In the sun-washed hush of the ʻAlāpito (porch) of a Tongan fale (house), young voices chatter of the future while elders sip kava and reminisce on the old days. But in recent months, the realm of Tonga’s laws around marriage have sparked fresh conversations across the archipelago’s communities—because the rules are shifting. The nation’s parliament recently approved a bill that raises the minimum legal marriage age to 18 years, ending the previous allowance for younger unions with parental consent.
Traditionally, in Tonga, village life and kinship ties have often intertwined with early unions. It wasn’t unusual for teenage girls to marry through familial arrangement or church-based blessing, sometimes as young as 15 under the law. This new law—passed by the Legislative Assembly of Tonga in August 2025—marks a deliberate effort to align national statutes with international child-protection norms, and signal that the days of “marriage at child age” are being drawn to a close.
Under the new legislation, both brides and grooms must be at least 18 years old to marry, with no gender-based discrepancy. Previously, cohorts under 18 could wed with guardian or parental consent. The bill also contains language explicitly banning same-sex unions, reflecting the conservative Christian culture of Tonga, where fono (church councils) and faikava (kava gatherings) hold sway.
But laws do not instantly erase customary practices. In the outer island districts, where kastom (custom) and tradition still shape everyday life, the idea of a young girl or boy entering marriage has roots in social stability, land rights, even rescue from shame. A decade ago, the Women & Children Crisis Centre Tonga detailed how girls under 18 were sometimes forced to marry their rapists as a way to preserve family honour—a chilling reminder that vulnerability and legality often diverged.
For Tongan society—where the extended family or ‘aiga reaches into village, church and land tenure—the raising of the marriage age is not just a legal tweak, but a cultural signal. Parents, village elders and church ministers are being asked to shift: to support schooling for girls beyond 15, to reject early unions, to promote tikanga (customary way) that honours development and maturity rather than an early “legitimate” household. Agencies say around 10 per cent of girls in Tonga were estimated to marry before 18 under older laws and informal practice.
Across the Pacific, similar debates are underway. In neighbouring Vanuatu, for example, legal minimums may sit at 21 in theory, but girls as young as 16 can marry with parental or ministerial consent—a gap between law and practice that advocates call out. In Samoa, Kiribati and elsewhere, kastom marriages, teenage marriage and parental consent exceptions mean that legal protections often lag behind on-the-ground realities. This regional backdrop helps cast Tonga’s change as part of a broader Pacific push to end child marriage, even as each nation walks its own path.
For the young Tongan woman now finishing Form Six (the final year of secondary school) in Nukuʻalofa, the reverberations are real. She can now plan a gap-year volunteer programme on Vava’u, know that she won’t legally be married off before 18, and hold hope for tertiary study or vocational trade without the buried expectation of bridehood. For the young man from Ha’apai who in the past may have felt stuck into marriage by village pressure, there is now legislative support to say “let me grow a bit more first”.
Of course, mobility, migration, social media and the lure of Australia, New Zealand and beyond are shifting the horizon for Tongan youth faster than any statute. The new law provides a legal anchor. Whether it proves effective will depend on how village chiefs (matāpule), church ministers and families internalise the change. In Tonga — in the land of friendly beaches and fathomless church choirs — it is telling that the national chiefs are now telling their communities: “We will wait. We will mature. Aiga first, but rights for youth too.”
In the warm, salt-breezed evening, the sound of guitars and ukuleles drifts through verandas. As Tongan youth gather for a faikava session, the conversation quietly shifts: not just about faith, land or lineage—but about when a person should marry, and under what conditions. The marriage-age law may be written in the statute books, but its true test lies in the heartbeat of village life, in the turning of the key at 18, not 14—and in the promise that love, consent and maturity go hand-in-hand.
Oh honey, Spicy Auntie is twirling her pareo and clapping her hands for the Kingdom of Tonga! Finally — and I mean finally — a Pacific breeze of sense and sisterhood is blowing across those turquoise waters. The land of warm smiles, royal traditions, and heavenly choirs has done something truly divine: raising the legal marriage age to 18. Bravo, Tonga! You’ve joined the grown-ups’ table — and yes, Auntie is sending a big mālō ‘aupito (thank you very much) to every policymaker who stood up for the girls.
Let’s be real. For generations, too many girls in the Pacific have been told that womanhood begins when you can hold a broom, fry a fish, and nod demurely to a boy with a church haircut. Now, the message is loud and clear: education first, adulthood first, love later. Tonga just gave its daughters something that should’ve been theirs all along — time to grow up, to study, to dream, to figure out if they want to marry a boy, a career, or a nice beach house in Vava’u with a cat named Moana.
But Auntie knows the real challenge is just beginning. Because, darling, a law is only as strong as the gossip in the next faikava (kava circle). Auntie can already hear some uncles grumbling, “Eh, but in my day, we married at sixteen and built a house with coconuts!” Yes, Uncle, but in your day, there were also no Wi-Fi and no women’s rights commissions. The times have changed — and so must you.
The beauty of Tonga’s decision is that it doesn’t erase tradition; it evolves it. The kainga (family) remains central, but now it can protect rather than pressure. The church still blesses love, but now it blesses adulthood too. This is how cultures survive — not by freezing in the past, but by adapting with grace, laughter, and just the right amount of sass.
So here’s Auntie’s heartfelt toast with imaginary kava: to the girls of Tonga — may your futures be as vast as your ocean, your choices as free as your laughter, and your marriages (if you choose them) built on love, not obligation. And to the lawmakers — keep that energy, dears. Because empowering girls is not just good governance. It’s downright fabulous.