I have always found it deeply moving and inspiring that, in many – if not most – Omani households, family members in need of care are usually looked after at their own home, often with several generations living under one roof.
In this beautiful country, and as long as extended hospital treatment is not needed, the idea of sending a parent or grandparent to a nursing home or hospice due to age or illness seems inconceivable. I think I have even told friends and family back in Europe that those two particular institutions simply do not ‘exist’ here.
Last March, in keeping with Oman’s tradition of care-giving that reflects deeply rooted Arab and Islamic values of family loyalty and respect for elders, my employer generously allowed me to work remotely from my parental home in the Netherlands so that my family and I could care for my now late father, who had suddenly fallen seriously ill, may he rest in peace.
This thoughtful gesture kept my father from moving to a hospice he began mentioning shortly after learning about his terminal condition. Instead, his hospice would be his own home, surrounded by his noisy, loving family and the aroma of many dishes he loved, mostly prepared by my husband and cousin and often shared by him with family and old friends. My dad’s collection of hundreds of books, with their well-worn pages, along with the steady flow of the river just outside his bedroom window, became quiet companions during what would be the final chapter of his interesting, long yet fleeting journey on this earth.
Indeed, my Omani employer’s support in this predicament we suddenly found ourselves in, not only showed their trust in my loyalty, but reflected the importance of ‘societal welfare’. I consider this to be a cornerstone of the Omani culture that we were able to uphold while caring for my father in the Netherlands. Thanks to this, the time of my father’s illness was not only the worst of times, but also the ‘best’ of quality times; a time of hardship softened by the comforts of his home and the presence and many visits of loved ones alike.
After moving him to his, my parental, home from the hospital, we found ourselves caring for our father, grandfather, and father-in-law while balancing work and schooling; all from the very place where I was once born and raised, rather than from our family home here in Oman.
This time, perhaps because of the intensity of the circumstances or because it was the longest I had stayed in the Netherlands since settling in Oman many years ago, it felt as though I were re-entering the place I once came from. In some ways, it even began to feel as if I had never left the street of my parental home at all. The area is well known in Amsterdam and beyond for its historic charm and modern vibrancy, partly thanks to its restored ancient buildings, many now home to popular restaurants. To me, however, that street where I grew up has always been more than a collection of iconic buildings and trendy spots as it is defined by a close-knit community, a tapestry of neighbours who know each other’s names and stories.
And yet, I kept seeing this place in the Netherlands through a lens influenced by another culture. The street itself had hardly changed, but I had, shaped by years of living in Oman. That quiet tension between belonging and not quite fitting in, that strange feeling of being at odds in your birth country, even with your best friends and dearest relatives nearby, and still missing the place where you now truly feel you belong, in my case, Oman, is something I hope to explore more deeply in my next column.
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