Diaspora returns for Comoros' lavish ‘Grand Mariage', a rite of passage that unites generations and communities
The elaborate, tradition-infused ceremonies — which can be held years after an initial religious wedding — are most often held in July and August, coinciding with the summer holidays in France which has a significant community of Comoran migrants.
On a recent day in July, Badjanani Square in central Moroni — the capital of the mainly Muslim nation off East Africa — was packed with hundreds of people attending a prayer ceremony ahead of the 'Grand Mariage' (French for 'Big Wedding') of a couple based in the central French city of Le Mans.
The groom, 55-year-old Issa Mze Ali Ahmed, made his entrance in style, dressed in a turban and robes lined with golden cloth.
Issa Mze Ali Ahmed (centre), a Franco Comorian who travelled back to Comoros to celebrate the Grand Mariage swings his stick as he joins the traditional Dinahou dance on the central Badjanani square in Moroni on July 19, 2025 during the Madjiliss ceremony. Madjiliss is a traditional ceremony in which religious chanting and rhythmic dancing introduce the groom during the Grand Marriage celebrations. — AFP pic
Accompanied by men from his extended family, he took his seat for the prayers among rows of men, many wearing the traditionally embroidered mharuma scarf denoting their distinguished status.
The dowry intended for Ahmed's bride was officially announced and he was saluted by ululating women resplendent in glitzy headscarves and dresses.
Elsewhere on the Grande Comore, the largest of the nation's three islands, it was the big day for a couple based on the French territory of Reunion about 1,600 kilometres further east into the Indian Ocean.
In a family home in the town of Tsidje in the hills just outside Moroni, men helped the groom, 42-year-old Faid Kassime, put on a handmade black velvet coat embroidered with gold threads.
Accompanied by an entourage of family and friends and with an umbrella held over him, Kassime walked to the family home of his wife — whom he first married in 2012 — in a procession preceded by drummers and displaying cases of gold ornaments and jewellery as dowry.
'It's an accomplishment,' Kassime told AFP. 'I really wanted to carry out this ceremony to honour traditions, parents and the in-laws.'
Amadi Maria (4th left), the mother of Franco Comoran Faid Kassim (3rd left), who lives with his wife Faizat Aboubacar (2nd left) in Reunion, stands next to the couple as friends and relatives drop banknotes in a suitcase while dancing during the Ukumbi, a women only reception marking the end of the Grand Mariage celebrations, at the Foyer des Femmes (a local venue dedicated to women only gathering) in Moroni, on July 20, 2025 during the evening reception of the couple's Grand Mariage. Gold and other gifts are brought by the groom to the bride as a dote in an elaborate ceremony in which the whole extended families and members of the community take part. — AFP pic
Staggering sums
It can often take a couple several years after their first wedding, called the 'Petit Mariage', to accumulate the money required to host the second, more lavish event.
But, as costly as it is, the ceremony is valued for sealing the social status of a couple in the hierarchy of their community, said anthropologist Damir Ben Ali.
'It marks the end of a period of social apprenticeship,' Ali said. 'It means that a person has followed all the rules that allow him to have some responsibility in the community... for making decisions concerning the community.'
A 'Grand Mariage' can cost a couple their entire life savings, said Ali, who found in research in 2009 that the financial outlay then ranged between €6,000 and €235,000 (RM29,603 and RM1.1 million).
'It has surely increased since then,' he said.
The spending is staggering for a nation where 45 per cent of the population of under 900,000 people lives below the poverty line of around €100 a month, according to the National Statistics Institute. Remissions from the diaspora account for 30 per cent of the national GDP.
The sumptuous attire worn by couples at the ceremonies reflect the outfits worn by sultans before the Comoros became a French protectorate in the 19th century, said Sultan Chouzour, author of the 1994 book, The Power of Honour.
'The ceremony is akin to enthroning a new king,' he said. 'Here, everyone can be a sultan.'
