The LMS school in Nanumea which I attended was run by a Samoan pastor, Enoka Alesana and his wife, Usoali‘i. The other teachers were Taulu Teuo, who had been a leper on Makogai in Fiji, and Tafaoata Pulusi, one of the few who were educated in Papauta, Samoa, as well as a few young women and men who had completed their studies under the pastor himself. Classes were from Standards 1-6 and the subjects were: Bible Study, English, Arithmetic, Social Studies and Hygiene.
My father was the eldest in a family of eight: four boys and four girls. Of the boys, one died in his teens and the other in an accident in Suva. My mother was the youngest in a family of four. There were three girls and their only brother was killed on Banaba during the Japanese occupation. My father was the local government warden at the time when he sent me to school. He looked after the government station, prisoners if there were any, and attended the Nanumea council meetings. He also looked after colonial government guests on the island. Before this, he had been a policeman and chief of police on Nanumea, after he and my mother had spent 1949-1956 working on the phosphate mine for the British Phosphate Company on Banaba.
It is amazing how memory stores so much history. As part of keeping Nanumea clean, all the pig-sties were located in one area outside the village. It was here that my father met Viane Tabuanaba, the Kiribati Catholic catechist on Nanumea. Viane must have spent around 12 years as a catechist on Nanumea where he learnt the Nanumean dialect. My father also spoke Kiribati from having grown up on Nui (one of the islands in Tuvalu where the people speak a mixture of Tuvaluan and Kiribati dialect) and from his years in Banaba. From Viane my father learnt that the Australian and Irish Sisters in Kiribati ran schools and took care of girls in schools. Viane’s eldest daughter was in school in Tarawa.
One day in 1962, after evening prayer and meal, I was preparing for bed. My father called, ‘Alaima, come here for a minute’. As I sat in front of him, he asked me, ‘Do you like school?’
I said, ‘Yes, I like school’.
He continued, ‘Would you like to go to school in Tarawa?’
I said, ‘No, I do not want to go to school there’.
My father went on as if he had not heard me, ‘In Catholic schools on Tarawa, the Sisters look after the girls well. Think about it’.
I repeated, ‘No, I do not want to go to Tarawa’. I thought that was the end of that and returned to my bed.
I was just settling down to sleep when my mother called me. She was surprised I could go to sleep without giving my father a positive answer. She told me to apologise to him. I told her I had nothing to apologise for as I had not done anything wrong. She said I was disobedient. I got up and went to tell my father that I was sorry. In my mind I was apologising for disagreeing with him, not for what I said. I continued to attend the pastor’s school as usual. But to my surprise he took my apology as a ‘yes, I would go to school in Tarawa’, for one evening my father took me to have classes with Viane in preparation for the school on Tarawa. That was a very dark period in my life. I was sad at the idea of leaving home. Tarawa seemed so far away!
I am the eldest in a family of 11: two girls and nine boys. The boy immediately after me was born deaf and dumb. He spoke a language of his own, and the third child died in infancy. He had been adopted by one of my aunts. She took him from Banaba to Betio where she lived with her Kiribati husband and the fourth one was too small at the time to go to school. Nine years separated my sister and me. She was also adopted by another aunt. Today it is still a mystery to me why my parents sent me to school in Kiribati. At that time, I could not bring myself to ask them, nor did it occur to me to ask. Perhaps, this is due to the fact that I was given to my grandparents when I was about 14 months old and returned to my parents when I was eight. I learned this story in 1994 from my father. They left me with my grandparents when my parents were employed in the phosphate mine in Banaba. My mother said, ’Your grandparents wanted us to leave you behind with them’. That was why I could relate to my grandparents better. For this reason I could ask my grandparents anything since I grew up with them. However, it did not stop my feeling of being unloved. I always felt I was being passed around like a parcel—as if I was an object. This created a kind of resentment within me. It is a burden I have carried during my religious life. I generally react strongly to anyone who tries to make decisions for me. It is also one of the reasons why I have not been open to share the ‘real me’. When I first wrote my story, I gave it to one of the Sisters to read. At the end of the first draft she commented: ‘There is no soul in your story’. I was avoiding having to deal with the hurts I have buried for many years.
My father probably envisaged I might be an asset to the family by earning an income. Since I was the eldest, I could help with the education of my young siblings. I can only speculate. I never plucked up enough courage to discuss this issue with my parents. Thus the insatiable quest for the unknown has remained in my heart. This has caused me much pain over the years. In retrospect, it shows how important it is to have good communication skills. This has perhaps been the most regrettable part of my life since the event has left a deep void within me. It has worsened over the years because, with my parents’ passing, I cannot know for certain what was in their hearts for me.
