The Papalagi made God poor

The Papalagi have a strangely confused way of thinking. They always rack their brains, to extract more profits or rights from things. And their consideration is not for humanity, but for one single person only. And that single person is themselves.

When somebody says: "My head belongs to me and to nobody but me", he is very right and nobody can speak up against it. Up to this point, the Papa­lagi and me share our views. But when he continues: "That palm tree is mine", only because that tree happens to grow in front of his hut, then he behaves as if he made the palm tree grow himself. But that palm tree belongs to nobody. To nobody! It is God's hand, reaching out to us from the soil. God has many hands. Every tree, every blade of grass, the sea, the sky and the clouds that float by, they are all God's hands. We may use them for our pleasure, but we may never say: "God's hand is my hand". But that is what the Papalagi do now.

In our language `lau' means `mine', but it also means `yours'. It's almost the same thing. But in the language, of the Papalagi, it is hard to find two words that differ so much in meaning as `mine' and `yours'. Mine, means that something belongs entirely to me. Yours, means belonging entirely to somebody else. That's why the Papalagi calls every­thing that stands close to his house, `mine'. Nobody is entitled to it but him. When you visit a Papalagi and see something there, a tree or a fruit, wood or water or a pile of dirt, there is always someone around to say: "It's mine, and don't let me catch you taking any from my property!" When you still touch something, he will start screaming and call you a thief! That is the worst curse he knows. And only because you dared to touch the other man's his. His friend and the servants of the chief will come run­ning, they will put you in chains and throw you in the gloomiest pfui-pfui and people will despise you for the rest of your life.

Now to avoid people touching things that some­body else declared his, a law is set up to declare what is his and what is mine. And there are people in Europe that spend their whole life paying atten­tion that the law isn't broken, that nothing will be taken away from the Papalagi what he has declared to be his. In that manner, the Papalagi want to make the impression that they have a real right to those things, as if God has given his things away for always. As if the palm trees, the flowers, the trees, the sea, the air and the clouds are really his property.

The Palapagi are in need of laws guarding their mine, because otherwise, the people with little or no mine at all would take it away from them. Because if there are people that claim a lot for themselves, there are always a lot of others left standing empty-handed. Not everybody knows the tricks and hid­den signs by which you can gather a lot of mine and also a kind of courage is needed, that has little or nothing to do with what we call honor. And it may very well be possible, that those Papalagi who stand with empty hands, because they didn't want to rob and insult God, are the best of their tribe. But many Papalagi like that do not exist.

Most of them rob God without even a trace of shame. They don't know any better. They are not aware of any wrongdoing, everybody does it and nobody sees any harm done or feels bad about it. Many also receive their pile of mine by birth, from their fathers. And God has almost nothing left, because the people have taken it and transformed it into mine and yours. His sun, intended for all of us, cannot be divided evenly anymore, because one demands more than the other. In the nice open spaces where the sun shines in all its splendor, only a few people are sitting, while a whole crowd of others try to catch a pale ray of light sitting in the shadows. God cannot rejoice with all his heart, because he isn't the alii sili (ruler) in his own house anymore. The Papalagi deny him by saying that every­thing is theirs. But to that insight they never come, no matter how hard they think.

On the contrary, they consider their deeds fair and honest. But in God's eyes, they are unfair and dishonest.

When they would make use of their common sense, they would certainly understand that nothing we cannot hold, belongs to us and that, when the going gets rough we cannot hold on to anything. Then also he would start realizing that God made his house so big, because he wanted there to be place for everybody and happiness also. And it cer­tainly would be big enough for everybody, so they could all find a sunny spot, a small share of hap­piness, a few palm trees and certainly a spot for his two feet to stand on, just as God wanted and desired it to be. How could God ever forget one of his own children?

But still, there are many feverishly looking for that tiny, little spot that God has reserved for them.

Because the Papalagi don't want to listen to God's word and start making laws of their own, God sends them many things that threaten their prop­erty. He sends heat and rain to destroy his mine, it ages, crumbles, and rots away. God gives storm and fire power over their mine also. And worst of all he introduces fear in the hearts of the Papalagi. Fear is the main thing he has acquired. A Papalagi's sleep is never quiet, because he has to be on the alert all the time, so the things he has amassed in the day­time are not stolen from him during the night. His hands and senses have to be busy holding on to his property, all the time.

And all through the day, his mine pesters him and laughs in his face, shouts at him because it is stolen from God, it tortures him and gives him a lot of misery.

But God inflicted a heavier punishment than fear on the Papalagi. He gave them the struggle between those that have little or nothing at all, and those that have a lot. That struggle is hot and violent and rages day and night. It is a struggle that every­body suffers from and is chewing up the joy of liv­ing. Those that have a lot should give some of it away, but they don't want to. The have-nots also want their share, but they get nothing. Seldom also they are warriors of God. They consist mainly of people that came too late when the loot was being divided, or of those that were too clumsy or didn't have the opportunity to grab something. That they are robbing God, enters nobody's mind. And only rarely does an old, wise man stand up, and urges people to put everything back into God's hands.

Brothers! What is your opinion of a man who has a big house, big enough to lodge an entire Samoan-village, and who doesn't permit a traveler to spend the night under his roof? What do you think of a man who holds an entire bunch of bananas in his hands and who is unwilling to give even a single fruit to the starving man who pleads for it. I can see the anger flaring up in your eyes and the contempt com­ing to your lips. Know then, that the Papalagi act this way every hour, every day. Even if he has a hun­dred mats, he won't give away a single one to his brother who has none. No, he even blames his brother for having none. Even if his but is stuffed to the roof with food, so much that he and his aiga cannot eat it in years, he will not even go look for his brothers who have nothing to eat and look pale and hungry. And there are many pale and hungry Papalagi.

The palm tree, upon ripening, sheds leaves and fruit. The Papalagi live like palm trees that hold on to their fruit and leaves and say: "They are mine". People are not allowed to eat anything from it! How could a tree like that ever bear new fruit? The palm trees are wiser than the Papalagi.

Amongst us also there are those that have more than others and we honor the chief, who has many mats and pigs. But that honor only applies to his person and not to his mats and pigs, because we gave those to him ourselves, to show our happiness and to honor his great wisdom and courage. But the Papalagi honor their brothers, because of their many pigs and mats and their wisdom is never con­sidered. A Papalagi without pigs or mats is seldom or never honored.

