At a Muslim Wedding

I was on that free diving and fishing trip through Algeria I have written about before. The French, who had seemingly deeply colonized the country, had been gone for a few years. They had left behind their language and many buildings in the big cities and in some other, fertile parts of Algeria. In remote areas though, it was almost as if they had never been there. I was in one of those areas with my then-future-ex-wife (“TFEW”) in our VW camping bus.

It was in the east, in Kabylia, in a small town squeezed between the mountains and the sea. There was a tiny harbor protected by a tiny breakwater that sheltered four or five boats. There was also a café a hundred yards away. A big rock with steep sides emerged within swimming distance of the harbor. The town was a spear fisherman’s dream as well as a vacationer’s dream. It was the kind of place that travel agencies use to arouse you on TV in the winter and never, never deliver.

When we arrived, in the middle of a hot afternoon, there was no human being in sight; even the café was empty. I was an instinctive believer in the adage that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission even before I heard it spoken. So, we parked at the harbor and had our cheese, bread, and figs lunch. I prepared instant coffee on the stove. I thought I was giving whatever authorities might exist in the town ample time to chase us off if they wished. Nobody came.

Toward evening, I walked to the café where four or five men were sitting and talking quietly. I said Hello in French and they replied in the same language. I could read the curiosity in their eyes but they were too polite to inquire. So, I ordered some tea and explained briefly what I was doing in Algeria. This interested them. Being a fisherman works everywhere as an introduction. Everyone knows what fishing is (unlike “touring,” for example). Every man either is a fisherman or wishes he were. Or has a brother-in-law who is a fisherman. One of the men volunteered that the café served wine. I ordered a glass for myself and offered to treat the men. Only one accepted.

My companion and I has a small dinner under the light of an oil lamp and went to sleep in the back of the bus. In the morning, I quickly located a bakery by smell. There was hot fresh bread. (Good bread is an undeniable gift of French colonialism.) After breakfast; I cinched on a light weight belt and grabbed my speargun; I put on my mask and snorkel and my flippers. I entered the clear water of the harbor and swam to the offshore rock. The sea was bountiful. There were groupers there that did not even know I was a predator and various edible fish that seemed to only have Arabic names. (If you don’t believe me, I have a picture.)

The location was so idyllic that we lingered on. In truth, we didn’t even have anyplace to go in a hurry anyway. We ate fresh fish at every meal, with fresh bread and tomatoes, plus some fruits. There were no authorities. Only the village kids came to visit. They were sweet and full of good questions. We gave them fish. I had become almost an old-timer at the café. One of the guys there told me his name was Pierre. He was the same guy who had accepted a glass of wine the first day; I should have known. I never got the story of why he had stayed behind after all the other French left. Maybe, there was a woman involved. Or, he had no relatives in France. Asking would have been pushy

One morning, early, two older children with solemn expressions came by with a message. There was going to be a wedding the next day and we were invited. We were both flattered and intrigued. The TFEW immediately went into a flurry of activity looking for a suitable present for the bride. It was no easy task because we were camping, with minimalist baggage. Eventually, she found a small silk kerchief that she thought might do because, frankly, the locals seemed so poor. She (and I too) was thinking in terms of what we knew about: American and French weddings, pretty much variations on the same basic model: The bride is the queen and she gets presents, the bride’s mother is the dictator, the groom is a little drunk, so are many of the guests, including children. There is dancing. Most unmarried women are a little or much turned on; single guys try their luck.

On the wedding day, we cleaned up as well as we could, birdbath manner. My companion even washed her hair in cold water. Fortunately, she was wearing it in a very short afro, almost a buzz cut. She put on a light cotton mumu that looked almost ironed. It was a decent, loose garment but with discreet curves in the right areas. I thought she looked more than presentable. I don’t know about myself. I had on clean jeans and my only shirt with a collar. The kids had been vague about time. Around noon, we walked up the steep street with the same children guiding us.

A whole other street, a flat one, had been blocked off and long tables, benches and chairs lined up on the sidewalks. It appeared that our being invited had not been such an extraordinary honor after all. We guessed the whole village was invited and it would have been unseemly to leave the tourists out. (But wait….) However, we saw only male human beings on the street, from boys in short pants to bent old geezers. A band played somewhere close-by but we couldn’t see it and there were no dancers in sight. The action took place behind bed sheets hung from a rope that stretched across the street. We were instructed with smiles to sit down. After a few minutes, young men came bearing enamel basins of food. They placed a piece of mutton next to us on the table oilcloth and a bowl of semolina (grits, more or less) with two spoons. Another boy set a recently rinsed glass full of limonade in front of each of us. We noticed that other guests were waiting for our seats.

