Laughter, Self-Discovery, and a Transatlantic, Nine-Hour Haredi Wedding

Many say the years following high school, often spent at college, define who you are -- the lectures attended and ditched, things remembered and forgotten, the choices, mistakes and lessons that take us on a whirlwind journey and shape us into something like adults.

The different paths that lay before us are many. In lecture halls nationwide, future lawyers, astronauts, writers, nurses, housewives, stockbrokers and teachers intermingle daily. Some of these paths are less frequented than others. My cousin, my childhood role model and dear friend, chose a route that few know of and fewer understand.

The eldest child in a conservative Jewish family in Southern California, my cousin was social, ambitious, fun-loving, intellectual, unsure of her future but excited about the new chapter of her college years. After two years, two schools and two majors, she flew around the world to study in Jerusalem. Despite her sudden departure and increased commitment to Judaism, no one could have guessed that her path would lead to Haredi, an ultra-Orthodox sect.


The cousin of my memory, who had thick, unrestrained hair and dressed not unlike what's expected from a Southern California teen, bore minimal physical resemblance to the woman that arrived back home for a family event. Not a single curl was unbound or an inch of skin uncovered, except her hands.

She prayed when she woke. She prayed when she ate. She prayed when she drank. She prayed before she slept. She had joined a community of matchmakers, black hats, long coats, tzitzis (garment tassels) and payot (side locks), where men and women are prohibited from any form of physical interaction until marriage.

It seemed that with each step there was room to offend her or break one of her newly-adopted rules. I felt like eggshells had been strewn everywhere I wished to walk. My cousin had become unfamiliar, and I couldn't help indulging in a hope that this lifestyle would pass like many of her prior interests.

Fifteen months -- and fourteen hours of transatlantic flight -- later, my family gathered in Jerusalem to support our cousin, niece, sister, daughter and granddaughter at her Haredi wedding. From the balcony of our rented apartment in the old city, the Qubbat as-Sakhrah (Dome of the Rock) erupted among a sea of ancient Jerusalem stone that covered the entire city -- buildings, long stairways, winding pathways.

Though the family was prepped on the formalities of the wedding ceremony -- men and women separated, lots of prayer, study, food and dance -- nothing could have prepared me for the nine hour marathon that took place.

After the first rounds of food, at 6 p.m. the bride entered the room designated for women with green eyes shining, red curls tamed beneath a sheitel (wig) in a smooth updo hidden under a white veil. Her white dress stretched down her arms and upper body it reached her waist, at which point a poof started that and continued to the floor. The queen had arrived, and once the picture taking subsided, she sat on a lacey white seat befitting royalty as the women kneeled before her to receive her berachot (blessings) for a future of peace, love and health.

With a white fur coat on her shoulders and an opaque cloth covering her entire face, the mother and mother-in-law then led the bride to the chuppah (canopy) where she would see her groom for the first time in ten days and be joined to him in holy matrimony. Blinded by the face covering, she made a guided circle around the groom seven times. I couldn't help feeling upset seeing the cousin I still remembered as a free spirit taking part in these traditions of rigid structure and strong gender roles.

She finally came to a stop beside her husband-to-be -- the eldest son of a New York-based reform Jewish couple, a graduate of an Ivy League college, the former treasurer of a social fraternity now building a successful financial services career -- who wore all black, with a chest-long beard hanging below short, curly payot tucked behind his ears and black hat.

Without so much as a glance, the two swayed vigorously with their eyes closed in silent and passionate prayer. After a short service, the bride's face-covering was removed to reveal a wife. The newly married couple took hands for the first time and exited the chuppah.

With the men and women sections separated by a seven-foot wooden wall, the circle dancing began. Family members were placed in the middle of the circle at first, but the professionals soon took over, speeding around with surprising agility given their attire. It was my cousin's wish that we would dance in the middle with her, have a place in the new world that she had discovered, but my mother and I ended up on the edges, watching her with her new family. She had met people that shared her search and found what they had longed for in one another. Beaming and crying women bounced off of one another, perpetually smiling as they flung their bodies around the glowing white figure that danced in the center.

Since my nuclear family had to take a 3 a.m. taxi to board a 7 a.m. flight, we said tearful goodbyes while the wedding was still in progress. The long trip home gave me 21 hours to digest what I had witnessed before I fielded countless questions from family friends who were unable to attend.

Upon leaving the wedding, I felt ripped away without explanation from my newly married cousin -- my guide when I was lost, the older sister I never had, the ear for all my problems, juvenile as they were. But through continuous and honest conversations since then, I've worked up to a shallow understanding.

What I see as an abrupt transformation, she describes as merely "a reconnection to her roots," unhurried because it feels "right." What I see as a surprising selection of lifestyle, she describes as "rediscovering the traditions that (her) family had for thousands of years."

"I saw the beauty in the purity of the people who live this way," she explains of the Haredi community that drew her in. "They are so focused on living the truth. The ideal life is to have no discrepancy between belief and action."

On the phone for the first time since her wedding, laughter continuously disrupted the conversation as she and her husband shared jokes with me about their new life. "Well, when my husband doesn't have me chained to the oven . . ." my cousin teased when I asked how she had been spending her time since the ceremony, fully aware of the stereotypes attributed to Jewish orthodox life. "It's difficult," she responded to my question about married life, quickly followed by a man's voice, "Oh, it's difficult is it?" And the laughter continued, reminding me that the cousin of my past is not lost -- she's just changed.

I may never understand what she was looking for, or why she had to find it across the world. I may never accept that the common ground we once shared has given way to deep beliefs that I don't completely identify with. In ways, I am even jealous of the fulfillment she's found so far away while I struggle along my own path. But there's no denying the happiness she has unraveled, a palpable joy unknown to her in her previous life. It's difficult to object to a lifestyle that causes a person you love to maintain an ear-to-ear smile and laugh uncontrollably for nine hours.

That's what the years of youthful discovery are meant for -- encountering difference and learning from it. Through education, acceptance and even trying out diverse beliefs, lifestyles and paths, our identities materialize. And though my cousin's path and mine differ from one another, they will always overlap.

"Throughout life we are continuously faced with choices, so I'm not sure anyone's path is ever "chosen" completely," my cousin asserts. "The purpose of time is to give all of us the opportunity to change."