[The following roundtable was moderated by Jadaliyya Arabian Peninsula Page co-editor Neha Vora in conversation with graduate students studying in the United Arab Emirates in order to learn about their experience living and working in the country during the recent US/Israeli war on Iran.]
Neha Vora: After the outbreak of the US/Israeli war on Iran on February 28, 2026, many schools and universities across the UAE and the wider Gulf shifted to online learning. The uncertainty surrounding daily commuting and gathering in densely populated spaces intensified as Iran retaliated against civilian infrastructure in the GCC. For many of us in higher education, remote teaching continued through the end of term. We found ourselves navigating the uncertainty and disorientation of living in a war zone while, at the same time, readjusting to life on Zoom.
This uncertainty deepened when Iran issued threats against American universities in the region. My institution, the American University of Sharjah, is not a US branch campus, yet the word “American” in its name heightened our concerns. Many faculty and staff decided to relocate off campus just to feel safer. As the Gulf has become a major hub for international education, disruptions to university life reverberate far beyond campuses, with carry-on effects on families and, potentially, entire generations.
The war prompted difficult decisions. Many of my international students were advised by their governments to leave, and a number of my faculty colleagues relocated to their home countries or to third locations. Yet many of us, especially the students, stayed. My colleague from NYU Abu Dhabi, Laure Assaf, and I recently wrote about the politics of staying in the UAE during wartime, drawing on our experiences as faculty members. Our students and their families were faced with stark choices. For many, particularly second- or third-generation immigrants, the Gulf is the only home they know. Some felt unable to leave due to the potential economic consequences of losing employment and interrupting remittances. Others had no viable destination, as their home countries have themselves been devastated by war.
Higher education in the UAE and across the Gulf remains one of the few spaces where diverse communities with deep links to the region come together and learn from each other. In Fall 2025 I taught a master’s-level course titled “The Transnational Gulf.” Although nearly all the students in that class had grown up in the Gulf, their experiences varied widely, and they learned as much from one another as from the course material. In Spring 2026, I was teaching another master’s course, “Women’s and Minority Rights,” when the war started. From this class, I invited three students: Ikram, Fuyan, and Dana, to reflect on their everyday experiences as students during wartime. Their accounts are rounded out by Lamia’s narrative. Lamia is a PhD candidate based in France who was writing her dissertation in Dubai at the time. Taken together, this roundtable highlights the impact of war on students in higher education institutions in the UAE, while also foregrounding diverse perspectives shaped by nationality, gender, race, class, and immigration status.
Can you please tell us where you are currently located and how your everyday life has been impacted since the start of the Israeli and US war on Iran and Iran’s retaliatory targeting of multiple countries, including the GCC?
Lamia Alaoui, : My family and I live in the Jumeirah 3 district of Dubai, where we have been based for the past three years. Originally from France, we have lived across several countries before (re)settling here—Dubai itself being a return, as we had already lived in the city some ten years earlier. Over this period, I worked as a secondary school history teacher before transitioning, this year, to dedicating myself exclusively to doctoral research on the history of migration in the Arabian Peninsula, a shift that has allowed me to work remotely. My husband, who works as an energy consultant, was already doing so as well. In that sense, the current situation has not introduced a new mode of working for us. However, it has significantly altered the conditions under which this remote work takes place. Indeed, the repeated and unpredictable closures of nurseries have continuously disrupted our daily organization. With two children under the age of two, our work has become more fragmented and less efficient. Concentration is more difficult to sustain, and the boundary between professional and family life has become increasingly blurred. In many ways, this has been reminiscent of the Covid period, when the same tensions between professional and domestic life played out under similarly disrupted conditions. Beyond that, we have been able to maintain most of our daily routines: going to sport, outdoor activities with the children such as going to the park or the beach, grocery shopping, and working either from home or from a library. However, this apparent continuity should not be mistaken for normality. We have become even more connected to our phones, constantly following the news while receiving alerts throughout the day and night.
The alerts were frequent during the first ten days, approximately two per day and one at night. The sound itself was jarring: a loud, piercing alarm that would make us jump and often wake our toddler. Each alert immediately created a climate of tension and stress. In those early days, it took some time to bring my own anxiety under control before I could comfort the children. Gradually, however, I adapted. The startled response faded, and I found myself less distressed when the alarms went off, a shift that coincided with the practical adjustments that were introduced over time: the volume of night alerts was reduced and their geographical targeting became more precise, meaning that some districts received alerts while others did not. Alerts became rare during the “ceasefire,” which began on April 8, 2026. Yet this relative calm proved double-edged. When an alarm did sound after ten days of near normalcy, the initial jolt of surprise and the underlying fear it carried came flooding back, a reminder that the sense of security we had rebuilt remains fragile.
