Deirdre McClean was in Abu Dhabi on a business trip when the fighting broke out. In the week since, she’s done everything she can to get information from the Government about what she should do – to no avail. This is her diary…

I’ve been to the UAE numerous times, both on family holidays and for work. While Dubai is a city on steroids, with its show-off skyline and Love Island influencers in their rented lime-green Lamborghinis, Abu Dhabi is like the more subtle, sophisticated sister city, just over an hour down the road.

I feel the area is pretty misunderstood – mainly by those who have never actually been. I love the people and the culture and both emirates have their own charm. 

It’s a great place to do business, as there’s a real air of opportunity and innovation. I often travel alone, and as a woman have always felt completely safe here.

So when the opportunity to attend a communications conference here came up, I was excited about attending. 

My daughter is a first–year business student and I felt it would be a fantastic opportunity for her too, to attend, to network and see how the media industry operates.

The fact that we could maybe squeeze in a few hours by the pool was also very appealing.

We arrive on Friday night and check into our hotel.

Saturday, February 28

Deirdre McClean was in Abu Dhabi on business when the fighting broke out. In the week since, she’s done everything she can to get information from the Government – to no avail

I wake to news that Israel and the US have attacked Iran. I know how close we are to the action but am unconcerned for our safety. Surely we won’t be dragged into it?

However, I decide to register with the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA), just in case. There is little other information on its website.

At lunch on the hotel terrace, we hear a really loud noise in the sky – like a jet plane. Then there’s a loud bang and two tiny white clouds appear in the otherwise clear blue sky. 

Everyone turns their attention to the scene, but when it stops as suddenly as it started, we are largely unconcerned and head off to sit by the pool for a bit.

Not 30 minutes later, there’s a sound I will never forget as long as I live. Phones start to shriek as a message flashes up on the screen. Due to the threat of missile attacks we have to go inside immediately and ‘shelter in place’.

It is terrifying and shocking but, at the same time, there is no panic, just the quiet air of disbelief. It is surreal as we gather our belongings and make our way back into the hotel.

We head straight to our room and start looking for news updates. It makes for sickening viewing. But at the same time, it just doesn’t seem real.

Eventually, things quieten down again and so, together with other guests, we venture back to the pool around 5pm. That is when everything changes completely.

Several missiles scream across the sky and are intercepted with intense accuracy and deadly force.

We stare, open–mouthed, as the missiles break apart and debris rains from the sky.

Smoke billows from Zayed port after an Iranian attack, following United States and Israel strikes on Iran, in Abu Dhabi

Fire Breaks Out at Bin Zayed Port in Abu Dhabi 

More ominous clouds appear, as the scene is repeated while massive blasts blare over our heads. Now it is real. And terrifying.

Saturday night is like living through a really crap made–for–TV movie. Missiles rain over our heads until about 3.30am. Our sister hotel in Dubai is hit. So is another hotel.

Out in the corridors, people mill around, not knowing what to do for the best. The official government advice is to stay inside and keep away from the windows.

The hotel offers to bring people down to the ballroom but we choose to stay in our room. There is little sleep and absolutely no word from the DFA.

We sleep in our clothes with a go–bag ready in case we have to flee during the night.

I check my phone constantly but there’s nothing from the Department of Foreign Affairs. The website has been updated to say it’s at the second–highest threat level, but beyond that, not much else.

Sunday, March 1

Sunday morning, we head down to breakfast, bleary–eyed and bamboozled by the news updates – Dubai Airport has been hit, so has Abu Dhabi. The holiday is over and so is the peace this area has enjoyed for decades.

The beach is closed, as is the pool. A spot in the few public seating areas becomes a premium as the temperature outside rises to over 33C. There are no balconies so your room, no matter how luxurious, soon becomes claustrophobic.

We risk sitting just outside the hotel for some fresh air and a change of scenery but soon the blasts are back.

We are in constant contact with loved ones at home but I feel the need to downplay how bad things are here. There’s nothing they can do to help and describing the fact that your windows are rattling from missile blasts isn’t going to improve their sense of helplessness.