As the pigs and mats do not walk to the poor and needy all by themselves, the Papalagi see no reason why they should bring them to their brothers them­selves. Because for his brother he has no respect, only for mats and pigs and those he would rather keep to himself. When he would love and honor his brother, and not live in conflict about the mine and yours, then he would bring him mats so as to share and enjoy his big mine together. Then he would share his own mat, instead of chasing him out into the dark night.

But the Papalagi don't realize that God has given us palm trees, bananas and our precious taro, the birds in the forest and all the fish in the sea, for everybody's enjoyment and happiness. And not only for a few, while the rest can suffer hardships and need. Those that are blessed by God with full hands, should share with their brothers, otherwise the fruits in their hands will rot away. Because God extends his multitude of hands to everybody, he doesn't want one to have much more than the other, or somebody saying: "I'm standing in the sunshine and you must stand in the shadow". We all belong in the sunshine.

When God keeps everything in his just hands, there are no struggles and there is no need. Now the smart Papalagi want to make us believe that nothing belongs to God! Whatever you can grab with your hands belongs to you! But let's close our ears for such foolish talk and stick to common sense: everything belongs to God.

Postscript: Everybody familiar with the fact that the Samoans live in a total shared-property society, will understand Tuiavii's con­tempt for our laws on property, the concept of 'mine and thine' is simply unknown to them. During all my travels, the natives have always shared their hut, mat and food and everything with me, without even a second thought. The first words of greeting spoken by a village chief would be often: "Everything that's mine, belongs to you". The concept of 'theft' also was unknown to the islanders. Everything belongs to everybody. And everything belongs to God.

THE GREAT SPIRIT IS STRONGER THAN MACHINES

The Papalagi make a lot of things that we cannot make, nor will ever be able to make, things we don't understand and that mean not a thing to our heads, just heavy stones. Things also, we don't want to possess at all but are still admired by the weak ones amongst us, giving them misplaced feelings of inferiority. That's why we want to have an open discussion on the amazing tricks of the Papalagi.

The Papalagi have the talent to change everything into their spear or their club. They take the wild lightning, the hot fire and the swift waters and make them subject to their will. They lock them up and give them orders. And they obey them. They become strong warriors for them. The Papalagi are capable of making the wild lightning even faster and lighter, the hot fire even hotter and the swift water even swifter than it was already.

The Papalagi really seem to be "The Breakers of the Heavens" (Papalagi means white man, stranger, literally it means, "Breaker of the Heavens" The first white missionary landing on Samoa came in a sailing vessel. When the natives saw it approach, they thought it was a crack in the sky through which-the white man came to them. He broke the heavens. In the mythology of the Maoris of New Zealand, the Papalagi are the white skinned ones who came down from the heavens in shining, white vehicles). the messengers of the Gods, because of their mastery over earth and sky.

The Papalagi is like a fish, a bird, a worm and a horse, at the same time. He drills into the ground, through the soil and he digs tunnels under the widest freshwater streams. He crawls through mountains and rocks, he ties iron wheels to his feet and speeds off, faster than the fastest horse. He takes off into the air, he can fly! I've seen him glide through the air like a seagull. He has a big canoe for on top of the water and also one for under the water. He sails his canoe from cloud to cloud.

Beloved brothers! The words I speak are the truth and you must believe your servant, even when your common sense makes you doubt everything I just said. For the Papalagi's things are very big and impressive and I'm afraid many among us will be shaken by so much power. And where to start, when I would have to tell you everything that my astonished eyes have taken in!

You all know the big canoe that is called a steamer by the white man. Doesn't it just look like a gigantic fish? How is it possible for it to make the crossing from one island to another faster than our strongest young men can row across? Have you ever seen its large tail fin, when it sailed away? It moves the same way the tail of a fish in the lagoon moves. And that fin propels the canoe. How that can be, is the Papalagi's big secret. The secret rests in the belly of the big fish. In there sits the machine that feeds the power to the fin. And in the machine that big power is hidden. My head is not strong enough to explain to you what a machine is: The only thing I know is, that it eats black stones and gives power for it in exchange, a power so big as to be impossible for a man to have.

The machine is the heaviest club the white man has. Feed it the heaviest ifi tree from the forest and the machine will smash it to pieces, like a woman smashing taro for her children to eat. The machine is the greatest magician of Europe. Its hand is strong and never tires. If so motivated, it can cut out hundred canoes, no a thousand canoes a day. I've seen it weave loincloths, so fine and delicate as if woven by the graceful hands of a maiden. It was weaving from morning till night, spitting out loin­cloths, a whole pile of them! Our strength is worth nothing compared to the might of the machine.

The Papalagi are magicians. Sing a song for them and they will catch it and even send it back to you, any time you want. They put a piece of glass in front of you and catch your image on it. And thou­sands of times your counterfeit image can be taken from it, as many as you like.

I've seen even greater miracles. I told you that the Papalagi catch the lightning from the sky, that is the truth. They catch it, then the machine has to eat it and spits it out again at night, in the form of thou­sands of small stars, glow-worms and small moons. It would be a small thing for the Papalagi to bathe our island in light at night time, so it wouldn't be much darker than during the day. Also, they often send out these light-flashes in their service, they tell them where to go and have them carry messages to their brothers abroad. And those flashes of light­ning obey and carry the message.

The Papalagi has made all his limbs stronger. His hands stretch to the far shore of the sea and to the stars, and his feet overtake the wind and the waves. His ears hear every whisper in Savii and his voice has wings like a bird. His eyes even see in the dark He looks through himself as if his flesh is trans­parent like water, able to see every speck on the bottom.

All the things I have witnessed and of which I'm telling you now, are only a small part of all the things my eyes have beheld. And let me tell you that the whites take pride in working stronger and newer miracles all the time and scores of them stay up all night to wonder about more ways to cheat God. Because that happens, they want to defeat the Great Spirit and take possession of his powers for themselves. The Papalagi challenge God. But God still is stronger than the strongest Papalagi, his cleverest machine included and God is still the one who decides who dies, and when. The sun, the water and the fire still obey God first. And the white man didn't succeed yet in regulating the rise of the moon or the direction of the wind.

