The Islamic guidelines created an aspiration for an achievable utopia for relationships. They seemed so simple and straightforward: find a good, decent man, get married, and God will support you by injecting love and mercy into your relationship. The principles embodied the importance of respecting and loving people for who they were, not their superficialities. It was about faith, spirituality, and being a good person. Race, wealth, culture, and class were irrelevant. These rules allowed for Princess Jasmine, the daughter of the sultan, to marry Aladdin, a penniless diamond in the rough.
Culture, which had a strong hand in dictating reality, appeared to be quite different from religion in the cutthroat world of bagging a partner. The process was oiled and managed by two crucial architects: the Aunties, of whom matchmakers were a subset, and Mothers-in-Law, which referred to the mothers of the grooms-to-be. The matchmaking process stretched back into the cloudy indefinable roots of cultural myth, which no one could untangle or clarify. The process was the way it was just because it was the way it was. You could not deny that it was down to earth: get the interested parties together, conduct an assessment, make a decision. Everyone concerned wanted a positive outcome: a good solid marital match, two happy families. And not to be entirely forgotten: a happily married couple.
The media culture around me had its own strong views about love and romance. I watched films like Grease and Cinderella over and over again, wide-eyed, yearning to find the man who would complete me. Which young woman would not be swept away by the romance of Sandy and Danny, of Cinderella and the prince? I would be the princess to John Travolta’s Prince Charming. We would recognize each other and see true love shining in each other’s eyes. Love would lead to marriage. And marriage would lead to us living happily ever after. This was the myth of romance at its most powerful. Films and magazines said it was true. But what “love” meant was never clear, the stories always ended before explaining. Why was it important? What did it mean about how you lived your day-to-day life?
An opulent grand wedding was always the climax of a love story. This was how life was supposed to be for everyone, and if you didn’t achieve it, you were a failure. Love was supposed to simply “happen” if you waited long enough, and if you were beautiful enough.
Love for women was a helpless wait, like Sleeping Beauty’s immobile slumber that stretches out passively till the savior prince arrives. Finding Love was a paradoxical aspiration: it was mandatory but it could only be achieved passively.
The love story from within the parameters of Islam started at the opposite end. Two people got married. This would then complete their faith. They would be blessed with love, all the while remembering to work at creating a relationship of love themselves. And love would bring them happiness, romance, long-term contentment, and a completion of the sense of self. Having a partner would help you to be a better human being, a better Muslim, and to get closer to God.
Love was proactive. You, your family, the man in question, his family, in fact the whole community, would drive it forward. Finding the person was only the first step: it was how you addressed what happened after the wedding that was the key. The wedding was just the gateway, and all the magic happened when you put hard work into the marriage. But hard work is never as glamorous as romance.
The classes at Sunday school, the seminars at the mosque, the sermons at weddings, even advice from family members and mosque leaders all focused on what marriage was, why you should do it, and what would happen afterward. There was just as much advice about how to find a partner as to how to keep them.
“Marriage is not a bed of roses,” the old uncles would waggle their fingers at us.
“It is going to be very hard for at least two years,” the Aunties would caution. “Do whatever he asks you for during that time, and then he’ll do whatever you want for the rest of your lives.” The whole approach was about staying the course in order to get the fruits of marriage. It was an investment plan for future comfort and happiness.
I wanted to find the One through the tried and tested traditional methods so that I could find romance, fall in love, and complete my faith. And since the two of us would share the same faith, we would work toward finding the peace and contentment that as a married couple God had promised us. And then we would live happily ever after, amen.
I wanted a lot of things. I wanted Prince Charming, romantic love, and to live happily ever after. I wanted to observe the cultural traditions of finding a husband. I wanted to follow the Islamic ideals of marriage. I also wanted to uncover spiritual love and harmony. I wanted to approach the Divine.
But what I really wanted was very simple: to make sense of the overwhelming contradictions and tangles facing me as a young Muslim woman.
* Delete as appropriate.
THREE
Process Princess
Biodata
My first introduction meeting was followed by a steady stream of suitors. They swarmed in and then out through our front door, accompanied by parents, friends, Imams, and distant relatives. Occasionally they came on their own, affecting bravado at being confident enough to face potential in-laws on their own. We were making samosas every weekend.
Despite the influx of potential husbands, it was important to be entirely focused on the task: finding someone compatible was paramount. There was simply no time to waste. My marriage, as with the marriage of any child in the family, was a collective endeavor, and I was the center of attention. It was taken for granted that everyone would participate in the venture. My eventual husband would be selected from a pool of contacts collected by family, friends, and matchmakers. The more people we all met, the wider our pool of prospects. Statistically, this would give me the greatest number of choices and the highest likelihood of Finding the One.