At the same time, the need to stay constantly contributed to a persistent undercurrent of anxiety. Following real-time developments, from ongoing negotiations to official statements and reactions from different actors, became part of daily routines, reinforcing a sense of uncertainty even in the absence of immediate danger. Also, informal channels of information emerged as an important layer of everyday life. WhatsApp groups, often structured along community lines, became spaces where residents shared real-time updates and collectively interpreted which areas were under threat. Within the French-speaking community, groups such as “Fr Entraide”played a particularly active role, relaying verified information drawn from official sources and mainstream press, while also providing real-time updates on more practical concerns: whether alerts had been issued in specific districts, and what implications they carried for flight departures from the UAE. This suggests that, beyond official communication, residents actively participated in producing their own understanding of risk and safety.
Dana Alloh: As a Palestinian who has lived her entire life in Abu Dhabi, where my family has been based for more than four decades, this is the only home I have ever known. As a Master’s student and researcher, I experienced this recent period of active conflict as particularly heavy and emotionally taxing. Yet despite the intensity of events unfolding across the region, daily life in the UAE remained largely recognizable. The country’s touted stability and its distance from the immediate theaters of combat meant that everyday routines continued with relatively little disruption, even as awareness of the violence and uncertainty elsewhere weighed constantly in the background.
Since the ceasefire, what has stayed with me is not so much a sense of relief as a recognition of how quickly extraordinary circumstances can become normalized. The absence of alerts and the return of a calmer atmosphere have created a sense of surface stability, but what I find myself reflecting on most is how quickly people—myself included—began to absorb the tension as part of everyday life. It was not that life returned to normal; rather, our understanding of what constituted “normal” shifted. At a certain point, we were no longer simply enduring a crisis, but we were adapting to it. That process of adaptation is, I think, worthy of closer attention.
At the same time, I remain acutely aware that what has unfolded elsewhere in the region is far from abstract. People are being killed, communities displaced, and entire landscapes destroyed. While the world is watching, I sometimes feel that that the experience of living through the regional reverberations of this conflict from the Gulf is not fully understood. Local media often frames events through a language of stability, continuity, and reassurance, whereas regional and international coverage tends to present a far more direct and devastating picture. Living between these narratives produces a particular kind of disconnect. Neither fully captures the reality of inhabiting a space that is physically largely removed from the violence yet emotionally and politically entangled with it.
Ikram Endris: I am originally from Ethiopia, but I was born and raised in the United Arab Emirates, where my family has lived for more than thirty years after my parents moved here for work. I am currently based in the emirate of Ajman, where I am a Master’s student and work as a research assistant. When the war first began, I assumed it would last only a few days. I did not imagine that it would come to shape the rhythms of everyday life in such a sustained way.
Since then, much of my routine has shifted online, including both my classes and my work. The transition was unsettling, partly because it brought back memories of the COVID period, when long stretches of academic and social life were confined to screens. I was an undergraduate student then, and returning to that mode of living felt like a regression rather than an adjustment.
More broadly, the atmosphere around me changed. I found myself staying indoors more often, partly because of the constant sound of jets overhead, which was deeply unsettling for both me and my family. Having been born and raised in the UAE, this was the first time I had felt a real sense of fear while living here. My family, especially my mother, was particularly shaken, because we had never experienced anything like this in the country before. During the first few days of the war, whenever alerts came through, we would gather on the ground floor and stay away from the windows and doors until things felt calm again.
The UAE is often understood as stable and secure compared with many other parts of the region, but these developments complicated that perception. News of interceptions, alongside reports of casualties elsewhere, created a sense of suspended uncertainty. I would describe my emotional state during that period as one of ambiguity. I did not feel directly threatened, but I did not feel fully safe either. It became a constant negotiation between reassurance and unease.
Fuyan Qiu: On February 28, I first learned through international news reports that Israel and the United States had launched military strikes against Iran. At the time, I was shopping for groceries at a supermarket in Sharjah. It was Ramadan, and the mall was relatively quiet that afternoon. Having never personally experienced war or a major regional conflict before, I did not immediately grasp the gravity of the situation, nor did I fully appreciate how quickly its repercussions might extend to the United Arab Emirates.
My awareness of the unfolding crisis sharpened shortly afterward when I began receiving a series of concerned messages from my parents in China. Their anxiety made me realize that this was not simply another distant geopolitical event. I quickly returned to campus. When I arrived, the visibly heightened security presence at the university gates signaled that the situation was far from ordinary. It was only after reaching my dormitory that I felt a degree of relief.
Given the presence of US military bases across the UAE and other Gulf states, there was a widespread understanding that the region could become a target for Iranian retaliation. As tensions escalated, the UAE temporarily closed its airspace, leading to the cancellation of numerous international flights and leaving tens of thousands of travelers stranded. Although airspace operations gradually resumed, the precarity around travel remained for some time. The conflict transformed what had initially seemed like distant news into something far more immediate, creating a heightened sense of vulnerability.
