Berber wedding

The under-the-stars-in-the-freezing-air-dancing-to-high-pitched-chanting-while being-squeezed-on-either-side circle

The women's room - full of warmth and music

The lovely bride, Hedda, with the girls

Caught in the act! These boys spent the evening sneaking into the women's house and then getting kicked out by the bride's father. Some things are the same no matter where you are!

What do you say to a 16-year-old bride? “Don’t do it!” Or perhaps,“May you reproduce soon!” Sigh. Well, there’s not much you can say. It is comforting to know that this is a ‘love marriage’ – the couple chose each other and we’ve heard he is a good man. I’m hoping that what my friend, Asmaa, says – “All Berber men beat their wives” – is just prejudice coming from an Arab. They are saying the bride is 18 for legal purposes, but we know she’s either 16 or 17. Her mother doesn’t think it’s too young. She’s my age – and is a grandmother.

I’ve been to two Arab weddings where the bride keeps coming out in different outfits and the music is different, but this was our first Berber wedding. The family had rented a generator and the normally pitch-black village had electricity for this one night. A band had also been hired and when we arrived, people were standing around in the near-freezing air in a huge circle, crunched shoulder to shoulder, swaying and bobbing to the music while making a praying motion with their hands. I smiled and look up at the glistening stars. I was more at home here any day than on the snobby AUI campus.

Arabic music I like – it’s rather lilting and interesting. In Berber music, however, one group chants a high-pitched phrase and the other group repeats it . . . ad nauseam. To us it all sounds like the same song and could quite possibly lead to insanity. But I did catch some meanings here and there - songs of blessings, songs about drinking tea and coffee, and one about telephone numbers (who knew?).

“Do you see the bride? Over there!?” said the girl next to us who had placed me in a dancing sandwich with her friend. Sure enough, scrunched like a tiny butterfly between two of the band members, was Hedda. Draped in thick Berber blankets with mirrors attached, she swayed with the music – her face completely covered.

After a while, she walked into a house and all the women followed. Inside it was warm and cozy. Since our skin is white and our country is powerful, those sitting next to the bride were removed from the place of honor and we were made to sit there in spite of my protests. A few minutes later, tea was brought to only the three of us – not even the bride. Kendra whispered, “Mommy, why are they treating us this way?”

Soon I was asked to be the wedding photographer not because of any talent, but because I was the only one with a camera. One-by-one, women and girls took their turn sitting next to the darling bride who had by now uncovered her face in the presence of women. The women were dressed in every possible combination – from nightgowns, to plaid pastel bathrobes (my personal favorite), to sweat suits worn with aprons, to jeans and sweaters, to sparking wedding finery pulled over layers of grubby sweaters. As is common all through this part of the world, white makeup had been smeared all over Hedda’s beautiful mocha skin so that she would look fairer.

After what seemed like an appropriate time, we snuck out of the house only to get caught by the mother of the bride and shoed into another house this time to eat. Gerald had already eaten with the men – chicken, then lamb with prunes, then dessert cous cous with sugar. But when it seemed the food would never come, we snuck out again, only to be caught again. This time we said we had eaten supper (well, we had . . . at home) and were allowed to leave at 10:30 p.m.

Stumbling over the rocky, moon-lit ground on the way back to the car I compared myself to Hedda at age 16.

I wanted a tan to have her skin color.

She smeared white all over her face to look more like me.

I wanted a boyfriend.

She wants a husband.

I wanted more education and a career.

I’m not sure if she can read.

I planned to travel the world.

Going to the next town is a big event for her.

My possibilities were endless.

She can’t imagine life beyond this stony soil.

In my over-educated brain I assumed the rest of her life will be miserable. But the smile on her face tonight had shown me that I just might be wrong.