Dubai has now completely changed. In 48 hours.

On the afternoon of February 28th, Dubai Airport, one of the world's largest international hubs, was hit by a missile attack. A super hub connecting Europe, Asia, and Africa with 1,200 flights taking off and landing daily. A few hours later, Abu Dhabi Airport was also targeted. The two major airports in the UAE became nonfunctional overnight.

Then, Palm Jumeirah was bombed, the Burj Al Arab was engulfed in flames, and a fire erupted at the top of the Burj Khalifa. These names often seen in tourism posters are now part of war news.

In the morning, the US and Israel launched a joint attack on Iran. A few hours later, Iran retaliated by launching 167 missiles and over 500 drones in six waves. The entire Persian Gulf was targeted. Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia—countries supporting the US—were clearly targeted.

About 300k Chinese residents live in Dubai. Developers, traders, real estate agents, entrepreneurs. Over the past decade, they had grown accustomed to the UAE’s political stability, zero income tax, and the feeling that “Middle Eastern chaos has nothing to do with us.” Until the missiles arrived.

Mr. Wu is a developer living in the Marina. At 4 p.m. on February 28th, just after returning from near the Burj Khalifa, he heard three loud explosions outside his window. Having worked in Lebanon and Iraq, he immediately recognized it as a missile attack. “I had only seen this in movies,” he said. “The Earth showed me a blockbuster in real life.”

The roar continued until midnight. He witnessed missiles intercepted and exploding in the air over Marina. Government alarms sounded for three or four minutes, and he and his wife headed to the underground parking lot. The garage was crowded—people holding children, others packing water and biscuits into trunks. Engines were still running, ready to depart at any moment.

The next morning at 8 a.m., he was awakened by a loud noise. The windows shook. The building across the street did too. But the government did not issue an alert. He guessed they either wanted to avoid panic or judged that civilian areas would not be targeted.

However, most of the city continued to function. Supermarket shelves were stocked with milk and bread, and no one was fighting over them. McDonald’s orders were delivered within 30 minutes. The delivery person even joked during the delivery.

But Chinese supermarkets were different. When ordered at 9:30 p.m. last night, the system showed “congestion.” Reordering at 10 p.m. didn’t help. The products still hadn’t arrived today. The official reason was “overwhelmed by demand.”

Wu’s British neighbor left early in the morning dragging a suitcase. There are three evacuation routes. Some drove overnight to Oman, but now that road is blocked by traffic. Others headed to Al Ain in the desert. Some relocated to Sharjah. Wu is waiting and watching. “Iran can’t have unlimited missiles. The situation should become controllable.” Yesterday, it was announced that 132 of 137 missiles had been intercepted.

He has three escape routes. His car is stocked with water and food. He also has an emergency wallet.

A friend working at the airport sent a quick update: “Terminal 3 was bombed.” Chinese P2P networks are faster and more accurate than official channels. On WeChat groups, everyone shares who was bombed, which intersections are blocked, which supermarkets still have stock—all information flows instantly.

Friends in the city center are starting to move to lower buildings. The Burj Khalifa is too tall and conspicuous. Both the Burj Al Arab and Palm Jumeirah were attacked. Iran seems interested in landmarks.

Building trust is difficult. Once it’s broken, it can never be fully restored. Mr. Wu said so.

Mr. Mason lives in Dubai’s Silicon Valley. There’s apparently a US military base nearby, but he didn’t pay much attention. When the missile attack hit a hotel in Palm Jumeirah at 4 p.m. on February 28th, he was having a meal. He tried to go to the scene, but the navigation showed “roads completely blocked.” He gave up.

Mason wasn’t scared. “Probably because it’s too far,” he said. But ten minutes later, he heard the sound of an explosion again. This time directly overhead. The missile was intercepted and exploded with a roar in the sky.

Last night, his phone kept ringing. Government sirens tore through the night sky, messages urging “stay indoors and away from windows.” He heard a tearing sound from above—indistinguishable whether it was fighter jets or missiles. They flew away, and there were no nearby explosions. He fell asleep.

In the morning, he saw news that at 1 a.m., Terminal 3 was attacked by drones. Mason was scheduled to fly to Milan, but the airport was closed indefinitely. Videos circulated on Twitter, mixing truth and falsehood.

A tour guide friend said, “VIP clients want to return home, but the Oman border is already closed.” Usually, visa applications involve long lines, but now it’s even more difficult. Mason calculated: Oman is a few hundred kilometers away, over 1,000 km to Saudi Arabia. “Going to Oman now might be dangerous. You don’t know what you’ll encounter on the way.” He decided to stay.

