One recent evening, after work, I quickly changed into sweatpants, laced up my sneakers, and headed to the park to walk off the day with the dog. I stumbled upon one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever seen in this little village. I heard them before I saw them—a whooping sort of yodeling sound coming from across the creek. One by one, men and young boys dressed in flowing white robes with gold belts and curved daggers started to cross the bridge. I asked one of them what was going on, and he replied that they were there taking photos for a wedding. As Jazzy and I crossed the bridge, I saw at least 50-60 more men on the hillside posing for pictures, all dressed in the same style of flowing white robes. I paused to take the scene in and started talking to an older gentleman who was filming with his iPhone. I asked where the bride and groom were, and he pointed to the right of the men on the hill, and there was the groom, a handsome young man with his chest puffed out and his head held high, dressed in similar robes but more ornate, gold, necklaces of flowers draped around his neck, a tall sword proudly propped on his shoulder.
The older gentleman and I kept chatting while I stood and watched. I asked him about the daggers, and he told me they were part of their traditional Yemeni heritage, known as a Jambiya, symbolizing honor, masculinity, and social status. He told me each one was a part of their family's heritage, and they cost between $ 1,500 and $100,000, depending on how old and bejeweled the handles were.
It was about then that I remembered that some Islamic communities have separate wedding parties for men and women, which is why I was only seeing the groom. It was also then that I realized I was a woman in my sweatpants, with messy hair piled on my head, standing amongst a sea of Yemeni men, with a wet dog. The older man didn't seem to be offended by my presence and questions, and I thanked him for the conversation and for sharing the information about their traditional garb.
Jazzy and I started to walk away when the groom made his way towards us. I asked if I could take his photo too, so I could never forget this moment, and he said, "Of course," and smiled for my camera.
There is a reason I walked into this scene, but I'm not sure what it is yet. It is not lost on me that I was alone in the park with a group of Islamic men with swords, and it never entered my mind to be afraid or to question their position on how they feel about their women's rights or American politics. I was too awestruck by how beautiful they all looked and how they were so joyfully together, celebrating and supporting the groom on his wedding day.
I saw them all pile into fancy cars as Jazzy and I were finishing our walk. With music blasting and tires squealing, they left the park one by one, leaving a trail of dust and silence.
I bet they whooped it up that night.
I went home, made a cup of tea, and sat outside, and for a hundred reasons, I cried.
