Three weddings and a hidden bride

I strode across a dusty field set up with an outdoor marquee, acutely aware that all eyes were focused on me. In line with the segregation that pervades everyday life in Sudan, women sat on one side, while the men sat on the other – in an indistinguishable sea of white jellabiyahs and turbans. It reminded me of a high school dance, with the opposite sex eyeing each other shyly from a safe distance.

I had never met the bride or groom before and nor do I even know their names.

I had arrived as part of a mixed group, but in an apparent concession to our foreignness our hosts seated us together in a middle section so we could still chat. A small tray of sweets, popcorn and dates was immediately placed in front of us by way of welcome.

Let the dancing begin …

The music restarted and the guests got to their feet – the strict lines of gender demarcation suddenly blurring on the dusty dancefloor as women shimmied in their elegant tobes, clicking their fingers in time to the music, encouraging those that lingered on the sidelines.

The same women, who had looked at me with stony expressions when I entered now took me by the hand and dragged me to the dancefloor, but to tell you the truth I was happy to be part of the movement and celebration.

The older women are the most bold, cutting a path through the throngs with their considerable girth, clicking their fingers in my direction and shaking their shoulders in a sort of dancefloor greeting. The younger ladies are more sedate, shuffling on one spot, their eyes cast downward.

The ubiquitous wedding videographer manouvers his giant black camera in my direction, black leads trailing behind and in the next moment I'm looking up at myself in giant colour on the bigscreen.

Men in freshly starched jellabiyahs circle the perimeter in a coordinated shuffle, waving large sticks in the air at those sitting within the circle. Some wear sheathed swords at their hips and and others are carrying whips.

The men are fleet footed and graceful, leaping elegantly up and down like white gowned puppets on a string, hanging for a moment suspended in mid-air. It is a wonderful sight to watch.

‘It’s young, isn’t it?”

The car carrying the bride and groom arrives and is immediately mobbed. The band strikes up a gorgeous melody and the crowds begins to sway in time, surging closer and closer to the car until it is totally surrounded. They wave their hands, pumping their fists and sticks in the air above the chaotic crush  - it’s an intense moment. The women’s joyous wailing fills the air, carrying above the music. Even by Sudanese wedding standards, I’ve never seen anything quite like it in terms of sheer exuberance.

The song has almost finished when the bride and groom finally emerge from the car. The man looks happy, but bashful in his black, ill-fitting suit. The bride stares fixedly at the ground. She is wearing a modern-style wedding dress, with her hair hidden under an elaborate Islamic headdress. I am immediately struck by how tiny she is, her small body enveloped by her billowing white dress.

A women in a blue tobe next to me whispers to me in English “the bride is 14, the groom is 27.” It’s young, isn’t it? Too young”. I’m still digesting this rather disturbing news when she grabs my hand and we join the frantic procession behind the bride as she makes her way inside to her new husband’s family home.

When we enter the bride is slouched unsmiling on a lounge chair. Up close, the ghostly white makeup and garish purple eye shadow only seem to magnify her youth.

Breathless masha allahs emanate from her adoring audience. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else than at her own wedding.

My companion pushes me through the crowd, urging me to greet the bride. I bend down close to her, “mabrook” (congratulations), I murmur as I offer my hand. She doesn’t meet my eyes and her handshake is so light our skin barely touches. “Young, very young,” my companion whispers in my ear again, shaking her head again for emphasis.

Hidden from view

The crowd closes around the young bride and that’s the last I see of her for the rest of the evening. I’m later told she comes from a particularly strict family and accordingly she must remain inside the house, hidden from view.

Outside her husband has lost his bashfulness and is waving a whip as he is carried around the circle on the shoulders of the men, the women trail behind clicking their fingers.

The groom passes by a line of young men, individually whipping them on their chests while they attempt to remain unflinching - a custom traditionally carried out as a symbolic test of bravery for male suitors trying to impress potential sweethearts.

The celebrations continue in full swing with more whipping, more dancing and wailing. At one point I’m pulled to the centre of the crowd to dance with the groom. He holds both ends of his whip in his hands and loops it over my head as we move in time to the music. My awkward movements again captured on bigscreen.

This was one of the most vibrant weddings I have attended so far in Sudan, but the celebrations are tinged by the hard realities of the occasion. It is not only the bride's youth and obvious reticence, but her invisibility.

I can’t help but wonder if she feels any sense of unfairness about her situation as she remains cloistered inside the house, while everyone else celebrates her marriage in her absence.

Marriage of contrasts

The following week I’m spontaneously invited to another wedding – my third in as many weeks.

Although the surroundings are more upmarket and the dancing more restrained, many details are almost identical. The segregation of the sexes, the finger clicking, the overloud band and omnipresent camera man.

On an elevated stage behind two disused car seats have been decorated with tinsel to form a sort of kitsch marital throne.

The bridal car arrives and is immediately mobbed by the crowd. But this is no early, arranged marriage. The bride is a 28-year-old working professional and her husband is in his 30s, her brother explains.

The couple emerge from the car and are embraced by their family. The band resumes playing.

The bride dances at her husband’s side, clicking her fingers lightly in time to the music. She wears white lace gloves, magnifying the elegant dark lines of her henna tattoos.

When her husband is carried off on the top of the men’s shoulders, she is immediately encircled by female relatives and friends eager to offer their congratulations and compliment her appearance.

Even as the bride stares downwards, avoiding direct eye contact with a mixture of coy shyness, there is no hiding her obvious delight.

The couple remain on their feet dancing until the celebrations are exhausted, their elaborate throne remaining unused.

The contrast between the two weddings couldn’t be more striking.

Friends in Ed Damer have told me that combined factors, including poverty, lack of education and high numbers of girls in the same family undoubtedly influence the likelihood of an early marriage. However, even teachers and well educated friends are at pains to point out that nowadays in Sudan women always have the right to refuse a proposal. This still begs the question though whether a teenage girl has the life experience to make an informed decision about her future or the strength to go against family pressure.

It was my friend Rahel who put it more succinctly than all: “Well, of course, she can say no, but maybe no-one is listening.”