EVERY inch of our childhood in Fiji was shaped by women, yet we exist in a society that so often relegates their monumental influence to the background, praising the men who stand on the stages these women built. It is time to strip away the subtlety. It is time to forcefully acknowledge the undue, staggering influence of the women who molded us, and it is time to drag their narratives back to the bleeding edge of our national consciousness.
Since I was two or three years old, my understanding of power was not shaped by men in suits or politicians on pulpits; it was shaped by my mother. Every day, she walked into the Ghim Li garment factory in Lautoka. The rhythmic, deafening hum of those sewing machines was the soundtrack of her sacrifice. But she was never a victim of her circumstances; she was the absolute keeper of her destiny. In an era and culture where patriarchal norms often dictated that the man was the head of the house, my mother sat at the table as an equal partner. She commanded the direction of our future, weaving our family’s survival with the same precision with which those factory needles pierced fabric. She taught me that true empowerment doesn’t roar from a podium – it shows up, shifts the paradigm from the inside, and builds a future with calloused hands and an unbreakable will.
If my mother was the quiet architect of our lives, my fua (paternal aunt) was the unapologetic storm. A nurse at the Lautoka hospital, she navigated the bleeding, frantic edges of life and death daily. I looked at her with equal parts absolute awe and healthy, trembling fear. In a deeply conservative society that constantly tried to police how women should speak, act, and exist, she outright refused the script. She spoke her mind with razor-sharp precision. She didn’t shy away from smoking or having a drink, entirely unbothered by the whispered judgments of a hypocritical society. She was a living, breathing defiance against anyone’s opinion overpowering her own. I still remember the occasions when my fragile, boyish entitlement would flare up – when I would throw a tantrum, demanding that my hair be cut in a “proper” city salon. My fua had zero tolerance for male entitlement, regardless of the age. She would simply arrive with a pair of household scissors and, with swift, undeniable authority, snip away at the bowl cut. With every lock of hair that fell to the floor, she was cutting down the very roots of the privilege I was trying to grow. She taught me that respect is earned, not demanded by virtue of gender.
This matriarchal education extended far beyond the walls of our home. My cousins were teachers, and countless times, my parents’ grueling work schedules meant I was babysat in the back of their classrooms. I watched them command the attention of dozens of youths, shaping the minds of the next generation by day. Then, the bell would ring, and I would watch these same women return home to become the lionesses of their dens – ferociously protecting, nurturing, and sustaining their families. They lived dual lives of immense burden, executed with a grace that men rarely have to muster.
When I entered the education system myself, my entire primary experience was heavily dictated by phenomenal female teachers who viewed the classroom as a crucible for equality. They were the earliest disruptors of the patriarchy. Under their watchful eyes, no gender bias was permitted to slide by. The division of labour was absolute and blind to gender: If the classroom needed to be swept and the floors mopped, then every single student – boy or girl – held a broom and a mop. There was no “women’s work.” And when the stifling heat broke and we ran out to the fields for a game of kadu-ghora (pumpkin horse) or a rough-and-tumble game of soccer, the girls were right there beside us, matching our energy, our speed, and our competitive fire. These teachers didn’t just teach us arithmetic and literacy; they reprogrammed our societal default settings.
As I grew, my understanding of women’s impact expanded from the personal to the national. The media we consumed was practically anchored by women of formidable substance. We watched television screens illuminated by the presence of strong female politicians and activists like Jiko Luveni, Taufa Vakatale, Adi Koila Nailatikau, and Virisila Buadromo, women who stood in the unforgiving arena of Fijian politics and activism, fighting tooth and nail for our collective rights. When I think of human rights and the uncompromising fight for justice in Fiji, Shamima Ali is the first Indo-Fijian woman who commands my mind. She stood as a fortress against the pervasive, often ignored plagues of domestic violence and systemic misogyny, forcing a deeply uncomfortable mirror onto a society that preferred to look away.