Did you travel or try to travel after the war began? Did you consider leaving? What were the travel conditions at the start of the war and what are they like now? Who is leaving, if at all, and what have the challenges to mobility been?
Lamia Alaoui: The ability to leave, relocate, or reconfigure one’s living arrangement during a crisis depends on a combination of factors: financial resources, passport status, conditions in one’s country of origin, access to community and state support networks, and the flexibility afforded by one’s employment. The conflict revealed how mobility itself becomes a marker of social inequality in times of crisis. While some individuals can move between locations, maintain continuity in their professional lives, and treat relocation as a temporary adjustment, others face far more constrained and precarious options. Dana’s and Ikram’s accounts illustrate this clearly: passport status, ties to a country of origin, and access to institutional support shape not only the possibility of leaving, but also the very meaning and consequences of departure itself.
My own experience reflects the more privileged end of this spectrum. As a French national traveling on a European passport, I would have had access to the consular evacuation arrangements that several Western governments established for their citizens, prioritizing those considered most vulnerable. That safety net was simply not available to everyone. In practice, however, my family did not need to rely on such measures, as our tickets had already been booked as part of a planned Eid holiday. On the morning of our departure, we boarded our flight between two alerts received on our phones. The experience was unsettling, even if airport staff were both highly professional and reassuring, implementing precautionary measures such as directing passengers away from glass surfaces, while maintaining a calm atmosphere. Although the flight departed as scheduled, there remained a lingering sense of unease as we crossed regional airspace.
Because we were traveling with the national carrier, our booking was not affected by the widespread cancellations that disrupted many other airlines. More broadly, among the wealthier segments of the expatriate community, many chose to go on holiday or temporarily relocate for the duration of the conflict, either to their home countries or to nearby destinations such as Thailand or Mauritius. Others remained in the UAE but moved internally, opting for locations perceived as quieter or safer, such as Umm Al Quwain, Hatta, Al Ain, or Sharjah. In this sense, even the decision to stay could itself be an expression of privilege. For some, remaining was a choice made from a position of security and flexibility, a luxury that was not universally shared.
Dana Alloh: Travel has become considerably more complex and uncertain since the escalation. Concerns about flight disruptions, sudden airspace closures, and general unpredictability of movement across the region became part of everyday calculations. I had plans to travel to Qatar in late March to present a research paper at an academic conference, but the event was ultimately postponed, a relatively minor inconvenience in the broader context, yet a telling indication of how deeply the instability was affecting even routine professional and academic activities.
Beyond these practical disruptions, however, the question of leaving raises something more fundamental for me. I hold Palestinian refugee travel documentation, which comes with significant visa restrictions. The UAE Golden Visa has been instrumental in making international travel possible, granting me opportunities and access that my travel document alone would not have afforded. Yet in a moment of regional conflict, mobility takes on different meaning. If I were to leave, I would not be returning home. I would simply be moving to another country that is not mine either. The UAE is the closest thing to home I have ever known, perhaps the only home I have truly had, given that I was never given the chance to know another. In that sense, the prospect of departure was not simply impractical but, in a deeper sense, beside the point.
I understand why others choose to leave, particularly those whose passports allow for relatively seamless mobility and whose countries of origin represent a meaningful place of refuge. For many migrant workers, however, mobility is constrained not only by financial limitations but by legal, political, and structural realities. The ability to “choose” whether to stay or leave is unevenly distributed, and often unavailable altogether.
For Palestinians specifically, the question carries an additional historical weight. Since 1948, displacement has never been understood as a temporary condition. The possibility that departure may become permanent is deeply embedded in our collective memory. That lesson has been passed down across generations and continues to shape how many Palestinians understand moments of uncertainty and conflict such as this one. For me, therefore, the decision to stay is not simply a calculation of risk, nor a reflection of fear or courage. It is tied to a deeper sense of belonging, dispossession, and the knowledge that, for Palestinians, leaving has often meant losing the possibility of return.
Ikram Endris: I had not attempted to leave, nor had I seriously considered doing so at that stage. However, I watched others within my circle depart, often through evacuation programs or travel arrangements facilitated by their home countries. Colleagues from countries such as Turkey and the United Kingdom, for example, were able to leave through state-supported mechanisms.
At the outset of the war, many of my relatives in Ethiopia frequently called to check on us because there was extensive international media coverage of the situation. They wanted to know whether we were safe, what daily life was like, and whether we planned to return to Ethiopia. Many Ethiopian international students living here had already gone back, which reinforced to the perception of the severity of the conflict. Yet for my family and me, leaving was never seriously considered. We had spent our entire lives here, and this was the only home we had known.
