Study urges action to preserve fading heritage

ON warm desert nights, when the air is thick with the scent of frankincense and the stars burn bright above the palm groves, Omani folktales come alive. They travel on the lips of elders, in the pauses between sips of kahwa, in the gentle rise and fall of voices telling of cunning foxes, enchanted trees, and lions turned to stone. These tales are not just entertainment — they are the memory of a people, stitched into words, passed from one generation’s heart to the next.
Yet today, those voices are growing faint. The steady hum of digital screens threatens to replace the crackle of fireside storytelling. Children are more likely to meet Cinderella than the Lion of Izki, to wander Little Red Riding Hood’s forest before setting foot in the deserts or wadis of their own imagination.
Fearing that this rich heritage might slip away, my colleagues, Fatema al Rubaiey and Gerard Dineen, and I — a research team at SQU embarked on a research journey to trace the fate of Omani folktales. With the generous support of SQU, we set out to answer a question that has grown more urgent with each passing year: are our stories still being told in their true voice, or are they slowly being reshaped, diluted, and forgotten in the rush of modern life?
Using Hasan El Shamy’s tale-type index, we examined dozens of Omani folktales published in English, tracing their origins, themes, and cultural markers. Many remained firmly rooted in the Omani landscape — stories of sacred places, tribal rivalries, and supernatural interventions that could only have been born here. 'The Lion of Izki' tells of a predator turned to stone through the power of faith. 'The Cunning Fox' reimagines the universal trickster with the sly resourcefulness of desert life. These narratives carry the scent of palm groves, the sound of falaj water, and the resilience of those who live between mountains and sea.
But we also found tales altered beyond recognition or lifted from far-off lands: An Omani Cinderella and the escapades of Abu Nawas transplanted into unfamiliar villages. Even Little Red Riding Hood, far from her European forest, now roams Omani classrooms. Cultural exchange can enrich, but it becomes harmful when borrowed narratives crowd out our own.
More troubling still, Omani folktales have no place on Unesco's list of intangible cultural heritage. Without official recognition or a systematic approach to collecting and classifying them, they remain unprotected. This absence leaves space for foreign tales to dominate, while authentic Omani stories fade from memory.
Our research calls for a dedicated Omani tale-type classification system — one that complements regional Arab indexes but preserves the details that make our stories uniquely ours: the falaj, the desert winds, the sacred coastal landmarks, and the wisdom woven into local proverbs.
Preserving these folktales is not about nostalgia. It is about safeguarding the cultural DNA that tells us who we are. If we do nothing, an entire generation could grow up knowing more about the adventures of Western princesses than the heritage of their own ancestors.
This is a call to educators, cultural institutions, and policymakers: gather these stories, teach them, and celebrate them. Let them live not as fragile memories, but as living voices shaping our future. The digital age gives us the tools to record and share them more widely than ever before. The question is whether we will use those tools before the last storyteller’s voice falls silent.

The writer is an Associate Professor of English, Sultan Qaboos University