Return to Oman - Part 2

RETURN TO OMAN – Part 2

Khadra, 1982-84

In Part 1, I described my first year in Oman, at Liwa, where the conditions were primitive and I had suffered. Perhaps the only way to escape the abominable teachers’ quarters was to get the Education Department’s permission to bring my family to Oman. That would entitle me to rent a house, and the department would pay the rent. I also requested a transfer to a school in an area closer to the capital, Muscat. When I returned after the summer vacation, I had been posted to Abdullah bin Abbas school, in Khadrah, much closer to Muscat. Till my wife Fawzia and son Roy arrived later in the year, I shared a teachers’ quarters room at nearby Suwaiq with fellow Sri Lankan Emil Fernando.

The entrance to what used to be Abdullah bin Abbas school in Khadra, as seen in November, 2017. The school has been renamed.

Khadra, although a small settlement, had a more sophisticated population than remote Liwa, perhaps because of its proximity to Muscat. The students were better behaved, and no one attempted to escape through a window. None rode a donkey to school. Instead, they came by minibus or pick-up. Corporal punishment was unnecessary. The headmaster was a tough Palestinian, so the Egyptian teachers were kept in check. The main highway from Muscat to the Emirates was only a few meters from the school.

I checked Fawzia’s old passport, and it shows that she and Roy arrived in Oman on 10 December 1982. Roy was 9 years old. This was their first time abroad. On the drive from the airport, after watching the landscape for a while, almost the first thing Roy said was “I want a camel”. I promised him a donkey instead.

What a relief it was to have a home and my family together. The home wasn’t much; just one bedroom, kitchen, toilet, a dining/sitting area where we also placed a single bed, and a dusty open verandah, where the sofas were placed. The furniture was supplied by the Education Department. Miraculously, we had 24-hour electricity, and two window air conditioners were also supplied. The highway ran about 100 meters from the house, so the traffic noise was constant, but we didn’t mind. At the back was a large farm, Omani owned and worked by Pakistanis. Another English teacher from the school, Ramachandran (Ram) from Kerala, lived in the flat above us with his bride Sudha. We also had two Egyptian families as neighbors. The nearest shop was a few hundred meters across the highway. A friendly Indian family, the Khataris from Bangalore, both husband and wife English teachers, lived near the shop. Their children Ashika and Akash soon became Roy’s playmates.

Roy with Ashika

The school bus would pick-me every morning for the short drive to the school. I liked my English teacher colleagues. In addition to my neighbor Ram, we also had a teacher from Pakistan, Fazel, and another from Jordan, Mohamed Al Hardy. Fazel was an interesting character.  Because his English competence was suspect, he was asked to teach only the lowest grades; yet, his class control was an embarrassment. Because he had a “Masters”, he was the highest paid among us. Although the butt of our jokes, he must have laughed all the way to the bank. Al Hardy, earnest but soft spoken, perhaps handled the classes best because of his fluent Arabic. My own Arabic speaking skills were improving, so class management became easier. I had been chosen to pilot a new edition of English for Oman, the textbook, and had regular classroom visits from the Chief Inspector of English.

Now, issues regarding nonnative speaker English teachers are openly discussed, and I realize that, back in the 1980s, Oman was a “melting pot” of these teachers. In addition to the Indians, Pakistanis, and the Sri Lankans, English teachers from Egypt, the Sudan, and Jordan had also been hired. Some accents, even for me, were jarring. I now wonder what the Omani students thought of us. Of course, Arabic had its own dialects. In Oman, where people hadn’t traveled outside their villages till recently, the saying was that a separate dialect was spoken every ten kilometers.

For the first time, Fawzia, Roy and I had foreigners for neighbors. The Indians were wonderful. Ram shared his car with me, and Sudha was fond of Roy, and he would disappear upstairs to enjoy her snacks. We also visited the Khataris often, and their Mazda was at my disposal, too. Mr. Khatari must have been at least 10 years older, and about a foot shorter, but he thrashed me at badminton every time. We began to enjoy Kerala and Karnataka cuisine; they seemed to like our curries, too.

The English teachers at Abdullah bin Abbas. Farida Niazi, Al Hardy, me, Mr. Said, the Sudanese headmaster, Ram, and Fazel. The girls’ school was separate, but Farida dropped in because it was a public holiday. May, 1983.

