Let's talk about marriage

Marriage is everyone's favourite topic in Sudan, followed closely by food, football and WWE.

Yes, you read right .... the popularity of the theatrical and kitsch world of professional wrestling may have waned elsewhere, but here in Sudan it still reigns supreme. 

Much like the flamboyant displays of wrestling prowess, Sudanese weddings are also a spectacle to behold.

Bound by a fascinating series of rituals and unique traditions, weddings are a central element of life here and unsurprisingly one's marital status is the first line of enquiry whenever meeting someone for the first time.  

Usually you're barely past the shaking hands stage before someone fires that blunt, inescapable question:

“Married?” 

Since arriving here I have been subject to an odd variety of marriage proposals - some joking, some half-serious - often accompanied by spontaneous confessions of love within days or even moments of meeting. 

One colleague told me that although he already had two wives, they displeased him and were too lazy to help him tend to his henna bushes. 

Would I be interested? 

On another occasion one ministry official lamented long and hard about his search for love in Sudan and his inability to find 'the one'. 

After dropping none-too-subtle hints throughout the conversation, he finally asked if he could
“enjoy” me.

I later discovered that the man in question already had two wives and several children - a fact strangely ommitted from his soliloquy on love. 

It is a tiring - and at times annoying aspect of life here that discussions with the opposite sex often centre around probing marital questions laced with awkward sexual undertones.

Local women on the other hand are more likely to embrace me in their conspiratorial girly fold, confessing heartache, romantic ideals, seduction techniques and secret loves.

This has afforded me a fascinating insight into the often complex protocols that go along with marital arrangements here in Sudan. 

Many women I have met are pragmatic about the notion of marriage. They want children and financial security, and romantic love is not necessarily a priority.

“There is freedom in marriage,” one young woman tells me.

A recent university graduate, she says that she has been unable to find work in her hometown. 

She wants to travel to Khartoum and search for work there, but her family has forbidden it as they do not want her moving away or abandoning her domestic responsibilities.

“A lot of Sudanese women want to get married because they are chasing the money - and I am one of them,” she says frankly.

She believes that once she is married she will be able to work and live more freely.  

“I want to be able to travel. It is my dream; at the moment I am trapped in this house.” 

Curiously she dismisses my questions about the possibility of marrying an unsuitable match or that marriage itself may also limit her personal freedoms and ambitions. 

Her elder unmarried sister, who is sitting nearby, concedes that she is increasingly worried about her own marriage prospects as she becomes older. 

However, unlike her sister she wants to marry for love and is not willing to compromise on that. 

“It is my life. If there wasn't love, I couldn't live with him,” she says. 

When it comes to marriage, many families literally prefer to 'keep it in the family', arranging unions between cousins or other near relatives. 

At the very least marriage should be between members of the same tribe and social class.

In rural areas in particular, marriage outside this close-knit fold is frowned upon or at best considered highly unusual. 

Marriage negotiations are typically carried out by the parents of the couple and it is the man that must make the initial approach.

One friend of mine fears that she will ultimately be prevented from marrying the man she loves as his family is pressuring him to take a female relative as his bride. 

She keeps the relationship a secret from her own family and constantly worries about the future of their relationship.

Another friend met her husband-to-be on a bus while returning to her hometown. A devout Muslim, who wears the niqab, exposing only her eyes, Nagla refused his request to give him her phone number even though in her heart she wanted to see him again. 

In the end, he gave her his phone number, but on the advice of her family she never called.

Despite her reticence, Nagla continued to think of him and nine months later he finally tracked her down. 

The engagement was finalised after negotiations between the families and Nagla revealed her face to her suitor for the first time.

She concedes that her engagement is unusual in that her husband-to-be is from a different city and the two families were unknown to each other. 

However, despite this rather unconventional beginning, she says her family have been largely supportive of her decision.

“A lot of girls are too shy to admit to their fathers that they love this man and that this is what they want,” she tells me. 

“I have always been honest. My father respects my decision and didn't try to stop me, but he said I had to be sure because at the end of the day, I will be the one who will have to live with him.”

For all of her obvious affection for her husband-to-be, Nagla has seen him briefly just a handful of times since theat first chance meeting on the bus and they have never been alone in each other's company.

According to Sudanese custom, the man is required to pay a sizeable bride price before the wedding can go ahead. This covers wedding costs, jewellery, bridal accessories, perfumes, makeup, shoes and clothes.

“The woman brings herself to the wedding; that is all,” a male colleague tells me wryly.

For this reason, men tend to marry at an older age when they are more financially secure, while women can marry much earlier - even in their teens. 

