The great fake Eid escape

“Leave your luggage and follow me. Now.”

The authoritative instruction should have been warning enough.

This was not going to be an Eid break like any other.

I mean, we’d already had almost three weeks of emergency alarms, missiles and ongoing uncertainty in Qatar.

What was I thinking?

(And you’re thinking it too. Is she mad?)

Why should I have anticipated a better, simpler life – if only for five care-free days during the Eid holiday break?

(Because hope, faith and the lure of hugging a pregnant daughter just a short flight away will have you believe this.)

So off I ventured to Hamad International Airport at 5am on Wednesday, 18 March, in what is likely to go down in Derry family lore as something akin to “mother’s great fake Eid escape”.

And, let me just preface up front, abandoning my luggage would prove to be the least of my worries that day …

By way of context

Before you continue reading, you may want to glance at my previous blog posts on living in and adapting to a war (that is not ours) in Qatar. They offer slice-of-life insights as to this unprecedented period of conflict in the Middle East.

By now, the news happening on our doorstep has become your news too.

The US Israeli conflict with Iran is impacting all parts of the world. It’s already hitting you in the pocket because key resources, like oil and gas, are no longer easily accessible and are now more costly.

Oh, and for those of you who may not know, Eid is a three-day Islamic holiday that follows the Holy month of Ramadan. For many of us, this paid holiday provides an ideal opportunity to travel or head home.

And so, with no recent missile attacks on Riyadh where our daughter lives and an increase in the number of flights available from Doha to the Saudi capital, I made a last-minute decision to “fill my family bucket” by visiting Meg and Neil.

Sadly, I left the H behind because of church commitments.

Anyway, this post is a tale for the family memory box and one in which some salient life lessons hit home.

Let’s begin …  

Leave your luggage

The “leave your luggage” instruction came at about 6am while queuing at check-in.

It followed an emergency phone alert announcing, “elevated threat levels”.

Had I not been living in Qatar nor unaccustomed to said alerts, I might have dawdled and dragged my luggage with me. (Well, picture the scene had the same instruction been issued in South Africa …).

But since I know missile and drone attacks can occur within minutes of an alert (and indeed, even without warning), I happily followed Qatar Airways staff to a safer space sans holiday suitcase.

That was me – and hundreds and hundreds of other would-be passengers who were all chivvied along by staff and police to “shelter in place”. In this case, out of the ambit of the airport’s beautiful (but ominously fragile glass) roof for the next 20 minutes or so.

There was no rushing to safety, nor any obvious panic.

We’ve adjusted to this new normal in Qatar.

(But I know our collective heart rate had increased!)

Once the “threat eliminated” follow-up came through, we returned to our luggage – just as we’d left it.

And life carried on.

A lifestyle of war

We chatted among ourselves. A young Lebanese woman, also resident in Qatar, is heading home to Lebanon. From one war zone to another. I empathise.

“Oh, we’re used to it. I have lived like this my whole life. My parents live in the mountains, so it’s not too bad. I just need to see them – and enjoy my mother’s food. I just can’t miss my connecting flight from Riyadh.”

I was not alone with my “family bucket” top-up hopes.

The longest flight

The trip from Doha to Riyadh is usually an hour and twenty minutes – less time than it takes to fly from Gqeberha to Johannesburg.

Now picture the scene as if it is unfolding:

We’re on time for departure at 8.35am, despite the early evacuation.

There are so few of us that each passenger gets three seats to themselves with plenty of empty rows in between.

We spend about 20 minutes on the runway, awaiting our turn to depart, since Hamad International is still only operating a restricted number of flights daily, using a  “safe flight corridor”.

Finally, we’re up.

It’s scary knowing that missiles and drones may be whizzing about, and scarier still when the pilot announces that we won’t be landing before 11.30am!

I question my sanity (again) and continue to pray.

Our flight takes the better part of three hours – double the regular flight time because of a “holding pattern” mandate – before we join the plane queue for landing in Riyadh.

We land.

All will be well.

Soon I will have my hug.

Visa views

Or not.

My daughter’s efforts to secure my e-visa are shot down at passport control – the pending/in-review status means I must wait.