Our homes were constantly filled with the voices of women. The radio boombox vibrated with the golden, authoritative voices of Noor Jehan, Shammi Lochan, Sharon Bhagwan-Rolls, and Shavila Singh. They were the narrators of our daily lives, bringing news, culture, and connection into our living rooms. Our television sets were graced by the sharp intellect and poised delivery of Rachna Nath, Rebecca Singh, and Lenora Qereqeretabua. And who could ever forget Ateca, commanding the screen and capturing the hearts of a generation on Fiji TV’s Get Set? The very soundwaves of our tropical home were enriched by the melodic, powerful vocals of Laisa Vulakoro, Paulini Curuenavuli, and Lia Osborne. They were not merely entertainers; they were the cultural heartbeat of a nation trying to find its post-colonial identity.
Fiji’s narrative, the very way we understood our own history as it unfolded, was shaped, questioned, and recorded by the relentless journalism of Wainikiti Bogidrau, Samantha Magick, Losana McGowan, and Rita Narayan. In a region where the press has often faced turbulent, intimidating waters, these women held the pen with a steady hand, speaking truth to power and ensuring that the stories of the marginalised were never buried in the fine print.
Even the foundational economy of our country was held aloft by female sweat and endurance. On Saturday mornings, the Lautoka market was a masterclass in female entrepreneurship. The aisles were packed with strong, resilient women selling fresh vegetables, root crops, and intricate crafts. They were the backbone of the informal economy, calculating margins and negotiating prices while balancing the welfare of entire extended families on their shoulders. Walking across the street to the vibrant clothing stores, I witnessed a different kind of endurance. A smiling woman would stand for hours, meticulously unfolding and showing tens of saris to my mother, demonstrating a profound patience and a deep understanding of commerce and community connection until my mother was completely satisfied. These women were the unsung titans of our economy.
When we look back at the tapestry of our lives, the undeniable truth is that these women are the true, living definitions of “women empowerment.” They did not need corporate seminars or catchy slogans to embody strength; they lived it in the garment factories, in the hospital wards, in the classrooms, in the markets, and on the national broadcast. Yet, as a society – and specifically, as men – our egos have consistently and stubbornly refused to see what has always been standing right in front of us. We have happily accepted the empowerment, the care, the education, and the economic stability provided by the females around us, only to systematically exclude them from the highest echelons of decision-making.
Let me be unequivocally clear: I am not calling for the exile of men. I am not suggesting that we tear down one gender to elevate another, nor am I advocating for a reversal of oppression. That is a fearful, small-minded interpretation of progress. What I am demanding is a recalibration of our soul as a nation. We must walk towards the future with a common goal, shoulder to shoulder, recognising that a bird cannot fly with one wing clipped. The world has already shown us the formidable, transformative power of female leadership. We have witnessed the radical empathy of Jacinda Ardern in New Zealand, guiding a nation through terror and pandemic with a grace that shamed the bluster of her male counterparts. We have seen the iron will of Margaret Thatcher and the stoic, intellectual stability of Angela Merkel, proving that strength is not a male prerogative. We remember the fierce, commanding presence of Indira Gandhi, the tragic bravery of Benazir Bhutto, and the pragmatic, steadfast governance of Helen Clark. These women did not just lead; they defined eras. They proved that women are capable of navigating the most treacherous political waters without losing their humanity.
So why, in our beloved Fiji, do we still hesitate? Why do we reserve our highest offices for the “fathers” of the nation while ignoring the mothers who actually raised it? We have the talent. We have the resilience. We see it every day in the women who manage our households with the precision of a finance minister and the compassion of a saint. To deny them the helm of our country is not just sexism; it is a waste of our greatest natural resource.
We need to really think – deeply and critically – about the kind of Fiji we want to live in. Do we want a Fiji that remains stuck in the archaic, ego-driven loops of the past, or do we want a Fiji that finally unlocks its full potential? A Fiji where the daughter of a garment factory worker in Lautoka knows, with absolute certainty, that her voice belongs in parliament just as much as her brother’s. Men have shown what they can do in the last 56 years. We have seen the good, but we have also seen the devastation of ego. Now, in this year of elections, let us be brave enough to set aside our pride. Let us make way for the strength, the wisdom, and the leadership of our women. Not behind us, not beneath us, but right beside us, leading the way.
n ASHNEEL JAYNESH PRASAD is a Fiji-born New Zealand citizen currently working as a teacher in Shinagawa-ku, Tokyo, Japan.
