SHONA SIBARY: I was at bottomless brunch when a jet roared overhead. It was the start of a week of fear – of Iran’s missiles, for my daughters and dogs at home, and piling on weight without my fat jabs… I was under siege in Dubai (without my Mounjaro!)
SHONA SIBARY: A Weekend of Peace Disrupted by the Sky’s Roar
Three times annually, I visit my husband, Keith, 58, in the UAE, a short hour north of Dubai. For nine years, my marriage has navigated a 4,000-mile distance because of Keith’s role as an energy consultant. These trips have always been a reprieve from the daily grind of motherhood in Sussex. Yet this past week has unfolded as a stark contrast to my usual escape.
Accompanied by over 100,000 fellow Brits, my vacation turned into a harrowing ordeal. As Iranian drones sliced through the sky, my tan—once a priority—became secondary to the chaos of dodging falling debris. A single weekend had morphed into a test of endurance, with missiles casting shadows over my daughters and dogs back home, and my weight gain taking a backseat to anxiety.
A Brunch of Dreams, Interrupted
Close to Keith’s apartment in Ras Al-Khaimah, a Hilton hotel hosts a weekend brunch that promises indulgence. For roughly £50 per person, you’re treated to a buffet of oysters, lobster, beef tenderloin, and seabass. The menu is just the beginning; three hours of free alcohol—negronis, bubbly, wine, and beer—adds to the allure. This has been our tradition for years, but a family belief persists: the moment I start sipping cocktails, calamity strikes the UK.
“Under no circumstances is anybody to call me unless there is an absolute emergency,” I typed into the family WhatsApp group, while dousing oysters in Tabasco. “I don’t want anything to ruin my brunch.”
Minutes later, a deafening roar split the air. From the terrace where we sat, with a panoramic view of the Persian Gulf, everyone looked up. “What the hell was that?” a stranger at the adjacent table shouted. Phones were snatched, drinks hastily set down. Another voice chimed in: “Trump has attacked Iran.” My first thought: “That’s just across the water.” My second: “Seriously? You couldn’t make this up.”
A War Zone, Unfolding
Yesterday, debris from an intercepted drone ignited a fire at the Fairmont Hotel on Dubai’s Palm, a famed man-made archipelago. Though the blaze was averted, the incident left guests fearing a direct strike. Today, the threat escalated further when Dubai airport fell victim to another drone attack. Flights home, including mine scheduled for tomorrow, were abruptly canceled. Now, no one is leaving. I oscillate between panic and the lure of the beach, choosing the latter as my base for dread.
Two of my four children remain in Chichester, West Sussex. Dolly, 16, is too engrossed in GCSE exams to join me. Annie, 25, a paramedic student, has volunteered to manage the household while I’m away, alongside caring for our labradoodles. Flo, 27, and Monty, 23, are stationed elsewhere, but the family’s collective anxiety has tethered us all in place. As missiles streak overhead, the dream of a carefree brunch feels like a distant memory.
