Shopping for Brides

In Syria ladies are in charge of making the initial contact for potential matches. Some lady called me up today to ask about my daughter, or daughters, if I had more than one, who was in the marriage market.

This is not the strange part. People hear from friends or neighbors that such-and-so family has a daughter who is of marriageable age, and mom’s with sons looking to get married start calling to set up visits. It is usually a system that works well and ensures that people weigh and consider the truly important things in a potential spouse, along with things like chemistry and attractiveness and “the cool factor”.

The strange part is that this lady called me today out of the blue – I have no idea where she got my name – and after introducing herself proceeded to ask if my daughter was tall! When I told her that she was wonderfully petite, she didn’t skip a beat. “So what about your other daughter?” I reiterated that I only had one daughter who was even of the age to be “available” (although even she is not looking for a guy), so she asked exactly how tall she was. When I told her, she asked how tall I was, as if to determine where this rogue short gene came from! When I assured her I was also short and so was my husband, she spoke to her son in the background, without even bothering to cover the phone, and asked exactly how short he was willing to go on his wife’s height. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear and then she came back explaining that her son is six foot one, so he needs a tall wife.

Then she asked about her eye color!

If that ever happens again I’m going to say, “I’m sorry, my daughter doesn’t see grooms whose first concerns are about appearance. Your son has just been disqualified.”

Toothbrush hygiene

Ibrahim is a germophobe who would give Monk a run for is money. He doesn’t drink out of other people’s cups, he doesn’t eat off even my cake plate after my cake is gone. He even keeps his toothbrush in a special holder away from anyone else’s. Apparently he also is hip enough to know about germs that are passed along by alternative means.

The other day he came out of the bathroom with a his toothbrush in his hand. He held it out and said, “My toothbrush has an STD now.”

Of course I had to ask.

“Why?”

“Because it’s been in there humping all the other toothbrushes in the big holder!”

TaZeel

OK, jumping back into blogging with a domestic update.

In Syria there are two times a year when you wash your house. Yes. Literally. You move all the furniture and stand on impossibly tall ladders and spray water all over the blooming place. You clean out closets and cupboards and underneath the fridge and stove. You turn over the mattresses and (I am not kidding) vacuum them. This inane procedure is called Tazeel.

The one good thing about tazeel is that you don’t usually do it alone. You hire a lady to come in and enjoy the torture with you. So that helps.

If we were in the States I would snort and walk away when tazeel is mentioned.  However, here in Syria we have an insidious enemy. Dust. Not innocuous, innocent, floating-in-a-sunbeam kind of dust. Evil, fine, aggressive dust with LOTS OF FRIENDS. We ave dust bunnies that could eat large cities.

So this dust actually gathers on the walls and in all the nooks and crannies, and actually needs to be washed away every six months.

So we do it in the fall when we put down the persian rugs and set up the sobia (diesel heater), and we do it in the spring when we put the rugs away and store the heater. The spring tazeel is even worse than the fall one because you have all the soot from the sobia added to the dust.

So it’s December and I’m trying to enjoy the soft, cozy heat from the sobia but in the back of my mind I’m trying to figure out how to escape tazeel come next April…  Please send ideas!

A Mozlem Joke

Who says Muslims can’t laugh at themselves?

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A ship was plying the open seas when it came upon an uncharted isle.  Seeing smoke curling up from its beaches the crew decided to take a closer look.

When they dropped anchor and rowed ashore they found a man and three huts.

“Oh, bless you!  You’ve saved me!” the man shouted.  “I’ve been alone on this island for five years!”

Blinking curiously the captain of the ship asked him why, if he was alone, did he have three huts?

“This one is my house and that one is the masjid,” replied the man.

“Then what is the third one for?”

“Oh.  That.  I had a fight with the board of that masjid, so I don’t go there anymore.”

Guest blogger: AJ on the men’s nuptuals

Brother Abdul Jaleal Nasreddin, 13-year Damascus resident who hails from Texas and Colorado, posted this great comment filling us in on the men’s side of nuptuals, and will be guest blogging from time to time. He majored in dry wit and minored in cynicism, so enjoy!

AJ Nasreddin

When the men get together, their primary reason is to set the dowry price. But first the father of the bride has to do a “check out” of the prospective groom. They ask about his education, his job – most importantly if the guy can keep his daughter up to the standard of living she’s used to, or will the in-laws have to invest in the guy. Of course a flat is important. If the guy doesn’t have a flat, he ought not be talking about marriage. In my experience, a US passport is as good as a flat in the city.

