THE MORNINGS WE KEPT
3 November 2026 — Thirty-eight years later
The morning of 3 November 1988 began like any other in Malé.
The sun had not yet risen. Most people were still asleep, while others were barely waking up to the familiar stillness of the early morning. Nothing suggested that this particular Thursday would be any different from the countless Thursdays before it.
Then came the distant gunfire.
At first, some people thought little of it. Republic Day was approaching on 11 November, and the National Security Service (NSS), now known as the MNDF, was expected to be preparing for the celebrations. Perhaps they were rehearsing for the procession. It seemed a reasonable enough explanation.
But the gunfire didn’t stop.
What initially sounded like a military rehearsal was beginning to sound like something far more sinister. Soon, people would learn that Malé was under attack by foreign mercenaries, aided by a handful of Maldivians, attempting to overthrow the government.
And just like that, an ordinary morning became a day that would remain in our history forever.
I wasn’t there to witness any of it. I was seventeen, living in Colombo, and my morning began with my Sri Lankan landlady frantically banging on my bedroom door. I have written about that experience before. The frightening news, the dead telephone lines, the uncertainty about my family’s safety, and the tremendous relief I felt when I finally heard my mother’s voice on the radio the following morning.
I have also written about how those memories eventually inspired me to write and direct the television drama 3 November.
So, I won’t repeat those stories again. Anyone who has been following my blog long enough has probably heard them more than once.
Today, however, I find myself thinking about something else.
What happened to all those ordinary mornings after 3 November 1988?
Thirty-eight years is a long time. Long enough for a child born that year to have children of their own, perhaps even old enough to complain about them spending too much time on their phones. Long enough for Malé to become almost unrecognisable from the little city I knew back then.
We have changed considerably. Our lifestyles, our politics, our priorities, and certainly our ability to argue about practically anything. These days, we don’t even have to leave our homes to pick a fight with someone. Social media has made that remarkably convenient.
But life has continued.
People went back to work. Children returned to school. Shops reopened. Families gathered around dinner tables. Weddings were celebrated. Babies were born. We laughed, cried, fell in love, lost loved ones, and carried on with all the little things that make up our lives.
In other words, we got our ordinary mornings back.
And I wonder how often we have stopped to appreciate that.
Every year, on 3 November, we commemorate Victory Day. We remember the bravery of our soldiers, the resistance against the attackers, and the timely intervention of India that helped bring the crisis to an end.
And rightly so.
But somewhere behind the celebrations, the flags, and the speeches are nineteen Maldivians who never got to see another morning. Eight members of our security forces and eleven civilians.
Nineteen lives.
I sometimes wonder about the families they left behind. What must 3 November mean to them, even after thirty-eight years? While the rest of the country celebrates a victory, they are reminded of someone who never came home.
I cannot pretend to know how that feels.
I was fortunate. Everyone in my family survived. When I finally heard my mother’s voice broadcasting from Voice of Maldives, I knew she was safe. And when I managed to contact home later that day, I learned that the rest of my family was safe too.
At seventeen, that was all I cared about. I wasn’t thinking about sovereignty, politics, or even the significance of what had happened. I just wanted my family to be alive.
Looking back, I realise how fortunate I was to receive the news I had been praying for. Others were not so fortunate.
Perhaps that is one of the things age does to us. We begin to look beyond our own experiences and think about the people whose stories ended differently.
I also wonder what 3 November means to the younger generation today.
For many of them, it is a chapter in a history book, a documentary on television, or simply a public holiday. They know there was an attempted coup. They know it failed. They know we celebrate Victory Day because of it.
But can they truly understand what it felt like to wake up one morning and discover that their country was under attack?
Probably not.
And in a way, I am glad they cannot.
I wouldn’t wish that uncertainty on anyone, especially our children. The fear of not knowing whether your family is alive is something I remember even after thirty-eight years. And I experienced it from the relative safety of another country.
Those who were in Malé that morning lived through something far worse.
Yet, I don’t think we should expect the younger generation to feel the same emotions we felt. That would be unfair. History means different things to different generations. What matters is that they understand what happened, why it happened, and what it cost us.
There is something else I have come to appreciate over the years.
We tend to think of peace as something permanent. We wake up, go about our business, complain about the weather, the traffic, the government, or whatever happens to irritate us that particular day. We make plans for tomorrow without really considering that tomorrow might not turn out the way we expect.
That is how most of us lived before 3 November 1988.
And then, before the sun had even risen, everything changed.
I suppose that is why I find myself increasingly drawn to the ordinary rather than the extraordinary whenever this anniversary comes around.
The people who defended our country that morning weren’t fighting for grand speeches or annual ceremonies. They were defending their homes, their families, and a country whose people deserved to live without the fear of armed men taking control of their lives.
Their sacrifice allowed the rest of us to continue living ours.
That, to me, is what makes the victory meaningful.
Not that everything has been perfect since. Far from it. We have had our share of political turmoil, disagreements, and difficult times. We are still a nation learning, sometimes rather painfully, how to live with our differences.
But thirty-eight years later, we are still here.
And life goes on.
Tomorrow morning, someone in Malé will probably oversleep. A parent will struggle to get a reluctant child ready for school. A shopkeeper will open for business. Someone will be annoyed about the ferry running late. And somewhere, two people will undoubtedly be arguing about politics before they’ve even had breakfast.
Nothing particularly remarkable about any of that.
But imagine what those ordinary moments would have meant to the people who woke up to gunfire on 3 November 1988.
Or to the nineteen people who never lived to see another morning.
I have written about this day many times over the years. At first, I wrote about my fear. Later, I wrote about the story that grew out of those memories. Today, at fifty-five, I find myself thinking less about what happened to me and more about what we were fortunate enough to have afterwards.
The years. The people. The little moments we rarely give much thought to until something threatens to take them away.
Every 3 November, I remember that frightened seventeen-year-old boy in Colombo, desperately trying to hear a familiar voice through the static of a radio.
But today, I also think about the nineteen people whose families never received the reassurance I was fortunate enough to get.
We call it Victory Day, and it was indeed a victory. One that came at a terrible price.
Perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay to those who lost their lives is not merely to remember how they died, but to appreciate what their sacrifice allowed the rest of us to keep.
Our families. Our homes. Our tomorrows.
And all those ordinary mornings we have lived since.
May we never take another one for granted.
May Allah bless our beloved Maldives with lasting peace, unity, and prosperity. May He protect our nation from harm, guide our leaders with wisdom and integrity, and keep our people united despite our differences. May He grant the martyrs who sacrificed their lives for our nation the highest ranks of Jannah, and may our children inherit a country where peace, justice, and compassion always prevail.
Aameen.
In remembrance of the nineteen Maldivians who lost their lives on 3 November 1988, and with gratitude to everyone who defended our nation that day.
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