There we were, sitting side by side on the majlis, a plain bench-like sofa running along all four walls of a bright sitting room, the old-style window air-conditioners buzzing against the heat. (Pronounced maj-liz, not “my lease,” I learned it means “a place of sitting” in Arabic, a symbol of hospitality, designed for face-to-face conversations, not doomscrolling, Netflixing, or WhatsApping.)
Before visiting my dear friend and former colleague at her family home in Barka, the coastal town popular with Omani commuters, I had sat on several majlis before, from luxurious, low-to-the-floor U-shaped sofas to simple cushioned benches that made even the smallest rooms feel big, warm and welcoming.
In Casablanca, I once broke the fast during Ramadhan on one with a big Moroccan family. Their apartment was lovely but tiny; if you stayed over and sneezed, or worse, everyone would probably wake up.
I also remember feeling squeezed beside more than ten Omani ladies on a majlis in a small room at a social housing home on Muscat’s outskirts that belonged to one of my husband’s late uncles. While they shared stories in Arabic and Swahili, I slipped into the next-door space to stare at the peeling tiger-print wallpaper.
On this particular sunny but sad afternoon, I sat on another majlis. I noticed a coffee table, a huge Persian-like carpet, and the shiny white floral seat covers. The room was plain but felt as though generations of women had been gathering there.
We had come to pay our respects as the family mourned the beloved man of the house. The three days of the Azza, the gathering for condolences and prayers, had passed. That afternoon, only six women were inside that Barka room.
One daughter sat across from us, trying hard to smile while silently saying what seemed to be prayers for her father’s soul. Her aunt went around with a traditional coffee pot and small cups, asking if we wanted kahwa, Omani brew. (Kahwa is on my list of Arabic words I will never try to pronounce again. Get one vowel wrong, and end up asking for a cup of a bad word.)
The three other Omani women sitting beside me happened to be among the masterminds behind work that has benefited tens of thousands of students across the country. One invented the electronic system still used by the Higher Education Admissions Centre, part of the Ministry of Education. It selects Omani scholarship applicants on the basis of school grades, regardless of their background.
The second, another daughter and the friend I had come to hug, runs the centre overseeing that system. She has devised so many out-of-the-box solutions. “I often smile because I love helping people,” she once said. Her late father must be proud.
Years ago, she and I came up with an idea to help Omani students who struggled to compete for scholarships because of the academic rigour of their international school qualifications, while allowing others to compete more effectively for existing scholarships. We named it the Direct Entry Scholarship.
The third woman on the majlis was my sister-in-law, who, even after retirement, is still working hard to help ensure that schools across the country offer quality education.
When I think of the late Sultan Qaboos bin Said saying that the country is like a bird that needs two wings to fly, one formed by males, the other by females, I picture these three Omani women, working tirelessly behind the scenes. Not every important job comes with a spotlight, in real life or on social media.
As the three of them talked about grief, misperceptions and health struggles, partly in Arabic, my thoughts wandered, as usual.
Subhan’Allah, I thought. My friend’s father had passed away peacefully, just like that, in her presence. I had cared for my dying father for months, yet when he passed away, I was in another room. Some say some souls need that space to leave their bodies. Also, at my father’s goodbye, we gave speeches and listened to his favourite music rather than gathering for an Azza.
And then, my mind was suddenly with the man outside my friend’s house who wore a fake Balenciaga T-shirt. My mum would have found that hilarious.
I also wondered whether that boy in Gaza had managed to rescue that kitten and remembered how, when one of my sisters’ cats died, the Italian veterinarian cried and said a prayer.
Focus! “Please promise me you will take bereavement leave,” I told my former colleague and dear friend, snapping out of my derailing train of thought. I knew it was not going to be easy to grieve a parent and work at the same time. Working while caring for my dying father had kept me sane but after he left this earth in physical form, it was not easy.
“I still have conversations with my mother every day,” my friend said.
I nodded as we sat there side by side on the majlis in the Barka room. Friends, former colleagues, and two daughters who had lost both parents, still hoping they were watching over us, not only for the work we had done behind the scenes as civil servants, but for the people we were trying to be.
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