by Qanta Ahmed
She clutched a bouquet of creamy white Columbian roses handed to her. Frigid petals trembled with her mounting bridal anxiety. The lovely flowers lacked fragrance, obliterated by hours in the icy hold of cargo planes that had left South America days earlier. Like the beauty surrounding me, the flowers were sterile and lifeless. At last, following final moments of encouragement from women around her, she took a single step forward, revealing a strappy, spiraling, silver stiletto: very Vegas. Her women friends retreated, releasing an audible sigh of relief, easing the pressure of boned bodices barely containing their rippling, already-married bosoms.
She stepped out toward the stage, where a pair of wedding thrones awaited the crowning moment of marriage that was to be recorded in a family album for ever. A ginger first step revealed toenails manicured a deep burgundy, matching her hands. She must be menstruating, I decided, by now knowing the Kingdom women's practice of painting nails only during their periods. The orthodox Saudi women believed that proper cleansing before prayers could not be accomplished with nail polish and so they avoided manicures and pedicures during the month when they were not bleeding, when prayer is allowed. When menstruating, Muslim women are not permitted to pray, so at that time, most orthodox and even less-orthodox Saudi women would splurge on their nails. Even Zubaidah followed this practice. Her friend Nadija was probably no different.
Inadvertently I had selected a seat close to the sentinel subwoofer fueling the roar which passed as music. Hungry, because I hadn't eaten since lunch, my head was already beginning to throb and food was hours away. I hadn't been aware; weddings in Riyadh were distinctly late-night affairs. Still, from here, I had a terrific view.
I watched as the bride began to walk. Like so many Saudi women desperate to become wives, this was the moment she had been waiting for since childhood. She was steps away from life as a wife.
The rows were packed; there were at least six hundred women present, the largest gathering I had yet attended in Riyadh, and easily the most dazzling. It was at least forty minutes before I noticed Zubaidah entering the room. She had spotted me, waving at once, but there were other people she had to greet first. I followed her with my gaze, agog.
Zubaidah had exchanged her demure baby-blue daytime shades of chiffon and linen for the svelte lines of a Saudi siren. Regal in a maroon, charmeuse silk gown with oversized diamante buttons, she was utterly dazzling in her womanhood. Her flaxen hair was exquisitely coiffed into glossy, voluminous flounces. Her makeup, though heavy and dated, eyes almost obliterated by dark eye shadow, added to her a new mystique. She looked like a Beiruti chanteuse from the 1950s. Impossibly black eyeliner was seeping into her already red, stinging eyes, as she gazed at onlooking guests with molten allure. Heavy lashes, obviously prosthetic, dragged her hooded lids downward, conferring an even more doe-eyed look than usual. Her ample bust was beautifully captured in a tasteful, ruched neckline. As she extended a long-sleeved, elegant, but definitely plump arm to elderly dowagers who ringed the stage in circles of crooked sentries, she cut a dashing but still conservative figure. Zubaidah was the model prospective bride-to-be.
In comparison, other women had clearly lost the plot entirely. Their fleshy desperation was on full display, either to forget the misery of their marriages for a few hours or to somehow scrabble into the mystery of marriages they were desperate to enter. The amount of exposed flesh was unbelievable. I had never seen this much leg, breast, and thigh in New York City. I couldn't believe this was Riyadh. I couldn't believe these women were Muslim.
In my dumpy outfit, I had already attracted disapproving looks. I was inappropriately dressed for such an important occasion. I wore no jewels. My clothes had no shine, glitter, or polish. The other women had evidently spent hours, some even days, in preparation. Around me almost all women were in sleeveless dresses; in this instance Zubaidah was an exception. I spied colossal jewels: Cellini, Di Grisogono, Kwiat, and Damiani, to name a few. These were jewels one only ever saw in magazines, but at a dietician's wedding, they were common currency.
The jewels lay on bared expanses of creamy skin, though one or two women may have been as dark complexioned as I was. Most wore dresses a couple of sizes too small, accentuating fulsome breasts, some still lactating, others clearly lifted and augmented. The plump circular outlines of hardened silicon implants were dead giveaways of a visit to the plastic surgeon, likely in Jordan or Beirut. Perhaps some of them had even been revised by Mu'ayyad, my plastic surgery colleague who often salvaged the worst breast jobs from around the Persian Gulf.