My circumstances differed from those who were able to evacuate. I was never contacted by my embassy regarding evacuation or relocation, nor was it something that my family or community had previously discussed. It was rarely something we had imagined for ourselves. At the same time, seeing reports of other countries, particularly Western ones, organizing chartered flights and coordinated evacuations made me reflect on the unequal distribution of mobility and protection during crises. Access to safe exit options appeared to depend largely on nationality and the capacity of states to assist their citizens abroad.
Moreover, returning to Ethiopia did not necessarily represent a safer or more stable alternative. The country was itself experiencing political instability, civil unrest, and economic difficulties, making the prospect of return feel uncertain rather than reassuring. Having been born and raised here, Ethiopia did not feel like an immediate refuge or a realistic place to rebuild my life.
In this context, remaining here seemed the more viable option. Despite the uncertainty and insecurity, there was still a degree of continuity in daily life that provided some reassurance. My social ties, education, and future plans were rooted here, and leaving would not have been an easy or obviously beneficial choice unless conditions had deteriorated far more dramatically.
Fuyan Qiu: I returned home on March 9. This trip had not been planned in advance, but I had received official information that the UAE had moved up spring break for schools and universities. At that time, I interpreted this as a signal from the government that the situation was likely to continue, and that, in the immediate term, authorities wanted to avoid large gathering of students in schools and universities.
After repeatedly checking airline websites as well as flight arrival and departure information, I purchased an Emirates flight from Dubai to Singapore to increase the chances of completing the journey successfully. Direct flights to China were extremely limited, and since the outbreak of the war, most successful takeoffs and landings at Dubai Airport have been operated by Emirates aircraft.
My departure was relatively smooth. The airport did not appear as crowded as some of the videos circulating on social media had suggested. There may be several explanations for this discrepancy. First, the UAE government reportedly assumed responsibility for accommodation costs for stranded travelers, relocating many of them to hotels for temporary shelter. Second, in the case Chinese nationals, the Chinese government coordinated several emergency flights during the limited windows in which airspace restrictions allowed departures. As a result, many Chinese travelers who had been stranded were able to return home within a relatively short period of time. More broadly, from the perspective of migrants’ countries of origin, the conflict does not appear to have significantly diminished migration aspirations.
What has the messaging from the UAE government been since the war began? What have they been saying to their population, how are they communicating it, and has there been a difference in communication to immigrants vs. citizens?
Lamia Alaoui: The authorities’ messaging was primarily aimed at reassuring the population. Regular updates were issued through official channels, including the Ministry of Defense and government social media accounts, providing near real-time updates on missile and drone interceptions. Daily statistics and cumulative figures conveyed a sense of transparency and operational control. On a personal level, these updates helped me quantify the risk and fostered a feeling of safety and protection.
Over time, however, the level of detail in these communications decreased, particularly regarding the precise locations of interceptions and debris. This deliberate vagueness around location came abruptly. The specificity that had quietly provided reassurance disappeared, leaving greater room for uncertainty and unease. At the same time, stricter regulations governing information sharing were introduced, including bans on circulating unverified content or videos showing interceptions activities or impact locations. The risk of fines or other legal consequences led to a noticeable reduction in spontaneous information sharing on informal channels such as WhatsApp groups.
This framework of controlled communication produced ambivalent effects. On the one hand, it served a protective function: official channels provided a counterweight to the wave of alarmist, speculative, and often fabricated content that had circulated widely during the early stages of the conflict. On the other hand, it had a visible chilling effect on informal spaces of communication. Group administrators became increasingly proactive in deleting messages, while comments that could be interpreted as expressing political opinions were often discouraged. What had initially functioned as spaces of collective sense-making and mutual support gradually became more constrained environments, shaped by moderators and the self-censorship it inevitably induced.
Alongside these efforts, the authorities repeatedly emphasized the multinational character of the UAE and their commitment to protecting all residents, regardless of nationality. This message was notably reaffirmed by the President during a national address, in which the unity and security of all communities living in the country were explicitly highlighted. Similarly, following the announcement of the ceasefire, Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum called on both citizens and residents to raise the national flag as a symbol of collective unity.
For many residents, me included, Dubai is not simply a place of temporary residence but a genuine home. In this context, the authorities' inclusive messaging carried a degree of reassurance, particularly for communities that, as Dana and Ikram noted, received little or no support from their countries of origin. At the same time, in a society that hosts an extraordinarily diverse population, the deliberate emphasis on unity and solidarity can also be understood as a strategy for managing potential tensions and discourage dissent. The promotion of shared belonging was not only a gesture of inclusion but also a means of containing the potential fractures that a conflict of this nature might otherwise expose.
