There’s something inherently theatrical about the way monarchies handle divorce. It’s not just about splitting assets or navigating legalities—it’s about rewriting the narrative of power, legacy, and control. The Sultan of Brunei’s recent decision to strip his daughter-in-law, Pengiran Raabi'atul Adawiyyah, of her royal titles has reignited a conversation about the brutal pragmatism of royal divorces. But this isn’t a new story. It’s a recurring theme in Brunei’s royal history, one that reveals how deeply personal decisions in these families are tied to public perception and institutional authority. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the Sultan’s actions aren’t just about punishing individuals—they’re about reinforcing the monarchy’s mythos as unassailable, untouchable, and above reproach.
Let’s start with the most recent drama: Pengiran Raabi'atul Adawiyyah. Her titles were revoked after a vague accusation of 'unbecoming conduct' that supposedly 'tarnished the monarchy’s good name.' The vagueness here is telling. When a monarchy’s narrative depends on its infallibility, even minor infractions become existential threats. This isn’t just about a woman being cast out—it’s about erasing her from the official story of the monarchy. The Sultan’s statement is a masterclass in ambiguity, allowing him to paint her as a villain while preserving his own image. Personally, I think this reflects a deeper fear: that modern audiences, especially younger ones, demand more transparency from institutions that have long thrived on secrecy.
Now, let’s rewind to the Sultan’s previous relationships. His second wife, Mariam Abdul Aziz, was a flight attendant when they met in 1980. Her mixed-race background and commoner status were enough to draw disapproval from the Sultan’s father. Yet she became a princess, bore four children, and held court for two decades before being abruptly stripped of her titles in 2003. The divorce was announced without explanation, which is the most chilling part. Why would a monarch publicly divorce someone without reason? It suggests that the marriage was always a political tool, not a personal bond. The absence of a stated cause invites speculation: Was Mariam’s influence too great? Did her children’s health (one died of vasculitis) become a liability? Or was it simply time to move on, as monarchs often do, to maintain the illusion of eternal rule?
Then there’s Azrinaz Mazhar Hakim, the Sultan’s third wife, a former journalist who left her career just months before marrying him. Her story is more tragic. After their 2010 divorce, she was cut off from her children, a detail that I find especially interesting. Why would a monarch allow a former spouse to be excluded from their children’s lives? It’s not just about control—it’s about ensuring that the next generation of royals is raised under the monarchy’s strict gaze. Azrinaz’s case highlights how women in these circles are often treated as temporary fixtures, their roles ending the moment their utility expires. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about the individuals involved; it’s about the machinery of power itself, which requires constant pruning to stay functional.
Looking at these cases together, a pattern emerges: the Sultan of Brunei doesn’t just divorce—he depowers. Stripping titles is a way of erasing someone from the royal hierarchy, ensuring they can never again claim legitimacy or influence. This is a stark contrast to other monarchies where ex-spouses retain ceremonial roles. Brunei’s approach feels almost medieval, yet it’s undeniably effective in maintaining the Sultan’s absolute authority. What this really suggests is that the monarchy is less about family and more about performance—a carefully curated spectacle where every action must serve the narrative of divine right.
But here’s the thing: these stories are becoming harder to ignore. In an age where social media can expose royal scandals in seconds, the Sultan’s tactics are increasingly at odds with the world’s expectations. The public no longer accepts vague justifications for such dramatic revocations. If you take a step back and think about it, the Brunei monarchy’s survival may depend on adapting to this reality. Otherwise, the very rituals that once protected them—secrecy, silence, and the erasure of dissent—could become liabilities in a world that demands accountability.
The deeper question isn’t just about what happens to these women. It’s about what happens to the monarchy itself. Will the Sultan’s successors continue this tradition, or will they face pressure to modernize? The answer may lie in how the next generation of Bruneians perceives their rulers. If the monarchy clings too tightly to its past, it risks becoming a relic—a symbol of power that no longer resonates with a society increasingly shaped by global values. The irony is that by trying to preserve its image, the monarchy might ultimately destroy it.