Coolly he once mentioned the commonest indication for breast implants in the Kingdom was a bored husband pondering the assumption of a second wife. Desperate to avoid this, women rushed to him in droves for plastic surgery, pleading with him for revisions or further augmentations. Mu'ayyad calmly explained that breast implants would never be a salve to a wounded relationship, sending them away without the silicone breastplates they craved to protect failing loves. He turned many of these desperate housewives away, leaving them to find a less-scrupulous surgeon who would agree to carve away their mounting fears of wife number two.
But tonight, whether silicon or adipose, the high domes of breasts were scaffolding to gravity-defying gowns. Too-narrow dresses cut viciously into the once-small waists of several-babies-ago. Merciless satin spilled ugly panniculi of lumpy fat unhinged by the cruel seams. The scene was an anarchic Oscar night without stylists to hold back the poor-tasted, petulant appetites of the diva army.
Many women wore backless dresses, some forgoing efforts to hide cumbersome brassieres in the process. I studied the layers of flab cascading down the back of a woman who was already dancing to the unbearably loud music. Her black bra strap crushed her back into a bizarre reverse cleavage—fascinatingly ugly.
The bride wasn't the only one exposing fledgling cleavage. Far more brazen, her guests were competing with one another in plunging necklines and dresses slit to reveal plump and newly waxed legs that had never seen a StairMaster. The draconian makeup was reminiscent of an Egyptian soap opera. Nothing was left to the imagination. Every feature was intensified; lips, eyes, and cheeks all were emphasized until the women resembled Pharonic masks. Rather like Carnivale, I was attending a masked ball in Riyadh. The garish makeup ensured I couldn't distinguish anyone's expression. Somehow the women were still veiled, even when so exposed. And funnier still, they all seemed to have been to the same makeup artist.
Like actresses in a Saudi Mikado, high and hard eye shadow was heavy, dragged upward into a near-Japanese altitude at the edges of the eyes to make the eyes appear even wider apart. They looked like transsexual Geishas. Faces were whitened with dense foundations, enhancing even naturally light-colored skin to a further extreme. In the middle of the smoothed, unlined canvas, collagen-injected mouths were rubied into hard, garish gashes that moved relentlessly over yellowed, lipstick-flecked teeth as they mouthed mummified pleasantries, repeated on endless loops.
The only women unaffected by the desire to compete in this display of bosoms and behinds and Botox were an inner circle of older matrons. They dressed conservatively, many of them remaining in their abbayahs, or else revealing their dour, glum, tent-like dresses that swept loosely over robust, often obese figures. Invariably they wore clothes patterned in burnt-orange-and-brown paisleys, tiny patterns magnifying their heaviness. A sickly sweet scent of attar floated from the grand dame army, hovering just above in thick clouds of rose vapor. The matrons didn't depend on jewels or satin or expensive updos for their status. Their breasts were unaugmented expanses of flattened flesh long abandoned by overstretched brassieres. Instead their bosoms sagged on ligaments stretched loose by endless pregnancies and relentless decades of breast-feeding. These women were exalted. Their status was codified in the generations of sons and daughters they had birthed and the grandsons which had followed.
Like a ring of Mafia mothers, they held court, slowly lifting their thick, turkey-necked, weighty heads in appraisal of p
rospective brides like Zubaidah. They peered at the younger women with reptilian eyes surmounted by balding eyebrows, giving away the prevalent underlying hypothyroidism. They scratched their thinning scalps with unjewelled fingers, tipped in fresh orange henna. Now and again a solitary gold bangle caught the light, but otherwise they remained unadorned.
Matchmaking, however, was feverishly unfolding as I watched, and ever-hopeful, over-bearing mothers clucked their daughters forward to the paisley-clad, stumpy matrons, hoping perhaps to ensnare a potential son-in-law by the end of the evening. A beady-eyed once-over had the potential to make the eager single woman into the much-sought-after housewife that so many women in this city desperately dreamed of becoming.
