Perils of the modern arranged marriage process

Please note that the following reflects my personal experience and may not reflect the experiences of others engaged in the process.

As a practicing Muslim woman, there are two tenets of my faith that have colored my life: (1) a Muslim woman must not have sex before marriage, and (2) a Muslim woman must marry a Muslim man.

Based on these tenets, entrepreneur Shahzad Younas, aptly stated that "[M]uslims don't date, we marry." The question then becomes how we should get married without dating. There are three common avenues to meet one's spouse: (1) an affinity group in college, (2) Muslim-geared dating apps, and (3) arranged marriage.

Affinity groups (e.g., Muslim Student Association and Pakistani Student Association) not only served as inclusive, safe spaces for like-minded people, but served as hubs to meet a large number of other “eligible” Muslim Americans. Most of my friends have found their spouses in affinity groups and have gotten married by the time they graduate college. When I was a college student, law school was my dream—not marriage. To avoid the prospect of marriage ruining my academic ambitions, I dodged joining or affiliating myself with any kind of affinity group on campus. Because affinity groups were out of the question—and I was embarrassed to get on a dating app—my only other viable option was to opt for an arranged marriage.

Modern-day arranged marriages are very different from stereotypical arranged marriages where one (or both) parties were forced to partake in the marriage. I liken modern day arranged marriage, at least in the Pakistani-American community, to a very public Tinder arrangement. Basically, my “profile” comprises of my biodata which includes my name, age, height, education, parent’s education, and "profile pictures".

My biodata is given to a matchmaker in my community who later distributes it to matchmakers throughout the United States. This matchmaker, our “network”, serves as an intermediary between eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. The matchmakers assess my biodata and distribute it to men whom they think I would make a good fit for. They also assess and send me the biodatas of men whom they think would make a good fit for me.

If I liked someone, I would tell my parents I am interested in pursuing this relationship (“rishta”). That would be my version of “swiping right”. If I did not like someone, I would tell my parents I am not interested in pursuing this rishta ("swiping left"). The men went through the same process. If we both swiped right, we would meet each other and determine if we had a spark.

This process has been described as being “like dating fully endorsed by our families . . . there are no secrets or hiding.” During this entire process, I would have a say in whom I chose to marry. While the freedom of choice was exciting, the process has had a dark side in my experience. Almost every single man who received my biodata has “swiped left”.

My mom reached out to the matchmaker to ask why people were continuously swiping left. The matchmaker bluntly told her the following reasons for the continuous rejection: I was too fat, too old, too short, too dark, and too educated.

The ideal Pakistani mate would only have a college education, be fair-skinned, have long lustrous hair, and have the body measurements of a Victoria's Secret model. On top of these qualities, the woman needs to be seen as someone who would make a good housewife in terms of cooking, cleaning, and childrearing (e.g., June Cleaver). For women who fit the ideal Pakistani mate, the process has been empowering. It is the exact opposite for women who don’t tick one of these boxes—and I don’t tick any of these boxes.

I started this process when I was twenty years old, and I will twenty-five in June. To say this process has been debilitating is an understatement. Every ounce of professional confidence and growth during law school was crushed in my personal life because I did not fit the Pakistani ideal. I became increasingly anxious, depressed, and developed a sense of self-hatred.

Social cues from my cultural community told me to deprioritize my career ambition and focus on molding myself into the ideal Pakistani mate. This process feeds into the separate spheres ideology where women are expected to be caretakers and homemakers with the bodies of Victoria’s Secret models. I feel like the unrealistic expectations of the men (and their mothers) reflects how they view women: objects who serve a purpose.

I never wanted marriage to be an “accomplishment” I tick off. I grew up loving “love” and believed that form of intimacy and companionship can enrich someone’s life. I wanted marriage to be the culmination of a journey full of love and commitment. While every rejection may make me question my self-worth, in the long run, I know that men who choose women off of their ability to serve—rather than their ability to live their lives to their fullest extent—are not the right men for me.

In an attempt to add personality to my biodata, I wrote out a rishta "cover letter". Below is a short snippet from that letter:

As a woman, I have heard that I can have a family or a career. While I would love to have my own family one day, but I do not believe I have to give up my life’s work to have one. I want to enter into a strong partnership where we both support each other’s goals and dream . . . . If you are curious about my complexion, weight, or height, I do not think we would have a future together.

While my mother hasn't been convinced to attach this letter to my biodata, it was empowering to write because it reminded me that I am more than who I am on paper—and that has made all the difference.