“What’s going on?” the mullah shouted. “Ladies, your attention please. It’s time to ask the bride one more time if she will permit me to perform this marriage ceremony.” The man didn’t seem to realize he had entirely lost his audience.
Cousin Zainab, Sadegh’s scarred wife Sumayeh, and a few other ladies of the family finally managed to get Aunt Mehri on her feet. Aunt Mehri’s chador was snug again but off-center so that one side trailed on the floor while the other ended at her shins, making her stockinged legs and wide-heeled black shoes visible. “Khodaya, ghalbam vaystad! Lord help me . . . my heart can’t take this,” Aunt Mehri aspirated, taking trembling breaths between words. “Those . . . little monsters! I have never . . . ever . . . Zainab, dear . . . get me out of here . . . I can’t . . .”
“Biya beshin. Come, take a seat,” Sarah’s mother pulled at her sister to move her toward the chairs and tables where she could sit away from the bridal spread. Maman-joon looked as if she was going to cry. All of the engagement and wedding drama had been hardest on her. Maman-joon was the one who’d had to break the news to Aunt Mehri that the wedding would proceed as planned and then bore the brunt of anger and hurt from her beloved and revered older sister, who’d taken her in and raised her along with Zainab and her other children when their parents had passed. It was all made worse by the fact that Maman-joon was too embarrassed to admit that Sarah had been secretly talking to Ali all along and had fallen in love with him. So Aunt Mehri had little context for why she was being disobeyed. Even more than Sarah, Maman-joon had hoped that a successful wedding party would mollify Aunt Mehri by demonstrating God’s favor as well as the finality of the decision.
“Na! ” Aunt Mehri pushed Maman-joon away as she righted her chador, centering it correctly around her. “I won’t stay another second. What kind of people teach their children such lies about our supreme leader, who has spent his whole life guiding us toward God and protecting us from our many enemies? What kind of people teach their children to attack an old woman? They’re just like those violent rioters in the street. Zainab dear,” Aunt Mehri called, “Get me out of here!”
Sarah knew she had to do something. Gathering the folds of her awkward bridal chador around her, she stood and called, “Khaleh-joon, koja mirin? Dearest Aunt, where are you going? The wedding party hasn’t even started.”
Aunt Mehri turned, and the ladies parted to allow an unobstructed visual tunnel connecting the bride at one end and the family matriarch at the other. Suddenly everyone was silent. Even the forgotten mullah seemed to have tired of trying to get everyone’s attention.
Aunt Mehri’s lined skin was damp and her voice shook. “My mistake was that I came in the first place and agreed to mix with people who teach their children to insult someone I would die for. I knew I would regret it. I wanted to help and guide you, as is my duty, but you turned your back and ignored me and treated me as if this decision was none of my business. After all I have done for your mother and your family, how could you treat me this way?
“I shudder for you, my child,” Aunt Mehri went on. “You can’t imagine the wrath you and your parents have called upon yourselves. These people threaten our Islamic Republic, even at a wedding. Nothing is sacred to them! God doesn’t forgive such traitors.”
Aunt Mehri turned her back on Sarah and pulled away from Maman-joon. Her entourage—including Cousin Zainab, Zainab’s two daughters, Zahra and Nafiseh, who had kicked Azar’s son, and Aunt Mehri’s two daughters-in-law—closed up around her and the ladies exited the ballroom.
Sarah felt the weight of expectant gazes upon her as the remaining ladies looked to see what she would do. She searched her mind for some quip or joke or segue back to the ceremony that would shift the mood and make everything okay.
Sarah glanced at Ali for help. But he seemed frozen in place with his head down and eyes low. Had he seen what had happened? What was he thinking? Ali didn’t have any interest in politics, and Sarah knew he didn’t share his sister’s affinity for the Greens. But Azar was his sister. And although he’d known of Aunt Mehri’s opposition, it was another thing to hear with his own ears the way she talked about his family. Would it change how he felt about marrying into hers? What were Mrs. Rahimi and Azar thinking about Aunt Mehri’s scene? Would it prompt them to oppose the marriage as well?
Before she had time to decide on her next move, Sarah felt a hand on her arm. It was Maman-joon.
“Sarah,” she whispered, “come with me.”
Her mother half-pulled and half-supported Sarah as she stepped off the small platform, wobbly in her four-inch heels and slippery chador, and directed her into a small alcove off the banquet hall where they could talk privately. Once there, Maman-joon took both of Sarah’s hands in hers. “Sarah, azizam, light of my eyes,” she pleaded as Sarah’s chador slipped and her heart sank at what was coming. “Won’t you end this now? Don’t you see what this family is? Look how they talk about our supreme leader. Look how those boys run around with no one to discipline them. Look how they’re hurting our family and dividing sister from sister. I’m begging you, Sarah, to trust me. Trust me and your aunt and your father and the rest of our family. We only want what’s best for you. I see nothing but misery if you continue to insist on this unsuitable match.”
Sarah had never been a rebellious child. Unlike many of her school friends she had generally felt loved and understood and, in turn, sought to please her mother and father. Yes, she had a reputation for some mischief-making, but even that stemmed from her knowledge that her parents were secretly proud of her high spirits. She never crossed a line into outright defiance.
When Sarah and Ali had begun emailing and then calling one another, Sarah hadn’t really seen it as disobedience. She and Ali were engaged after all. And Sarah knew her parents didn’t entirely agree with Aunt Mehri’s overly strict insistence that the engagement period was for families to get to know one another and ensure they were a good match, and that there was time enough after the wedding for the young people to fall in love. If it weren’t for Aunt Mehri, Sarah was sure she and Ali, like many other engaged couples from religious families, would have done the sigheh early on so they could even spend time together alone. Whispered conversations in which Sarah tried to make Ali laugh with funny stories about her latest scrapes felt innocent and so right that it was hard to imagine anyone being upset about it.
When Sarah heard from her mother that Aunt Mehri had changed her mind about Ali’s family and had decided that the marriage should be called off, it was as if someone had told her that her name wasn’t Sarah or that she wasn’t really Iranian and didn’t belong with her mother and father. Ali already felt like such an immutable part of her life and identity that Sarah couldn’t believe he could be ripped away and erased as if their relationship had never happened.
On the other hand, if Aunt Mehri had made a decision, Sarah couldn’t imagine any way around it. The matter was out of her hands. All Sarah could do was pray that God would change her aunt’s mind again or intervene in some way to allow Sarah and Ali to be together after all.