Sundanese Weddings

This edited extract from Daughter of Independence describes Sundanese wedding customs. It also contrasts Wenny and Dahlan’s wedding with that of their daughter 30 years later to show how such customs have changed over time.

1962: Wenny and Dahlan

My parents had moved to Australia shortly before I met Dahlan, and were unable to return to Indonesia for our wedding, so my father’s sister, Bibi Neneh, organised the event. She formed a committee with each member having an area of responsibility: invitations, transport, hotel bookings, entertainment, bride and bridegroom. As a professional caterer Bibi Neneh would manage the banquets.

The wedding would consist of two functions. The official marriage ceremony, Akad Nikah, would be held in the morning in front of family and close friends, followed by Sundanese cultural ceremonies. The reception on Sunday night was to be a bigger event with five hundred families invited.

A week before the event I moved into the Bandung house of my grandfather Aki Noor and his wife Ibu Gunung, where the marriage ceremony would be held. This week was a period of seclusion, dipingit, and during that time I was under the control of Uwa Yayah, an expert on Sundanese wedding culture. She would be the make-up artist, hairdresser, Master of Ceremonies for the cultural parts of the event, and the enforcer of custom. During the week I was not allowed to leave the house or see Dahlan. My diet was restricted – food with salt and certain fruits such as bananas, pineapples or cucumbers were forbidden, and I was given jamu, traditional herbal medicine, formulated to prepare the female body for the wedding night.

At the start of the week the bridal bedroom was decorated. The tiled floor was covered with two beautiful Persian carpets lent by Bi Neneh, who kept them for special events. Behind the bed pale pink tulle floated down the wall, blending into a lilac satin bedcover trimmed with gathered ruffles. Jasmine flowers were scattered over the bed and pinned to the tulle. The dressing table was covered with a richly embroidered cloth, its colours matching the satin and tulle, and displayed French perfume, a complete set of make-up and a burner diffusing essential oil. People admired the room, but I couldn’t sleep on the decorated bed. I put a mattress on the carpet each evening and rolled it up in the morning.

One of Uwa Yayah’s duties was to lighten my skin, using bedak lulur, a yellow powder she made herself, so that the bride would appear to be different from the guests and more attractive to her new husband on the wedding night. I didn’t want to be whiter, but I had to submit. Each morning after my bath, Uwa Yayah massaged me and then removed the oil with hot towels. She mixed the bedak lulur with water to form a paste and covered my whole body and face with it. I wore a housecoat over the paste, which stayed on all day. Bedak lulur was made from fragrant plants and flowers but also contained turmeric, so any clothes I wore turned yellow.

The process was repeated before I went to bed – bath, massage, bedak lulur. At night being covered with paste made it hard to sleep. I protested but Uwa Yayah insisted. ‘Don’t be so difficult,’ she said. ‘It’s only once in your lifetime you have to follow this custom.’

During the entire week Uwa Yayah fasted from sunrise to sunset and prayed to God to help her perform her duties correctly so that the bride would be beautiful and the ceremonies would go smoothly. But her fasting and prayers did not prevent disaster.

Dahlan worked in Jakarta until Thursday, then came to Bandung to stay with my uncle and aunt. I asked my cousin to take a letter to him, because I knew that on Friday Uwa Yayah had another bride to attend to. She instructed me to apply the bedak lulur myself but of course I didn’t. Instead, telling Ibu Gunung that I had to buy some hair pins for the wedding, I left the house for an illicit meeting with Dahlan at the Baltic Ice Cream Parlour.

We hugged tightly. ‘Are you learning about Sundanese culture?’ I asked.

Dahlan laughed. ‘I don’t understand a single thing about your customs. I’m lucky your aunt and uncle are teaching me. But there are too many ceremonies so I keep forgetting.’ Dahlan had no interest in traditional customs, even those of his own ethnic group in Sumatra. But he was easy-going and readily agreed to wear Sundanese costume for the wedding.

After our ice creams I went to the hairdresser for a cut and perm. I was happy to have escaped from the confines of the house and to have the hair style I wanted for my wedding.

Uwa Yayah was aghast. ‘You’ve ruined the wedding,’ she cried. ‘Your hair must not be curly. It has to lie flat. And it’s too short. I’ll never get the sanggul on.’

