No one expects to fly off to visit their grandchildren again only to find themselves in the middle of an active war two days later. We weren’t fools. We read the news accounts of the saber rattling and bellicose rhetoric from the White House and read the accounts of the negotiations in Oman between the U.S. and Iran. The talks were said to be going well with an agreement expected soon.
It seemed that most every time we visited Dubai over the past decade there was some sort of tension. This time felt no different, so four of us headed off to see our son, daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. The 12-hour flight from Boston was uneventful, the grandkids met us at the airport with hugs and everything was normal.
That all changed our second day. We were touring in Al Ain oasis when we learned the U.S. and Israel had attacked Iran. All was quiet in the UAE. That seemed destined to change and fast. We took the long way back to Dubai, hugging the Oman border to stay far as possible from the U.S. military bases and patriot defensive missiles. Everything looked normal, and the city continued to hum as we cruised the final stretch of Shiekh Zayed highway with mile after mile of 60- to 80-story buildings, all fully lit.
But the reports on the internet were far from comforting. Later that evening, the first reports of drone and missile strikes in Dubai were received. We listened and started hearing explosions. We moved the children into the safest place in the house — a subterranean space in the center of the house. The floor space was about 3 feet by 4 feet at the bottom of four stairs. Twelve of us crammed into the space — four kids ages 1 to 7 and eight adults. The explosions were at times faint and others more dramatic. In time, we realized we were hearing Patriot missile intercepts of incoming missiles and not ground strikes.
Most seemed miles away, but we also saw strangely colored clouds appear overhead followed by the smell like an electrical fire.
We heard explosions through the first night, making for a rather fitful sleep. Morning brought an eerie quiet. Traffic disappeared. That morning we walked a few blocks to have
breakfast at a café. It was almost empty. Though the Dubai airspace was closed, we regularly heard and saw military jets above. Then, while we ate, three intercepts occurred overhead. We didn’t linger.
Appropriately proud of their use of the Patriot missile defense shield, the government published their success rate. Over a thousand missiles and drones were successfully intercepted. While it was of some comfort, it also clarified the extent of danger. But even the UAE has it limits, and we learned that at the rate of attacks the supply of Patriot’s might be depleted shortly.
The French, British and Swiss governments advised citizens to leave and that flights would be provided to evacuate citizens, most likely from Muscat, Oman. The U.S. government stuck with the “shelter in place” line and offered no assistance. The attacks increased. The explosions replaced the sounds of the city and while there were no ground strikes near us, it was impossible to be certain that every incursion would be stopped.
We spent two days distracting the kids. Schools were closed, so we played games, made the storage space into an indoor camping experience, and kept news from them. And we plotted contingencies.
Two sleepless nights were enough to confirm this was not going to end soon, or well. We packed our bags and our son took us on an over three hour drive to the Oman border. The border crossing, which in normal times was a formality, took over three hours as a steady flow of expats fled the war. Thanks to “a guy knew a guy,” our daughter-in-law had arranged for a taxi to drive from Muscat and meet us on the Oman side of the border. We paid an inordinate sum (“there’s a war on, you know”) but fared better than the hundreds of people we saw haggling with taxi drivers who appeared on the far side of the crossing. Even the “free shuttle bus” was delayed as the driver went through the bus demanding, with a smile, payment.
Oman was viewed as a neutral state and was considered the safest destination in the region, though its port had been struck by missiles. We made it to Muscat well after dark. We managed to book adequate hotel rooms before leaving Dubai, which definitely cushioned our time in exile. After all flights leaving Dubai were canceled, we managed to book seats on a flight out of Muscat on a local carrier with only a two-day wait. When we got to the airport we realized how lucky we were. With all the other airports in the region closed, thousands of people were camped out waiting to get a reservation to any place else, for any way out. As we watched the flight board we saw flight after flight canceled.
The ability of combatants to recognize a civilian aircraft was on our minds. We landed in Columbo, Sri Lanka as the sun rose. We knew we were safe. Our fortunes continued to be good as we were able to secure the last four seats out on the first available flight six days later to Hong Kong, and then with only a one-day layover a flight to Boston.
We had a rather tense week on the edge of war. By world standards, we were rich enough to buy our way out of danger and we know we were lucky. We mourn the first American service members who died, while over a thousand Iranians died in the first two days, including a reported 175 schoolgirls. We continue to fear for the millions of people without the resources to get out as we did.
Harry Judd is a former Select Board member for the town of Bow, where he and his wife, Mary Beth Walz, both live.