This weekend, I had the privilege of attending a two-day wedding celebration for one of the cousins on the compound. (To wit, I call it a compound because it’s a set of houses surrounding a courtyard, and meals and conversation usually happen either outdoors or in a fully functional kitchen shed. I love it: I’ve never had so much ‘family’ in my life, as the only child of an only child. I just wish I spoke more Albanian.) The ceremonies were two separate affairs: the first was women only except for the very end, and the second was the “banquet” with the bride and groom’s families all attending.
In the first ceremony, the female members of this exceptionally large Albanian family gathered at a banquet hall at a restaurant near the compound. We danced to a live singer who sang what I assume were traditional Albanian songs and he sang very well. I learnt the steps fairly quickly, but dancing for hours in heels was exhausting. However, I had loads of fun. At the end, the groom’s family sang and prayed over the bride, who looked sad and distant. I learnt that looking sad and crying is traditional at the end of this ceremony, where the male members of the bride’s family came to say goodbye to her and sent her off to her new family. There was also a red cape placed over the bride’s shoulders, welcoming her into the new “blood” of the groom’s family. (All this was explained to me by the English speaking younger son of my host mother the next day.)
The second ceremony would not look unfamiliar to an American wedding reception, except for the traditional Albanian dancing. Only the groom’s family is allowed to dance at first, and then the bride’s family. I waited rather impatiently for my chance to show off my moves. There was more dancing, just on a grander scale: this banquet hall was enormous and beautiful, and instead of one singer with a keyboard, there were two singers and a live band including a saxophone. There was also no wedding cake and no toasts (no alcohol either–this family is Muslim). However, there was the beating of forks against the table for some reason.
I was told by someone sitting at my table that the wedding was expensive, but “wrong” because it was not in the traditional wedding season, which is in July or August. Tradition is a very strong and possibly loaded word, but this ceremony felt traditional to me, and the day made sense: Friday was a national holiday and gave everyone a chance to travel for the wedding. Tradition is so many things: the way we dress, what holidays we celebrate (and how we celebrate them), the way we celebrate things like birthdays and weddings. If the wedding is traditional, why should the date matter?
The Peace Corps spends a lot of time and effort helping us integrate into the culture of the places we are sent. There are a few things that I won’t change about who I am and what I do (safety belts, for one, and petting cute animals, for another) but participating whole-heartedly in joyous occasions should be top on the list. Celebrating love is cross-cultural, no matter how one does it.