It was a shocking revelation to discover that some of my students included teen brides - some of whom were married off as young as 12. 

All the Sudanese women I have spoken to have told me that women now have veto rights over any marriage proposal, however, that being said, I can't help wondering how much awareness a teenager would have about the realities and possible impacts of such a decision on their future. 

Ed Damer remains an incredibly insular society and contact with the outside world is scarce or via textbook and films. 

For many people the existence of different languages, cultures, faiths and lifestyles is a completely abstract - even alien concept. 

Many of the teachers were openly surprised when I told them that in the West near relatives are hardly considered a prize catch - never mind the fact that adult-teen relationships are a criminal offence. 

I find personal discussions about marriage and relationships particularly tricky in Sudan - I am torn between being open about myself and attitudes in the West and staying silent for fear of offending or shocking. 

Sometimes I wish I could speak more freely, without the need for constant self-censorship, but more often than not I find myself opting for the latter approach.

I briefly attended my first Sudanese wedding in Bagarawiyah during Eid celebrations in October. 

I had never met the bride and groom before, who were relatives of a friend of mine - but that's of minor significance, because in Sudan at least there's no such thing as a gate crasher...it's more the merrier!

We arrived late, but just in time for the dancing - or rather shoulder shaking and finger clicking. 

Wedding celebrations in Sudan generally continue for about three days, but preparations begin months in advance.

Women are subject to a punishing beauty regime prior to their 'big day' - the most unique of these rituals being dokhan - daily smoke baths, which a bride continues for up to two months. 

As part of the process, the woman must cover her naked body with a blanket and sit over a small hole in the ground containing the burning embers of talih a fragrant acacia wood that gives the skin a yellow glow and alluring musty smell.

The bride's body hair will also be removed using a special mixture of sugar and lime juice heated to form thick, caramelised paste, rather like a traditional body wax.

The Sudanese equivalent of the hen's party is the El-hinna or henna party. 

Friends and family gather to dance, eat sweets and sing traditional wedding songs, all to a soundtrack of women's celebratory wailing, known as zagreet.

The occasion marks the first time the woman's hands and feet will be decorated in henna, which is the symbol of a married woman in Sudan. 

Covering the bride's fingertips and the entire soles of her feet, the elaborate designs often continue on her her ankles and forearms. 

After marriage it is the woman's responsibility to continue this procedure and ensure the henna remains fresh. 

A friend once told me that if a married woman allows her henna fade for reasons other than a family bereavement, people will start to gossip that there are problems in the marriage or that she is unhappy. 

Although I initially found the constant marital banter intrusive and irritating, I have come to accept its central position in the fabric of society. 

I even enjoy learning more about the intricate customs of marriage - snippets and small details revealed during conversations with friends over a cup of tea or meal. 

Although, as they keep telling me, I'll have to fatten myself up first if I'm to have any chance of having my own Sudanese dream wedding.

Apparently big really is beautiful in Sudan! 

Gatespotting...you just have to try it!

Perhaps it’s the lack of regular tourist “attractions” or social entertainment…but I have recently developed a rather strange liking for a new past-time: gatespotting. 

Ehhh, shinu?

What? 

In Sudan front entrances are typically marked by colourful, metal gates, bordering on the kitsch.

They feature an assortment of designs from flowers to birds, vines, hearts and other abstract shapes.

And there’s no doubt about it, the Sudanese are definitely gate proud. The general rule seems to be the louder the better.

In fact, I’ve yet to find an identical design…and trust me I’ve looked at quite a lot of gates.

They make for an incongruous splash of colour amidst the mud-brick houses of Ed Damer, which seem to have sprouted out of the brown, flat, dusty landscape.

These days I’ve developed the habit of getting off the bus a couple of stops early or detouring on my walk home from work just to discover new designs.

It’s also been a good way of discovering new corners of the neighbourhood, not to mention amusing the locals, who are not exactly in the habit of going out for a stroll just for the sake of it.

I practice my pidgeon Arabic with the curious kids who sometimes follow me, while turbaned men on depressed looking donkeys wave as I pass.

Everyone always asks where I am going. They can’t believe that I am just wandering without an actual destination in mind.

Could this new past-time take off or do I just have too much time on my hands? *Discuss*

In any case…here’s a selection of my discoveries…

Home sweet home... and the best gate of all! ;p

Handicrafts and heartache

Henna set

I was invited to go along to the Ed Damer branch of the Society for Progressing Women in Communities today by a local volunteer teacher at one of the girls’ schools in town.

