Acknowledged as Samoa's first contemporary woman writer, Sia Figiel's groundbreaking first novel, where we once belonged, won the prestigious 1997 Commonwealth Writers Prize and Best First Book for the South East Asia/South Pacific region. She is the first Pacific Islander to do so.
Her debut was followed by the publication of two other novels, The Girl in the Moon Circle, They Who Do Not Grieve, and a collection of prose poetry, To a Young Artist in Contemplation. Ms. Figiel also released TERENESIA, a collaborative CD of performance poetry with the poet and scholar Dr. Teresia Teaiwa.
Ms. Figiel has traveled extensively, representing Samoa and the Pacific Islands internationally at universities, half-way houses, prisons, Pacific Islands communities, literary conferences and festivals in Hawaii, France, England, Italy, Spain, Colombia, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, Tahiti, New Caledonia, and the United States of America along with the eminent Samoan writer Albert Wendt, the Maori writers Witi Ihimaera, Patricia Grace, Keri Hulme, Alan Duff and her mentor, the late Tongan writer and scholar, Dr. Epeli Hau'ofa.
Internationally acclaimed, her work is translated to German, French, Dutch, Portuguese, Catalan, Spanish, Swedish and Turkish.
A performance poet, Ms. Figiel was the first Pacific Islander to read and perform at the Shakespeare Globe Theatre, London. She has held writer in residencies at the East West Center: Pacific Islands Development Program – Center for Pacific Islands Studies at the University of Hawaii, Manoa; the University of Technology, Sydney, Australia; Logoipulotu College, Safotulafai Savaii; the University of the South Pacific; Laucala Campus Fiji; and the Catalan Ministry of Arts and Culture, Barcelona Spain.
She was also the Distinguished Visiting Writer at the Univeristy of Hawaii, Manoa Department of English and taught creative writing there to undergraduates and graduate students at the MA and PhD levels. Additionally, she was appointed the Arthur Lynn Andrews Visiting Professor of Asian and Pacific Studies at the University of Hawaii at Hilo, an honor also given to Professor Albert Wendt.
Ms. Figiel's work is studied not only in the United States but at universities internationally, such as at Auckland, Otago, Victoria Universities in NZ; Australia National University; the University of the South Pacific; Suva, the National University of Samoa; the Sorbonne, Paris; and Oxford, England. She has read and lectured at New York University, Colombia, Penn State, UCBerkeley, UCLA, University of Oregon, University of Washington, BYU-Hawaii, the University of Hawaii campuses at Manoa and Hilo, and at the American Samoa Community College.
Her unpublished scripts include: Fagogo o Samoa, I am a Samoan-American, Happy Birthday Lil' Eagle, which has been read by Samoan Solutions in San Francisco and her own stage adaptation of where we once belonged, which premiered at the Museum of Samoa in 2012, was sponsored by the National University of Samoa, was produced by Ms. Dionne Fonoti and directed (with additional notes to the script) by Ms. Fiona Collins.
A visual artist and poet, Ms. Figiel's paintings have been exhibited in Leipzig and Berlin, Germany where she held an artists studio and lived for 3 years from 1991-1994. Her poetry, written in both Samoan and English, won the 1994 Polynesian Literary Prize, judged by Professor Albert Wendt.
Before moving to West Valley, UT in 2012, Ms. Figiel was the Senior Policy Advisor to Congressman Faleomavaega Eni Hunkin and worked with high school students in Pago Pago, American Samoa where she has lived for the past decade.
Ms. Figiel began work on 'where we once belonged' on a train ride between Prague, Czechoslovakia and Berlin, Germany, where she lived and came in contact with such global literary figures as Jamaica Kincaid, Hanif Kureishi, Carribean and African poets and the Nobel Prize winner of Literature, Toni Morrison, a great and constant influence.
She is also a translator and has translated Albert Wendt´s novel Pouliuli from English to Samoan as well as Robert Louis Stevenson´s The Beach at Falesa to O Le Matāfaga i Falesā.
While writing her groundbreaking novel, she worked a series of jobs to support herself in Berlin: au pair (French for babysitting), dishwasher, janitor, waitress and English tutor.
Ms. Figiel currently works as a caregiver to a 97 year-old poet, sculptor and painter.
