As part of his wedding vows to me, my husband promised to be my ears when I am tired.
I have been severely hearing‑impaired since birth, I have tinnitus and I lip‑read.
When I have “my ears” in - or hearing aids as they are technically called - I can hear most things, though many sounds lack definition and direction. My lip-reading skills drop when my concentration wanes.
When I take my ears out, I can only hear very loud sounds - music at concert‑venue levels, or missiles being intercepted, as I have recently learned.
Since February 28, I’ve been afraid to take my ears out and unable to let my husband, our two young sons or my phone out of my sight. With every sudden sound, I look to him for an explanation. Every vibration or thud, I startle.
I know we’re not the only UAE household that has had weeks of these constant sound checks, and I know that these check-ins continue despite the current pause in attacks following the announcement of a two-week ceasefire. I also know my husband has more than lived up to his marital promise, listening out for me day and night, encouraging a rest and recharge, for both me and the hearing aids.
Across the country, this overwhelmingly sensory experience of the conflict – a relative privilege compared with those living closer to direct violence - has disrupted lives in markedly different ways. Some, like me, are straining to hear more. Others are physically recoiling from sound itself. Almost all are living in a state of vigilance, leaning harder than usual on the people around them.
Humaira Adnan’s 13-year-old son Muhammad Omar is neurodivergent with severe auditory sensitivity, which she describes as misophonia.
“His trigger list has expanded dramatically, and I feel he now lives in a state of auditory hypervigilance.” His response is physical, she explains, describing symptoms such as muscle tension, increased sweating, covering his ears and hand-biting. After a month and a half, she says, he is finally sleeping through the night again.
“I had to work a lot on co-regulation as I was also in an emotional mess in the beginning. But now, after working on my own emotional regulation, I am seeing a more relaxed boy.”
This collective effort to downregulate is something Dani Hakim also described. The British mother-of-two and UAE resident of 19 years is neurodivergent, as is her son, Harvey. The year five pupil has autism and ADHD (sometimes referred to as AuDHD), and dyslexia; her daughter, in year four, is neurotypical.
On day three of the conflict, schools nationwide turned to mandatory distance learning to ensure student safety. Since then, Dani has been navigating full-time homeschooling, while living close to an airbase in Dubai, where interceptor alerts and aircraft noises have been frequent.
“The noise is epic. If it’s during the day, we just have some time sitting and snuggling,” she says.
The family has actively adapted their home environment to reduce stress, including using white noise and calming music, and building movement into learning throughout the day.
“We have silenced the alerts when at home as much as possible to avoid nervous system deregulation, when we go out we have them activated.”
For them, the bigger struggle is the loss of routine. Her son requires support to follow live lessons and complete tasks, which means she has had to put her professional work largely on hold.
“He needs constant movement breaks – or just studies whilst moving or hanging upside down.”
“He’s a smart kid – his brain just works differently, so certain expectations have gone out of the window to ensure sanity: his, mine and his teachers’.”
She says the experience has given her a whole new level of respect for teachers, praising them and his school’s special educational needs department, but notes remote learning “is not neurodivergent-friendly”.
The New England Centre for Children Consulting, a specialist service for children with autism and their families, has remained operational throughout the disruption but had to adapt its provisions.
“Since the start of the war, we’ve had to adjust quickly. We’ve shifted to more flexible models, including remote support where needed and increased parent coaching,” says Kristin Buchanan, the centre's Gulf executive director, including branches in Abu Dhabi and Dubai. The centre provides clinic-based services across applied behaviour analysis, speech and occupational therapy and work with schools.
Staff say children are picking up on changes in their environment and the loss of much-needed routines, with some finding loud and sudden sounds distressing, even if they do not fully understand what is happening. “It’s not just the volume of the sound; it’s the uncertainty around when it will happen and what it means,” Buchanan adds.
“We’re seeing increased difficulty with transitions, more challenges with behaviour, and in some cases regression in skills,” she says and notes the strain on families that are taking on teaching and therapeutic roles, “which can be overwhelming and difficult to sustain over time.”
For some families, these additional educational needs and neurodivergent experiences led them to temporarily leave their homes.
Anna Kaminski, has ADHD as do her two children. The psychologist, coach and consultant supports families through her charity NeuroKinds and has lived in the UAE for 18 years. She relocated to Poland amid Iran’s attacks.
While she says she never felt physically unsafe in the UAE due to strong defence systems, she found the emotional and neurological toll of uncertainty increasingly difficult.
“We manage quite well in short spurts of high demand. But when it stretches over time and the demands become constant, it becomes problematic,” she says.
“Not having a routine can shake our basic sense of safety because our nervous systems are so sensitive.”
From afar, she continues to run Q&As and support sessions for her clients in the region, while ensuring her children continue online learning across time zones.
This cognitive dissonance between the brain and body is something many are feeling and is a natural response, says Emirati clinical psychologist Khulood Al Asmawi.
“Even if the person logically knows they are safe, the body still has a survival response.”
Unpredictable, loud sounds activate the amygdala - the brain’s “alarm system”, she explains, triggering the reactions of fight, flight, freeze and sometimes fawn.
She says this effect is magnified for people with neurodivergence, trauma histories, like PTSD, and anyone with sensory difficulties.
Al Asmawi, who works at The Psychiatry and Therapy Centre in Dubai, says most people are struggling with sleep disruption, anxiety and a feeling of being “tired and wired”. She stresses this is “a normal physiological response to unpredictability, not an overreaction”.
But for those with sensory conditions “certain sounds can feel physically painful and very overwhelming, not just an inconvenience”.
Because the trigger is sensory, the response should often be sensory too, she advises.
“Finding comfort through our senses, in a way that feels predictable, can really help the nervous system settle,” she says, listing strategies such as weighted pressure, comforting textures, familiar smells or tastes, and background sound to soften sudden noise. For enhanced support, she strongly recommends noise-cancelling or sound-filtering devices.
But her critical advice for all, with medical diagnosis or not, is to protect emotional well-being. She says that people often delay seeking support, telling themselves they will cope once things pass - but this can make symptoms harder to manage. It is “not too early to be seeking support,” she says, and “not too early to look after your mental health.”
In our household, the conversation has turned to the repeat sound of commercial jet engines as they take off from the nearby airport - something I barely registered before the war, but now with increasing frequency, prompts a reassuring “yes, passenger plane” from my husband.
True to his vows, he answers before I even ask the question.
This sound, he notes, was once mildly irritating but it is now a source of calm and comfort - a reminder of the safe corridor in the skies above and a signal that it is now his turn to rest and recharge too.
