Staff Writer Matthew Pathuppallil was in Abu Dhabi when Iranian missiles struck Gulf states hosting US assets. This is his account.
Sunday midnight began with a jolt. I was ripped from sleep by a sound I would have only ever imagined in coursework, the blaring siren of an emergency missile alert on my phone. In both Arabic and English, the message from the UAE Ministry of Interior urged: “Seek immediate shelter in the closest secure building, stay away from windows, and await further instructions”. In my pyjamas, I stumbled into the hallway where my parents and siblings were already huddled, eyes wide with fear. We gathered in an interior room, doing exactly what my phone’s alarm notification commanded, sheltering in place, trembling with adrenaline. For a War Studies student who usually analyses conflict from the safety of a library, living through a missile threat was surreally terrifying.
As we whispered prayers in the darkness, I couldn’t help recalling lectures about civilian experiences of war. Now it was our reality. Just 48 hours earlier, Abu Dhabi felt as safe as ever. But overnight, the fallout from US-Israeli strikes on Iran had reached us. Iranian retaliation missiles had been launched toward Gulf states hosting US assets, including the UAE. The government’s early warning system had done its job, sending that bone-chilling alert with a loud alarm tone to millions across the country. We heard distant thuds (likely interception booms), and for a few minutes, I truly questioned whether my home was about to become a footnote in the conflict analysis I usually write about for class. Thankfully, within the hour, authorities gave the all-clear. The UAE’s air defences intercepted the incoming missiles, though debris fell across parts of Abu Dhabi and Dubai, fragments that, we later learned, tragically claimed three lives. By sunrise, my family and I were exhausted but safe, bound together by an unsettling realisation: the kind of crisis I analyse in seminars had just reached our doorstep.
In the light of day, that contrast fully sank in. I am a third-year International Relations undergraduate at King’s College London, trained, to an extent, to dissect conflicts and debate theories of deterrence. Yet nothing in those seminars prepared me for being inside a scenario where conflict isn’t a case study but the air I’m breathing. Just a month ago on campus, I attended a panel titled “The Israel–Iran 12 Day War: Tracing the Road to Conflict,” a speculative talk about how regional tensions could ignite. At the time, it felt like remote theorising. Now here I am, on Day 4 of what pundits are indeed calling a new Gulf war, feeling that academic exercise come disturbingly to life. I always knew, on some level, that the wars I study hurt real people, but being one of those people, albeit on the periphery of the fighting, is a lesson no textbook can convey.
I find myself mentally double-tracking: one part of me observes everything almost clinically, as if gathering data for an essay on “civilian resilience during conflict.” Another part of me is just a son and brother comforting frightened family members and worrying about what tomorrow will bring. The gulf between studying war and living through its hints is jarring. In class, I might confidently discuss missile defence systems; on Sunday, I felt the house shudder ever so slightly as our own missile defence blew an inbound threat out of the sky. It’s a bizarre, dissonant experience – like I’ve been thrust into an experiential learning module I never signed up for.
In the midst of all this, I’m also a stranded student. I was supposed to fly back to London on Monday night to resume classes after a short visit home to Abu Dhabi. Instead, that morning I received a curt notification from my airline: “We regret to inform you that your flight has been cancelled due to airspace closures in the region. Please do not proceed to the airport. Further instructions will follow.” It was a clinical message, a stark contrast to the adrenaline and anxiety flooding my body. With UAE airspace effectively shut down as a precaution, thousands of flights were abruptly halted across the Middle East. My cancellation was just one of thousands that day.
Staring at that cancellation notice, I felt a mix of frustration and relief. Frustration, because I’m now missing classes in my final year, and my carefully laid plans were in shambles. Relief, because frankly, the thought of heading to the airport amid missile alerts was petrifying. News reports and airline advisories hammered home that I wouldn’t be rebooked anytime soon. Dubai and Abu Dhabi airports were closed after reportedly being hit by Iranian strikes over the weekend. Even as limited operations now start to resume, officials warn that unless you have direct confirmation, you shouldn’t even come to the airport. I’ve basically had to accept that I’ll be here in Abu Dhabi until things stabilise. So, I’m parked at home, nervously checking airline apps each morning in case a miracle flight appears.
Walking around Abu Dhabi now is a study in measured calm. On the surface, life goes on with remarkable normality, a fact that astonishes my friends abroad, glued to sensational news coverage. Grocery stores are open, the weekday traffic hums along (albeit much with much less notoriety), and families still gather on the Corniche beachfront in the evenings. There’s no chaos or breakdown of order; the public mood is calm, yet undeniably concerned. You see it in the slightly smaller crowds at malls, in people lingering a bit longer to chat about news headlines, and in the uptick in cautious messages in community WhatsApp groups. But there’s also a quiet resilience in the air.
Officially, the tone is reassuring. The Abu Dhabi Media Office, for instance, quickly issued a statement asserting that the city “continues to operate as normal,” with the safety of residents and visitors as the top priority. The authorities pledged a “fully integrated crisis response system” and unwavering commitment to maintaining security and the continuity of everyday life. Essentially, we’ve got this, carry on. It’s surreal to reconcile that message with the dramatic images on TV of interceptors lighting up the sky. Yet on my own street, I indeed see continuity, even with the month of Ramadan. This juxtaposition of normalcy and tension is something I’m feeling intensely. Abu Dhabi is not panicking; it’s persevering, even as everyone quietly hopes the worst has passed.
