A missile from the US-Iran war hits Salaya in Gujarat

“My father was lying when he said that those who live on the sea never fear death [Abba Juth bolte the ki, je dariya ma rehta hoy emne maut no dar na hoy]. He used to say that when I took my first job as a sailor at 17,” says Nazir Junas Bhaya, 43, staring at his hands. Hands that had steered MSV Al Faiz Noor E Sulaimani for six months before it sank in the Gulf of Oman. He recollects the dreadful moment a missile struck the ship he was navigating on the captain’s command across the Strait of Hormuz.

" Abba jooth bolte the [My father was lying],” he repeats. “Mein to laanch mein paani dekh kar haibat kha gaya tha. [I was terrified the minute I saw the water entering our ship]. It was past 12 a.m. on May 8, 2026. A missile wanted us dead. Iran had not restricted us from crossing the Hormuz. So it’s unlikely they were the attackers. We heard a loud explosion, and a massive fire broke out instantly.” Nazir takes another long pause between his sentences, a mix of Hindi and Gujarati rather than Kutchi Sindhi in which he speaks with his people. We are sitting in his single storied house in the port town of Salaya in Gujarat’s Dwarka district.

“The impact threw two sailors up in the air,” he continues. “One of them who had his right hand severed, Altaf Talab Ker [40], died. Another one was seriously injured as he hit his face against the tank. There were 18 of us on the ship that day. Water started entering the vessel. The rest of us had no time to collect our belongings, not even our phone, before the ship capsized. We jumped into the sea and clung to a plastic water tank encased in iron rods, struggling to stay afloat for the next seven hours. I was freezing. It seemed like if not the missile, then the icy Gulf of Oman would have killed the rest of us.” Nazeer is sitting next to his partially paralysed father, Junas Bhaya in his 60s, who worked in ship engine cabins for almost 40 years. Nazir is avoiding eye contact with his mother Sabira sitting in front him looking miserable as she listens to her son’s survival story again.

The three-year-old large wooden dhow with a carrying capacity of 3,000 tonnes that sank after the attack was one of the famous handcrafted vessels built in Salaya. The makers included a few migrants from Andhra Pradesh, and a large number of locals known as Jam Salaya. These are Kutchi Muslims whose ancestors migrated from the Mandvi and Mundra areas and settled in Dwarka about 200 years ago.

The community depends on the shipping industry for a living. Most men in the town either build, or sail the ships, or work as labourers loading and unloading the cargo. The ships carry goods across India, UAE, Oman, Yemen, Iran, Somalia, Djibouti and Eritrea. Those who are not these ships are on the sea fishing ghol (black-spotted croaker) and dholdara in the Gulf of Kutch.

About 200 vahaan or laanch (large cargo boats) built in Salaya sail through the Strait of Hormuz. Men usually board the ships between September and May. Between June and August, Indian authorities do not give permission for boats in the Arabian sea.

"I was on a 13-month contract, but I came back in May itself,” says Nazir. “That was my last trip and I had saved 4.5 lakh rupees for my sisters’ marriages and for finishing the construction of our home. But everything has sunk into the sea. I don't even have my passport or seaman identity card now." Nazir shows me his old card.

He gets paid 5,000 rupees a month by the ship owner. But the real earning happens when he loads and unloads goods in Sharjah, Yemen, Somalia, and gets paid by foreign traders –10 dirham for a tonne. The total amount he makes varies with the availability of the work, the size of the cargo, the exchange rates, and the number of people on the ship among whom it gets distributed. But in a town with low levels of education, absence of public infrastructure and job opportunities, Nazir had found this to be an attractive proposition.

"I am sitting at home for 2 months now,” says Nazir. “I’m scared stiff. Don't even want to go near the yard where they are building ships. In the last two-three days, I tried working on a fishing boat but since the sea is prone to cyclones and thunderstorms between June and August, we don't get permissions.” But sitting at home makes him anxious about all things left incomplete, the lost money, and a future that seems rather bleak.

The vessel owner refused to help obtain a new passport for him. Nazir will have to spend 7,000 to 10,000 rupees of his own to get a replacement. And he, like others, has also not got any compensation for what he has lost.

The ship owners claim that they themselves are in losses, with insurance companies refusing to cover Salaya-made dhows sailing across war zones for the past two years. They even deny compensation for already insured vessels sailing through such zones.