In order to enter the mating ritual, each candidate had to create a description of themselves, which would then be circulated among prospective families and matchmakers. This was usually done by word of mouth but was on occasion written as a document resembling a CV. It might even include a photograph of the individual. Once e-mail and Internet had arrived, these were even sent electronically to speed up the introduction process, whizzing information about prospective partners around the globe, one love-hungry electron after another. These extremely personal details were then packaged with a description of the protagonist’s character and the qualities and features they sought in a partner. The label for this package of information suggested a secret-services-hunting-down-dissidents film title: Biodata.
I was enthralled by the starkness of the word biodata. But as a romantic seeker of love, it shot dread into my heart. This technical checklist drained emotion and humanity from the search. John Travolta would most certainly not have made the cut. I resisted putting together my own biodata as long as I could. I did not want to be dehumanized into a series of formulaic bullet points. However, without one, a prospective match could not be arranged, so I succumbed begrudgingly to the process.
It turned out to be an extremely useful document for those searching on my behalf. It helped them locate and identify suitable candidates in my absence, like headhunters. I learned that it was important that my criteria were clear, so that they were not presenting unsuitable options. However, it was also important that the criteria were not too specific as keeping an open mind about quirks and imperfections was critical. Also this would avoid the accusations of being too picky, too closed off to opportunities, too big-headed and stubborn.
I picked up a pen and a blank piece of paper, and started by creating a description of myself: a whole life, a whole person, an entire universe hidden in a soul: all of it reduced to a handful of words.
Early twenties, previously unmarried, university educated, “religious,” wears hijab. Five foot three, slim, nice family.
On the strength of these words, and the personal recommendation of the matchmaker or those searching on my behalf, as well as on my reputation and that of my family in the community, would my hopes of
love and marriage rest. They were the foundations of who I was as a marriage prospect.
I now turned to finding the words to describe my perfect husband.
Good-looking
Height 5’8”–5’10”
Fantastic dress sense
Smells good
Handsome
Was I thirteen? I looked at the list in horror. It had written itself, a collection of words that had traveled by osmosis via Harlequin, Just Seventeen magazine, and Bridget Jones onto the page in front of me. It was the appendix to a trashy teenage conversation, an addendum to an adolescent dating encyclopedia. All of this was a given—everyone assumes the need for looks and style, but they are less elusive than character. Hadn’t faith and culture taught me to consider personality and character as paramount?
The self-description usually put forward by a suitor reveals nothing of their character, just as my words revealed nothing of mine. They would put on their finery, brush their hair, and comb their beards for the process, which would bring them to you in this charming manner. In reality, the stress and constraints of the process reveal everything you need to know about the suitor’s character—and your own.
I wrote a proper description, sensibly categorizing my requirements into must-haves and preferences.
ESSENTIAL
Male single
It was important to state the obvious.
Practicing Muslim
This was crucial to me. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone who wasn’t a Muslim. I felt that this way I would be able to share my values and goals with my life partner. I didn’t want someone who was identical to me but I did want someone who functioned along similar principles. Being a Muslim confirmed that scope and allowed this wish of mine to come true. I wanted him to be “practicing” so that he would want to understand religion and be inquisitive about it. It meant he would not blindly accept the tradition and cultures that pretended to be religion. I didn’t want someone who just took everything around them at face value and repackaged this as faith.
In his twenties or very early thirties
I didn’t mind if he was up to two or three years younger. I also thought that up to seven years older was fine. Matchmakers tended to draw the line at eight to ten years older as the maximum.
Involved in community activities
I wanted someone who would participate in the world around them and try to make it a better place. My strong sense of community led me to teach children at the mosque Sunday school, volunteer to look after worshippers who came for prayers, and edit the community newsletter. I wanted my partner to be the same. I did not want to be a soccer widow. I needed a man whom I could stand behind and be proud of our work together when we sat old and wrinkled in our comfy chairs in front of the fire, me knitting, him reading his newspaper.
Happy for me to wear hijab
I felt sad that I had to specify that a Muslim man should be happy for me to wear a headscarf and modest clothing, as this was my understanding of one of the requirements of Islam. It seemed that a lot of men were not happy for their wives to wear the hijab. He didn’t need to advocate it but at least support my decision to wear it. I did not want to be shown off just for being pretty. I wanted him to be supportive of the choices that I wanted to make for my own life, rather than be conscious of how other people might react to his wife wearing the hijab. I wanted a man who wanted a wife he could be proud of and whom he respected. And to whom he would be irresistibly attracted in private.
Intelligent
I wanted someone sharp and quick-witted, who could challenge me, whose conversation would stimulate me. And surely an intelligent man would want an intelligent woman like me?
I carried on chewing the end of my pen, and then added “someone I can talk to.” The most important part of everything was a connection, a communication.
