Are arranged marriages forced marriages? Answers from a Roma community in South Transylvania

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Introduction

As I began writing this paper, a new bill has been introduced in the Romanian Parliament seeking to ban forced marriages and forced cohabitation involving minors and 16 year-olds—the latter being the minimum age at which marriage is currently permitted under certain exceptions to the legal age of 18. The bill proposes prison sentences of three to seven years, and up to ten years in severe cases, for those who arrange or facilitate such unions. It also criminalizes the organization of ceremonies celebrating marriages or betrothals involving minors under 16. In broad terms, the draft law defines forced marriage as any union concluded without the full and free consent of both spouses—often involving coercion, manipulation, threats, physical violence, or a market transaction thus constituting a violation of human rights. Publicly, the law’s proponents have emphasized that the primary victims of such practices are girls and women, who frequently endure severe emotional, psychological, and physical harm.

The bill sparked objections among representatives of Roma communities in Romania. Those identifying with so-called “traditional”, more conservative Roma groups organized protests across the country and sent delegations to the Parliament in Bucharest to debate the bill’s implications for their people. Their main arguments, grounded in appeals to Romani traditions and values, warned that the law could endanger ancient customs at the heart of their collective identity. They emphasized the importance of addressing cases of abuse without further stigmatizing Roma communities. Even the more progressive Roma activists who welcomed the bill (as one of the first to address the protection of minors in Romania), called for a broader public debate, pointing out the mistaken conflation of betrothal practices - cultural conventions and social norms that do not involve intimate relationship —with forced marriages or forced cohabitation.

Essentially, the bill reignited a long-standing tension between two opposing discourses: on one side, the universalist claims of human rights advocates, and on the other, the relativist arguments of those defending an essentialized notion of culture—understood as something rooted in tradition, the past, and, often pejoratively, backwardness. Asked to comment on a protest organized by Roma men in Târgu Jiu in defense of customary law, sociologist Adrian Marcu remarked that “one cannot continue today by means and traditions specific to the Middle Ages.” His statement encapsulates a dominant trope in Romanian public discourse—one that equates Romani traditions of arranging marriages with backwardness and positions love matches and courtship as ideologies of modernity.

“As an anthropologist who has spent the past two decades working with a Romani community in southern Transylvania where parents and grandparents arrange their (grand)children’s marriages, I wish to contribute to this debate—not by taking sides, but by showing ways of bridging two apparently irreconcilable discourses. (...) Dismissing these practices as “medieval” or “backward” does nothing to protect those most affected; in contrary, it only deepens the gulf between state law and local moral worlds.”

As an anthropologist who has spent the past two decades working with a Romani community in southern Transylvania where parents and grandparents arrange their (grand)children’s marriages, I wish to contribute to this debate—not by taking sides, but by showing ways of bridging two apparently irreconcilable discourses.

I basically claim that practices often categorized as 'forced marriages' are, in fact, complex arranged unions that reveal the inseparability of paternal authority with premarital romance or ideology of romantic love, of kinship and economy, modernity and tradition, usually blurring the boundaries between marriage and betrothals. I argue that what is readily dismissed as 'tradition' is often a product of modernity, shaped by socio-economic transformations if one embraces a concept of “culture” as dynamic and changeable. Considering these complexities as they were played out in the marital practices of the Cortorari community in southern Transylvania, might have implications for better translating the universal human rights discourse into local social justice.

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Cortorari “marriages”

Photo credits: Eric Roset

For the Romani-speaking Cortorari (literally “Tent Dwellers”) of southern Transylvania—so called by their Romanian neighbours as a reminder of their once-itinerant way of life—marriage-making is central both to the definition of the person, and to enabling of a notion of themselves as a collective. In their own language, the Cortorari call themselves ame al Roma, which broadly translates as “a community of married people”. The term itself derives from the singular rom (and romni)—a married man (and woman, respectively)—signaling that personhood begins with marriage and conception.

Often dismissed in both public discourse as a backward, traditional practice, marriage-making among the Cortorari is, in fact, deeply entangled with post-socialist transformations. Its current form is both a product and a reflection of these broader socio-economic changes. The influx of the capital coming from migration has dramatically raised cash dowries—sometimes reaching as high as €50,000—turning marriage into a major site of financial investment and status display. At the same time, sex-selective abortion has contributed to a gender imbalance at birth, intensifying competition among boys for girls on the marriage market. In keeping with their understanding of gender as grounded in the body’s reproductive capacities, Cortorari have also turned to biomedical interventions aimed at accelerating physical maturation of bodies. Added to this are global trends such as the lowering age of puberty—linked to climate change, altered diets—which have reshaped the biological and social timelines of puberty. Together, these factors have had the joint effect of lowering the marital age of spouses, reinforcing the early age at which marital alliances are arranged and formalized. What appears, from the outside, as a remnant of “tradition” is, in fact, the outcome of profound historical and global processes, refracted through local logics of kinship and economy.