There’s one thing keeping me going – according to my Etihad Airline app, my flight is still due to leave late on Monday night, into Tuesday morning. 

Now, clearly common sense would dictate that there’s no way any commercial airline is going to put its passengers in the sky alongside cruise missiles but that screen information telling me my flight is on time is the only thing keeping me sane.

At this stage I wonder if I am actually correctly registered with the DFA. Maybe I should register again, to be safe, because surely I would have heard something. Anything. So I register again.

This time I note that at the end of the process, it states I have successfully registered. I sit back, satisfied that I will soon be bombarded with messages from the DFA.

I keep checking the website, but there’s nothing further to report. Then my pal at home sends me a screenshot of Minister Helen McEntee on X, formerly Twitter, telling me to just stay where I am and hold tight. I avoid looking at anything apart from the necessary accounts. I am only getting my news from official sources.

Then – oh joy, oh joy – I get a notification that I can check in for my flight home. My heart soars as I receive the email containing our boarding passes. I shed a tear.

The feeling of letting my loved ones at home know that we are on our way is overwhelming. They are more relieved than we are, if that’s possible.

We get ready to settle down for the night and, as I’m about to turn off the light, my email pings. Our flight has been cancelled. I can’t believe it, but of course there’s no way that flight was ever taking off.

It’s late here, but Ireland is four hours behind so certainly early enough to share the bad news with home, but I haven’t the heart. I leave them in blissful ignorance as we again go to bed fully clothed with our go-bags at the ready.

Monday, March 2

The lobby is alive with tourists and their luggage. Then I notice two big yellow school buses parked out front. The rumour is that the British government is bussing its people to Saudi to fly them home from there. Good for them. I check X – nothing further from the DFA.

By now our days have fallen into a kind of uneasy routine. We have breakfast, find somewhere inside – other than our room – to hang out and hope we can get outside at some stage.

When our loved ones at home wake up, I have to break the news that we’re not going anywhere. Their anger is furious and directed towards the department. If the British are moving, why aren’t we?

My husband calls the emergency number but obviously they believe emergencies only happen during office hours as it goes straight to voicemail. My husband eventually gets through, inside office hours. He registers us again. They say there’s nothing else we can do but stay where we are.

At the hotel, things are heating up. The beach and pool are still closed so we sit, sweltering and sweating, looking at the cool water we are denied access to. Suddenly, a couple of Russians can take no more and rush into the sea.

The poor lifeguard blows his whistle but this only alerts their comrades, who also rush to join them in the crystal blue waters. There’s a Mexican stand-off until the lifeguard has no choice but to let them carry on. The rest of us are the beneficiaries.

That night we chance not bothering to sleep in our clothes. We still have the go-bag ready and have our passports with us now at all times. Finally, an email from the embassy arrives but the relief is short-lived as it gives us the same advice – stay where you are.

At 3.15am we’re woken by the missile warning sirens on our phones. I’ll be honest, this breaks me a bit. Our windows rattle, the blasts feel closer than ever and I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.

An alert issued by the UAE Ministry of Interior warning residents of Dubai and Abu Dhabi of a potential Iranian missile strike is displayed on a mobile phone

I remind myself to let the DFA know that the Iranians operate outside of Irish office hours.

There’s no chance now of going back to sleep so I go on X. Big mistake. To be fair, it does serve the purpose for which it was originally intended – others in the area are sharing their experiences – but there’s so much misinformation, AI-generated videos of really terrifying stuff and just general horror.

Tuesday, March 3

I’ve not slept and neither, it seems, has anyone else. As soon as we arrive down in the lobby, there’s an overwhelming feeling of fear. Even those leaving seem to be terrified.

Iran is raining missiles from the sky above us – how safe can it be to be flying in that same sky?

Eventually our loved ones at home wake up and excitedly share the news that at last the Government is on the radio talking about bussing us out of here to Oman to try and fly us from there. 

