Wedding in Qatar, Part 3

Wedding in Qatar Part 3: Circumstance

(Please read Wedding in Qatar Part 1: Invitation & Advice and  Wedding in Qatar Part 2: Wedding Preparation). 

Directly behind the black security curtain is a long corridor. The Three Wives gasp multi-lingual variations of the inarticulate sentiment, “Wow.”  Between the three of us we have lived 130 years. Between the three of us we have attended many weddings. Among the three of us, the transformation of this congress hall is wholly unexpected. 

I can’t remember every detail but the overall feeling is of walking through a secret door in the back of a closet and entering a magic cave, a rather elegant one at that. Every inch of wall and ceiling has been hung with luxurious black cloth, which is overlaid with intricate latticework cut from huge sheets of metal. Blue floor lighting up-lights the fabric at wide intervals creating chasms of blackness between rods of blinding light which beams towards the ceiling where bolts of fabric billow across the length. Each centimeter of wall and ceiling is draped in what looks like a close cousin to silk.  

We stop. Two steps into this magical world, are 6 female security guards. From here on only women are permitted into the building. The guards ask for our purses. It’s like an airport check, only more thorough. Each bag is examined. And not just a quick peek inside; no, they finger each item in the bags as if digging for buried treasure or weapons. I feel ridiculously under-sophisticated when I’m outed as someone who packs a mini-toothbrush rather than ruby lipstick. 

All photographic devices are confiscated — including cell phones with cameras. We are entering an evening without connection to the outside. In the same manner as a coat check, you exchange your phone for a ticket. When you leave you claim your phone with your ticket. [Although, later in the evening I’m delighted to discover what happens if someone’s cell phone rings: the owner is asked over a loudspeaker to claim the phone call at the phone check.] With no cell phones, it’s like the 1990’s; boredom and social discomfort can not be disguised by fiddling with a phone. We have to get through the next five hours with our own social skills.

We move to the next security station. If you’ve been counting, you’ll realize this is the fourth security check point. We lift our arms so a metal detector can be run over our bodies. They stop short of a pat down.

What you need to know is that these families are not royalty. You need to know they are average Qatari citizens. Security was in place to ensure that 1) only invited guests enter 2) no men enter and 3) that no camera enters. Just as it would be foolish to make generalizations about all US American weddings based on my sister’s wedding, it would be foolish to do the same here but from what I’ve heard this is a typical Qatari wedding.

Once past the bright lights of security, abayas and shaylas are carefully loosened and undone. Some check these outer coverings but many take them into the ballroom to hang over the backs of their chair; they will be needed later in the evening. The three of us, having nothing we could possibly disrobe, walk down the corridor towards the grand hall. We are immediately engulfed in darkness made darker by the floor lights that completely blind us every few steps. Each time I’m blinded I worry I’ll totter into a fabric wall and pull the whole thing down.

We turn a dark corner and find ourselves at the edge of an inner hall as large as a house. Chandeliers the size of arm chairs sparkle with crystal and golden finishings. We are momentarily stunned by the mental whiplash of leaving cozy darkness for this majestic hall.

To the left and the right are a line of women; I have no idea who is who and what to do. The women ahead of me shake hands with some of the women in the line to the left. A handshake seems benign; I follow suit. I’m relieved no facial contact is involved; however, having no internal context system in place, I’ve no way of judging whether I am committing a faux pas or not. It is possible I have just walked past someone whom social etiquette requires I greet or that I’ve clasped the hand of someone whose hand is to be only lightly grazed. 

Weddings in any country are straight-laced with etiquette and social requirements keeping guests strictly in place. Even the most relaxed weddings have social protocol. For example, in the United States it is a requirement that all wedding participants and attendees are happy. It’s also understood that the couple would never openly state that they are marrying simply because she is pregnant or that two people are marrying simply because they get along well enough and are lonely and don’t want to wake up alone in the morning; the only acceptable reason for getting married in the States is for Love. It is strictly prohibited to say otherwise and should you openly dare to say otherwise you turn yourself into a social outcast (although, arguably,  if you dare openly speak what others privately gossip, you intrinsically display that you are indeed already a social outcast).

