In The Land of Old Maids and Bad Odds

For Jane Austen, it was a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wife.

And, here in Syria, it appears to be a nearly universal truth that a 27-year-old, single female must be in want of a husband. At least, that’s what the older generation of my family, their friends and most taxi drivers seem to think.

When you meet someone here – at least when I’ve met people here – once they figure out your name and where you are from, the most common third question is “Are you married?” The fourth question: “Well, are you engaged?” Finally, the fifth question (if you can call it a question): “Don’t you want me to introduce you to someone?”

Just the other day, over coffee with my aunt and her friends, a former high-level military officer decided after five minutes that it was a major travesty that I was single and he would make it his personal goal to find me a husband.

“I have a long list of men for you,” he said. “But first, I take you to the beauty salon.”

Sitting with this guy under a blow dry machine, getting our toenails polished together? Wouldn’t even Sy Hersh balk at this kind of access? Tempting, tempting.

At 27, I’m a bit past the marrying prime as far as Syria goes. As my uncle kindly informed me without touching a calculator, I now have a four percent chance of finding my special someone. As the moon passed through the sky on my 25^th birthday, I apparently crossed over the marital Maginot line and into the Land of Old Maids and Bad Odds.

As arbitrary as it may seem, there is a system here, as my aunt explained to me: Once a girl hits 20 or so, she is considered eligible to start looking for a husband. But she doesn’t actually go out on a hunt for one. If she meets someone at a party or at school whom she is interested in, she tells her mother and her mother calls the boy’s mother. The two mothers then run through a check list of important factors which, according to my aunt, include the family’s reputation, wealth and education.

If everything checks out, the two families meet and, while their parents drink coffee and make small talk, the boy and girl get a chance to see if they have anything in common or have any chemistry. If one or both of the couple have an interest in one another, the mothers regroup on the phone later and plan another meeting. This time, the couple will meet without the family, but the girl will bring a male chaperone, typically an older brother. They might meet up like this a couple more times and then decide to become engaged and throw a big party.

As far as I can tell, once a couple is engaged, they can go on unchaperoned dates and really begin the process of getting to know each other. I don’t have statistics, but it seems to me that more engagements are broken here than in the US. In my eyes, breaking an engagement here is more like breaking up from a serious relationship. And that makes sense because divorce, particularly for women, seems to be a bit of a taboo, at least in my family’s social circle. According to my aunt, a divorced woman is really on the outs and will have serious trouble remarrying. Still, I’ve heard from younger people here in Damascus that divorced women are very popular for dates, however one defines popular.

Of course, there are exceptions to tradition. More and more, couples here in Syria meet at university or through friends and forgo the drawn out family-centric engagement process that is the tradition. I have a Syrian friend here who is also in her late 20s and working as a journalist. She’s lived with a boyfriend and she would never willingly let an aunt take her to a lunch on a set-up.

Whatever way you play it, by the time you reach 25, as far as traditional Syrians are concerned, you are on the brink of Old Maidom. There is actually an Arabic word for old maid – “ahhhnn-nise” (It’s another one of those Kermit the Frog words that you have to pronounce from the back of your throat). When I’ve used it to describe myself in polite company with my family, I’ve gotten some dirty looks. So as far as I can tell, it’s an insult. However, it’s a great weapon against the taxi drivers of Damascus who all seem to be looking for that special – and, more importantly, single - conversation partner to improve their English.

So for now, I am squarely “ass-bah” which I would translate simply into “single”, but it seems to actually mean “single and definitely looking.” Perhaps “looking” is just assumed for someone of my age. And as my family swarms around me, concerned about my marital status, I can’t help feel a lot like a Jane Austen character.

It struck me suddenly several nights ago when I was watching Pride and Prejudice with my cousin’s husband. We were watching the scene in which Mrs. Bennett tells Elizabeth Bennett that if she puts off marriage much longer, she will end up alone and penniless. My cousin’s husband and I had just been laughing about a strange lunch one of my aunt’s coaxed me into attending.

My aunt had been visiting Damascus from Aleppo for the weekend when she called to invite me.

“Don’t wear what you wore yesterday,” she said over the phone.

“Huh?” I said, trying to remember what I had been wearing.

