Solomon Islands
Ngongosila Story
Gwailao Tribe of Ngongosila Island, East Malaita, Solomon Islands
Gwailao Tribe of Ngongosila Island, East Malaita, Solomon Islands
Tides swell and fears arise
Sharks of change appear
Without counsel hope fades
As do retracted political promises.
We live a life which calls us to hardship
Yet smile as a spring in bloom.
Our forefathers sleep
Yet are awakened by oceans around their tombs.
I am young, naïve
Yet with so much promise.
When will spoken words not just line the pockets
Of those outside with commas?
Our voice is sparse
Can anyone hear?
We hold fast to the book of certain ties
This much is true
At least we have His ear
Coral rainforests plundered by our own people
To save what we have left
But drives our knees to the quicksand called feeble.
We look to our Elders for guidance
Though being at the mercy of changes
What was once impenetrable wisdom and strength
Is now a contemporary of our uncertainty.
“time mi smol mi tingim ota warning blo tsunami by kasim mifala”
When I was a child I remember the warnings of a tsunami
“staka man kasim mifala longtime finis; but hem sem nomo kasim distaem”
Many men have visited us for a long time but nothing has changed
“life osem nao; so iumi go het nomoa”
Life is like this; we keep going
“ota ples wea staka sumting grow nomoa nao”
Places where things used to grow are no more
“mi like fo skul gut mekem mi kasim big ples”
I want to do well at school so I get to bigger places
“staka man promise but man talem doim”
Many men have promised but if you say it, do it
“mi smol man nomoa ya; ota big man but no save tu”
I am just a child; but even the adults don’t know what to do
“Iumi must prayer strong; Masta na by keepim iu mi”
We have to keep praying; God will keep us
“Ota ples wea staka fish stay bifo nomoa nao becos ota stone ya na mifala try fo putim lo island fo mekem sea no kam insite”
Where the fish used to stay in the reefs before have disappeared because we use the stones to make sure the sea doesn’t reach the inside
“by mifala no hope naya; mifala luk osem by no stay lo hea na”
We have no hope now; looks like we have to move
“ota big man blo mifala shud garem idea fo helpem mifala”
Our big people and leaders should have ideas to help us
“ota strong bifo but distaem oketa weaky na”
Those who were once strong are now weak
My name is Keith Fa’ari Sanga. For the purposes of this case study, my tribe know me as Fa’ari. This name is a derivative of the idea of being ‘an autonomous one’. The name Fa’ari has been passed down three generations from my father, my grandfather and now myself.
My grandfather and his brother converted to Christianity in the early 1900s as the first people in our tribe to do so; this was not a small matter given my grandfather was being raised as a priest in the then theocratic society.
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My tribe is called Gwailao and is a part of the indigenous group called Gula’ala, situated on the east coast of Malaita Province in the Solomon Islands. Despite the remote nature of the geography and small population, my tribe has contributed leaders in the province, nation, region, and the globe.
The stories for this case study were largely shared with me through ‘tok stori’ – including sitting across from my tribespeople in a formal setting with a camera, and through informal conversations that have been cumulative over generations. This research is positioned from the worldview of my Gwailao tribe and related via ‘tok stori’.
The following sections are included in this case study: context of my tribe’s island and family heritage; secondly, observations and reflections as a conduit of the study of my own place, people, and our physical and spiritual environments; and, finally, the tok stori method and approach applied in this case study.
I remember going back to Ngongosila in the 1990s and having turtles during the Christmas feasting. The turtles were not just fished by master fishermen for their families, clans and tribes but for the whole village. Theses photos were taken in the late 1970s, showing life as it was back then. The turtle farms showed the abundance of wildlife so much so that they were farmed like chicken. The other photo shows how far the beach stretched out to where there was good clearance for sea planes to land.
Today, there is great difficulty finding even one turtle let alone a host of them that arrive at the turn of every December. No longer are there stretches of beach that allow visitors to land via sea planes.
I visited Ngongosila in September of 2023. Since my previous visits, in 2010, the 1990s and prior to this, the photos and memories of what I saw are almost from two separate worlds. My journey back home to my people, my land, their stories, how I fit in our story, and what that means for the future, causes both great uncertainty but also great optimism that comes naturally with youth.
