19 At First Sight

In 2003, I was in the second year of my PhD program and the end was in sight. It was time to think about settling down and finding a partner, but I wanted do things traditionally. I was never good with romance as a youth in Edmonton and knew I could not do it on my own. I needed help, which you often get too much of from an Arab Muslim family.

I took Uncle Yazan’s advice to find a bride in the ancestral homeland and booked flights for my mother and me to Amman, Jordan. My mother, Hanan, or Umm Mowafa (mother of Mowafa) as she was known to family in Jordan, had grown up in Syria. Like my father’s family, her parents had been displaced from Palestine. She was happy to help choose a bride for her son, and eager to begin planning a wedding. My aunt Sana knew many people, so we asked her to connect us with appropriate families in her area.

After we arrived in Jordan, Aunt Sana gave my mom the phone numbers of families with a daughter ready for marriage, and we began the process of finding me a bride. My mom would phone, say hello, talk about her eligible son, and request a visit. If the response was positive, we would go to meet the family at their home. I met women whom I sensed would not be happy if they were married to me; some who were beautiful but who did not feel comfortable with me; some whom I did not find attractive; and some who were not from a good family. I had an idea of who I was hoping would respond positively to our approaches, but she did not respond as I had hoped, and I gave up after several weeks of visits. I was exhausted and beginning to feel cynical.

Waking up one night, I prayed and wholeheartedly asked God to help me find my soulmate. A few days later, my aunt phoned, bubbling with excitement. “For years, we have known this family,” she said, “and for the first time in eighteen years, their daughter came to my salon to get her hair done! She is pretty and religious.” I had never seen my mom make a phone call so fast.

We were invited to come over at seven, when the father would be home. In North America, a young man might be a little nervous about meeting a girlfriend’s father, but in Eastern culture, you are marrying an entire family, so the anxiety induced by a first meeting is multiplied many times over.

Dua’s father was an engineer with a great reputation in Jordan. Dua herself was studying social work. The family members were elegant, the brothers and sisters were close. With my own family so scattered, I felt drawn to this family that displayed such a deep sense of togetherness. The house was tidy and spotless, something I knew my mother had noticed, for I could see her looking without seeming to. So far, it all looked promising.

Then my future mother-in-law said, “We don’t care about money or anything like that. It is about who you are and your morals.”

My future father-in-law asked two questions.

“Do you pray?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

These two questions seem simple, but they touch on foundational connections to God, health, and dealing with stress—something that I, as a nervous young man on the edge of getting married, would only begin to understand much later.

Aunt Sana had known Dua’s family for years, and the initial interview had gone well, so the family agreed to let me meet Dua, especially since I would be returning to Canada shortly. My aunt, my mother, and their brother, Uncle Hisham, went with me to their house. When Dua walked in, wearing her hijab and abaya, the earth stopped. I knew that she was the woman I had asked God to help me find just the night before!

In my nervousness, the first question I asked her was “Do you know how to cook and clean?”

She laughed and said, “Are you looking for a maid or a wife?”

I blushed, not knowing how to react or act, but somehow we stumbled through our first encounter with each other. I was relieved that I could feel that she, too, was as interested in me as I was in her. I felt happy as we left, feeling that my prayers had been answered. My mother was also delighted and satisfied that she had helped the meeting go well.

My future father-in-law told me to visit any time. “Come here every day, if you like, to see my daughter, for as long as you want … come every single day!” So I did.

Eventually, Uncle Hisham, took me aside. “What are you doing, going every day?”

“But he invited me to …”

My uncle informed me that my future father-in-law’s invitation had meant “Visit, perhaps, every couple of days.” I was still learning how to interpret this Eastern-style generosity, and I have been confused by this many times since.

As the two families connected through the lengthy process of marriage, I got to know my own extended family better. The entire Househ family in Amman, a few dozen of us, arrived at the engagement ceremony in a very traditional way. My eldest uncle, Darwish, may God rest his soul, arrived in his keffiyeh and bisht (a flowing, outer cloak). He led the procession, with everyone else following behind him. We were about twenty to twenty-five men, sitting separately from the women.

