From our 4th-floor window, we can watch the drones pass. This is a personal account of the attacks in Bahrain, the toll of silent panic and the incredible community that has became our anchor in the storm.
February 28th was an ordinary Saturday.
We had just finished a late breakfast as a family and were making plans for the evening. Suddenly, the sirens blared and the emergency alert went off on all our phones, rudely cutting through the quiet of the room. We stood there for a split second, still wondering (half-hoping) if this was just another test like the ones we’d heard recently.
Then came a loud, heavy thud. It was the unmistakable sound of something massive being destroyed.
Because we live on the 4th floor, we have a clear view of the horizon. We rushed to our living room window and saw a thick, black cloud of smoke rising from the east. In that heartbeat, the reality hit us with a cold shiver: Bahrain was being attacked!
When the headlines hit home
The news had been there, quietly running in the background of our lives for days. We had watched the headlines of rising tensions between the US and Iran and had heard the periodic tests of Bahrain’s sirens and emergency alerts. Day by day, we had followed the updates and we knew deep down that things were getting serious. Yet, we held on to that universal human hope: that trouble would remain distant or better yet, be resolved before it ever reached our shores.
But by evening, that hope vanished. The strikes continued and the eastern sky grew thick with a heavy, bruised smoke that wouldn’t clear. By then, the news was everywhere- the US Navy base was the primary target. We heard frantic stories of families living near the base- including some of our own friends- who had to scramble across the island to find shelter.
*Stock photo above
The night the residential building caught fire
The real horror came that night though. From our 4th-floor vantage point, we watched a drone cutting through the sky. It was heading east again where the US Navy base is situated……or so we thought.
Instead without changing course, it slammed directly into a tall residential building in Hoora right before our eyes. A huge fire erupted instantly, blazing from two of its floors.
My stomach turned, imagining the families trapped inside. Arun immediately called a close friend who lived next to the building. They were completely rattled. Without wasting a moment they had left and were already on their way to another friend’s house.
It was only later that we heard the news that by God’s grace, no one in that building had been injured. On a day where every siren and every thud felt so unsettling, that bit of news was relieving.
*Stock photo above
Our new reality
Living on the 4th floor used to be a blessing for the view, but now, it makes us feel exposed. After every siren, we stand by the window, watching the drones cut through the sky- sometimes passing directly above us, sometimes hovering around our building on their way to a target. Every time a streak of vapour appears in the sky from a drone or missile, my breath holds still.
Because of the situation, we had to be ready. We watched the news as a few areas were told to evacuate and even though those calls never reached our door, the fear changed us. We have our ‘go-bags’ packed because we have to be prepared for anything.
The strikes have continued since that first Saturday. Now, we often only hear the distant, heavy rumbles from areas beyond our sight, but the reports that follow are a massive blow to our sense of security. The tragedy in Sitra- where 32 people were injured, including a tiny two-month-old infant, felt like a personal wound to everyone on the island.
It is haunting to realize how random this violence is. We mourn Sara Dashti, the 29-year-old whose life was cut short in a residential strike in Seef and Mohammad Tarique, who had worked here for 27 years to support his family back home, only to be struck by falling debris at the shipyard. Their stories are a sobering reminder of how a life of hard work can be shattered in an instant.
Finding our way back to normal
My son, like so many other children here, was terrified during those first two days. But children are resilient in a way that is almost heartbreaking to watch. Now, the sirens and the alerts have become a “routine” for them. They are well aware of what is happening. Everyone has resumed work, pivoting as per the situation they face every day.
While all this was happening, I made a personal observation about myself. Panic comes in different ways to different people. I thought my response would be worrying or excessive planning- that’s how I usually am! But this time, something else happened. While I remained calm for my family, my body kept its own score. A heavy, constant dull headache settled in, starting from that very first morning. It lasted for an entire week- the physical manifestation of the tension I guess- the result of ears that are always anticipating the next siren and a mind that never truly sleeps.
* thankful for all the love we received (posted only a few)
The power of reaching out
Yet, in this darkness, there’s been a light we didn’t expect. Our phones have become a lifeline. Friends and family members- some I hadn’t spoken to in years- began checking in. Neighbours reached out to neighbours, offering help, a place to stay or just a listening ear. Honestly, this connection is what has truly helped us feel better. Knowing that people care and seeing the community in Bahrain hold onto each other, has been the anchor we needed.
As we wait for the horizon to clear, I find myself thinking of all the people across the globe trapped in similar or far worse, situations. We have been shaken by these events, but it has given me a profound sense of empathy for those who live in perpetual war. My heart goes out to every mother, every child and every family elsewhere who is currently looking out their own window, praying for the same peace I am.
Looking ahead the news remains heavy, but there are flickers of hope. Diplomatic efforts are intensifying across the region and there is a global push for an immediate de-escalation. We hold onto these headlines tightly. We look out our 4th-floor window and pray for the day when the horizon is clear, the bags can be unpacked and the only sounds we hear are the peaceful, beautiful rhythms of an ordinary Saturday.
Keep us in your prayers dear friends.
Found this useful? You might like reading these as well
My childhood memories of the 1965 Indo-Pak war
Karzakan forest or the Sumathi Valavu of Bahrain
Allured by an Arabic incense and how!
Moving to Bahrain- first thoughts
Pin and save this post
More from this blog
Cruising through the backwaters of Kerala on a vallam
5 qualities to master from the life of a toddler!
Why it is okay to be different- Rudolf’s story
My challenges and wins in the BHH challenge
A visit to Al Fatih Grand Mosque in Bahrain
7 brutal truths about married life that you must know
Hi! My name is Rubitah. I’m a Content Writer certified Life Coach, Counselor, Social Work professional and the Founder of Being Rubitah. Over the years through my professional and personal life, I have realized that prayers and love can do wonders to family life once you come to terms with yourself and surrender to God. Do you relate to me? Then you may like what I post here! Read more about me
Subscribe to receive my monthly digest of the latest blog posts, special offers and announcements!
