After years of involvement with the Harasiis tribe on the edge of the Empty Quarter in Oman (Rub’ al-Khali) I was at last able to persuade three Harasiis women to be interviewed. I had already interviewed their fathers, husbands, and cousins and these interviews were posted on this website in 2012 and 2014. It was time to give women a voice. As this site was regularly viewed by members of the Harasiis tribe, I knew I could get true Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC). But I had not realized the accommodation and difficulties this would also create. My interviews with Harasiis males were often on a one-to- one basis, no bystanders interrupted and required few prompts on my part to keep the narrative flowing. With my women interviewees the recordings were not so straight forward or ‘clean’ from interruptions.

My first interview was with a Harasiis woman born in the early 1950s. She was a mother of eight children and too many grandchildren to count. She had spent most of her life living in the Jiddat al-Harasiis where campsites were built around the shade provided by an acacia tree, or later by tarpaulin thrown over fencing. She was a Harsousi speaker, one of six distinct non-Arabic, Semitic languages spoken in Oman and Yemen. When I first met her 45 years ago, she spoke only Harsousi and a few words of Arabic. By the time of this interview in 2024, her Arabic was much stronger, but she had trouble understanding my Arabic. Perhaps my intonation was odd to her. Throughout the interview her children and grandchildren regularly interrupted and restated my questions — in Arabic and Harsousi. She was interviewed at the azbah (mobile camel camp) of her youngest daughter.

My second interview was with a Harasiis woman born in the early 1970s. By the time we opened the first school in Haima, the tribal centre in the middle of the Jiddat at-Harasiis, she was considered too old to be enrolled, although her younger sisters and brothers did attend school. One of her brothers used his education well and became a representative of the entire governorate of Al Wusta, to the State Consultative Council. She was interviewed in her home — a low-lying villa in Haima- air-conditioned and well-furnished in the style that so many Harasiis homes in Haima admired. Like all the families in Haima, her family had an azbah which they visited as often as possible on weekends, holidays, and during school breaks.

My third interview was with a Harasiis woman born in the early 1980s. Educated through high school, intelligent, clever, and very much the ‘apple of her father’s eye’, she surprised me as we were setting up by only agreeing to an audio interview. No camera, she said. This was the smoothest of interviews as her responses were always on track, revealing much about the way in which life had changed. Even for her, she did not leave the desert and move into a villa in Haima until her early twenties, when she married. Fortunately, we were able to film her azbah, her family’s camels and goats, her children, nieces, and nephews, the marquee that most of the family sat under to chat and eat throughout the day. She also had a water bowser, a kitchen caravan, and a mobile ‘room’ with balcony and WIFI connection.

I asked all three of my women interviewees the same questions: what was life like in the past, how much has it changed today, and if they had three wishes, for what would they wish? I was surprised at how similar all three women respond to this last question. They all expressed wishes for good health, long life, and success for their children. I wondered how different the response would have been had I asked a woman on the street in London or another Western city.