The scattered lands of the Pacific share a common loss.
Lost history, lost culture, lost knowledge.
Each taken by cruel men who poisoned our people.
Foreign men who set fire to our way of life.
A shared trauma flows through our seas and seeps into our many sands.
It collects along our coastlines and taints our young people's minds.
But despite it all, we still carry our culture, our symbols, and our dances.
Because they cannot take it all.
Our Sulus blew in the island winds, sandy shells hung from our necks.
Communal floor-sitting, hand-woven mats, and kava-filled coconut shells.
We scream “Meke!”
Evoking both past and present, both here and beyond.
Meke tells our story, the story of resistance, the story of our being.
We wear our Veiqias proudly, tapped into the pores of our mothers, aunties, and sisters.
An eternal stain.
Masi-patterns and crown-shaped afros.
We clothe our loved ones in Tapa, a sign of protection and adoration.
Stripped mulberry trees, dampened bark, pounded pulp.
To receive Tapa is to receive love.
The struggle for liberation is never-ending.
As the Kanak people protest for recognition and improved conditions,
The French continue to send militant forces into New Caledonia;
Reforming, recolonising, reclaiming.
The Treaty Of Waitangi is still not honored;
Maori protests and land marches span decades,
A push to acknowledge the established treaty and honor Aotearoa,
All while the Pacific Islands struggle to stay above water,
Victims of a climate crisis they barely contribute to.
Kiribati and Tuvalu continue to lose significant land mass yearly,
Its inhabitants are forced to migrate.
However, there is light.
The islands are nourished by sunshine,
A warmth that is felt through the melanin in our
skin.
How quickly the Palagi forget that we dance here.
We have always danced here.
And so we continue to dance here.
Dancing together.
Dancing forever.
In eternal solidarity with each other,
Because they will never take it all.
-