By Leah Calledo
'It’s one thing to watch the news from a distance; it’s another to see the “Breaking News” banner while you’re standing in the grocery line at SM or Ayala, feeling your heart drop into your stomach. For us Cebuana wives with husbands working as engineers in Riyadh or nurses in Abu Dhabi, the Middle East crisis isn’t a political debate — it’s the reason we can’t focus on our morning coffee. Every time a notification pings on our phone, there’s that split second of bated breath, praying it’s just a funny meme and not an emergency alert from the embassy.
Lately, the air feels heavier. With the 2026 escalations and the tension between major powers hitting closer to home, the usual “Kumusta na, ‘Pa?” over FaceTime has changed. We try to keep it light for the kids, talking about their school projects or the upcoming fiesta, but I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s working in a city that’s supposed to be safe, yet he’s telling me about the sirens he heard last night and how the company has started conducting “emergency drills.” It makes the thousands of miles between Cebu and the Gulf feel like an ocean of helplessness.
There’s a specific kind of “Cebuano” anxiety that comes with being an OFW family. We rely so much on those remittances to pay for the tuition or the mortgage on the house in Liloan, but suddenly, that money feels “stained” with worry. You start wondering if the dream of a better life is worth the nightmare of him being caught in a crossfire. I see other wives at the parish, and we don’t even have to say it; we just nod at each other. We’re all checking the exchange rates and the news cycles in the same nervous breath.
The “Go-Bag” conversation is the hardest. I told him to make sure his passport is always ready, just in case. It’s surreal to be sitting here in the heat of Cebu, planning an evacuation route for someone halfway across the world. While the world talks about “oil prices” and “strategic pivots,” I’m just thinking about the balon (packed lunch) I used to make him and wishing he was just working a 9-to-5 in Mandaue instead of being in the middle of a potential war zone.
What really hurts is the “business as usual” attitude some people have here. Someone will complain about the price of gas or a flight delay, and I want to scream that my husband is currently sleeping with his boots near the bed because the tensions in the region have reached a boiling point. For us, the “Middle East Crisis” isn’t an abstract concept; it’s the father of my children living in a place where the sky might light up for all the wrong reasons tonight.
I find myself visiting the Sto. Niño more often lately, lighting a candle and just staring at the flame. I ask for protection not just for him, but for all the Bisaya workers out there — the construction guys in the heat, the domestic helpers, the medical staff. We are a people of faith, but this 2026 reality is testing every bit of it. We are “resilient,” as they always say about Filipinos, but resilience is just a fancy word for being tired of having to be brave.
At the end of the day, all I want is for that WhatsApp bubble to turn green. I want to hear his voice, even if he’s just complaining about the cafeteria food or how much he misses puso and lechon. Until this crisis settles, our home in Cebu feels a little bit empty and our ears are always tilted toward the phone, waiting for the only news that matters: “Safe ra ko diri, ‘Ma. Ayaw kabalaka.” (I’m safe here, Ma. Don’t worry.)
It’s the small, domestic silences that hurt the most. Back here in Cebu, the house feels too big when I’m folding his Barong or seeing his favorite mug sitting unused in the cupboard. When I walk through the neighborhood and smell someone grilling liempo, my heart aches because I know he’s over there, probably eating a quick meal in a mess hall, his eyes constantly darting to the overhead news ticker. We used to talk about the future — buying a small farm or finally finishing the renovations on the second floor — but now, our “future” is measured in 12-hour increments between check-in calls.
The hardest part is looking at our children and trying to be the “anchor” when I feel like I’m drifting at sea myself. When my eldest asks why Papa isn’t coming home for the school graduation in May, I have to swallow the lump in my throat and explain that “work is busy,” even though the truth is that the airspace might be closed by then. I am just one of thousands of mothers currently living a double life: smiling for the kids while secretly scrolling through news feeds at 2 a.m., praying that the “tensions” remain just words on a screen and not fire in the sky where my husband sleeps.