When the initial 30-minute wait prediction is escalated to “up to three days”, I pay for a visa on arrival and join the passport control queue once again.

Stares and a solitary suitcase

This time, however, I am the sole white female among a heaving mass of males. I weather the open staring.

Age can be a wonderful thing. It can prepare you for such eventualities.

Besides, if I can dodge missiles for three weeks, surely, I should not allow myself to be intimidated by the unyielding curiosity of strange men in turbans.

To be fair, just as I had never seen so many strange olive skinned, green-eyed men, who I guessed to be Afghans, it is very likely they had never seen the likes of me in the flesh either. (But at least I didn’t stare!)

I later learnt these men, and others from across the various “stans”, are being recruited by Saudi Arabia to work on its many building projects. The city of Riyadh is itself a massive construction site.

Anyway, by the time I finally get through immigration, the carousel with my luggage has stopped.

The suitcase I’d abandoned in Doha has now abandoned me.

But not for long. She stands on her ownsome alongside the carousel. I almost hug her. A big positive.

And then another.

A full heart

This time, a real bear hug from my patient, smiling son-in-law.

Then 30 minutes later, another heartfelt hug from my daughter for this now-happy mother.

My heart is full.

I can finally relax.

The scary trip is behind me.

No more alerts, no more missiles and a chance to catch up, slow down and just be.

An unforgettable Iftar supper

The weather is beautiful, too.

We join friends for an outdoor Iftar supper in an original mud-brick home-turned-restaurant close to Diriyah, the historic “old city” of Riyadh.

We exchange stories of holidays, maternity leave, of baby’s due date and the war.

I am simultaneously relishing my new-found freedom, having earlier shared “how wonderful it is to be away from Doha, the missiles and the constant uncertainty”.

I can wallow in this little haven of peace – if only for five days.

Apart from a drone hitting the US Embassy at the start of the war, it’s been quiet in Riyadh.

Until it isn’t.

In a heartbeat, it all changes.

BOOM.

The loudest, oh-so-familiar sonic boom cuts through everything.

The interception is too close for comfort.

Internally, I levitate.

We are momentarily stunned into silence, as are the other mainly Saudi families enjoying an iftar meal ahead of the forthcoming Eid celebrations.

There had been no alert.

Spoken too soon

But alerts soon follow and we hasten towards home – a good 30 minutes’ drive away.

We say our goodbyes.

The friends’ daughters, aged almost 2 and 4, hardly flinch with the booms – believing them to be fireworks. And that’s as it probably should be for those so young.

I had spoken too soon!

“Free of missiles; a chance to relax …”

We laugh.

The teasing starts: “You brought the missiles with you”.

We laugh through our anxieties.

Once home, the telly goes on – just as it did daily in our house in Doha when the war began.

We are hungry for information. A meeting of Gulf leaders appears to be the reason for the attack.

But who knows?

Who knows how this growing conflict will play out? (The Houthis in Yemen joined the war against Israel yesterday on 28 March).

Who knows how long the war will last?

Life lessons

What I do know, however, in reflecting on my “fake” Eid escape, which I confess improved dramatically after the first day, though the attacks and missile interceptions continued, is that I have so much for which to be thankful.

Not least is my family, my faith and the privilege of being able to fly. If my research is correct, only 5% of the world’s population has ever flown.

While the emergency alerts, sonic booms and ongoing uncertainly are unnerving, they pale alongside the trauma and suffering of those at the rockface of war and natural disasters. And so I continue to count my blessings.

I also learnt from my “fake” Eid escape, that:

• Humour really does help (it’s a great coping mechanism in times of distress)
• While we cannot control what happens around us, we can manage our own response to it (e.g. uncertainty, missiles and strange men wearing turbans).
• Family will always be at the heart of our lives
• Faith can triumph fear, and
• We must always hang onto hope, regardless of how scary, sad or uncomfortable things get.

By way of an update, Qatar went a week without emergency alerts until Friday 27 March, when at 9.51am our temporary peace was interrupted.

Our in-person church service went ahead and children returned to teaching at school today (Sunday, 29 March).

At the same time, we continue to receive official updates about the latest number of missiles and drone interceptions.

Yes, it’s a strange, surreal – and hopefully safe – world in Doha, Qatar, right now.