Strongly these confines hold me as I struggle fruitlessly. These tapa-covered walls hold so much mana, which blocks out the influence of the world. The influence of the ‘now’ culture. The influence of youth. My prison comes in the form of faalavelave and family obligations, wrapped up in lavalava and wet banana leaves. They have a gravitational pull that’s draws you in, like a fly caught in a spiders web. I am the fly, the web my situation, and the spider my culture. Yet as I struggle and face the inevitable, I know that no matter how hard I try to run, it will always be a part of who I am. This is what horrifies me. That I will never be truly free. But what is freedom, but a notion of a feeling that makes you accountable for your actions. But I know that this is the next step in the process of becoming an adult. If it were so easy for our fore-fathers to leave those pristine shores, why is it so hard for us to embrace that which we have been born into? Surely this is what we are supposed to do. To embrace this western civilisation. But I find myself asking, is this truly a ‘civilised’ civilisation? What makes up the components of such a place? It is all well and good to say that it is civilised, but it is only in comparison to ‘less-than-civilised’ people. What if there was a greater civilisation than to that of the western civilisation? Who are they to put theirs in front of many other greater civilisations of human history? Who isn’t to say that my culture or civilisation is indeed better than this western one?
And how are we to truly become a part of this civilisation, when many are ostracised when they embrace one over the other. Those more westernised are seen as to have forgotten about our age-old customs and traditions. Meanwhile those who are more traditional are seen as backward and too set in their old ways. FOBs they are called. This double edged word holds much importance to all of pacific heritage. It is a label that we ourselves use and what others use towards us. This idea that all descendants from different regional nationalities should fall beneath a singular umbrella term; FOB, is interesting and lazy. It is a term that both inspires and shames. Inspiring as it recalls both our navigational history and our re-introduction into a new world. And shameful in that it labels us as a being from somewhere different; that we as second and third generations were not born here on this land. Yes our ancestry does not tie us to this land, but neither does yours. Well, most of you anyway.
And what would those fore-fathers say if they were still here, watching this steady progression of pacific identity as it slowly develops into the 22nd century. Is it truly what they envisioned how our lives would be years ago? Or do they look down upon us with disdain, wondering whether what they did was right at all?
Yet what is this pacific identity? Do we as a generation truly still have an identity? This is for those of us who are second and third generation pacific islanders. Where do we truly belong to? When we are back in the homeland, we are easily distinguishable as being a person from “niu sila”. An outsider. They label us as being unknowing in the traditions and values that are seeped into the culture that surrounds them each and everyday. They stare with fascination and slight contempt at these people who look like them, but are not like them. The term “le masani” is often bantered about, as if that is the answer for why we suffer in the heat, and in the language. They think that we as “niu sila” born are just ‘not used to it’ yet. But when we are back here in our birthplace, we are also left out because we do not really adhere to the customs that are seen as normal in western civilisations. That our skin colour and our thick hair is a marker, a badge that distinguishes us from the rest. We are the children of the dawn-raids; of minor segregation and humiliation that still happens today.

Stromin my pain with his fingers
Singin my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song x2
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

Yea yea yea do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do

I heard he sang a good song,
I heard he had a style,
And so I came to see him and listen for a while
And there he was this young boy
Stranger to my eyes

Chorus:
Stromin my pain with his fingers (one time, one time)
Singin my life with his words (two times, two times)
Killing me softly with his song x2
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song


I felt all flushed with fever
Embarrased by the crowd,
I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud,
I pray that he would finish
But he just kept right on

Repeat chorus

Wooooooaaaa ohhhhhhhhhh laaaa la la la la la la ohhh la laaa woaaa laa
Aaaalaaaaaa

Repeat chorus until fade

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