Dana Alloh: From my perspective in Abu Dhabi, official communications from the UAE government have appeared broadly consistent, addressing citizens and residents alike while emphasizing stability, calm, and collective reassurance. Across televised addresses, social media platforms, and public statements, the dominant tone has been one of cautious unity. This was reflected in messages such as “In the UAE, everyone is Emirati,” as well as in President Sheikh Mohamed bin Zayed's Eid al-Fitr address, which portrayed the nation as “one family.”
What complicates this narrative of unity, however, is not the official rhetoric itself but by what becomes visible at the level of public recognition. When casualties or security incidents occurred, not all individuals appeared to receive the same degree of visibility. South Asian workers, for example, were less frequently named or individually identified in public reporting than Arab nationals. The contrast between the relatively limited attention given to South Asian victims and the more extensive coverage afforded to others raises broader questions about how recognition is distributed: who becomes visible, who is publicly mourned, and whose stories are considered worthy of wider acknowledgment.
My reflections remain tentative rather than conclusive. I find myself wondering whether such disparities reflect a deliberate hierarchy of recognition or whether they are better understood as structural features of media and public representation and publics that extend beyond this context. If the situation were reversed, if South Asians were observing how Arabs were represented during a crisis unfolding in South Asia, would the dynamics be fundamentally different? I do not raise this question to assign blame to any specific institution. Rather, it seems to me an important question worth considering.
The broader narrative of inclusivity is both real and meaningful, particularly in a country whose population is so diverse. Yet it coexists with more subtle patterns of visibility and recognition that are equally real. The tension between these two realities does not necessarily invalidate the language of unity, but it does suggest that belonging, recognition, and public empathy are not always experienced equally across different communities.
Ikram Endris: State messaging largely emphasized safety, stability, and control. There was a consistent effort to reassure the population, both locals and residents/immigrants, that the situation was contained and that protective measures were effective. Most of this communication circulated through official channels, such as press releases and government messaging, rather than through open public debate.
At the same time, there were clear limits on what could be discussed publicly. These restrictions were especially visible on social media, where criticism, independent reporting, or even certain forms of commentary carry the risk of penalties or legal consequences. While this approach helped maintain a sense of order and prevent panic, it also contributed to the feeling that the public was not receiving a complete picture of events.
For me, this produced a certain tension. On the one hand, the emphasis on safety was reassuring. On the other hand, reports of casualties complicated that reassurance, especially when reports of successful interceptions were accompanied by loss of life. As someone who had lived here my entire life, this gap between official messaging and lived perception contributed to a lingering sense of uncertainty.
The messaging itself did not always appear to distinguish explicitly between locals and residents/immigrants. However, the experience of receiving and interpreting that messaging often differed. Residents, particularly low-wage immigrants, frequently relied almost entirely on official channels, with limited access to broader public debate or alternative sources of information. This intensified a sense of ambiguity, in which reassurance and doubt coexisted.
Fuyan Qiu: The UAE government’s response to the crisis projected an image of relative orderly and effective governance, which helped sustain a degree of public confidence despite widespread anxiety. In my view, such anxiety was entirely understandable among ordinary people living across the Gulf states. While many people in the Middle East may be familiar with war or instability, many perceived Iran’s actions during the crisis as demonstrating an unprecedented determination, resilience, and strategic capacity. Given the Gulf states’ proximity to the conflict and their strategic significance, many residents felt vulnerable to the possibility of further escalation.
Under these conditions, most people simply wanted to know when they could return to their normal lives. the difficult, however was that no one seemed to have a clear answer. Even after the announcement of a tenuous ceasefire, uncertainty persisted regarding the durability of the agreement and the possibility of renewed hostilities.
At the same time, the UAE’s strategic economic position within the Gulf region provided a degree of longer-term reassurance. Although geopolitical tensions may affect future patterns of international cooperation and mobility, the country’s structural importance as a regional hub continues to provide opportunities for migrants from many parts of the world. For many residents, therefore, the crisis created a sense of immediate uncertainty without fundamentally undermining confidence in the UAE's longer-term economic and social significance.
Immigrants from all over the world live, work, and raise their families in the Gulf states. How has this war impacted different immigrant populations, and how do you think it might be impacting people in sending countries? Have particular demographics of people been disproportionately affected?
Lamia Alaoui: I think that this conflict is likely to have long-term implications for the attractiveness of Gulf countries as destinations for relocation, particularly among people from wealthier countries who have access to safer alternatives. For many Western nationals, part of the UAE’s appeal has long rested on its reputation as a secure and “stable” security bubble within a region often perceived as volatile. The realization that a regional conflict can have direct and tangible effects on Emirati territory may prompt some families to reassess the risks associated with long-term settlement.