We were the only Sri Lankan family for hundreds of kilometers. This meant visitors. First, they were the Sri Lankan lady teachers from nearby teachers’ quarters, who came with their Asian friends. Then, I acquired a precious liquor permit, issued to non-Muslim professionals who resided with their families. I only drank an occasional beer, but got the permit at the request of friends who craved a drink in alcohol forbidden Oman. Sri Lankan men, looking for a home cooked meal and a cold beer, would drive a hundred kilometers for a visit. This meant busy weekends for Fawzia, but she never complained. The lady teachers understood her plight, and would occasionally take over the kitchen and do the cooking. So our home was filled with guests during the weekends and on public holidays.

Roy at Khadrah beach. The children from the fishermen’s houses rushed to pose. Cameras were rare those days.

Visitors. From left: Fawzia, Roy, Kumar Abeysekera, Lalith Edirisinghe, Emil Fernando & Jayakody. January, 1983

Fernandopulle, Mrs. Fdo’pulle (Senoha), Khadija, Fawzia, Mr. Jamaldeen, Swarna Samaraweera, Egyptian teacher, and Kuresha Jamaldeen. January, 1984

From left: Khadija, Fawzia Jurangpathy, Fawzia, Kuresha, and Swarna Samaraweera. January, 1983

Out of the blue, Roy, who had been quite healthy, became ill. Not having a hospital nearby, Fawzia and I were desperate with worry and felt very much alone. Our friend Emil Fernando came to our rescue, mentioning a Sri Lankan doctor he knew in Muscat, and made the introduction. We met Dr. Swarna Jayasinghe and her husband Tom Sheriffdeen. They both took time off from work, repeatedly, to consult medical specialists for Roy. We stayed with Swarna and Sheriff on our visits to Muscat, and they drove to Khadrah to see us. Sheriff drove us to the tourist sites in Muscat, and I recall seeing the Royal Palace, the corniche, and other sites with them.  Our families formed a close friendship which has lasted all these years. More about Swarna and Sheriff later.

With Swarna and Sheriff at their home in Muscat. March, 1983

With Fawzia, opposite the Royal Palace, Muscat. March 1983

Fawzia gave up her teaching career in Sri Lanka and came to Oman, hoping to find an English teaching job. She, like me, was an English trained teacher, and also had a BA by then. She was interviewed in Muscat some months after her arrival, and a letter of appointment was issued, to be handed over to the English Inspector of our region. However, the Inspector, perhaps the only nasty Sudanese we met, appeared annoyed, and had a long, angry telephone conversation with the Head of the English Unit. We could follow the gist of the conversation, and Fawzia wept, fearing she would not get the job. Finally, the Inspector relented and Fawzia was appointed to a primary school not far from home.

Fawzia in our simple kitchen.

In those pre-Internet, pre-cellphone days, life wasn’t hectic. Teaching didn’t consume much energy, and school was over by 2pm. So, the afternoons were spent on long naps, followed by the occasional game of badminton, visits to the Khataris, or TV. The most popular TV programs were Egyptian belly dancing, providing the only titillation for a hungry male audience, and the so called “free-style” wrestling. Wrestling was so popular that all of Oman came to a standstill, even the traffic on the highway nearly coming to a stop, when wrestling aired on Friday afternoons. We watched Andre the Giant, Sgt. Slaughter, Pedro Morales, Hulk Hogan, Mad Dog and others beat the sh.. out of each other. It was mostly fake, but we didn’t know it then. Despite all that violence, the Omanis remained a mostly peaceful people. When Pedro Morales and Mad Dog visited Oman, crowds thronged the airport to welcome them. Sheriff was one of the first to greet them, and he has photographs to prove it.

My favorite photo from Oman. Our 10^th wedding anniversary, January 1983. Mrs. Khatari baked a simple cake; Mr. Khatari took the photo.

We also had a VCR, mainly to watch Hindi movies that our Indian friends lent us. In addition to the old classics like Madhumati, Aradhana, and Sangam, we also saw the latest releases, especially of Amitabh Bachchan, a rising star at the time. Even if we forgot the storylines, the lovely music stayed long in our memory. Nikaah, which starred the beautiful Pakistani teenager Salma Agha, who also sang the haunting songs, was a hit. I am listening to the CD as I write this and am overwhelmed with memories of our life in Khadrah.

A turning point in our lives occurred when we were on summer vacation in Sri Lanka in 1983. One day I opened the newspaper, and Fulbright scholarships to the USA were advertised. Because I no longer worked in Sri Lanka, I thought I didn’t have much of a chance. Yet, I was called for an interview and was later informed, after our return to Oman for the new school year that I had been selected for a scholarship. I was told to take the GRE before the decision could be confirmed. Till then, I hadn’t even heard of the GRE.