The stories come from thirteen tribe members ranging from 14 years of age to 56 years of age; each story tells a thousand more - parables and illustrations that bring climate mobilityi and all of its themes to life. Ten of the tribe members from 14-16 years of age live on Ngongosila, and the older tribe members live in Honiara and abroad in New Zealand.
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We have to pray well, and not forget God. Sacred convictions play a key role in the minds of the tribe. Walking through the village upon arrival, aunties and cousins would shout and cry at the same time. Their initial reaction is remembering my grandfather or grandmother, long passed away, as if to say seeing me reminds them of better days that once were the normality.
My father spoke to me about the late 1800s to early 1900s, when the islands of Ngongosila and Kwai were ‘Labu’ (refuge) islands. As islands of refuge, similar to that of ancient Israel (cities of refuge), Labu meant that those who sought refuge from different parts of East Malaita would be collectively looked after. This is key; we as a tribe do not see ourselves just as individuals but as a collective. So, when we say we are from the Gwailao tribe, that supersedes any individual ontology, but may be more reflective of an identity that is a derivative of a supreme maximal being (God).
My 26-year-old cousin spoke of when news had reached the island concerning a possible tsunami. Many in the island did what was natural, to flee to mainland Malaita. But the reverse also took place. Many decided to stay and deal with the reality of the damage the tsunami would bring – including death. As she was sharing this story I lent forward and asked her, “How could this be”? To which she replied, “Ples God givim iumi na ya.” In other words, she said that this is the place God has given us, not anywhere else.
In making my way across Malaita from Auki, a 76 km journey that took eight hours, I quickly come to understand the distinct nature of what land means. Upon each passing landmark or village, I would ask the driver, “What is this place?” He would then reply by giving the name of the village and then describe the characteristics of the people. In other words, despite present circumstances, people are intrinsically tied to their place of belonging and inbuilt characteristics:
The following narrative is weaved to show two key principles: What must be done must be done, and the consequences of what we do is a reality of life.
Countless tales are told by the young tribe members. They describe their fathers who have to go out further and further because the nearest havens where fishing grounds once were have now been plundered to build walls to both hold the sea back and create stability for houses on the edge of the island’s borders. By plundering the nearby reefs, the fish disappear, which then in-turn results in food shortages. The tribe have to paddle further out into the open Pacific Ocean, which can be treacherous with the nature of the changing winds. Once you get past Leli Island and keep going east, you pass Nauru and eventually land in Hawaii.
Most attitudes convey the above sentiment, “This is the way it is; what else can be done?” If you read and listen to this on face value, it can lack hope and show frustration. But the nuance of it points to the heritage, which says we (Gwailao) accept that our real estate in life has been given to us by God, and we accept and find contentment in it and must do what we can in light of this reality.
Her eyes lit up, as if there was something more courageous to share. She is almost finished her high school education. Though she knows the world is changing, there is something special about being from Ngongosila. What is this? My uncle and father grew up in a time where knowledge was the source of power. To maintain this power, you had to maintain its sanctity and preserve its value. Three categories shape reality - “three fala save nao stay,” my father quickly quips, to see if I am paying attention.
Sacred
Knowledge navigates both spiritual and material worlds while also mediating (if used positively) the fiduciary nature of those who are guardians of it.
Special
Special knowledge can be seen as specific to expertise in everyday skills. This can be seen in men who have acute knowledge of specific healing properties of plants’ healing properties, which they use to help the community in moments of medical need.
Everyday
Everyday knowledge is what islanders know communally and is information that helps each individual and family live cohesively.
Climate mobility and the difficulty of adjusting to the times, as my uncle and father have explained, is tethered to a whole knowledge system that will ultimately be lost as soon as there is no Ngongosila to call home. Deeply complex issues relate to cultural knowledge, sacred sites, land custodianship, and our tribe’s ultimate identity.
My tribe knows the winds of change are at the door through various signs, such as the fish being too small now. The fish caught to feed families are getting smaller, their size tells you that what they catch around or near the island no longer has time to grow to full maturity. The disappearance of the reefs means the larger fish no longer come into harbour.
