I never intended to stay past ten days in Beirut. I planned the trip for just three days, long enough to take my IELTS exam, a necessary step for my master’s program in Sweden. But the Israel-Iran conflict had a way of rewriting itineraries.

On June 10, 2025, I boarded Iraqi Airways flight no. IA135 from Basra International Airport at 7:30 a.m., touching down in Beirut by 9:30 a.m. My return flight to Najaf via Middle East Airlines was scheduled for June 13. Minutes before hailing a taxi to Rafic Hariri Airport, the email arrived: “Your flight from Beirut to Najaf has been cancelled.”

My mother spends hours glued to the TV news. When she heard about Iraq’s airspace shutting down, I had to call and break the news.

“My flight is canceled.”

“What do you mean your flight is canceled?”

“Are you safe?”

“When will you come home?” my mother asked.

I had no answers.

Social media feeds were saturated with updates about the escalation between Israel and Iran—news that captivates the world, including Iraqis like me, living in a country caught in the crossfire. Our daily lives became consumed by discussions of regional developments. We stare at our phones and TV screens, tracking every twist in the Tehran-Tel Aviv conflict—Khamenei’s declarations, Netanyahu’s retaliations, Trump’s evasive answers when pressed about ceasefire negotiations. But as always, while the world watches, Iraqis suffer the consequences of a war we didn’t choose.

Due to escalating tensions between Iran and Israel, Iraq had taken precautionary measures by shutting down its airspace. The Iraqi Civil Aviation Authority closed all airports except Basra International, which is now operating on limited hours (4 a.m. to 10 p.m.).

This sudden disruption left thousands of Iraqis stranded abroad, many of whom traveled for summer vacation. With no clear timeline for resumption, passengers were anxiously waiting for updates. Since my hotel TV was not working properly, I scrolled through X (Twitter) and live YouTube channels, hoping to see news that Iraqi airports have reopened with no luck. It had been days, and the uncertainty was beyond frustrating.

For years, Iraqis have poured into the streets to demand their rights. Now, stranded travelers in Lebanon are using the same tactic to get home. Facing a days-long shutdown of Iraq’s airspace amid regional tensions, hundreds of Iraqi tourists and expatriates found themselves trapped in Beirut with no clear way back. So they did what many back home would do: they organized.

A crowd gathered outside the Iraqi Embassy, chanting and demanding repatriation flights. By the next day, Iraqi Airways announced new, unscheduled flights from Beirut to Basra, but the process was far from smooth. The flights weren’t part of an official evacuation or even a published schedule. No online bookings were available; instead, tickets were sold exclusively in person at the airline’s Beirut office, forcing desperate travelers into long, chaotic queues.

Among hundreds of Iraqis scrambling for scarce tickets home, I stood in line for hours, just hoping there’d be space. An airline employee told us that the next day’s flight was already full, offering no information about future flights and instructing desperate travelers to return again the following day. Only a handful of those waiting secured seats, leaving most to continue their anxious vigil outside the airline’s Beirut office.

All of this could have been avoided had I brought my Swedish permanent residency card with me. But I left it in the safe at my house in Basra. My friends blamed me, but I didn’t want to linger on this and relive the same agony I had experienced when I once lost my passport and residency card in Amman last year. It was a grueling experience. Yet, had the residency card been with me right now, I could have flown to my aunt’s in Germany.

Anyway, in Beirut, I stood stranded with nothing but a cabin-sized bag, three days’ worth of clothes, basic toiletries, and enough cash for a week. I always carry emergency funds, but nothing prepares you for Beirut’s London-tier prices when you’re suddenly stuck indefinitely.

To keep my budget safe, I changed hotels from Sama to the less expensive Elysee. The hotel lobby had morphed into something else entirely, a smoke-filled limbo where time stood still. You could taste the tension in the air, thick with cigarette smoke and restless energy. Groups of Iraqis stood clustered together, lighting up one cigarette after another, the glowing tips punctuating their conversations like exclamation marks.