He commented on online videos: “They’re all exaggerated. The Burj Al Arab is a landmark. If it’s bombed, everyone will film it and spread it immediately.”

Modern missiles are precision-guided and do not explode randomly. They target bases directly. If not intercepted, fragments could fall elsewhere.

A friend in real estate said, “Several clients scheduled to view properties in Dubai can’t come now.” “The holiday effect is real. It’s probably temporary, but the real issue is how people outside perceive this.”

Mason still wants to see the bombed Burj Al Arab. He was disappointed when told not to go by security guards.

Olivia lives in a densely populated area 8 km from the coast, facing Iran. The Burj Al Arab, Palm Jumeirah, and Dubai Marina are all nearby.

On the afternoon of February 28th, she was taking a nap. When she woke up, many people on WeChat were asking about her safety. A few hours later, she heard a loud noise outside her window. The windows had been modified—originally double-glazed, but she had added extra layers, making four panes of glass. Still, the sound was deafening and echoed throughout her room.

She canceled her cosmetic appointment. But her daily life wasn’t greatly affected. It was the weekend, and people downstairs still enjoyed sunbathing by the pool.

That night, three more explosions occurred. Before sleeping, fighter jets patrolled overhead. The roar repeated constantly. When she finally fell asleep around midnight, her phone vibrated, waking her and her family. It was on “Do Not Disturb,” but the alarms ignored that. With three people and four or five phones, alarms sounded simultaneously.

One group member headed to Oman, but the roads were completely blocked. A friend in New York, who had started a company there, sent her a message: he sent his employees to Oman overnight, then flew a private jet back to the US.

Initially, she planned to return to China in March or April, but the airport was closed indefinitely. If she couldn’t pass through, her only option was to go via neighboring countries.

Videos online were terrifying, but she didn’t think they were overly exaggerated.

Olivia believes the situation will improve. “Once the ammunition runs out, it’s all over.”

When the call ended, she said she planned to take a nap because she hadn’t slept well all night.

Dubai has no seasons—only heat. And the heat continues to intensify.

But in these two days, 300k Chinese felt a different kind of warmth—uncertainty.

Wu saw neighbors holding children in the garage. Mason was thinking of visiting the ruins of the Burj Al Arab. Olivia had set her “Do Not Disturb,” yet alarms still sounded.

People with information-gathering skills don’t panic that easily. But deep down, anxiety always lurks. The rumbling outside, the phone alarms, the constant updates in group chats.

Everyone is refreshing pages, waiting.

Waiting for the US to stop attacking, Iran to cease its assault, the airports to reopen, and the “all clear” notification.

Some fled overnight; others chose to stay. Some sunbathed by the pool; others packed passports and cash into emergency bags. There are no right or wrong choices—just betting on probabilities.

Most Chinese in Dubai didn’t come for adventure—they came seeking certainty. Certainty in taxes, regulations, business. This city has built order in the desert over more than 30 years.

Palm Jumeirah, Burj Al Arab, Burj Khalifa—all symbols of that order. Humanity has conquered the desert, turning barrenness into prosperity.

But some things are beyond human control.

Negotiations between the two countries broke down, and missiles flew. It’s not about which side you’re on, whether you’re a good person, how much tax you pay, how many people you employ, or how many buildings you’ve constructed over the years. It’s simply about being here, by chance.

This is the world of 2026. Flights are canceled, borders closed, and meticulously planned lives can collapse in the afternoon. Not because you did something wrong, but because on the chessboard of great power conflicts, no one advised the pawns.

Wu said he might stay if the situation stabilizes. “Maybe in the future, things will become more peaceful.”

This is a silence only those who have experienced it can understand. After this series of wars, those who should talk will talk, and those who should stop will stop. That’s how Middle Eastern history is written: fighting, then stopping, and life continues.

Mason still wants to see the bombing site. Maybe he just wants to confirm the footage and verify that he truly experienced it. He just wants to see that the city is still there, and he is still there.

Again, a sound from outside.

It’s impossible to tell if it’s a missile or an interceptor, far or near.

It’s okay. As long as the alarms are sounding in the distance, life goes on. McDonald’s still delivers, supermarkets still have stock. When the alarm sounds, he’ll go to the garage; if not, he’ll sleep again.

300k Chinese are waiting like this.

They will wait until the wind stops.