1984, Mangoes and Kulawai Press

It hasn't rained in Lautoka. Fiji's Sugar City, known for its perpetual sunshine and tree-lined avenues, resists precipitation until the humidity swells uncomfortably in the air, like an expectant mother overdue. When my parents arrive from Suva—the weeping city, with its rain-laden skies—their first reaction is to bemoan the heat. The heat doesn’t bother me much. After nearly a year in the burning west, I’ve acclimatised to the weather.

Certain discomforts, however, are easy to overlook when there’s a good book in hand. In mine lies George Orwell’s 1984, its dog-eared pages a testament to countless readings before me. At ten books for a dollar from one of Lautoka’s many thrift shops, this literary gem frugally found its way into my towering “to-be-read” pile.

Above me, the ceiling fan whirs like Bas Deo's brush cutter, slicing through the resilient couch grass in my front lawn. Next to me sits my reading companion: a white mug, never completely empty of coffee before it’s refilled.

Through Winston Smith, Orwell’s protagonist, I plunge into the dystopian world of Oceania, where war is peace, freedom is slavery, and ignorance is strength. Big Brother stares out from propaganda posters, watching everyone—or so they think. Across the room, The Silence of the Lambs sits on the coffee table, relegated to the “read” pile. A tray of sweet, ripe mangoes from Rakiraki tempts me from the dining table. But I’ve learned that reading and mango slurping don’t mix.

In Big Brother’s world, I imagine mangoes would be a delicacy reserved for Inner Party members, like coffee, sugar, and “real chocolate.” For the rest, they would be contraband, punishable by the Thought Police.

Big Brother is more sinister than Hannibal Lecter or Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs. While these criminals are driven by personal depravity, Big Brother craves mass domination. His psywar techniques—a relentless assault on the mind—are both covert and overt. The Ministry of Love enforces his ideology with punishments so severe that they blur the lines between pain and numbness.

The people of Oceania betray themselves, their families, and their humanity, becoming harsh judges and executioners of the law. Big Brother, a spectre of control, hovers over them, satisfied.

As I flip through the pages, I notice sentences underlined in red. I assume they belong to Andrew, the previous owner whose name is scribbled on the first page. Andrew and I share a fondness for certain passages. One stands out:

“We’re destroying words—scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We’re cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edition won’t contain a single word that will become obsolete before the year 2050.”

Syme, a philologist and specialist in Newspeak, reveals Big Brother’s true aim: to make independent thought impossible. By limiting words, they limit thought. Oceania becomes a logophile’s worst nightmare.

But there’s another Oceania. This one is not Orwell’s creation but a collection of island nations in the South Pacific—my home. If Big Brother came to Fiji, how long would it take him to wipe out Fijian literature? Could he strip books by Fijian authors from library shelves and toss them down memory holes? My recent thrift shop haul suggests the task would be heartbreakingly quick.

Fortunately, it wasn’t Big Brother that led me to publishing. The idea for Kulawai Press came in 2019. I chose the name “Kulawai” for its symbolism. The red-throated lorikeet, or Kulawai, is an endangered bird endemic to Fiji. Like the elusive Kulawai, Fijian literature appears in waves, rising and ebbing unpredictably. But there are those of us, like dedicated bird watchers, who hold out hope for its revival.

Fiji’s literary history is intertwined with the Pacific’s. The first wave of Pacific writers emerged between the 1960s and 1980s, a renaissance sparked by political sovereignty, new institutions like the University of the South Pacific (USP), and magazines such as UNISPAC and Mana. Luminaries like Albert Wendt, Epeli Hau’ofa, and Vanessa Griffen paved the way.

The second wave in the 1990s and early 2000s brought vibrant voices like the Niu Wave Writers. This period nurtured young talent through forums like the Pacific Young Writers Forum.

Today, I hope for a third, more sustainable wave—one that allows Fijian children to see themselves in stories long before they enter higher education.

The Responsibility of Representation

In November and December of 2023, Kulawai Press partnered with the Poetry Shop to host writing workshops. Participants spoke of the books that shaped them: Heidi, Sweet Valley High, and Enid Blyton’s adventures. Few fondly recalled the culturally similar but foreign texts assigned in high school.

“What are Fijian children being custodians of?,” my friend Dimpna from Hawai‘i’s Bess Press once asked over pizza. Another history? Another culture? Another worldview?

Publishing, for me, is a form of resistance—against the colonisation of minds, the devaluation of language, and the dopamine-fuelled distractions of social media. As the late Epeli Hau’ofa argued, cultural rehabilitation requires cleansing colonial influences. What if our books could be the evidence of that rehabilitation?

Sometimes, I wrestle with frustration. While the world embraces eBooks, audiobooks, and AR, we struggle—underfunded and siloed, learning from YouTube, and inundated with foreign books. Indigenous Fijian voices are glaringly absent, not from suppression, but from barriers both complex and unknown.

Just as the Kulawai is unique to Fiji, the revitalization of the literary movement in Fiji must come from the Fijian people. This movement should go beyond simply achieving literacy metrics. Relying solely on non-Fijian literature to improve literacy is not sufficient. This approach often reflects a perspective that may inadvertently perpetuate a colonial mindset, shaping our views of success and imposing different standards. It undervalues the rich intellect and creativity of the Fijian people. We must not allow anything to limit our capacity to define, create, and nurture our collective identity of what it means to be Fijian.

It’s still early days for Kulawai Press, but I’m grateful for everyone who has shared and supported this journey.

Three fruit flies dance in front of me, interrupting my thoughts. Winston’s voice from the telescreen whispers: Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me. I swat at the flies, remembering the mango peelings in the kitchen bucket waiting for the compost.

Halfway to the compost hole, I realise I’m still holding 1984. My thumb marks my place in the book. As I dump the peelings, a single raindrop lands on Big Brother’s face on the cover. I look up, hopeful.