Franco Comoran Faid Kassim (centre left), who lives with his wife Faizat Aboubacar (centre right) in Reunion, dance during the Ukumbi, a women only reception marking the end of the Grand Mariage celebrations, at the Foyer des Femmes (a local venue dedicated to women only gathering) in Moroni, on July 20, 2025 during the evening reception of the couple's Grand Mariage. This very expensive custom is often the goal of a lifetime and attracts scores of members of the Comorian diaspora who travel back to the archipelago to honour the tradition. — AFP pic
New status
Kassime's procession to the home of his 41-year-old bride, Faizat Aboubacar, illustrated the Comoros's matrilineal system and its practice of matrilocality in which husbands move into the communities of their wives.
Aboubacar was overjoyed after her special day. 'I am surrounded by my loved ones and that is all that matters. It is a beautiful moment,' she said.
The event announces to society that a woman's social status has improved, said Farahate Mahamoud, one of the guests.
'She will be treated as a dignitary wherever she goes. At all ceremonies, she will have the right to speak,' Mahamoud said.
Aboubacar's mother-in-law was proud that the couple had returned to the Comoros to uphold one of its pillar traditions.
'A continuation of our customs is a great joy — especially for children who were born in France, raised in France, educated in France or working in France to accept doing what we, as parents and grandparents, did,' said Maria Amadi. — AFP
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Malay Mail
7 days ago
- Malay Mail
Diaspora returns for Comoros' lavish ‘Grand Mariage', a rite of passage that unites generations and communities
MORONI (Comoros), Aug 7 — It is wedding season in the Comoros, when the diaspora return to the tiny Indian Ocean islands for days-long celebrations that mark an essential rite of passage, the 'Grand Mariage'. The elaborate, tradition-infused ceremonies — which can be held years after an initial religious wedding — are most often held in July and August, coinciding with the summer holidays in France which has a significant community of Comoran migrants. On a recent day in July, Badjanani Square in central Moroni — the capital of the mainly Muslim nation off East Africa — was packed with hundreds of people attending a prayer ceremony ahead of the 'Grand Mariage' (French for 'Big Wedding') of a couple based in the central French city of Le Mans. The groom, 55-year-old Issa Mze Ali Ahmed, made his entrance in style, dressed in a turban and robes lined with golden cloth. Issa Mze Ali Ahmed (centre), a Franco Comorian who travelled back to Comoros to celebrate the Grand Mariage swings his stick as he joins the traditional Dinahou dance on the central Badjanani square in Moroni on July 19, 2025 during the Madjiliss ceremony. Madjiliss is a traditional ceremony in which religious chanting and rhythmic dancing introduce the groom during the Grand Marriage celebrations. — AFP pic Accompanied by men from his extended family, he took his seat for the prayers among rows of men, many wearing the traditionally embroidered mharuma scarf denoting their distinguished status. The dowry intended for Ahmed's bride was officially announced and he was saluted by ululating women resplendent in glitzy headscarves and dresses. Elsewhere on the Grande Comore, the largest of the nation's three islands, it was the big day for a couple based on the French territory of Reunion about 1,600 kilometres further east into the Indian Ocean. In a family home in the town of Tsidje in the hills just outside Moroni, men helped the groom, 42-year-old Faid Kassime, put on a handmade black velvet coat embroidered with gold threads. Accompanied by an entourage of family and friends and with an umbrella held over him, Kassime walked to the family home of his wife — whom he first married in 2012 — in a procession preceded by drummers and displaying cases of gold ornaments and jewellery as dowry. 'It's an accomplishment,' Kassime told AFP. 'I really wanted to carry out this ceremony to honour traditions, parents and the in-laws.' Amadi Maria (4th left), the mother of Franco Comoran Faid Kassim (3rd left), who lives with his wife Faizat Aboubacar (2nd left) in Reunion, stands next to the couple as friends and relatives drop banknotes in a suitcase while dancing during the Ukumbi, a women only reception marking the end of the Grand Mariage celebrations, at the Foyer des Femmes (a local venue dedicated to women only gathering) in Moroni, on July 20, 2025 during the evening reception of the couple's Grand Mariage. Gold and other gifts are brought by the groom to the bride as a dote in an elaborate ceremony in which the whole extended families and members of the community take part. — AFP pic Staggering sums It can often take a couple several years after their first wedding, called the 'Petit Mariage', to accumulate the money required to host the second, more lavish event. But, as costly as it is, the ceremony is valued for sealing the social status of a couple in the hierarchy of their community, said anthropologist Damir Ben Ali. 