That's why those miracles are not that important. And, my beloved brothers, those island dwellers that let themselves be dazzled by the white man's miracles and those that pray to the whites because of their doings and those that call themselves poor and unworthy because their minds and hands are unable to make things like them, those I call weak­lings. The skills and wonders of the Papalagi may provoke much admiration in our eyes, but when you see them in the bright daylight, they don't mean more than weaving a mat or cutting out a club; all our labor is like children's play in the sand. Because nothing that the white man has made can stand the comparison with the work of the Great Spirit.

The huts of the high alii are marvelous and beau­tifully ornamented; they are called palaces. The tall huts that are erected in God's name are even more splendid and standing taller than the mountain Tofua (a high mountain on the island Upolu). But still they are crude and sloppy and lack the warm lifeblood, when you compare them with a hibiscus flower with its flaming red petals; or compare them with the crown of a palm tree or the coral reef, that drunken jungle of color and form. The Papalagi never succeeded in weaving his tex­tiles as delicately as God makes every spider weave his web and there is no machine as complicated as the tiny sand-ant that lives in our huts.

I told you that the Papalagi fly to the clouds like birds. But the gulls still fly higher and faster than man and they can also fly in a storm and they have wings growing out of their bodies, while the wings of the Papalagi are merely artificial and they break off and fall easily.

So, all his miracles have a weak spot somewhere and there isn't a single machine in existence that needs no caretaker or driver. And they all carry a hidden curse inside of them. A machine may make all sorts of things with its strong hands, but during its labor it eats out all the love that is present in the things we make with our hands. What do I care for a canoe that is cut out for me by a machine, a cold lifeless machine that is unable to talk about its prod­uct, that doesn't smile when the product is finished and can not take its product to his father or mother to have it admired. Would I be able to love my tanoa like I love her now, when a machine could make me another any moment, without my intervention? That's the big curse of the machine; the Papalagi love nothing anymore, because the machine can make them a new one anytime. They have to feed it their own life's blood in order to receive its heartless miracles.

The Great Spirit wants to spread around and dif­fuse the powers of heaven and earth himself, to his discretion. No human has the right to do that. Not without punishment can a man expect to change himself into a fish or a bird, into a horse or a worm. His gains are much smaller than he dares confess to himself. When I drive through a village I make good pace, but when I walk I can see everything better and my friends invite me into their huts. Reaching your destination quickly is rarely a real benefit. The Papalagi always want to reach the destination of their travels quickly. Most of their machines have no other purpose than rapid transportation of people. But when they come to the end of their trek they immediately want to go on another one. That way the Papalagi run restlessly through life, more and more losing the ability to walk and run, never catch­ing up with their destinies; destiny that comes to us without us going looking for it.

Therefore I tell you that the machine is not more than a nice toy in the hands of the big white children and their tricks must not scare us. The Papalagi have never invented

a machine yet that protected them from death. Never did they make or do any­thing that's more powerful than the things God makes or does, every hour. No machine or magic ever lengthened a human life, or made it happier and more joyful. So let us stick to the works and wonders of God and let us despise the white man, who wants to play God himself.

PROFESSIONS OF THE PAPALAGI AND THE CONFUSION THAT IS THEIR RESULT

Every Papalagi has a profession. It’s hard to say exactly what that means. It is something for which you are supposed to have a big appetite, but seems to be lacking most of the time. Having a profession means, always doing the same things. Doing it so often that you can do it with your eyes closed and without strain. When my hands would do nothing but build huts or weave mats, then my profession is hut-builder or mat-weaver.

There are male and female professions. Washing loincloths in the lagoon and shining foot skins are female professions, sailing a ship on the sea and shooting pigeons in the forest are male professions. The women usually give up their professions when they marry, but then the man really starts his. An alii only gives away his daughter to a suitor who is well trained in his profession. A Papalagi without a profession cannot-get married. It’s a rule that every white man has to have a profession.

That’s why every Papalagi has to choose a profession for the rest of his life, at a time that his puberty tattoos are applied. They call that, choosing a job. That is a very important occasion, and an aiga devotes as much time to it as he devotes to the question what to eat the next day. For instance, if he chooses the profession of mat-weaver, an old alii takes the boy to a man who does nothing but weaving mats. That man must show the boy how to weave mats. He must teach him to weave that mat the way he does it, without looking. Often, the learning takes a long time, but when he masters it, he leaves that man and people say, he knows a trade.

The Papalagi have as many professions as there are stones in the lagoon. Everything he does, he makes into a profession. When somebody gathers the leaves of the bread tree, he has a profession. When somebody washes food-bowls, he has a profession. Everything they do, they call a profession. With their hands or with their heads. It is also a profession to have thoughts and to look at the stars. There is nothing a man can do really, that is not made into a profession by the Papalagi.

When a white man says that he is a tussi-tussi (tussi = letter, tussi-tussi = letter-writer), then that is a profession. He does nothing else but write one letter after the other.

He does not carry his sleeping mat to the roof beams. He does not go to the cooking-shack himself to fry some fruits and does not clean his eating tools himself. He eats fish, but never goes out fishing himself. He eats fruit, but never plucks one from the tree himself. But he writes one tussi after the other, because his job happens to be tussi-tussi. Those other actions are all professions; taking the bed-mats up to the rafters, frying the fruits, washing the eating tools, catching the fish and plucking the fruits. And only those that hold the job, are qualified to perform it.

So it happens that the Papalagi can only do their own work and the chief who carries so much wisdom in his head and strength in his arms, can neither bring up his bedroll to the rafters nor wash his eating tools himself. And so it also happens that the man who can write a fancy tussi, is not necessarily able to sail a canoe; and the other way around. Having a profession means; only walking, only tasting, only smelling, only fighting, always knowing only one thing.

That knowing-only-one-thing, is a grave danger and shortcoming, because there may come a time that anybody must be able to row a canoe across the lagoon.

The Great Spirit has given us hands to pluck the fruits from the trees, or to pull the taro-roots from the swamp. We got them to defend our bodies against our enemies and to give us pleasure, when we play or dance or with other festivities. But we certainly haven’t got them only for breaking fruits off trees or digging up roots. They must be our servants and soldiers all the time.

But the Papalagi do not understand that. We can clearly see that their way of life is wrong and in sharp conflict with the wishes of the Great Spirit, because there are white people who cannot walk anymore and who gather lard on the lower parts of their rumps, like pigs do. Being forced by their trade to sit all the time, they can lift nor throw a spear, because their hands can only hold on to the writing bone and they are always sitting in the shade, writing tussi. They have become unable to break-in wild ponies, because they are forever looking up to the stars or digging thoughts out of themselves.

