In the crosshairs of someone else’s war

Dangerous job, unsafe worksite

Sujan, a Nepali migrant, had only just begun working at the Habshan gas plant in Abu Dhabi on 31 March. By then, Iranian attacks on energy facilities across the Gulf had already intensified. But he said he had no idea that the gas plants in the UAE could also be targets. He thought the attacks were targeted primarily at US military bases in the region and would not affect him directly.

Before taking the job, he even thought he would have lighter tasks and better allowances than his previous work in road construction in Abu Dhabi. But the reality was different. From his very first day, the constant wail of emergency sirens and the sight of drones overhead made him anxious. On his third day, the gas plant was struck. 

“It’s dangerous to work here,” he said. “They [the employer] moved me here at the wrong time.” 

Although his employer Explorer for Employment Services assigned him to work in one of the locations targeted by Iran in Abu Dhabi, he said they didn’t explain any potential safety risks before joining. “I wouldn’t have come here if they had told me that gas plants were being targeted,” he said. “Now, I can neither quit my job nor work without fear.”

Another migrant worker, Bishal, also described being compelled to work under dangerous conditions at the Ruwais Oil Refinery – the largest single-site crude oil distillation plant in the region. On the morning of 10 March, he said, the refinery was struck three times, causing a massive blaze near him and close to liquefied natural gas (LNG) storage tanks.

“Drones struck about 300 metres away from the tank, so I survived. If they had hit the tank itself, we wouldn’t be talking right now,” he said.

After the attack, the refinery was temporarily shut down. His work was paused for nearly two weeks. Then his employer asked him to continue working again. But Bishal was still afraid, as the aerial attacks kept happening around his worksite. So he asked for extended leave, which the company denied. “They said, ‘It’s already normal now,’ so I had to go back to work,” he said. “It’s a dangerous area to work [in], but what to do? The company doesn’t understand.”

The situation of a Nepali migrant worker in Saudi Arabia is also similar. Bisun works in Ras Tanura, along the coast of the Persian Gulf, and has witnessed multiple drone attacks around his worksite. Several of them were intercepted over the sea in front of his eyes, and some debris dropped around his workplace. The Ras Tanura oil refinery, which is only a few kilometres away from his workplace, was already struck by Iran, causing fire and resulting in a temporary shutdown.

“I’m afraid to work here. But where can I go? There are no safe places around,” he said.

He added that his worksite is particularly vulnerable due to its proximity to oil facilities targeted in attacks, as well as a Saudi air defence station that intercepts incoming missiles and drones. “Nobody wants to be in such a place during war,” he said. 

The insecure sectors

Migrants outside energy sites are also deeply concerned. Due to the lack of protection at work and pressure to continue working, they said they are risking their lives. A Nepali security guard at one international school in Lusail, Qatar, said that when the conflict broke out in February, the school was shut down for a month due to the potential Iranian attacks. The teachers and the school staff didn’t show up, and the classes shifted online. “But I’m a security guard. Who would give me leave?” he said. “I’m afraid to work here. But my employer doesn’t allow me to take leave at this critical time.” 

He said he received no guidance on how to respond in case of an attack. “There are no bunkers, nothing like that,” he said. “If any attacks happen, I have no option but to die.” 

Another security guard at a commercial bank in Qatar said his fear intensifies whenever he hears the whistling sound of drones or missiles overhead. Yet his workload has increased due to staff shortages.

“There is a shortage of workers, so I must work. I can’t take days off,” he said. “If I don’t go, they will cut my salary. I may lose five to seven days’ pay if I’m absent at work one day during this time.”

In March, the bank operated on reduced hours with minimal staff present on site. “Everybody wants to be safe. We’re no different than bank staff,” he said. “But wherever you go, guards are treated differently. They are the most exploited and face the highest risk.”

Previously, he worked at the Hamad International Airport in Doha for seven years, doing 12-hour shifts each day. His friends are still working there. It was a target of Iranian drones in the early days of the war. It caused widespread disruption with thousands of flight cancellations, closed duty-free shops, and saw minimal passenger flow.

“All other staff stopped coming due to the risk, but my fellow guards didn’t get time off,” he said. “But what can they do? They’re the security guards like me. We don’t get leave easily. That’s how our job is.”

Some security guards have even lost their lives. At the Zayed International Airport in the UAE, a Nepali guard, Dibas Shrestha, died on 1 March. Several others were  injured. More than a month later, Dibas’ family in Nepal is still in the dark. His father, Cham Bahadur Shrestha, said he first learned of his son’s death through social media posts. Later, he received calls from the Nepali embassy and other migrants in the UAE.