Ahmed - a former university lecturer - has a rather endearing habit of calling me “Miss Kate” and regularly drops none-too-subtle hints about wanting to go to Australia.

Still, he makes a lively conversationalist on Sudanese political, social and education topics.

Ahmed explained that the society was established two-years ago and is funded by well-off local benefactors.

Essentially the society helps disadvantaged women set up small cottage industries to help generate extra income and improve the quality of their lives.

They run six-month educational courses for women covering topics including religion, health, Arabic, cooking and crafts.

A few purchases

To celebrate the program’s latest graduates, the centre was having an Open Day.

Ahmed tells me that most of the women come from poor backgrounds; many are illiterate or had been married young and were unable to complete their education.

After classes finished for the day one of the other teachers - who I will call Inayat accompanies me to the nearby centre.

In a Pied Piper kind of moment, I was almost mobbed by about 40 students along the way – one even offered to carry my bag.

Dressed identically in white headscarves and pale blue abayas, the girls fired an exhausting stream of disjointed questions at me, while the bolder amongst them grabbed my hand or linked their arm with mine.

As we walked Inayat introduced me to a young student I will call Aisha.

A shy and petite girl with big dimples and broad smile, Aisha tells me she wants to be a lawyer.

Crafty chooks

She looked about 15 years old, but in fact she is 20, having recently returned to her studies.

She had been married off at 15 and given birth to two children that died in infancy. 

Her husband had since left her and they no longer had contact.

Aisha said she had decided to finish her education so that she could go to university and get a good job to help improve her family’s situation.

After hearing her story I kept glancing over at her laughing with her friends.

As I watched her I couldn’t help thinking of all the times I had complained or fallen in a heap over something relatively trivial in comparison.

After arriving at the centre I am quickly ushered into a small room.

A colourful assortment of women’s handicrafts hang from the walls and spill across tables, including beaded vases, scarfs, baskets, bags, purses, children’s clothing and other items.

Sudan in still life

A diabetic-inducing array of sweets and biscuits were also on offer.

Outside a series of still life drawings and paintings depicting Sudanese village life hang on the wall.

Ahmed diligently provides detailed commentary about the pictures and individual artists.

By this time, the embroidered bags and colourful knit purses are making my bag addiction hard to suppress, but it’s hard to browse given the sheer volume of students crammed in and still shadowing my every move.

My eyes linger a moment too long on a small beaded purse and a slender woman in a lavender tobe steps forward and offers it as a gift.

Nurah, who speaks a smattering of English, is from Atbara and has three children.

I feel embarrassed to accept, but she insists and tells me to come back anytime.

Ahmed tells me that the women want to hold regular handicrafts markets in the area, but are waiting on some kind of official permission.

Crafty lovelies

He swiftly produces a notepad and pen and tells me to write my impressions of the centre and any suggestions I might have.

I’m still not sure, what benefit my insights can bring, but I admire their enthusiasm.

On my way out, the ladies load me up with small trays of sweet cakes and butterfly-shaped biscuits, which they are selling for 1 pound (17 cents) a piece.

I also stop by Nurah’s table again to buy a red-knitted purse that catches my eye.

Intayat, who has been patiently waiting to accompany me home, invites me for a guava juice at Ed Damer’s heavenly sweet shop El Bashayer.

She waves away my apology for delaying her return home and tells me that the time she passes with me is like no time at all.

I want to hug her.

Knitted purses

Later she invites me to join her for dinner at her in-laws house - a sparse, mud brick affair with a few beds, a goat pen and rusted household junk.

Almost every item in the kitchen drawers and shelves is caked in a thick layer of dirt.

I’m having an inner hygiene freak-out moment as it is before I even I spot the swarms of flies hovering over discarded meat bones and a half open watermelon.

Inayat's husband shows up later – a brusque man who completely ignores me at first and then strangely asks for my phone number in front of his wife.

His name means honest, she explains later by way of introduction/explanation.

“But he is not honest.”

The quiet bitterness in her comment catches me off-guard.

Bags, bags!!

Later, while I am helping her in the kitchen she reveals that her husband of 12 years is planning to marry a second wife at the end of the month.

She says that after the marriage he intends to live with his new wife and will visit her and the children only on occasion.

She concedes that although multiple marriages are part of Islamic custom, she cannot reconcile with his decision.

She says she keeps the deep sadness she feels inside hidden and tries to take solace in work and prayer.

Still, she tells me she is desperate to escape her unhappy marriage and would like to migrate to another Arabic speaking country, but is worried about losing her children.

“I really loved him and he loved me, I think, but now what is left?”

She stirs the potatoes and her question hangs in the air – unanswerable.