Butterflies in Cairo, songs in Bahrain, olive branches in Palestine, Henna Nights take many forms, but each one carries care, rhythm, and celebration. Across Arab homes, this night belongs to women.

Engy Hashem

Jul 14, 2025

The Night of Henna: A Celebration Across Arab Homes

Before I understood what weddings meant, I understood butterflies. Every Thursday night, my sister and I would visit my auntie’s Sudanese friend in Cairo for henna. She would draw butterflies on our shoulders with a toothpick dipped in henna and a steady hand. One night, that same auntie turned to us and asked, “You’ve never been to a real Henna Night?” I was seven when she took me to Maadi, where I walked into a living room alive with noise and more noise. Teenage girls in belly dancing belts. Aunties feeding each other sweets. A bride performing in a short dress before disappearing for her next outfit change. I remember sitting with the henna lady on the balcony, overstimulated but wide-eyed, a butterfly drying on my shoulder as I watched women carve joy into the air.

Seventeen years later, I was invited to my school friend’s Henna. Crazy, right? The same girl I used to whisper to in class now stood before me in gold coins and heels, ready to get married. This time, I saw everything differently. The event was structured, with DJs, outfit changes on a strict timeline, a planner whispering to a team. Still, something tender crept in when we all sat on the floor with plates in laps, eyes on the bride.

I sat there thinking about the traditions that used to bloom around nights like this, especially the ones that have quietly faded. Girls biting sugar cubes in hopes of being the next bride, manifesting their wedding as they pinched the bride’s knee, a tradition that comes from a phrase meaning, “I’ll pinch your knee to get married the next Friday." A woman tossing salt behind the bride’s shoulder to protect her from envy. Bowls of herbal water placed near her feet, the kind with mint and parsley, for a green, fresh start. Coins pressed into her palms, tied with henna for blessings. Some of these barely exist any more, but I don’t think they disappeared; I think they drifted, and maybe we’ll find them again.

Instead of telling you just what Henna Nights look like in Egypt, I wanted to know how they unfold across the Arab world. So I asked my friends from Sudan to Bahrain, Algeria to Jordan, what this night means to them.

Egypt: Shahd Sabry

In Egypt, Henna Nights, or 'Leilat el Henna', serve as the emotional prelude to the wedding itself. Typically held the night before the katb el kitab (religious contract) or farah (reception), it’s a women-only celebration that blends personal joy with collective ritual. Traditionally, the bride wears a folkloric or belly dance–inspired outfit, sometimes changing into several looks over the course of the evening. A henna artist is usually present, decorating guests’ hands while family and friends gather to sing, clap and dance. The night often includes shaabi music, belly dance tracks and nostalgic wedding staples, songs passed from cassette tapes to Bluetooth speakers. Older generations might bring Nubian or Sa’idi influences, depending on the family’s background, while younger brides often layer in aesthetics from South Asia, the Gulf or global pop culture. What defines an Egyptian Henna Night is its balance: tradition infused with improvisation, glamour softened by intimacy, and above all, women taking up space together in celebration. Before she became a bride herself, Shahd had attended many Henna Nights for close relatives, and always loved how intimate and culturally rich they were. “They were simple, but full of meaning,” she told me. “The bride would change into several outfits, each from a different culture, and there was always a henna artist doing designs for everyone, with extra love for the bride.” It always felt, to her, like a bonding ritual between women, full of excitement and laughter. So when it came time to plan her own Henna Night, she wanted to keep that same essence but add her personal touch. “I wore different outfits throughout the night, an Indian look, an Egyptian belly dancer outfit, and a few more,” she said. “Each one had its own accessories, hairstyles, even a different vibe.” What she changed most was the decoration. “I wanted it to feel more immersive and festive, so I really focused on the lighting, the setup, the mood of the space.” It was, as she put it, “A classical Henna Night with a Gen Z twist.” The music carried everything: classic belly dance tracks, shaabi songs, and some Indian hits that never fail to get people dancing. “The dancing didn’t stop all night.” For food, she kept it light and fun; finger food and small bites people could grab while mingling or waiting for their henna. But her favourite part of the night came in a quiet realisation. “I just looked around and saw all the women I love - my friends, cousins, aunts - dancing and laughing with me,” she said. “It was all girls, which made it feel even more special. There was so much freedom in the room, so much closeness. It was everything I had dreamed of and more.”