Every inhale seemed deliberate, like they were breathing in patience along with the nicotine. The younger guys passed around packs of cigarettes like they were sharing rations, while older men sat slumped in armchairs, lost in their own clouds of smoke. Even the hotel staff had given up trying to enforce the no-smoking policy. They knew these weren’t just guests killing time, but people stuck in purgatory, clinging to whatever small comfort they could find.

The air was heavy with the scent of tobacco and the low hum of anxious chatter in Arabic. It wasn’t pleasant, exactly, but there was something strangely comforting about it, this shared moment of defiance against the helplessness we all felt. In that hazy lobby, at least we didn’t have to pretend we were okay with waiting. The cigarettes said it all for us.

Sebastian Backhaus, a German photojournalist friend, phoned me that night while he was in Latakia. He had just finished his assignments covering post-war Syria and was supposed to fly back to Berlin. Instead, he ended up in the room next to mine. Anyway, we became neighbors, eagerly anticipating our reunion after nearly a year apart. We had collaborated across Iraq and beyond for years but now found ourselves sharing something new: the status of stranded in Beirut.

His presence was a small comfort. We spent our days hunting for flight updates and our nights wandering Beirut’s streets, pretending we were tourists by plan rather than by accident.

As a result, Iraqi Airways arranged special flights, but nothing about the process was straightforward. There was no online booking. No customer service line. Just a chaotic queue outside the Iraqi Airways office, where desperate travelers begged for a spot on the next plane. Some paid triple the official price to black-market brokers. Others took long journeys through Turkey or Jordan, gambling on land crossings. I watched a man hand over $1,000 in cash for a ticket that should have cost $200. After a week of being stranded, I finally secured a ticket—first class.

This wasn’t my first time trapped abroad. During the COVID pandemic, I’d been stranded in Istanbul before eventually making it back to Basra under extraordinary circumstances, a story for another time.

As a freelance journalist for several media outlets, I normally report the news, but now I’d become part of the story. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I documented my fellow citizens’ plight while sharing their uncertainty. My professional dilemma mirrored my personal one: Should I focus on getting back to Basra (my southern Iraqi hometown), or stay longer to report on these Iraqis standing in endless midnight queues for flights from the only functioning airport in war-torn Iraq?

The moment other Iraqis learned I was a journalist, they swarmed me with questions each time I worked in the lobby. “How many flights is Iraqi Airways sending today?” “Will this war last months?” “What alternatives exist if Iraqi Airways can’t get us home?” In these marathon conversations, I witnessed Iraqis helping each other in any way they could.

Accidental Tourists?

Forced sightseeing became our coping mechanism. Rather than brood over canceled flights, Sebastian and I wandered Beirut’s mural-splashed streets and vibrant cafés. The Corniche at Raouche, where Mediterranean waves crashed against iconic cliffs, provided respite. These unplanned discoveries revealed a Beirut I’d never have seen as a mere transit passenger.

The city taught me perspective. Listening to shopkeepers who smiled through economic collapse and refugees aching for distant homes, my own troubles shrank in scale. Beirut, like Baghdad, possesses that singular Iraqi trait: alchemy that transforms crisis into unforgettable humanity. This involuntary journey became part of my story, and of every stranded soul whose path crossed mine in a war we didn’t choose, but which chose us.

When departure day finally came, we shared a tense taxi ride to Rafic Hariri Airport, Sebastian bound for Berlin via Istanbul, me for Basra. The entire journey, one question looped in my mind: Will I really make it home? Is this ordeal truly over?

I started my last day in Beirut with a WhatsApp message to Sebastian: “Good morning, my neighbor, what’s the plan for today?” He suggested lunch before heading to the airport. I liked the idea, it was worth tasting some Lebanese food before returning to oily-rich Iraqi cuisine like Quzi.

We set out from our hotel at 1 p.m., wandering through the nearby streets, when by chance, I spotted a sign on a wall that read “Basra Street.” Curiosity pulled us in, and we decided to explore. As we walked, we stopped a passerby and asked where we could find good food. He pointed us to a small, welcoming restaurant where a Lebanese woman cooked everything herself. The smell of food alone told us we were in the right place.

We shared one last meal—siyadieh for him, mujadara for me—a final taste of the city before heading home. They were the kind of dishes that stay with you. Afterward, we stopped at Espresso Lab in Hamra for a strong cup of coffee. We’d need the energy, the journey ahead was long, and neither of us was ready for what came next.