The next job is to find out just enough about the guy in order to ask around about him. The bride’s brothers and uncles will soon hit the streets to find out what people are saying about the groom-wannabe. If he checks out, things will move along smoothly.

The dowry is usually set at $2000 as the first installment. People will say this is normal and says that this girl is as good as any other girl. To ask for more would be snobbish. This is the amount everyone will mention so as to say “Yes, we are like anyone else.” The “extras” are not always mentioned. For example, installment number two might be several thousand dollars more, even several tens of thousands of dollars more. Then the gold is counted separate – and that can easily reach $5000 plus. Then the bride needs a completely new wardrobe for some odd reason which can reach several more thousands of dollars. Then there’s the cost of the wedding party which again can run a few thousand dollars. [Najiyah comments that in Syria the bride’s family hosts and pays for the engagement party and the groom’s family hosts and pays for the wedding party.] Before I forget, refurbishing the flat in a complete make over is also expected and – you guessed it – can cost several thousand dollars. If the guy has any money left over, the honeymoon ought to be in Malaysia. Did I mention the guy needs to bring little gifts of gold every time he visits – a little pair of earrings, a little chain bracelet? That can run a $100 or more a visit! Now you can understand why Syrian men try to marry abroad if they have the chance – it’s a lot cheaper!

If somewhere along the line the bride’s family doesn’t like the guy, they will increase their demands on the different “extras” until the girl becomes too expensive – the sort of “nice” way to say “get lost.” On the other hand, if the guy decides he doesn’t like the girl, he’ll refuse to bring gifts or pay for “extras” – kinda like saying “We can have a no frills, no thrills marriage.” No self respecting girl would put up with such nonsense!

This is of course the styreotypical Damascus wedding. Some people get hitched with less excitement and less expense. Most of the [men’s] wedding parties that I have been to closely resemble the wakes I’ve been to – the death of freedom they say. Sometimes wishing for something is better than having it.

A day at the farm

The fruit of the farm

Grape vines Zebadani

Basketball at Zebadani

Most of the adults

Bassam’s cousin Roula

The fruit of the farm

We were invited to spend last Friday at Bassam’s uncle Anas’ farm in Zebadani, catching up with another branch of the family (Bassam’s grandma’s brother’s kids). It was a lovely afternoon, masha’Allah- nice weather, good food, relaxed atmosphere and fun people.

The fruit of the farm

Grape vines Zebadani

Basketball at Zebadani

Most of the adults

Bassam’s cousin Roula

From Sewage to Shimmer

Interesting day Saturday.  I went shopping with my sister-in-law in the morning at Souk Jumuah.  I’ll write a post about Souk Jumuah some other day – it’s my favorite market in the world.  I had promised Ibrahim that I would take him to enroll him in music lessons when I got home, and so about 12:30 we headed home, splitting the cost of the taxi and chatting about what we were going to wear to my husband’s cousin’s wedding that night….me thinking that my biggest worry of the day was how I was gonna tote my purchases (vegetables, sugar bowl, potholders, FRESH DILL!!) up to our flat.

As the taxi pulled up and I was unloading his trunk my phone rang.  Amani was on the other end, in distress.  The drains were overflowing.  Oh, God. 

One of the coolest things about Syria – actually about most places outside the US – is that there are drains in every room.  To wash the floors you just toss bucketfulls of water all over the floor and squeegie it down the drains.  This makes washing the bathroom a breeze: simply hose down the whole place, soap it all up, and hose again.  Voila! 

Having a drain in every room is NOT such a great thing, however, when they back up.  I came home to eruptions in the kitchen and the bathroom.  Not to mention a house reeking with the fragrance of eau-de-we-do-not-even-want-to-think-about-what!  I called my sister-in-law, who, while empathetic, had no plumber’s number to give me.  She did send her plunger, though, so..uh…in I plunged. 

I wrapped plastic bags around my shoes and put two on my hand.  I took the drain cover off and stuck my hand in.  These junctions are brilliantly joined in a T formation, so that each drain goes down only about six inches and then the cross-pipes join on.  I dug out muck from around the main drain and as far as I could reach into the cross pipes.  Then I took the sink apart and checked it.  Clean, thank God.  On to the bathroom.  (The muck thickens!)  I repeated the process in there and now I had the lovely addition of hair in with the mix.  I also took apart the bathtub and sink drains and, trust me, they weren’t as clean as the kitchen sink had been. Of course by now I needed a shower big-time, and there was no shower option.  Several attempts to plunge my way through to a light at the end of the drain had confirmed that.  The drains hadn’t even noticed my efforts.

