed, even if it sounded very loud.

It’s from the Lebanese that I have learned to leave the windows slightly open so that, in the event of a blast, they are less likely to shatter. You should always move your beds into the middle of the room and stay indoors to avoid falling debris.

The rest, as they say, is in the hands of God. At least in the UAE, we have a mighty army to protect us. In her country, there is only your faith in a higher power.

The noises are keeping us safe

But there is no fear like it when the sounds are close. A lurching dread that hits the stomach and travels quickly up to the throat, making it hard to speak before escaping through the eyes in the form of tears. I have found myself spontaneously crying a few times, before I choke them back down and force a smile, telling the kids the noises are keeping us safe.

My heart melted yesterday when the children were having recess during their online class and chattering to each other about the “bombs.” My son interjected by saying, “No, no. They’re not bombs, that sound is the UAE protecting us!” Then he drew me a picture full of love hearts to make me feel better, and both kids “tidied” their room.

I would say I had done a fairly good job of keeping the calm until the night before last, when we heard several blasts throughout the night, and I finally decided to shake them from their slumber and rush to the underground car park around 5 am. 

There wasn’t much calm about my voice in that moment, telling them to quickly throw on any item of clothing and immediately run down the dark stairwell. In hindsight, it was an exaggeration. We’re on the ground floor anyway, and, well, I don’t know what the odds are of being hit by shrapnel from an intercepted missile or drone — it’s not something I’ve ever contemplated before — but it’s probably right up there with a Lightning strike.

Once you rationalize away your fears and do your best to carry on as normal, the real upheaval is inside your own walls. 

There is definitely a throwback to COVID in this; that helpless feeling of dealing with far too much alone. Stuck in a confined space, trying to work, with two kids whining, the parks and play areas closed off with lined tape, and a low-grade anxiety about something omnipresent outside. In this case, it’s the sound of the jets routinely circling above, rather than the fear of a deadly virus, but the apprehension is the same.

The things that keep us sane

That’s why I am limiting myself to hourly updates rather than hanging on every minute. There’s nothing like a constant media overload to really put your nerves on edge, making you hypervigilant rather than useful, and preventing you from sleeping. I’ve also stopped searching for things like “nuclear fallout distance,” which does nothing to promote a restful night.

We have found sanctuary in a friends’ house, where the children can play, and the adults decompress, drinking wine, listening to Frank Sinatra, forgetting their troubles for a while, or sharing stories and first-hand accounts of the falling drone in the village.

At least unlike the pandemic, we can get together with friends, meet up in person, hug and share stories, and not feel so utterly and palpably alone. I couldn’t be more grateful for the kindness of my friends for opening their doors and their hearts.

I also appreciate the many messages from people outside the UAE. Thank you for asking how we are, what is happening, and whether we have enough food. I’m sorry if I haven’t replied personally to you all. Between the online school, job, and constant doomscrolling, I haven’t gotten around to it yet, but we are well.

Last night was quiet, and for now, we have no plans to leave. And yes, we have plenty of food, water, and wine, all the priorities. I have seen stocks of toilet paper depleting (why is it always toilet paper?), and Amazon seems to have given up, with all my existing orders understandably on hold, and new ones slated with month-end delivery dates. 

Inshallah, this will be over soon, although I don’t think anyone really believes that, we can always hope. I have two children screaming at each other in the other room. The sofa has been turned into a fort, and they’re joining each other’s classes. Homeschooling will kill me way before any missile from Iran.