There are moments when the world’s “big picture”—the dramatic headlines, the maps of geopolitical tensions, the urgent language of breaking news—moves at a pace entirely disconnected from the street you are standing on.
Since tensions escalated between the United States, Israel, and Iran on February 28, the skies across parts of the Middle East have occasionally echoed with reminders of conflict. At night, the air sometimes carries the distant buzz of drones, the muted thud of intercepted missiles, and the brief, ghostly flashes of air-defence systems lighting up the horizon.
Viewed from afar, through television screens and social media feeds, the region can appear to be on the brink of chaos. But here in Erbil, in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, life tells a more complex story. It is a story not of panic, but of quiet resilience.
Friends and family from across the world call with concern. They have seen the dramatic headlines and circulating videos that make the entire region appear engulfed in turmoil. Their worry is understandable. War—even when geographically distant—casts a long shadow. Civil aviation has also been disrupted at times, with temporary airport closures and flight cancellations across the region.
Yet on the ground in Erbil, daily life continues.It continues, however, under watchful skies.
The Sounds of the Night
The nights here have acquired a new mechanical soundtrack. Sometimes it begins with a faint hum in the distance—the unmistakable buzz of a drone. Moments later comes the deep, chest-thumping sound of an interception. Occasionally, the horizon flickers with the brief glow of air-defence systems silently doing their work.
There have been repeated drone or missile attempts directed toward the city. Each time an interception echoes through the night, the heart cannot help but skip a beat. Even when one understands that the defence systems are functioning exactly as designed, the instinctive surge of anxiety is impossible to ignore.
For someone new to this region, such sounds could be deeply unsettling. But the reaction here is different. Within minutes of an explosion, messages begin circulating—not of panic, but of information.
Another one intercepted.
Debris reported near the airport.
The people of Iraq have lived through decades of turmoil: wars, sanctions, invasions, and the long struggle against ISIS. From the Iran–Iraq War to the upheaval that followed the 2003 invasion, collective memory here carries stories of far more difficult days.
Perhaps that memory explains the remarkable calm.
Morning Comes, As Always
These days, my mornings begin with a small and almost unconscious ritual. When I wake up, I walk to the window and look down at the street below.
Are the cars moving?
Are taxis passing by?
Are people beginning their day?
When I see that first flow of traffic, a profound sense of reassurance washes over me. It is the triumph of the ordinary. IIn a place that has endured wars, sanctions, and the dark years of ISIS, “business as usual” is more than routine. It is an act of quiet defiance.
Gradually the city resumes its familiar rhythm. Shopkeepers raise their shutters. Markets reopen. Offices—including ours—return to work, though some still operate remotely.
By evening, cafés begin to fill again, even if the crowds are smaller than usual. The streets remain quieter, but conversations unfold much as they always have—about business, family, football, and inevitably the war that now shadows daily life.
Resilience, Quiet & Unseen
We often imagine resilience as something dramatic—a heroic stand or a powerful speech. But after seventeen years of living in Iraq, I have learned that true resilience is far quieter. It is the simple determination of ordinary people to continue living normally even when uncertainty hangs in the air.
People here are watchful. They follow the news closely and discuss developments with concern. But they refuse to allow fear to dominate their lives. Resilience here does not shout. It simply continues. Over decades, the people of Iraq have mastered this quiet art. Perhaps that is why the city does not panic.
Lessons From Seventeen Years in Iraq
For me, this calm is not entirely unfamiliar.
Over the past seventeen years—much of it spent in Baghdad—I have gradually absorbed the culture of resilience that defines this country.
Iraq is a place where history unfolds with extraordinary intensity, sometimes painfully. Yet its people continue to move forward with remarkable courage.
Living here teaches an important lesson: uncertainty is not something to fear. It is something to navigate—with patience, pragmatism, and perspective.
Over time, you begin to absorb the composure of the people around you until it becomes your own.
Faith as an Anchor
While we are grateful for the technology that protects our horizons, there is a deeper source of steadiness that no radar can provide.
Faith.
In those moments when the sky lights up and the air vibrates with the sound of an interception, I find myself turning inward.
There is a certain peace that comes from trusting in the Almighty—a quiet recognition that while human beings plan and prepare, there are forces far greater than our anxieties guiding the course of events.
This faith is the “anchor” in the storm. It keeps the mind clear and the heart steady even when the world outside feels fragile. And within that trust lies a quiet strength.
The Triumph of the Ordinary
When friends and family call from far away, their voices carry understandable anxiety. They ask if I am safe, whether it is dangerous, and if I should consider leaving.
I reassure them.
Erbil continues to breathe. The city is functioning. The people are composed. We are not living in fear; we are living in faith.
Each morning, as I watch the cars begin their commute below my window, I whisper a small prayer—not only for my own safety, but for peace. For this city. For this region. And for a world that so desperately needs to rediscover the quiet miracle of an ordinary morning commute.
The wheels are still turning. And as long as they are, the spirit remains unbroken.
Discover more from Indrosphere
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
You are having a hell of a time….stay safe
Thanks 🙏
Take care, stay safe
Thanks 🙏
Stay safe.
