The purple thumb of marriage

Well folks, I know that I haven't posted for a while but I have been busy - moving in and settling in and doing other things! Here's the whole story. Oh and Judy - I can't return an email when you post to blogger so can you send me your email address in a post and I'll write to you direct as your old Caloundra address doesn't work any more!

So this is now a bit old but I haven't been to the net much so forgive me. Hopefully SOON I'll have the net at home (Telecom keep saying "in one week" and have been for almost 4 weeks now)and then I promise to be a better correspondent to you all! So here goes -

Thursday 20th March – The Prophet Mohammad’s birthday

My text message yesterday to all the kids read:

Well, when we left the house this morning it wasn’t with the thought that today would be our wedding day. But guess what? A visit to the Ministry, we thought to check out some paperwork, became a certified marriage agreement and now it is for real. Masry says hello to his new family. I am wearing the purple thumb of marriage…, am very dry in the mouth, and desperately need to go to the loo but I feel VERY happy. Lots of love, Mum, aka Lyndall El Masry.

Now pick yourself up. Shall I begin at the beginning?

For a few days over the past month or so we had done some of the things needed for us to get married. We had been to the Australian Embassy and got all the paperwork needed from there, basically a couple of documents that certify that I was free to marry etc. in both English and Arabic. We had also bought the wedding ring (for those ladies reading – wide band with a slight curve, 4 rows of diamonds (around the ring, not across), 1 row of tropez cut on the outside each side and 2 rows princess cut on the middle, about 2.5 carats all together, set in white gold) and we’d made arrangements about the marriage contract.

So yesterday we set out to go to the Ministry of Justice (the place you have to get married if you are a foreigner) to find out what else we needed for us to be able to get married and to see about making a time to do so. We were going to go shopping for an entertainment unit for the TV etc. after that, so we just dressed in ordinary clothes: jeans and a shirt each, no makeup for me and Masry hadn’t had a shave for a few days. So you can see we really didn’t have any intentions of getting married this day.

As always the traffic was awful and the parking situation even worse, but in one of the small side streets near the Ministry we jagged an excellent park and Masry left me in the car while he took all the paperwork and our passports to see what else was needed. He was back fairly soon, dropping our passports onto the seat and walking off. He eventually came back with a stamp valued at 50 pounds (LE) which we must have and copies of some of our documents and parts of our passports, including my visa. He also said that we needed 5 passport-sized photos each and we had to have 2 witnesses (2 men or 4 women - interesting in itself) with us and we could come back the next day, or any day they were open. Masry already had 5 photos in the car from when he got his new ID and by chance we’d parked in front of a photographer’s studio so we decided to get mine done straight away. That didn’t take long and then Masry made a phone call to his brother-in-law and said – tomorrow morning at 10.00am. Then he said as we drove off, as he often says about things, “Last choice. What do you say, yes or no?” So I said, “Last choice for you too. Yes or no?” “Yes for me,” he says and I say, “Yes for me too.”

I immediately feel nervous – maybe like waiting at the dentist. My mind is racing, thinking, I’ve nothing to wear. So soon? Am I really ready for this? And so on and so forth as perhaps you can imagine. As we slowly make our way round the block, Masry’s phone rings and he’s looking a little down and saying, “Oh, oh, OK.” When he hangs up he says – “It will be Sunday. Tomorrow is a holiday for the Prophet’s birthday, then Friday and Saturday all government is closed. So it will be Sunday. Unless it is today.” I can see him calculating how we might manage to get married today and not wait until Sunday. Strangely enough, my nerves have totally vanished; I must have really made a last choice. Masry’s brother-in-law is at work of course. So I ask do the witnesses have to know us. No, he doesn’t think so; we just have to have 2 witnesses. Surely there would be men willing to witness the marriage somewhere in there I ask? OK says Masry, we will go and see. By now we’ve nearly gone round the entire block and are back where we had parked, but the park is gone. Maybe there’s no park and it will be Sunday. But suddenly, there’s another one in front of us, double parked to be sure, but a gap in the double parking. So we park. I put on some lip gloss and off we go.

I hope that I can take you there, as if you were our guests on this important day. You’ll find yourself at no wedding like you have been to before (well, I think you’ve probably already guessed that) but I hope you’ll enjoy being with us regardless.