We were going to hurry off the table but a tall, handsome man in a dark suit – the only suit in sight – came by. He was the groom and he had taken it to heart to greet us personally, which he did graciously, in perfect French. We were told later that he was a fighter pilot back from training in the Soviet Union who had returned to his native town just to get married. The man was elegant and he had a great deal of presence. He would not have been out of place in an upscale bar in Palo Alto, California where we lived most of the time. I told him that my wife had a small gift she would like to give to the bride in person. He said not to move, that he would send us someone quickly.

After a short time, an older man came to tell my companion to follow him. He took her a few feet away behind a low wall where I could still see her. There, he handed her over to two old crones. One of them had red dyed hair that would not have fooled a blind man ten feet away. The three women walked away through an unlit area but in the direction of a brightly lighted structure where I lost sight of them.

About ten minutes later, the TFEW came back by herself steaming. (I was a grown man; I felt the vibes; I knew the signs.) So, I asked, did you meet the bride and did you give her the present? She said she had and she had and the bride, sitting all made up and coiffed in a gilded armchair, surrounded by her handmaidens, seemed touched. But, she said, you won’t believe what happened before that. Just as we reached the bridal pavilion, one of the two old women held me by the shoulders while the other lunged for my crotch and tried for a grab.

What do you think? Would I make this up? Do I have the talent, the imagination?

Several things. First, yes, of course, this is intended to be a pop-sociological story. It’s a commentary on something. Your guess.

Second, it should be obvious that I liked everyone I met during that stay and in that episode, every single person. That’s more than I can say for the people with whom I cross paths daily in California, for example. And, don’t get me started on the French! (Many of whom are holes in the ice as my decorous granddaughter would say.) Now, I know why I liked them but it’s hard to tell why they were so likable. Everyone in the small town was courteous and generous if he had a chance to be, even if only by offering a glass of hot tea after my long stay underwater. Again, I can’t tell why they were so gracious. Perhaps small towns are like that. Perhaps people used to be generally like that when they live in places small enough to be real communities. I can’t really believe this though because I have read too many stories (beginning with Maupassant’s), seen too many movies, where small town people behave in a completely beastly manner.

In the absence of perfect sampling, I tend to put some faith in cultural redundancy: If blondes keep treating me shabbily, I begin suspecting that there is something wrong with blondes (or about blondes and me). So, I have been treated courteously by Muslims and by people who appeared to be Muslims whenever I spend time in Muslim surroundings, even thousands of miles apart. So, until proven otherwise, I think it’s their culture that makes them friendly. Yet, naturally, I find the crotch grabbing incident and what I take to be its many implications repulsive. I don’t think it would have happened anywhere in the formerly Christian West.

The gesture and its sexual implications have a historical association with Islam, I believe. (See how carefully I chose my words.) Yet, there is almost certainly nowhere in the Islamic Scripture that mandates, commands, or even condones such behavior. Contrary to many Muslim apologists I hear on TV and on radio, that’s not the end of the story, as far as I am concerned, however. You are responsible for the baggage your religion carries. So, there is absolutely nothing in the Christian Scriptures ordering that theological deviants be burned alive. And yet, it happened in Christian lands, over and over again. Historically, it’s a sort of Christian specialty although Christ would not have applauded the practice, I am pretty sure. If you are a Christian, it’s disingenuous to say that burning people alive has nothing to do with you. It’s as much part of your heritage as are the glorious Gothic cathedrals.

And, yes, you are right; I loaded the dice by entitling this story “A Muslim Wedding.” I could have called it equally well: “An Algerian Wedding,” or “A Kabyle Wedding” (for the area), or “An Amazigh Wedding” (after the local people’s ethnicity), even “A Village Wedding.” Was I wrong? You decide.

19 thoughts on “At a Muslim Wedding

  1. Interesting. A close friend of my son is coming by shortly. I’ll ask him if Pakistani weddings involve the well established Muslim practice of crotch grabbing at weddings.

    • I asked my friend Umar to look at Jacques anecdote about crotch grabbing at a wedding.

