W

e all have our own escapist distractions. In a world such as this, gradually going mad, you need to escape from rough reality on some self-determined basis to keep afloat. This week, many people turned to the British royal wedding for our dose of escapism.

Why not? The dashing young prince, second-in-line to the grandest monarchy, firstborn to the world’s most renowned princess — who herself was married in the wedding of the last century — was marrying his college sweetheart, a willowy loveliness, who despite having been raised by self-made millionaire parents, is nonetheless a commoner in the wedding of this century.

And there was something for everyone. Royal loyalists enjoyed the full display of pageantry, pomp and circumstance the British monarchy knows best how to do. Royal haters inspected a blueblood betrothed outside aristocratic lines, looking for solid proof of a modernizing monarchy. Fashionistas went gaga over Kate’s dress and the gaggle of Phillip Treacy’s feathered hats. Queen Rania, Cinderella of Jordan herself, tweeted she’d spent the day with her kids watching it on TV.

The rest of us just wanted to see such beautiful celebrations of love that made us forget, for a few hours, all the ills in our own lives.

Of course, naysayers are always aplenty. Yet beyond the standard “Such waste of money and time when there are real problems in the world” litany heard across the globe, Indonesians had a different twist. There were talks of our own impending “royal” wedding, delivered mostly in snide remarks.

Allow me to be the first to squash that notion. Our democracy has presidents, not kings. Our presidents can go after one term and will go after two, and cannot legally pass the power baton to any kin.

Certainly politicians can raise politically-charged families and aim to expand their network by way of strategic alliances, including marriages, as we’ve witnessed through the Roosevelts, Kennedys and Bushes in the US, and the Soong sisters, Nehru-Gandhis, Bhuttos, Lees, or Aquinos in Asia.

Let us remember the political elites have a right to marry whoever they desire, and as generally happens, marry within their own circle. So there is no need to act ghastly surprised the offspring of two politicians are tying the knot.

This union may well be birthing merged bloodlines, or a “dynasty”, as some would choose to call it. Yet it may not necessarily translate into real ruling power. Why? Because the power to deliver ruling authority lies in our hands — as faceless voters choosing our representatives on Election Day. Hence, if you don’t want a dynasty-model republic, simply do not vote for political parties offering that idea.

And, as a writer who’s susceptible toward words, and a yogini awareness of energy flow, may I strongly suggest we stop referring to it as a “royal” wedding. Yes, including the media, Facebookers and Twitterati. The more you call out something, the more true it rings over time. So just refer to it as a wedding, or a political wedding, if you must label it as such, but not the “R” word. Because it is not.

Back to the real royal wedding. I must admit, I was pleased to watch time-honored traditions, such as the program orders and guest arrivals, which were artfully meshed with digital age sensibilities, such as the Middletons’ contributions to the wedding expenses and William himself driving out the post-reception in the “Just Got Married” car.

I found some solace in imagining that while Diana had to miss the nuptials, she was probably up there clinking champagne flutes with British bad boy designer Alexander McQueen over her daughter-in-law’s choice of dress.

The sleek Chantilly-laced-bodice, angelic-silk veil and tasteful train on that gorgeous satin gown, oozes such modern glamour that the regular jane born with conspicuously regal name of Catherine Elizabeth, looks halfway fit to be queen.

The boy who walked mournfully behind her beloved mummy’s casket has grown into a strapping young man, now returning to the Abbey to marry his bride. For that reason alone, I had to watch the event. Call me a hopeless romantic, but first, please pass me a tissue.

— Lynda Ibrahim