Only a few Papalagi can still jump and run like children, after growing up. When they walk they drag their feet and move as if they are continually burdened down. They deny and hide their weakness by saying that, running, romping and skipping is below the dignity of a proud man. But that is hypocritical, for his bones have hardened and turned brittle, happiness has left his muscles, because they are condemned to death by his job The profession also is a situ that destroys life. A situ that whispers sweet promises in people’s ears and at the same time sucks away the blood from their bodies.

Professions hurt the Papalagi also in another way and make themselves known as aitus, over and over.

For instance, it’s great to build a hut, cut the trees in the forest and chop them into planks, raise the timbers, cover them with the roof and finally when the planks and roof beams are tied together tightly with coconut fibers, to cover everything with dried leaves and sugar canes. I don’t have to tell you that it is great fun, when a village builds a new but for its chief, with women and children sharing the fun as well.

But if only a few of us would be allowed to go into the forest to chop down the trees and cut them into planks? And those few were forbidden to assist in erecting the timbers, because their job is only felling trees and cutting planks? And the other people who have erected the timbers, if they weren’t allowed to assist in weaving the roof because their job is plank layer? And the men weaving the roofs would not be allowed to assist in the laying of the sugar-canes, because mat-weaving is their profession? And none of them would be allowed to collect the pebbles on the beach used for hardening the floor, because that would be the job of those of the pebble collecting trade? And what if only those that are going to inhabit the house would take part in the opening festivities and all those that helped build it, were not?

You laugh and will certainly say, if we would not be allowed to help with all the things requiring our male strength, then half the fun would be gone, half the fun, no, all the fun! And he who expects us to use our hands for only one purpose, expects us to do as if all our other limbs and our senses were paralyzed or dead.

That’s the reason for the bitterness of the Papalagi. Sometimes it is great to fetch water from the creek, it may even be nice to do it a couple of times. But if you must carry water from sunrise to sunset, day after day, every hour until your strength fails, fetching and fetching; in the end you will fling away your pail in anger, embittered about the slavery of your body. Because there is nothing so hard for a man, as having to do the same thing over and over again.

But there are Papalagi for whom fetching water from the well day after day, would be a joy; they are the ones that do nothing else but lifting their hand and letting it drop again or push a stick and they have to do that in a grimy place where neither sun nor fresh air can penetrate and they do nothing that needs their strength or brings them happiness. Considering the way of thinking of the Papalagi, lifting your hand and pushing sticks is very important, because maybe you set a machine in motion that way or give it directions; set it, so it cuts out chalk rings or breast-shields, fabricates trouser-shells or so. There are more people with ash-grey faces in Europe, than there are trees on our islands. Because they derive no pleasure from their work, and because their job eats up all their happiness and they never make something for their own pleasure, not even a leaf, no matter how long they work. That’s why there lives a smoldering hate inside people with jobs. Something is living inside their hearts that’s restrained like a chained animal, rebelling but still unable to free itself. Filled with hate and envy they look at and compare each other’s jobs. People speak about lower and higher class jobs, although all jobs force people to do only half work. A human being is not just a hand or a foot, or a leg, but it is everything together. . . . Only when all the senses and the limbs work together, can a man’s heart be happy and healthy and not when only a part is allowed to live and the rest of him has to play dead. That breeds mixed-up, sick and desperate people.

The Papalagi live in confusion with their professions. They don’t realize that and when they would hear me speak like this, they certainly would call me a fool because I would judge without ever having had a profession, or having worked for a single day like a European works.

But those Papalagi have never been able to explain to us or make us understand, why we should do more work than God asks us to satisfy our hunger and provide for a roof over our heads and the enjoyment of a feast and its preparations in the village square. Our labors may seem puny and lacking the skills of the trade, but every true man and brother from the islands does his work cheerfully and never sadly. In that case he would rather not work at all. That’s the thing that sets us apart from the Papalagi. The white man sighs when he talks about his job, as if he’s being crushed under-its burden; but, our youths walk to the taro fields singing and with a song the maidens wash the loincloths in the swift stream. The Great Spirit certainly doesn’t wish us grey hairs as a result of some job, nor does he want us to crawl around like a sea slug in a lagoon, or like a toad on the land. He wants us to do our thing, proud and upright and remain people with happy eyes and supple limbs, forever.

THE PLACES OF PSEUDO-LIFE AND THE ‘MANY PAPERS‘

Oh, my beloved brothers from the big sea, if I, your humble servant, would truthfully relate all I’ve seen in Europe, I would have to speak for hours. My words would have to be like a swift flowing stream, flowing on from morning till night and still the truth wouldn’t be complete yet; because the life of the Papalagi is like the ocean, of which we also fail to discover beginning or end. It has as many waves as the great waters, it storms and churns, it laughs and dreams. As impossible it is to empty the sea with the hollow of your hand, so impossible it is for me to carry that big volume called Europe to you, inside my head.

But there’s one thing that I won’t forget to tell you; living in Europe without the places of pseudo-life and the ‘many papers’ is just as unthinkable as a sea that has no water. When you would take away those two things from the Papalagi, he would be like the fish that is thrown on the beach by a wave, only able to twitch its fins but not to swim and move about like it’s used to.

The places of pseudo-life! It’s not easy to describe such a place to you, the kind of place a white man calls cinema; describe it in such a way as to give you a clear picture. In every village community, all over Europe, they have such a mysterious place, a place that already makes the children dream and fills their heads with passionate yearning.

The cinema is a big hut, bigger than the largest but of a chief from Polo, yes, much bigger. It’s dark in there, even in the daytime, so dark that nobody can recognize his neighbor. When you enter you get blinded, and when you leave you get blinded even more. People tiptoe inside, searching, feeling their way inside along the wall, until a maiden comes with a spark of light in her hand and leads them to a place that is still unoccupied. Over there, one Papalagi hunkers next to the other, without seeing each other; a whole darkened room full of silent people. All those present sit on narrow planks, all planks facing one particular wall.

From the lower part of the wall a loud humming and blaring rises up, as if emerging from a deep ravine, and when your eyes get accustomed to the dark, you can see a Papalagi fighting with a box. He beats his hands with outspread fingers, on the numerous, black and white little tongues that cry out when they are hit, each with its own voice, resulting in the savage and disorderly noises of a village quarrel.

