Sohaila Abdulali & Zam Zadeh (Illustration) Samoa Diary, Part 2
To whom do we belong?

We all headed to the Vaisigano for the first phase of the citizen science workshop, which involved getting to know each other and getting to know the river. Ah, so a river isn’t necessarily just a river. The Vaisigano is considered a river system, not a single river—in Samoa, the same body of water has different names depending on where you are. The place where we’re standing with the giggling girls is called Malifa, and there the river is called Loto O Samasoni, or “The Deep Waters of Samson.”

The team from the Übersee-Museum was accompanied by a number of university staff, including two instructors (Sene Taupega-Satau and Asonei Leauga), two lab technicians (Taua Veni and Letitaia Simi), and the man of the hour, Ieremia Gale—an artist with the Ministry of Education. As soon as he arrived, he had the reserved students laughing. Also present was Fa’ainuseilamalie Latu, a lecturer in the Department of Natural Sciences. There were drivers, videographers, photographers, and energetic young men who enthusiastically joined us.

By calling them “giggling girls,” I don’t mean to belittle the intelligent young women on our field trip. Yes, they giggled, and that was wonderful. But every single one of them was brave enough to wade into the river, play with paint, and stand in front of the whole group to explain their artwork. And every single one of them seemed to take their studies very seriously and either had plans for the future or was open to the idea. Audrey, for example, is the president of the student association. She’s an excellent biology major. She chatted with me while she applied paint to ferns and then pressed them onto canvas. She’s interested in sustainable development as well as biotechnology, and she’d like to complete her degree in New Zealand. I hope she makes it there.

A female student who arrived late because she had been at church was greeted enthusiastically on the bus. Eventually, a young man joined us, but the day was clearly dominated by the women.

The assignment was meant to highlight the students’ deep connection to the river, but—there wasn’t one. They just go to the beach. The start was rocky, since only a very steep path led down to the water, and everyone hesitated. There was a fresh pile of trash. Human feces lay between the river and the road. A section of the river stank. All of this had happened overnight, because when the team had checked the site the day before, everything had been pristine. But then the sun came out, the water upstream sparkled, the waterfall was breathtaking, and suddenly we were climbing down and splashing in the water. That’s the heartbreaking reality all over the world: you arrive in paradise and are greeted by plastic bottles and stench.

If we want citizen science, we have to take reality into account. And before long, the smells and the trash were forgotten; all that mattered was the glorious day, the water, and the trees, and after exploring and wandering around, they sat down with paper and canvas to draw and paint. At first, everyone insisted that they were studying the natural sciences and weren’t artists, and then they proved themselves wrong by

• They glued small pieces of wood onto their canvas
• painted with their fingers
• were inspired by pictures on their cell phones
• Colors blended together, creating beautiful swirls and shades
• Pasted on pieces of plants and flowers, as well as pebbles
• were completely absorbed in their work, except for the occasional, unavoidable giggle

There’s no doubt about it, they’re artists. A splash of yellow against the blue—aaah! Who could resist that?

After this had been celebrated, presented, and explained to everyone’s great satisfaction (Audrey drew laughter for her lovely creation when she explained, “I romanticized it, so I left out all the bad stuff”), we went our separate ways, planning to meet again the following week for the more scientific part of the project. The students will collect samples in another part of the river system, which they’ve now seen with fresh eyes. I’ll be sneaking around and taking notes, and culture and science will coexist, just as they should.

Sunday in Samoa means church, food, family, and relaxation. It has become clear to me that any organization that wants to promote an understanding of Samoa must immediately send its staff members to the country to spend a Sunday there. That way, they’ll see how the country works, a fundamental prerequisite for understanding a society. You also come to understand what family, spirituality, and food mean, and that, after all, is what really matters.

We spent our Sunday in a village on the south coast. Every village has chiefs, known as matais. Each village has several matais, who are responsible for their families and their own land. Eighty percent of the land is owned by families under customary law, and the chiefs are in charge of it. Since this land cannot be sold, in principle everyone in Samoa owns some land, and homelessness is simply not possible. That sounds wonderful to me, and in many ways it is. But. There’s always a but.

Your Matai is in charge of “your” land, and you can’t do anything without his (or sometimes her) consent. If you sell or build without permission, it’s a sacrilege. Imagine living in another country for several decades and dreaming of spending your old age back home. You return to your beloved island and want to build a house. The family, led by the matai, must give its consent. Perhaps you’ll get permission and the necessary support. Everyone is happy. But perhaps the opposite happens. If you build without permission, you could be thwarted and end up with a half-finished house.

Who owns what? The question glows in neon yellow in my mind. I come from a country that the British considered their property. My traveling companions come from a country that considered this jewel of an island its own. Ownership is the root of the conflicts and comforts we constantly grapple with. And the central question facing us as a museum is: Who owns knowledge, and how do we share it? Who gets the trophies, and who writes the stories?

In Samoa, people “own” land, but someone else controls it. It belongs to the family, not to the individual. In Germany, the U.S., and India, you can own land directly, though often with many restrictions—zoning laws, tradition, corruption, and, of course, the climate, which thwarts our plans whenever we think we have everything under control. For me, however, the most interesting question is what owns us. In India, we don’t ask others where they’re from. We ask, “Where do you belong?”

And that really sums it up here, too. All day today, I was filled with a genuine sense of warmth, surrounded by a loving family where everyone looks out for one another, cooks for each other, and spends time in each other’s open homes. It’s simply magical. I think of all the lonely, desperate people in New York, and this feels like paradise.

But! There’s always a “but.” What if your own family isn’t so loving? There is certainly no society on earth where everyone is friendly and caring and looks out for the interests of others. What if the matai is power-hungry or a criminal? What if, one Sunday, you just don’t feel like going to church or are allergic to the traditional palusami that’s part of every Sunday-toonai? Food for thought.

Our celebration truly lived up to its name. Umu, the Sunday meal, is cooked on hot stones. That means the young men go fishing on Saturday, chop wood, and gather everything they need. The young women have other tasks. According to tradition, the fire must be out by the time the sun rises on Sunday morning; otherwise, others will see your smoke and know you overslept. In some villages, it’s the rule that everyone goes to church, except for one or two people who take care of the meal and make sure everything is ready. (And once again, the annoying New Yorker asks: What if you just want to sleep in?)

The service was wonderful, partly because I didn’t understand a word of it. That way, I could take my time admiring the carvings, the stained-glass windows depicting fish and birds, and all the rows of elegant ladies in their magnificent white hats. I don’t know what the pastor said, but that was probably for the best, because I could tell myself that he was saying truly wise things, which served to uplift and enlighten me.

And the feast that followed, on the spectacular Pacific coast under an almond tree in perfect weather—it would be cruel to describe that feast to someone who wasn’t there. Just a hint: In addition to a whole pig, there was a lot of coconut, and it goes on the list of the best meals of all time.

Then a stroll through the beautiful village, which lay deserted after everyone had feasted. Then a swim in the Pacific and a hike through the rainforest. A visit to paradise. And it looks different from every angle. The skeptical New Yorker might feel confined. The traditional Samoan might feel right at home. The rebellious villager might feel terrible. The children running around in the church might feel that it belongs to them, and that they belong to it, and isn’t that exactly what we’re all looking for?

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As part of preparing our permanent exhibition “The Blue Continent—Islands in the Pacific,” we’ve built networks and collected stories. There are more stories to discover here!