Halfway Across the World

By Amna Tariq Shah-Kemp

/ Nonfiction /      

It began with a cough. My husband, Dylan, an Australian, whose heart belonged as much to Australian rules football as it did to me, stood at the centre of Faisal Mosque, an architectural marvel framed by the lush Margalla Hills of Islamabad. His white shalwar kameez shimmered under the high domes. It stood in stark contrast to the muddy boots and footy guernsey that had defined his youth in Kyneton.

He shifted slightly under the gaze of a hundred curious eyes, his Chitrali cap perched precariously on his head, as though resisting the gravity of the moment. For all his easy charm and laid-back humour, nothing could have prepared him for this: standing in a mosque halfway across the world, about to sign a nikkah nama written entirely in Urdu, surrounded by murmured prayers and watchful eyes. In my family’s view, this was the moment he became the man I was meant to marry.

The imam’s voice reverberated gently through the mosque’s cavernous halls, guiding Dylan through the Arabic words. For my family, this was the pinnacle of the day, the ritual that would make everything legitimate. For Dylan, it was simply another way of saying, "I love you." He repeated the words slowly, his Australian accent turning them into something both foreign and strangely melodic.

And then, as if on cue, his chest tightened, and a cough erupted. A deep, relentless fit that echoed across the marble expanse. It had started two days earlier on the flight from Dubai to Peshawar, a sudden and ruthless attack that seemed to come out of nowhere. "I’ve never had anything like this," he’d said, his voice tinged with confusion, as though his body had betrayed him at the worst possible moment. We blamed the air—heavy with dust or perhaps an unfamiliar allergen that his Australian lungs weren’t equipped to handle. Whatever it was, it clung to him like a shadow, trailing him into this moment of all moments.

The imam paused, his gaze steady and kind, as Dylan fumbled for water, apologising softly in a language only a few understood. The apology came out in that thick Aussie accent of his, broad and warm, but often hard for my family to catch. "It’s just nerves," a cousin whispered knowingly, and for once, it was true. In all the years I had known Dylan—unflinching, steady Dylan—I had never seen him so unmoored. But how could he not be? He stood in uncharted waters, surrounded by strangers, navigating rituals that were both deeply meaningful and entirely alien to him. And still, he tried.

As I watched him, caught between laughter and solemnity, I felt the weight of the moment press against my chest. It was more than gratitude. Though I felt that, too, in spades. It was guilt, sharp and sudden, for the quiet sacrifices I had asked of him. For the words he repeated without fully grasping their meaning. For the borrowed name and the borrowed clothes. For every unspoken expectation he carried, not because he understood them, but because he loved me enough to try.

* * *

Before our own wedding, Dylan experienced the full sensory onslaught of a grand Pakistani celebration at my brother’s wedding. It was everything a traditional Pakistani wedding promises to be: loud, vibrant, and endlessly chaotic. For Dylan, it was a whirlwind of music, dance and unrelenting introductions, each one accompanied by probing questions and unfiltered stares.

The day Dylan arrived in Peshawar, my brother, was hosting a mehndi music night at our family home. It was a pre-celebration brimming with colour, music and the unrestrained joy of a Pakistani gathering. Dylan, jet-lagged but determined to make a good impression, was introduced as my ‘husband-to-be’. The title had been carefully chosen to avoid the scandalous implications of ‘boyfriend’. The room buzzed with curiosity. Some cousins, emboldened by the chance to show off their English, ventured cautious greetings but  falter halfway through their sentences. Others stuck to Urdu, their nervous laughter filling the gaps. Dylan smiled his way through it all, though I could see the faint overwhelm flickering in his eyes as the room swirled around him.

That night, the first night he met my parents and siblings, amidst the music and laughter, he proposed.  It was not a grand or dramatic moment, but a thoughtful one. Before proposing to me, he had approached my father. That was what he had come for, all the way across oceans, asking for my hand with a seriousness that made me love him even more. When my father agreed, Dylan knelt before me in front of my family and held out a ring. 

"Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice steady. 

I said yes, though not without first warning him not to kiss me after the proposal. He had raised an eyebrow, bemused but compliant, already understanding that some boundaries were not his to cross.

