Caught up in Ras Laffan

On 28 February 2026, in the middle of Ramadan, even as negotiations facilitated by Oman were underway, the US-Israel coalition launched an attack on Iran, which the latter has claimed was made using various US bases in the GCC states. Since then, economic and civilian sites have also come under widespread attack by Iran in the GCC. Israel meanwhile launched an additional war on Lebanon, killing hundreds and displacing thousands of others. Caught in the crossfire are migrants, with those in lower-income sectors facing greater vulnerabilities.

MRRORS has performed the necessary due diligence to verify the personal reflections and reports published. Obtaining responses and comments from companies continues to be a challenge; these will be added if and when received.

Calm before the storm

It was an ordinary Saturday, the last day of the month. Despite the season, we had a break from the foggy and gloomy winter haze in the morning. Everything was normal to my off-day routine: eating, resting, cleaning up and catching up with movies.

I had just done my laundry and was resting and scrolling social media when I heard a commotion outside. I thought it was a fight; curiosity got the best of me, so I stepped out of my room to check what was the matter. That was when I saw everyone staring at the sky. I found it odd – there was nothing but a plume of smoke. I thought it was fireworks, but Ramadan had already started; I didn't think it was a celebration. Little did I know that it was smoke from missiles being intercepted. We didn’t have a clue what was happening or what caused the missile attack. My room had eight people – four Ghanaians and four Kenyans, including myself. We debated what was going on. Migrant workers rarely know what's going on in Qatar; we only pay attention to news that affects us directly, and also nothing out of the ordinary happens in Qatar. This Saturday marked the start of one of the most frightening moments in Qatar's history. We spent the rest of the afternoon just sharing the little information that we could gather from news sources inside and outside Qatar. The oldest among us had worked as a chef in other war zones; he had more experience, and he tried to explain the situation. 

Ras Laffan is 90 kilometres away from Doha; it is a liquefied petroleum gas production outpost in the remote northern region of Qatar, and is also known as the North Field East Project. The plant has over 50,000 multinational workers distributed among more than a dozen companies in different professional capacities, grouped in separate labour and accommodation camps; some workers live and work in the same camp. It is one of the most important places in Qatar. I was halfway through my short-term contract with Teyseer Services Company. It was my first time working in this sector, in a new territory and in a camp like this. I was fairly excited; everything was new and interesting, and finally I had an opportunity to make some money. I came as a replacement for a staff member who would be going on vacation.

Our camp, Pioneer Labour Camp, is managed by Teyseer Services Company. Working in a gas plant is very different from other sites; it comes with heightened security, strict safety training and continuous drills. It felt like it was always on high alert. Pioneer hosts 6000 migrant workers performing manual jobs, but not all of them work for Teyseer; some are under subcontractors in construction and manufacturing firms. Security is tight, multiple gate passes are required, and residents have to register a day in advance to go to the nearby town of Al Khor for shopping. Ras Laffan is nicknamed ‘the prison’, because it feels like one. I worked on both the Filipino and Western sides of the mess hall before all hell broke loose. I was still new, so I was learning about food safety, mess hall management, and Filipino and Western cuisine.

I felt wonderful serving a multinational workforce at another camp inside Ras Laffan. It was a job away from the hot sun, and free food was guaranteed. My workstation was close by, so there was no long commute. Life at Ras Laffan is usually uneventful; after 12-hour work shifts, we take a short seven-minute bus ride back to our accommodation. Nothing out of the ordinary happens here. My shift starts at 2 a.m. and ends at 1 p.m. It includes preparing and wiping dry plates, bowls and cutlery, serving breakfast, packing lunch, and cleaning the mess halls. It’s a fast-paced job that requires attention and hospitality; it is tiring, and the hours are unusual. I usually had to eat a heavy lunch so that I could sleep from the afternoon until 1 a.m.

