When the Sirens Return

Mattering and Belonging in Times of War

I’m not sure where to begin. Remembering the intermittent siren signal that jolted me at 5:30 a.m. this morning, my emotions well up in my throat. I’m at once angry, anxious, and, at the same time, grateful.

When I chose my “one word” for 2026, witness, I never imagined I would be a witness to a war in my own backyard. I can feel my body resisting what I want to write, what I began to write several times today, what I should write. But my fingers are sluggish as they poke the keyboard. My voice, where is my voice? I can feel my emotions begin to boil up again.

Right now, I’m witnessing millions of people facing circumstances no one should have to endure. Yes, I’m in my house. Yes, I have food, water, and electricity (so far). But the sirens keep wailing, and my WhatsApp continues flashing messages with news of missiles and drones being blown out of the sky, landing on the U.S. bases, its embassy complex, and targeting the electrical infrastructure.

Nothing is normal.

My granddaughter is at home instead of in pre-school, and my son and daughter-in-law are working from home. I’ve been stuck at home for the third day as the Kuwaiti authorities discourage anyone from going anywhere. And who would want to?

On Saturday, February 28th, at 12:02 p.m., as I walked into my local grocery store, the call to prayer mixed with a wailing sound. Hard to distinguish? At first, it was. But the body remembers before the mind can catch up. I froze for a second. I’d heard that sound before.

In 2003, when America attacked Iraq, those sounds were part of our daily routine for several weeks. At intermittent intervals, the authorities test the sirens to remind us of what each sound means. The sound was a warning.

‘I knew it,’ I thought as I rushed into the store to get my essential items. ‘They started the war, and Iran has retaliated.’

I am angry at those who put us in this position.

Did we ask to get involved?

Did anyone ask us how we felt about a war with one of our most proximate neighbors?

Was the safety of the innocent civilians they were putting in harm’s way considered?

Is it just collateral damage to those who’ve put us in this situation?

The fear is real.

The anxiety that young and old are experiencing is real.

What is going to happen to the fabric of this world if we aren’t able to put a stop to this insanity? This is trauma. The shared trauma of millions of innocents.

As my fear increases, I cannot separate how I’m feeling from the knowledge that others have been living like this for years in Gaza, Sudan, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and so many other places in the world.

How do they feel?

After all, it wasn’t their choice to flee their homes or to be caught in the middle between rivals. Or have their land taken, suffer unspeakable cruelties.

They resist, persist, insist. They know where they come from. Their culture is strong. They know they belong. What they don’t feel is that they matter. We need to show them that their lives matter, that we see them.

The Kakuma leaders, who have become like family to me, told me they were hopeless because they didn’t matter to anyone outside of the camp when I first met them in 2019. Then we formed a community, they networked globally, and realized they matter.

The theme of my Substack is belongingness, but am I witnessing its slow death, or am I just feeling helpless right now?

I’m just one person. What can I do?

I’m doing it right now, speaking up about the need to resist those who take away our agency, leaving us to despair and doubt our worth. I will persist by witnessing the plight of others and speaking up. I will insist that I matter. They matter.

You’ve shown me I matter by reaching out to me. I am grateful for the kindness and care of family and friends from far and wide who have messaged me to ask if I’m alright. Grateful to be a member of a global community that cares.

I have a community and a place I belong.

In that community, I matter to others.

In moments like this, mattering is not abstract. I feel seen.

And as much as I show them how much I care about them, they return the feeling by letting me know they are thinking of me.

I’m not able to end this war. I can’t restore agency to people whose lives are being decided for them.

But, I do know this:

Witnessing is not passive. I refuse to let fear erase our humanity and our need to belong. I will speak when silence makes me complicit. I promise to hold grief and gratitude at the same time.

Can you do the same?

Today, I am a witness to fear. I am also a witness to care. And in that care—in the messages, the check-ins, the quiet are you okay?—I am reminded that belonging can be threatened in times of conflict, becoming more fragile, more necessary, and more valuable.

To be seen is to matter. To see another helps keep belonging alive.

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Call to action:

If this resonated, I invite you to pause for a moment.
Who has witnessed your life when things felt uncertain—and who might need your presence right now?

If you’d like to continue exploring healing, mattering, and belonging in real life, you’re welcome to subscribe and stay with me.

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