Sista, Stanap Strong!: A Vanuatu Women's Anthology

By Victoria University Press

Sista, Stanap Strong! is an anthology of new writing from Vanuatu by three generations of women—and the first of its kind. With poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, and song, its narrative arc stretches from the days of blackbirding to Independence in 1980 to Vanuatu's coming of age in 2020. Most of these writers are ni-Vanuatu living in Vanuatu. Some have set down roots in New Zealand, Fiji, the Solomon Islands, and Canada. Some were born overseas and have made Vanuatu their home. One is just twenty; another is an octogenarian. The writers in this anthology have chosen to harness the coloniser's language, English, for their own purposes. They are writing against racism, colonialism, misogyny, and sexism. Writing across bloodlines and linguistic boundaries. Professing their love for ancestors, offspring, and language— Bislama, vernacular, and English. What these writers also have in common is a sharp eye for detail, a love of words, a deep connection to Vanuatu, and a willingness to share a glimpse of their world. Includes a foreword by Viran Molisa Trief. Cover art: Juliette Pita

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria University Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781776563944

Book preview

Introduction

‘Where is the Ni-Vanuatu Girl?’ asks Carol Aru’s 2004 poem that, by chance, reached an international audience courtesy of BBC Scotland and the 2014 Commonwealth Games. She was the only living ni-Vanuatu poet whose work BBC Scotland could find online, on the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre website.

Reflecting here on her own literary role models, Anna Naupa poses another question: ‘How do we get more writers to tell the stories of contemporary Vanuatu, and not just around the fire or in the theatre, but in published stories that are read?’

Memorable words about individual and collective experiences are often saved for memorial speeches, Mildred Sope notes in her interview. Beyond Vanuatu’s borders readers may struggle to find any fiction or poetry by ni-Vanuatu writers. How can we point both old and young, the curious and the serious, towards a treasure trove of stories and poetry grounded in the local context, while encouraging more ni-Vanuatu writers to share their struggles, desires and thoughts on the future with a wider audience? And how can we ensure contemporary and historical narratives contain women’s perspectives, too?

The answer might well be an anthology.

We wanted to collate an exciting literary collection of poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction that celebrates women’s voices and the experiences that have shaped a nation to commemorate Vanuatu’s 40th anniversary of Independence.

Our intention was to publish this anthology in 2020. What we didn’t count on, what we could not possibly have foreseen, was a global pandemic shutting down countries and closing national borders, compounded by a devastating Category 5 tropical cyclone (TC Harold), which swept across Vanuatu, Fiji and Tonga. It meant that our editorial team – Yasmine Bjornum, Telstar Jimmy and Rebecca Tobo Olul-Hossen in Vanuatu; Jane Kanas in Fiji; and Mikaela Nyman in New Zealand – could not convene as planned. Along with everyone else, we were individually left to fend for our livelihoods and our families, while collectively trying to find a way to deliver on our promise.

And so our story of collaboration at an unprecedented time in history becomes part of the context in which this anthology was born. In this sense, it marks more milestones than one, and bears witness to the chaotic times we live in.

Albert Wendt and Alice Te Punga Somerville have both highlighted the importance of anthologies for Pacific Island nations, not only as a means for writers to be published, but as a repository of texts that become sites for the contestation and articulations of a region – writing that would otherwise have gone unpublished – thereby turning ad-hoc writing, over time, into a body of national literature and Pacific literature. A significant number of Oceania’s writers have only ever been published in anthologies. Anthologies and their editors likewise nurture connections between writers, making writers visible to one another, and in doing so they support a fledgling writing community.

In his introduction to Some Modern Poetry from Vanuatu (1983) – originally published as Some Modern Poetry from the New Hebrides (1975) – Albert Wendt noted, ‘Most of the literature written by Pacific writers was barely three years old when this collection was written in 1974. It then contained nearly all the poetry which had been written by young Vanuatu poets.’ Of the twelve poets, three were women and one of them was Mildred Sope, who recalls writing her poem ‘Chusum / Choice’ in Wendt’s class at the University of the South Pacific in Fiji. Wendt included lines from her poem ‘Motherland’ in his ground-breaking 1976 essay, ‘Towards a new Oceania’.

Mildred Sope’s contemporary Grace Mera Molisa (1946–2002) is without doubt Vanuatu’s most renowned poet. She was a prolific writer and outspoken advocate for women. Very little literary writing from Vanuatu has been published since Molisa passed away. The dearth of published literature does not, however, reflect the number of individuals who write creatively or harbour literary ambitions. This anthology aims to complement existing literature with a range of women’s perspectives and support a growing body of national literature that is rooted in Vanuatu’s unique context with its cultural and linguistic diversity. Several contributors pay homage to Molisa, drawing on her work, or giving a nod to her style by incorporating lists, acronyms, development speak and searing truths about undelivered promises and the status of women. We are proud to have Viran Molisa Trief write the foreword to this anthology.

The contributions are predominantly written in English, a reflection of the dominant language of education. There is no publisher in Port Vila apart from the Alliance Française, which mainly publishes writing in French and Bislama. In his introduction to the anthology Lali (1980), Albert Wendt expressed a hope of witnessing the steady growth of literature in vernacular as colonised people reclaimed their native languages. Yet this is difficult to achieve in a country with over one hundred indigenous languages. Bislama is the national language as per Vanuatu’s Constitution, while the official languages are Bislama, English and French. However, the principal languages of education were, and are, English and French. The lingering effects of colonial language policies have contributed to a reluctance to consider Bislama an appropriate literary vehicle. Only with the introduction of a new language policy in 2010 has it been possible to start preparing for primary-school children to be taught in their own first languages. The impacts of this are yet to be seen.