Now I had to give in and call the in-laws.  This is always a last-ditch effort because I hate to look like some kind of baby who can’t handle life alone.  It would have been so much cooler to casually mention at the wedding, “Oh, yes, dahhhling, I had backed-up drains today…..oh, no, I didn’t need to call anyone.  I took care of it myself,” and then bask in all their awed stares.  But it was not to be. So I dialed, losing face with each digit. 

Of course it is a well-known fact that there is not a male on this planet who can hear of a backed-up drain and not assume that the woman complaining of it 1) was not somehow complicit in its malfunction and 2) is capable of already having tried everything that he would try before calling the plumber.  So my father-in-law quickly mounted his white horse, unsheathed his trusty plunger, and arrived ready to do battle.

He repeated all my efforts and then attempted the old hose maneuver.  It proved equally futile.  He dug out a large handful of muck and said, “Look at all this stuff!”  I certainly did NOT reveal to him that I had already dug out twenty times that amount. 

Finally it was officially decided that a professional was warranted.  He arrived a couple of hours later with his snaking equipment and, alhamdulillah, cleared everything up.  It was about 7:30.  T-minus 1.5 hours to the wedding, kitchen still smelling like the business end of a dinosaur after he ate brussel sprouts, and bathroom still sporting bits of whatever had been in the drain.

Now it was Amani to the rescue.  She did the kitchen while I tackled the bathroom (hose, soap, laundry detergent, clorox, hose, clorox again, hose).  Then I jumped into the shower to de-muckify myself and Ta Da!!!  Half an hour later I was walking into the fanciest wedding I’ve ever attended.  More on that in next post!

Nuptuals

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No one in our family was taking the bacaloria tests this year, which left my brother-in-law free to plan his wedding for June 28.

Syrian weddings happen in stages and include some interesting traditions – some of these are sweet and some of them left us rolling our eyes.

Muslim weddings are not usually arranged, as many in the West believe. Each country has its own rituals and traditions, which throughout the Muslim world have some common necessities, such as two witnesses, a dowry, etc., but beyond that the proceedings vary greatly.

Among practicing Muslims, however, one of the commonalities is that there is no dating just for the sake of fun – no sewing of “Girls Gone Wild” oats, no neurotic playing of the field. When a person has reached the point in their life when they are ready to marry, they either tell their mother about a person they’re interested in, or they simply have their mother put the word out. The vast and intricate system of motherly acquaintances often does the rest. A neighbor’s husband might have a cousin who is looking to marry, and the word will be passed along and a meeting set up. Often the first meeting includes just the women of the family, including the potential bride but not the groom. If the ladies get along and are impressed with the bride, a second meeting will be set up to which the groom is invited (this meeting is again conducted between just the women, with the exception of the tie-fidgeting, conversation-stammering groom.)

If there is a spark between the two intendeds, then the men are finally brought in. They have meetings among themselves, but this part gets a little fuzzy for me, watching from the ladies’ side of the gallery. The first official step is that they read Al Fatiha (the opening chapter of the Qur’an) together. This means that both the bride and the groom accept the idea of the marriage in the abstract, and that bride and groom can begin to communicate – in the presence of a chaperon or on the phone, email, chatting, etc.

During this stage the couple begins to get to know each other. Their relationship is usually shy and twittery at first, but during this time deepens and broadens as they explore important topics: do they have similar outlooks on childrearing, religious practice, money matters, etc.? I know one couple who took turns asking each other one serious question each night. These ranged from “What do you do when you get angry”, to “What is the father’s role in child rearing?” to “Are you a patient person by nature?”. If they are each still interested after a period of about a month, then the negotiations begin in earnest.

