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.”

No Perfume for Single Ladies!

As the bottle I bought with me to Sudan is running low, I recently asked some colleagues if they could recommend me some traditional perfumes of the local variety.

Some disapproving head shaking ensued, followed by a hurried discussion in Arabic.

Perfume is only for married women, I was informed – and even then only for special occasions.

Apparently wearing perfume when unmarried, the ladies explained, sent the wrong signals and made it difficult for men to control their “strict urges”.

Dabbing on a bit of perfume in the mornings remains almost my sole concession to any beauty regime since moving to Sudan, so I was surprised to discover that I may have been inadvertently sending out alluring signals all this time.

And while I’m still not sure what actually defines “strict urges”, I reckon it's probably best not to find out!

Out of curiousity I also asked my colleagues about fragrant oils, my thinking being that these generally have a more subtle scent and hence might be more acceptable, but no, these are also reserved for married women.

By way of consolation the deputy headmistress offered to make me some traditional Sudanese perfumes on my wedding day.

Society here demands a strict code of etiquette between the sexes, with marriage deeply steeped in traditions and cultural protocols, so it’s not entirely surprising I guess that perfume falls within this bracket.

The second helpful piece of advice I recently received on potential Sudanese beauty errors concerned jeans.

I was recently helping a teacher prepare lunch when her younger, newly-married sister arrived for an unannounced visit.

As Gihan lamented her post-baby body while frying potatoes over the stove, her younger sister rather unsympathetically observed: “My sister fat”.

Some lighthearted banter subsequently ensued between the sisters about who was the weightier of the two.

Unexpectedly her younger sister suddenly turned to me and hoiked up her black abaya to reveal skinny jeans and a modern white t-shirt with lots of bling.

It took me a moment to reconcile this new modern appearance with the covered woman of just a moment ago.

Holding her abaya aloft she strode across the room and stood next to her sister, “OK, who is the more fat? Me or my sister?” she demanded.

For a moment I was lost for words and even with all my acrobatic attempts at diplomacy, she continued to press, insisting I tell her on a scale of one to 10 who was “more fat”.

Sudanese love to complete with each other in all aspects of life and I am frequently asked to provide a running comparative scorecard on anything from teaching ability, English levels and appearance. 

Distracted momentarily from the matter at hand, my friend's younger sister went on to explain that jeans can be problematic for women in Sudan and that’s why she covers up with the modest black dress. 

“Do you wear jeans,” she asked.

At this point I paused, trying to gauge the levels of any potential shock I might cause if I was honest and told her that I regularly wore jeans in public at home.

In the end I told her yes, but not in Sudan.

This seemed to satisfy them as they both nodded their heads rigorously in agreement.

“Jeans big problem in Sudan.

“If you wear jeans here,” she said gesturing outside to the souq (market), “men won’t leave you to rest.

“They will chase you down the street.”

                                                      Perfume’s out, henna’s in!

Henna designs on the feet and hands may be a sign of a married woman here in Sudan, but unlike perfumes the tradition is not entirely off-limits to unmarried ladies.

To celebrate special occasions, namely other people’s weddings, single girls may also decorate their hands with feminine, attractive designs.

A teacher friend recently invited me to her neighbour’s henna party. Significantly the bride-to-be’s hands and feet will be marked for the first time with the distinctive patterns of a married woman.

This ladies-only event - known as El-hinna, is the loose equivalent of the hen’s night and friends and family celebrate by dancing, singing, clicking their fingers and wailing loudly in joy.

Shortly after I arrived for the event, my friend informed me I was going to have my hands hennaed.

It’s not a short process and after the design is completed, you must remain still for some hours with your arms suspended while the henna dries.

After the dried top layer is removed with water and soap before rubbing the skin with oil.

The elegant black lines curving across my hand and stretching up my forearm are - if nothing else - visually arresting.

Waiting for the henna to dry ... slowly

But I still don’t know what to think about my new arm art. I keep looking down and stretching my hands out in front of me, wondering if they really do belong to me.

Is it beautiful or too much? I can’t decide.

I’ve come to the conclusion that beauty is often adapted and defined not just by culture, but by our environment. 

I’m sure if I hung out in downtown Coolangatta with hennaed hands like this people would probably think it was a bit much.

Just like the Sudanese would think a typical outfit for a Friday night out on the Gold Coast is a bit much.

But although henna might be a more acceptable beauty practice, I have to wonder if it’s any less alluring than perfume. 

In the end, I guess it’s a matter of opinion.

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!