I watched Zubaidah's pearly smile crinkle repeatedly under pressure. She had been going through this with her avant-garde mother for years. Tonight her own mother didn't even attend, bored by the dull proceedings that every winter wedding circuit seemed to bring. Still, out of respect, Zubaidah called on the other mothers, most of whom knew her and seemed genuinely happy to see her. Inside, I was certain Zubaidah hated every minute of the proceedings, but she was too gracious to admit as much, even to herself. Rather than stay home yet another evening, she compelled herself to engage in the social duties of attending a colleague's wedding. Being at this wedding surely reminded her that as a single woman over twenty-five in the Kingdom, others believed she should by now be desperate to be a housewife. At her age she was no longer in a position to choose; her best years were already behind her.
The bride walked up a central aisle, unaccompanied, to the stage. No one gave her away. She proceeded to the stage in a slow march in time to the garish music. Clutching her fluttering bouquet under an unforgiving glare of flashbulbs and fluorescent lights, she continued on her path forward. As the female Saudi photographer captured wedding moments on film, women around the room scurried to veil or duck, avoiding incriminating photography of their cleavages and dimpled, satin-wrapped rears. Performing a strange Mexican wave, in choreographed synchrony, the women lifted their arms into abbayahs, draping their heads and shoulders into the blackness as the searchlight of the photographers' flashbulb swept across the room.
From the far left of the stage, the wedding singers began their ceremonial renditions. An all-female, ebony-skinned, svelte-limbed Sudanese drumming quartet released the high-pitched, ululating soprano cries, the hallmark of marriage in the Kingdom. In the face of cameras, only the bride remained unveiled, her glittered eyes creasing deeply as she smiled and blinked back tears of emotion. Finally, she reached the stage and perched, head high and still unveiled, on an overstuffed white brocade sofa-throne, surrounded by arrangements of white roses and sweeping palm fronds. She surveyed the kitsch tableau of her entry into married life with evident pride. I had no doubt she felt queen-like. Unlike the arranged brides at weddings I had seen in my childhood, she was clearly glowing with excitement and did not fear marriage. She was relishing the prospect of becoming a wife to the unseen groom who was presently celebrating with menfolk in an adjoining ballroom.
By midnight the men had not appeared and, exhausted from waiting for refreshments or further spectacle, I took my leave. I rubbed my breastbone to soothe the racing heart caused by hours of cardamom-laced Arabic coffee.
As I turned to exit, Zubaidah was still ensconced in a circle of dancing women who had wrapped scarves around their hips and were sedately gyrating to thumping music. The lighting remained mercilessly bright, but the women were undeterred, shifting their weight from side to side, briefly encircling the bravest wedding guests of all, those who dared dance a solo in the center of the circle. Zubaidah was firmly situated in the safety amid the ranks of satin and chiffon. She didn't see me leave.
As I moved through the lobby I could hear the rising roar of men chanting in song. The sounds were coming from the adjoining ballroom where men were locking arms and performing a choreographed sword dance, likely the brothers and uncles and father of the groom. The groom was not likely to join his bride in the women's room until the early hours of the morning or later the next day.
Later, Zubaidah would confirm he didn't arrive until after 2 a.m. Notice of course was provided and the women who were not family could fully veil in preparation for the influx of men. Only after he entered and took his seat on the upholstered wedding throne next to his bride (who by then was crumpled with exhaustion from a dizzying vapor of excitement, stress, and hunger) was dinner finally served. I had made the right decision to leave early. By the time the groom looked woodenly at his nervous new wife, I was already deeply asleep. Even my hunger had been unable to keep me awake.
Several days later I described my experiences of the wedding to Zubaidah, explaining that I had left before seeing the men enter.
“Qanta, I looked to see where you were but I couldn't see you. I was searching for you around one a.m.” Zubaidah paused, awaiting my explanation, far too polite to explain just quite how insulting my behavior was as a guest who left before dinner was served.
“Zubaidah, it was so late! I was starving. I felt as though I had to wait for dinner as long as I have to wait to find my own husband!” and we both laughed in unison.
