A childhood journey through simplicity and joy
Published: 04:12 PM,Dec 22,2024 | EDITED : 08:12 PM,Dec 22,2024
5408910378_d3d65c7e1c_b
Let me take you back to my childhood in Oman in the 1980s, a time when life was beautifully simple, unhurried and filled with joy. The world we knew wasn’t filled with gadgets or bustling cities; it was a world built on community, tradition and a deep connection to nature.
Those days might seem distant now, but they remain a source of warmth and inspiration in my heart. Our mornings began early, well before sunrise. Life revolved around the house, the community, the farm, the village and the falaj that watered our farms. The simplicity of those mornings taught us lessons that no classroom ever could: teamwork, responsibility and respect for the resources that sustained us.
A few times a week, we attended Quran school, held in the local mosque, where we sat cross-legged, reciting verses under the watchful eyes of our teachers. When it was time to play, we didn’t have swings or slides, but we had something better: boundless imagination. We played traditional games, including hide-and-seek. We crafted toys from what we had. Old tires were turned into toy cars. Palm leaves became miniature boats. As the sun set, we gathered in the majlis, or living room, where my grandmother’s stories awaited. Her voice carried the weight of generations, weaving tales of mythical creatures.
Life in the 1980s was humble yet deeply fulfilling. We drank cool water stored in pottery pots, which kept it naturally chilled. Most homes had wells used for drinking, cooking, washing and watering plants. Washing carpets and blankets was done in the wadis. We often showered in the falaj (or in the wadi), the same flowing water that nurtured our crops. Shopping wasn’t the instant convenience it is today. Our village shopkeeper kept a small notebook where he recorded each family’s purchases. At the end of the month, my dad would settle the account. This trust-based system reflected the tight-knit nature of our community, where honesty was the unspoken rule. Our haircuts were a family affair. Grandfather would sit us down in the courtyard, scissors in hand, as he worked his magic.
Our school was a simple building with wooden desks and a chalkboard. Supplies were scarce, and a notebook or two were a prized possession. After school, we studied in the daytime as it was not convenient to study at night when there was not sufficient light. Some houses had electricity generators that they would turn on for a few hours during the day, especially at night.
Our diet was simple and natural. Fresh vegetables, fruits, fish, home-raised chicken, home-baked bread, and meats and milk from our goats formed the basis of most meals. These foods kept us healthy and strong, even as we ran, played and worked from dawn to dusk. Life followed the rhythm of the sun. We slept early and woke up early.
Looking back, my childhood in 1980s Oman feels like a treasure chest filled with moments of joy, lessons learned and bonds forged. We didn’t have gadgets or luxuries, but we had each other, our imagination and the natural beauty of our surroundings. Every chore, every game, every story was a thread in the fabric of a life lived fully.
As I watch Oman today, a modern, thriving nation, I feel immense gratitude for those formative years. They remind me that a fulfilling childhood isn’t about what you have but about the connections you build and the values you learn. The laughter, the lessons and the love of those days still resonate in my heart, a timeless message of simplicity and joy.
Those days might seem distant now, but they remain a source of warmth and inspiration in my heart. Our mornings began early, well before sunrise. Life revolved around the house, the community, the farm, the village and the falaj that watered our farms. The simplicity of those mornings taught us lessons that no classroom ever could: teamwork, responsibility and respect for the resources that sustained us.
A few times a week, we attended Quran school, held in the local mosque, where we sat cross-legged, reciting verses under the watchful eyes of our teachers. When it was time to play, we didn’t have swings or slides, but we had something better: boundless imagination. We played traditional games, including hide-and-seek. We crafted toys from what we had. Old tires were turned into toy cars. Palm leaves became miniature boats. As the sun set, we gathered in the majlis, or living room, where my grandmother’s stories awaited. Her voice carried the weight of generations, weaving tales of mythical creatures.
Life in the 1980s was humble yet deeply fulfilling. We drank cool water stored in pottery pots, which kept it naturally chilled. Most homes had wells used for drinking, cooking, washing and watering plants. Washing carpets and blankets was done in the wadis. We often showered in the falaj (or in the wadi), the same flowing water that nurtured our crops. Shopping wasn’t the instant convenience it is today. Our village shopkeeper kept a small notebook where he recorded each family’s purchases. At the end of the month, my dad would settle the account. This trust-based system reflected the tight-knit nature of our community, where honesty was the unspoken rule. Our haircuts were a family affair. Grandfather would sit us down in the courtyard, scissors in hand, as he worked his magic.
Our school was a simple building with wooden desks and a chalkboard. Supplies were scarce, and a notebook or two were a prized possession. After school, we studied in the daytime as it was not convenient to study at night when there was not sufficient light. Some houses had electricity generators that they would turn on for a few hours during the day, especially at night.
Our diet was simple and natural. Fresh vegetables, fruits, fish, home-raised chicken, home-baked bread, and meats and milk from our goats formed the basis of most meals. These foods kept us healthy and strong, even as we ran, played and worked from dawn to dusk. Life followed the rhythm of the sun. We slept early and woke up early.
Looking back, my childhood in 1980s Oman feels like a treasure chest filled with moments of joy, lessons learned and bonds forged. We didn’t have gadgets or luxuries, but we had each other, our imagination and the natural beauty of our surroundings. Every chore, every game, every story was a thread in the fabric of a life lived fully.
As I watch Oman today, a modern, thriving nation, I feel immense gratitude for those formative years. They remind me that a fulfilling childhood isn’t about what you have but about the connections you build and the values you learn. The laughter, the lessons and the love of those days still resonate in my heart, a timeless message of simplicity and joy.