Such a racket has to drug and dupe our senses, so we will believe the things we see and not doubt the reality of the things happening. Right in front of us, a beam of light hits the wall as if the full moon shines upon it, and in that glare there are people appearing, real people that look and dress exactly like normal Papalagi. They move and walk around, they laugh and jump just like they do all over Europe. It’s like the moon being mirrored in the lagoon. You may see the moon but in reality it is not there. That’s how it is with these images. People move their lips and you would swear they were talking, but you cannot hear a syllable. It doesn’t matter how hard you listen and that’s how horrible it all is. You can’t hear a thing. That’s probably the reason for that Papalagi to beat on his box like he does. He wants to make the impression that you cannot hear those people because of the racket he makes. And that’s why letters appear on the screen from time to time, letters showing what the Papalagi just said or is about to say.

But these people are still pseudo-people and not real ones. If you would try to grab them, you would find out that they are entirely made out of light and impossible to get your hands on. The only reason for their existence lies in the fact that they show the Papalagi his own joy and sadness, his foolishness and weakness. This way he can get a close-up look of the prettiest men and women. They may be silent, but he can still see their movement and the lights in their eyes. He can imagine that they look at and speak with him.

The mightiest chiefs, that he could never expect to see, he now meets as if they were equals. He participates in dinner parties, fonos and other festivities, seeming to be there in person, sharing the food and the feast. But he also sees how a Papalagi takes away the girl from her aiga. Or he sees how a girl is untrue to a young man. He sees how a wild man grabs an alii by the throat, sees him pressing his fingers deeply into the neck and see the eyes of the alii start popping out, until he’s dead at last and the wild man pulls the round metal and the heavy papers out of the dead man’s loincloth.

While their eyes see much delights and cruelties, the Papalagi have to remain seated very quietly, not allowed to scorn the girl that’s unfaithful or come to the rescue of the rich alii. But that doesn’t disturb the Papalagi, he just sits there watching, pleased and delighted as if he has no heart at all. He doesn’t get furious or indignant. He looks at it as if he is a different species altogether. Because the Papalagi that sit there watching, are convinced that they are better than those they see in the beam of light, and that they would never perform foolish acts as there are shown to them. Their eyes stay glued to the wall, silent and without breathing and when they see a strong heart or a noble face, they imagine it to be their mirror image. They sit on their wooden planks as if frozen, staring at that smooth wall where nothing is alive but that deceptive beam of light, thrown at it by a magician through a narrow split in the back wall, resulting in a spot where much pseudo-life can be seen.

It is a great joy for the Papalagi to absorb those deceptive pseudo-images. In the dark he can participate in the pseudo-life without being ashamed and without other people being able to see his eyes. The poor can play being rich and the rich can play being poor, the sick can imagine themselves to be healthy again and the weak ones can dream of strength. In the dark everybody can conquer and live with the things that he would never be able to attain in real life.

Getting absorbed in the pseudo-life has become a passion for the Papalagi. A passion grown so strong that often they completely forget the real thing. That passion is a disease, because a healthy man wouldn’t want to live in darkened rooms, but he would desire the real life, warm in the shining sun. As a result of this passion, many Papalagi are so mixed-up when they leave the darkroom, that they cannot tell the real life from the surrogate anymore and they think themselves to be rich, when in the real life they don’t own a thing. Or they think themselves to be pretty, when they have ugly bodies, or they commit crimes that they would never have committed in real life. But now they commit those crimes because they cannot tell reality from fantasy anymore. You all know that state from the whites that have drunk too much European kava and then imagine that they are walking on waves.

The 'many papers’ also bring the Papalagi into a trance of a kind. What do I mean by that, the many papers'? Try to imagine a mat of tapa, thin, white and folded, parted in the middle and folded again, closely covered with writing on all sides, very tightly; that’s how the 'many papers' look and the Papalagi call it 'newspapers'.

Inside those papers, the wisdom of the Papalagi is hidden. Every morning and every evening he has to sink his head into it, to have it refilled, to satisfy it and to make sure that there is a lot inside so that it will think well, the way a horse will run better when you feed it many bananas and its body is well filled. When the alli are still asleep on their mats, messengers are already traversing the land to distribute the 'many papers'. It is the first thing he reaches out for when he has thrown slumber away from him. He sinks his eyes into the things told by the 'many papers’ and reads. All the Papalagi do that, they all read . . . They read what the big chiefs and speakers of Europe have said during their fonos. That is all carefully noted on mats, even when it is nonsense. The loincloths they wear are also described and the food ingested by the alii, the names of their horses and whether they had weak thoughts or elephantiasis (a disease of the muscles that makes parts of the body swell unnaturally)

The things they tell there, would sound something like this in our country: “The pule nuu (judge) of Matautu woke up this morning after a good night’s sleep. He started the day by eating the taro that was left over from the previous day, after that, he went fishing and returned to his hut in the afternoon, there he lay down on his mat and recited and sung from the Bible till nightfall. His wife, Sina, first suckled her infant, then she took a bath and on her way home she found a pretty pua-flower which she stuck in her hair, then she continued on her way home." And so on.

Everything that happens or occurs and the things people do or fail to do, is made public. Their good and bad thoughts and if they killed a chicken or a pig, or if they build a canoe. Nothing happens in their country that isn’t immediately repeated by the 'many papers’. The Papalagi call that 'being well informed’. They want to know everything exactly, everything that happens in their country. From dawn till dusk. They become angry when something escapes their attention. They soak up everything, even though all kinds of nasty and frightening things are mentioned, things better soon forgotten by a healthy mind. Exactly those horrible scenes in which people get hurt are reproduced more exact and in greater detail than the pleasant scenes as if it isn’t better and more important to report the good things and not the bad ones.

When you read the paper, you don’t have to go to Apolina, Manono or Savii to know what your friends are doing and what they are thinking and which parties they visited. He can remain on his mat quietly and the papers will tell him everything. That may all seem very nice and easy, but still is not the real thing. For when you meet your brother now, and you have both stuck your head in the many papers already, you have nothing new or interesting to tell the other. Because your heads now contain the same things. So you will both be silent or will repeat the things the paper told you already. It will always be stronger to be there in person, sharing the joys of feasting and the mourning of grief, than to have it told to you through the words of a total stranger.