'It marks the end of a period of social apprenticeship,' Ali said. 'It means that a person has followed all the rules that allow him to have some responsibility in the community... for making decisions concerning the community.' A 'Grand Mariage' can cost a couple their entire life savings, said Ali, who found in research in 2009 that the financial outlay then ranged between €6,000 and €235,000 (RM29,603 and RM1.1 million). 'It has surely increased since then,' he said. The spending is staggering for a nation where 45 per cent of the population of under 900,000 people lives below the poverty line of around €100 a month, according to the National Statistics Institute. Remissions from the diaspora account for 30 per cent of the national GDP. The sumptuous attire worn by couples at the ceremonies reflect the outfits worn by sultans before the Comoros became a French protectorate in the 19th century, said Sultan Chouzour, author of the 1994 book, The Power of Honour. 'The ceremony is akin to enthroning a new king,' he said. 'Here, everyone can be a sultan.' Franco Comoran Faid Kassim (centre left), who lives with his wife Faizat Aboubacar (centre right) in Reunion, dance during the Ukumbi, a women only reception marking the end of the Grand Mariage celebrations, at the Foyer des Femmes (a local venue dedicated to women only gathering) in Moroni, on July 20, 2025 during the evening reception of the couple's Grand Mariage. This very expensive custom is often the goal of a lifetime and attracts scores of members of the Comorian diaspora who travel back to the archipelago to honour the tradition. — AFP pic New status Kassime's procession to the home of his 41-year-old bride, Faizat Aboubacar, illustrated the Comoros's matrilineal system and its practice of matrilocality in which husbands move into the communities of their wives. Aboubacar was overjoyed after her special day. 'I am surrounded by my loved ones and that is all that matters. It is a beautiful moment,' she said. The event announces to society that a woman's social status has improved, said Farahate Mahamoud, one of the guests. 'She will be treated as a dignitary wherever she goes. At all ceremonies, she will have the right to speak,' Mahamoud said. Aboubacar's mother-in-law was proud that the couple had returned to the Comoros to uphold one of its pillar traditions. 'A continuation of our customs is a great joy — especially for children who were born in France, raised in France, educated in France or working in France to accept doing what we, as parents and grandparents, did,' said Maria Amadi. — AFP
Malay Mail
21-06-2025
- Malay Mail
Who am I when the media is watching? — Nurhazwaliza Kamarod
JUNE 21 — Every day, I wake up and scroll. Before I even brush my teeth, I've already seen someone's vacation in parts of the world I've never been to, a viral clip from yesterday, a girl unboxing the latest phone, and a stranger's opinion on why Gen Z is 'too soft.' Yes, it's exhausting — but let's face it: it's addictive and impossible to ignore. This is the media world I grew up in. Not just consuming it, but being shaped by it. Whether we realise it or not, media tells us who to be, what to care about, and how we should show up in the world. And for many of us in this generation, our identity is still being negotiated under the constant gaze of likes, shares and filters. I sincerely believe that media is not inherently evil. In fact, it's one of the most powerful tools of our time. Through platforms like Instagram, TikTok and YouTube, I've learned about cultures I've never visited, ideas I've never encountered, and stories I would never hear on mainstream news. Media has connected me to communities that affirm who I am — as a Southeast Asian youth, as a Muslim, as someone navigating life between tradition and modernity. It's allowed many of us to share our cultures with pride, to reclaim languages that were once mocked, and to talk about mental health, gender, or faith with honesty. Most importantly, it has given a platform to young people who, in the past, would have remained invisible. But here's the catch: media also fragments who we are. The media has allowed many to share their cultures with