The sanggul is a metre-long length of human hair that is attached to one’s own hair and formed into a bun. Uwa was crying. ‘Why don’t you listen to me?’ she yelled. ‘You’re so stubborn. Just once you could have followed my instructions.’

I had not realised I would upset Uwa Yayah so much. Eventually she forgave me, but she continued to grumble about my hair.

On Saturday, the day before the wedding, flowers began to arrive from family, friends, colleagues and businesses. Arrangements of roses, carnations, gladioli and orchids filled the lounge room, dining room and bridal bedroom. Haji Noor and Ibu Gunung’s house was already at its best – as soon as it was decided to hold the marriage ceremony there they’d had it repainted. Now Ibu Gunung supervised more preparation. Servants attached banana plants to each side of the front gate and decorated doorways with palm fronds.

Ngeuyeuk Seureuh

Bibi Neneh had arranged a pre-wedding ceremony called Ngeuyeuk Seureuh to be held on Saturday afternoon. This was a Sundanese aristocratic custom, which was supposed to prepare the couple for married life. Only happily married women could be invited to the Ngeuyeuk Seureuh and Ibu Gunung and Bibi Neneh carefully selected about forty guests, excluding divorcees or any woman whose marriage appeared shaky. Children and teenagers were not allowed to attend because of the adult themes of the ceremony. There was an air of secrecy around it.

Before Ngeuyeuk Seureuh I was cleansed in the siraman ceremony, in which I was bathed by seven women. I wore a kemban, a batik wrapped around the top of my body, and sat on a chair beside a large vessel of holy water into which seven different types of sweetly scented flowers had been added to make it fragrant and pleasant for bathing. Uwa Yayah gave a coconut shell ladle to Ibu Gunung. I suddenly felt desolate. It was my mother’s role to be the first to pour the water over me, but my mother was in Australia.  In her place Ibu Gunung was the first of the seven women to bathe me, then Bibi Neneh and the other aunts from my father’s and mother’s families. The water mixed with the tears of longing for my mother.

After cleansing Uwa Yayah took me to the bridal bedroom and shaved all the short downy hair from my face, forehead and neck. She tried to pluck my eyebrows but I resisted, as I liked them the way they were. ‘You’re so stubborn,’ she said, but she contented herself with shaping them a little. She attached the sanggul extension to my short hair with much difficulty and many pins, folding and twisting it into a bun at the back of my head. She applied minimal make-up – the more natural the better for Ngeuyeuk Seureuh – and dressed me in a simple kain kebaya.

Uwa led me to the large dining room. All the furniture had been removed and the tiled floor covered with Persian carpets. Beside the wall were decorated boxes covered with cellophane and displaying all the clothes and jewellery I needed for the wedding. This was seserahan, a reverse dowry, provided by the groom to the bride. Usually members of the groom’s family would have presented the boxes before the ceremony, and I was saddened by this reminder of their absence.

The women were sitting on the carpet with Dahlan. He stood up when I came in and we faced each other. Uwa asked him, ‘Is this the woman you will marry tomorrow?’

‘Yes, she is the woman I will marry.’

To me she said, ‘Is this the man you will marry tomorrow?’

‘Yes, he is the man I will marry.’

Dahlan and I sat down side by side in a cross-legged position. In front of us was a woven palm mat with offerings of vegetables, fruit and flowers, a mortar and pestle, and a betel nut set.

Uwa Yayah sat facing us. To command attention, she struck the mat with a sapu lidi, a broom made from dried coconut-leaf spines. ‘The purpose of the Ngeuyeuk Seureuh,’ she said, ‘is to prepare the couple for the roles and obligations of husband and wife.’

Uwa was explaining the ceremony not just to Dahlan and me, but also to the women sitting around us. She knew that some of them, particularly those from my mother’s family who were not nobles, may never have attended a Ngeuyeuk Seureuh. ‘Every day we must remember,’ she said, ‘the proper conduct for a husband or a wife. Now let us look at one day in your married life. Wenny and Dahlan, imagine you are already married and that you are asleep in your bed.’

She struck the mat with the sapu lidi. ‘Wake up! Dahlan! Wenny! Wake up! It’s already late. Time to start the day.’