Amid the uncertainty, one source of comfort has been the response from King’s College London. Word travelled fast about the regional crisis, and by Tuesday, our department and university had emailed to check on students known to be from or currently in the Middle East. I even got a personal note from my personal tutor asking if I was safe and needed “any support or adjustments with your studies.”
On the UAE side, the response to this crisis has been equal parts efficiency and empathy. Within hours of the initial strikes and alerts, the government rolled out measures to keep people informed and to support them. We experienced the most dramatic of these firsthand, the emergency alert system that woke us on Sunday. While terrifying, it worked exactly as intended, delivering instant safety guidance to millions via phone: seek shelter, avoid windows, stay tuned for official updates. Officials later stressed that the alerts were precautionary, part of a robust national framework to protect public safety. Knowing that the system is in place (and very loud) actually provides some comfort now; if there’s any new threat, we’ll know immediately.
Perhaps most impressive is the attention to mental health amid the tension. The UAE’s health authorities have activated free support hotlines for anyone feeling distressed by the situation. One is a 24/7 hotline, 800-SAKINA, run by Abu Dhabi’s Department of Health, connects callers to trained professionals in multiple languages. Basically, if you’re having a panic attack at 3 AM after hearing a rumour or a loud noise, help is just a phone call away, in English, Arabic, or even French. As a student of conflict, I find this development fascinating, it’s a recognition that resilience is not just physical, but psychological. I haven’t called a hotline, but just knowing it exists is comforting.
Every official communication here also urges reliance on verified information only. We’re told to follow UAE government media channels, such as the National Emergency Crisis and Disaster Management Authority, and reputable news outlets, rather than rumours. After seeing how quickly misinformation spreads online during crises, I’m heeding that advice. The government’s steady stream of factual updates; intercepts made, debris cleared, flights resuming in limited capacity, has helped ground my family’s mindset. We know where to check if something explodes or if a new policy is in effect, and that clarity helps keep panic at bay.
One of the strangest parts of this experience has been watching the media narrative from inside the region versus the reality I see outside my window. International headlines have been dramatic, to say the least. One prominent wire report declared that Iranian attacks had “shaken Dubai’s image as a safe, tax-free haven”. Words like “peaceful image shattered” and “sense of safety broken” flashed across TV chyrons and social media feeds. A viral post even proclaimed “Peace in Dubai is broken” in bold letters, a hyperbolic claim that spread like wildfire. There is truth behind the drama: certainly, these events mark an unprecedented challenge to the UAE’s reputation for stability. Even local acquaintances admit they never imagined hearing EAS sirens in the UAE, where life is usually utterly routine and secure. Fear sells, and global media didn’t miss the chance to amplify the fear factor.
Yet, sitting here in Abu Dhabi, I feel a disconnect with some of those portrayals. Yes, the tension is real. I won’t downplay the worry that simmers in all of us now. But the narrative of “panic on the streets” or “peace destroyed” is exaggerated when it comes to daily life here. My own observations echo what UAE officials have emphasised: there is stability and continuity alongside the anxiety. For example, on Monday, I cautiously went out to pick up groceries and medications. I saw people being vigilant but civil – no fights over supplies, no mass exodus. It struck me then: the media can scream “Doom!” but on the ground, people adapt and push through fear with everyday courage. That isn’t to say people here aren’t rattled; we are, deeply. The psychological tremor of knowing your home is within reach of a conflict is significant. We don’t feel as invincible as we did a week ago.
As I write this commentary for Roar News, I’m struck by the strange twist of fate that put an IR student in the middle of a war’s ripple effects. This experience has left me with an unexpected blend of gratitude and confusion. Gratitude, because despite everything, we are okay. Abu Dhabi stands, my loved ones are safe, and measures are in place to keep us that way. The UAE’s famed stability has been stress-tested, and it holds strong, bolstered by preparedness and community cohesion. I feel proud of how people here have handled themselves: with patience, dignity and yes, resilience. There’s a newfound appreciation for the simple luxury of an uneventful day. I will never take peace and quiet for granted again. Even the routine buzz of daily life now seems like a precious gift, one that authorities, citizens and residents alike are working hard to protect.
And confusion, because it’s a sobering thing to have your academic subject matter leap off the page and into your life. I find myself questioning some of the detachment with which academia analyses conflict. It’s different when your own sibling is asking why there are “booms” outside, or when you’re texting friends to check they haven’t gone near the airport. I suspect I’ll return to my studies with a new perspective, perhaps a more empathetic one. Studying war while being in a region under threat of war has reminded me that behind every theory and headline are real people living through disruption and fear. It’s a lesson I won’t forget when I’m back in London.
For now, I’m still in limbo, literally grounded in Abu Dhabi, waiting for the skies to fully reopen and this chapter to close. But I’m ending this piece on a hopeful note. This week, I have seen the worst of what conflict can do (even indirectly, it instils fear and upends lives) and the best of how ordinary people respond. A friend of mine here said something that resonated: “It’s weird; we’re living through history, but also just trying to live.” Exactly. History may record the missiles and political manoeuvres. Still, my mind will record my mother squeezing my hand in the dark, the kindness of neighbours, and the resolve in my own heart that this experience will not defeat me.
Stranded I may be, but not alone and not without hope. The war out there remains an academic and political puzzle to be solved, but inside our home and community, peace and resilience are very much alive. And as a student of war, I’ve never valued peace more in my life.
