The silent fight of a curious feminist
I’m a female tertiary student. Tada! Cue my curtsey and stage exit.
Sometimes someone will ask me how it’s going. Some days I’ll admit a partial lie, “It’s going so great, I absolutely love it.” I’ll never mention I might be struggling with an essay or my hair or scrutiny over my Pacific islander identity. Or simply the monthly raging of my ovaries. Being a woman is serious business. We deal with issues big and small and vague, even absurd.
I’m thankful I’m studying—I have access to quality education; a bonus—in a country where my status as a woman, and my age, race, religion and social status, does not limit my ability to live authentically. As a curious feminist, I thank Australia.
Now, I get it. Feminism: some people don’t like it, some do and plenty are probably on the “not sure” spectrum. People argue feminism isn’t relevant. I disagree. There’s an ocean of women who fight silently against a patriarchal world. I’m sure some of them gather at night to talk about their hopes and dreams. My past experiences have shaped my desire to stand for anyone bound by gender inequality, discrimination and lack of education.
My past experiences have shaped my desire to stand for anyone bound by gender inequality, discrimination and lack of education.Sally Koroitamana, Bachelor of Arts student, Avondale College of Higher EducationAs a child, school became the only place I could go to escape. I’d dream up a galaxy of wishes. I have a beautiful memory of my first primary teacher, the graceful and softly spoken Miss Swan. She motivated me, the girl in the corner looking at picture books with bold words, drawn by the invitation of captivating front covers, to learn. The experience served as an immersion into another world. Until that point, life had been a rollercoaster. My grandma told me I enjoyed my own company—I wouldn’t wait for anyone to play with me. She also told me I was brave.
I remember the first time I was taken. I was sitting in the back of a gold Holden Kingswood. The driver was my new foster carer. Her wrinkly smile was kind and her piercing blue eyes were warm. We passed old silver caravans, the dirt road looking a little redder than usual. I remember the afternoon sun catching her grey hair. It was in those muffled moments I knew I’d be safe with her. Should I have been scared? Perhaps. I learnt courage and bravery come sometimes in the form of people. This woman brought those things to me. She saved children like me.
By age six I’d met children deprived of basic needs such as food. A couple of years later, I knew what discrimination, racism and gender roles looked like. My adolescent years approached like an elderly woman taking a leisurely stroll. Fast forward a few years and my brother and I lived and studied at a Seventh-day Adventist Aboriginal boarding school. I learnt the most wonderful traditions through Australia’s indigenous people. I also recognised the barriers confronting young indigenous people, the stigma against which they fight and the strength of some of my girlfriends who chose to attend the school. Thinking back, I began to feel like I was important to the people around me. The spirituality of both the indigenous people and Christianity affirmed my role as womanhood approached.
I found my version of feminism in Cynthia Enloe’s The Curious Feminist. The book, a collection of lively essays, helped me understand the big issues such as globalisation and international politics by taking a personal look into the daily realities in a range of women’s lives. It highlights the importance of taking feminism seriously. Being curious in this context implies one is paying close attention and listening to and asking questions of women.
I silently fight the patriarchal systems challenging Pacific islander women, the pressure to conform to a domesticated role that meets the needs of our families but discards ours. I silently fight the responsibilities of being a big sister. I silently fight fear with courage. I’m a curious feminist. I dare to speak out. This is my defiant voice.
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