Once we hobble through the social niceties of the greeting line, we are standing in the middle of the room. To the left and right are rows and rows of tables filled with dinnerware and hundreds of red roses. They are impeccably fresh, not even a trace of wilting at the tips, something you don’t see often in the desert. Since Qatar produces very little itself, everything in the room must have been imported. The roses alone must have cost a fortune. 

Straight ahead of us dividing the room in two is a runway just like is used in fashion shows. The runway leads to the front of the room where a white leather sofa with gilded gold trimmings takes center stage. But the main attraction is clearly the runway; all chairs face it. Later when the bride arrives through the doors we have just walked through, she will walk alone down this runway. Two Philippino assistants will tweeter around her making sure her gown remains perfect and that it doesn’t get swept under her feet. The bride will be busy attempting to remain bipedal, a feat which requires her entire concentration due to the weight of her dress and, one suspects, the highness of her heels. Later the runway is where women will dance for the bride. The slight elevation of the runway also allows a better view for the older women who are scouting out prospective wives for their sons.

We aren’t looking for wives, but amiably start checking out the other women anyway. Since almost all Qatari women choose to wear a black abaya and shayla to cover their hair and neck* in public places, I predicted that I would be surprised by the lack of coverings. When I’m not, I’m slightly disappointed in myself. It is simply a room full of women wearing really, really high heels with colorful and, I assume, fashionable dresses. 

Which, of course, means there is cleavage. In fact, probably the only time I’ve seen more cleavage has been on a beach in New Jersey.  I can’t help but wonder how tantalizing it must be for the men at the mens party (happening somewhere else in town) to know that somewhere in the city a ballroom is filled with women in strapless dresses. There are also a lot fewer shiny metals and jewels than I thought there’d be. Of course, the diamond on the hand of the person sitting beside me is so huge that it is wrapped with bands of gold rather than set in gold, which leads me to believe I’ve simply become acclimated. 

Participating in this wedding is easy - the music is just shy of excruciatingly loud, preventing most conversation. Dancing doesn't begin until the bride arrives and that is still hours away. All that is left to do is sit and nibble on divine morsels offered from silver platters. I am quite fond of nibbling and can perform quite well given the chance; I might not make a donkey out of myself after all. I quickly discover that the milky tea with small, gooey pods is gag-inducing (Does anyone know what that is?) but  that sipping hot Saffron Tea is an entirely pleasant (Does anyone have a recipe?). 

Rosa^†, the wife of the brother of the sister-in-law to the bride (or to put it more Westernly: the bride’s sister-in-law) comes to greet us. I have met her twice before. She’s one of those people I feel instantly comfortable with. I suspect she feels the same but that may be brazen of me. We do the customary hellos and how are the children and is the family well and isn’t it a lovely reception hall and what a lovely dress you have, etc, etc. A few minutes later she returns and asks if she can sit with us. Everyone else in her family is busy helping the bride. Rosa’s pregnant state apparently absolves her of duty, although I do suspect that sitting with us might be her duty. She is married to a Qatari but is from North America, it’s like hitting the cultural insider jackpot. 

I was in this position in Switzerland. There I wasn’t an expat but an immigrant, which is a wholly different category to expat. As a US American married to a Swiss person, I had knowledge that I had gleaned through osmosis (and tears) that expats didn’t have. People would constantly ask me to explain a social nuance which they experienced as a social grievance. They would ask why in your own apartment can't you shower after 10 p.m. They would ask why do women over 60 always tell me to put a hat on my 2 month-old when it’s 22°C outside. Keeping these exchanges in mind I proceeded to grill Rosa about weddings, marriage and life as an immigrant in Qatar.

to be continued...

(Only one more time, I promise. Having the kids home on Winter Break & a dog in the house is seriously crimping my ability to finish a thought let alone a paragraph.)

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*Many also cover their entire face and many wear sunglasses to cover their eyes even inside shopping malls. This is a post in itself.  The fashionistas among you can check out this blog post to see a few of the abayas typical for the Gulf. Everyone should click on this link to see a fairly good representation of what an average sighting of women in public in the Gulf would look like.

† Name changed, duh.