So I married a Mongolian ...

Rosamund Ebdon, 45, a civil servant, and Bataa Tserenbat, 43, a financial controller from Mongolia, live in Surrey, with their children, Byaraa, 11, and Zaya, eight (above)

Bataa and I met in 1995 in the Mongolian capital, Ulan Bator. I was working for Save the Children, and we shared our offices with a Mongolian government institute, where Bataa was a lecturer in mathematics. I’d seen him around: a smiley fellow, I thought, though we hadn’t spoken much.

When we did get to know each other, it was in unusual circumstances. A friend and I were keen to get some horse-riding practice and a colleague suggested that Bataa take us to stay with his family. They’re nomadic herders who live on the Mongolian steppe. It was a beautiful place: blue skies and rolling green plains as far as the eye could see and, in the middle of it all, his family’s little white ger [Mongolian tent]. I was struck by how lovely and close-knit his family were.

Our first date was a few weeks later at what was then Mongolia’s only Indian restaurant. Mongolian food is never spicy, and it was a shock to Bataa.

We married a year and a half later. Men and women are very equal in Mongolian society, though they have different, well-defined roles.

In Bataa’s family the women milk the animals and take care of the household and children, while the men do the lion’s share of the herding. It’s all very harmonious; and female children are prized, and educated, as much as boys.

We moved to Britain in 1999 to be near my parents. I was surprised by how well Bataa adapted to British life. He’s become the fulcrum of the Mongolian community over here, running cultural events and hosting prominent Mongolian visitors.

One thing Bataa does find difficult is Western consumerism. Nomads regularly pack up and move on, so too much stuff is an encumbrance. He doesn’t understand why there need to be seven brands of baked beans in the supermarket, say. Give Bataa the great outdoors over a shopping centre, any day – the natural world is in his bones. That’s why we live in the countryside. Bataa’s always throwing open the doors and heading into the garden, where we’ve erected a ger, or inviting loads of people round for a Mongolian barbecue.

Most modern Western men will tell you that they share the housework 50/50 with their wives. Bataa says the same; but in his case it’s true. I work long hours in London, so he covers the school run with my parents. And I can’t bear ironing, so that's his job, too. I am fully aware how lucky I am.

Georgina Hyndman, 22, a stay-at-home mother, is married to Jimmi Awat, 28, from Kurdish Iraq. They have a nine-month-old daughter, Freya, and live in Plymouth

Jimmi and I met three years ago in Flares nightclub in Plymouth. The Jackson Five were playing and he walked up, put an arm around me, and said, ‘Let’s dance.’ He was refreshingly direct, compared with British boyfriends I’d had. Within weeks we’d moved in with each other. Everything was magical until Jimmi received a letter from the Home Office saying his leave to remain had been refused. He was given weeks to leave the country. A month later I followed him to Iraq. My mum was convinced I’d be killed.

I stayed for a year, and loved it. I’d feared Islam’s treatment of women, but I experienced it as a party religion. They have what I call their ‘four big Christmases’, of which Eid is the most fun. I also loved Kurdish women’s clothing — like maxidresses crossed with pyjamas. I bought a stack of them and still wear them in England.

Kurdish women are scarily house-proud: doilies on everything, and they’ll rip up the carpets to clean under them when summer comes around. They do everything around the house. When we married, I told Jimmi outright that I’d never be that way, as I find it ridiculous. He has to accept it.

We married in Iraq. They’re all tiny over there, so only three Western-style dresses were available in my size – all dreadful, puffy things covered in tacky plastic gems – so I just got Jimmi to choose. I’m hoping to have a second wedding in England, when we can afford it, where I get to be the glamorous bride, rather than the wedding cake.

I hadn’t intended to get pregnant in Iraq, but I was overjoyed when I did. Immediately, though, I felt homesick. My Kurdish wasn’t good enough to talk to Jimmi’s female relatives about the changes I was going through and I couldn’t communicate through Jimmi, as Kurdish women don’t talk about women’s matters in front of men. I felt isolated. So I came back to England, heavily pregnant, praying I could find a way to get Jimmi back here. The process has been traumatic, but now Jimmi has been granted three years’ leave to stay on compassionate grounds because of Freya.

In some ways, Jimmi’s more British than I am. He smokes, drinks and eats pork and I can’t get him to listen to the Kurdish music I bought; he loves Tupac. But he hates how much Brits swear.

