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admired by everyone before the arrival of her future husband. All the women jostle each other to get into the courtyard to view the bride, all the while making their ululations.
    And the men dance outside. They don’t mingle with the women in the courtyard. We’re not even allowed to be at the window to watch their dancing. The groom now makes his entrance. The fiancée shyly lowers her head. She is not yet permitted to look at him. This will be the first time she will see what he looks like. I suppose my mother has given her some idea of his appearance, something about his family, his job, his age. But maybe not, maybe all they told her was that his parents brought the right amount of gold.
    My mother places a veil on my sister’s head. He arrives like a prince, well dressed. He approaches her. Noura keeps her head down under the veil and her hands demurely on her knees to demonstrate her good upbringing. This moment is supposed to represent the essential purpose of my sister’s life. I watch with the others, and I envy her. I have always been envious of the eldest, of being able to go everywhere with my mother, while I slogged away in the stable with Kainat. I envy her being the first to leave the house. Every girl would like to be in the bride’s place on this day, in a beautiful white dress, covered with gold. Noura is so beautiful. My only disappointment is that she is not wearing shoes. I think it is miserable to be barefoot. I have seen women in the street, going to the market, wearing shoes. Perhaps because the men always wear them, shoes are for me the symbol of freedom. To be able to walk without pebbles and thorns tearing my feet. Noura is barefoot and Hussein is wearing very beautiful polished shoes, which fascinate me.
    Hussein comes toward my sister. On the high table, they have installed another chair for him and covered it with a white cloth. He sits down, raises the white veil, and the ululations resonate in the courtyard. The ceremony is finished. The man has just discovered the face of the woman who has remained pure for him and will give him sons. They remain there, both seated like mannequins. All the others dance, sing, eat, but they don’t move. They are brought something to eat and someone covers them with white towels so they don’t soil their beautiful clothes. The husband doesn’t touch his wife, doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t take her hand. Nothing is exchanged between them, no gesture of love or tenderness. They are a fixed image of marriage and they sit there like this for a long time.
    I don’t know anything about this man, his age, if he has brothers or sisters, what he works at, and where he lives with his parents. But he is from the same village. You don’t go looking for a woman anywhere but your own village. It’s the first time that I, too, have seen this man. We didn’t know if he was handsome or ugly, short, tall, fat, blind, awkward, with a twisted mouth, if he had a big nose, or even if he had ears. Hussein is a very attractive man. He is not very tall, he has short curly hair, his face is dark, tanned, a short, rather flat nose with broad nostrils, and he looks well fed. He is good looking. He walks proudly and, at first glance, he doesn’t look mean but perhaps he is. I feel it. Now and then, he speaks nervously.
    To make it clear that the celebration is ending and the guests are expected to leave, the women sing directly to the husband something that goes like this: “Protect me now. If you don’t protect me, you are not a man . . .” And the last obligatory song: “We are not leaving here until you dance.” The two of them must dance to conclude the ceremony. The husband helps his wife down—this time he touches her with his finger, she belongs to him now—and they dance together. Some couples don’t dance because they are shy. My sister danced well with her husband and it was magnificent for the village.
    The husband takes his wife home to his house. It is