On the night the blasts started, my sister, her husband and I built a fort from pillows and blankets for our three children, a makeshift ‘safe house, that we retreated to as explosions ricocheted around us. We could hear rockets and buzzing drones from every room in the house. Within just one evening, the peace I had known all my life in the Gulf was shattered. My four-year-old son’s childhood has changed forever.
I was born in 1990 during the first Gulf War. My mother was about my age now, pregnant with me, her fourth child, when she found herself in a similar situation. Afraid, with an uncertain situation and trying to stay calm for the sake of three small children. Out of stress and fear, she gave birth to me prematurely at 28 weeks. She lost so much blood the night I was born and was unconscious for several days, recalling later how upset she was that she couldn’t hold me.
I often think about my father during that time, also in his mid-30s, with three small children at home, a baby in an incubator, his wife unconscious – all of it unfolding in the middle of a war. I can only imagine what must have gone through his mind, whether he thought it would ever pass. But it did.
Thirty-five years later, here I am, with a small child of my own, living through a massive escalation in the Middle East and wider region, started by decision makers far away from here, supported by people who sometimes can’t even locate Bahrain.
That first night as the explosions rang out around us, I was not composed, even though I don’t scare easily. I am usually the one who people call in an emergency. I am organised, structured and usually think clearly after years of working at Save the Children and in fast-moving policy roles. Yet that night I was taken over by fear and my mind froze. None of my coping mechanisms kicked in. I didn’t know how to steady myself.
In those hours, I leaned on my sister, my brother-in-law, and friends inside and outside the country who were calling and texting to ask about me and my family. I leaned into my colleagues across the Save the Children movement who offered sound advice given their experience in similar situations. I wanted reassurances: that we weren’t alone, that we would be safe, that this would end.
As the six of us lay on the floor of my sister’s house, huddled together, I held my son close and tried to steady my breathing.
Working in the humanitarian sector, I have spent years advocating for children’s right to protection, play and normalcy in the most fragile contexts. I have spoken about safe spaces for children in conflict zones, about families living through protracted crises far from the headlines with one in five children now globally living in a conflict zone. But it is one thing to advocate professionally, and another to hear explosions outside your own window.
In the Gulf, we have long taken pride in being one of the safest sub-regions in the world. Low crime. Strong institutions. Communities where children move freely. I have always felt that safety deeply, not just as a resident, but in the everyday rhythm of life here. There is a freedom that children have here to move, to explore, to simply be children that I have always valued deeply. That assumption of safety is woven into daily life. I never feared my child’s life when dropping him to school. I never worried about him walking a few steps ahead of me in a mall.
That sense of security is not something I ever took for granted but after this past week, I will never take a peaceful night of sleep for granted again.
One night, as I tried to drown out the sound of explosions with white noise so my son could sleep, he asked me one simple, devastating question: “Mama, this is a nightmare… why won’t they allow us to play?”
Children do not understand geopolitics. They do not understand military strategy or regional tensions or our calls for an immediate cessation of hostilities and for all parties to adhere to international law which obligates protection for children in conflict. They understand if they feel safe. They understand if they can play.
But what is unsettling me even more is the change in his questions. When sirens sounded again and defensive systems responded overhead, I asked him if he was scared. He said he heard it, but that he wasn’t afraid. Then he added thoughtfully: “I guess I got used to it … that’s weird … the first day I wasn’t used to it … but now I am.”
Children are remarkably adaptable. But adapting to the sound of explosions is not resilience – it is exposure.
Peace should never be a privilege reserved for some children and not others.
No child, in any corner of the world, should ever grow used to the sound of explosions.
(The author is Save the Children’s Gulf Advocacy and External Engagement Manager)