* * *

The house brimmed with anticipation for my brother’s wedding. Relatives arrived in droves, their footsteps echoing against the polished floors, their chatter rising and spilling into the expansive corridors. Many approached Dylan with the kind of reverence reserved for the rare and extraordinary. "So beautiful," they murmured, their voices tinged with awe and disbelief, as though he were a work of art to be admired. But admiration came laced with quiet questioning. "He is Muslim, yes?" they asked, their hope gentle but pressing. My mother met them with her usual poise, answering with a gracious nod and a smile that said just enough. It was a moment smoothed over by practiced grace, leaving no space for doubt and no need for detail.

And then there were those whose intrigue quickly turned opportunistic. One particularly enterprising couple, after being reassured of Dylan’s faith, shifted the conversation with a casualness that bordered on audacity. "What is the procedure for sending our son to Australia?" they asked, their tone almost polite. I smiled tightly, swallowing the sharpness that rose in my throat, thinking, How quickly ideals give way to practicality.

At my brother’s wedding, Dylan found a brief respite in two Australian family friends who offered him a fleeting escape from the chaos. For a few hours, their shared accents and humour acted as a buoy, lifting him momentarily above the cultural tide. But even their presence could not shield him from the sensory overload. The dancing, the music, the endless parade of photo sessions made it both dazzling and exhausting in equal measure. Watching Dylan navigate this world, so foreign to him and yet so familiar to me, filled me with admiration. His ability to adapt, to immerse himself in the chaos without complaint, was a quiet testament to his strength. And yet, as much as I appreciated the spectacle of my brother’s wedding, I knew it was not the kind of wedding I wanted for myself.

* * *

Unlike my brother’s elaborate wedding, ours was intentionally small and intimate, just the way I had always wanted it. In a culture where weddings are often lavish displays of wealth and social status, this was a quiet rebellion, a reflection of my own values. There were no towering floral arrangements or endless guest lists, just family gathered together for a ceremony that felt meaningful and deeply personal.

We had wanted to marry in Peshawar, my hometown, but no imam there would officiate a union for a foreigner with a white name. "It’s not allowed," they said, their voices as resolute as a bureaucratic stamp, as though love itself could be bound by rules etched into stone. And so, we moved the ceremony to Faisal Mosque, a place as grand as the love I refused to let anyone diminish. 

Even our small wedding could not escape the unsolicited opinions of a few relatives. One aunty, still weary from the extravagant dinners at my brother’s wedding, loudly suggested we skip the wedding dinner at Monal and host tea instead. "It’s so far," she complained, her tone practical but selfish. I smiled politely, knowing there was no way I would let her derail the one part of the day that felt entirely mine. It was a place suspended between city and sky, where the world felt briefly quiet and the horizon stretched wide with possibility. I had always imagined looking out from that mountaintop as we stepped into whatever life was waiting for us next.

For me, the simplicity of our wedding was its greatest strength. It was not about impressing anyone or keeping up with expectations. It was about us. Dylan, dressed in a name and a shalwar kameez offered in love, stood at the heart of it all. My family, who had embraced him as one of their own, called him Ali with warmth, even if he often forgot to respond. 

"Ali, take more!" my sister urged as Dylan hovered over the buffet, carefully selecting the least spicy dishes. He did not respond at first, too focused on his plate, until I nudged him and whispered, ‘She is talking to you’. Startled, he grinned sheepishly. "Oh, right. That’s me," he said, adding another spoonful of qorma to his plate. It was a small, funny moment that captured the quiet joys of the day. A day that was free from the pressures of grandeur and shaped instead by affection, grace and the kind of laughter that lingers.

Looking back, I see our wedding as a collision of cultures, each stretching gently to make room for the other. Dylan, who had never worn a shalwar kameez, wore it with quiet pride. I, who had long scoffed at my family’s obsession with appearances, found myself navigating expectations I once thought I had left behind. These adjustments were not defeats but gestures of love, acts of grace that made space for something larger than either of us.

As the final prayers echoed through Faisal Mosque, I turned to Dylan and caught his eye. His lips curved into a smile, even as his hand shot up to stifle another cough. And in that moment, I realised that love is not in the grand declarations or rituals. It is in the quiet, unspoken willingness to stand in borrowed clothes, halfway across the world, surrounded by strangers, and still find a reason to smile, even while coughing.