Westerners might be a little put off by the term “negotiations”. It sounds so dry, so businesslike, reducing marriage to so much haggling between potential interests. In reality, though, it is a refreshingly healthy way to go about marriage preparation. Thinking with the mind and having one’s family there to arrange not only a solid agreement about how the marriage will be conducted, but also a good foot forward in the in-law department. At this stage couples decide things like who from their family will be their chosen advocate if there are marital difficulties, and this is written into the contract. Women often put clauses into their marriage contracts like, “Husband agrees to pay for wife’s continued education”, “husband agrees to wife working outside the home” (or NOT working outside the home, which is becoming more common as people’s expectations change from women not working to women working), “husband agrees not to take another wife”, etc. Men sometimes include things like, “Wife agrees to stay home and raise children when they are young”, etc., but the primary focus of the contract is to protect the rights of the woman. Toward this end, one of the most important things it includes is the dowry. Unlike Western dowry traditions, in Islam the dowry is given to the woman from the man. A woman can stipulate any dowry amount she likes, and the usual arrangement is for the dowry to be split into two parts – one given when the couple is married and the other deferred in case of divorce. That way if the couple divorces the woman will have some financial stability. (Of course the husband must still support the children, but there is no concept of alimony. Interesting side note – men pay their child support because the social consequences of being a dead-beat dad are astronomical.)

When the contract details have been worked out the document is signed and a party held. This is called a “kutub al kitab” party (writing of the book). At this point the couple is technically married. Most often, though, they don’t move in together. This is the stage of the relationship that Westerners would associate with being engaged. They can go out alone, the groom can see the bride without her hijab, and they spend a lot of time eating dinner or going out with one side of the family or the other. If they consummate at this stage it is not haram, because they are already married. Most people don’t though, they prefer to wait until the actual wedding night. When the wedding date gets near people go and register their marriage with the government, but this is considered totally separate from the actual marriage. This “kitab” period lasts anywhere from a month to about six months, usually, and if they decide not to marry during this time they must officially divorce, although it is easier than a divorce after they’ve consummated the marriage.

All the while, the couple is working on furnishing their new house. When that is done and the wedding is only a few days away there is a “Ceremony of Putting the Bride’s Clothes in Her Closet”. The ladies of both sides of the family go to her new house and arrange all her clothes, especially her trousseau, carefully in her closet. Sometimes this is done without the bride present, because some couples prefer for the bride not to see the new house until the wedding night, as was the old custom.

On the day of the actual wedding the men go to the wedding hall at about 4 or 5 in the afternoon for their party, which consists of religious songs, a sermon, and food or sweets. Usually they have an “arada” in the groom’s home afterward, in which a troupe of men come and sing and drum and play at swordfighting. Their songs are full of good-humoured fun – things like, “He’s finally getting married….and tomorrow all his hair will fall out!” and “Now it’s the younger brother’s turn!”, etc. They also undress and redress the groom, singing all the while, and spray torrents of cologne on (all of) him. Then they take the party to the streets and neighbors join in. They carry the groom on shoulders and dance until its’ time for the groom to make his appearance with his bride. (This is my favorite part of the wedding and I love it when we see these parties in the street. I saw someone’s arada last night as I was walking home. It is such a community celebration, full of good feelings for the new couple.)

Meanwhile…..! While the groom is being dressed the ladies are arriving at the wedding hall where they visit for awhile before the bride arrives. The bride is picked up by a lady of the groom’s family, symbolizing that she is now part of their family, and they ride in the beflowered Mercedes to the wedding hall. The bride dons a long, hooded white cloak over her wedding gown for the trip through town. The rim of the hood is bedecked with feathers which obscure her hairdo and white veil without crushing her coif. I got to be the appointed representative from the groom’s side to pick up my new sister-in-law Rama, because I am the “ranking” sister-in-law, married to the oldest brother. It was such an honor. Rama waved to saucer-eyed small children as we passed and the driver cranked the music up as we motorcaded through traffic. I’ve never seen anyone smile like she was!

When the bride arrives at the wedding hall she makes a grand entrance with much musical fanfare and official hand-kissing of her new mother-in-law and mother, and then she sits on her throne, to be honored for the rest of the party. She dances first, a few honorary songs, with her tiara sparkling and her train gliding back and forth as it drapes from her hand, and then everyone joins in, with great circles of women clapping for each other as different dancers take center stage, and then everyone joining in together. This goes on for an hour or two and then the word starts to buzz around: The groom has arrived!! Women rush to put their hijab back on and sit at their tables or stand in the aisle to welcome him. He arrives with his dad but enters alone and walks to greet is bride to the tune of much uvulating and clapping. He meets his new wife at her throne and sits on his with her. She dances for him, and then he dances with her (to varying degrees of participation. Some grooms just stand stock still and hold her hands while she dances, some sway a bit, some join in and get down!!). After that first dance they are brought juice and maybe icecream or whatever they’re serving at the wedding, which they sip and nibble while pictures are taken and greetings are exchanged. Soon it’s time for the cake, which is cut with a sword and is usually lit with sparklers and other fireworks. Then they feed each other several bites while the cameras click away. After everyone has had their cake it is time for their slow dance, and this is so beautiful. Most wedding halls have smoke machines which billow smoke from underneath the stairs or wherever, but the smoke is not fog from dry ice, it is incense. So they dance in a cloud of fog and sweet scent. Some places let fall with “snow” from the ceilings and others drape the dance floor in bubbles. Whatever the effects, the scene is always romantic and tear-jerking.

