Yomna Touni, a dear friend of mine, once asked me to blog about
"How you managed to get your way. And not do what all the Arab mums expect from you"
Perhaps some might wonder what she meant by that. I know, as I'm sure many other Arabs will too, though the word 'Arab' could be just as readily swapped for any number of other cultural groups.
It's the whole 'marrying from your own background' thing. It's meant to be the better choice, because, in theory, it gives you the best chance at success. It's meant to remove at least one obstacle, namely cultural differences, hence making it easier for a couple to 'mesh'. In theory, they should have a relatively comparable upbringing, with similar everyday practices, a common language, familiar foods and most importantly, a shared understanding of gender roles and responsibilities. It minimises the risk of a culture clash whether it be between the couple or their families.
Yomna wanted to know how I managed to marry outside of my culture, assuming that it was effectively me 'getting my way'.
Well, if I'm being completely honest, it wasn't that difficult. I guess, in some ways, I had the 'benefit' of having tried the theoretically sound option- my first husband had been Lebanese. He'd spent much of his formative years in the same city as my mother, so he effectively shared her, and to a large extent, my cultural upbringing. He'd also gone to school here, so statistically, we should have been an almost perfect match, culturally speaking. But we weren't. Without going into the detail of it, our marriage failed. We got divorced and our relationship now, as parents to three wonderful children, is, to put it mildly, fractured.
You'll notice my frequent use of the term 'theoretically'. That's because theory can often have very little to do with practice. This is especially true where human relationships are concerned, because there is nothing linear or straightforward about humans. There is no formula, no balanced equation. Balancing an equation requires certain knowledge of the elements involved; in a relationship, there is no way of even knowing what all of those elements are never mind what their value will be. And so, in my opinion, the whole 'marry from your own background to improve your chances' hypothesis isn't as solid as one might hope. As far as I'm concerned, insisting on cultural sameness adds another layer of constraint.
But I digress. So, here I was, a divorced mother of three at just 24 years old. I had no real intention to remarry, in fact I was quite content being on my own. But that's by the by. Destiny would have it that Sean and I would meet. Two individuals. At least that's how we chose to look at it. We spoke a similar narrative, in terms of our histories and our hopes for the future. Intellectually, we matched. And whilst our cultures couldn't be more different, we were very explicit in articulating what we would and wouldn't accept, what we did and didn't want. We came into it with eyes wide open, without the foggy screens of happily-ever-afters and the chimerical promise of forevers.
I informed my parents and introduced him to my dad almost immediately, because I knew that he was a far better judge of character than I was and because I am fortunate enough to have that sort of relationship with them. Dad liked him. I was relieved. The truth was that they too had accepted the unpredictability of marriage, courtesy of my example. So they kept an open mind. They trusted my judgement. Their only wish was my happiness, and if that meant sanctioning an intercultural marriage, then so be it.
Of course, not everyone in our community (or our family for that matter!) is as accepting as that. I remember one particular uncle sternly telling my father that by allowing this union, he was opening the door for other girls in our family to follow suit. Tsk Tsk. And a cousin refused to attend the family meet-and-greet, stating that "I'd probably be onto husband no. 3 in no time". So, I know that it's still new terrain for many of the old-schoolers. And we got many a stare for both communities in those early years, where the contrast was most stark. ''Fallen woman" scowls from mine, and "terrorist sell-out" from his.
Time is beginning to change that, and I'm happy to say I know quite a few people who have ventured into the world of mixed marriage. I can speak from almost 11 years experience when I say that it's a marriage just like any other, with its ups and downs, with its victories and its tribulations. Like most things, perspective is so important. I see him as another person. As a man. As an individual, flaws and all. And I'd like to think, he sees me in the same way. Not as his exotic Syrian wife, but as an equal, free from all the baggage that culture can bring.
I have told my children to do the same- to look beyond culture, and to not let what others think colour their judgement. Because marriage is hard without those added constraints.
So there's your answer Yomna. I can't say it was me 'getting my way', rather, it was destiny played out on fertile ground.