The writers in this anthology have chosen to harness the coloniser’s language for their own purposes, writing against racism, colonialism, misogyny and sexism. Writing across bloodlines and linguistic boundaries. Professing their love for ancestors, offspring and language – Bislama, vernacular and English.

The narrative arc of this anthology stretches from the days of blackbirding to Independence in 1980 to Vanuatu’s coming of age in 2020. Submissions cover a full range of genres – poetry, fiction, non-fiction (essay and memoir) and song. The majority of the writers are ni-Vanuatu living in Vanuatu. A few have set down roots in New Zealand, Fiji, the Solomon Islands and Canada. A handful were born overseas and have made Vanuatu their home. At the time of writing, the youngest is not yet twenty, the oldest an octogenarian. What they have in common is a sharp eye for detail, a love of words, a deep connection to Vanuatu, and a willingness to share a glimpse of their world.

The call for submissions was published in Sista online in October and December 2019, and conveyed by word of mouth and social media across Vanuatu and the Pacific region. We were thrilled to receive submissions from experienced, emerging and new writers, several of whom have never been published. The team collectively selected the work. The co-editors also followed up with a handful of women who were ‘known to write’.

During our time as co-editors – one of us with a newborn baby – we discovered that both our mothers spent their working lives helping women bring babies into the world. We have felt like midwives too: privileged to bring texts sparkling with potential to full term and deliver this anthology.

We have marvelled at the accounts of Vanuatu women’s experiences in politics and election campaigns, how they’ve dealt with migration, love, motherhood, broken dreams, mental wellbeing, serious illnesses, the onset of dementia, misogyny and patriarchy. They’ve suffered loss and violence. They’ve had tertiary studies interrupted by an unprecedented kind of violence not experienced at home: the Christchurch mosque shootings in 2019. While some profess a love for kava, others endure its negative effects. Thoughts on identity rub up against experiences of colonial rule and the impact of natural disasters. The writers share their concerns for the future, the impact of the pandemic, and wonder what kind of world our children will inherit. On the eve of Vanuatu’s 40th anniversary of Independence, thirty-three years after Grace Mera Molisa in Colonised People (1987) wondered whether women’s potential would ever be realised, writers also take stock of the status of women in Vanuatu.

We would like to express our thanks to everyone who has supported this journey, to Juliette Pita for the inspiring cover art, and to Creative New Zealand and the publisher Victoria University Press for their support of our vision. Our greatest respect and gratitude go to the writers, who have entrusted us with their work with such grace and patience. We hope readers enjoy the stories, poems, songs and thoughtful reflections in this collection as much as we have.

Mikaela Nyman & Rebecca Tobo Olul-Hossen

August 2020

LOSANA NATUMAN

The bitterness of sugar cane

‘Mama ooh, Mama.’ The call of a young girl, her voice near empty.

‘Mmm-hmmm.’ The crowd of people in the narrow room brush against each other, mourning, looking, hoping they won’t be next.

My fingernails clutch the outside of the window sill and my toes dig deep into the ground as I try to peer in. I can’t make out anything through the stained window except for the blur of white cotton blouses.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The morning bell goes off. It’s time to go to work.

I let go of the window sill, which I’ve been clutching for the last twenty minutes, and pick up the machete that I carelessly threw to the ground. I walk towards the sugarcane field, then stop abruptly when I see a group of mourners leaving the room. I wait for them to pass. Behind them, I see a young girl sobbing uncontrollably. As she passes me our eyes meet. I can see the depth of her sadness lingering in her eyes. I quickly bow my head.

Today’s sun is much hotter than yesterday’s. I can feel its heat soaking through my cotton shirt and onto my back. With each sugarcane slash I make, drips of sweat flow from my forehead, rolling off my chin.

‘Kuku, here, drink,’ Uncle says, handing me a bottle. I gulp down the water hoping it will refresh me, but it too is as hot as the steaming heat.

‘Days like this we would be sitting under the cool arms of a banyan tree telling stories and laughing at Yapsei’s jokes. Do you remember those times, Nalau?’ Uncle looks at me with a smile that soon disappears and his eyes shift into the distance, as if he’s lost his train of thought.

‘Ouah, Murak, I remember.’ I put my hand on his shoulder and hand back his water bottle.

He looks at me again and firmly pats my back. I can feel the dry roughness of his hand. We both grasp the wooden handles of our machetes and continue hacking down the towering canes that stand in our way.

‘Hey Kanaka, you cut those canes properly, you hear!’ says the skinny white fellow on a horse, the one who watches us work from dawn till dusk.

Thump! The sound of boots hitting the ground.

‘I said, cut those canes properly!’

I turn my head, not wanting to get noticed, and see the white fellow walking towards one of the cane cutters. I can hear his heavy boots and the rasping of the cane leaves as he walks by me. Boom! The dense boot hits the backside of the cane cutter, a woman who came off the big canoe only a month ago.

‘Now cut those canes properly!’

After a long, harsh day of work, Uncle and I both sit leaning against the wooden wall outside the barrack. We sit with bended legs, my hands hanging aimlessly upon my knees, while my uncle’s hands are busy carving a piece of wood he found in the field.

Tonight my hands are oozing with pain, new blisters replace the dried ones and strips of cuts cover my fingers. Every part of my body aches. From the back of my neck to the soles of my feet, my muscles twist and pull. But I am accustomed to these pains. A cold breeze gently cools my face, and with it comes the earthy scent of the fields. Uncle begins to hum and from under his breath he sings:

Iahigal apa rier makilha ima mipun

An old man went from his house to his grandson’s garden

to steal vegetables

Iahigal apa rier makilha ima mipun

An old man went from his house to his grandson’s garden

to steal vegetables

Masulia in makaven

And was carrying it home on his back

Masulia in makaven

And was carrying it home on his back

Matiokit in,