But, the greatest evil the papers work on our minds does not lie with their reporting but with their opinions; opinions on chiefs, on the chiefs of other countries, and opinions on other people’s doings and what happens to them. The papers try to mould every head to one form, and that is opposed to my beliefs and my mind. They want everybody to share their head and their thoughts. And they know how to bring that about. When you have read the papers in the morning, then you know exactly what every Papalagi carries inside his head in the afternoon and what he’s thinking about.

The paper also is a kind of machine, every day fabricating many thoughts, much more than a normal head can produce. But most of them are weak thoughts, lacking pride and strength. They fill our heads with much food, but they don’t make it strong. We could just as well fill up our heads with sand. The Papalagi fill their heads to the brim with such useless paper food. Even before he has thrown away the old one, he is already reading the next. His head is like a mangrove swamp, suffocating in its own mud, where nothing fresh and green grows, and only sulfurous fumes rise up and swarms of biting mosquitoes hum in circles overhead.

The places of pseudo-life and the many papers have made the Papalagi into what he is now, a weak and lost human being, who loves what is unreal, who cannot make the distinction anymore between fantasy and reality, who thinks that the reflection of the moon is the moon itself and the closely printed papers are life itself.

The Severe Disease of Thinking

When the word "spirit" enters the mouth of a Papalagi, his eyes grow big, round and fixed; he raises his chest up, starts breathing heavily and stretches himself like a warrior who has slain his enemy, because this "spirit" is something he is particularly proud of. We aren't talking about the vast, powerful Spirit that the missionary calls "God", of which we are all just poor reflections, but about the little Spirit that belongs to man and creates his thoughts.

When I stand here and look at the mango tree behind the church, that isn't Spirit, because I only see it. But when I recognize that it is bigger than the mission church, well, that must be Spirit. So I just don't have to see something, but I have to know something as well. This knowing is what the Papalagi does from sunrise to sunset. His spirit is always like a gun primed with powder or like an ever active fishing rod. He pities our people of the many islands, because we don't practice this knowing. He says we have poor spirits and are as stupid as the jungle animals.

It is certainly true that we do not make much use of what the Papalagi calls "thinking". But the question is which is more stupid, the one thinking little or the one thinking too much. The Papalagi thinks all the time: "My hut is smaller than the palm tree, the palm tree is bowing to the storm, the storm is speaking with a loud voice." These are the things he thinks, in his own way of course. But he thinks about himself too: "I am short in stature. My heart always rejoices when I see a girl. I love to go on a malaga (journey)." And so on...

That is all well and good and may be useful to someone who enjoys playing this game in his head. But the Papalagi thinks so much that thinking has become a habit, a necessity, even a compulsion. He has to think all the time. Only with great difficulty does he manage not to think and to live with all his body. Just his head is alive, while all his other senses are sleeping deeply, even though at the same time he is walking, speaking, eating and laughing. The thinking process, the thoughts (these are the fruits of thinking) keep him imprisoned. It is a kind of intoxication from his own thoughts. When the sun is shining beautifully, straight away he starts thinking: "How beautifully the sun is shining!" And he carries on thinking: "How beautifully it is shining at this moment." That is wrong, fundamentally wrong and foolish, because when the sun is shining it is better not to think at all. An intelligent Samoan stretches his limbs out in the warm light and doesn't think about it. He doesn't absorb the sun just with his head, but also with hands, feet, thighs, stomach, with all his limbs. He lets his skin and limbs be happy and think in their own way, even though it is different from the head's way. But the Papalagi is not able do this; his thinking is like a big chunk of lava that he can't get out of the way. It's true that he thinks happy thoughts, but he doesn't laugh; he thinks sad thoughts but he doesn't cry. He is hungry but doesn't go and get some taro or palusami. Most of the time he is a man whose senses are fighting with his spirit: he is a man split into two pieces.

Very often the life of a Papalagi resembles a man who has to go to Savaii by boat and, as soon as he has left the shore, thinks: "How long will it take me to travel to Savaii?" He thinks, but he doesn't see the pleasant scenery that his journey takes him through. Soon, on the left bank, he sees a mountain ridge. As soon as his eyes capture it, he can't let go of it: "What could be behind that mountain? Will there be a deep bay or a small one?" By thinking so much, he forgets to sing the joyful songs of the young boatmen, nor does he hear the merry jokes of the young women. As soon as the boat is lying in the bay behind the mountain ridge he is tortured with a new thought: whether a storm will start before the evening falls. Yes, if a storm will be coming. And in a clear sky he starts looking for dark clouds. He keeps on thinking of the storm that might arrive. The storm doesn't come and he arrives unharmed at Savaii that evening. But for him, it is as if he hadn't made the journey at all, because all the time his thoughts were far from his body and outside the boat. He might just as well have stayed in his hut in Upolu.

But a spirit that tortures us like that is a devil and I don't understand why so many people love it. The Papalagi loves and honors his spirit and feeds his spirit with thoughts from his head. He never lets it go hungry, but at the same time he isn't troubled when his thoughts devour each other. He makes a lot of noise with his thoughts and allows them to become as loud as badly educated children. He behaves as if his thoughts were as splendid as flowers, mountains and woods. He talks about them as if a brave man or a happy child were worthless compared to them. He behaves as if there were a commandment that orders man to think a lot. Yes, as if this commandment came from God. But when the palm trees and the mountains are thinking, they don't make such a noise about it. And certainly, if the palm trees thought as loudly as the Papalagi does, they wouldn't have such beautiful green leaves and wouldn't produce such golden fruit. (because it is certainly true that thinking makes people grow old more quickly and makes them ugly). They would fall from the tree before they were ripe. However, it is more likely that they don't really think much at all.

And there are still more ways to think, and many more targets for the arrows of his spirit. The fate of thinkers go far in their thoughts is a sad one. What will happen next time the sun rises? What will the Great Spirit have in mind for me when I arrive in the Salefé’s (underworld)? Where was I when the Tagalao (messengers of the greatest spirit) of them all gave me my Agaga (soul)? This thinking is as pointless as trying to see the sun with your eyes shut. It doesn't work. It just even possible to think all the way to the beginning and the end of all things, as the people who try it find out. They stay hunched up in the same place like a kingfisher from their youth to their adult age. They don't see the sun any more nor the great sea or the lovely girls, no joy, no nothing, and even more nothing. Even kava has no taste for them any more and at the village dances they stand on one side and look at the ground. They do not live, even though they are not dead. They have been struck down by the grave illness of thinking.

