The next stop on the Tuvaluan
government's international campaign is
the commonwealth heads of government
meeting in Brisbane on March 2.
A new member of the old colonial club,
Tuvalu will use its "maiden" speech to tell
Tony Blair, the Queen and leaders from
the other 53 commonwealth nations about
the ocean tides creeping up Tuvalu's
narrow beaches.
But no amount of sympathy, aid or
dot.com cash could construct a viable sea
defence system for the islands. Funafuti
is little more than a flimsy sea wall, a
wafer-thin curving strip of land shielding
the coral lagoon from the four-mile depths
of the South Pacific. What happens if
Tuvalu does lose its land? Does it lose its
sovereignty over that area? Who gets
access to Tuvalu's territorial oceans? How
can exiled Tuvaluans benefit from this
distant patch of water? "This is
unprecedented stuff," says Greenpeace's
Angenette Heffernan. She predicts that
under-resourced Pacific countries will
have to lobby to change the UN law of the
sea to ensure that if they lose their land,
at least their waters are protected.
Tuvalu's resettlement plan begins this
year. Priority will be given to those who
don't own any land on Tuvalu or who live in
particularly vulnerable areas. Panapase
Nelesone, the government's chief
secretary, says they will not allow their
most educated or skilled citizens to take
up the offer of a home in New Zealand.
"We don't want to train our people and
then send them away again. We need
them here."
Standing chest-high in the turquoise water
off one of Funafuti's outer islets, Cliff
O'Brien, 25, looks shocked when I ask if
he would leave Tuvalu for New Zealand.
His great-grandfather was an Irish
missionary who landed on Tuvalu and
married a local girl. Cliff, too, has travelled
the world, working as a seaman, but, like
many young Tuvaluans, remains
ferociously loyal to the islands. "This is
my home.
I have no choice. Of course this is where I
want to stay, but if the islands go under
we will have to try and preserve Tuvalu
sometime else, in another country. We
want to keep our island and maintain our
relationship with the land. Land is very
important to us."
But, in increasing numbers, people have
been drifting away from the islands.
"Every year you see four or five families
going," says Iupasi. "It is very slow, but
they are moving out. Most of our people
just go to New Zealand for a weekend
then stay." They are drawn to Auckland,
the largest Polynesian city in the world,
and hope their cultural affinity with Maoris
and other Polynesians living there will help
preserve some Tuvaluan traditions.
One person is definitely departing: despite
his analogy of the Tuvaluan PM being the
skipper of a sinking ship, Talake wants to
retire to New Zealand, where his two sons
are now living. "I am going there to be with
someone who loves you and looks after
you well," he says. There are no pensions
in Tuvalu, even for a prime minister.
"Tuvaluans do not like the western style of
living," says the Rev Etuati. "There are no
old people's homes where we dump our
parents. It is very hard to leave your father
or mother because you are the person to
care for them. If you go to New Zealand,
you can send money back, but people
also like to sit beside their parents. It's
the Pacific way." He has advised his
congregation not to go to New Zealand.
"I've been there and I don't like to live in
these places," he says. "Time is money
there. I like to live my life here and I want
to be buried with my ancestors." Other
Tuvaluans, too, insist that they are not yet
ready to give up a lifestyle where they can
still survive on the sea and, if they own
land, can evade the slavery of the wage
economy.
"I was thinking of migrating because of the
rising seas," says Iupasi, who recently
visited his brother and sister in New
Zealand. "I think everybody is thinking of
migrating. But every year I prefer to stay
here. The rent is too much in New
Zealand. You have to work there. It's
palangi [white 'European'] life there: you
have to pay your rent, then you sleep.
You have to be wise about using your
money. It's not like here. Most of the time
here, you have plenty of friends. Over
there, if you don't have a car, you just
stay in the house. You are isolated."
One Tuvaluan who has moved abroad,
Puasina Bott, returns regularly, partly to
visit her thriving shop, TV Varieties Store.
She loves her home, but finds the
communal life on the island difficult. "If I
am here any longer than two weeks I feel
obliged to give A$2,000 here, A$200
there, to the first cousin of my sister, who
is considered a very close relation. People
come and ask for money, and it is
expected of you to give it if you can. It is
the Pacific way."
She brought up three daughters in
Melbourne with her Australian husband,
but took them back to Tuvalu every 18
months when they were young. "As a
Tuvaluan woman, I did relate Tuvaluan
culture to them, so it is not too hard for
them to adjust when they come back
here," she explains. "They are used to
their grandparents kissing them all over,
not just a 'mwwwup' on the cheek, and
they know how they should behave in front
of other Tuvaluans. I brought the girls up in
two cultures."
Iupasi is confident that most of the 1,000
Tuvaluans in New Zealand "are still
maintaining the culture over there". But
the next generation? "I know that after
three, four, five years there, most of the
young ones don't think about the Tuvaluan
culture any more. They prefer going out; it
is better than going to the fateles
[traditional island celebrations of dancing
and drumming]. They take on the palangi
ways. They go there because they want
the easy life, then they find it is not so
easy. You're not happy with your life
there. It is not your life."
Some doubt that Tuvaluan life could
survive, anyway. "Our identity as
Tuvaluans will not just disappear when we
go to other countries because of global
warming," says the Rev Etuati. "It has
already started to disappear because of
the influence of modernisation. Most of
our people are exposed overseas in
education. Change is coming now."
From the article, Going down
BY Patrick Barkham
Saturday February 16, 2002
The Guardian
guardian.co.uk |