At present, however the economic consequences appear uneven across sectors. Tourism seems to be among the most visibly affected industries, whereas media reports continue to suggest that the real estate market has remained relatively resilient. Some increases in the price of everyday goods are perceptible, particularly fuel and fresh products such as fruits and vegetables, being among the most noticeable) and salary cuts are mentioned in community-based social media groups. At the same time, discussions in community-based social media groups point to salary reductions in certain sectors, especially among employees in education and hospitality.
The effects of the conflict are also being felt beyond the Gulf, particularly in major migrant-sending countries across the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia, including Pakistan, the Philippines, and Sri Lanka. Rising costs of living, linked to increases in commodity prices, are likely to exacerbate economic vulnerabilities in these countries, increasing dependence on remittances and placing additional pressure on working-class immigrants.
Against this backdrop, some immigrant families may reconsider their arrangements and adopt more cautious strategies. One possible response would be temporary family separations, with children returning to the country of origin for schooling while the primary income earner remains in the UAE to maintain employment.
For the moment, however, evidence on the ground suggests that most residents have chosen to resume their lives much as before. The reopening of schools and nurseries, together with the large-scale return of families following the ceasefire, points to a strong desire for normality. Media reports indicating school attendance figures of around 80 to 90 percent further suggest a widespread willingness to continue with everyday routines despite lingering uncertainty.
Nevertheless, longer-term questions remain unresolved. The widespread cancellation of exams in several educational systems, particularly those following British and French curricula, has introduced a longer-term uncertainty regarding future educational planning. Should the conflict last several more months, some families may well reconsider their plans for the coming academic year, whether by revising their long-term settlement plans in the UAE or by reorganizing family living arrangements across borders. While most residents currently appear committed to staying, the durability of that commitment will likely depend on how the security situation evolves in the months ahead.
Dana Alloh: From where I stand, the current regional tensions may prompt some immigrants to genuinely reconsider the Gulf as a place of safety and stability. The GCC has long functioned as a destination of aspiration and as a refuge of relative predictability within a volatile region. recent events have complicated that perception, even if the structural position of the UAE has not fundamentally changed.
My own family did not consider leaving. That is not incidental, it reflects something particular to the Palestinian experience. We learned, collectively and across generations, that staying is not merely a preference but one of the few remaining forms of claim-making we have left. That inheritance shapes how moments of crisis are interpreted and responded to within Palestinian families, including my own. Resilience, in this context, is not simply a disposition but it is a historically conditioned survival strategy.
For other migrant communities, the picture differs considerably. For many workers in the service and construction sectors, leaving was never a realistic option, regardless of how the security situation evolved. Mobility requires financial resources, favorable documentation, and a viable destination, conditions that are unevenly distributed. The conflict made these inequalities more visible. Those who left in the early days were, by and large, those who had always had the means to do so.
Ikram Endris: There were clear differences in how the conflict affected various migrant communities. As I mentioned earlier, and in agreement with Lamia, access to mobility and protection during moments of crisis was unevenly distributed. Financial resources, nationality, and passport status shaped the range of options available to people and, consequently, their ability to respond to uncertainty.
Even before the war, many residents were already in precarious employment situations. Employment opportunities often favored citizens and, in many sectors, Western expatriates/residents. For others, especially those from the Global South, access to stable and well-paid jobs was already more limited. The war intensified this dynamic. Layoffs occurred and hiring slowed. Those who were already disadvantaged within labor market hierarchies were often among the first to experience the consequens, even within professional sectors.
At the same time, the ability to adapt to crisis conditions was also uneven. Those employed in office-based professions, including myself, were generally able to shift to remote work and maintain a degree of continuity in both employment and income. By contrast, many migrant workers in the service sector had no such option. Their jobs depended on physical presence. Delivery drivers, construction workers, airport staff, and other essential workers continued operating in environments that were often perceived as particularly vulnerable during a conflict. Some faced layoffs or salary reductions, while others continued working despite heightened risks because demand for their services remained unchanged. As a result, exposure to uncertainty was not experienced equally but was structured along lines of class, occupation, and employment status.
From my own perspective, I was conscious of occupying a relatively privileged position. Coming from a middle-class background, I might have had the financial means to leave independently had the situation deteriorate significantly. Even then, returning to my country of origin was not necessarily a straightforward or desirable solution, not because I rejected Ethiopia, but because repeated visits made me realized how difficult it would be to build a stable future there compared to elsewhere. Ethiopia is a beautiful country, but for someone who did not grow up there, adapting to everyday life and finding opportunities to thrive can be extremely challenging. It often felt like an entirely different social and economic world.
More broadly, I agree with Lamia and Dana that the war disrupted perception of the Gulf as a protected security bubble. Yet I also believe that, as long as economic opportunities in the Gulf outweigh those available in people’s home countries, many will continue to come in pursuit of work, stability, and social mobility. I heard similar reflections from many Ethiopians, especially international students, who expressed a desire to remain even after experiencing the conflict firsthand. One example is a relative who was comleting her final semester as an international student. She lived through the war, returned temporarily to Ethiopia when flights resumed, came back for graduation, and later asked me about applying for the Golden Visa because she still hoped to build her future here, believing there still were far greater opportunities in the UAE than back in Ethiopia.
