Oman Mosque Attack: An Indian Expat's Tribute to the Secular & Inclusive Nation

Even though violence is a harsh reality in today's world, the Oman mosque attack seems surreal and unimaginable.

'It was the summer of 1988 – and the month of Ramadan – when we moved to Oman's capital city Muscat with an infant and a toddler.'

(Illustration: Aroop Mishra/The Quint)

Almost 35 years ago, when my husband was offered a job in Oman's capital city Muscat, we looked it up on the map. The West Asian country, bordering Saudi Arabia, Yemen and the UAE, looked like a crooked smile just across the Arabian Sea. 

I was then teaching at Symbiosis, and my husband worked in the IT department of an automobile manufacturing giant, in Maharashtra's Pune – the city that had been our home for nearly five years.

It was the summer of 1988 – and the month of Ramadan – when we moved to Muscat with an infant and a toddler. We took the plunge despite some apprehension of living in a monarchy that had a history of bloody coups and tribal wars, but then had started progressing in the seventies.

Talking of first impressions, the country and the people immediately seemed welcoming. The airport was spotlessly clean, the staff courteous, and the roads that led us into the city that would become our home for 30 years were wide. The predominantly white houses on the way, the stunning mosques, and the turquoise sea winking at us at every turn stole our hearts. The sea of white dishdashas and black abayas dotted with colourful dresses looked strange at first, but charming. 

Over the next three decades, Oman turned out to be the most peaceful, apolitical, and beautiful country ever for my family. That is why when I heard about an attack in a mosque, Oman was the last place on earth I imagined for the tragedy to have taken place. Even though violence is a harsh reality in today's world, the shooting seemed surreal and unimaginable – like a stain on the purity of the country.

Even the names of places in Oman sound like poetry – the Rub' al Khali sand desert; the beach towns of Yeti, Qantab, and Qurum; the market areas of Ruwi, Al Khuwair, the old city of Muttrah and finally Wadi Kabir – where the abominable shooting took place.

Building a Community

Wadi Kabir, a bustling middle-class neighbourhood in Muscat, is where I took my first job as a secondary schoolteacher at a government school run by the Ministry of Education. Most of my students were daughters of policemen, fishermen, and government workers. There were the odd disciplinary issues, even a random racist comment here and there, but nothing that either some sternness or a smile and some Bollywood chitchat could not solve.

When I found out about the shooting at the Ali bin Abi Talib Mosque in Wadi Kabir on a family WhatsApp group, my first instinct was to verify the news. I was in denial – it couldn't be Wadi Kabir, I thought.

As the news sunk in, I spoke to my former Omani colleagues. A friend and former colleague who was at the mosque attending a Muharram majlis on that fateful night had barely escaped. She recounted over the phone how she heard the gunmen shooting indiscriminately into the parking lot. I could sense the disbelief in her voice as was in mine.

At least nine lives were lost – and 30 others were injured – in the terror attack. The ISIL has claimed responsibility for the shooting. To hear that the mindless violence had touched Muscat, a city we worked and lived in, and where our two children went to school without any of us ever experiencing fear, was perplexing. At the same time, memories of Muscat came flooding back. 

The time spent with our close-knit Indian community built over the years in which our children were raised, cared for, and pampered. The unwavering support offered to working moms. The opportunities for men to thrive in diverse, multicultural workplaces. 

Secular and Inclusive

Even today, Indians are the second largest diaspora group in Oman after Bangladeshis. As of November 2023, around 6.8 lakh Indian-origin people live in Oman, according to the Indian Embassy in Muscat. 

During Eid, we spent our time with our Pakistani, Indian, and Omani friends. There were mildly embarrassing – and hilarious – moments when our male Indian friends would put their hand forward for a handshake to an Omani lady who would then sheepishly say a Salam Alaykum. We took some time to learn the ways, but it was always pleasant and friendly.  

Some years, we observed a fast for a day during Ramadan in unison with the locals, then feasted on iftar in the evening – always with the smiling face of Sultan Qaboos bin Said looking benevolently down at his progressive country.

Apart from mosques at every other corner, Muscat has two beautiful temples, two gurdwaras, and a church. We celebrated Shivaratri, Ganesh Chaturthi, and Janmashtami with our other Indian friends. We went for midnight mass and church fairs. Every Gurpurab, we took home langar for the next day’s meal.

Over the years, my Omani colleagues became my dearest friends – and continue to be so. Smart, respectful, and intelligent as professionals; kind, fun, and generous as friends.

If they heard about my parents visiting us from India, they would send all kinds of food to help me with my housework – at times, there was so much that I would invite other friends to share it. When Omani inspectors would come to oversee the progress of classes every month, they would sometimes be apologetic for writing reports for Indian teachers, saying they learnt English from us expatriates.

The Untouched Beauty

There's a lot to be said about the country's scenic landscape.

Despite the high temperatures, we went on a picnic every weekend. We learnt how to beat the heat by finding those shady areas and barbecue spots on every beach or at every park.

We also had many other incredible experiences – the thrill of the desert safari and the dune bashing at Wahiba Sands. Spending a night at Ras al Hadd to watch turtles nesting and laying eggs, and then as baby turtles hatched at dawn, watching them totter to the sea. Driving to Salalah in the southern part of Oman and watching the geysers shoot up at Al Mughsayl Beach. The wadis of Nakhal and Quriyat, the falajs’ winding through fields to provide irrigation, the forts with their history, the souqs with their charm and handicrafts, and the heady fragrance of frankincense and the Omani kahwa.

For me, when I listen to the John Lennon song – "Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do, nothing to kill or die for and no religion too... Imagine all the people living in peace” – it was, is, and will be only Oman that comes to my mind.

(Preet Sethi is an English schoolteacher who taught in Oman for 25 years. She now lives in Chandigarh. This is an opinion piece. The views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)