Muslim Man Travolta was beginning to take shape in my mind, and as he materialized I found I liked him even more than I had before. In the process of formulating my wish list for my perfect man, my father’s most famous marriage phrase was coined. They were wise words, completely unheeded by the arrogance and optimism of my youth. “If you have six things on your list that you are looking for, then if you get four, that is very good. You will never get everything.” But how to know which four would be enough? Why shouldn’t I demand a full quotient of six? Why shouldn’t everyone? “Four out of six,” he repeated earnestly. His heartfelt and well-meaning advice was pitted against Harlequin, Hollywood, Bollywood, and countless “They Lived Happily Ever After” princess stories.
I focused myself on defining my list of six. I had included eight items on my list of essentials, but the first two didn’t really count. I was left with the six must-haves that would guide me for the journey ahead: practicing Muslim, within the right age bracket, involved in the community, happy for me to wear hijab, intelligent, and someone I could talk to.
But I wanted more, craved more, desired more, needed more, deserved more. I should have it all!
From a practical point of view, I told myself that giving a more specific list would make Mr. Right much more identifiable, more likely to exhibit the characteristics that were important to me. I rationalized the additions to my list by categorizing them into a non-mandatory section.
DESIRABLE
Attractive
Oh, yes, it crept back onto my list. Even Islamic guidelines said you should “fancy” your spouse!
University educated
This would be a good indicator of shared experience, shared language, shared communication. It wasn’t a must-have but I was convinced it would be a good foundation.
Born in or lived in the UK, Canada, or United States of America since they were at least eighteen
I was presented with boys from all over the world, especially from “back home,” which for me was East Africa, but might also include India and Pakistan. I certainly would meet men from all over, but it occurred to me I was more likely to connect with someone with whom I shared some context. Having grown up in the UK, I felt I had a different understanding and expectations of being married, of being a Muslim. I wanted someone who would be in harmony with that, not with whom I would spend the first years of my married life trying to adjust. It was worth noting that this criterion also meant that I would avoid those simply looking for a British passport. I wanted to be a wife, not a ticket to citizenship.
Has a social circle; does more than just work and play soccer
I came to be shocked at how many men this simple clause would exclude.
I was dreaming by now and let my imagination, my hopes, and my heart run away.
Interested in reading, traveling, and generally a charming, interesting person. Wants to change the world and make it a better place. Vision and some sparkle. Cool and hip. Oh, yeah, rock on!
I sighed. There he was, my perfect man. I wanted to just will him into existence. My heart told me that of course such a man was out there waiting to be found. My head wondered how he would be discovered. I held back on making my list longer. The voices of the Aunties in my head told me to rein in my desires. A girl should not be so demanding. How shameful!
I was fortunate. My family understood my description and were eager to cross-check their findings with me. It felt like we were a team working toward my happiness. I couldn’t imagine looking for the most special person in my life without their support and encouragement, and they wanted to put all their resources into finding the person who would contribute to me living a happy and fulfilled life.
Their wisdom and experience forced them to temper my optimism with a dose of reality. They had read through my list and they had feigned seriousness about how they were to find this angelic hero.
“Are you expecting a man to fall from heaven into your lap?” my parents had asked. “Perhaps you could find him for sale in Woolworths,” they teased me.
I pulled a mock face of horror. “You couldn’t think of somewhere more upmarket?” I gasped. “What
about made-to-measure from Harrods or Harvey Nichols?”
“We got you from Woolworths,” they reminded me, laughing affectionately. That was how they had explained where babies came from when I was a very young child, and the joke had stuck. “Woolworths would be a good match.”
Partners do not come made-to-measure. My parents’ description of Prince Charming being off-the-peg was much more accurate. There would always be something on the list that he would lack. But which qualities would I be willing to give up? When my father said “pick four qualities,” how would I know which two were dispensable? I refused to accept that I should downgrade my selection standards, so his wise and fatherly advice fell on deaf ears.
The search threw up the dentist from Birmingham, the doctor from South London, a lecturer from Bristol, various IT consultants, businessmen, pharmacists, and other unmemorable professionals. They were defined by the jobs they did. The higher up the professional rankings the matchmakers judged them to be—which didn’t always reflect reality—the more they oohed and aahed in honor of the prospective match.
The community liked pairing up well-labeled people. When certain engagements were announced it was like drawing numbers at bingo. “Two doctors, how lovely, what a good match.” “Two dentists, how nice, they will set up their own practice together.” “They are both so fair and good-looking, they will have such white and handsome children.”
On the whole, I would be the one to say no. The family generally presumed that the boy would take a shine to me. “Who wouldn’t?” asked my mum. “You’re beautiful, intelligent, nice, religious.” I would blush. “You’re my mum, of course you’ll say that,” I would laugh at her. Every so often, it was I that would be turned down, and we would furrow our brows in surprise. Why would anyone turn me down? In this competitive world of finding a partner, modesty was a dispensable quality.
Shelina Janmohamed Page 7