Uwa instructed us on our duties. After bathing and dressing, the wife must prepare a good breakfast for her husband. The couple eat together and talk about the coming day. Then she gives him a hug and a kiss and wishes him a good day as he goes to work to earn money for the family.

‘Do not,’ Uwa emphasised, with a swish of the sapu lidi, ‘let your husband go to work with an empty stomach, or while you are still asleep or in your pyjamas, unbathed and smelly.’

The wife cannot go back to bed when the husband leaves, but must manage the household and make sure the home is clean and ready for her husband’s return. ‘You are responsible for managing your husband’s salary,’ she said as she banged the mat. ‘Do not be lazy. Work hard, husband, to earn a good salary. Work hard, wife, at making ends meet. If the salary is not enough, don’t grumble. Use your imagination, reduce expenses, simplify meals. And look after yourself during the day. Outside there are many temptations for your husband, especially from his secretary.

‘You must both be responsible for your children – the husband by earning money, the wife by caring for them – so that they become strong and healthy and well educated.’

While Uwa instructed us with swipes of the sapu lidi, I thought of my new role as a wife. Yes this is what it will be like from now on. Dahlan will be out in the world working, but my role will be just as important, looking after my husband, children and household. Children! I imagined waking them up in the morning, taking them to school.

The day through which Uwa guided us was a long one and my mind wandered. I thought about my parents, so far away. At least they had given their blessing to this marriage. I thought of the man beside me, a responsible man who would be a good husband. I even thought of my previous boyfriends, the ones I had rejected and the one who rejected me.

‘Be ready at the door to welcome your husband home,’ said Uwa. ‘Ask him how the day was. And Dahlan, ask your wife about her day. Spend time talking together. Communication!’ Uwa struck the mat hard with the sapu lidi. ‘Communication is the key to successful marriage. Talk to each other.’

She told us that a married couple must ‘silih asah, silih asuh’, a Sundanese expression meaning sharpen (teach) each other, care for each other.

‘When you go to bed, you must not sleep back to back,’ said Uwa. ‘Be like the fork and spoon.’ She cupped one hand in another to show what she meant.

Uwa placed a coconut flower, as yet unopened, on the mat in front of Dahlan and gave him a knife. ‘Cut it carefully,’ she said. ‘You must look after it.’

As Dahlan placed the knife on the flower people called out to him, ‘Be careful, do it slowly.’ He cut lengthways through the green sheath, exposing the masses of white flowers. The guests clapped and cheered, and called to us, ‘Yum-yum! Beautiful!’

Dahlan looked at me, shocked. ‘Sundanese culture is rude,’ he whispered.

Uwa gave Dahlan the pestle and me the mortar, in which she placed betel leaves, lime, slices of betel nut, saga leaves and the plant extract gambir. ‘Husband and wife cannot be separated,’ she said. ‘The pestle cannot work without the mortar, nor the mortar without the pestle. You must resist other temptations and always be together. Now pound the mixture.’

As I held the mortar and Dahlan used the pestle, people laughed and one called out, ‘Be gentle, not too hard.’ Another said, ‘You’re enjoying that too much.’

‘This is indecent,’ Dahlan whispered.

Next Dahlan and I were in a tug of war, pulling on each end of a rope made of flowers, then scrabbling under the mat for coins and paper money hidden there. Whoever won these games would bring good fortune to the household, but I guessed they had come from the time of arranged marriages, when the bride and groom had not known each other before. In such games they would begin to touch each other and laugh together, and become easier with their new partner. And it wasn’t hard to see the educational purpose of other parts of the ceremony.

Uwa had organised the preparation of baskets, each containing seven items: cake, fruit, a flower, a handkerchief, perfume, comb and a mirror, the last item to remind us that we will always see ourselves in the mirror if we do wrong. Dahlan and I presented a basket to each guest to thank them for attending the ceremony. Then we piled all the plant rubbish onto to the mat and carried it to the nearest crossroads, accompanied by all the men, who had been chatting in the lounge room while they waited for their wives. We dropped the mat and rubbish in the middle of the crossroads, in order to throw away the bad luck. In the past the rubbish would serve to let people know there was a party and that they were invited, but nowadays it couldn’t be left there, so a servant was dispatched to collect it and put it in the bin.