Let’s go up the stairs at the building entrance and through a small crowd of people gathered for no apparent good reason and to the two small lifts (very small) to wait for a ride to the 4th floor. I see tattered signs everywhere that forbid video or photography, so there’ll be no wedding photos here. All squeeze in to the lift – and yes it is a tight squeeze, one man in a galibaya and head scarf is a little upset at being unable to fit in. The 4th floor is the first stop and of course, we’re at the back of the lift but after everyone in front of us gets out to let us out, we can make our way from the lift lobby through a door with a sign in Arabic and into what looks like a waiting room.

The room, nothing very flash, a bit grubby and with chipped and fading paint, is about 10 metres by 10 metres, has benches and small tables and is already full. Immediately I can see some other western-looking faces both male and female, and I’m glad I didn’t get dressed up, everyone is dressed pretty much as we are, some daggier and some a little smarter, but not much. I take a seat on a spare bench and Masry tells his name to a man seated at a small desk and hands over some of the paperwork we have including our passports and Masry’s ID.

After a few minutes he joins me on the bench. I ask him how long he thinks we might wait given all these people in front of us. He shrugs but tells me he has given the man fifty pounds to help speed things up. Along comes a sort of waiter and we order tea and water, Masry’s tea with 4 sugars and mine with none. You can order one as well if you like, or a coffee or maybe a Coke. Meanwhile, let me tell you about some of the other people sharing this day with us.

To my immediate left are two older women and two older men. One of the women is crying and they are speaking in a language that sounds to me like Arabic. After a few minutes Masry tells me they are Iraqi. Next to them is a large party of veiled women, as well as children and men. They have come prepared. There’s a takeaway bag from a fish restaurant on their table and while I watch there’s the delivery of a box of meals, each individually wrapped. Sudanese says Masry. Directly in front there’s a group, bride in a scarf, western man, both young, and two men speaking in Arabic who I presume are the witnesses. There’s another young man with two women, one older, one younger. On my right there’s a western woman with 3 Egyptian men. The men are talking at a great rate in Arabic, the woman is reading a book – in English I notice. Another group arrives and also sits on my right, all the men older, the woman fully covered. They all look Egyptian to me but at least one person must be a foreigner. Could be from anywhere says Masry, Iraq, Kuwait, Libya, Sudan etc. etc. There are two other groups of men on the other side of the room and a few people standing around.

Meanwhile down the corridor to our right there’s quite a lot of coming and going and every now and again the man calls out a name (usually Mohammad). There is a series of small rooms down there with people milling outside the doors and lots of to-ing and fro-ing. Suddenly a young couple comes out and joins the group of older people on our left. The girl looks happy and excited and she and I share a smile. Two older men also come with them and there’s lots more smiling and excited chatter, I figure they are married now. We wait for about half to three quarters of an hour maybe, and Masry gets up to check. Come on, let’s go he says and we join all the others down the corridor. You have to stay in the waiting room I’m sorry, unless you’re one of our witnesses.

We go to Room 1 and wait outside the door. Inside there’s a man at a desk as well as a couch and a few chairs. And about 5 other people, all men. While we wait outside we are joined by another 2 couples and their witnesses. One couple is older; the man asks me if I am Italiano. No, German? No, Australian, I reply. He is overweight and perspiring heavily, he sounds maybe American to me. So now there’s a bit of a crowd gathered around Room 1 and as well, staff with files enter and leave on a regular basis. There also seem to be a few of what look like “helpers” who accompany a couple with their files and answer questions, or ask them. We stand for maybe 5 minutes before Masry says let’s go. While we wait I hear some ululating from the waiting room – my guess is it’s the Sudanese.

We get the two chairs at the desk while the man completes another file and clears his desk a bit, lining up his stamps etc. I can see my blue passport on the top of the heap of papers in front of him. After dealing with another file brought to him by a staff person, he gets out a fresh and thick wad of papers, A3 size that are folded in half, and a clean white cardboard folder. He writes something on the top of the papers in Arabic and red pen and then gets our ID to check it.

He speaks to Masry after looking at his ID and there seems to be some sort of problem. Masry digs out his wallet and another ID. The man turns to me and makes a gesture for a moustache. I understand. The ID Masry gave has a photo of him with short hair and a moustache, now he’s clean shaven and has a shaved head. I’ve told him before that I wouldn’t recognise him on his ID and obviously neither does the man. He pulls out another with a recent photo and after careful inspection the man starts to write. He asks me will I marry this man. Yes I say (wondering if this is it). He doesn’t do a great deal, although he attaches our 50 pound stamp, but puts all the papers in the folder and we pay him 30 pounds and he puts that in his drawer and gives us a receipt which also goes in the file.