“This is a nice family. High society. Very chic,” she said. “Make your hair nice. Yallah (Let’s go). Ok?”

“Ok,” I said. “So what should I wear?”

“Bye”

“What?”

She had hung up the phone.

I assumed that we were having lunch with a family that liked to get dressed up for meals and she was simply giving me a heads up so I wouldn’t make a total fool out of myself. As someone who feels most attractive in a bright red track suit, I thought this was fair warning.

I wore the nicest shirt I had brought with me to Damascus. I brushed my hair and put on a hint of lipstick (Read: I put some lipstick on and wiped it off after looking in the mirror). I honestly felt a bit over done. How fancy could lunch at someone’s house be, especially in such hot weather?

“You did your hair?” my aunt said, looking me up and down when I arrived at her house.

“Well, yeah. I don’t have a blow dryer so this is what it looks like,” I said.

“Ok,” she said, looking once more at my hair. “Well, we go, but we will put more lipstick on before we get there.”

My aunt had rung the doorbell outside of the family’s flat when she turned to me. She looked into my eyes, hers magnified by raccoon-eye sized, sparkly bifocals.

“Fix your hair. And don’t mention any boyfriends, if anyone asks. Ok? Yallah.”

I was about to ask my aunt what the hell was going on when a housekeeper ushered us into the living room of the apartment. Sitting on a sofa in a nightgown and watching music videos was the lunch hostess. We shook hands and she and my aunt proceeded to talk about me in Arabic. Every once in a while, the two asked me to clarify a point here and there, including what I had studied in college and, of course, my age.

Minutes later, my aunt turned to me, with the hostess still sitting at the next sofa in ear shot.

“Well, he’s not here.”

“Who?”

“Her grandson. He’s very good. He went to Dubai for business. He’s gotten a bit fat,” she said, blowing out her cheeks, “but I thought you might like him. Very good family.”

Of course. This was a set-up sabotage, disguised as fancy lunch! I was suddenly very glad that I didn’t have a blowdryer. I wished I had worn a paper bag.

Little by little, the hostess’ sons and their children appeared at the house, all in jeans and t-shirts. As each son came into the living room, my aunt would tell me what they did for a living.

“He is an engineer,” she said after the first son entered.

“He is an engineer,” she said after the second son entered.

And eventually, I found myself surrounded by a pack of attractive male engineers, watching Arabic music videos and smoking in silence.

In turn, they learned that I had studied anthropology in college and that I was 27, clearly my most important stats. I felt like we were pro-baseball players being introduced before the first inning of a big game. I was ready to take the bunt and get back to the dug out.

Luckily, I was seated next to one of the hostess’ teenage granddaughters during lunch. Her English was impeccable and we had a great discussion about basketball. She played for a woman’s team in Damascus. Before dessert and whatever other set-up rituals I hadn’t anticipated, I told my aunt that I had an appointment and backed out of the dining room with my ratty purse, leaving her and the hostess glaring at me.

OK. So while this whole idea of marriage here is totally alien and in some ways offensive to me, I can see it through my family’s eyes. For my aunt, I had reached a certain age and I needed to find a husband, or else spend my life alone and, in some ways, at odds with her society. For her, much like for Mrs. Bennett, an appropriate husband was one who had money, good looks and was part of a reputable family.

Taking me to lunch was, as I’m guessing she saw it, doing me a big favor.

Just as in the world of Jane Austen, there doesn’t seem to be the concept, at least among the older generation of my family and their circle, that a woman would want to be alone and care for herself or focus on a career before focusing on a family. And that’s not because they think women can’t have careers or aren’t intelligent. Not at all. One of my female cousins is a tourism consultant and another started her own clothing line. One of my aunts has her PhD and is a department chair at the University of Aleppo. Rather, I think the point is that for a woman, situating oneself in a stable family, the unit around which all activities seem to orbit in Syria, takes precedent over anything else as far as the older generation of my family is concerned.

Which, of course, explains the hullabaloo over setting one’s relatives up with potential husbands. In their heads, it’s a wild game of chess with hundreds of possibilities, requiring keen strategy and foresight. Will there be more surprise lunches? A trip to the salon with my retired military man? Undoubtedly.

Perhaps the more important question is are there any Darcys in Damascus?

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