Her experience reflected a broader reality faced by many migrants. For some, leaving the Gulf did not necessarily mean moving toward greater security or stability. This was one reason many chose to stay despite the risks. For those in lower-wage occupations, however, the constraints were even more pronounced. Their limitations were both economic and structural. A construction worker from a lower income country, for example, often depends on Gulf wages not only for personal survival but also to support an extended family through remittances. Returning may mean facing unemployment, substantially lower wages, or even more precarious living conditions that motivated migration in the first place. In many cases, remaining in a potentially risky environment in the Gulf still appeared more viable than returning to a context marked by fewer opportunities and little economic security. In this sense, the impact of the war was far from uniform. Experience of risk, security, and mobility were shaped by class, nationality, occupation, and access to transnational resources. While the war affected all residents to some degree, it exposed and amplified inequalities that had long structured migrant life in the Gulf.
Fuyan Qiu: Beyond short-term visitors, the UAE is home to a substantial Chinese immigrant population. According to 2025 estimates, more than 300,000 Chinese citizens reside in the country. Following the outbreak of hostilities, Chinese diplomatic missions in the UAE quickly issued safety advisories through official channels. These notices were updated regularly as the situation evolved, providing security alerts, travel guidance, and practical information for Chinese nationals in a relatively systematic and orderly manner. However, because the UAE was not a direct participant in the war and was not affected to any large degree by military attacks, the Chinese government did not organize largescale evacuations for Chinese citizens residing in the UAE or other Gulf states. This contrasted with its response in countries more directly affected by the conflict, such as Israel, where evacuation measures were implemented. Nevertheless, the chinese government demonstrated some level of concern for citizens in the Gulf by issuing notices about available commercial flight routes and encouraging those who wished to leave to purchase tickets and depart through regular channels while conditions permitted. Therefore, the information released by Chinese diplomatic authorities appeared to address all Chinese citizens in the UAE in broadly similar terms, without establishing distinct priority categories for particular groups such as visitors, students, businesspeople, or immigrants. Instead, guidance was framed in universal terms, emphasizing individual responsibility, awareness of security developments, and the use of available commercial transportation options where necessary.
What do you wish the outside world knew about what it is like to be a Gulf resident during this time, which has not been covered or has been misrepresented in international media?
Lamia Alaoui: Western media and, based on my own observations, French media in particular, have often portrayed the conflict as marking the end of Dubai’s era of prosperity and stability, accompanied by a massive exodus of residents. This narrative does not fully capture the reality on the ground. While some residents undoubtedly left, many others have chosen to stay, and a number of those who temporarily relocated returned following the announcement of the ceasefire, hopeful that the situation would improve rather than severing ties with the country.
What international media coverage has largely overlooked, however, is the depth of attachment that many immigrants feel toward the UAE. This may be one of the aspects that outside observers struggle most to grasp, particularly given the stereotypes often associated with expatriate life in Dubai and the occasional ridicule directed at those who chose to leave as soon as the conflict began. The voluntary returns that followed the ceasefire received little attention, as did the deeper emotional and social attachments that motivated them. This sense of attachment is something that Dana and Ikram articulated with great clarity: a willingness to trust the place one calls home and to carry on with everyday life, while remaining aware that uncertainty has not disappeared. Their reflections resonated strongly with my own experience. living in a constant state of vigilance is exhausting over time. In that respect, the timing of my holiday could not have been better. Being away allowed me to regain some mental balance. Yet during that period abroad, I also experienced an unexpected feeling, a sense that I had somehow abandoned ship, that I had left while others remained behind.
Similar sentiments could be found among some content creators and public figures who openly expressed their attachment to the UAE and their intention to remain despite ongoing uncertainty. These voices circulated exclusively within resident communities and rarely reached international audiences. While it is difficult to assess the sincerity of every such expression, they nonetheless point to a form of attachment among expatriate residents that is difficult to miss. This attachment is evident not only among those who chose to stay throughout the crisis—likely the majority—but also among many who left temporarily and later returned.
Taken together, these accounts reveal is a significant gap between dominant media narratives and the more heterogeneous lived realities on the ground. International coverage tended to focus predominantly on Western expatriates—their departures, their anxieties, their decisions—while the experiences of other immigrant communities went largely unacknowledged. Yet it is precisely those communities who often had neither the means to leave nor a platform through which to make their experiences visible. This invisibility in media representation is not incidental: it mirrors the very inequalities of mobility, resources, and voice that the crisis has brought into sharp relief.