Algeria: Aryne

In Algeria, the Henna Night - 'lemlila' or 'la nuit du henné' - is a deeply familial ritual, often held in the bride’s home. The event differs across regions: in Algiers, it might include Andalusian melodies and urban customs, while in cities like Constantine and Tlemcen, older Amazigh and Ottoman influences linger. The bride wears the Katefa, a traditional velvet gown embroidered with golden thread, often inherited from previous generations. Close women relatives gather to apply henna, a symbol of fertility, protection, and joy, often accompanied by zaghareet, soft ululations, and the scent of orange blossom water. Coins, candles, and sugar-coated almonds - dragées - are passed around as gestures of sweetness and blessing. Aryne grew up in Constantine, where Henna Nights start quietly. A hush settled over the room as her grandmother began to sing. “She always mixed the henna herself,” Aryne told me. “Powder, milk, orange blossom water, it smelled like something sacred.” The bride sat still while coins were pressed into her hands. Two girls, one on each side, held candles and waited to be blessed. “We’d all repeat the song after my grandmother. That’s the part I remember most, all our voices in one breath.” In Aryne’s family, a traditional Katefa dress has been passed down for generations. “All my sisters wore it for their Henna. I hope my daughter wears it one day too.” When the singing ended, the mood shifted, dragées falling like confetti. Someone shouted 'Salu ‘ala Mohammed', and the dancing began. “That dress carries our whole story,” Aryne said. “Wearing it feels like being held by everyone who wore it before.”

Bahrain: Zain

In Bahrain, the Henna Night blends Khaleeji rhythms with deep-rooted tribal traditions. Unlike the more formal wedding reception, the Henna is an intimate, women-led celebration filled with music, poetry, and teasing chants. It’s held in the bride’s home or a rented hall, with friends and relatives dancing in embroidered jalabiyas and kaftans, hair loosened, gold glinting under fairy lights. Henna is applied to the bride’s hands in delicate patterns, often by a relative or hired artist, while the women gather around her singing traditional Bahraini song, passed down word for word. Clapping and rhythmic stomping become their percussion section, and ululations rise between verses as blessings echo through the night. Zain’s voice note started mid-song: "حنّاج عيّين يا بنية", a traditional Bahraini chant meaning, "Henna on your hands, O Daughter." “We sing this around the bride, clapping, teasing her with love,” she said. “The lyrics are blessings, jokes, praise. They build and build until everyone’s screaming 'Allah, Allah, Allah' together.” She told me the bride sits in the middle of the room as women circle her, dancing in kaftans that shimmer under fairy lights. “It gets sweaty, messy, joyful. Someone always forgets the sweets, and it’s still perfect,” Zain said. “There’s no need for structure. The rhythm knows what to do.” For her, the songs carry the ceremony. “They’re not just tradition,” she said. “They’re memory you can sing.”

Sudan: Nermien

In Sudan, Nermien explained, Henna celebrations are thoughtfully split across gendered spaces - Laylat Al-Henna for the bride, and Jirtiq or Henna Night for the groom. The bride’s night is an intimate gathering of women, often held at home, filled with 'Aghani Banat' (girls' songs) that mix flirtation, wisdom, and play. Henna is drawn in dark, intricate designs using a locally made black paste, usually covering the hands, feet, and sometimes arms, depending on region and custom. Perfumed smoke from bukhoor wafts through the room, while aunties and grandmothers take turns leading dances and applying the henna with practiced care. The groom’s night, by contrast, is public and performative, part wedding, part communal offering. Guests arrive bearing gifts or write their names and contributions in a daftar (notebook). A sheep might be sacrificed. The groom wears a red firka (waist sash), and sits atop a wooden angareb (traditional bed), where an elder woman - not his mother, but another person who is respected - applies henna to his palms. Music, poetry, and candlelight shape the night into a blessing wrapped in rhythm. “It’s always someone with enough love and distance,” Nermien added. Candles are lit, and the night closes in song. “This is how we carry responsibility. With joy, with music, with each other.”

