A few days ago, I had to explain to my four-year-old daughter what the emergency alarm on our phones meant. It was a conversation I never imagined having. Of course, I tried to explain it in the simplest way I could. I told her that sometimes countries fight with each other, but our country is working very hard to keep us safe. She thought about that for a moment before asking a question children often ask when they are trying to make sense of the world.
“Why?”
I told her that sometimes countries get angry at each other the way people do. She paused again, thinking about my answer, and then asked something very simple.
“Do they say sorry?”
It was such a small question, yet it carried a kind of purity and wisdom that stopped me in my tracks. I found myself wondering what our world might look like if it were guided by the innocence of children rather than the men who hold the most power.
I am an Emirati woman, born and raised in Dubai. For the first time in my life, our country is experiencing the tension of living in a state of regional instability. For many of us, this is unfamiliar territory. Life feels a little different now. People are carrying on and trying to live normally, adjusting as best they can. We take precautions when we hear the alarms ring on our phones. We’ve become hyper-alert to the sounds around us, trying to decipher what each one means. Was that an interception, or just the neighbor working on his classic car again? We ask where debris has fallen and if anyone was harmed. Not long ago, such thoughts never crossed our minds.
Some people remain relatively unbothered, confident that this period will pass sooner rather than later. Others feel anxious, not because we doubt our country’s ability to protect us (in fact, we believe in it more than ever), but because uncertainty is difficult to live with. We do not know how long this will last, whether it will pass quickly or become something we must learn to live with for a while.
At the same time, I am deeply aware of the privilege we have as Emiratis. We are so fortunate to live in a country that prioritizes our safety and has the resources to do so. That reality is not one I take for granted. The opportunities and security we experience everyday are things that many people around the world are denied.
While we try to reassure our kids and help them feel calm, it’s hard to deny the harsh narrative circulating on social media. These are delicate times. Words can easily become inflammatory and, too often, are used to incite suspicion and divisiveness. Many residents of the Gulf feel the sting of commentators who belittle and mock our circumstances. Online critics overlook that war disrupts and harms the lives of innocent families. The internet has become a breeding ground for hostility and resentment. People take out their anger on ordinary people, and this animosity is further fueled by faceless accounts and automated bots. Certain media outlets also sensationalize this period just for the sake of likes and views. Empathy and responsible dialogue matter now more than ever. Actual human beings living through a tense and unstable reality deserve understanding, not ridicule.
Yet beyond our borders lies a far more brutal reality. There is unimaginable suffering and devastation on a scale that no human being should ever have to endure. That awareness brings with it an immense sense of guilt. I think about families in Gaza, who are not reacting to the sound of interceptions in the sky, but to the sound of bombs. People forced to worry about the most basic things: access to water, food, and whether they will survive the night. The contrast is impossible to ignore.
In the midst of all this, I find myself deeply grateful for the community I am part of. I have seen people open their doors to strangers. Doctors offering free consultations to those stranded here without access to their medication. Neighbors checking in on one another. Residents and citizens supporting small businesses. Strangers helping strangers.
During such unprecedented times, it would be easy to drown in fear of the unknown. But what I have been witnessing is something far more powerful: people choosing kindness. Watching everyone support and uplift one another reminds us that humanity is still worth believing in.
Perhaps that is the lesson we should hold on to most tightly. Even in moments shaped by conflict, ordinary people continue to choose compassion—for neighbors, for strangers, for one another. Citizens and residents alike are coming together, as they should, and this kind of unity is one I hope to see spread across our region.
Our society does not have to be hardened by this moment. We will move through it together, with grace and kindness. And when we emerge from it, we will carry forward not only resilience, but a deeper understanding of what it truly means to look after one another. Insha’Allah.
