A town between the tides
At the far edge of Dhofar Governorate, where the Arabian Sea exhales onto a rugged coast, sits Mirbat. Part seaport, part ghost, and yet, entirely unforgettable. A place that was once connected by the pulse of trade winds, now quietly succumbs to time. It is not a destination built for tourism. It is a settlement that breathes in its own rhythm: slow, salt-worn, and softened by the mists of Khareef.
The road towards Mirbat
The weight of silence
Stillness in Mirbat feels deliberate. The streets of the old quarters bend without logic, as if they are following memory instead of maps. Some homes are collapsed inwards, others miraculously intact. Looking in, the light reveals the vestiges of life inside of them once lived. These homes lend themselves to daydreaming easily, allowing you to stand with the town in silence, imagining what life looked like.
Abandoned homes, Mirbat
Abandoned and inhabited homes, Mirbat
Street scene, Mirbat
Abandoned homes, Mirbat
Masjid al Rawdah in the back of the ruins, Mirbat
A place that doesn't perform
What draws me back to places like this, beyond the lens, beyond the stories, is how unconcerned they are with being seen. Mirbat doesn't cater to the gaze. It doesn't explain itself. Its power lies in its stillness, in the way it allows you to wander without a path, to document without disturbing.
It’s not a ruin. It’s not a museum. It’s a place that continues, quietly and defiantly. Half-living, half-remembering, and entirely real.
It’s not a ruin. It’s not a museum. It’s a place that continues, quietly and defiantly. Half-living, half-remembering, and entirely real.
House ruins, Mirbat
Al Noor Mosque, Mirbat
