The most important word, at the center of my column this week is “vinaka”. I have struggled over the past fortnight to put into words how the response to my first column “Being Fijian away from Fiji” has made me feel.
I always felt, after my father returned to Fiji, that I existed on the edge of being Fijian and I shall go further into that within this piece. To receive such an outpouring of love and admiration has moved me to tears over recent days.
The thing about Fijians, as we all might know by now, is that they – or “we”- do not love in pieces but with our whole selves. I felt the love from Fijians in Ireland, Copenhagen, Suva, and Aldershot.
I have been invited into the homes of complete strangers without hesitation, and with such unprecedented warmth. It has filled me with confidence and courage to face the start of the new term.
Two weeks ago, I returned to university. And so this postcard is not from the outskirts of Western Ireland but the town of Oxford in England. In many ways, I wish I was still with my friends and neighbours the sheep on Achill Island.
They were not as scary as other brainy young people. I admit, I was scared to return to a place of such academic excellence. Many people have praised me for how clever I am, and I am not saying this to evoke pity but I have not always felt that way.
I was the only Fijian, as far as I knew, at the University of Oxford for what felt like forever. People did not know anything about it, and I would walk around town seeing no one that looked like me and feeling completely alone.
Of course, I had and still have friends but there is something so different and fulfilling to see faces and hear voices that mirror your own. I felt it was missing. I did, and I still do, call my baby brothers every evening in Fiji as I did in my first year at university.
When I finished my tutorials and classes, they would be waking up on the other side of the world. Their names are George and Deve and they are my favorite people in the whole world.
They are four and two, and I have watched them grow up by video-calling them since the days they were born until now, when they are annoying and have opinions. I have had the joy of seeing them grow into absolute nuisance.
Seeing Fiji through them is something I look forward to every day. Maybe when they are old enough, they will read this column in The Fiji Times and know how I felt. My relationship to Fiji has been through the screen, from pages and books, and from memories.
In the past two weeks it has come rushing towards me, with names and faces and family connections I never knew I had. I feel so loved from all over the world. Thank you. Vinaka!
Since my last column, Fiji has celebrated another anniversary of its independence. As I mentioned last time, I grew up going to Fiji Day celebrations in New Zealand House, London.
This year, I was invited to celebrate Fiji Day in a barracks just outside of Oxford. Unfortunately, I could not make it as I was moving back into my university dormitory but the invitation filled me with a feeling I could not quite explain.
I will try and explain it now, through something that happened in Oxford some months ago. In Oxford we have a hall where we sit down and eat. Imagine something ancient and grand like in Harry Potter.
Only if you are the President, or a fellow, or hold some sort of prestige can you sit at the table at the front of the hall — called High Table. Everyone has to wear a gown, and black tie dress code which is heels and a suit and constitutes formal dress.
I was invited to sit at High Table by my President, which was an incredible honor and not something I could have predicted. I did not want to just wear a suit or a dress or heels. I did not want to just wear my gown, which looks a bit like a wizard’s cape.
No, I wanted to wear masi. One problem, I did not own any masi. In fact, I did not really understand its use. I just recalled growing up with photos of my father wearing his, seeing people draped in theirs, and being in awe of it.
And that is where my aunt Ana Lavekau came in. It was incredibly bold of me. I had not seen her in years and she was and is an absolute force in South Pacific fashion and event management.
And there was I, asking her if she could sort me out with something within a couple of days’ notice. It was complete madness, and not something I would encourage. Honestly the tightness of time came down to my incompetence.
But, against all the odds, and the pressures of time I had my moment. My aunty Ana drove all the way from home. She brought with her all measure of tapa cloth, and flower, and woven rope.
She took the time to dress me, and to explain what all the different pieces meant and what different colors signified and why I had to wear certain things. She apologised and was very humble.
If we had more time we would have done so much more. I will never forget that moment. When she took a step back, having dressed and oiled me, and painted my cheeks. I looked in the mirror and saw myself for the first time in traditional masi finery.
I looked like an old photo that I had of my father, when he was younger than me, but dressed up in masi attire. I was in my university bedroom, with an aunt who had travelled miles and tapa cloth that had travelled still further.
I felt Fijian, and that I belonged to something larger than myself. That feeling is what I have felt with the response to my column. I think that is how I can describe it. That day, I walked in with the president of Oxford to High Table, as my peers dressed in their suits and gowns and heels watched on.
They could only sit down at their tables once we had entered, and the President had said grace. I thought about all the Toganivalus who had come before me, and even though I was nervous about looking so different from everyone around me I felt an immense pride.
That day my aunt gave me a salusalu. It lives in my room at university and hangs at the back of my door. Every day when I wake up and go out the door it is the last thing I see.
It reminds me of who I am and where I came from. Always!
