The Bridge

On The Left

A photograph of my Father in Ha'api, and myself in Nuku'alofa - in different times, but holding the same familiar expression A photograph of my Father in Ha’api, and myself in Nuku’alofa – in different times, but holding the same familiar expression

As we flew over Auckland (Okalani) on the way home from Nuku’alofa, I couldn’t help but imagine what this must have felt like for my tamai (father), who had made the same pilgrimage in the 70s. Leaving his small village in Ha’apai to find fuller fruits in Aotearoa. The divided fence lines, the tar-sealed roads, the dogs behind gates – this world could not be further from the dirt tracks and free-form family plots of Tonga. In a way, the plane was like a bridge, taking me from one home to another. From one world to another, yet both worlds belong to the same connecting waters.

This is how I have come to think about politics – as a bridge that connects and divides, and can sometimes lead us…

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