This thinking should make the mind great and high. When someone thinks a lot and very fast, in Europe they say he has a great mind. Instead of feeling sorry for such great minds, they admire them greatly. The villages make them to their chiefs and wherever a great mind comes he has to think publicly, and this gives everyone great pleasure and admiration. When a great mind dies, there is grieving in the whole country and a lot of wailing for what has been lost. An image of such a great mind is made out of stone and placed before everyone's eyes in the market place. Indeed, these heads of stone are made much bigger than they were in life, so that people can admire them and remember how small their own mind is.

If one asks a Papalagi: why do you think so much? he answers "Because I don't want and am not allowed to stay stupid." Every Papalagi who doesn't think is foolish; even though in truth, people who don't think are wise and still find their way.

However, I think this is just a pretext and the Papalagi is just following his own wicked urge. It seems to me that the real purpose of his thinking is to discover where the great Spirit get its power from, something that he calls in high-sounding words "knowledge". Knowledge means having a thing so close to your eyes that you can stick your nose into it to pierce it. This piercing and ransacking everything is a vulgar and contemptible desire of the Papalagi. He takes a centipede, pierces it with a little spear and tears a leg off. What does such a leg, separated from the body, look like? How was it fixed to the body? He breaks the leg off in order to measure its thickness. That is important, that is essential. He removes a piece of flesh the size of a grain of sand from the leg and lays it under a long tube with a secret force enabling the eyes to see much more sharply. With this big and strong eye he looks inside everything, your tears, a shred of the skin, a hair, absolutely everything. He cuts all these things up until he gets to a point where he can't break or divide them any more and, although this point is the very smallest of them all, it is the most essential of them all because it is the entrance to the supreme knowledge that only the great Spirit possesses. This entrance is denied to the Papalagi, and even his best magic eyes haven't looked inside it yet. The great Spirit doesn't allow its secrets to be taken away. Never. No one has ever climbed a palm tree higher than the palm tree he had his legs around at the time, and at the crown he has to turn back because there is no more trunk to climb higher. The great Spirit doesn't love mankind's curiosity of mankind, and so he has laid down great lianas on everything that are without beginning and without end. So anyone who tries to follow thoughts to their very end will certainly discover that in the end he will always remain stupid and will have to leave to the Great Spirit those answers that he cannot give himself. Even the most intelligent and courageous of the Papalagi acknowledges this. Even so, most of the thinking-diseased ones cannot let go of the source of their enjoyment and by blindly following the paths of thought they lose their sense of direction like someone going through the jungle where no path has been made. They wear their senses out so much with all this thinking that they can't tell the difference between men and animals any more. They say that man is an animal and that animals are human.

It's even more serious and disastrous that all thoughts, whether good or bad, are immediately thrown onto thin white mats. "They are printed", says the Papalagi. This means that what those ill ones are thinking is written by a mysterious and miraculous machine that has a thousand hands and the strong will of many chiefs. Written not once or twice, but many, many times, an infinite number of times it keeps on writing the same thoughts. Then many of these thought-mats are tied into bunches and pressed together ("books" the Papalagi calls them) and sent to every part of that great country. Very soon, everyone who takes these thoughts into themselves is infected. They devour these thought-mats as if they were sweet bananas and they are to be found in every hut, with piles of boxes full of them, and young and old gnaw at them like rats gnawing at sugar cane. That is the reason why so few of them are still able to think reasonable, natural thoughts, like those that every honest Samoan has.

In the same way, they shovel as many thoughts as they can into their children's heads. Every day they are forced to swallow a certain quantity of thought mats. Only the healthiest ones reject these thoughts or let them fall through their spirit like through a net. But most of them fill their heads with so many thoughts that there is no space left and no light can enter. This is called "educating the spirit" and the final result of this mess is called "education", and it is a common condition.

"Education" means filling one's head to the brim with knowledge. An educated person knows how long a palm tree is, the weight of a coconut, the names of all his chiefs and when they went to war. He knows the size of the moon, the stars and all the countries. He knows every river by name, every animal and every plant. He knows absolutely everything. Put a question to an educated one and he shoots the answer at you before you have closed your mouth. His head is always loaded with ammunition, always ready to fire. Every European dedicates the most beautiful years of his life to make his head into the fastest possible gun. Anyone who doesn't want to do that is forced to. Every Papalagi has to know, has to think.

The only thing that could cure all the thinking-diseased people is forgetting, chasing thoughts away, but this art is not practiced. Hardy any of them are able tot do this and most of them carry such a burden in their heads that their bodies get tired out and become listless and weak before their time. Should we, their loving, unthinking brothers, after everything I have told you in genuine truth, really imitate the Papalagi and learn to think as he does? I say "No!" because we should not and must not do anything that doesn't make our bodies stronger and doesn't give a greater sense of joy and happiness. We must beware of everything that can rob us the joy of life, of everything that darkens our spirit and takes away its bright light, of everything that will put our heads in conflict with our bodies. The Papalagi shows by his own example that thinking is a serious disease that decreases the value of a man many times.

The Papalagi Want To Drag Us Down Into Their Darkness

My beloved brothers, there has been a time that we were all living in darkness and none of us knew the shining light of the scriptures. When we were still doling around like lost children that can't find their way back to their huts, because our hearts didn't know the Great love, and our ears were still deaf to the words of God.

The Papalagi have brought us the light. They came to us to liberate us from darkness. They led us to God and taught us to love Him. That's why we honored them as the bringers of light, as the spokesmen of the Great Spirit, the one the Papalagi call God. We recognized the Papalagi as our brothers and didn't throw them out of the country, but shared all our fruit and bread with them, like the children of one father.

The white men have spared no means to bring us their scriptures, even when we behaved like naughty children and resisted their teachings. We will always remain grateful for their troubles and pains on our behalf and will always honor them as our light bringers.

The first thing the missionary told us, were the ways of God and he led us away from the old Gods, whom he called 'false' because in them the true God would not be present. So we stopped worshipping the stars in the night; the strength of the fire and the wind and looked for his God, the Great Father in heaven.