“But they didn’t explain what happened in detail,” he said. “I want to know everything – how it happened.”

Following the attack, airport authorities instructed staff not to share information. In a memo obtained by MRRORS, the guards were advised “not [to] photograph, record, publish, or share any content related to incident sites or response operation, or redistribute such material across any platforms.” They also prohibited staff from providing clarification or making any statements about the incident to the media without official authorisation. 

MRRORS spoke to two airport staff familiar with the 28 February incident, who shed light on what happened at that moment. They requested anonymity due to fear of being imprisoned and fined. 

According to them, Dibas was working at the departure gates of Terminal A on that night, covering for colleagues during their dinner break. During that time, guards were receiving alerts of incoming drones, and panic grew. He was managing passengers’ entry at the gates. A partially intercepted drone carrying explosives fell where he was working, killing him instantly. Nearby, two Indian guards were also caught in the blast. They collapsed and were injured before being rushed to the hospital. The police barricaded the scene, preventing people from taking photos and videos. 

Nearly a week later, Dibas’ body was repatriated to Nepal. However, his father said the family has not yet received his pending dues or final settlement, and his belongings remain in the UAE.

“I don’t know when – or if – we will receive them,” he said. “The company hasn’t contacted me.”

The 29-year-old had been working at the airport for several years. He had gone to the UAE giving up his dream of becoming an engineer due to the lack of well-paying jobs in Nepal. Although his profession had changed, he was satisfied with his job and would call his parents to tell them not to worry. 

“He was very happy. He was planning to get married soon,” said his father from Nepal’s mid-hills. “He was my only son, and now he’s gone. How can I explain what I’m going through?”

Behind him during a video call, Dibas’ mother, Pabitra, cried out: “We are helpless. Please speak up to punish those responsible for my son’s death. We need justice.”

Unsafe accommodation, no evacuation

Workers say they do not feel safe in their residences either. Most labour accommodations are far removed from the city centres and neighbourhoods where citizens and more affluent residents live. The location is strategic, as there is a cloak of invisibility that does not interfere with the glitzy aesthetics the Gulf states aspire to. It also means they don’t have to pay as much attention to their civic needs. Those living near US military bases, power plants, or on the routes of drones and missiles are the most afraid. They fear explosions or falling debris following interceptions.

In Abu Nakhla, Qatar, a Nepali construction worker, Basanta, lives in a building just five minutes’ drive from Al Udeid Air Base. He said he has not slept peacefully since the war began. One night in March, he was sleeping after an exhausting 12-hour shift. Suddenly, a co-worker in the next room woke him up and asked him to go down quickly from the third floor, warning of missiles and drones above the accommodation complex.

“But I can’t get up so fast and run like young people,” said the 47-year-old. “My heart was pounding. I couldn’t move. I fainted.” When he regained consciousness, he learned the missiles had passed overhead without causing damage.

But at lunch time on another day, an intercepted drone fell on the road across from his residence, causing a big fireball. All workers rushed outside, leaving food on tables. Basanta ran to the kerb and saw the big plumes of smoke. In the five weeks of war, he said, he saw “many flying missiles and drones” around his labour camp, and heard massive explosions very close. “How can I live in this building without fear?” he asked.

Workers living in the camps near Iranian targets in the UAE have a similar story. 

Bishal lives in a labour camp roughly two kilometres away from the Al Dhafra Air Base, which Iran attacked multiple times, causing damages in March. After a few weeks, a fragment of an intercepted drone dropped just 200 metres away from his accommodation. “The condition is very stressful now,” he said on the morning of 5 April. “I just woke up with a big bang today. It shook our room.”  

He is worried that even the tiny fragments of the intercepted drones or missiles could damage his container accommodation, which is built of flimsy concrete slabs. “Even a strong gust of wind may topple this camp,” he said. “Imagine what happens if a missile drops here?” 

The container-like portacabins are popular residences for labourers in the Gulf, especially those working in the industrial areas, remote deserts, and oil fields far from the cities. They share rooms with co-workers, but have little protection. The power plant workers interviewed for this story said that they spent nights outside, watching the sky, afraid that debris might fall on them while they slept.

The threat is not only from debris. As military exchanges between two sides of war escalated, the civilian residences have also been directly attacked. On 12 March, a drone attack on a civilian apartment in Mangaf, Kuwait, injured two people. This apartment building is only a few blocks away from the accommodation of Kulchandra, a Nepali migrant worker. 

