For the last ten unexpected days, I have been stuck in Saudi Arabia.
Not because I missed a flight or extended a vacation. Because overnight, the skies closed.
Like so many people living in Dubai, my life runs on movement – quick flights, tight schedules, the assumption that if you need to be somewhere, you can usually get there within hours. But suddenly, the UAE’s airspace was closed, and that rhythm stopped. Planes weren’t landing. Flights weren’t leaving. And I was stuck across the border.
As it happened, I was stranded in one of the most extraordinary places imaginable: the Red Sea. Turquoise water stretched endlessly beyond the shore, and the desert met the sea in a way that felt almost surreal. Every morning at Edition Red Sea, I woke up to the quiet rhythm of waves, an ocean uninterrupted by construction, and vast open skies – a kind of stillness that felt worlds away from the anxiety unfolding back in Dubai. The contrast wasn’t lost on me. While friends and colleagues navigated uncertainty and disruption at home, I found myself somewhere impossibly beautiful, safe and carefully looked after. It was a strange emotional balance to hold: concern for what was happening back home, mixed with a deep awareness of just how fortunate I was in that moment.
But I remember that moment when yet another flight home was cancelled and it started to sink in: I probably wasn’t going home anytime soon. It felt a little like that moment in Home Alone when Kevin McCallister realises he has the entire house to himself. At first there’s slight panic – the quiet, the sudden awareness that you’re not sure what to do with yourself. And then, slowly, comes a different realisation: you’re here, you’re okay, and somehow you’re going to have to make the most of it.
What followed was, unexpectedly, a week of calm.
My days settled into a rhythm that felt almost surreal given the circumstances. I would wake early and walk along the shoreline while the resort was still quiet, head to the hotel gym, and then log on for the daily team huddle on Slack. Emails were answered overlooking the sea, calls taken with the sound of waves somewhere in the background. Work continued, life continued – just with a very different view.
Through it all, the team at Edition Red Sea were extraordinary. Hospitality may be their profession, but the warmth and care they extended during those uncertain days felt deeply personal. They checked in constantly, made sure I had everything I needed, and somehow managed to create a sense of normalcy in a situation that could easily have felt unsettling.
Eventually, though, it was time to go home.
At the same time, my company mobilised in a way that genuinely moved me. Messages were flying back and forth, plans being made and remade, every possible option explored to get me home safely. (Even the CEO checked in…) When the situation was uncertain, I knew one thing clearly: there were people advocating for me and doing everything they could behind the scenes. That kind of support changes how you see your managers, your peers and your workplace. It reminds you that companies aren’t just structures or logo, they’re people who show up for each other when it matters.
The two-day journey from Red Sea to Riyadh, Riyadh to Muscat, and Muscat to Dubai thus begun. Ableit a grueling journey, two flights and a 10-hour car journey later, I was back in my own bed.
The closure of UAE airspace had been a protective decision, one that underscored something I think many of us who live there sometimes take for granted: the incredible priority placed on safety and stability.
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Sometimes it takes getting stuck somewhere to see clearly what “home” really means. For me, it’s the people who take care of you when plans fall apart. The colleagues, friends and family who rally around you from afar. And a place that prioritises the safety of everyone who calls it home.
لقراءة المقال بالكامل، يرجى الضغط على زر "إقرأ على الموقع الرسمي" أدناه
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