The voices and replies are all the same – we need help to build (rebuild) this island.
My tribe has its responsibilities and past opportunities have been missed. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the then member of parliament purchased a parcel of land for both Ngongosila and Kwai islanders to migrate to. For whatever reason, this opportunity was not taken up. It may be due to the customary nature of land. Even to the obvious detriment of the current generation, why have the past leaders not pursued a bright future?
I spoke with three older members of my family. My father, my uncle (my father’s brother), and my cousin sister (from my father’s eldest sibling, now passed on). All were either raised up in or frequently visited the island in their formative years.
My uncle spoke of master fishermen who would use techniques no longer in use today. A story my father retells is the use of stones and nets. A certain type of stone, struck at a certain rhythm, would attract schools of fish in the encircled nets. After a while, schools of fish would draw towards the sound and the men with nets would slowly close the circle, catching a bounty of fish to then share with the village or for special ceremonies or occasions.
My father spoke of the first migrations to the mainland in the late 1990s and early 2000s. These people were from our tribe and even though they moved to the mainland they would still walk to the sea to take showers or just dip their feet. When I asked why they would do that when there was fresh running water, my father quipped, “People from the island are ocean people, and it has been this way for generations. Despite the challenges or the realities of the sinking islands they will never leave – the sea is a part of them.”
My cousin spoke of some of the early migration in the late 1990s, particularly the older generation who are now gone. These older statesmen and women would often speak in metaphors about the move from Ngongosila to the mainland. One metaphor spoke broadly about the difference between a leg that’s dirty with mud and a leg that’s dirty with sand. With sand, no matter how much you had on your leg, it was still cleaner than the red earth on your toes. In other words, there is a cleanliness associated with living on sand versus living on the red earth.
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All three spoke of my grandmother who, in her later years, moved from the island to the coastline in Fera’asi. A big part of this was the heat during the day on the island and cool coastline breeze. I reflected on my visits to my grandmother, on the island and along the coast of the mainland, and I too recall the contrast. On the island my grandmother was vibrant and full of life and wisdom; on the mainland coastline she largely resorted to sleeping most days and finally, she was called to her eternal home in heaven. Each of these stories paint a rich picture of what once life was like on the island. Rich, robust, vibrant laughter, communal living and a real purpose in our design as it relates to interaction with the island and sea.
All three relatives now live in Honiara and New Zealand. They too, as migrants, sought better lands. All three, like the younger generation, are resigned to accept that there is one constant. Change. Change, although slower than in the western context, has greater value. Things, as slow as they happen, allow us to adjust to change – change that happens over generations.
That was a watershed moment for me. Coming in from Australia, with all of its technological advances and change, shapes the adjustment to that change. That is to say, things happen so quickly in developed nations that we go from one change to the next without dealing properly with the previous signpost of change. Such pace builds up an anxiety that often is pre-supposed onto other contexts where this phenomenon may not take place. These are my philosophical reflections after talking to my father, uncle, and elder cousin who straddled both worlds in the old and new, and now live in the emerging or ‘developed’.
Human history shows examples of migration throughout the centuries. The desire to move can be forced, by choice or a combination of both. My tribe is no different. Stories passed down from our tribe suggest that we were also diaspora, having arrived on Ngongosila from other parts of Malaita.
I observe that there are key elements to my tribe’s resilience:
The Gwailao tribe function as a signpost, as do the other tribes that make up the Gualala indigenous peoples. The voices of youth and elders resonate the importance of taking into consideration how we negotiate the politics of change proportional to our material and spiritual environments.
My father tells me a story of the earliest migration in the 1990s from Ngongosila to the mainland. Our relatives refused to shower in the rivers or waterfall nearby. They would still go to the sea and bathe. I pressed and asked, “Why didn’t they assimilate with their new environment?” He quietly replied, “Our people are born of the sea; the sand is like a cleansing agent as opposed to the red dirt that reminds them of uncleanliness; cleanliness is what reminds them of their trust in Christ.”
It is stories like this that survey the elements of what makes the tribe’s relationship to change simple yet immediately sophisticated. There is not a simple answer to changing the tribe’s perspective collectively.