God bless.
Thanks. my son.
What moved me most in your writing was the sense of time—not just the hours passing between the drones and the dawn, but the seventeen years you’ve carried with you through Iraq.
There is a profound humility in how you describe ‘absorbing’ the culture of resilience from the people around you. It’s one thing to observe a country’s history from the outside, but it’s entirely another to let that history—the echoes of the Iran-Iraq war, the shadows of 2003, and the struggle against ISIS—shape your own internal composure. You’ve moved beyond being a witness; you’ve allowed the grit and grace of the Iraqi and Kurdish people to become a part of your own DNA.
I was especially struck by your realization that uncertainty isn’t a threat to be feared, but a landscape to be navigated with ‘patience, pragmatism, and faith.’ That shift in perspective feels like the true heart of your journey. It explains why, while the rest of the world sees a headline of chaos, you see a morning market opening its doors. You aren’t just describing a city that refuses to panic; you are describing a soul—your own—that has found its anchor in a restless world.
Thank you for articulating that quiet strength. It’s a rare gift to see a place not through its scars, but through the dignity with which it wears them. 🙏🏽🙏🏽
I sincerely appreciate your thoughtful reflection. Your words moved me profoundly. Living in Iraq for so many years has truly been a learning experience—about resilience, dignity, and the quiet strength people show as they face daily uncertainty.
If my writing reflects even a fraction of that spirit, it is solely due to the extraordinary people here who naturally embody it. I am thankful that the piece connected with you and that you sensed the deeper rhythm of life that persists beyond the headlines. 🙏
Very thoughtful commentary on the life of the common man caught in the crossfire of lunatic decision-makers who seek to rule and dominate and not, as you say, absorb and be absorbed by cultures.
Thank you for your thoughtful comment. Ultimately, it is the ordinary people—the shopkeepers, families, and workers—who carry on with remarkable resilience despite the uncertainties created by decisions far beyond their control.
What continues to inspire me is their ability to preserve dignity, culture, and a sense of normalcy even in difficult times. Living among them has been a humbling experience and a constant reminder of the quiet strength that sustains societies. 🙏
Well said. It’s a stark reminder that while the powerful are busy trying to plant flags, the rest of us are just trying to live. Real growth comes from absorbing and blending with the world, not trying to steamroll it. Praying for your safety. Take care.
Thank you for putting it so thoughtfully. History often shows that when power chases domination, ordinary people simply seek dignity, stability, and a chance to live in peace. True progress rarely comes from planting flags—it comes from learning, absorbing, and growing together with the world around us.
An incisive critique of geopolitical hubris. It captures the plight of the individual caught between ‘lunatic’ authorities who prioritize rigid hegemony over the organic, mutual exchange of human civilization. Take care and stay safe, Indrajit.
Thank you for that thoughtful reflection, Nilanjana.
War only destroys I don’t know why it happens. Well shared
Thank you for your thoughtful comment. I completely agree—war ultimately brings only destruction and suffering. One can only hope that dialogue and understanding will someday prevail over conflict.
Right
I did not know you were in Erbil. Stay safe Indrajit. Prayers.
Thanks, Geetashree 🙏
Very interesting article, Indrajit. What stands out is that the real story isn’t the interceptions in the sky, but the quiet discipline of a city that still wakes up and goes to work—conflict may disturb the night, but it cannot own the day. Your reflection on faith as an inner anchor in such moments is also very powerful.
Thank you for such a thoughtful reflection. You have captured the essence perfectly—the resilience of ordinary people who choose to continue with their daily lives despite uncertainty. In many ways, that quiet discipline is the real strength of a society. And yes, faith—whether spiritual or simply faith in life itself—often becomes the inner anchor that helps us navigate such moments.
While I appreciate your courage, and your sense of duty, I think it is normal for people like us to react in such a situation.
It is never easy to carry on with your daily life when there is a war going on.
I am sure, apart from friends like us your family too are more concerned than us.
This cannot be normalised.
True, people who have lived through continuous conflict may have got accustomed to the sirens, the sound of the interceptor or the humming sound of drones, but that cannot be acceptable as routine.
Wars bear no fruit.
Except loss of life and material.
And the utter sense of loss, pain and anguish.
What it exposes is the utter hypocrisy and lies that the aggressor endorses.
Is war justified?
Yes, it is, sometimes.
But mostly it is not.
However, our concern for your safety is natural.
We all pray for your safe return.
Pray to God for an early end to this conflict.
Thank you so much for your thoughtful words and your concern. It truly means a great deal to me. Life in places that live under the shadow of conflict often continues with a strange mix of routine and uncertainty, but that does not make it normal, nor does it make the human cost any less painful.
You are right — wars rarely bring anything but loss, grief, and a lingering sense of anguish. Yet it is the kindness, prayers, and solidarity of friends like you that remind us of our shared humanity even in difficult times.
Your concern and prayers are deeply appreciated, and I hope, like you, that peace prevails soon. Thank you again for your warmth and friendship. 🙏