A construction worker at a power plant of Kuwait Oil Company, Kulchandra said that his accommodation building in Mangaf is also near the American army bases. When Iran launches missiles and drones from their land, they first pass through the Persian Gulf and the sky above his building. “They fly over us so close. What if they directly hit us or intercepted parts fall on us?” he said. 

In the past weeks, his mobile was flooded with alert messages, each time advising him to remain in safe locations. But he said it's not always possible. “Our company doesn’t provide food, so I have to go out for groceries,” he said. “I know it’s not safe, but I must go.” 

Some workers said they did not receive any warnings prior to certain attacks.

On 3 April, after the drone attack at the worksite in Abu Dhabi, Sujan was bussed back to his labour camp in Habshan. When he reached his accommodation, he thought he was safe. Until noon, he said, he had not received any alert messages. But just after his lunch, he suddenly heard a loud explosion nearby and the clattering of debris and sand hitting the canteen roof. He rushed outside for safety. Then he saw a nearby building on fire, and large plumes of smoke.

“Everything happened so quickly. Nobody knew what was going to happen,” he said. “Thank god, it didn’t fall upon the canteen.” 

Despite these dangers, none of the workers interviewed said they had been evacuated. Sujan said, “Our company hasn’t said anything [about taking] us to another place. They haven’t done anything to protect us.” 

Due to the fear of ongoing attacks, Sujan wants to return home. But he said he can’t. He doesn’t have his passport with him. Seven months ago, as soon as he arrived in the UAE, his employer confiscated his passport. 

When he asked the company to give it back, he said, the company refused, saying his two-year contract was not completed. “They said, ‘You must pay AED 5,000 (~USD 1360).’ How can I have that much money? Therefore I’m waiting. But I don’t want to stay here.” 

Six of the fifteen workers interviewed for this story said they do not have their passport with them now, and are almost certain that they will not get it back unless their contract is over. Because of that, they feel trapped and helpless amid the war.

Another worker at the Ruwas oil refinery whose passport has been taken expressed a deep despair. “Now whether I live or die is in God’s hands. I have already given up caring about my own life,” he said. “But I worry that even after I die, my family might not get to see my face.”

Compulsion to continue

While the fear of war is deep among the migrant population with few safeguards, some say they are not in a position to quit their jobs. For them, the struggle to survive poverty back home is as harsh as the dangers they face in the Gulf.

Basanta, from an impoverished village in southern Nepal, is one of them. He works as a construction helper at a water and power plant along the coast between Al Wakrah and Hamad International Airport. 

In March, while he was working, a drone struck near his site. He rushed to the bus to take shelter. On another day, debris was found near the entrance where he clocks in daily. “It’s a scary time to work here,” he said. “But I cannot go home. I’m here because of compulsion.” 

He came to Qatar thirteen years ago after paying a recruitment fee of NPR 100,000 (~USD 670). The wages he earned from the job went towards paying the medical bills of his ailing parents, who have since passed. He also spent a big portion of his income to pay his loan. Now he has no savings.

“I don’t want to stay here for a minute. But I have no other family members earning. There are no jobs in my town,” he said. “I have to build a house, so I must work here.”

Hoping to build his ‘dream house’, he works six days a week and works 12-hour shifts, earning QR 1500 (~USD 410) a month. But these days, he fears going to work. In the morning, he leaves from his accommodation in Abu Nakhla at 5 a.m. in the company-provided bus. The bus takes him by the side of Al Udeid Air Base for about ten minutes before heading to his worksite – the Qatar Facility E Independent Water and Power Production Project. “When I reach there, I feel like I’m in a danger zone. I feel like the bus speeds up to get past this place quickly,” he said. “This is not a safe place to live. If I’m home, I would feel safe.”

With tensions still high and the imminent risk of war restarting, many low-income migrant workers in the Gulf remain especially vulnerable as their employers require them to continue working at dangerous sites near potential targets while housing them in isolated accommodations with little protection, restricting their ability to leave, all while financial pressures from home make it difficult for them to walk away. Even after airports restart operations, workers’ agency to leave a place where they feel unsafe, with all dues paid, remains contingent on the employer’s will. GCC states must treat the safety and rights of migrant labourers on a par with those of citizens and foreign workers from more affluent countries. Until then, every new crisis will only bring more harm to the migrant workers who build these nations.

*All names, except that of Dibas Shrestha, have been changed to protect workers’ identity