A Business-Class Ticket in Extraordinary Times

After days of searching, I finally secured a business-class ticket back to Basra from Iraqi Airways’ Beirut office—$291 for what promised to be premium travel. The reality proved less glamorous. While the seat offered extra legroom, the service matched neither the price nor the designation: meals served on plastic trays, economy passengers deplaning before us. “Exceptional circumstances,” I muttered to myself. A hollow justification, but the destination mattered more than the journey.

The true crisis unfolded beyond the airport. Desperate Iraqis paid black-market brokers $600–$1,000 per ticket—triple the official price. Others took circuitous routes through Turkey or Jordan, where authorities waived pre-entry security clearances but still charged 40 Jordanian dinars ($56) for on-arrival visas. The shared GMC car from Amman to Baghdad cost $400 per seat.

After quick farewell photos at the airport, we parted ways near Gate 23, clinging to promises of reuniting when flights normalized.

At Zaatar w Zeit café, I fueled up on Americano and bottled water while typing with one eye on my laptop, the other scanning boarding announcements. Around me sat fellow Iraqis, all sharing my flight to Basra, though their journeys wouldn’t end there.

For these travelers from Baghdad, Kurdistan and beyond, this flight was merely the first leg. Many faced grueling 10-hour road trips onward after landing. Some had exhausted their funds, yet what unfolded moved me: strangers becoming lifelines. A Basra local invited a Baghdadi to stay at his home; a Kurdish traveler sought companions for the northern trek. In crisis, Iraq’s social fabric revealed its strength—improvised solidarity at Gate 23.

Hamra Street’s money exchange offices became lifelines for stranded citizens wiring home for emergency funds. Those who’d exhausted their resources queued outside Iraq’s embassy, begging for repatriation assistance.

Our plane traced an anxious arc across the region, three and a half hours instead of the usual two, skirting conflict zones via Jordan and Saudi Arabia. Somewhere between the plastic-cutlery meals and the detour over Riyadh, I typed these words: my first dispatch composed on land, at sea, and in the air. The important thing wasn’t the indignities endured, but the runway lights of Basra finally glowing below.

At the airport, the airline staff gave contradictory answers about our flight’s status. “It’s a scheduled flight,” claimed one agent. “A semi-evacuation,” countered another. Neither explanation held water, these flights weren’t bookable online or through normal channels, only via Iraqi Airways’ exclusive Beirut or Baghdad offices. When I pointed out this paradox to an employee, he chuckled: “Mmm… you’re not wrong.”

I braced for luxury: reclining seats, a proper meal, maybe even a glass of something cold. Instead, I got plastic cutlery and the same reheated tray as everyone else. No menu, no choices, just a dry piece of chicken, some beans, something sweet, a bottle of water, and a cup of tea that never came. I asked the attendant for hot tea, waving the empty cup and sugar packets like evidence. She served me tea when my 7-Up can had already gone warm.

The flight dragged for three and a half hours, tracing a nervous arc over Jordan and Saudi airspace. Each jolt of turbulence tightened my grip on the armrest. Were we skirting conflict zones or just saving fuel? Between typing furious notes, I cataloged the absurdities: flimsy plastic trays that bent under my fork, the indignity of economy class disembarking before first, stone-faced attendants who moved through the cabin like ghosts refusing to acknowledge the living. For this “business class” experience, I would’ve expected at least a forced smile.

Then, Basra.

My close friend Ali was waiting for my arrival, grinning as he pulled me into a hug.

“You look tired, are you sure you were in Beirut?” he teased.

We drove through the city’s familiar streets, past neon-lit shawarma stands and the slow, dark flow of the Shatt al-Arab River, where fishermen now came not for work but for leisure—the fish long gone, driven away by dwindling waters and pollution.

The real business class experience, it turned out, wasn’t the cramped airplane seat I’d paid for, but this: sipping chai from glass cups as Basra welcomed me home, its rhythms unchanged by distant wars.

My “stranded” status had gifted me something unexpected, a renewed appreciation for the ordinary miracles of belonging.