“Astaghfir Allah,” I muttered after one or two curse words did cross my mind while chasing the cat who was once again trying to ruin my late parents’ furniture by using it as a scratching post. Although I was not born and raised an Arab Muslim, some Arabic expressions, with their religious and philosophical meaning, such as I seek forgiveness from God, fit perfectly, as if I had long been searching for them in my own language.
Fourth week of Ramadhan. Trying hard to fast with my family and colleagues here in Oman. Overall, fasting feels like a spiritual and physical cleansing process, and always brings this sense of calm. I love the cosiness during and after Iftar, the breaking of the fast. But towards the end of this special month, some of us do start to feel tired and, in my case, sometimes a little angry and ‘hungry’ (well, peckish really, in the grand scheme of things).
That day I was losing patience quickly but while chasing the cat in fluffy socks, I slipped, fell back and banged my head against the Sweden made glass cabinet they had finally delivered in one piece. I almost broke more than just my fast. My husband, who had been watching a televised dialogue among intellectuals from Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Oman about actions by their overseas neighbour, immediately got up to my rescue with a stretched out hand and an ice pack. I accepted only the ice pack.
My phone had landed next to me, with one chat group still pinging with conspiracy theories about the fate of a prime minister despised for his wars and rhetoric. They also shared prayers for the children of a family in the streets of Beirut and for one who cried so hard for his mother in Tehran that first responders initially had to lie about her well-being. Tear emojis marked messages for a Palestinian family in the occupied West Bank who went out Eid shopping earlier in the week, singing in the car, but tragically most never made it back home.
Every time you read a story involving those who are all our children, you feel you die a little.
I was reading these messages while still lying on the ground with my ice pack and a cat staring at me. This 'hangry' incident reminded me that even at home in a safe and stable country, things can go wrong in an instant, and that, apart from watching our step and not immediately reacting to every emotion, it is useless to constantly worry. I mean, go figure with marble floors everywhere in Oman.
Over the past weeks, some people in this region have become increasingly jittery at certain sounds and sights, worried about missile and drone debris potentially landing on their heads or cars. Western media have been capitalising on their anxiety, zooming in on European grandmothers at the airport, clutching each other’s hands while waiting for their loved ones to return from a holiday cut short in places like Dubai.
Sure, I too experienced new intrusive thoughts triggered by the news when a sophisticated fire alarm accidentally went off in Muscat the other day, but I stayed calm while Oman remains relatively unaffected, although I feel bad for the families of the three expatriates in Suhar.
I recently read the words of Rumi, the 13th-century poet and Islamic scholar, rooted in the ancient Persian civilisation that predates many modern Western nations: “Oh soul, you worry too much [...]. Of anything less, why do you worry? You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul.”
So, I decided to focus on Eid and cherish the fact that we have the luxury of being able to celebrate it as a family. I even enjoyed the two-hour wait in this small living room filled with women having henna designed on their hands.
This Eid, I will just make sure not to wear any fluffy socks underneath the locally designed dress.
Bregje van Baaren
The writer is a freelance contributor
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