I’m not sure how I feel about that but rush to check my email to see what the DFA is telling us. Nothing.

If the department can’t manage a communications campaign, can it really get me home from a different country?

In preparation for an approximately six–hour bus journey to Oman, we spend our time ordering water bottles and a power bank online for delivery. At the same time, the yellow school buses continue to leave loaded with tourists from different countries. The Italians, the Russians, they all seem to be on the move.

Then someone shares an update from Helen McEntee. She confirms they are going to try to get a chartered flight out of Oman – for 280 people. Great, I’ll check my email. Nothing.

Then intrusive thoughts start to take over. I really hope that the people from the Office of Public Works aren’t booking the flights. Or maybe I want them to. Imagine the calibre of plane they would get us – I mean, look at how they do bike sheds. This might not all be bad. There are a few more skirmishes in the sky, but definitely quieter than previous days. Do I dare to breathe a bit more easily?

Wednesday, March 4

We meet our first other Irish couple. They are as much in the dark as we are. We agree to keep in contact if either of us hears anything.

I head down to the beach for a bit. It’s warm and windy and I try to get my steps in along the shoreline. Then the screeching in the sky is back, and the blasts and the bombardment.

There’s utter panic on the beach as parents grab their kids and race back to the safety of the hotel. This is the worst it’s been in a while.

I die a little inside. We’re never getting out of here.

Thursday, March 5

I wake to a new sound. It’s like gunfire, but really big guns. Dear Christ.

But as I check my phone, I see there’s a notification from our airline – we have a flight out. We’re going home!

I note that the first Emirates flight has landed back in Dublin. This is really, really great news. So why am I so afraid to leave?

Then, around 7pm, the reason for my reluctance is clear. The missiles are back, with a vengeance.

The sirens go off but at this stage some of our fellow travellers clearly have fight–or–flight fatigue. They ignore them and the requests of the security staff to please move inside for their own safety. They’ve been through all this before and nothing happened, so they are quite happy where they are.

Then the sky is alight again – the screams of the missiles, the blasts as they are intercepted. Even the most battle–worn among us races inside.

This attack is more ferocious than ever. We are back in our room and the windows shake as we hear a massive explosion. I am back on X trying to find out what’s happening.

The Iranians are targeting a US air base beside the airport and we are just 10 minutes away from said airport. I feel sick. 

Every time I stand up, I feel light–headed but I can’t let on how bad things are, for the sake of my daughter. How on earth are families with small children managing?

In an act of defiance, I proceed to check in for my flight the next night. Deep down I know we’re not getting on that flight but it passes an hour or two as we pack our bags and eventually things settle down outside.

We check the airline website: all flights are cancelled until tomorrow morning at 6am. That’s okay, our flight isn’t until 2.05am on Friday night/Saturday morning. There’s still hope. That helps me eventually pass out from sheer exhaustion.

Friday, March 6

It’s 5.55am and I am wide awake. I immediately check my phone and there it is, confirmation that our flight has been cancelled. I can’t believe it, but of course I knew this was going to happen.

We’re back in limbo. Somehow this feels more hopeless than the last time we were here. I want to cry but know that if I start, I won’t be able to stop.

I dread having to let everyone back home know we’re going nowhere for now. I have been trying so hard to keep everyone’s spirits up but my blood pressure is through the roof, I am shallow–breathing and can’t focus on anything.

My physical situation isn’t helped by the fact that I am running out of my HRT gel. The very lovely hotel concierge tried all day yesterday to source some for me with my prescription from home, but it’s a highly controlled substance here so my chances of securing it are very slim. I am now trying to ration it.

We head down for breakfast and the place is deserted. It’s the first day there’s no one milling in the lobby, no big yellow school buses parked outside to take the lucky travellers to the airport. It seems there’s only a few of us left. Mainly Irish, some French, some British.

There’s still no word of a flight home for us but I see that Ms McEntee has started her repatriation flights – as predicted, they cost almost twice what the British government is charging. Maybe she’s gone with OPW Airlines after all…