Then a member of Parliament, Azzam Alhunaidy, who was a friend of my father-in-law and of Uncle Darwish, arrived, and everyone’s faces beamed with pride. The elders spoke together for a bit; then my uncle addressed all who were gathered: “In the name of God, the gracious and most merciful … and peace and blessing be on the Prophet Muḥammad. We are the Househ family from Palestine, the city of Lydda, and have come to your Alburini household to have our son Mowafa ask for the marriage of your daughter, Dua. Our son comes from a good family, and his father could not be here, so I am here in his place. My nephew is a good boy, doing his doctorate. He is educated, and he prays. I know this because we prayed together at the masjid last night. We come here to ask for your daughter’s hand. What does your family say?”

Although the imam talks to the chosen woman to ensure that she is not being coerced into marriage, the acceptance of the wedding proposal is made by the bride’s father or her eldest living male relative. My future father-in-law drew a long breath.

“In the name of God the most gracious most merciful … peace and blessings be on the Prophet Muḥammad. First, we are honoured to have you and our guests in our home tonight, and we are honoured for the Alburini family and the Househ family to be connected. It is our honour to give our daughter to your son Mowafa. Please drink the coffee.”

If he had said, “Don’t drink the coffee,” it meant that the family had not accepted the proposal. I didn’t think I would hear those words, but something in me feared hearing them.

Uncle Darwish said to me, “Go kiss your father-in-law’s hand.” I stared at him, shocked. Are you kidding? I thought. It was an old tradition that generally isn’t done anymore, but I could not embarrass my uncle by saying no, for it was a sign of respect, and if he said I had to do it, then I had no choice in the matter. After all, I was the one who had wanted to have a traditional arranged marriage. When the obligatory customs had been completed, the sheikh who was to perform the wedding ceremony stepped forward and did his part. Afterward, we signed the marriage contract and read the Fatiha, the first chapter of the Qur’an. The women started to make zaghareet, a high-pitched, celebratory ululation. There were drinks and kanafa, a traditional Palestinian cheese-pastry dessert soaked in syrup. After many good wishes and blessings, we all went home. I was full of food and coffee, but I floated the whole way home.

Although we were now married on paper, this initial engagement ceremony was only a first step that opened the door for us to get to know each other. We could not actually have the legal wedding until Dua’s sponsorship paperwork was finished a year and a half later. This also gave me some time to get to know the culture I was marrying into better. It was my family’s culture too, of course, but we were North Americans as well, and there were many differences that had arisen over the years. The Alberta-raised Househs were outgoing and direct to a fault, and I needed to adapt to the communication styles of my new family’s culture, which included seeking consensus in a circular way. It can be tiring and confusing, and it was a stretch for me to see the logic of non-confrontational styles that didn’t make sense to me at first.

I had always been straight up and never avoided conflict, and this was part of why I had never been good with wooing women like my other friends were. Despite my shortcomings, I survived the process with the help of knowledgeable women like my mom and various relatives. For the year that we spent on opposite ends of the world, emails were the main method of communication between Dua and me. I was scared: I didn’t want to make the same mistakes as my father had. I waited, usually alone, with Dua in my heart. I walked around Victoria imagining what it would be like to have a companion and hoping for the best start possible to a new chapter in my life. I never wanted to experience the pain of divorce, as my parents had. In December 2004, I got a message to go to Jordan. Her visa was ready.

I had no time and, as a student, no funds, to prepare for the wedding. I got on a plane with my mom and asked Dua to pick a place where we could host the ceremony and reception with her family in Jordan.

On the day of the wedding, my family gathered at Uncle Darwish’s home in Amman. We went to pick up my wife from her home, a sign of respect. When she came down, some members of her family were happy, and others were crying because they were saddened by the thought of Dua leaving her parents’ home. My heart was racing. I felt overwhelmed, unsure whether I had the ability to meet this new responsibility. Dua seemed so much more collected and aware of how to move through the events of the evening. I was terrified, feeling that we didn’t really know each other beyond communicating by text over the past year.

My aunt Karam let me use her Mercedes-Benz to take my wife to the wedding. As we entered the wedding hall, there was an Egyptian zaffa, a noisy parade with fireworks. This was followed by a procession announcing the wedding, with “thrones” for the couple, who were considered king and queen for the day. Family by family, the guests approached us to offer their congratulations and presents to the newlyweds.

I danced with my wife in the ladies’ section. Then I went to talk to the male guests, who were seated in another room, chatting. Then I returned to the ladies’ section to cut the cake with my wife and dance some more. When my male relatives joined us on the dance floor, the women put their hijabs on, tucking their hair inside. After a long day and evening, my wife and I drove to our hotel. It was our first time alone as a married couple.