When Hashem met Salwa Part II (Or the general’s son and the farmer’s daughter)

Remember Salwa and Hashem? Well, that did not quite work out. Did they not like each other? No, that was not the problem. Was he turned off by her veil? No, that wasn’t the issue. Was it his bald spot that got her thinking twice? No, it wasn’t that either.

The fact is that they never got to meet each other.

Even though I thought it was a match made in heaven (they both wanted to get married, they’re both professionals in the medical industry, he wanted an educated working woman, she wanted an educated working man, she was beautiful, he was successful, and they were – the cherry on the cake – of the same religion), that was apparently from my Dutch point of view.

The background did it. She was from Tripoli. Tripoli? Yes, Tripoli. (Now if you are from Tripoli, please do not get offended. The views in this blog are not necessarily the view of the writer, or of the people speaking in this post. I’m just reporting, so don’t shoot the messenger.)

“People from Tripoli are just … well, different,” explained the mom. She laughed a little uncomfortably while saying it, as she was obviously a little embarrassed with that statement. But there it was. “Like villagers.”

I shared the reply with hubbie when I got home that night.
"Ah, she's been talking to her husband," he concluded.
“What’s wrong with people from Tripoli?” I asked. He should know. His family is originally from Tripoli.

“Well, they’re a little simple. Sometimes. Not everyone, of course. But some are.” The look on my face made him restate that. “They are perceived as being a little ignorant here in Lebanon. You know, peasants. I am not saying they are. It is just that’s how they are looked upon. By Beirutis, that is.”

My father-in law, also orginally from Tripoli, added to the spice. “These people do not get out much. Mountain people. Can you imagine how his family will react when her family comes over to stay in Beirut for a visit?”

But there was another background issue, besides the Tripoli thing. A bigger issue, that was conveniently covered up by the Tripoli thing. The fact that Salwa’s father was a farmer, was another obstacle, according to the aunt that lives in our house. An obstacle that could not be overtaken. After all, Hashem dad was a big shot in the army. How could a general’s son marry a farmer’s daughter?

How couldn’t he? I asked. What’s that got to do with it?

“Aaahhh,” was the reply, “maybe in Holland it doesn’t, but here it does. What is the dad going to tell his friends when they ask what the bride’s father does? Grow tomatoes? When you marry in Lebanon, you marry the family.”

And thus it was deemed – yet it remained unspoken – better that these two would not meet each other in order to avoid the embarrassment that it would cause the others.

And that, dear readers, was the end of my match-making efforts. I’m too Dutch to understand the finer points of this society, but somehow I think that matches are made in heaven, and not in Lebanon.