Our one day off on Saturday was time to unwind, catch up with social media, and talk to people back home. On 28 February, a few minutes past midday, that’s when the war started. Just before the missiles attacked, a loud alert message came to our phones. We were used to alerts even at camp; whenever there was a fire or a gas leak at Ras Laffan, we were required to ‘shelter in place’, a term that became popularised throughout the country when the war began.

When the war started there was confusion in the camp. Communication was limited, and no one was addressing the migrant workers. Our company’s management was caught off guard, with no explanation to offer. We saw the missiles coming in, and we also saw the interceptions lighting up the sky from our camp, but no information was given to us. I feel it was hard for the non-English-speaking staff, who relied on tabloids from their countries of origin to be informed. Social media became our primary source of information. We saw scary posts of missiles falling at Argentine Labour Camp in Al Wakrah while migrants ran to safety. Doha was also under attack – it felt like the whole country was under siege.

On 3 March, the head of HR at Teyseer Services called for a meeting after the morning shift. Qatar was currently being attacked by Iran, he told us, and although we individuals were not the target, the gas production facility was, and they were expecting an attack at any moment. It would be targeted in a day or two. We were told not to panic, to call our relatives back home and let them know we were safe, but to expect a missile attack. Similar meetings were organised at different levels, but they contradicted each other: while waiters were told to be patient and to be honest with our relatives in Kenya, the chefs and cooks were told not to give any information back home. Our previous meetings had been about ordinary topics like food safety, food preparation and hygiene, but that day the head of HR spoke to us about the safety of our lives. Although he addressed us confidently, I could see fear in him. “As soon as the emergency alert goes off, look for safety immediately,” he said, knowing we were in the line of fire against bombs and missiles. It wasn't convincing, but we clung to his words. This was the company's first communication since the start of the war. During the meeting, there was no mention of evacuation; it wasn't even a suggestion. We were also not aware that the Iranians had issued evacuation orders for all energy sites, including Ras Laffan - Opens in new tab.

On 18 March at 8 p.m., Ras Laffan experienced the first of two major overnight attacks on the gas plant: this time Iran hit its target, shooting directly at the facility. One of the gas production flare masts on the plant was severely damaged. The gas fields are actually huge: about 10-20 floors of contorted metal beams in spaces wider than a football field, and all put together, it's a whole city. After the direct hits, the plant caught fire and we saw the damage. We were silent in our room, everyone masking their fear with music and entertainment. Our phones randomly beeped with emergency messages, and we would see occasional drones in the sky. After the blast, the public announcement system at the camp ordered us to pack our clothes, passports and essentials in a small backpack and prepare to leave Ras Laffan. 

There was pandemonium because some of our colleagues who were on duty during the blast were given further verbal instructions by supervisors to pack important belongings and be ready for evacuation to Doha. Other camp residents were not given the same instructions. In my room, four of us were packing frantically while the other four were sleeping. After some of us had packed and got ready for transfer, the public announcement system told us that the previous broadcast message was not meant for us. Although the company has a safety procedure during gas leaks and fire outbreaks, it was clearly being tested to the limits. Decisions were slow and confusing. Management was not equipped for war.

We learnt later that Iran had ordered an evacuation before the attack, and the order to pack and prepare to leave was not meant for us but for the staff with more important job titles in the adjacent camp – the ones I used to greet warmly in the morning. It felt like betrayal.

We went to sleep feeling confused and unsafe, and at 2 a.m. on 19 March, our supervisor had to come to our rooms to convince us to go to work. Only three individuals reluctantly agreed to go. I decided not to; I didn't feel safe. I stepped out to go to the washroom before heading to have morning tea, looked up at the sky, and that’s when I saw a bright, fast-moving missile in the dead of night heading straight for a nearby camp area. The explosion was the loudest thing I have ever heard, and there was a huge fireball; it felt like armageddon, terrible. The voice of the imam reciting emotional prayers that Ramadan night made the scene more terrifying. For a moment, time stood still. The three missiles resulted in a ground-shaking blast. I took out my phone and filmed the huge fireball in the shape of a mushroom. It was as dramatic as an action movie.