Life’s been tough for us with all the dramas with the authorities. But without all this opposition, I wouldn’t have followed Jimmi to Iraq, we wouldn’t have married, and we probably wouldn’t have had Freya. Maybe we’d still be those carefree kids going clubbing. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Shyne and I met in Malawi in 2008, working on a touring theatre project about the Zimbabwean crisis. I’d heard about him: this brilliant dancer who’d had a car crash, was told he’d never walk again and had rehabilitated himself by force of will, moving to Malawi to work as a choreographer.

We didn’t say hello to each other for weeks. For a break on our tour, we went to a music festival and all shared tents. One evening I ended up sleeping sandwiched between Shyne and a Malawian actor The next morning my head found its way on to Shyne’s shoulder. For the rest of the festival, I stayed with him. When the tour ended I returned to Britain, and Shyne took the bus back to Blantyre [Malawi’s commercial capital]. Back home, I realised I’d fallen in love. After a couple of months in London I bought a ticket back to Malawi.

Within a day of being reunited I suggested we get married. ‘Would you really have me?’ Shyne asked. However, that same night I ran into his ex-wife. ‘Are you here to be with my husband?’ she demanded. ‘Well, you can have him. I can’t look after him anymore.’ I’d met her previously and knew they had two boys together. ‘Do you know he has another boy in Zimbabwe?’ she said. ‘I bet he hasn’t told you that!’ He hadn’t, and I was knocked sideways by the revelation. When I calmed down, I realised how unusual it would be if an African man in his mid-thirties hadn’t fathered children.

When I was back in Africa for a third time, trying to secure Shyne’s visa for Britain, we learnt his son in Zimbabwe had passed away. An everyday incident in Africa, the death of a child. I recall my tears falling on to piles of frustrating paperwork.

Shyne arrived in Britain in June 2009. We married a few months later on my home island of Jersey. Jersey isn’t very multicultural and I don’t think my parents had spoken to a black man before they met Shyne. We married in a Catholic church, not mentioning his two previous marriages – they were tribal and therefore not legal. Surreally, he’d paid a bride price for his other two wives, so he still owes my family a few cows!

In Africa Shyne ran his own dance company, but here it’s been tough for him to find work. He has no rights to disability benefits, so I support him.

Gift-giving has been an unexpected minefield. When I bought presents for Shyne’s family in Zimbabwe they received them modestly, before putting them to one side without unwrapping them. Later, Shyne explained that they’d never received wrapped presents before, and had no idea what to do with them. Shyne had never been given a birthday present when I met him, so I have to drop big hints when my birthday comes around.

Foo hails from the Karen, a hill-tribe that inhabits north-east Thailand and south-west Burma. We met when I was backpacking around Thailand with a couple of girlfriends and he was our trekking guide. I took a shine to Foo immediately. He was in his element: the consummate jungle man, scrambling up rock faces and grabbing snakes with his hands like a Thai Crocodile Dundee. Back in Britain, I did a TEFL course so I had an excuse to return to Chiang Mai to see him.

I was worried about getting involved with a Thai guy. In Thailand, domestic violence is common, and it’s accepted that married Thai men have their mistresses. But I learned that Karen culture is more equal in terms of gender politics and frowns on such practices. When we met, though, I was a party girl, but only as much as any young British woman is. Women drink very little in Thailand, so Foo didn’t understand it. He thought it was unladylike and that I might have addiction issues.

A few months into our relationship Foo took me back to his home village to tell his mother we were getting married. She feared – reasonably, with our rates of divorce in the West – that Foo and I would split up, and that no Karen girl would have him; there’s a real stigma attached to divorce in Karen society. But we won her over and married in a traditional ceremony in his village.

We planned to stay in Thailand, but I had an accident from a gas leak and sustained serious burns to my arms and legs. I was also pregnant, so – naturally, I suppose – my homing instinct kicked in.

It’s been hard since we got back to Britain. Foo’s had stints of work in Thai restaurants and labouring, but nothing’s stuck.

In Thailand he gained work through respect and word of mouth, so having to apply for supermarket stacking jobs really kills him. In Karen culture men support their families financially – that’s where they find their sense of pride.

Foo can’t understand the effort I put into maintaining friendships. In his culture the family very much becomes the new unit after marriage; old friends are secondary. And the British winter makes him really gloomy – England can be tough for a man from the Land of Smiles – so he sometimes goes back to Thailand for a fix. When I was homesick in Thailand I’d take a shower with Foo’s Imperial Leather soap. It would always bring memories of England flooding back.

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