The ceremony was over and it was time for the smorgasbord, provided by Bibi Neneh. There was much talk about married life prompted by the ceremony. ‘At the beginning everything is sweet,’ said one woman. ‘But after a while we forget our duty and we forget to talk to each other, so the Ngeuyeuk Seureuh is like a refresher course for people who have been married for a while. It opens our minds to correcting our behaviour.’

The other women agreed, and thanked Uwa Yayah for her instruction.

Akad Nikah

I had to be up early on Sunday as Uwa Yayah needed time to turn me into a presentable bride for the Akad Nikah, the official wedding ceremony, which would be held at ten o’clock in the lounge room of Haji Noor’s house.

When Uwa applied the make-up she began to plaster on foundation that was too pale, and I tried to stop her. ‘That’s not right for my skin colour,’ I protested. ‘It’s for lighter skin.’

‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I’m using this on purpose. It has to be different from your everyday make-up.’

‘But it’s two tones lighter than it should be. And you’re putting it on too thick.’

‘Don’t try to tell me what to do. It’s the right colour for the wedding. Just remember this is the one time in your life you will wear make-up like this. You are the queen of the day, so you must be different from the guests.’

‘Different because I look ugly.’

‘Stubborn girl,’ Uwa muttered. ‘Just leave me alone. I’m the make-up artist. I know what I’m doing.’

She applied powder, a little rouge, lipstick and eye make-up, then tackled my hair. After much grumbling she got the sanggul attached, but gave up on trying to make my curls sit flat. She had sown jasmine flowers together to make a cover for the bun and she attached three long chains of jasmine with a hairpin, so they would fall over the front of the white silk brocade kebaya that my aunt Bibi Ipit had made.

The Degung wedding music that we could hear changed to the groom’s theme, and the MC, my uncle Mang Babang, announced, ‘The groom has arrived. Welcome to Pak Dahlan Thalib.’

‘See, the groom is already here,’ said Uwa Yayah. ‘Your hair and your arguing made us late.’

When Uwa finished fussing I emerged from the bridal bedroom, convinced I looked like a ghost with my white face.

‘Here comes the bride,’ announced Mang Babang, and camera bulbs flashed. ‘Not while I look like this,’ I thought.

A path cleared between me and the bridal chair, where Dahlan was waiting. He stood, and I looked at my future husband. He wore a white shirt, a plain black Sundanese wedding coat and a kain, which had the same pattern as mine. Richly decorated coats were more popular for weddings but Dahlan did not want to show off. His headdress was a Sundanese blangkon, a batik cap, and at his waist he wore a keris. He stood waiting, smiling and relaxed.

Uwa Yayah seated me beside Dahlan on the bridal chair and returned to the doorway of the bedroom, the best position from which to monitor me. Ibu Gunung stood beside me ready to correct any imperfection. The Penghulu, the Muslim marriage celebrant from the Department of Religion, sat on the other side of the low table in front of us, with Haji Noor and my father’s eldest brother, Bapak Syafei, as witnesses. Near Mang Babang was a large tape recorder, the source of the gamelan music. Bapak Syafei draped a white silk selendang, a shawl, across both our heads, to symbolise the two of us becoming one. Ma Lengkong sat nearby, watching me closely. The room was full of people, and through the window I caught glimpses of the crowds in the marquee outside. Everyone was here except the two most important people I wanted at my wedding – my father and mother.

The Penghulu began the ceremony. Dahlan and I recited the Syahadat, the Muslim profession of faith. ‘Please give the mas kawin,’ said the Penghulu. Mas kawin is the gift from groom to bride required under Islamic marriage law. Dahlan took a thousand rupiah note from his pocket and put it on the table. The Penghulu gave it to me.

I thanked Dahlan, smiling. Yesterday Ibu Gunung had asked me, ‘What will Dahlan give you for mas kawin?’

‘A thousand rupiah.’

‘No, no,’ cried Ibu Gunung. ‘Show more. Dahlan is rich, we are rich. Mas kawin can be millions. I can lend you my jewels.’

Many people use mas kawin to display their wealth, giving gold jewellery or the keys to a Mercedes or a house. But I understood Dahlan, and explained to Ibu Gunung that he did not want to show off. A large gift is not required under Islamic law. When I told Dahlan that Ibu Gunung was worried about how it would look, he said, ‘You know me. What’s most important is our love, not material things. It’s all for you anyway.’

