As I was heading out one night on my way to a fashion show at Townhouse Gallery, a friend, Haitham, stopped me in my tracks with an especially eager ahlan wa sahlan. Haitham runs a small copy shop on the first floor of my building, and we exchange greetings whenever our paths cross. “You must come to my cousin’s wedding party tonight, and bring your friends, he insisted. “I already have plans, I replied, “but I’ll try to make it. After the fashion show, discussing our next move, my friends and I decided we would be foolish – perhaps even rude – to turn down Haitham’s invitation.
So we bundled in a cab toward Haitham’s aptly named Mohandiseen neighborhood, Medinat El-Sahafeyeen, or City of the Journalists.
Unfortunately, we missed the zaffa, the elaborate procession from the caravan of wedding cars to the party hall. But there was still plenty of fun in store. No sooner had we arrived than Haitham’s cousins piled plates of ro’a’, lahma barda, mumbaar, and kofta before us. Cold Fantas and Pepsis all around. The ro’a’, pastry filled with minced meat, was particularly delicious. Soon we were beyond stuffed, but our feeble protests – “No more, really, no more, shukran – were met with scant success. Even my friend Jim, a long time vegetarian, caved in and tried the ro’a’. All in the name of Egyptian hospitality, right?
Bellies bulging, we waddled back toward the dance floor, meeting scores of cousins and uncles and best friends along the way. I wondered, “How many cousins can one possibly have? I didn’t have much time to ponder before another three or four cousins’ hands were thrust toward me. “Ahlan, ahlan, ahlan. Welcome, welcome, welcome.
On the dance floor, a cameraman was interviewing the young bride, 18-year-old Hadil. “We hear you’re a good cook, is that true? he asked. Hadil, cheeks flushing fire engine red, was too shy to respond. Surrounded by a throng of giggling girlfriends, she wilted under the limelight. “We hear your mother taught you how to be a good housekeeper, is that true? The scratchy mike barely sounded her whispered response: “Mish aarfa. I don’t know.
Switching tactics, the cameraman invited Hadil to sing her favorite pop song, karaoke style. Hadil’s shyness melted away like an icicle in July, and before long she was belting out the lyrics with showgirl panache, driving her entourage into a frenzy. Even the grandmas and great aunts got into the groove when Hadil began dancing with her sister. It was a spectacle to behold, no belly dancer needed.
Finally exhausted, and finally having fun, Hadil turned over the dance floor to a group of traditional drummers and a tanoura dancer. The word tanoura in Syrian and Lebanese dialect refers to a skirt, but in the case of Egypt tanoura refers to a style of dance, and directly to the multicolored skirt that is both worn by the whirling dervish dancer which he also incorporates into the dance, spinning it above his head and around his body. Once I got over the fear of losing an ear or an eye to the skirt which was being swooshed around by the dancer at great speed, I noticed that a train of guests – more courageous than I – was marching in a crouched circle around the dancer, ducking and weaving to avoid an embarrassing, potentially dangerous collision. Jim, who had already sacrificed his vegetarianism, also sacrificed his pride, not to mention his hairstyle, when he got a bit too close to the tanoura.
Haitham took us behind the house, in which his uncle was born, to introduce us to the groom, 25-year-old Ismail. Ismail and his friends sat in almost complete darkness in a tiny, musty alleyway. The little gathering of Ismail’s coterie had a slightly conspiratorial air. Then I realized that Ismail wasn’t plotting, he was hiding. It had not occurred to me that the groom might be as nervous as the bride. But there he was, trembling in the alley, greeting his guests with a shaky voice and sweaty palms. If Ismail was plotting anything, he was plotting his escape. Ismail’s friends reassured me that he was very happy, just too overwhelmed to handle it.
As we left the party at about midnight, neighbors and friends were still showing up. A waiter was passing around cake, and newcomers were sitting down to generous plates of food and sweets.
I thought to myself, “This would never happen back home. In the States, weddings are formal to a fault. Guest lists are arranged well in advance, plans are rigid, and the stress of it all has driven many a foundling engagement to the brink. Planning a wedding reception often takes a full year, leaving all responsible parties exhausted, if not lunging for each others’ throats. I cringe at the thought of running the wedding planning gauntlet when – insha’allah – my time comes.
But I will take a lesson home from my first shaabi wedding: maybe it doesn’t have to be so difficult. I’m also thinking it might be nice to have a tanoura dancer. Maybe one of my four cousins would be up for the job.