Works
Wounded Moon, 2020
Wounded Moon
2020
Tonight, the fires of 
revolution continue 
to burn across cities 
on the asphalt where 
the blood of another black 
man; George Floyd is 
freshly caked under
a wounded Moon
Grieving stars fall into 
the mouths of 
ordinary wo(men) whose
demands for justice are 
met by a deaf
-toned President shame
lessly holding 
a bible before 
a church after call
ing governors 
weak jerks who must 
dominate
with aggression 
and violence
spurring the virus 
of hate across 
a nation where the colored 
and the other are moving 
targets asphyxiated under 
history´s brutal boots 
--to serve and protect
And the wounded Moon looks 
down from the heavens
Her sorrow an
imprint on the rage
and the fury 
and the tears
and the cries
ascending
above the tear gas
above the sirens
End! This! Now!
Songs of the Fat Brown Woman, 1998
Songs of the Fat Brown Woman, 1998
for sista Grace (Nichols) and the fat black woman.
The fat brown woman move in the breeze
under the thatch of the small small fale
braiding sinnet
weaving stories
between the leaves of the pandanus
The fat brown woman sweat in the sun 
lean on a coconut palm
swaying in the coconut sun
in colourful lavalava too small for her waist
The fat brown woman in the sea
is a sight to see
diving for blue fish red fish
an occasional eel
The fat brown woman walking home from the sea
is a sight to see
Around the fat brown woman there is
always a man or two
Big or small
Smiling smiling
At the way her hip sway
At the sound her thigh make
Around the fat brown woman there is
always a fly
or two
too
See the fat brown woman at a fa’alavelave
Directing the men the women
A fine mat here
A pig there
In her fat brown woman voice
in her fat brown woman style
Gentle but firm
is the fat brown woman
When the fat brown woman hops on the bus the girls
and boys whisper
and men and women whisper
and children and cats whisper whisper
and pigs too sometimes
Watch her sway
sway sway
and her arms moving like dat
and a shaking like dat
is her tummy too
They make room right behind the skinny
bus driver who gives her a big fat wink
The fat brown woman takes out a bright red
hanky wipes the sweat off her brow
pats her cheek
adjusts her dress/her bra/
her hip
chase away the flies
give the bus driver a mean look
Is going be a long way to market
So you can look all you want
And you can watch all you want
And you can stare all you want
But the fat brown woman will keep
swaying her hip
Keep swaying her hip
All the way to town
The fat brown woman watches Miss Universe on tee vee
What do you say is
going through the mind of the fat brown woman
watching Miss Universe the most beautiful woman in the world?
a aerobic instructa
wants to be a air hostess
a brain surgeon
perhaps
is her dream?
The fat brown woman add more coconut cream to the saka
and adjust her lavalava
call out to her big sista
e! we need to fix dat damn scale!
The fat brown woman’s fat brown sista
Sits in the cool
of an air-conditioned room
directing an organisation
managing an institution
rewriting her constitution
Warning about the fat brown woman
The fat brown woman is quiet as you know
Doesn’t say a word
An occasional laugh
She does not gossip
She does not lie
Will tell you straight away
Whether you sleeping with a fly
but piss the fat brown woman off and you see eyes
you never seen before
and a mouth you
never heard before
And if I was you I’d stay clear out of the way
Of the fat brown woman
When she’s mad
When she’s pissed
I’d stay clear out of the way
If I was you
I’d stay clear out of the way
Of whereva she going sit
A last note on the fat brown woman and shoes
No shoe fits the foot of the fat brown woman
No high heel
No low heel
No prince
No king
Can contain
Constrain
Confine the foot of the fat brown woman
Because the feet of the fat brown woman
Are grounded nicely to the bellies of
Her Mamas
The fat blue Pacific
The fat brown Earth
Thank you, very much
Excerpt of Freelove, 2016
Freelove, Excerpt, 2016
Mr. Viliamu had already opened the door before I came around to the passenger side of the pick-up which surprised me.
Thanks! I said, as I smiled at him with appreciation. After all, it’s not everyday that a teacher opened a door for a student, I thought, as I hopped onto the seat, closing the door behind me.
You look nice, said Mr. Viliamu, who was wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt that said
E=MC S.P.I.S.A.
South Pacific Islanders Science Association
University of Papua New Guinea
Port Moresby
1981
This time, I didn’t say anything. Firstly, I noticed almost immediately that the square was missing from Einstein’s theory of relativity, which I had remembered from watching NOVA the other day after school, when we were at Q’s house and she told me to go turn the TV on and that I could watch if I wanted (which was a luxury of course) since we did not own a TV of our own and were in no financial position to get one any time soon. For one, my mother was technically the head of our household since it was her sewing machine that brought in the money and we relied on for a living. However, my mother always deferred to our Uncle Fa‘avevesi who was older than her but hadn’t worked since he lost his left hand in an accident two years ago while working on live electric wires. But that’s a story to continue at another time.