      “That’s very strange, it might be something area specific, like kidnapping the girl you want to marry in some rural parts of Africa and Central Asia, I know there’s a lot of traditions we have that are North Indian specific but I’ve never ever heard of this in anyway before. Definitely nothing that’s practiced in any noticeable capacity across the Muslim world. Also he sort of just mentions and doesn’t really elaborate on it. I doubt it’s something sexual when 2 old ladies are doing it to another lady. It might be some wedding tradition they misunderstood, I know it’s embarrassing but should’ve just asked the groom to clarify, he spoke French.”

    • Thanks for the heads up, Uncle T.

      I know you’re subtly mocking Jacques, but stuff like this happens and dialogues like this are needed to avoid cultural miscommunication (and the negative externalities that it produces).

      Crotch-grabbing is strange. I’ll bet it’s an Amazigh thing. In fact, I’ll bet it’s an Algerian Amazigh thing. I don’t know why Jacques would try to associate a strange custom practiced by semi-nomadic peoples with the Islam of Ibn Arabi and El Majdoub. Oh wait, yes I do. It goes something like this (correct me if I’m wrong): “Old crones grab women’s crotches at weddings, therefore Islam is anti-woman, or at least anti-modern woman. Because Islam is anti-modern woman, the West’s (failed) imperial campaigns in the Near East are totally justified, as is the enactment of new legislation that slowly picks apart the Bill of Rights.”

      (Hell of a story, though.)

    • Of course, no anecdote establishes anything. (Note my cautious tone.) Many anecdotes do however. You seem to be regularly missing the same point: If yellow dogs keep biting you and no dogs of other colors do, at some point, you must wonder if there is something about yellow dogs. If you don’t, you are a fool.

      When correcting others, it’s good form to not display ignorance: The Amazigh people of Kabylia are not “semi-nomadic.” Also, I said nothing and implied nothing about imperial campaign, neither the recent Western ones nor the older Arab conquest of Amazigh societies. I think the world of Iban Arabi. Do you? Muslim societies used to have man intellectually brilliant people who might have been Muslims themselves. Not many today, possibly none.

      The crotch grabbing mentioned in this story was not a “custom.” I suspect you did not understand the story.

    • Ah gotcha.

      So I’m “a fool,” ignorant, and unable to “understand the story.”

      Not everybody can be as smart as you, dude, but at some point you have to ask yourself how strong your argument really is if all you can do is resort to name-calling and stupid-shaming…

    • I said precisely, ” If…you are a fool…” It was about yellow dogs, IF. It’s not name calling; it’s drawing your attention to the obvious. There is no argument in the story except that one, about logic: (See “yellow dogs….”) Lots of people are smarter than I am. I even know some personally. I like “stupid-shaming.” May I use it?

    • Hmm. If my mockery is subtle, I’m losing my touch. I think your Jacques’ motivation is bang on. Although the end point of the ‘moral of the story’ is repugnant it’s the beginning that bugs me the most…

      “The gesture and its sexual implications have a historical association with Islam, I believe.”

      Uh huh. Sunni and Shi’a; Indonesians to Nigerians….all 1.7 billion in the Ummah are perverted crotch grabbers.

    • @Brandon
      Your problem is that you don’t understand Jacques’ version of logic. Consider that
      the statement: “Of course, no anecdote establishes anything.” is followed 4 words later by the statement:
      “Many anecdotes do however.” In our universe those two statements are inconsistent. However, in the alternate universe Jacques inhabits it makes perfect sense. Bernie Cohen must be spinning in his grave.

  2. This is why Christ was a game changer for Christians. He brought the religion a new voice of forgiveness, tolerance, and redemption. The old ways were no longer an active part of the religion, only a chapter of history.
    The old testament has that name for a reason.

    • Yes, John. But it seems true that many Christians still refer to the Old Testament with its many tales of bloodthirstiness and iniquity. I think it’s mostly Protestants. Catholics often barely know even the Gospels.

    • I am a non denominational Christian so am really unaware and uncaring of the different beliefs in that regard. Organized religion is not my cup of tea.

  3. […] to Algeria – as a tourist, a spear fisherman, believe it or not- six years after independence. I was warmly received and I liked the people there. They felt like cousins, the sort of cousins you played with in childhood but have not seen in […]

  4. […] to Algeria – as a tourist, a spear fisherman, believe it or not- six years after independence. I was warmly received and I liked the people there. They felt like cousins, the sort of cousins you played with in childhood but have not seen in […]

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