“Let’s go”, says Masry. Then I know this isn’t it because our file doesn’t look like the others I’ve seen and we haven’t used our photos yet. We go to Room 4, over the corridor. There are 3 desks in here with 3 workers, two women and a man. We are directed to one of the women first. She’s using her mobile phone to text someone and it takes a minute for her to take our papers and do what she has to do, which seems very little. As soon as we are finished she goes back to her mobile. We take the file to the man at the next desk who fills in some of the spaces and takes more of our money and adds his receipt to the file. He and Masry have a quiet conversation but I’m not sure what it’s about. Meanwhile the lady at desk 3, with another couple, is having a loud discussion about the file she’s handling. I’ve got no idea of course but it eventually seems to be sorted out.

Out the door, file in hand, to Room 3. The man here slips his shoes on and moves to a second desk and we take seats and I suspect he has been at prayer. He takes the file and begins to complete the details, asking me something in Arabic. When I look blank and apologise he asks do I have any Arabic. I say no and so Masry gets to answer the questions. I sit quietly through a few things here; Masry goes to copy something else. People come and go and the man signs off on other files. One of the couples that come in is an Egyptian man and a western woman wearing a head scarf that looks very awkwardly arranged. I suspect (although I don’t really know) that this is something new to her. She too is asked if she has any Arabic and she says no. She has an American accent. She also looks very serious. I guess this is a serious business.

I look around the small room as the man writes. It has a window that I can’t see anything through. It has filing cabinets in two tone brown along 2 walls with dates on the front of them. There are two very grubby oriental rugs on the floor, one with holes, and none of the furniture matches anything and the chairs are battered. The man’s prayer rug is thrown over a spare chair, and although it’s fraying at the edges it’s the nicest thing in the room.

At one stage the man asks me in English will I marry this man? I say yes again. Our photos are fixed to all 5 copies of the papers. Our names are filled in. I am asked for my father’s first name and my mother’s first and second names. They are put down in Arabic somewhere on the papers.

Now everything is filled in and Masry is asked to sign all the copies of the papers and also two of the other pieces of paper that came from the Australian Embassy. He is asked to repeat some words in Arabic. And then his right thumb print is added to each photo, using an ordinary old-fashioned purple ink pad.

Next it’s my turn. I go through the same process. I write not my signature but my full name. As my thumb print is added to my photos I also get to repeat some words in Arabic. Goodness knows if I’ve said the words correctly but it seems to suffice. (I ask Masry later what I was required to say. He says it’s something like I am freely marrying this man.)

Two men that I’ve seen in the waiting room come in and also begin to sign our papers. Obviously these are our witnesses. Masry speaks with them and shakes hands with them and I say thank you in Arabic. One man seems concerned he’s missing something as he goes out of the room for a while in the middle of signing. But he’s back to finish off after the other man has completed his bits. Finally the Ministry man adds his signature, circles a few a things and then puts all the bits of paper into a file and puts it in his drawer. “Let’s go,” says Masry. And with that it’s over, we’re married.

Masry still has a paper to copy and he goes and does that while I wait near the windows, feeling like it’s all a little unreal. A woman beside me asks me if I’m German? American? I say no, Australian. And she is clearly a Scot. She asks am I here to get married. I say I just did, about 3 minutes ago. She tells me congratulations. She talks about her holiday romance that was supposed to end and didn’t. She tells me all her friends and family think she’s crazy, but that she knows this is right for her. I tell her it’s something I didn’t ever imagine me doing, but I know this is right for me too.

And then I hear Masry’s unmistakable footsteps. “Linda, let’s go,” he says. And I go, my purple thumb, a tangible sign of today’s events, going with me.


Love to all

Lyndall

PS. We get a copy of the papers in Arabic and one in English in about a week and then we can travel out of Cairo together – probably to Sharm El Sheik for a few days honeymoon. It’s on the Red Sea, it’s supposed to be beautiful.

PPS. We forgot all about the ring until today, but I have it on now.

PPPS. If you are an Egyptian couple a man comes to you and conducts a similar sort of paperwork signing. After that, either then or at a later date, you have a wedding party with friends and family when everyone is dressed as we would expect, gifts are given and the party goes all night long with food, music and dancing. When the house is fully completed it is likely that we will have one too. You’d all be welcome.

PPPPS. Masry has just come in and asked if I am writing another one of my stories. He asks if I have written his name. I say that all my stories have his name in them somewhere. “I am your hero?” he asks. “Absolutely” I reply.