Then through the Papalagi, God made us give up all our fire sticks and other weapons, so we would live together like good Christians. For all of you know God's will: "Thou shalt not kill but love each other", that being his highest commandment. Obediently we gave up our arms and from that time on the raiding parties that destroyed our islands have ceased, and everybody loves the other like a brother. We experienced that God's commandments were right, because now one village lived peacefully next to the other, when before they were divided and there was no end to chaos and turmoil. And even if the Great God isn't living inside everybody we can still proclaim in gratitude that our lives have improved since we worship God as the Great and Almighty ruler of the world. Grateful and with devotion we listen to his wise and deep words that increases our love even more and also fills us more and more with his Great Spirit.

As I've said, the Papalagi have brought us the light that sets our hearts on fire and fills our senses with happiness and gratitude. They received the light earlier than we did. The Papalagi knew of the light even before the eldest amongst us were born. But the Papalagi merely holds the light in his outstretched hands to let it shine on other; but he himself, his body is still in darkness and his heart is far from God. Even thought he addresses God with his mouth, the light he carries is in his hands. Nothing is more difficult and fills my heart with more grief than to have to tell you this. But we can't nor won't be blinded by the Papalagi, otherwise they will drag us down into their darkness. They brought us God's word, but failed to understand His words and teachings. With their heads and mouths they did, but not with their bodies. The light hasn't penetrated them so as to shine forth and illuminate everything around. A light that sometimes is called 'love'.

They are unaware of the falseness in their own words and love. In this way you can notice that a Papalagi cannot say "God" with all his heart. When he does, he makes a face as if he is tired or very bored. But every white man calls himself the son of God and has his faith confirmed in writing on mats. Still God is a stranger to them, even if they all received the teachings and know about God. Even those that are supposed to speak about God inside their monumental huts, built for his honor, don't carry God inside of them and their words are blown away by the wind into the big void. The preachers don't fill their sermons with God and their speech is like the breaking of the surf on the cliffs; it goes on and on and nobody hears it.

I can say this without provoking God's wrath, we children of the islands, we were not worse than the Papalagi are now, when we prayed to the stars and the fire. We were bad and went in darkness because we didn't know the light. But the Papalagi knew the light and are still bad and wander in darkness. But the worst thing is that they call themselves the children of God and Christians and want to make us believe that they are the fire, when they are only carriers of the light.

A Papalagi seldom thinks about God. Only when a storm threatens him or when he fears that his life lamp will stop burning, then he remembers that there are powers stronger than he is and that rule him. In the daylight God interferes with his particular habits and vices. He knows that God would never condone these vices and that he ought to prostrate himself in the sand when God would be really inside of him, as he is filled with lust, hate and animosity. His heart is changed into a big sharp hook, only good for robbery, instead of it being a light that conquers the darkness and drives out the cold.

The white man calls himself a Christian. A word like a beautiful melody. A Christian. Oh, if we could only call ourselves that always. Being a Christian means, loving God and your brother and only then, loving yourself. Love, doing what is right, must be part of us like our blood is part of us, it must be something like your head or your hands. The Papalagi carry the words "God", "love" and "Christianity" only on their lips. They slap it around with their tongues and let it reverberate. But their hearts and their love do not bow down to God, but to objects and the round metal and heavy paper, to lustful thoughts and to machines. They are not filled by the light, but by a gluttonous desire for time and the follies of their professions. They are ten times as eager to visit the places of pseudo-life than to take up the search for God, who is far, very far away.

Dear brothers, right now the Papalagi have more idols than we ever had, provided an idol is something you worship besides God and carry in your heart as your most precious possession. God is not the most precious possession the Papalagi carries in his heart. That's why he doesn't obey God's wishes, but those of an aitu. I say this to you as a result of my thoughts; that the Papalagi brought us the scriptures as a kind of a bartering object, to exchange it for the fruit and the best and prettiest parts of the island. I think they are very well capable of that, for I have discovered many dirty sins in the hearts of the Papalagi and I know that God loves us as much as he loves them, the ones that call us savages; a word that tries to call up images of animals with fangs, lacking any soul.

But God took their eyes and tore them open to make them see. God spoke to the Papalagi, you can live any way you want. For you I will not make commandments anymore. Then the white man came and showed himself in his true form. Oh disgrace! Oh terror! With blaring voices and proud words they took away our weapons and with God they said, "love each other"! And now? Have you heard the terrible news? That Godforsaken, loveless and bitter news? Europe is busy murdering itself! The Papalagi have gone berserk. One is killing off the other. It is all going down in blood, fear and terror. At last the Papalagi have admitted that there is no God in them. The light he carried in his hand has gone out. Darkness lies on their path, nothing is heard but the frightening flapping of the bat's wings and the screeching of owls.

Brothers, my love for God and for all of you possesses me, therefore God gave me my small voice, to tell you all those things I said. So that we will remain strong inside and will not be seduced by the smooth and quick tongue of the Papalagi. When they come back, let us keep our arms in front of our eyes and shout at them to be silent with their loud voices, because to us their voices sound like the roaring of the surf and the whistling of the palm trees, but nothing else. And as long as they don't have strong and happy faces and from their shining eyes the image of God doesn't radiate like the sun, let them stay away.

And let's take a pledge and call out to them: "Stay far away from us, with your habits and your vices, with your mad dash to richness that binds the hands and the head, your passion for becoming your brother's better, your many senseless undertakings, your curious thoughts and knowledge that leads to nothing, the aimless labor of your hands and all those other follies that hinder your sleep on the mat. We have no need for all that, we are happy with our fine and noble pleasures that God gave us in abundance. That God may help us not to get blinded by his light and that he may help us not to get lost and will always shine on our path so that we can follow his road and absorb his wonderful light, meaning, loving each other and carrying much tafola in our hearts.

CD reproduction

English translation

Harrie Verstappen, a sceptic, fixed at the messenger and therefore neglecting the message, writes:

This edition of the book now is totally unfindable and has become a collector's item. I scanned one of my Papalagi copies for Grant McCall and reproduced it on CD, as he wanted to give a copy to the library of the National University of Samoa. Of course, I can make more copies. If you want one, just let me now. The price is US$25, including shipping by Air Mail (the 1976 edition of 3000 copies was priced at $6.40, without shipping - my price is the same if you figure inflation). As shipping you a slimline jewel CD box is more than twice as expensive as its cost, please buy one yourself; a case insert comes with the CD. Thanks.

to order:

Send $25 via

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Harrie’s website:

http://vista.users.50megs.com/strips/realfreepress/papalagi.html