So, I visited the American Embassy in Muscat for information, to be told that the GRE was not conducted in Oman. However, an official told me “Why won’t you write to ETS and ask for a center in Oman?” ETS conducts the TOEFL, the GRE, and other tests required for entry to American universities. I didn’t have much hope, and, not having access to a typewriter, handwrote a note to ETS. Miraculously, they decided to hold the GRE for me in Muscat. Without any preparation or practice tests, I went to the appointed center (it was a private school) and sat all by myself in a large auditorium, taking the test, while the Principal supervised. One for my tombstone:  “He was the first to take the GRE from Oman”. Later, when serving on the TOEFL Test of Written English (TWE) Committee, I reflected on  what a long journey it had been.

Hamlin’s first visit to our home in Khadrah. He came with Sarath Jayawardena. See the bleak landscape in the background.

In 1984, Hamlin, Fawzia’s brother, came to Oman as a quantity surveyor. He came to Khadrah to visit us with Sarath Jayawardena, an old friend from my days at the University of Kelaniya, who came to Oman with me in 1981 to teach English. By now, he was a sub-editor at the Oman Observer newspaper. Hamlin’s arrival, and Sarath’s presence in Oman, proved to be a godsend later. More about Sarath later.

On 31 August 1984, Fawzia and I boarded a Gulf Air flight in Colombo. She got off at Muscat, with tears in her eyes, and I continued to London and Washington DC. I would see her again, in Sri Lanka, the following year, but she and Roy could join me in the USA only in 1987. On a scholarship, I could not support the families back home, so Fawzia bore the brunt of it, becoming the sole breadwinner, and spending three years in teachers’ quarters in Oman.

Postscript

1.      Sheriff worked for a car dealership in Muscat. Although he couldn’t tell “a carburetor from a radiator”, he was a born salesman. But he was more than that. To the Sri Lankan community, he was the unofficial ambassador, reaching out constantly to help. Sheriff helped them in immigration matters, in finding new jobs for those who had been fired, health issues (with Swarna’s help), but mainly in problems with the police. Sri Lankans abroad have a talent for getting in trouble, and, in Oman, it was Sheriff who came to their rescue. And how did he influence the police? With bottles of scotch, “liquid gold” in bone dry Oman. Being a Muslim, Sheriff could not get a liquor permit. So where did the scotch come from? From people like me. I only took the beer home from my own permit, handing over the scotch to Sheriff.

Later, Sheriff and Swarna emigrated to the USA, where they later split. Sheriff has returned to Sri Lanka, and now lives alone. From the many Sri Lankans he helped in Oman, only I visit him and look into his welfare.

Visiting Sheriff last week.

2.     Swarna came to the USA, obtaining a much sought after residency. Fawzia helped. According to Swarna, “when I decided to apply for a residency in the USA, Fawzia filled more than twenty applications for me. Because of her, I came to the States. After having my second son, Fawzia took time off to help me take care of him in 1992.” Swarna and Fawzia formed a close friendship. Swarna went onto become a successful cardiologist. Her older son is a lawyer in New York.

3.     Sarath Jayawardena worked for the Oman Observer newspaper for a number of years. When Fawzia resided at the teachers’ quarters in Suwaiq, for three years, he and Hamlin would drive from Muscat regularly for visits. Later, when I was in Hong Kong, he turned-up to subedit for the Hong Kong Standard newspaper, lived near the Chinese University where I worked, and became a regular visitor. If he had one obsession in life, it was to buy up as much land as possible in Tudella, for his grown children, and who didn’t need any help. Sarath died of cancer about ten years ago, and had told his family to “Inform only George Braine” of his illness, but they didn’t.

4.     Most of that teachers who went to Oman in 1981, and who appear in the photos above, are now gone. Emil Fernando and Kumar Abeysekera passed away earlier this year. Swarna Samaraweera is also no more. I haven’t heard from Jagath Soysa in years. The only person who is in touch in Kuresha Jamaldeen.

5.     I still remember the Khataris, and Ram and Sudha. I have written to their old addresses, and searched for them on the Internet, but nothing has come up. I would dearly love to see them, and Ashika and Akash, again.

6.     So, what did Oman bring us? Financially, not much. From the seven years that Fawzia and I jointly spent in Oman, we only have a house in Hantana to show. Most of our earnings went to support our immediate and extended families. We eventually moved to the USA, from where I went to Hong Kong, to be followed by Fawzia.

Some English teachers stayed on in Oman for 15 years or more, and Fawzia and I could have done the same. Perhaps our lives may have been better. I have two secondary school classmates in Sri Lanka who have always lived within 30 km of where they were born. They seem happy. Have all my wonderings made me a happier person?

This concludes the first two parts of “Return to Oman”. My narrative of the visit to Oman in November, 2017, will follow.