Lebanon: Zeena

Henna Nights in Lebanon don’t follow a rigid template, but when held, they take on the texture of a family’s history -intimate, musical, and shaped by what each generation chooses to carry forward. While not universal, the tradition has grown more visible in recent years, especially among families reconnecting with village customs or Levantine heritage. Music is central: Fairuz, zaffe chants, and dabke beats often bleed into each other, echoing from balconies and basements. The bride might wear a heavily embroidered gown, layered with jewellery passed down or borrowed. The setting could be a living room lit with fairy lights or a small hall lined with folding chairs and food. Henna itself is often applied casually by relatives, not for show but for meaning - more gesture than ornament. There’s rarely a line between guests and performers; everyone sings, dances, serves, remembers. “I don’t think we know how to do a chill Henna in Lebanon,” Zeena laughed. Her sister’s Henna was a full-out affair - a gown embroidered in gold, layered jewellery, tables packed with kibbeh, tabbouleh, maamoul, and knefeh. Fairuz played as friends danced around the bride, singing zaffe chants. “Seeing my mum dance with my sister was the moment,” Zeena told me. “That’s when I cried.” She described the night as a celebration of presence. “Everyone was looking at my sister, but really, they were seeing every woman they’ve ever loved. Their daughters, sisters, mothers. We all saw ourselves in her for a second.” She said her aunt whispered, “We danced like this in ‘81,” and the room felt layered with memory. “Henna lets us step into joy that belongs to all of us,” Zeena said. “It’s our night as well as the bride’s."

Somalia: Sagal

In Somali culture, Henna Nights are known as 'Shaash Saar', a celebratory ritual that marks the bride’s transition into marriage. The ceremony varies by region and family, but traditionally includes poetry, singing, dancing, and the symbolic tying of a shaash (headscarf) around the bride’s head to signify her new status. While the ritual is deeply rooted in Somali heritage, its practice continues and evolves in the diaspora, where Henna Nights have become powerful spaces for memory, connection, and cultural continuity. Tea, halwa, and sweets are staples; music might include traditional Somali buraanbur poetry or pop songs played on someone’s phone. Henna itself is applied not only to the bride, but often shared among sisters, cousins, and guests. These nights are less about strict protocol and more about gathering, where care is expressed through movement, scent, and shared ritual. For Sagal, who grew up in the Somali diaspora, Henna Nights connect past and future. “We’re not always in Somalia, but we bring Somalia into the room,” she said. Tea is poured, halwa passed around, and aunties lead wedding dances as girls trace henna on each other’s arms. “My grandmother always had henna on her hands,” Sagal said. “She said it made her feel beautiful. She didn’t wait for a wedding.” Henna, for them, is about rhythm and softness. “It fades,” she said, “but it leaves something behind. A reminder. A conversation between generations.” Sagal sees the night as rehearsal, not for marriage, but for care. “It’s the one night where we make celebration look easy.”

Jordan & Palestine: Dana

Henna Nights across Jordan and Palestine carry layers of meaning that shift by region, but remain anchored in memory, land, and matriarchal tradition. Though called different names- 'Laylat al-Henna', 'Heffeh' or simply 'the night before' - the gathering usually takes place in the bride’s family home, where women from across generations sing, dance, and prepare the bride for her transition. Embroidered thobes are central: each city or village carries its own patterns and colour schemes, stitched into the fabric as living geography. Songs like 'Zareef al-Toul' or 'Dal’ona' echo over hand claps and dabka steps that start suddenly and spread through the room. Henna is not always applied by a professional, often, it’s brushed on slowly by relatives, mid-conversation, mid-song. The atmosphere is intimate, but never quiet: a mix of soft chaos, shared food, prayer, teasing, and blessing. Across borders and displacement, Henna Nights remain one of the most enduring communal rituals in Palestinian and Jordanian wedding culture, rooted in land, carried in movement, and made tender by the women who keep it alive. Dana’s cousin’s Henna opened with women holding olive branches, entering in a line. “The olive branch means so much- peace, land, memory,” she said. Everyone wore embroidered thobes specific to their cities. “You could read the room like a map,” Dana told me. “Gaza blues, Ramallah reds, Bethlehem patterns. Each one told you where that woman came from.” Dabka broke out in every corner. Women sang over each other. “It was chaos, but soft,” she said. The henna was applied while women whispered advice and held hands. “It wasn’t about the design. It was about the act, one woman caring for another.” Even the food felt like archive: msakhan rolls, fatayer, Arabic coffee passed hand to hand. Dana smiled. “Someone always says, ‘Drink it all, for barakeh.’ That’s what Henna is. A room full of barakeh.”

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