Among the Cortorari, marriage is neither a single event nor a simple yes-or-no proposition between two individuals. It is an alliance between two extended families that involves economic exchanges and mobilize the political abilities of those involved, entails the reconfiguration of social relationships, and, crucially, is premised on biological reproduction and the replacement of generations within the house. Furthermore, it is a process that often begins long before the wedding itself and the cohabitation of spouses—sometimes as early as when the future bride and groom are still in their mothers’ wombs—and unfolds over many years. It is marked by the bride’s relocation from her parental home to that of her husband (which he shares with his parents), her gradual adaptation to the new household’s customs, and her gradual inclusion within it once she begins to conceive, to be completed when she had a son who can fully secure the union. Most alliances are concluded and broken off several times before a young couple, usually at puberty, come together and consummate the customary union. By that time the young have a say in the spousal choice, and in some cases might also commence a romance with their future partner. Gradually the youth embraced imaginaries of romantic love as they are circulated through social media and manele music, which did not result in the erosion of parent authority, but an entwinement of courtship and arrangement and a very sensitive negotiation of the two.

The Cortorari do not have a specific word for “marriage.” What they do, instead, is take and give daughters—or daughters-in-law (bori-s)—thereby binding themselves (panden pes) into a relationship of co-in-lawship (xanamika). When speaking about marital alliances, the ceremonies that make them public, and the agreements that underpin them, the Cortorari use the term tokmeala. Its primary meaning refers to a marketplace situation—a moment of haggling, of negotiation over value—which aptly captures how alliances are discussed and settled. Indeed, tokmeala brings together both economic and social dimensions: the bargaining, the exchange, the setting of terms. The ceremonial exchange involves not only the circulation of daughters but also of money and goods, most notably the cash dowry (zestre) which is transferred from the bride’s family to the groom’s. Although this money does not go to the bride to use as she wishes, it is intended to ease her treatment and facilitate her incorporation into her husband’s household. It also serves as an index of her parents’ care for her and a testament to their industriousness. Its amount is carefully negotiated in relation to the groom’s family status and possessions—among which the chalice is particularly cherished. Ancient heirlooms that circulate from father to son, symbols of the patrilines and their prestige, the chalice counteract the tendency of marital unions towards dissolution: on the occasion of marital agreements, it is entrusted with family of the bride until the new couple has a son who will secure the union.

In contradistinction to the Romanian term logodnă (betrothal)—widely invoked these days in public debates around the new bill, and whose primary meaning refers to the religious betrothal of two future spouses—tokmeala is a fait social total: a ceremonial exchange that brings together economic transactions, political negotiation, and the reconfiguration of kinship and social bonds. This holistic dimension of marriage is side-lined both by the bill that focuses on the intimate relationships, and by the proponents of tradition who make recourse to the cultural identity argument. In the latter’s understanding logodnă is reduced to a merely symbolic or cultural convention. However among the Cortorari, who combine coppersmithing with begging abroad and small-scale agriculture, securing in-laws and affines through marriage is essential to sustaining livelihoods.

To ground these broader reflections, let me turn to an ethnographic story – a marital saga that captures the entwinement of economy, politics, and kinship, as well as romance and arrangements and not least relieve women agency in the marital arrangements.

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Vlad’s marital saga

In 2010, while I was conducting my PhD fieldwork, Vlad, 15 years old, was matched with Lina who was two-three years his senior. The ceremonial exchange was negotiated between Vlad's parents on one side, and Lina's parents together with her maternal uncle's family on the other. The arrangement followed a pattern of reciprocal exchange: Vlad's sister Maria became the bride of Lina's cousin (her mother's brother's son), while Vlad was matched with Lina. The Cortorari prefer to conclude marriages through the exchange of daughters-in-law (bori-s), believing that such arrangements prevent the dissolution of both marriages and ensure equitable treatment of the two brides within their respective families.

Assessing the depth of Vlad's feelings for Lina proved difficult given that among the Cortorari, public displays of affection are neither encouraged nor welcomed. I was struck by the contrast between public and private expressions of affection. Couples who demonstrated no physical touch or verbal declarations of affection in the presence of older generations would become notably warmer in my presence alone—touching, teasing each other with evident ease. When visiting me in Bucharest, away from the community's gaze, they displayed excessive hugging and courtesy, revealing a dimension of their relationships carefully concealed within the village context.

