A week of Muscatian encounters with people, in real life and on screen, as shared by the writer whose name many Omanis often pronounce as 'Bridge'.
Wednesday, November 4 – “I am an oncologist,” she explained, sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor in her black abaya. The Omani woman and her friend, also a doctor, had come to pay their respects after their colleague’s mother had just passed away.
Except for the lady doctor, most of us were sitting on chairs arranged in what looked like two living rooms for the azza, the three-day gathering following a death and the almost immediate burial. A woman was reciting verses from the Holy Quran into a microphone. “She is in a better place now,” one of her nieces whispered.
Everyone had come together to find comfort, or to provide it, and pray for this auntie’s soul. We were at her daughter’s house in Al Ansab, from where you can see the majestic Al Hajar Mountains.
As I watched my sister-in-law and other women sit with their palms turned upwards, some wearing small digital prayer counters around their fingers, quietly whispering to God, I wondered whether this auntie’s spirit had flown over those mountain peaks.
Similarly, I had once hoped that the souls of both my parents had crossed the Amstel River beside which their house stood. Each on a different day, in a different year. Maktoob.
This afternoon, on the other side of the living room, sat a cousin of my husband, talking about her retirement as a science educator and her distant cat. “You want one of ours,” I quietly joked, sensing there was room for lightness amid the sadness and prayers as another lady was showing beautiful black-and-white wedding photographs taken in Africa years ago.
I asked the oncologist, still sitting on the big white carpet, if she wanted to take my chair. “I am fine,” she said, politely shaking her head. My niece asked whether her job was emotionally difficult. She replied that it was emotionally rewarding instead.
An Omani Arab Muslim woman specialised in cancer treatment. Eat that, Mr Robert F Kennedy Jr, with your false claim that there were “500 million Arabs in the world and yet they produced no science” because you did not want Abdul El Sayed, who now refers to himself as a senator who happens to be a Muslim, to successfully campaign for the US Senate.
Back to the azza: The woman who had passed away was not only a mother to two doctors, an engineer and a teacher, but also the sister of the special lady sitting beside me. One of her closest friends was holding her hand. I recognised the gesture as an expression of protection and affection between two women, particularly when one has become more vulnerable than her younger self.
It reminded me of the photographs and videos of my mother’s best friend holding her hand in places they loved in Paris, London and Amsterdam, as my mum became more frail. Eventually, they were holding hands beside her bed in the house by the Amstel, from which she eventually departed.
This afternoon, like the doctor, I was wearing a black abaya, too, one I rarely wear because it makes me feel sad but I felt I should wear black to an azza. I remembered one of my Dutch ‘sisters’ wearing a red suit to my father’s farewell service. It was raining, and her umbrella kept collapsing as if she was getting punished, making us laugh amid the sadness. We even said “Sorry!” to my dad.
At this azza, some women wore colours, too, particularly those who had known the woman personally. I wondered whether that said something rather lovely about the person who passed away.
Although I had heard a lot about this auntie, I only recalled one meeting. At my malka, the religious part of a wedding, she stood in front of me, smiled and showered me with several hundred baisa notes, happy that my stubborn husband had finally found someone he actually wanted to marry.
Earlier that Wednesday afternoon: On the drive to the azza, I had got caught in traffic while the BBC spoke about Republican defeats becoming apparent in the US mid-term elections and Trump’s claim that this was because he was not on the ballot. “Did he not initially encourage people to pretend he was?” I said out loud, alone in the car.
The BBC also mentioned that Bibi had said his elections had “been stolen by Arab parties”. “What chutzpah for him to say that, after what they stole from Arabs,” I said to myself. Chutzpah is a Yiddish word I learned from friends in Amsterdam and means audacity or shameless nerve.
While driving, I felt a little hesitant about entering a room full of women, particularly when they were mourning. This says nothing about their energy towards me. You usually get your cheeks squeezed, a long tap on your shoulder, or someone holding your hand, whatever the occasion.
I just have this tendency to notice everything and everyone at once, but somehow fail to take in the whole room. Instead, I find a few faces to settle on. In this case, it was the daughter of the departed and my two sisters-in-law, who were superwomen, supporting all the other ladies on this sad occasion.
This was also the second azza where my thoughts tended to wander off, as though my mind were producing precisely the opposite of what the moment called for.
I guess I need to learn how to pray while seated in a room full of women.
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