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The Karana are what happens when the Gujarati genius for trade meets the African gift for survival. They arrived in Madagascar more than a century ago in wooden dhows—little boats that looked as though they might fall apart if a seagull sneezed. But they carried something stronger than timber: the instinct to buy cheap, sell dear, and never let a good opportunity escape un-invoiced.
Today, though Karana form less than one percent of Madagascar’s population, they control between 50 and 60 percent of the island’s economy. Political parties depend on their patronage – pre-coup and post-coup.
Their story began more than a century ago, when Gujarati traders—mostly Muslim Khojas, Ismailis, and Daoudi Bohras—sailed across the Indian Ocean and landed on Madagascar’s northwest coast, at Mahajanga, around the 1880s, bringing with them the mercantile acumen that had long defined Gujarat’s coastal traders. They dealt in slaves, spices and fabrics, and soon established tight-knit communities along the island’s trade routes.
By 1911, there were about 4,500 of them—one-fifth of all foreigners on the island—quietly making everyone else look like amateurs in business.
When the government nationalised private businesses in the 1970s, many Indians packed up and left—mostly for France, the former colonial power that had ruled Madagascar from 1896 to 1960. Those who stayed shrugged, dusted off their ledgers, and began again. Today, their companies run the island’s oil, textiles, hotels, real estate, and even its supply of cooking oil—while keeping a discreet distance from public life.
“They are invisible people. You never see them walking around in the street or in public places,” my driver-guide Jean told me as we drove through Antananarivo. “They work behind the scenes. Very powerful group. They control fifty to sixty percent of trade.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice, as though the Karana might be listening from the nearest coconut tree. “Madagascar has oil,” he said, “but they won’t let us exploit it. They control the import of oil. They block every attempt to grow sunflower or oil palm here - so they can keep importing their palmolein and other cooking oils.”
The Karanas’ influence, he said, extends quietly into policy. “They don’t run for office. They don’t make speeches. But they fund everyone.”
In Ranomafana, at a resort perched near a forest full of lemurs and gossiping geckos, I met a holidaying Bohra family whose roots in Madagascar went back five generations. The patriarch spoke Gujarati, the son-in-law, a Khwaja, switched between French, Malagasy, Kutchi, and Hindi, and everyone switched to English when they wanted to say something they didn’t want the staff to understand. One of their sons now lives in southern France, where he runs a computer business. Maintaining the family’s conservative values, he was hiding his beer from his father. He, his wife and two children have never set foot in India.
Their words echoed what my driver-guide had said earlier that in Madagascar, power flows not from ideology but from the purse.
Leaning back in his chair, the patriarch spoke with a weary affection. “We built all this from nothing,” he said softly, “brick by brick, franc by franc. Now it’s time to hand them over—but you know, it’s not easy to let go. These boys of ours,” he smiled faintly, “they studied in London, Paris, New York. They come back full of ideas and theories, talking about efficiency, transparency, and management systems. Madagascar laughs at those words.”
He took a sip of his tea before continuing. “Here, things move through connections, not procedures. The bureaucracy is a maze, and corruption… well, it’s just another line in the balance sheet. They don’t teach you that in business school.”
He sighed. “Many of our children don’t even live here anymore. Some are in Dubai, others in Mauritius or France. They run the companies from afar—emails, video calls, spreadsheets. But Madagascar isn’t a place you can understand from a distance.”
His tone darkened. “And then there’s the fear. Kidnappings, you know? Young Karana boys taken for ransom. It happens too often. We’ve had to build higher walls, hire more guards. We live quietly now—behind gates, behind caution, behind silence. Success here must never make noise.”
Of the ten richest men in Africa, three are from Madagascar—all Karana, Jean had told me.
“Why are Karana disliked?” I asked him.
He smiled philosophically. “Because they pay minimum wages and take maximum work. But we can’t do without them. We must cooperate with them.”
This ambivalence defines the Malagasy view of the Karana: a blend of resentment, dependence, and reluctant respect. The Karanas’ wealth is seen as both proof of their shrewdness and evidence of exploitation. Yet their efficiency, networks, and discipline keep the economy running.
Their founders live modestly, far from the public gaze. They rarely give interviews, preferring to let their businesses speak for them. Their philanthropy supports schools, hospitals, and mosques. Their community life remains conservative; marriages are arranged, and sectarian lines—Bohra, Khoja, Ismaili—are carefully maintained.
Loved, envied, distrusted, yet admired, the Karana remain Madagascar’s invisible monarchs—merchants who crossed the ocean, built an empire, and mastered the delicate art of survival in a land where wealth evaporates faster than rain on a hot tin roof.
(The author is a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and Explorers Club USA, and Editor of ‘Indian Mountaineer’. He is also the founder of Bharatiya Yuva Shakti, an organisation that ensures good leadership at the village level. He tweets @AkhilBakshi1. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)
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