One of my early childhood memories of travelling comes from when I was five. The memory is split into two scenes: 1) Me sitting with my grandparents (God have mercy on their souls) and mother in a posh food hall. I’m putting sugar cubes in my mouth (don’t blame me! Where I come from sugar only came in powder form!). Grandpa finds the whole situation funny and calls me a horse (Grandpa never had to worry about childhood obesity. It was non-existing in his generation and rare in mine!). He then calls a tall Sikh and asks for more sugar cubes for their tea. I stare fascinatedly at his immaculate clothes, turban and beard thinking that he must be the prince that owned this place!
2) Me sitting in a hospital waiting area with the same group again. This time, I’m sleeping on my mum’s lap and grandpa looking worried.
When I was a teenager, I shared the memory with my mum who was shocked by my recollection of the journey at that young age. She said that we were in Mumbai — Bombay at that time — for therapy.
I was suffering from a continuous stomach ache that the doctors here didn’t know how to diagnose. My grandpa decided to take us to India — the favourite GCC citizens destination for therapy at that time, before it changed to Bangkok in later years. We were staying at the Taj, my grandpa’s favourite hotel in the whole world (so the Sikh wasn’t the prince who owned the place after all!).
When I visited Mumbai for the first time as an adult in 2005, I insisted that we should have tea there in memory of my grandpa. The Taj was a magnificent building that faces the sea and a landmark that overlooked the gate of India. The afternoon tea and samosas were remarkable.
But what I remembered most was the abundance of artwork at every corner. Paintings and artefacts that came from different eras — including colonial India — that left us at awe. Three years later when returning from work, I switched on the TV and watched in sheer horror the terror attack that took place in my grandpa’s favourite hotel.
Mum and I stared at the screen in disbelief as fire and thick smoke lit the sky of Mumbai, while guests dangled from makeshift ropes over their windows trying to escape the senseless massacre. I covered my mouth and kept thinking: “The people! The artwork!”
So, when the movie “Hotel Mumbai” came out, my mum and I decided to watch it to get an insight of the horrors that the guests and the staff had lived through. The movie was emotionally charged as you witness humanity trapped in a terrorism situation. The plot revolves around the staff’s altruism and heroic effort to help the guests flee the hotel (the majority of the victims were staff members). Each scene kept us on the seat edge.
Something else that fascinated me was young Omani audience’s (men) reaction towards radicalization. Coming from a country where people lived in peace and harmony, the concept was hard to understand. They kept booing at scenes where the terrorists used terms like: “Allah Akbar”! To that they shouted: “Anyone can say that! Like Al-salam Alaykum!”
I wished that those youngsters understood how innocent the terrorists on the screen were- just like them — and their difficult circumstances was the reason behind being brainwashed. That both sides were victims but at different levels. We left the movie feeling exhilarated and proud that with love and tolerance humanity always prevailed, no matter what.
Rasha al Raisi is a certified skills trainer and the author of:
The World According to Bahja.
rashabooks@yahoo.com
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