Discrimination 

Many fellow camp members felt abandoned. The Ras Laffan management, together with the Qatar government, insisted that the area was safe, but we felt like sitting ducks. Europeans, Americans, and other nationals had left. They were booked in hotels in Doha for 10 days so they could monitor the situation.

The top management of some of the companies also left Ras Laffan that night, but we remained in the line of fire. There were 1200 active staff at camp and now only about 20 remained.

We were given a compulsory unpaid five days off. Since it was Eid holidays, many workers depended on those days to make extra income, but with no work, they were considered absent days because staff didn't clock in. Even in conflict, it seems like your passport determines your safety and earnings.

The adjacent camp’s security team of 11, comprising Kenyans and Ugandans, including two women, had to stay behind even when the other staff left Ras Laffan for hotels in Doha. They were left alone in the camp; we would leave them at 1 p.m. as we returned to our Pioneer Camp accommodation. We would still serve food to about 20 staff, the security team included, which gave us time to bond. The mental load of seeing missiles was a lot. It was the first time we were seeing warheads ravaging Qatar; many of us were seeing missiles for the first time in our lives. Qatar is hailed as one of the safest countries in the world, but after this I feel like Qatar will never be the same again.

The red tape of the Kafala system

The Kafala system is problematic on a good day, but in times of crisis it is worse. During the Qatar blockade in 2017, workers feared they would lose their savings held in Qatari banks; during the COVID-19 pandemic, workers were left in accommodation without pay or given compulsory leave; and now during the 2026 war, another layer of red tape makes life more difficult for migrant workers. Travel has been affected; new hires, workers on vacation and workers who completed their contracts are stuck in the country. If tensions continue to escalate or if emergency exit were imminent, would the Kafala system make the exit process simple? Would private companies bear the costs of repatriation or would the governments of origin foot the bill? I felt that if the situation was volatile it would be a grey area and one would not be able to leave at a moment's notice due to bureaucratic obstructions. Luckily in the days since the war began it has not led to any loss of life in Qatar, but there were migrant worker deaths in Bahrain, Saudi Arabia and the UAE.

Still in March, a missile was shot off its path right above my room. I took a picture of a plume of smoke that hovered. I was cautious not to post on social media: Qatar doesn't want the damages shown online for security reasons; the event shouldn't be documented by residents. I know the country is trying its best to keep us safe, but the sight of flying missiles erodes confidence; anything might happen. I decided a salary of USD 350 per month is not really worth my life. It was easy for me to pack up and go back home because I was lucky not to pay recruitment fees at the time of my hiring, but now I had to pay for the flight back home. My company was reluctant to let me leave, but agreed to do so.

One month since the conflict began, the hospitality industry workers in the GCC have been the first in line to suffer repercussions of the war – hotel cancellations, flight cancellations and mandatory directives to stay indoors have forced the service industry in the GCC region to make significant changes, from salary cuts to downsizing.  

On the opposite side of the conflict, in Iran, a cousin of mine is still missing since the start of the war. I heard he is safe, but he hasn’t been posting on social media. We left Kenya at the same time. He came from a small farming village in western Kenya to pursue religious education in Tehran, while I came to work as a waiter in Doha. I just hope he will find his way back home safely if things get worse. 

Since the war began, my company has introduced a new policy: no employees can vacation or exit from now until September. The company wanted to prevent mass resignations. I could tell by the frustration of the HR department that they have been given damage control mandates by the executives, but with insufficient information, and they seem to make up policy as they go. There are workers who no longer feel safe, there are workers scheduled to leave Qatar upon the completion of their contract – both have now been forced to wait a little longer. The company can allow the worker to buy his own ticket, but it avoids buying tickets just in case there is an abrupt urgency to flee the war.

I finally got a flight that was twice as expensive as usual. It was cancelled multiple times, but eventually, I left in early April for Kenya. On 8 April, a temporary ceasefire was established in the region for two weeks pending further negotiations.