So now he had produced the lowly note, not even on a silver plate as was the usual custom.

As the Penghulu continued to conduct the wedding ritual my emotions lurched out of my control. I was taking the biggest step of my life, and my parents were so far away. At least, I thought, the tears are washing away some of the white make-up.

The Akad Nikah was a short and simple ceremony. The Penghulu read from the Koran and took us through the vows. My voice quavered. I found it hard to get to the end of the sentence when trying to recite each vow. Finally the Penghulu pronounced us man and wife and Dahlan kissed my wet cheek. We signed the wedding certificate, and my grandfather and uncle witnessed it. Ibu Gunung removed the white selendang and Dahlan hugged me tightly. He took the wedding ring from my left hand, where he had placed it when we were engaged, and put it on the finger of my right hand. I did the same for him with his wedding ring. We made the sembah, the gesture of respect with palms together and fingertips upwards, to the Penghulu, witnesses and each other. I was weeping freely, and so were many of the guests.

At that moment I heard my father’s voice.

The tape recorder! Mang Babang was playing a tape from my father! I sat transfixed, breathing hard.

‘Wenny! My heart is full of sorrow,’ Bapak said, ‘knowing I cannot be with you, my first child, at this great moment in your life. My heart is aching that I have not yet met the man you are marrying, that he is a stranger to me. But my heart rejoices because I know that Dahlan is a man of quality, and will be a good husband to you. Dahlan, even though we haven’t met, you are already in our family. I know you will look after Wenny, our dear first-born daughter.’

Then Dahlan was lifting me onto the seat. I had fainted and he had caught me before I hit the floor. Ibu Gunung gave me some water and Dahlan held me as I tried hard to listen to the messages from Bapak, Ibu and my siblings. Now everyone was crying, even the professional photographer. A veteran of hundreds of weddings, he later told us that this was the first one to move him to tears.

I was exhausted. The Akad Nikah was over but the cultural ceremonies still had to go on. First we paid our respects to the elders in my family – Haji Noor, Ibu Gunung, Ma Lengkong, my aunts and uncles – kneeling before each in the position of sungkem. We placed our hands at their knees in the sembah gesture, and they leant forward and hugged us. Then Uwa Yayah led us to a table in the dining room for the huap lingkung ceremony. In front of us was a dish of yellow sticky rice balls and another plate with a butterfly-cut barbecued chicken surrounded by rice and garnished beautifully with vegetables. She instructed us how to feed the rice balls to each other by stretching our hand around the back of our partner’s neck. Then we each took hold of the chicken and when she cried ‘Go!’ we pulled. Dahlan was left with only a drumstick while I held the rest of the chicken. People laughed, and said, ‘Wenny will bring luck to your household.’

Uwa took us outside to the marquee that stretched from the front yard to the other side of the street, which had been closed off. We sat on two chairs with an uncle holding a large ceremonial umbrella over us. Uwa sang a Sundanese song about marriage, the household, and advice for newlyweds then took the nyawer, a bowl of yellow rice mixed with petals, coins and lollies, and threw the contents over our umbrella, showering us with love, wealth and happiness. This was the moment the children and unmarried young people had been waiting for, and excitedly they scrabbled for the coins and lollies.

Uwa directed Dahlan to stand in front of me while I remained seated, and she placed an egg on the ground. ‘The bride’s girlhood is over,’ she said. ‘The groom is ready to become a father. Break the egg.’

Dahlan crushed the egg with his right foot, and Uwa gave me a kendi, an earthenware jug of water, and told me to wash his foot as a symbol of my loyalty to him.

She gave Dahlan a lidi, a dried coconut leaf spine, burning at one end, and he held it while I drowned the flame with water from the kendi. ‘If your husband is angry,’ said Uwa, ‘as his wife you must calm him down. ’

That’s easy, I thought. Dahlan is always calm.

‘Now throw away all the bad luck,’ directed Uwa.

I flung the kendi to the pavement, shattering it.

The final ceremony would take place at the front door. As I moved towards it, young girls surged around me, plucking the flowers from my hair and the chains of jasmine, hoping it would help find them good husbands.