At his age, Vlad was outgoing and far more invested in masculine peer activities than in the affairs of marriage and household management. He was the life of village parties, frequently out and about. His wife, Lina, did not encourage him toward a more domestic role. Following the common pattern among recently married women who have not yet conceived, Lina pendulated between her in-laws' and her parental households, dividing her time between both. However, she spent the majority of her time at her parents' house, which was situated directly adjacent to Vlad's parents' home.

The fragility of exchange marriages became evident when reproductive outcomes threatened the reciprocal balance. Maria, Vlad's sister, had borne two daughters—a precarious situation given that among the Cortorari, only the birth of a son definitively secures a marital union. Her parents-in-law began threatening to dissolve the marriage, which would have destabilized the entire exchange arrangement. In response, and to maintain parity in the treatment of both brides, Vlad's parents intensified pressure on Lina to conceive. The underlying anxiety centered on potential barrenness, a stigmatized condition that not only brings shame but fundamentally compromises an individual's social trajectory and relational possibilities within the community.

As tensions escalated, Lina's parents proposed a strategic intervention to stabilize the alliance. They requested that Vlad's parents entrust them with their chalice until the couple produced a son to inherit it. On that occasion, Vlad and his father took a ritual oath, solemnly binding themselves in perpetuity to an in-law relationship (xanamicuri) with Lina's parents. This ritual performance served to reinforce the marriage bond through sacred commitment, effectively raising the stakes of dissolution and reaffirming the mutual obligations inherent in the exchange arrangement. It was an instantiation of the social dimensions of customary unions that trespass intimate relationships between the spouses for permeating the relationships among their families.

The pressure to produce a son, felt equally by Lina and Vlad, was not contained within the private walls of their household. Among the Cortorari, when tensions arise between families joined in alliance, they are typically brought into the open—enacted in the streets where the entire neighbourhood becomes witness to the conflict. The shame of failing to conceive within the expected timeframe is collectively experienced, radiating outward to affect both the young couple and the adults in their respective families with equal intensity.

While conflicts and resolutions between the two families continued to unfold in sequence, Lina eventually became pregnant through the use of assisted reproductive technologies, only to suffer an early miscarriage. It was during this crisis that I observed the couple displaying genuine care for one another, offering a rare glimpse into the private dimensions of their relationship. Vlad participated fully in Lina's pain, spending countless hours at her hospital bedside, holding her hand and offering solace. I heard him tell her that she mattered more to him than his chalice, and that their parents' anxieties were not his own—his concern was solely for her wellbeing. Moments like these unsettle the prevailing narratives that reduce arranged marriages to mere instruments of coercion or tradition. Within the Cortorari world, affect and obligation, choice and constraint, are deeply entangled. What might appear from the outside as a “forced marriage” may also contain moments of tenderness, resistance, and care that complicate our moral vocabulary. Vlad’s devotion to Lina did not erase the structural pressures shaping their union, yet it revealed how emotion and agency emerge even within arrangements negotiated by others. To understand such marriages, one must look beyond the binaries of freedom and oppression, and attend instead to the dense web of kinship, economy, and feeling in which these relationships take form.

Vlad’s parents, however, remained preoccupied with the fate of their chalice and the stability of the alliance. The immediate crisis was defused when Vlad's sister Maria gave birth to a son, thereby securing her own marriage and removing the threat of dissolution that had hung over her. This reproductive success on one side of the exchange temporarily relieved some of the pressure on Vlad and Lina, though the expectation that they too would produce a male heir remained.

I was in London writing my PhD dissertation in 2010 when I received the shocking news that Lina had died of septicaemia following a very late miscarriage. Vlad poured out his grief over the phone, telling me that his life was over now that his bride's was over. Was this proof of his love for Lina? Had the young couple gradually grown close to each other, caring for one another and reinforcing their unity as a way to counteract the more calculative, materialistic drives of their parents? The question itself reveals the inadequacy of the forced/free binary. Vlad's grief was real; so was the fact that he had little say in the initial arrangement. Both things are true because romantic feeling and structural arrangement are not opposites—they are co-constitutive. Cortorari lack a direct translation for "love." Instead, they employ the term calol (to like), which is notably devoid of the philosophical or immaterial dimensions associated with Western concepts of romantic love. The Romani terms that approximate our understanding of love are calol latar/letar (to like somebody) and inkerel latar/letar (to care about her/ him).