pride. — Picture from Unsplash/Yazid N We curate the best version of ourselves online. We post the wins, the aesthetic angles, the achievements, and the carefully selected quotes. But what about the in-between moments? The confusion, the insecurity, the loneliness, or the cultural expectations we quietly carry? These parts of our identity don't always fit into a 15-second video or a neatly filtered Instagram post. When I was younger, I used to think media was just a reflection of the world. But now I see that media actually creates the world — and more importantly, our place in it. It tells us whose stories matter. Whose beauty is valid. Whose struggles are 'trending.' And often, those of us from small towns, minority backgrounds, or non-Western cultures don't see ourselves represented at all. Or worse, we're reduced to stereotypes. So how do we resist this pressure to perform? How do we reclaim our image when the media constantly tries to define us? I believe it starts with intentional storytelling. Instead of copying what gets the most views or what the algorithm prefers, we need to ask ourselves: What story do I want to tell? What version of myself feels honest? For me, that means being real — about my language, my background, my struggles with identity, or my hopes for the future. It means showing up online the same way I do offline: imperfect, but real. It also means creating space for others to do the same. We need more platforms that allow young people to express themselves without fear of being judged or misrepresented. We need media that uplifts diverse voices — especially those who have been historically silenced or sidelined. Whether it's a podcast in a local dialect, a photo essay on hijabi skaters, or a TikTok explaining rural traditions, our generation needs to tell our own stories, in our own way. And finally, we need to remember that identity is more than an aesthetic. It's a journey. It's okay not to have everything figured out. We don't need to fit into a single brand, label, or algorithm to be valid. So the next time I catch myself asking, 'Am I enough?' because of what I see online, I will pause. I will breathe. I will remind myself: I'm not just content. I'm a person. A generation is watching. But more importantly, we are watching ourselves. Let's make sure the version we see — and more importantly, the version we share — is real. * Nurhazwaliza Kamarod is an undergraduate student of Universiti Malaya, taking an elective university course entitled 'Introduction to Journalism and Storytelling in Digital Age'. ** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
Free Malaysia Today
11-05-2025
- Free Malaysia Today
Chinese couple's Malay wedding celebrates unity, harmony
Ng Sow Gee (right) and Chang Jeff Sun have long been captivated by the uniqueness of Malay traditions. (Bernama pic) SHAH ALAM : You could be forgiven for assuming it was a Malay wedding – the bride and groom in traditional songket, escorted by the rhythmic beat of kompang drums; a reception showcasing traditional elements such as the 'salam restu' (blessing ceremony), 'bersanding' (sitting in state), 'makan beradab' (formal dining), and a series of cultural dance performances that culminated in a lively joget lambak. Yet, at the centre of the festivities was a Chinese couple who chose to mark their special day with a Malay-themed wedding. According to Chang Jeff Sun, 31, the celebration had been a dream for him and his bride, Ng Sow Gee, as they have long been captivated by the uniqueness of Malay traditions. 'In Malaysia, we grow up immersed in diverse cultures and, to me, Malay culture holds a special place. I wanted to embrace that experience on the happiest day of my life,' he told Bernama at the celebration held at the Magical Grand Hall in Star Avenue mall here recently. Ng, also known as Eva, was equally thrilled and quickly agreed to immortalise their special day with a celebration that embodies Malaysia's cultural inclusivity. 'This is my first time wearing a full traditional outfit, complete with a hairpiece. It was challenging but totally worth it because the look turned out absolutely beautiful,' the 32-year-old said. Meanwhile, the groom's mother, Chen Bee Kheng, described the event as the realisation of a long-held dream. 'Malaysians are like one big family. We live close to a Malay community… I've long had the wish to hold a wedding in the style of a Malay kenduri for my eldest son,' she said. The event was attended by their family and friends from diverse backgrounds, who were thrilled to witness how culture could unite people in a celebration of love and togetherness, reflecting the nation's unique identity.