"How you managed to get your way. And not do what all the Arab mums expect from you"
Perhaps some might wonder what she meant by that. I know, as I'm sure many other Arabs will too, though the word 'Arab' could be just as readily swapped for any number of other cultural groups.
It's the whole 'marrying from your own background' thing. It's meant to be the better choice, because, in theory, it gives you the best chance at success. It's meant to remove at least one obstacle, namely cultural differences, hence making it easier for a couple to 'mesh'. In theory, they should have a relatively comparable upbringing, with similar everyday practices, a common language, familiar foods and most importantly, a shared understanding of gender roles and responsibilities. It minimises the risk of a culture clash whether it be between the couple or their families.
Yomna wanted to know how I managed to marry outside of my culture, assuming that it was effectively me 'getting my way'.
Well, if I'm being completely honest, it wasn't that difficult. I guess, in some ways, I had the 'benefit' of having tried the theoretically sound option- my first husband had been Lebanese. He'd spent much of his formative years in the same city as my mother, so he effectively shared her, and to a large extent, my cultural upbringing. He'd also gone to school here, so statistically, we should have been an almost perfect match, culturally speaking. But we weren't. Without going into the detail of it, our marriage failed. We got divorced and our relationship now, as parents to three wonderful children, is, to put it mildly, fractured.
You'll notice my frequent use of the term 'theoretically'. That's because theory can often have very little to do with practice. This is especially true where human relationships are concerned, because there is nothing linear or straightforward about humans. There is no formula, no balanced equation. Balancing an equation requires certain knowledge of the elements involved; in a relationship, there is no way of even knowing what all of those elements are never mind what their value will be. And so, in my opinion, the whole 'marry from your own background to improve your chances' hypothesis isn't as solid as one might hope. As far as I'm concerned, insisting on cultural sameness adds another layer of constraint.
But I digress. So, here I was, a divorced mother of three at just 24 years old. I had no real intention to remarry, in fact I was quite content being on my own. But that's by the by. Destiny would have it that Sean and I would meet. Two individuals. At least that's how we chose to look at it. We spoke a similar narrative, in terms of our histories and our hopes for the future. Intellectually, we matched. And whilst our cultures couldn't be more different, we were very explicit in articulating what we would and wouldn't accept, what we did and didn't want. We came into it with eyes wide open, without the foggy screens of happily-ever-afters and the chimerical promise of forevers.
I informed my parents and introduced him to my dad almost immediately, because I knew that he was a far better judge of character than I was and because I am fortunate enough to have that sort of relationship with them. Dad liked him. I was relieved. The truth was that they too had accepted the unpredictability of marriage, courtesy of my example. So they kept an open mind. They trusted my judgement. Their only wish was my happiness, and if that meant sanctioning an intercultural marriage, then so be it.
Of course, not everyone in our community (or our family for that matter!) is as accepting as that. I remember one particular uncle sternly telling my father that by allowing this union, he was opening the door for other girls in our family to follow suit. Tsk Tsk. And a cousin refused to attend the family meet-and-greet, stating that "I'd probably be onto husband no. 3 in no time". So, I know that it's still new terrain for many of the old-schoolers. And we got many a stare for both communities in those early years, where the contrast was most stark. ''Fallen woman" scowls from mine, and "terrorist sell-out" from his.
Time is beginning to change that, and I'm happy to say I know quite a few people who have ventured into the world of mixed marriage. I can speak from almost 11 years experience when I say that it's a marriage just like any other, with its ups and downs, with its victories and its tribulations. Like most things, perspective is so important. I see him as another person. As a man. As an individual, flaws and all. And I'd like to think, he sees me in the same way. Not as his exotic Syrian wife, but as an equal, free from all the baggage that culture can bring.
I have told my children to do the same- to look beyond culture, and to not let what others think colour their judgement. Because marriage is hard without those added constraints.
So there's your answer Yomna. I can't say it was me 'getting my way', rather, it was destiny played out on fertile ground.