“Even when I lost my ship, I did not receive any help from the government. I have paid 13.5 lakh rupees in insurance premiums to the Indian insurance company, but I have received nothing,” says a Salaya ship owner Sultan Ahmad Sanghar. “The expenses for visas and tickets for my workers rescued from my ship by the Omani coast guard were borne by me.” He is referring to his ship Haji Ali that was on its way from Somalia to Dubai, another one to get struck by a missile in the Strait of Hormuz. It was carrying 480 cattle and 1,800 sheep and goats for a mandatory Haj ritual of the annual sacrifice.

Aejaz Akbar Sanghar, 30, and 14 others who were on the ship learned through a WhatsApp group that the MVS Faiz E Sulaimani had sunk after an attack four days ago. But Haji Ali was already at the sea on May 13, 2026. “It was 3:00 am, and our destination was still five hours away when a missile struck the ship near the coast of Oman,” Aejaz says. “We did not have enough balance on our phones to call our Indian vessel owner, so we called the Somalian trader to report. We were terrified. We could hear the desperate cries of animals struggling to survive. The lifeboat could only accommodate 12 people, but all 14 of us still stood on it until the Oman coast guards arrived to rescue us.”

After two months Aejaz is still in deep shock. His mother never wanted him to go to the sea, after her husband died by drowning in the Gulf of Oman in 2002. But Aejaz didn’t study after Class 10 and there no other opportunities in the town. That is why he had joined his uncle Sultan’s ship. But he doesn’t want to work on the ship anymore.

"Aejaz is my nephew, and he is not the only one unwilling to do this work. My entire crew is terrified. My other ship, Haji Ali-1, is ready to sail in October 2026, but the old staff is reluctant to join,” says Sultan. “Many young seamen have returned from Dubai due to the ongoing war, despite knowing that being in Salaya during June–August - when the Navy and Coast Guards do not grant permission to release ships from the port - will leave them jobless. Nothing is more important than life, we can’t force them.”

Some two kilometres away from Sultan’s ship building yard is the house of Shaqib Haji Amin, 30, and Azeem Haji Amin, 33, the Sumbhaniya brothers from Salaya who have returned from Dubai. They had worked in the tourism sector for five years, serving on dinner cruises. In early March 2026 someone forwarded videos of drone and missile attacks on Palm Jumeirah on their phones. Shaqib’s device fell into police hands and he ended up spending 77 days in Dubail Jail.

“Those were humiliating times. Everything was expensive inside the jail. I would pay 10 dirhams to talk with my family for 5 minutes. My old father had to arrange money on his own to get me out. I did not get the confiscated phone back. My manager abandoned me. The UAE Gov has also banned me for visiting Dubai for one year,” says Shaqib.

When Azeem managed to escape the arrest, he received only 3,000 dirhams instead of 7,000. The forced return and the loss of income meant that the brothers had to withdraw their children from a private school in Khambhaliya and bring them back to a government school in Salaya.

"Only in July I started working at a garage, painting bikes. But Salaya is a small town - some days I have customers, other days I don't. Unlike my brother, my visa has not been cancelled by the Dubai government. But, with the war intensifying once again, I cannot go back there and risk my life. I’ll try to make ends meet here,” says Azeem.

“Our grandfather was once one of the wealthiest men in Salaya,” Shaqib says, showing the Instagram page of the dinner cruise where he used to work. “But our family lost everything when two of their ships sank. It forced my father and uncles to look for other jobs and we couldn't complete our education. My life had only begun to improve over the last 3-4 years, and I was hoping to give my son a better education – unlike me. But now, with this job loss and the ban on my entry into Dubai, that dream is broken.”

Nazir does not want to go back immediately either, not even if normalcy is restored. "Allah saved my life once and gave me a chance to live. He might not save my life again. But I have to build my house and get my sisters married, so I will have to go back." May be after 3-4 years, he says, showing me some of his old photos.

His mother Sabira is not convinced. "This is the profession of our ancestors. My brothers, father, husband, and grandfathers all did the same job. The women of Salaya are used to our men leaving for months at a time. I can trust the sea and the vessels that our men have built. But I cannot trust the missiles. My heart does not want my son to go back. Money can be earned again, but how would I get my son back?”