when Sarah first put in on, she almost collapsed under the weight of it.
“Traditionally, a bride does not laugh during the wedding,” Sheikh Akbar whispered to her. He must have noticed the coins on her veil tinkling.
“I am not a traditional bride,” Sarah whispered back.
“But you are a very beautiful one, more beautiful than any princess. The henna is striking on your hands.”
Fatima had painted Sarah’s hands and feet with henna as part of the Laylat Al Henna ceremony. In the absence of her own family and friends, Fatima had also been responsible for all of Sarah’s bridal preparations. Once the henna dried, Sarah was amazed at how strong the elaborate orange designs showed up on her fair, white skin.
“Your mother tried to henna my hair as well, but I refused.” Sarah knew that the dye would turn her pale blonde hair into an orange mess and not the deep rich colour that the local women obtained when they dyed their black hair.
“No one will ever make you do something you don’t want to do and that’s good. Your hair is perfect as it is: gold like the desert sands.” Sheikh Akbar looked out beyond the encampment towards the empty desert ahead of them.
They sat outside, along with the rest of the tribe and their guests, on richly woven carpets that had been laid out in front of the camel-hair tents. To one side, large fires burned and roasted a huge number of goats, chickens, sheep, and camels for the wedding feast. The flames lit up the encampment and made the coins on Sarah’s clothes sparkle like the stars in the night sky above her.
“I’m sorry that your family isn’t here to share our happiness,” the sheikh said.
“I’m sorry, too.” Sarah wasn’t going to let it ruin her big day. “At least all of your family and friends are here, and your family is like my own now.”
Sarah had become very close to Fatima over the last few months. Her new mother-in-law acted more like a mother towards her than her own had ever done. Sarah had been mainly raised by a series of nannies and au-pairs, while her mother pursued a relentless round of dinners, parties, and social events. Then, as soon as Sarah was old enough, her parents packed her off to boarding school. On more than one occasion, her mother had made it clear that Sarah was an ‘accident.’ After Sarah was born, her mother made her father have an operation to ensure that no more ‘accidents’ took place. Sarah’s father, an overworked banker, had happily agreed.
“One day, your family will come here. I am sure of it,” Akbar reassured her.
“If it’s not in Hello magazine, my mother’s not interested.”
“What is this magazine called Hello ?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Not for the first time, Sarah was reminded of the cultural divide that lay between them even though she knew perfect Arabic and had already spent several years living in Yazan. “It’s good that so many of your guests have come,” she said to move the conversation away from her own side of things.
“It is. These people realise that I want peace among the Bedouin tribes. However, a lot of the warlords haven’t come.”
“Why? Why would they refuse to attend our wedding?”
“They worry that I’m like my older brother, Sheikh Omar. He was a great man, but he ruled by the sword. I’ve only ruled the Al-Zafirs for a short time and people have long memories. Now, we should pray for peace and listen to the imam.” He gestured towards the man in front of him and bowed his head.
When Sarah first saw the imam, the religious man conducting their wedding ceremony, she was astonished to see a young man in his early twenties with a light covering of facial hair that could hardly be called a beard. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but if a wizened old man with beady eyes and a wild mane of hair had appeared, she wouldn’t have been surprised. She guessed that cultural stereotypes ran deep no matter how much she tried to avoid them.
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“Traditionally, a bride does not laugh during the wedding,” Sheikh Akbar whispered to her. He must have noticed the coins on her veil tinkling.
“I am not a traditional bride,” Sarah whispered back.
“But you are a very beautiful one, more beautiful than any princess. The henna is striking on your hands.”
Fatima had painted Sarah’s hands and feet with henna as part of the Laylat Al Henna ceremony. In the absence of her own family and friends, Fatima had also been responsible for all of Sarah’s bridal preparations. Once the henna dried, Sarah was amazed at how strong the elaborate orange designs showed up on her fair, white skin.
“Your mother tried to henna my hair as well, but I refused.” Sarah knew that the dye would turn her pale blonde hair into an orange mess and not the deep rich colour that the local women obtained when they dyed their black hair.
“No one will ever make you do something you don’t want to do and that’s good. Your hair is perfect as it is: gold like the desert sands.” Sheikh Akbar looked out beyond the encampment towards the empty desert ahead of them.
They sat outside, along with the rest of the tribe and their guests, on richly woven carpets that had been laid out in front of the camel-hair tents. To one side, large fires burned and roasted a huge number of goats, chickens, sheep, and camels for the wedding feast. The flames lit up the encampment and made the coins on Sarah’s clothes sparkle like the stars in the night sky above her.
“I’m sorry that your family isn’t here to share our happiness,” the sheikh said.
“I’m sorry, too.” Sarah wasn’t going to let it ruin her big day. “At least all of your family and friends are here, and your family is like my own now.”
Sarah had become very close to Fatima over the last few months. Her new mother-in-law acted more like a mother towards her than her own had ever done. Sarah had been mainly raised by a series of nannies and au-pairs, while her mother pursued a relentless round of dinners, parties, and social events. Then, as soon as Sarah was old enough, her parents packed her off to boarding school. On more than one occasion, her mother had made it clear that Sarah was an ‘accident.’ After Sarah was born, her mother made her father have an operation to ensure that no more ‘accidents’ took place. Sarah’s father, an overworked banker, had happily agreed.
“One day, your family will come here. I am sure of it,” Akbar reassured her.
“If it’s not in Hello magazine, my mother’s not interested.”
“What is this magazine called Hello ?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Not for the first time, Sarah was reminded of the cultural divide that lay between them even though she knew perfect Arabic and had already spent several years living in Yazan. “It’s good that so many of your guests have come,” she said to move the conversation away from her own side of things.
“It is. These people realise that I want peace among the Bedouin tribes. However, a lot of the warlords haven’t come.”
“Why? Why would they refuse to attend our wedding?”
“They worry that I’m like my older brother, Sheikh Omar. He was a great man, but he ruled by the sword. I’ve only ruled the Al-Zafirs for a short time and people have long memories. Now, we should pray for peace and listen to the imam.” He gestured towards the man in front of him and bowed his head.
When Sarah first saw the imam, the religious man conducting their wedding ceremony, she was astonished to see a young man in his early twenties with a light covering of facial hair that could hardly be called a beard. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but if a wizened old man with beady eyes and a wild mane of hair had appeared, she wouldn’t have been surprised. She guessed that cultural stereotypes ran deep no matter how much she tried to avoid them.
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