It was time for Buka Pintu, Open the Door. The front door had been removed from its hinges. I stood inside with a female singer beside me holding one end of a selendang, a shawl, which was stretched across the doorway. Outside the house, a male singer beside Dahlan held the other end of the selendang and sang, ‘Let me in. I am your husband now.’

The singer representing me sang, ‘Yes, you are my husband now.’

‘I want to be with you,’ sang the man.

‘I want to be with you, too, but on one condition.’

‘What is the condition?’

‘That you will be a good husband, a loyal husband, that you will help me make a beautiful home and family.’

‘I promise to be a good husband to you.’

‘And you must recite the Syahadat.’

Dahlan recited the Syahadat, and the woman sang, ‘I will open the door now.’

The selendang was removed and Dahlan and I met in the doorway and hugged.

Uwa ushered us back to the bridal chair, and Mang Babang announced, ‘You may now congratulate the bride and groom.’

Guests formed a queue, and filed past us, shaking our hands, wishing us well and then hurrying outside for Bi Neneh’s smorgasbord.

The meal marked the end of the wedding ceremonies, but there was little time to rest because Uwa Yayah would soon be back to prepare me for the reception. Dahlan and I retired to the bridal bedroom. The door had been removed so that people could admire the gloriously adorned room and the decorated boxes of clothes and jewellery. ‘Don’t you dare lie on the bed,’ Ibu Gunung instructed us, ‘You’ll spoil it. There are still guests to come who’ll want to see it.’

‘We have to rest on the carpet,’ I told Dahlan.

‘What’s going on here?’ he grumbled. ‘We’re husband and wife. We don’t have to please others.’

But, with no door, there was nothing he could do.

Reception

A thousand guests came to our reception that evening at Gedung Panti Karya in Bandung. After everyone else had arrived, my aunt Bi Neneh and her husband Mang Achmed accompanied us to the reception hall. We walked through a guard of honour formed by trainee officers from the local military academy, their swords crossed above us. One of the Karta Mihardja clan was a general.

There was another magnificent smorgasbord from Bi Neneh, followed by entertainment – Sundanese traditional dancers, a gamelan playing Degung marriage music, a western band, a comedian – and the obligatory speeches giving us good wishes and advice in equal measure. With all the ceremonies and cultural activities over I could relax, enjoy the music, laugh at the comedian’s jokes, and bask in the attention of family and friends. It was a big party and I liked parties. Only two things weighed on my mind – the absence of my parents and, more literally, the siger, the wedding headdress that Ma Lengkong had lent me, made of solid gold and so heavy it gave me a headache. By the end of the night, my lips were stiff from the millions of smiles they had formed. But I was thrilled that I was now Mrs Wenny Dahlan.

By the time we arrived home the door to the bridal bedroom had been reinstalled.

1992: Shanti and Eri

In 1992 our daughter Shanti, who now lived in Jakarta with her father and worked for a television station, married Eri, a Javanese man. Uwa Yayah was the Master of Ceremonies at her wedding, just as she had been at mine thirty years previously.

When I had married, the cultural meaning of the Sundanese pre-wedding ceremony, the Ngeuyeuk Seureuh, was taken seriously. It was only used by noble families, and attendance was restricted to a small group of happily married women, with no children allowed because of the adult content. All windows and doors were shut so that no one else could see or hear the ceremony.

With passing years it had become fashionable for any Sundanese bride or groom, not just those from noble families, to have the Ngeuyeuk Seureuh, as a way to entertain the guests with an interesting custom. There were no restrictions on attendance and, when the ceremony was held for Shanti and Eri, everyone – men, women and children – crowded into the big living room in Dahlan’s house, with doors and windows left open. During her instruction on the marriage relationship, when Uwa Yayah said that in bed the couple should be like a fork and spoon, cupping one hand in another to show what she meant, I overheard Javanese guests complaining that this was indecent, and inappropriate with children present. In past times neither Javanese guests nor children would have been at the ceremony.

When Uwa Yayah had instructed Dahlan and me on our roles as breadwinner husband and household manager wife, I had imagined myself carrying out my assigned duties. Uwa gave the same instructions to Shanti and Eri, but I knew they no longer bore any relation to the real world. My daughter had no intention of giving up her career.