Four Pacific poets bring climate change concerns to Britomart's Pavilion Panels.

I spent my childhood summers 
picking onions,
Peeling back their layers
In my trembling child hands,
As my mother told me stories of 
an island in the Pacific she said 
we descend from.
That my parents grew up on.
She tells me my grandparents are buried right outside our family home in Samoa.
“A testament to how love 
transcends lifetimes” she tells me 
and a layer of my world peels 
itself back.
Beneath 
Is a history of navigators, 
voyagers, storytellers, 
custodians of land and sea.
Beneath 
Are stories of resilience, 
adaptation, islands 
connected by the Pacific Ocean
that spans one third of the 
world's surface. 
As climate change claims 
its stake on their future’s,
On islands in the south 
pacific, people spend their 
summers
building sea walls to keep out 
the rising tides.
Brick after brick 
Stacked in hopes to lessen
Bone after bone 
Lost through every natural 
disaster.
The Pacific Islands contribute 
less than 1% of the world's 
carbon emissions
And yet Tuvalu prepares to be 
evacuated, 
Fijians villages must be relocated,
and sea levels reach the doorsteps 
our ancestors are buried near.
Islands with hundreds of years 
of history 
Are forced to give their own 
eulogies, 
As foreign eyes deem them 
pretty enough for a holiday 
But not valuable enough to 
keep above water.
“They’ll be fine, they can pick 
our fruit” an australian politician 
says 
“There’s nothing we can do” 
a French climate analyst says.
Their hands are assertive, 
dominant.
They don't tremble the way 
mine once did 
But they hold the fate of my 
homeland,
Of the pacific region,
As dismissively as they hold 
meeting notes.
Hands so oily the responsibility 
slips through their fingers.
The survival of my homeland 
dependant on their net zero 
pledges.
Can they care enough to tremble 
at the weight of what they hold?
Can their fingers learn to be that 
delicate?
Can they peel back the layers?
Or will they spend their summers
Clipping the wings of children
As long as they aren’t theirs.
Because my biggest fear is that 
one day my island will become 
nothing more than a story to tell, 
just words to enter the ears of 
children who will never see their 
mother land. 
That their mothers hands will be 
the only connection to the land 
left for them to hold.
That I’ll have to tulou between 
my grandparents headstones and
Ask them to forgive me 
For letting the sinking of our 
island become their second 
death.
When people ask "what's the 
point if the islands are going to 
sink anyway." 
Let our response be: so what? 
so what if the world is cruel? 
so what if it feels like things 
wont get better right now? 
The world has always been cruel. 
but its always been beautiful too. 
and so have we. 
just because we wont sit under 
the shade of the trees we plant, 
doesnt mean we stop planting. 
we love.
we nurture. 
and we care about our culture so 
much that it no longer matters 
whether the world is still cruel 
despite our efforts. 
The fruits of 
our labours may not be eaten 
by us but they will be eaten
and it will sweet. 
Knowing you did everything to 
prepare for those who come 
after you is what it takes to be 
the ancestors our children 
deserve.
So when my children ask me 
what we did to save our 
homelands 
Or what tautua means
I will peel back the layers for 
them 
And tell them 
That every fight, every story, 
every person who choose to stay 
with their island even when the 
water came 
Was a testament to how love 
transcends lifetimes

Aigagalefili Fepulea’i-Tapua’i is an urban orator, community weaver and ocean protector born and raised in Māngere, South Auckland and from the villages of Fai’a’i and Sagone in Savai’i, Samoa.

THIS STORY RESIDES 
WHERE PRESENCE AND ABSENCE MEET. 

IN OUR BODIES OF WATER. 

WHERE LE MOANA FINDS HOME IN TE PŌ, 
THE DEEP SEA. 

WHERE YOU WILL FIND SANDS 
CLUELESS TO LUMINESCENT DISPOSSESSION, 
THE SAME DISPOSSESSION 
WHICH ONCE SURFACED OUR BODIES OF LANU MEAMATA. 

HERE, THESE SERENE SEAS SWAY. 
WHERE SPECIES SHARE A SYMPHONY PIECE  
OF PEACE 
SHARED BY EACH SPECIMEN AND LIVING ORGANISM 
PRESENT IN THIS SECTOR OF SILENCE. 

BUT IN THIS STORY, 
THE DEEP SEA CALLS TO US. 

THE TIDES ARE CHANGING. 
THE WAVES CRACK AND TREMBLE, 
WITH THE THOUGHT OF DISTURBANCE. 
DO YOU KNOW THIS STORY OF DISTURBANCE? 

OF MAN AND MACHINE, 
BREAKING LIGHT TO DEEP SEA. 
SEEKING DEEP POCKETS IN 
POCKET SIZED VALUABLES 
AT THE COST OF OUR SERENE SEA. 

SO YOU COULD SAY IT IS DISPOSSESSION. 
OF RESOURCE. 
OF PEACE. 

DOES THIS STORY DISTURB YOU? 

