A Story Born in the Sands of Arabia

It all started…

Five years ago, when I lived in Muscat, Oman.

Known as the “Pearl of Arabia,” this Middle Eastern country redefined my understanding of the Arabian peninsula, the cultures, and, most importantly, the people. I owed my knowledge regarding this region to the news I saw and the articles I've read. As ignorant as it may have been, it was the status quo for many other members of my generation. I had arrived without a hint of the Arabic language, and inexperienced in the ways of their customs. However, the kindness of the locals and my relentless curiosity overruled any discomfort. 

  I forced myself to reach out to anyone willing to teach a foreigner, in the hopes that someone will meet me halfway. Luckily, many people did in many different settings. It was with the people who greeted me in my daily shifts, the bystanders in remote villages proudly showing the wadis of their ancestral homes, workers in souks who wanted nothing more than a conversation, citizens enjoying their summer days by the sea, and amongst friends who were eager to show the magic of experiencing an Arabian night, that I learned about how small my problems were in a world that stopped for no one. They were a stark reminder of the endless opportunities of how to find happiness in the things we often overlooked. Such as having water to drink, the luxury of keeping a loyal friend, and the peacefulness that came while sitting under the shade during hot afternoons.

   Most importantly, I was repeatedly taught about the value of sharing stories and the lessons that came with them. From learning about how a camel can find water in a desert to the relevance of stoicism in both ancient and modern times, the stories that have lasted through generations can quickly grow from teaching a child how to be responsible to a philosophy capable of helping someone solve any problem.

  “The best thing for us to do is to try and make sure that our children avoid the mistakes we could not.” Salim, told me.

  We met during my first week in the country while learning the ropes of my new job. We worked for the same company but he’d been employed much, much longer. Salim was used to men like me; curios, overzealous, and spoke too much about things that mattered little. Having seen the changes that this region underwent through the years since he was a child, there was no question he couldn’t answer about his country. He smiled at the idea of teaching another foreigner a thing or two about his way of life, hugging me when I informally stated that I wanted to learn about his country. Salim became a mentor and did his best to fill that role despite having no obligations to me. However, I noticed that he wasn’t much of a traditionalist. For example, I’ve never seen him wear a dishdasha or a kumma even when every other local in our workplaces donned them on. Also, I wore them for a couple of days in the desert. He settled for jeans, slippers, and whatever t-shirt worked well with the weather. The saying “never judge a book by its cover” came to mind.

  It was during the first few days of Ramadan when this project took its place in my mind. Salim had asked if I wanted to join him for Iftar, the moment after sunset, when Muslims can finally break their day-long fasts. Like any other aspiring writer, I said yes. He brought me to a local restaurant where he said I could “dine like a true Omani and discuss matters good for the soul.”

   “How do we do keep them from making mistakes if that’s how experience is earned?” I asked after he ordered our meal. “The only way to learn is to experience it all. Good and bad.”

  We shared a giant plate of camel meat, stewed with an ample amount of garlic and onions, placed on a bed of biryani rice. I devoured it all with delight. To my surprise, the camel was almost identical to steak! We sat on one of many carpeted rooms, decorated with the pictures of the Sultan and what I was told to be verses from the Quran. All around us, families and friends shared their meals, praying, and thanking Allah for the opportunity to eat. People spoke in both english and arabic but I also heard the distinct accents of french and spanish. Everyone conversed in a symphony of laughter and excitement, contrasting my naive understanding of the citizens of the Middle East. Apart from the soda bottles by our feet and both our western clothing, a photograph of this scene could pass as a picture in my history books.

   “Well, we don’t keep them from making a choice to make a mistake. We can’t prevent children from doing anything bad. Otherwise, all these wars would’ve stopped after the first. Like every family, we want peace and to share what we have with the world so people can rejoice! We teach our children this but there are evil men who desire more. So all we can do is try. Try to teach how to live a good life despite the evil that shames peace.” He said, with the slight hint of a break in his voice. A server entered our stall and placed fresh fruits where our empty plates once had been. Salim smiled and broke away from the traumatic conversation.

   “I will teach you many things about the Quran and how Islam should be practiced,” Salim told me between bites. “It is not what you see in the news. Those terrorists are not Muslim. They are just like the many tyrants from history who used religion to take power. Tell me, if your people terrorized the world today in the name of religion, would you count them as your brothers or sisters?”

   I don’t count myself as a religious person, but I understood what he meant and shook my head.

   He then pulled a pen and piece of paper from his pocket and wrote a word.

حكمة

  “Hikma.” He said almost to a whisper. “This, in English, means wisdom. But for my people, it is an order by Allah. Would you like to know what He told us to do?”

  “Of course.” I said.

  “It means we must leave our home, go out to the world, learn about every culture, every person, everything they do. All the good and all the bad. We must take it all in, hold on to it, and don’t fear what may happen.” He stared at me with piercing brown eyes, and his tone changed. Like a mentor, teaching the secret to live forever. 

  “Never turn away an opportunity to learn something, John. Once you have done this, you must return back to your home. Wherever it is. And teach what you’ve learned to your people. All the good and all the bad. That is your duty. That is Hikma.”

I nodded, mesmerized, and unaware that this one word will shape how I lived the rest of my life. 

All of us can benefit from this teaching, and many of us have already practiced this form of philosophy. This project, The Voices of a Generation, was created to bring the profound knowledge of every individual in the light of creating a more perfect future.