Resilience seems to be part and parcel of the human fibre; trying to self-correct or change generational habits will take time. Maybe this project will allow that to happen functionally. I see the hope(lessness) in many of the children’s eyes; but also know we will continue to set sail – although not recognisable to our forefathers if they were around today – and travel to the next reef.
Welfare and wellbeing, as terms of reference for the tribe, simply involves what today brings and doing enough to see our children honour God, do well in school, and hold fast to their heritage as tribe members.
I see it clearly in how a young child interacts with their parents, in ordinary means throughout the household with the delegation of chores and yard upkeep. A child runs immediately to their parent once being summoned to sweep the leftover embers from last night’s wood that was used to cook the potatoes and fish. Communal values are held in proportion to an individual’s contribution to society and productive nature. During the day, most of the men are resting under the shade of their traditional huts, in preparation for an all-night fish.
Women are busy attending to new-borns and infants while singing hymns in the traditional dialect. The sounds are heard of the older children laughing and running from the shore after paddling for thirty minutes to get home. This is all a rhythm of life that keeps the balance of meaning and belonging, even as the tides of change roll in.
Orientation is an important word. The fishermen orient towards a certain point on the horizon to navigate towards a fishing school. The women orient towards meal preparation for the day by setting their time according to when the sun is at its peak, to avoid the harshest part of the day. The children orient their hopes for the future every time a family member returns from urban areas like Auki or Honiara; what is this video?
What is Facebook? What is live streaming? The older generation orient themselves towards death and talk about seeing their loved ones gone before them and their Lord Jesus Christ. The developing personalities, in proportion to the changing environment, is a difficult reality faced by my tribe – but this idea of orientation towards a desired future needs no education. This is what I have observed.
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The interview questions were done, the camera gear packed away. We had just finished lunch after all the ‘tok stori’ was done. My cousin stands up and starts to talk while holding back the tears. It is more than just sand, memories, and a place to call home. We lose this, and we lose a unique part of Malaita’s history. We lose a part of Malaita that contributed to the development of the nation.
“iufala no forgetem mifala” [you all, don’t forget us]
Don’t forget us; none of us like the reality that we will be gone and forgotten one day. The nature of our Gwailao tribe and indigenous group is such that we now face a crisis of not only mobility, but cultural loss. This reality, although sad, gives more importance to work such as this.
Strengths that my tribe has highlighted off-set the risks that we face or at least are mitigated by education and pragmatic future-oriented solutions. May this work continue as the stories are shared and our tribe is kept for the future.
This case study is one of 10 multigenerational family or kin group stories across six Pacific nations (Kiribati, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Tokelau, Tonga, and Tuvalu).
The research had three key objectives:
I interviewed 13 members of my Gwailao tribe; 10 were youths and three were adults from my extended and immediate family. The 10 youth were interviewed and tok stori took place on our island of Ngongosila and were captured by our camera team. The three adults were interviewed and tok stori occurred over the phone from my location in Brisbane. My tok stori method was prompted by a ‘tok stori guide’ (set of guiding questions) as well as my tribal heritage to each person, so much of the tok stori flowed from our shared kinship and deep trust.
At the time of writing, I was living in Australia as part of the Solomon Islands diaspora, residing here in Brisbane. Upon reflection and returning home here, there is a sense of deep connectivity and bandwidth to see seeds like this succeed. I have certainly enjoyed reconnecting with my tribe to purse a desired future for a better and equipped Gwailao in the future ahead. All tok storisessions were either audio recorded or they were oratory tok stori sessions that I was a part of growing up, including those taking place in formal family settings.
Labu Consulting
New Zealand Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade has commissioned this work, funded by New Zealand’s climate finance. The views expressed here are the authors’ alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of the New Zealand government.
i ‘Climate mobility’ is an umbrella term for situations where climate change and environmental factors are a driver for people moving, and for situations where people decide to stay in place. Some examples include the relocation of a community within a country (e.g. moving a village inland in response to natural hazards such as flooding or sea-level rise), an individual’s temporary move for economic reasons (e.g. via labour mobility schemes), and permanent migration within the Pacific.
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