Finding maktoob far from home

I went to a Christian high school in Buitenveldert, Amsterdam, but apart from Religious Studies, there was little that was particularly religious about it. In those days, one of my friends had a Yemeni Jewish mother and a Dutch Jewish father.

With her sleek dark hair, big dark brown eyes and warm olive complexion, Sharon looked Arab, like her mother, who had once been this famous Arab singer from Yemen but happened not to be Muslim.

In terms of her personality, my friend was very Dutch in an almost pragmatic, matter-of-fact way. She always reminded me of my now late father, with whom I once sat on the jetty that was part of his garden by the Amstel River, gazing at the sky, as he warned me not to dream too big, as I might end up standing in a long queue.

At that point, thanks to her upbringing, Sharon knew far more about religion than I did. My now late mother had always believed in God, but their relationship was a very private one.

“You are someone who is still in search of your beliefs,” Sharon once told me. It turned out my friend did not understand me very well, as she had also always imagined me marrying someone who was Dutch, or at least European, not Muslim, and into the arts and haute cuisine, just like my parents were.

One day, a speeding vehicle tragically struck the car of my friend’s young cousin on the street.

Years later, while she was studying in Paris, I visited Sharon in her little flat in one of the outer arrondissements, at the top of several steep stairs.

As we sat in her tiny room around a small table stacked with French books and shopping bags, she complained about her very involved, slightly guilt-tripping but caring mother, who called her several times a day.

That evening, we also spoke about literature, life, love and politics, the latter being a topic that would eventually break up our friendship years later.

The terrible accident involving her young cousin came up as we sat at that small table somewhere in Paris.

My friend used the tragedy to explain that, even though her cousin had been so young and deserved better, it was destined to happen to her, beyond anyone’s control. She also explained that this belief had made it easier for her to accept the fate of her young cousin.

Not sure what to make of the meaning of such a terrible fate, and not yet fully understanding the concept either, I remember asking challenging questions about choices, like the choice to drive, to take another turn, and to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But years later, as Sharon seemed to slowly lose her religion, and being Jewish seemed to have become more of an ancestral and cultural identity that she kept rather than a faith, I was introduced to the concept of Destiny by my now many Muslim family and friends.

I started to feel that I had, at some level, always felt what “Maktoob” meant, which literally means “written”.

I recently used the concept when a young Omani lady who is very close to me got engaged. She told me that, unknown to her and her now future husband when they first met and fell in love, they later learned that their grandmothers had been close friends.

“Maktoob,” I said, as the future bride, Arusa, smiled and nodded while sitting next to me on a yellow sofa somewhere in Muscat.

One person even said that Muslims believe that people who meet and love each other in this life have already met in a world of souls before they were born.

This made me wonder whether this was why their grandmothers had been friends, and whether they, at some deeper level, had recognised each other when they met.

I love to dream about this romantic idea, as unlike my school friend Sharon and my own father, I have never been that Dutch, with their matter-of-fact, grounded way of looking at things.

I guess that is how it was meant to be, and perhaps that is why I found my way to Oman.

Maktoob, they said.