Defining love is purely personal, not to be forced or dictated by cultural pressures

Sairah insisted on wearing pistachio green on her wedding day. In every other way, she submitted to tradition, though when her hands were being painted with the henna tattoo of Asian brides, she fainted with the stress of her unhappiness. She was a young Scottish student so being taken to Pakistan to be married to her cousin felt surreal. She had tried everything to resist this marriage. She had even tried suicide because it seemed preferable to disobedience in her culture.

Now, there was no other protest left but to reject the splendour of the traditional red bridal gown and insist on green. It was a small, sullen rebellion, the only kind she knew how to make.

Valentine’s Day. What’s your view of love? Perhaps tonight you will be sharing a romantic dinner with cocktails decorated with a slice of Marks and Spencer heart-shaped cucumber, specially produced by the company for the big day. Or perhaps not.

Maybe you are a more practical person, who sees the meaningful expression of love as the time you spend soothing a sick child, or patiently attending to an elderly, confused parent. Human love, after all, is not only romantic, wonderful as that is.

“Mother,” my daughter said with faux sweetness this week, “will there be a little chocolate something for me this year, a Gal-entine gift, perhaps, or a Pal-entine?”

Gals and pals. Commerce does, indeed, leave no avenue unexplored in making a buck.

For me, it is Sairah who represents a Valentine’s Day that is so rarely captured. Her story reminds me that love is not the sometimes fey affair of greetings cards or sales drives, but is courageous and tenacious, finding a way when it looks like there is no path, only dense, impenetrable undergrowth.

And it is also a reminder that when it comes to love, anything is possible if you want it enough.

I met Sairah on a university campus when I was investigating forced marriage in Britain, a tiny, teenage rebel with dark hair and earnest eyes. She had been married for several years by then but had never shared a bed with her husband. They lived, separately-together, in a flat, and Sairah had a lock on the one room in the house where she lived, ate, studied and slept.

My heart pounded for her when she described the tall figure of her husband and how they met in the hallway sometimes, he challenging her to live properly with him, and she refusing.

Her predicament was not uncommon. Every year, since it was established in 2011, the Forced Marriage Unit in Britain has dealt with between 1,200 and 1,400 cases.

The last figures, for 2018, show a 47% increase to 1,764 cases, 44% of them involving Pakistan. The rise is partly due to increased awareness and media attention, but the cultural clash between young Asians, brought up in Britain, and their parents, can be devastating. Sairah still recalls the shame and confusion of childhood, when she was chastised for playing with boys.

But right at the heart of the conflict are differing notions of “honour” – and differing notions of what constitutes love.

Sometimes, love gets mixed up in strange notions of control, entitlement, and even cruelty. If you love me, you will do what I say.

After eventually attempting suicide to escape her approaching wedding, Sairah regained consciousness to discover her father lovingly stroking her hair. As soon as he realised she was awake, he got up and left the room. He knew what was best for her. Sairah disagreed.

She loved someone else, she told me. Another student. Eventually, she asked if I would like to talk to him. We met in a cafe, the three of us, Sairah and her boyfriend, Salim, huddled plaintively together over coffee cups, like a desperate Romeo and Juliet.

They could see no way out of their predicament. Sairah’s uncle had discovered their friendship and threatened to kill Salim to protect their family’s reputation.

They had to pretend not to be friends any longer, but the truth would surely emerge.

“What will you do?” I asked. “How will you solve this?” They had no answer.

I felt sad leaving them, fearing for their safety. They were so young, so desperate. As a journalist, you do not always get to hear the end of a story. You report a moment in time and have no idea how the future changes, amends or destroys that moment. But in Sairah’s case, there was a sequel.

Years had passed. I had heard nothing from her. But one evening, my phone pinged. It was Sairah.

“I thought,” her text said, “that you might like to know how things turned out.” Attached were photographs, wedding photographs of her and Salim.

She had refused to give up, refused to give in, and in time, had battered down every obstacle in her way.

She looked stunningly beautiful in those pictures, her dark raven hair the perfect foil to her bridal outfit.

Not pistachio green this time… but the rich, vibrant red of a ceremony that was no longer merely a rehearsal.

She had been married for several years by then but had never shared a bed with her husband

The traditional henna tattoo is painted on the hands of an Asian bride. Forced marriages are still common in Asian culture but, increasingly, young Asians growing up in Britain are rejecting their parents’ wishes and declaring they want to choose their own partners