Dana Alloh: As a resident of the Gulf, I have come to understand that the outside world often interprets our circumstances through frameworks that do not fully account for the texture of life here. International media tends toward the dramatic, sensationalizing, flattening, or rendering legible through pre-existing narratives what is a far more layered experience.
What I wish were better understood is that residents of this region are not passive recipients of official narratives, nor are we simply victims of a crisis we did not choose. We are complex individuals navigating uncertainty with our own capacities for judgement, adaptation, and meaning making. The messaging and image-building that characterize governance here are real, and they shape the information environment in which we live. But they do not exhaust our experience of that environment. What it feels like to move through daily life here—the coexistence of surface normalcy and underlying vigilance, the strange process by which a crisis becomes background—is something that neither official communications nor international coverage tends to capture with any precision. Most of us are simply trying to hold on to a sense of continuity in a place that, for many, is the only home we have.
Ikram Endris: I think it is important for people outside the region to understand that life here was not as extreme as it was sometimes portrayed in international media. It was not defined by constant fear or chaos in the way some narratives suggested. Many of the more dramatic accounts came from tourists or short-term visitors who had left at the beginning of the war and returned to their home countries. Their experiences were valid, but they did not necessarily reflect the longer-term reality of residents who remained and continued to live through the crisis, but they were only part of a much broader picture.
From my perspective as a middle-class resident, daily life continued in many respects. People still went to work, fulfilled their responsibilities, and maintained their routines. Yet this did continuity should not be mistaken for normalcy. beneath the surface, there was a persistent sense of uncertainty that shaped how those routines were experienced. the anxiety was quiet and less visible, but it was nonetheless present. For many of us, especially those who had been born and raised there, this feeling was unfamiliar and difficult to fully articulate. Life carried on, but it did so under altered conditions.
Another important point is that safety was not experienced equally. The Gulf is often presented as a uniformly secure place, but such representations overlooked significant differences between communities. Not everyone had the same access to protection, mobility, or economic security, and these inequalities became more visible during moments of crisis.
Resonating with Fuyan’s observations about forms of denial in public discourse, I also noticed that much of the content circulating on social media, particularly from influencers and content creators posting highly positive everyday updates, emphasized continuity, optimism, and everyday normality. As Lamia similarly noted, it is difficult to assess the sincerity of such representations, but they often felt less like neutral reflections of reality than selective framings that downplayed uncertainty and foregrounded stability. At times, I wished there had been greater openness about the fragility underlying this apparent normalcy, rather than a strong emphasis on uninterrupted stability.
Ultimately, what I would want people to understand is that the reality was far more layered. It was neither simply safe nor unsafe. It was a space where normalcy and anxiety coexisted, where people continued to build their lives while remaining aware of potential risks, and where experiences of the crisis were shaped not only by the conflict itself but also by individuals' social positions, resources, and available options.
Fuyan Qiu: International media coverage of the Gulf often focuses on geopolitical developments and military escalation while paying less attention to the everyday experiences of ordinary residents. Daily life in the UAE largely continued. People went to work, attended classes, and maintained family routines. Yet this apparent normalcy should not obscure the psychological impact of war of the war. One phenomenon I observed was a form of denial in public discourse, particularly the reluctance to acknowledge that the war might fundamentally destabilize the Gulf’s reputation for security and stability. For many, this reaction is understandable. Since its founding in 1971 and until 2022, the UAE has rarely faced a situation in which external military attacks directly threatened its territory, infrastructure, and residents. The country’s carefully cultivated image of safety stands in stark contrast to such realities. Faced with this gap, some people may cope by minimizing the risks or placing their trust in optimistic official narratives. At the same time, perceptions varied geographically. Residents of Sharjah, for example, may have experienced the conflict differently from those in Dubai, where large-scale strategic facilities such as US military bases are more concentrated.
A popular saying on Chinese social media captures this feeling well, “A speck of dust from an era can weigh a person down and make them unable to stand upright.” This phrase describes how a domestic policy that may benefit future generations nonetheless creates immense pressure on the lives of contemporary people. I think it aptly describes the current situation. People know that wars eventually end and that peace will eventually come, despite the difficulty of not knowing when the end will come.
For many students and migrant workers, including myself, the conflict introduced a profound sense of uncertainty about the future. More than anything, I wanted to return to campus and resume a peaceful routine. Throughout the war, I tried to reassure my parents by speaking in a lighthearted tone, joking that I had become an “expert” in international relations. Yet I still remember sitting in my dorm when I heard a loud explosion somewhere outside. My hands began to tremble uncontrollably and my heart raced. I imagined that, in such a moment, I would recall the people I loved. Instead, I thought of nothing at all. I just sat there in silence, waiting for the government alert on my phone saying that the danger had passed. Today, in China, I find myself doing something similar: silently waiting for peaceful news from the UAE.