Are we the luckiest generation or the most forgetful?

I remember sitting beside my grandmother, the scent of frankincense lingering in the air, her hands gently resting in her lap—hands that had seen a life I could barely fathom. It was one of our last conversations before she passed away when I was seventeen, and even then, I did not fully grasp the depth of the stories she shared.

She spoke of a time before the Sultanate of Oman had riches, before the roads were paved, before electricity lit up the nights. She told me how they lived by the rhythms of nature, how the seasons dictated what they ate, how water had to be fetched from distant wells, and how homes were built to keep cool without the hum of air conditioners. Her world was one of scarcity but also of resilience, of hardships but also of deep gratitude. I contrasted it with my own life, where I travelled the world, had access to every modern convenience, and could dream beyond just survival. If she were alive today, would she think I was lucky? Or would she wonder if, despite everything we have gained, we have also lost something far more valuable? The transformation of societies across history has shown that prosperity is never guaranteed. Wealth and progress can elevate nations, but they can also be fleeting. Progress is not just about economic growth or technological advancement but about the choices made when entrusted with wealth. These choices determine whether prosperity endures or fades.

During my time at Harvard, I had the opportunity to engage in a dialogue with Daron Acemoglu, Nobel Prize recipient in Economics, whose research highlights that nations fail when power and wealth remain concentrated, when progress benefits only a few, and when innovation is stifled. They succeed when they create systems that empower people, invest in education, and ensure that growth is both inclusive and sustainable. Oman Vision 2040 is a step in that direction, aiming to shape a more resilient and diversified future, but true progress should not be measured in GDP alone. It lies in how well a society preserves its values, its culture, and its environment. As I grow older, I realise that the wisdom of my grandmother’s generation holds the key to the sustainability we are desperately trying to rediscover. Omani communities had a way of living that wasted nothing. They built homes with natural cooling and consumed only what the land could offer. They did not need sustainability plans. Sustainability was simply the way of life. Today, we find ourselves in a paradox. We have more wealth, more technology, and more convenience than ever before. Yet we struggle with environmental degradation, food insecurity, and a disconnection from the land. Our homes are dependent on artificial cooling. Our food is largely imported. Our oceans and lands bear the weight of modern excess. The irony is glaring. We are the luckiest generation in history, but we take so much for granted. The challenge is not just preserving wealth but ensuring it is used wisely. The past offers lessons that are more relevant than ever, not as relics of a bygone era but as guiding principles for the future. Modernity and tradition do not have to be at odds; they can merge to create a future that is both innovative and deeply rooted in the wisdom of those who came before us. Perhaps, as we shape Oman’s future, the real question is not just whether we are lucky but whether we are wise enough to preserve the things that made us strong in the first place.