Occasionally, the silence of the night shift would be shattered by an ear-splitting alarm: 'ALERT, ALERT... This is a security warning.' We were drilled to move away from the windows and avoid the lifts, recalls Krishna Kumar NP, a veteran Dubai-based journalist.
Key Points
- Journalists in Gulf newsrooms were long accustomed to missile and drone threats, unlike the recent global shock at such warfare.
- The 1980s Tanker War saw over 500 ships attacked, escalating US-Iran clashes and ending in a UN-brokered ceasefire.
- Newsroom life in the GCC balanced high security risks with routine camaraderie, celebrations, and a strong sense of professional duty.
- Persistent geopolitical tensions involving Iran, including proxy conflicts and territorial disputes, continue to shape regional instability.
- Modern drone threats have shifted fear from workplaces to homes, creating a new psychological burden for residents and journalists alike.
While the world recently woke up to the sudden ferocity of drone and missile warfare, journalists across newsrooms in the Gulf have long been braced for this reality. For those of us stationed in the GCC, the 'sudden' attack on a tanker or oil installation was never a surprise; it was the beat we lived every day during the 1980s.
During that era, Iraq attacked Iranian oil terminals and tankers to cut off Tehran's primary source of revenue and provoke international intervention. Tehran retaliated by targeting tankers belonging to Iraq's allies -- Kuwait and Saudi Arabia -- and mining the Strait of Hormuz.
Over 500 ships were attacked, leading to several direct clashes between the US and Iran. Ultimately, the stalemate of the Tanker War forced both nations toward a UN-brokered ceasefire in August 1988.
After retiring from a UAE English daily decades ago, I freelanced for a London-based web site focused on the Middle East and also spent several years with a major Saudi-owned news organisation at its online news desk in Dubai. There -- one of my last assignments -- I worked within a small English-language team embedded in a large Arabic news operation -- the leading voice of the region.
On many late evenings, I found myself alone on the night desk. My primary handicap was a lack of Arabic; when a major story broke, I was at the mercy of the Arabic staff's availability or the clunky translations of early Google Translate. At home, my wife constantly urged caution. However, my editors trusted my decades of experience to navigate the complexities of regional reporting.
Our four-story office was a fortress: High perimeter fences, a 24-hour police presence, and airport-style scanners. Yet, inside, the pleasant and friendly atmosphere defied the gravity of the work. Even the security guards greeted you with a broad smile.
On the news floor, which comprised various TV, radio, and online channels, not a day passed without a birthday or anniversary. If you didn't join the celebration, a plate of biryani, a slice of cake, or Arabic delicacies -- creamy, cheesy kunafa or flaky baklava -- would inevitably find its way to your desk.
But the deadly business of our neighbourhood was never far from sight. Near the lifts stood a sombre gallery of black-and-white portraits: Colleagues killed in the line of duty. These were the faces of reporters and editors targeted by snipers or killed in car and suicide bombings in Iraq, Syria and Lebanon.
Gulf Residents Face New Normal
Occasionally, the silence of the night shift would be shattered by an ear-splitting alarm: 'ALERT, ALERT... This is a security warning.' We were drilled to move away from the windows and avoid the lifts. Then, just as suddenly, a firm announcement would declare the emergency over. Back to work.
Today, that tension has moved from the newsroom to the living room. Former colleagues and friends now navigate a 'new normal' reminiscent of the pandemic. Instead of social distancing, the focus is on safety from overhead threats. While security forces intercept thousands of drones, the psychological toll is immense.
Those of us who have spent decades in Gulf newsrooms have always been aware of the shadow cast by Tehran. Despite the political friction, Dubai hosts a longstanding Iranian business community and Iranians run schools, social clubs and restaurants.
I have worked with veteran journalists who fled the 1979 Revolution but maintained a deep love for Iranian culture and cinema.
Yet, the geopolitical reality remains fraught. From the 1971 occupation of the three islands of Abu Musa and the Greater and Lesser Tunbs to the arming of Houthi, Iraqi, and Lebanese militias, the region has remained on a knife-edge.
In the current climate of missiles and drones, I am reminded of an exchange involving a former Dubai police chief. An Iranian official had threatened: "We have sleeper cells in your cities." When this was brought to his attention at a press conference, the Emirati official, without batting an eyelid, quipped: "Let them keep on sleeping."
Then, after a pause, he added: "What makes him think we don't have sleeper cells over there?"
Krishna Kumar NP is a veteran Dubai-based journalist and editor with over two decades of experience across major English-language news organisations in the Gulf.
Feature Presentation: Aslam Hunani/Rediff
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