We didn’t use the term ‘arranged marriage’ at home, it was just marriage to us, however outside of our home and community, it was clearly a loaded term.
When I got older, I learnt that some white people looked down on arranged marriages. They would get uncomfortable if the subject came up as it wasn’t what they practised. They would often corner me into ‘hypothetical scenarios’ to find out where I stood.
They’d pose the question, ‘Would you rather have an arranged or a love marriage if you had to choose?’ I hated when this happened because it put me in a difficult position, trying to explain and defend something I didn’t fully understand myself, and that hadn’t been explained to me, as well as it being patronising to me and my perspective.
It felt like they confused arranged marriage with forced marriage, which is basically where the bride, or occasionally both the bride and groom, are coerced into marriage. However, Islam is expressly against forced marriages. White people are just so put out by the mention of its existence that I think they wilfully misunderstand what arranged marriage means in real terms. I usually agreed with their exasperation, not wanting an arranged marriage myself, but felt a need to defend my culture from their prying eyes.
Sadia Azmat. Source: Matt Crockett
Especially as I knew their understanding was more often than not surface level. I wasn’t always sure whether their critique of arranged marriage was a smokescreen for the real issues they had with Asians.
It was a good way of critiquing us whilst still ‘keeping up appearances’.
The conversations I had with white people when I was younger and more naïve tended to be very predictable.
I couldn’t help but absorb how fundamental my virginity was to my identity, and so trying to contemplate who I would be without it frightened me.
I would always act like everything was perfect so they didn’t think badly of the entire Asian race and while white people appeared accepting of my standpoint I knew mostly they were holding back for fear of being considered anything but tolerant. Arranged marriage has always felt like a huge difference between us, despite it being a standard feature of white people’s not so distant history too.
Although I was living in East London, the way my parents’ generation interacted with one another was the same as if they were in their motherlands (India/Pakistan). This meant I was subject to the same level of scrutiny as if I were living in a small Indian town.
If anyone so much as heard a rumour about me, like coming home late or being seen out with a boy, it was game over. My private affairs were anything but private and it was incumbent on me to declare (to prove) my sexual intentions were null and void. To even admit to having any sexual inclinations or desires was deplorable and so shameful that it was even worse than committing the act. It was ‘sexual cleansing’ where I had to be clear that I was clean and innocent and definitely not downright vulgar and mischievous.
I couldn’t help but absorb how fundamental my virginity was to my identity, and so trying to contemplate who I would be without it frightened me. It meant I didn’t form any self-worth growing up as no weight was placed on other characteristics like my sense of humour, intellect or aspirations. An arranged marriage was the only version of love that girls like me were taught – and there was no mention of what fate women who did not comply faced. I had no other discourse on relationships growing up: it was arranged marriage or nothing.
Sex Bomb by Sadia Azmat. Source: Supplied
For the most part, I gained an understanding of Western marriages through watching romcoms like Pretty Woman. They showed me no matter how much the odds were stacked against her, a Western woman eventually landed on her feet to secure her Mr Right. There weren’t any stigmas attached to her kissing a few frogs along the way, it was inevitable to get it wrong a few times. Where in my culture this was considered character destroying, in the Western world, it was character building. It felt like the Western woman had a monopoly on love, given I never saw an Asian protagonist in these roles.
The message in these love connections was that men would better women and increase their status, but these films only showed the noble and honourable men like Prince Charming. I did not see the pain or hurt that could be caused by men or love connections that didn’t work. Without a balanced understanding, it was easy for me to be foolhardy about romance and succumb to the love symbology. Can we really say one form is better than the other? Each comes with its own struggles – and I sometimes think the stakes are even higher when there is love involved. Then men really do have the upper hand.
It felt like the Western woman had a monopoly on love, given I never saw an Asian protagonist in these roles.
I never had the birds and the bees conversation at home. This was partly my fault for avoiding the topic, though it felt like this disinterest was what was expected from me. I was led to believe only men wanted sex or even enjoyed sex. It was fine for them to be ‘up for it’. It didn’t add up to me because everyone either wanted it or was having it and it was not just the guys. My school friends were on dates and even making out in drama class. It was almost expected of us, anyone who didn’t partake was shamed as ‘frigid’.
I even saw it within myself after I discovered soft porn when I was younger on Freeview, but I made sure to keep my interest in it hidden. I enjoyed it more for being my own pleasure and something that no one else had any say over or could interfere with.
I saw sex and sexuality being celebrated by women of other races but, it felt like my sexuality as a Muslim woman was an inconvenience to the people around me.
Whether it was men who couldn’t understand my thirst or women reminding me to keep it classy and telling me to be less sexy in the name of female solidarity.
It’s been quite a juggling act being considered both a repressed hijabi and yet too sexual.
I’ve always considered my sexuality to be a privilege and found the fun in it. I wanted to write my memoirs as an honest account of a Muslim woman, a story I wish I had seen when I was growing up instead of books about Prince Charming, and women who were left to be saved.
In my life, there has been a lot to unpack in terms of tradition, but I was sceptical about the things that nobody talked about such as premarital hook-ups and love, and I was willing to make my own decisions on these things. It feels well overdue that another account is shared rather than the same stories we’ve all heard before.
I remembered from reading Cinderella in class that no one wanted to marry the ugly sisters, so I modelled myself on them. I was fascinated by them.
How did they stay single and free? They were flawed, and yet real because of that.
It’s time for this ugly sister to have her say.
Sex Bomb: The Life and Loves of an Asian Babe is available on Audiobook (Hachette) or online via Booktopia.