However, those were difficult days for me and only the close members of my family knew I was being prepared to go to school. I was not even sure if the pastor knew about it. The pastor knew my grandfather very well. My paternal grandparents lived on the islet of Lakena. For years my grandfather was the caretaker for the pastor when he visited the islet for the Sunday services. My grandfather also beat the lali for Sunday services, as well as for the daily evening prayers.
My father knew how I loved my grandparents and it seems he exploited this too. He went to fetch them to live with us. When I appealed to my grandmother to help me get my father to change his mind about sending me to school in Tarawa, my grandmother said: ‘It would be alright if we could live together and die together; but since we’re getting old, we will die soon. We would have to leave you behind anyway, so it is better for you to go to school’. I knew then that I was going and there would be no turning back. While these were indeed visionary words, I did not appreciate it then. For I was only a child and I thought like a child. Again, communication failed. Nothing was said to comfort me or to make my journey more bearable and meaningful.
For the purpose of finding meaning in my life, I have chosen to look at this topic. I read somewhere that life is encyclical and not linear. In order to become complete or whole, one has to take into account one’s past or learn from one’s history and experiences. Some have even gone as far as stating that ‘history is therapeutic’. And it is this that I hope to gain from writing my story. It would be impossible to do justice to all that could be remembered, so what I have written is but a slice of that short period of time.
Looking through the list of autobiographies in the library for directions in writing my own story, I was hesitant. I felt insignificant and feared that my story might not be interesting enough. In fact, it was the titles of the books that determined my choice. I like Sidney Poitier from his films and Mahatma Gandhi from history. Now having read their stories I found that threads of their experiences resonate with my own.
In his Memoir (2000), Poitier’s preoccupation was to write about ‘life itself’.[4] He had dealt with his Hollywood life in his first book. Now at 70 he had the compelling desire to put into writing how he had lived all those years. He explored his childhood memories on Cat Island and the values he had acquired at that formative period from his family and environment. For instance, failure in tomato farming caused his family to move from Cat Island in the Bahamas to the capital city of Nassau. At the age of 15, Poitier again left for Miami, Florida and then New York to follow his dream. His dream was to get into the film industry. Again in the evening of life, he wished to take stock by closely examining how he had fared in living up to the values he had set for himself especially in the areas of ‘integrity’ and ‘commitment’, ‘faith’ and ‘forgiveness’, ‘simplicity’ and ‘joy’. I can identify with Poitier’s growing up in an island environment. He left home to follow his dream. I had to leave home to follow the dream of my parents and in doing so I had unexpectedly found my own. As he grew he took stock of how he had lived up to his values. Now at this time in my life I am looking back to assess where I have been and what I have done in order to deepen my understanding of the call I have received and readily embraced.
The second autobiography that caught my attention was Gandhi’s.[5] He wanted it to be called The Story of My Experiments with Truth (1927). Since India was still under the British at the time, Gandhi did his law studies in England and then worked in South Africa before returning to India. He was encouraged by his friends to write his story but Gandhi’s primary aim was to tell the story of his many experiments with truth. From his spiritual path he gained the strength to carry out his work in the political arena. Like great men and women in the history of humankind who had lived life to the full through service of others, Gandhi did not credit these experiments to himself only. For this reason he hoped that all who read his story would find something useful for their own life’s journeys.
He echoed St Paul, that great apostle to the Gentiles, in his striving to capture Christ. All aspects of his life—speech, writing, ‘non-violence’, ‘celibacy’ and other forms of conduct—were aimed at ‘self-realisation’ or winning salvation. Gandhi’s deep reverence of God made him realise his own unworthiness. To Gandhi the chief principle is truth which involves truthfulness in words and thought. Like Poitier, Gandhi was aware of the vulnerability of the human condition. Just as Gandhi left India to complete his studies in London, so I went to study in Kiribati when the Gilbert and Ellice Islands were a British colony and stayed to work there. Like Gandhi who experimented with truth, so I am carrying out research, to search for truth, my truth. As Gandhi strove to win salvation through the practice of non-violence, celibacy and other forms of good conduct, so I value celibacy and other forms of good conduct because I have faith in God and I believe there is an after-life.
