forgetting bilad seet

Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy/ Feelin’ grips me, thoo an’ thoo;/ An’ I feels lak doin’ less dan enythin’;/ Dough de saw is sharp an’ greasy,/ Dough de task et han’ is easy,/ An’ de day am fair an’ breezy,/ Dar’s a thief dat steals embition in de win’.
Sprin’ Fevah, Ray G. Dandridge

Rashid bin Masood bin Saleh al Abri could have been a soothsayer with his kohl-lined eyes and thin smile, but has been a farmer and a businessman instead, living in the secluded village of Bilad Seet, wedged in a pocket of mountain. Over the last 57 years of his life he has seen enormous change take place, from the dirt road that now connects it to the outside world to the electric lines that mean you can sit in his majlis in air-conditioned comfort, your back to a wall that zigzags its way over the contours of the mountain. Nothing is straight in this 80 year old house.

In the old days, you would have to walk with your donkey to Al Hamra, on the other side of the mountain. Just look out of Rashid’s window to see how mammoth a task that is: hundreds of metres of sheer mountain cliff greet you. These are slopes so steep even the road now clawing into the mountain had to be patched with concrete around its worst curves – and which still are best survived on low ratio 4WD. That walk would usually start at 4am and end in Al Hamra at half-past two in the afternoon. Keep in mind that the mountain tribes can easily do double the distance a typical city slicker could hope to live through, or the same distance in half the time, or less.

Most of the 1,000-1,500 people – al Abris, Dohlis and Miyahis – who live here tend their fields, depending on water that flows through the year, channelled through an ancient falaj system that is still the life of the village. “There are nine eyes of water,” reveals Rashid, referring to the sources that empty into the irrigation channels. This is too large a settlement to depend on honey, unlike the Aufis of Gaffar. “Only one person used to breed bees, but he passed away – and now there is no more honey.”

Being an al Abri means that Rashid traces his lineage to Al Hamra, over the other side of the mountain, although the tribe can now be found in Misfat al Abriyeen, Wadi Sahtan and the slopes in-between. “People get tempted,” starts Rashid. “My ancestors from Dohli came to Bilad Seet 200 years ago to visit relatives – and stayed. Coincidentally, it is in such a way that the village got its name. It was originally called Sana’a, for the earliest settlers came from Yemen. A long time ago someone came to this village, but he forgot why he was here, or that he had to return – and so settled down. ‘Bilad’ means settlement, and ‘Seet’ comes from ‘Niseet,’ which means ‘to forget.’

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