WE HAVE ONCE BEEN DISPOSSESSED 
OF OUR BODIES OF GREEN. 
SO WHY FURTHER WIPE WHITE ACROSS OUR BODIES OF BLUE. 

OUR DEEP SEA IS MORE THAN MANIPULATED. 
MINED FOR MONETARY MEANS 
AND A MAN'S MANIFESTATION. 

IT IS BLUE. 
IT IS BLUE. 
IT IS BLUE. 
AND WE, PEOPLE OF THIS BLUE 
KNOW HOW WE ARE MORE THAN CONNECTED TO IT. 

PEOPLE OF THE OCEAN, 
OF OUR JOURNEYS ACROSS IT, 
TAGATA PASIFIKA 
CULTURES CONNECTED AND INTERTWINED THROUGH IT. 

SO WHAT DO WE SAY TO THIS? 

WHEN WE SPEAK, 
BE IT IN SIBILANCE 
UNITY 
AND CONVICTION: 

STRAIGHT UP – STAY AWAY FROM THESE SEAS! 

YOU'VE TAKEN ENOUGH RESOURCES FROM US, SO… 

LET US BREATHE FOR A BIT. 
LET THESE SEAS BREATHE FOR A BIT 
BECAUSE THE DEEP SEA IS AS ALIVE AS WE ARE. 

IF THE DEEP SEA WAS A PERSON 
IT’D BE INTROVERTED LIKE ME, SO TRUST… 
I KNOW WHAT INVADING THAT SPACE FEELS LIKE. 

THESE SERENE SEAS HAVE BEEN IN MY DREAMS LATELY. 
SO OFTEN I WAKE UP HOPING 
SOMEHOW IN THIS REALITY 
THAT AT LEAST WE GET TO RESPECT THAT 
SLICE OF OUR SEAS. 

SERENE. 
SILENT, BUT LIVING. 
COULD ALMOST AGREE IT’S HEAVEN. 

Luani Nansen (he/him) is a poet and musician born and bred in Māngere, Saute Aukilangi. Luani is Samoan, from the villages of Vaiusu, Falese'elā, Lauli'i, Satapuala and Apolima Tai. Luani has ambitions to be a teacher and is currently studying, working with youth groups such as @actioneducationnz and @tekaranga trust.

As the sea levels continue to rise,
My fear for you runs through my mind, 
My wish is your presence for when I arrive, 
Please don't leave before my time. 
I pray one day we finally meet, 
So I can feel your roots beneath my feet.

As the sea levels continue to rise,
My fear for you runs through my mind, 
Your time is running out,
I can barely keep count. 
Please! Don't leave before my time, 
I need to feel at ease, 

Before I rest in peace.

Simaima Palei is a poet with roots in Fakakakai, Ha’apai and Hofoa, Tongatapu, Tonga. Born and raised on Auckland’s North Shore, she is yet to have physical contact with her roots. However, Simaima is spiritually connected and is passionate about ensuring the Pacific homelands across the moana are sustained for future generations to come.  

They say that it takes a village to raise a child, 

but what if we no longer have a village?

Like any child of the ocean and like any child of the pacific, I am scared.

That as the sea levels rise, 

the blue waves of the Moana crashing on our land, 

slowly washing away the golden sand of our Motherlands 

—these waves will take with it more than just our island homes.

 Where will we go when our grandparents say, “take me back home?”, Where
will we go when our children ask us where they’re from?

As the beautiful beaches on our shores 
become tourist attractions 
and our islands as we know it falls victim to climate change, 
our very own people become victims 
islands sinking into the ocean 
and our very own people become climate change refugees.

But as time goes on, everything we’ve always known becomes lost, the
images of our motherland disappearing becomes a reality where we will no
longer have a place to call ‘home’, so:

Dear Motherland,

It feels like the further you are the quieter we become, 
the further you are 
the more our voices drown to this dark hole 
where we feel like nothing is going to save you. 
But although you are physically 
a thousand waves away from me, 
Motherland you need to understand 
that this gift my ancestors gave to me, 
this gift they carried with them to this land was you. 
But always know that you will always be my home, 
when people ask me where I’m from 

I am always going to say your name because 
just as permanent as my last name 
the place that I call home will forever be a place 
where legacy lives, my motherland. 
And for as long as my heart beats 
at the rhythm of my culture 
in between my tongue that speaks 
your language and my hand that 
calls back for its motherland, 

I will forever know who I am 
and where my home is. 
For as long as my fingers are outstretched 
to those stars just like my ancestors did when they navigated their way
towards you, there is no way I will ever forget you.

So, dear Motherland
We hear your cries of help  
as our footprints tell your story 
our voices cry out for you, 
your children will fight to protect you. 
And so with every raised flag 
and every raised fist 
we will fight for you.

Kapitania (Nia) Funaki is a proud daughter of the Pacific with seeds planted in Tonga and Samoa and watered in the villages of Tongoleleka, Hihifo Ha’apai, Kolofo’ou, Nuku’alofa and Uafato, Fagaloa. With strong roots in the Pacific and currently based in Tāmaki Makaurau, Aotearoa, she is interested in using her voice to make a difference in the community.