The slow dance signals the end of the party, and guests begin to leave. Close friends and family stay until the guests have gone and then they all follow the couple’s flower-festooned Mercedes through town, honking in a carousing midnight caravan.

OK, here’s the part you won’t believe. The couple has spent months preparing their home. It is now picture perfect and waiting to receive them. For this auspicious ceremony the wedding party escorts them practically to their bed! The women of the two families go with the new couple to their new home and sit in the sitting room visiting for about 20 minutes. At God-knows-when in the morning, singing and uvulating the entire way. (My BIL’s house was up about 50 outside steps and then up four floors inside the building. We woke up the entire mountainside, practically!)

So when the couple are finally tucked safely into their new home, kissed goodbye a million times, and ready to drop dead from exhaustion, they are finally left alone, ready to take their new place as a respected married couple.

Edu-Drama

When we think of June we think of watermelon, windy days and weddings.  When Syrians think of June only one thing comes to their minds: TESTS.

June is the month when colleges give their final exams, and it’s the month when all 9th graders take their tracking exam, but it is mostly the month of the Bacoloriate test.  This is a test that Syrians take upon completing their 12th grade year, which is in itself just a glorified test prep course.  It covers everything they have learned from the womb to that day.

Students spend literally months preparing seriously for this test, different portions of which are given on different days all throughout the month of June.  As it draws nearer, the life of the entire family comes to a halt.   They plan other family events around it (as in, “No, you can’t have your baby in June!  Rasha has her Bacolorite!  You’ll just have to get induced in May or cross your legs until July.”)

Here’s the up side: if you do well on the tests, you get your choice of college majors and your entire university experience is free of charge.  Here’s the down side: if you do poorly, you get stuck with a narrower choice of college majors such as Gas Pumping or Professional Toenail Clipping.  Of course if you do poorly you can also choose to pay a king’s ransom to a private university, but king’s ransoms are hard to come by.

Here’s why I loath this system: One of my students was helping his sister study for the B., and this took up a huge amount of his time and hers.  She wants to be a pharmacist and needs high math and science scrores.  So the night before the math portion of the test, as she was (finally) getting ready to turn in, her brother stepped over the pile of books on her bedroom floor and directly onto her glasses. Of course she had no time to get them replaced; the test was in the morning!  So she went sans eyewear, discombobulated and disoriented, and came out distraught, having done poorly on the math exam.  Now she may not qualify for pharmacy school.

This idea of pinning all one’s 13 years of school onto one moment in time like that is terrifying.  So terrifying, in fact, that they have ambulances parked outside the schools on the test days.  And they use them.  I heard of one guy who dropped dead of a heart attack during his Bacoloriate.  Of course he may be urban legend, but the point is that the stress of these tests is somewhat akin to what a bomb squad feels when their beepers go off.

Many other countries operate on the Bacoloriate system.  In Britain the IGSE is a similar set-up, although I’m not sure how it functions or what its stress level is.  Having been weaned on the educational theory of multiple intelligences and the anti-standardized-test movement, and having seen the ambiguous or downright wrong answers expected on TOEFL, GED and ACT tests, I object to them all.  The very idea of multiple choice tests makes me feel boxed in, and claustrophobia rears its fearful head.

Since it is so rigorous, if you have passed the Bacoloriate with good marks in Syria you are welcomed with open arms at any university in the Middle East – or even Europe if your language skills are good.  Syria is known as the be all and end all when it comes to college entrance exams. Which is good for the people who do well.  But look for the ones who didn’t at your local funny farm or gas station.

Scouts

 

 

 

 

The boys on their scout field trip last winter.  They hiked up into the mountains.