Beloved Infidel (1959), is the autobiography of Sheila Graham (Lily Sheil),[6] who came from the slums of East London. Raised in an orphanage, at 14 she had to go home to care for her mother who was suffering from cancer. Lily had an ambition to be wealthy and well connected. To every man who showed interest in her she told a made-up story about her family background. She could not retract the family she had made up for herself, even the phony photos on the wall. She married a man 20 years older than herself and enlisted as a show girl. Young and beautiful, she was pursued by many men from high society. The couple’s financial difficulties led to Lily’s departure for Hollywood to try her luck as a newspaper writer. There she met F. Scott Fitzgerald whom she grew to love deeply. He became the only one who knew about her and her pretences. They were not able to marry since Fitzgerald’s ‘wife was in an institution and [he had] a daughter who still needed him’. Among the many things Lily learnt from Fitzgerald was ‘an appreciation of literature’. It was he who encouraged her to write her own story and after his death she did.
Lily was so grief-stricken after Fitzgerald’s sudden death that she returned to England. At the time she co-authored her own autobiography with George Frank, she was married with two grown-up children. Her fear of public opinion had prevented her from writing her story earlier; and then there had been her children to consider. Gradually as her children grew up, she found the courage to tell them the truth about her background. Fitzgerald’s struggle with his dark side, his drinking, which he conquered towards the end of his life, gave Lily the courage to write her story. I can say I share Lily’s fear of public opinion. In this seemingly promiscuous character, Lily, with her outrageous lies about her background, feared being found out. I feared sharing my desire to become a Catholic and further a nun because of my Protestant background. I feared my parents and public opinion because in those days there was much bigotry among the members of these two churches.
The Autobiography of Mother Jones (1980) is the story of a brave and courageous woman of action, fired with zeal to champion the cause of miners.[7] Mary Harris Jones was of Irish origin and a teacher and dressmaker by trade. She lost her husband and son in the yellow fever plague of 1867 in New York. Her memoires tell of her trade union activities. She lived in Chicago but her work took her all round the United States and West Indies. She supported various efforts to build labour solidarity among railroad workers and miners. She worked for the abolition of child labour, especially for miners’ daughters who were employed in the mill for 10 hours every day. She gave talks and supported miners’ strikes for better wages and to cut down daily working hours to eight. She wrote her story at the request of friends when she was a very old woman. These same friends who knew her from her work helped put the events in chronological order. But her personal story was very much bound up with the national history of trade unions in the United States from 1868-1924. She made history and her story is an inspiration. I admire this brave woman. I found in her story a woman who was totally selfless. I share in the element of being for others through a particular and unique way of life, the religious life. Through my vow of chastity I have given up the power of having a family of my own so that I may be totally available for the mission of the Congregation within the Catholic Church; through Obedience the power to direct my own life, and through Poverty I own nothing and have to ask for what I need.
Kanaka Boy (1985) is an autobiography by Sir Frederick Osefilo, published by the Institute of Pacific Studies, Suva, and the University of the South Pacific Centre, Honiara, the Solomon Islands.[8] Beginning with the author’s childhood, the story moved from school, to World War II in the Solomons, his work in the colonial service and Independence, ending with his discovery of faith. I enjoyed reading about Osefilo’s culture, which was very different from my own.
I found it fascinating to see how these five people in their autobiographies were so engrossed with life. Their stories made me question myself. Did I make conscious choices in my life or did I just float with the tide? I like the way Sidney Poitier reflected on his life as a little boy on Cat Island; he had all the time in the world to explore, to think his own thoughts and to observe his family, the people around him and his environment. To him this was the very ‘first part of his education’. Here on Cat Island and Nassau where he learned his values, the very values that steadied his course in the excitement and storms of life and against the adverse racial winds of the United States. Even in religious life, one cannot escape racial discrimination. Living very closely together sometimes the very diversity of backgrounds can become a huge cross. I share these authors’ search for truth. I admire their humility and courage in facing their truth.
While Poitier, Gandhi and Osefilo were decisive from the outset, Lily was fearful at first. Being able to share her truth with Fitzgerald liberated her from her fears of being found out. On the other hand Fitzgerald, though he was well known and had no reason to hide his family background, had a dark side that not everyone knew. This was his drinking—his ‘demon’. From this Lily learnt that her pretences, her made-up family background and false family photos were her ‘demons’. Just as Fitzgerald conquered his drinking for her friendship, so did she write her story for him. By contrast we have in Mother Jones, who reached 100, someone who always lived her truth in fighting the cause of the downtrodden. She was the picture of total availability and selflessness in the service of others.
In writing my story, I speculated a great deal on why my parents and grandparents sent me to school. For me this question is basic. I can remember thinking that my grandparents could get me out of it, but that did not happen. It seemed to me I was being ‘ganged-up’ against. Today, in retrospect, I can say that they must have wanted me to make a ‘better life’, one that would be different from their own. Having come from a Protestant island where church services and prayer times were regulated and very much part of the fabric of daily existence, I chose another religious life when the time came for me to decide.