I must visit Iraq urgently for a CAI compliance matter, so I fly from Antananarivo, Madagascar, to Dubai—despite it being Ramadan, I need to fast, regardless. I pack a couple of T-shirts, a pair of pants, basic toiletries, three days’ worth of medication, and vitamins. I fly to Dubai on Emirates from Antananarivo, arriving at 5 AM, sleep for a few hours, and then get ready to go to the airport when I see a newsflash on my cellphone—Israel has attacked Iran. I immediately feel nauseated, and my heart races. This development is terrible and can only lead to disaster for everyone. I feel trepidation as I take a cab to catch the Flydubai flight to Najaf. The agent at the counter checks me in, but then his cellphone beeps. He peers at it, looks at me in surprise, and ruefully informs me that the flight is canceled.

And so begins a week of uncertainty and worry. The days in Dubai are comfortable enough since it’s still ‘winter’ here. The uncertainty caused by the killing of A Khamenei and the resulting violence is psychologically draining, however. Then the sounds of explosions start as incoming missiles and drones are intercepted and destroyed. Some hit targets, causing manageable fires – so far. All airports in the Gulf are shut down except Muscat and Riyadh. Hundreds of thousands of travelers worldwide are affected. I worry about my growing workload, lack of medication and clothes, and the scheduled travel disruptions. Emirates books me on a return flight to Antananarivo five times, only to cancel each one on the eve before.

There are few public or private discussions, except for the war, which dominates TV coverage across all channels as the conflict engulfs other Gulf countries. I seriously consider alternatives to evacuate when airport closures continue without relief, and whether I will be able to fly out of Dubai in a reasonable time. I feel trapped. After tedious planning and fine-tuning the escape, I am ready to drive to Muscat and fly from there to Dar es Salaam.

I don’t sleep a wink all night, waking up for suhoor and salaat. Since the vehicle won’t be here at the Le Meridien across from the airport terminal until nine, and I have a few hours to spare, I decide to catch some much-needed ZZZs. It’s not in my destiny, however. There is an earth-shattering boom very close to the hotel, and I find myself on my bum on the carpeted floor. I lie stunned, as my heart pounds and my ears sting from the blast. Wailing sirens drive past within seconds. This is close—too close. I gingerly get up, ensure I’ve not broken any bones, and peek through the back glass door. Several guests are outside in the parking lot, looking up at the sky and gesturing wildly, talking about the blast. I am later told that the explosion was a drone that landed very close to a parked aircraft in Terminal One.

The drive to Hatta and the Oman border is smooth. There are no lines or crowds, as I expect. A beefy security guard looks at me suspiciously and wants to know why I am visiting the UAE. He questions me at length, flipping through my well-worn passport, but finally loses interest and motions me towards immigration. The passport is stamped, and I board an almost full bus that drives a few minutes over to the Omani side. This process is also smooth, and the immigration officer doesn’t look at me once while stamping me in. We get back on the bus and drive into Oman.

I anticipated long lines, but cleared both borders in about an hour, so I have to wait for the taxi driver that Zuhair Hemraj arranges from Muscat to arrive. I recite zohrain at a freezing nearby mosque, from where a strong stink, strong enough to almost invalidate my saum, emits from the toilets.

Talal, the cab driver, eventually shows up, and we head to Muscat, about three hours away. My eyes are smarting from lack of sleep, and I want to doze off, but Talal is a chatterbox. He is a smart, soft-spoken Omani who speaks good English and stays up to date with current affairs. He says he’ll take me through village roads instead of the highway so I can see Oman, rather than just boring rocks and the concrete. I suspect he wants to chat to stay awake. For my safety and sanity, I sober up quickly, keep my eyes open, and talk with him-about the war. I am dropped off at Zuhair’s, where I sleep for about a couple of hours, recite maghrib, have iftar, and he drives me to the airport for my uneventful flight to Dar at 22:45.

Muscat is an unexpectedly beautiful city. It’s clean, well-planned, with blooming, colorful bougainvillea along the freeways, and modern. There are no skyscrapers because there is plenty of land to expand. I used to visit her regularly when I was with corporate America, back when it was a small, unkempt city. The transformation is quite impressive. Unlike other Gulf countries full of imported Indians, Pakistanis, and Filipinos, Omanis handle their own business.

I am now waiting in Dar to inaugurate the CAI donor-sponsored orphanage in Morogoro on March 14, before heading to Madagascar via Nairobi. Insha’Allah.