SHONA SIBARY: My brunch in the UAE turned into a week of dread as Iran’s missiles loomed
Three times annually, I travel to my husband’s residence in the UAE, an hour north of Dubai, to reunite with Keith, 58, whose career as an energy consultant demands lengthy absences. Over nine years, this 4,000-mile separation has become a ritual of escape—providing respite from the chaos of raising four children in Sussex. Yet this particular trip has unfolded like a nightmare.
Just days into the conflict, I found myself stranded in a war zone, unable to return home. This is my account of five harrowing days, when a routine weekend of cocktails and sunbathing transformed into enforced confinement. The turmoil began with a jet streaking overhead, triggering a cascade of anxiety for my family back in the UK and my own struggle to maintain a tan amid the danger.
A brunch with a twist
Near Keith’s apartment in Ras Al-Khaimah—a small emirate north of Dubai—lies a Hilton hotel renowned for its weekend brunches. For £50 per person, guests indulge in a lavish spread featuring oysters, lobster, beef tenderloin, and seabass. Alcohol is also served in abundance, from negronis to sparkling wine, creating an atmosphere of unbridled festivity.
“Under no circumstances is anybody to call me unless there is an absolute emergency,” I furiously typed into the family WhatsApp group, while simultaneously dousing oysters in Tabasco. “I don’t want anything to ruin my brunch.”
Yet this year, the joy of the meal was overshadowed by the roar of a jet overhead. The sound was so intense that all on the terrace—gazing at the Persian Gulf—jolted upward. “What the hell was that?” a stranger at the adjacent table shouted. Phones were fumbled, drinks set aside. “Trump has attacked Iran,” someone else guessed, leaving me stunned by the absurdity of it all.
For years, my family has shared a superstition: whenever I arrive and begin sipping margaritas, calamity strikes back home. On one occasion, it was my eldest daughter Flo, then 19, who had a car accident. On another, one of our dogs vanished without a trace. This time, the fear was palpable as the war escalated.
Yesterday, the Fairmont Hotel on Dubai’s Palm Island—famous for its infinity pool facing the marina—was struck by debris from an intercepted drone, igniting a fire. The surreal event left holidaymakers trembling, wondering if it was a prelude to a larger assault. Today, the panic reached a new peak when Dubai airport was hit by a missile, forcing the cancellation of all flights, including mine scheduled for tomorrow.
Now, the beach is a place of uneasy calm. I oscillate between the urge to flee and the fear of what lies ahead. The war has turned my escape into a test of endurance, with every missile overhead a reminder that my daughters and dogs are still in the UK, vulnerable to the chaos I’ve now become a part of.
