My friends from other parts of the world ask me, “How do you handle the heat?” I laugh, because the question is wrong.
You don’t handle the Omani summer. You grow up with it. It’s in your bones by age five, when you learn that metal slides are for winter and that the best football games start after Maghrib.
I’ve never known a June that didn’t feel like opening an oven. The heat and I were never strangers. We were introduced when I was a kid, chasing cousins across the sabla at noon because we didn’t know better. We learned. We all learn.
Nobody here needs to tell you that life starts early. Before school let out, my grandfather would already be back from the corniche walk by 7 am, newspaper in one hand, miswak in the other. By 10 am, the whole country has quietly negotiated a truce with the sun. Shops lower their shutters. Work shifts gear. You don’t fight it. You built your day around it.
Fajr to 9 am is for errands, visits, and getting things done. Dhuhr to Asr is for being still. After sunset, Muscat breathes again. The corniche fills up. Karak stalls do their best business. This isn’t laziness. It’s timing. The heat taught us that.
I’ve owned the same white dishdashas since long ago and they still work harder than any AC. This is because white is for the day. This is part of physics. My non-Omani friends suffer in jeans in July and I want to tell them: the country already gave you the uniform. Wear it. Sandals are not a weekend thing. They’re infrastructure.
Growing up, summer was when time slowed and patience grew. School was out, but the lessons weren’t. You learn to move without rushing. You learn that every majlis has a jug of water and a plate of dates for a reason. That cold laban at 2 pm isn’t a drink. It’s a reset.
That the best conversations happen when it’s too hot to do anything else. The heat strips the day to what matters: shade, family, water, and not complaining about things you can’t change. My mother called it sabr (patience). The weather just enforces it.
You don’t survive fifty summers without knowing the cool pockets. You go up to Jabal Akhdar when Muscat feels like a stovetop, and remember what 25 degrees feels like on your skin. You hit Wadi Shab at dawn before the tour buses, and the water feels like it came from another country.
Even in town, you have the rituals. Al Mouj after 9 pm when the sea finally turns the fans on. A drive to Qurum Beach with the windows down, because night air is a blessing you don’t waste. Summer has gradients. We’ve mapped them since childhood.
Do I still avoid touching the car door at noon? Of course. That’s not surrender. That’s muscle memory. Do I still plan my parking like it’s a chess move? That’s heritage.
I’m not “embracing” the Omani summer like it’s a new trend. I was born into the embrace. It’s strict, it’s hot, and it’s ours. It clears the schedule, slows the noise, and reminds you that some things — family, timing, shade — are not up for debate.
When that first October breeze comes through the window at night, we don’t just feel relief. We feel, truly and deeply, like we’ve kept a promise. To the season, and to ourselves. Till next, enjoy summer.
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