“What about you, Zubaidah, will you have a wedding like this? Is that what you want, Zubaidah?”
“Wa Allah, Qanta, that is a difficult question.” Zubaidah cocked her head to the side, considering her response. “Of course, I would like to be married, but I pray Allah finds me the right man. I am not desperate to be married. My family is educated, they are liberal. They would like to see me settled, but there is no requirement for me to do this in a rush. Alhumdullilah, my father is very understanding, and so too my mother.” She went on to explain the conundrum her unmarried state continued to present, both for herself and her family.
Periodically her mother and father invited prospective suitors. They would arrive at their elegant family home and take tea with both parents and Zubaidah. In these strained and highly choreographed events Zubaidah would perhaps have a very short conversation with the suitor while the parents waited discreetly in another living room in the home. Zubaidah had been through these events on many occasions. She was accustomed to the tedium of receiving and graciously declining a number of proposals.
“Wa Allah, Qanta, we just don't find anyone suitable.” I waited for her to continue.
“Recently I was introduced to a man from Damascus. He was much older—widowed, but he had no children. He was OK, Qanta, but I didn't feel anything, and I suspected he was not very educated. He was not very good-looking either. I know he had wealth, but that is not enough for me. I can't explain it. I just did not have a good feeling and I am not sure if he was really serious about Islam, the way I am.
“You have to understand my father, my brothers, Mourad and Haroon, are very educated. I cannot be with anyone less. Everyone agrees on this. I suppose I will be married only when Allah chooses. I have stopped worrying.”
“But don't you wish to seek independence, Zubaidah? I mean while you are waiting, why not travel, work overseas, just have some independence and fun. Have you thought about that?” I was unsatisfied with her response. Surely she wanted more than to simply wait.
“No, Qanta, I have no desires like you to live alone, or to have my own apartment or to be financially independent. I have never wanted what you want. I love to be with my family. Alhumdullilah I am very comfortable in my father's home. You see I have my own suite here. I couldn't bear to be away, thousands of miles from them, like you. I should be terribly lonely. I just don't have the same desire to be apart from my family as you. I never will.” I just stared at Zubaidah, wondering how she could be so different, to the point that her fire of independence, which surely burns deeply in all women, vanished?
Little by little I realized she had never needed to rebel. She accepted her lifestyle and her family's expectations and had fully embraced them as her own. Unlike me, she was not in conflict with her cultural expectations; r
ather she was cocooned by them. She had no need to surge with rebellion and overcome restrictions she didn't even identify as such; she was cozy and comfortable amid convention. Here lay our difference: in my family I was an anomaly; in my culture an outcast. In hers, she was accepted, the conformist; and was, in fact, most fulfilled being nothing else.
While the Southeast Asian and Saudi cultures were undoubtedly similar in the pursuit of marriage (which was arranged and often endogamous), Zubaidah's relationship to her culture was diametrically opposite to mine. What I resented, she welcomed. What I rebelled from, she embraced. What I dreaded, she longed for. I looked at her across the table, preoccupied in unknown thoughts, stirring the foam in a creamy cappuccino, her hooded eyes casting heavy, crescent shadows of long lashes over her porcelain skin. She seemed content, not despondent. She was patient; she was not desperate. She would become a wife only if Allah willed it and until then she was content to wait. She wanted little more.
Nadija's wedding prompted me to wonder more about the dreams my Saudi women friends held for themselves. There were several women I wanted to know more about; perhaps I would find they too were desperate housewives themselves. I had so much to learn about the female Saudi psyche. As I learned more, I was finding that it was often both partly familiar and partly alien.
I set off to speak to the Saudi Jackie Onassis look-alike, as I liked to think of Ghadah. I wondered if her life of marriage to a surgeon and mother to three daughters was the romantic dream it appeared from the outside. At the same time I decided to compare notes with Reem who, like me, was still single into her early thirties, and, a talented surgeon, hell-bent on pursuing a vascular fellowship in Canada. I wanted to know more about the Kingdom's women, whether already desperate housewives or desperate to become such.