Vlad and Lina were not the first couple I observed cultivating feelings of affection toward each other, caring for one another and supporting each other—especially when under pressure from their parents and grandparents to mature, have children, and assume household responsibilities. I saw young brides—who typically continued to receive pocket money from their parents even after moving into their in-laws' homes—buying ice creams and sweets for their grooms. I saw grooms taking their brides' side when the latter were scolded by their mothers-in-law for not performing household chores adequately. It is thus difficult to police the boundaries between love and its absence in arranged marriages. Vlad had little say in choosing his bride, he was the casualty of his sister's marital choices but this did not prevent him from growing close to Lina.

Vlad’s sister Maria had previously been matched to someone she disliked and to whose family she could not adjust. She first attempted the tricks other brides employ when seeking release from an undesired match—being deliberately clumsy in cooking, adding the eggshells to the omelettes, and similar acts of domestic sabotage. While trying to annoy her parents-in-law to the point of sending her back home, she was caught furtively dating her next prospective match. Both because she had dragged her family's reputation through the mud and because she desperately wanted to escape her first match, she swallowed a handful of pills and ended up hospitalized. She eventually managed to convince her parents to arrange a new match for her, and Vlad had to serve as the complementary pair in the exchange, given that Maria's future in-laws had a daughter in the family who needed to marry. Maria’s story showcases agency and resistance within arranged marriage - albeit a different model of agency than liberal individualism recognizes, and complicates the gendered victim narrative. Here again the forced/free binary obscures the actual dynamics of negotiation, resistance, and constrained choice that everyone navigates within the community.

Conclusions

Vlad’s marital saga illustrates how economic calculation, political negotiation, and emergent affective bonds cannot be disentangled—they constitute a single social process. In his next match, Vlad was once again pawned, this time to secure his younger sister’s marriage. By then, his opinion carried more weight in the choice of a spouse. Whether or not he initially felt affection for his new bride is uncertain, but what became evident was his deep concern for his sister, whose union was at risk of dissolution. By marrying his sister’s husband’s sister, Vlad first and foremost fulfilled his duties as a brother, though affection later grew within the marriage.

In contrast to self-centred societies, where individuals are imagined as autonomous agents making free choices, in socio-centric societies persons are constituted through their relationships—relationships that guide and constrain their decisions. It is therefore difficult to align legislative notions of “consent” with vernacular understandings of choice that are grounded in kinship roles and moral obligations.

Alliances such as Vlad’s—and his sister’s—blur the distinction between betrothal and marriage, functioning instead as ongoing negotiations over marital bonds, economic stakes, and the procreative capacities of bodies. They also complicate the gendered lens through which the public discourse on “forced marriage” tends to operate. Within customary law, boys and girls alike may have their marriages arranged, and women’s agency within these alliances often exceeds the passive victimhood that saturates external representations.

Finally, these cases reveal that the so-called “traditions” invoked to defend such practices are neither static nor purely cultural. The repertoire of customs in which these marriages are couched is in fact continuously reshaped—through new medical technologies, shifting economic conditions, and the emergence of romantic attachment within arranged unions.

Vlad’s story—and the Cortorari marriage system more broadly—highlights what current legislative efforts risk overlooking: that marital arrangements are not simply acts of coercion or violations of individual will, but complex social negotiations embedded in kinship, economy, and moral obligation. The universalist human rights discourse, while indispensable for protecting minors from abuse, tends to flatten these local worlds of meaning, mistaking relational duties for forms of domination. Yet, dismissing these practices as “medieval” or “backward” does nothing to protect those most affected; in contrary, it only deepens the gulf between state law and local moral worlds. What is needed instead is a more dialogical approach—one that acknowledges how love, duty, and negotiation coexist within these alliances, and how the pursuit of justice must begin from, rather than against, the lived realities of those whose lives it seeks to transform.

Are arranged marriages forced marriages? Answers from a Roma community in South Transylvania

Written by:

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Introduction

Cortorari “marriages”

Vlad’s marital saga

Conclusions

Further Reading:

About the Author

Cătălina Tesăr

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THE ATTIC

Are arranged marriages forced marriages? Answers from a Roma community in South Transylvania

Written by:

Share article:

Introduction

The Attic Newsletter

Follow @theatticmag on Twitter

Cortorari “marriages”

Follow @theatticmag on Twitter

Vlad’s marital saga

Conclusions

Further Reading:

About the Author

Cătălina Tesăr

Share this Article

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