Even the tiniest hiccup sparked a fresh wave of anxiety.
Difficult times make you grateful for the smallest things. A month ago, I wouldn’t have sighed with relief at the sight of a boarding pass. It’s just a piece of paper—a ticket that says you’re going home or going on vacation, something you’ll probably forget about later or leave behind on the plane.
But after our return trip from the US was cancelled amid the ongoing conflict involving the US, Iran, and Israel, a boarding pass became something entirely different. Days were spent scrolling through airline updates, chasing flight schedules, and watching hope flicker with every change.
Eventually, we found a flight to New York—one of the few US cities still connected to the UAE. Still, nothing was certain. We might get that flight, or we might not. No amount of refreshing could control the skies.
Yet hope remained, however fragile, and we finally left from LA to New York, arriving early the next morning at 6:30 a.m.
I don’t think I’ll forget that wait at JFK Airport anytime soon. Too exhausted to move at first, I sat on the floor while my husband went to get some food. In front of me, a couple waited near the airline desk.
Their flight to Dubai was still listed for 10:40 a.m., but by 9:40 a.m., it was clear it had been cancelled. The barricades hadn’t opened, and the check-in desk was empty.
As no bond feels stronger than that between passengers waiting for a flight, I went over to speak with them. They were trying to catch a connecting flight to Bangladesh—one that had already been cancelled once—making this their next glimmer of hope. Now all they could do was linger at the ticketing counter, waiting for any news, any chance to get home.
Four hours later, they were still there, standing in the same spot, told simply to wait.
By 1 p.m., it was our turn to start queuing. Check-in opened at 1:30, but anxiety wouldn’t let me sit still. We moved to the front of the line and struck up a conversation with the security guard, whose job was to prevent people from breaking the queue.
“I can sense the stress here today,” he remarked.
We laughed.
Every second in the queue felt like an eternity. The check-in desks hadn’t opened yet, and we watched crew members holding a routine meeting. Normally, this wouldn’t have concerned us, but when you’re just trying to get home, every delay feels like a cancellation.
“That’s a long conversation,” the guard remarked.
We nodded.
When the barricades finally opened, one family couldn’t proceed—they had a connecting flight and had to wait, just like the Bangladeshi couple still clinging to hope. We fumbled with our passports and Emirates IDs, each scan taking a little longer in our frazzled state.
“What’s your PNR?” we were asked.
We recited it from memory.
“You know it by heart, don’t you?” they laughed.
Every second in the queue felt like an eternity. The check-in desks hadn’t opened yet, and we watched crew members holding a routine meeting. Normally, this wouldn’t have concerned us, but when you’re just trying to get home, every delay feels like a cancellation.
“That’s a long conversation,” the guard remarked.
We nodded.
When the barricades finally opened, one family couldn’t proceed—they had a connecting flight and had to wait, just like the Bangladeshi couple still clinging to hope. We fumbled with our passports and Emirates IDs, each scan taking a little longer in our frazzled state.
“What’s your PNR?” we were asked.
We recited it from memory.
“You know it by heart, don’t you?” they laughed.
I hoped that they found their way home too.
As the flight took off, I followed the flight map from New York to Abu Dhabi, noting the route we took and the ones we had to avoid. The cabin crew checked the map hour by hour, their vigilance evident in every movement.
And then, finally, Abu Dhabi appeared beneath us. Relief washed over me, and I exhaled. It wasn’t just the flight itself—it had been the long wait, the boarding pass that printed correctly, the line that finally moved, the plane with space to breathe. All those small details, usually invisible, had become monumental.
It brought me home.
