Postcard: Tehran

By Azadeh Moaveni

When I found out that my husband and I had been invited to a gender-segregated wedding reception in Tehran, it was too late to concoct an excuse. So for the first time in my life, I put on a chiffon gown to go hang out with 400 other women. I waved goodbye to my husband as he headed for the men's ballroom, and we agreed that if the evening grew intolerable, we would send text messages to plan our escape.

Inside, the atmosphere was more like an expensive tea party than a wedding. For an hour, the female guests just stared at one another's jewelry. Shortly before dinner, my husband messaged to inform me that the men's side had a stand-up comic. So unfair. Even the bride looked dejected, arms folded tightly across her designer gown. After the sumptuous meal, intended to lighten the misery (it didn't), the guests eagerly filed out to look for their men. "I'm not sure what's worse," a friend mused on the way out, "having a fun mixed wedding that gets raided by police or a wake like this."

Weddings anywhere are famous for the hassle, but nuptials in Iran, where young couples confront the myriad social restrictions imposed by the clerical regime, add unbearable layers of bridal stress. For starters, Iran's Islamic law forbids unmarried men and women to dance together, so the hosts are forced to separate their guests. At a segregated gathering, women can remove their veils and both sides dance among themselves. A less popular option is to hold a dinner rather than a proper reception, as men and women are permitted to have meals in one another's company. But without music, these gatherings also end up being solemn affairs that don't include some traditional rites of an Iranian wedding, like the "knife dance," in which the bride must retrieve a blade from the partygoers in order to cut the cake.

Luckily for many newlyweds, a thriving clandestine industry has emerged to liven up wedding receptions. The first wedding I attended in Iran, for example, was at a rented garden in Karaj, on the outskirts of Tehran. Men and unveiled women mingled late into the night, periodically slipping flasks out of their purses and jackets. The cops never showed up. No one knows exactly who owns the rental gardens of Karaj, but the owners clearly work with the authorities' tacit permission. The rental fee--about $6,000 an evening, exorbitant by local standards--should guarantee that the party will be safe from the police. The popularity of the gardens, however, has dwindled in recent months. Authorities have stepped up their raids of private homes and parties under the tenure of hard-line President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Young couples are reluctant to bear the expense of a secure garden that might still be raided. "This is why I didn't get married in Iran myself," a wedding coordinator confided to me. "The anxiety is just not worth three horrible hours of showing off."

As a result of the raids, wedding coordinators are now offering cake, a band and beefy security guards. On the day of the wedding, the coordinator shows up with a handful of men--dressed discreetly in suits and ties, with walkie-talkie earpieces--who surround a private home. Often the guards use cones to set up a roadblock down the street, so that if police arrive there will be sufficient time to warn those inside. In many cases, the wedding coordinator is able to fend off the police with an ample bribe (cash or cases of alcohol, which can later be resold).

Given the headaches, Iranians should probably forgo spectacular weddings and hold quiet ceremonies instead. But in a culture where displays of wealth are crucial, parents usually insist on grander events. One sign of this commitment to excess: it is common for parents to circulate DVDs of their children's weddings, so friends and family can view the lamb-on-a-spit from every angle. As the mother of my recently married friend put it, "Weddings are for the community, and if the laws get in the way, not having a party is not the answer."