"In the dream, Korie was holding our baby," he recalls. Although he barely knew her, she appeared to him in a dream he couldn't shake. "It gave me a sense of bigger motivation to figure out my philosophy of life."Īt 19, Jacob joined a volunteer program with the Unification Church, and met an 18-year-old girl named Korie Christiansen. During high school he dabbled in dating, only when the girl he was seeing died in a drunk driving accident, he took it as a sign to do some soul searching. Jacob Faris, whose parents had met that way, wasn't sure if he wanted to follow in their footsteps at first. in the 1970s, thousands joined and agreed to have Reverend Moon match them with a marriage partner of his choice for his famous mass weddings. I don't think I'll ever be there." "We had sex for the first time a year after our marriage"īack when Reverend Sun Myung Moon brought the Unification Church to the U.S. "Every week, there's more and more feeling and it's continuously growing. "I can't say I'm there, that I've reached the pinnacle," he says. "When certain things are held back, that can hold a relationship together forever." Three years and two kids into his marriage, David says he's very happy, although feelings of "love"-in the traditional, sweep-you-off-your-feet sense-have remained elusive. "The theory behind it is if everything is available, then nothing is sacred or precious," David explains. For one, they weren't allowed to be physically intimate during the week of menstruation or the week afterwards, leaving only two weeks out of every month to have sex. After breaking the glass, they kissed for the first time.Įven after marriage, David and his wife observed some strict rules. Three months later, they married in Montreal, under a canopy called a chuppa, the bride wearing a vintage white dress, David in traditional Hasidic garb of a long coat, belt, and hat. Elated, David took her on three more dates before proposing with a ring and a bouquet of flowers. Then a few months later his matchmaker called again to say that the first woman-who had been on a few more lackluster setups herself-was willing to give him another chance. Until then, it's just a technicality to see if you're right to start falling love."ĭavid moved on to another setup, although she paled in comparison to his first. "My father said, 'So what? You don't know her.' That really is the theory behind this system: You don't love someone until you marry them. Only at this point, a call from the matchmaker broke the news: The girl wasn't interested in pursing things further. The instant he got home, he called his parents (who were waiting up, of course) to give them the thumbs up.īy their second date, David was ready to propose. I thought she was way out of my league." They both loved California and Hasidic pop plus their great-great grandparents had worked together back in Russia. "I didn't know much other than her name," he admits. On David's very first setup, he picked up his date at her home and drove to a hotel lobby-someplace public where they could nonetheless have a private conversation. "That's just a cruel game where someone just gets hurt." "I don't see it the other way: where you can meet somebody, like them, then see if you're not good to get married," he says. Before the prospective couple even meets, they get blood-tested for Tay-Sachs, a genetic disorder common within their culture. "They screen for red flags, like physical or mental ailments or a history of divorce in the family," David says. When David turned 23, his parents put the wheels in motion by turning to a professional matchmaker called a Shadchanim. Growing up, Hasidic men and women never speak to each other, keeping separate schools and social functions until they're ready to find a mate. Only by the time she was 26-and still single-she agreed to one more setup through an aunt's friend to a 28-year-old doctor named Ramdas Kumar. Anu met them, but felt no chemistry she figured she could do a better job of finding the right guy herself. "It sounded crazy." Her parents, hopeful she'd change her mind, set her up on a handful of dates in her early twenties, offering up each suitors' photo and a description of how he'd met their stringent criteria: similar caste (they were Nayars, considered upper class), religion (Hindu), and respectable profession (engineering or medicine). "I just thought it wouldn't work: to meet a guy for a few hours then get married in a week," she says. "At first I thought I'd made the biggest mistake of my life"Īlthough she was born and raised in Dubai, Anupama Das grew up dead-set against having an arranged marriage. Only what's a modern-day arranged marriage really like behind closed doors? We asked three couples from different cultures to reveal how they met, when they fell in love (all said after their wedding), and why they're glad they took this unusual route down the aisle.
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