Divorced, not done! Why I'll wear a white dress in my wedding

I wasn’t a beautiful bride at my wedding.

The dress I wore came from a charity organization—a '90s-style satin gown with embroidered puff sleeves and a bow at the waist. I made a few alterations, replacing the sleeves and raising the dropped waistline. It looked better after the tweaks, but it was never the simple, delicate dress I had dreamed of.

Years later, after my marriage ended in divorce, my friend Nourhan Taman got married for the second time. She held a wedding party and there she stood, in a white dress.

Watching her with the groom, enjoying a simple ceremony with friends, filled me with genuine happiness. But her open display of joy didn’t sit well with many.

"Some people couldn't accept that I held a wedding party in a second marriage, or wore a white dress," Nourhan told me, laughing.

She had married earlier in her twenties, but repeated abuse pushed her to divorce. She gave up all her financial rights, including alimony and even the furniture she had paid for.

Falling in love again wasn't on her mind. It took years before she could open her heart to someone new.

The wedding took place in a modest hall overlooking the Nile. Surrounded by flowers and joyful ululations, Nourhan appeared in a white dress adorned with delicate pearls.

My own divorce wasn’t far behind me. Seeing her, sitting happily next to her husband in that dress, laughing, surrounded by friends, filled me hope—that perhaps I, too, could start anew.

But not everyone shared that sentiment.

After the party, Nourhan's photos on Facebook attracted loads ofnegative comments: "Why a second wedding? Why a white dress? Does she think she’s still young?"

"I’m only 30, you miserable people!" she laughed again. While I, at 42, found myself daydreaming that if I ever remarried, I’d throw a wedding, too.

To become a survivor of abuse and divorce, Nourhan had already been given up her legal and civil rights. Now, society was trying to deny her the right to celebrate. In the eyes of many, a divorced woman isn’t entitled to remarry—and if she does, it should be done in the embrace of shadows.

The price of freedom

In 2023, 10,683 women in Egypt filed for divorce. Of those, 8,000 gave up their financial rights and filed for no-fault divorce/khula. According to the Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics, a total of 255,000 divorce certificates were issued that year.

Even when divorce is a lifeline, society’s gatekeepers—family, neighbors, the broader community—step in to impose their rules. A divorcée shouldn’t go out much. If she works, she shouldn’t return home late. Ideally, she should wear a hijab.

Even celebrities are not exempt. When actress Nelly Karim remarried in 2021 and wore a bridal gown and veil, she was criticized for being "too old" to wear white.

Last year, singer Mai Farouk endured even harsher backlash for holding a grand wedding in a white dress—and including her children in the celebration.

For divorced women, scrutiny invades every corner of life. When Sara Salem separated from her husband in her early thirties, she had no stable housing, "My daughter was still in kindergarten, and I had to keep moving her from one school to another," she said.

Under Egypt’s personal status law, the mother has custody until the child comes of age. The father is required to provide housing, or the mother remains in the marital home until the children turn 15.

But Sara’s ex-husband had no stable job or income and rarely paid child support. "He can go two months without sending a single pound."

To cut expenses, Sara moved into her mother’s home. It worked for both her and her elderly mother, but the neighbors disapproved. "They complain that I come home late from work," she said.

Working in Media Production City, Sara had no car and commuted daily from 6th of October City, jumping between microbuses and often arriving home late.

That, too, became a problem.

Her family home is in Manshiyet El-Bakari, a semi-rural area near Mariouteya in Giza. "My father insisted I go to college, unlike most girls in our neighborhood who get married right after middle school. People pressured him to marry me off, but he refused," she recalled.

"They told him, ‘You’ll make our daughters want to go to college,’" she said. Now, she’s back to that same neighborhood—divorced, with a child, and unveiled.

Late at night, she often walks long distances. "No tuk-tuk [auto rickshaw] driver wants to go that far. I walk while kids throw rocks, spit at me, and shout insults. I’ve started taking long detours just to avoid harassment in certain streets."

Prohibited by the ex

Hind Mossad(*) maintains a cordial relationship with her ex-husband. "Many of my friends envy how we get along. He’s generous with our son, respectful to me, and our communicate is smooth," she said.

"But he had one condition which he made very clear: If I remarry, he will take away custody."

At first, Hind—who is a schoolteacher—didn't worry much about it. But she fell in love with a colleague and when he proposed, she had to turn him down.

"It felt like I was denied the right to live. My ex got married, had children, and moved on. While I can’t," she said.

A new draft of Egypt’s personal status law revised the custody hierarchy. Previously, custody passed from the mother, to the maternal grandmother, then to the paternal grandmother. Now, the father is next in line after the mother.

If either parent remarries, custody automatically shifts to the next in line. Aiming for ‘gender equality,’ the law ends up enforcing equal injustice.

Within the framework of its advocacy efforts for a more equitable family law, the Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights launched a campaign in 2018 titled "My Marriage Shouldn’t Cost Me Custody," calling for reforms that protect mothers rights after remarriage.

Without such reforms, many women—like Hind—give up the idea of marrying again as it costs them their children.

While Hind was sharing with me her story, I wondered: Could I end up in her place one day? Could I lose the right to remarry? It’s not a priority for me now—but who knows.

In setting aside her right to marry again, Hind is trapped in loneliness. Meanwhile, her ex-husband is seen by many as respectful and kind, whereas in fact, he is punishing her.

Nourhan has moved on, unfazed by the backlash from her wedding photos. She now has a job, a lovely daughter, and a car. Sara is saving to buy a scooter to help her commute until she can leave her neighborhood.

As for me, I’m ready to face whatever battles society throws my way—for the simple right to wear a beautiful dress at a simple wedding.

I’ll tuck white flowers into my hair, wear soft makeup, and celebrate, without shame, the possibility of joy.

(*) A pseudonym, used at the source’s request.

A version of this article first appeared in Arabic on April 2, 2025