Mr. Viliamu’s missing square on his t-shirt made me wonder whether the South Pacific Islanders Science Association even noticed it themselves or whether it was some deliberate twist that only they knew and laughed at in their own time. And perhaps that’s how things are at university. People are so smart there that they may not notice small things anymore. The small things that matter so much in relation to the big things. Small things make big things whole and complete. And I’m sure Einstein would have thought the same. But who am I but a Form 6 moepi/bedwetter trying to gather as much vocabulary as possible so that I could do what Mr. Viliamu told us to do on that first day of class when he told us to astound ourselves so that we might astound those around us.
But that’s not really why I didn’t say anything to Mr. Viliamu. Why did he think I looked nice? I mean, what was so nice about the way I was dressed in? I asked myself. Was it my hair? Which was in a sloppy fa‘apaku/bun? Or was it my tight jeans? Instinctively, I touched my zippers to see if they were done properly. Just in case that’s what he was referring to. You know how men are, Aunty Pisa, my mother’s sister’s voice flashed through my mind. They want only one thing and they will say and do anything to get it. Was that perhaps what he was responding to? Or was it the picture of Madonna on Litia’s The Virgin Tour t-shirt that I was wearing? After all, I didn’t wear make-up or fancy jewelry or anything that would deliberately draw attention to me. I had been told too many horror stories by girls who had been molested or raped or beaten or abused by strangers and worst by their own family members to ever galavant around drawing attention to myself. I was terrified of boys and men! Terrified!
And since I had this fear of boys and men, I was always on my guard. I read every action and reaction with great care. I didn’t laugh too loudly or too cheery. And when I did, I never showed my gums which is the sign of a Woman of the Night and a slut and a whore said the womanly whispers at my house which meant that I smiled only when it was culturally and socially required and kept my mind firmly on our aiga, family, our lotu, church and on le a‘oga, school. Which is why I thought it odd that Mr. Viliamu would comment on my appearance like that, something he never did at school.
I also found it odd that he kept repeating ‘if you want’ as if I would have any objections to a ride from a teacher who happens to be Nu‘uolemanusa’s oldest pastor’s son, and oddest of all is when he kept referring to me as keige, girl, and not by my name which made me question whether he even remembered me.
How can he not? I asked myself, indignantly.
After all, didn’t he know or have a clue that he was my favorite teacher?
I respected Mr. Viliamu and looked forward to his Science class more than any other class in school.
His class was the reason I woke up daily, to see what fabulous new adventures he was going to introduce us to that day.
I smiled lightly and brushed this oversight aside and looked out the window instead, watching seagulls glide above the waves.
You know what that means, don’t you? said Mr. Viliamu.
Excuse me, Mr. Viliamu? I asked. Not knowing what he was referring to.
You’re looking at the birds, aren’t you?
Yes, I am, Mr. Viliamu. I’m looking at the birds.
And what is your Samoan scientific instinct telling you about those birds?
That they’re hungry? I said, impulsively laughing out loud, which I regretted almost as soon as I had heard the sound as it escaped my tongue.
Is that a good guess, Mr. Viliamu? I asked, wiping the smile off of my face.
That’s a brilliant guess! Yes, they are hungry. It appears they are hungry indeed. The birds are looking for fish. Look! Do you see those other ones to the east?
I quickly scanned the ocean. Embarrassed that I did not know which direction east was, until suddenly I spied on a school of seagulls hovering over a particular spot that I supposed Mr. Viliamu referred to as east.
Yes, I see them, I said. Now they must be really hungry, a ‘ea?
That’s how fishermen know where to direct their canoes, said Mr. Viliamu, with the same authority he used at school, only he was unusually over smiling, as if he was hiding something that had happened to him or something that was about to happen.
I guess that makes sense, I said, excited to learn something new on my way to town.
Yeah, it does make sense, aye? said Mr. Viliamu.
Our people were not only very scientific and mathematical, they had a spiritual connection to their surroundings and read nature’s signs with striking precision. Like those birds out there, for instance. When you look closer at our Samoan language, you will find that it is intricately connected to nature. Do you know where the word manuia comes from?
I shook my head, acknowledging my ignorance. Preferring him to be the one telling me instead.
Of course you do!
We’ve just been talking about it, girl!
We have? I asked.
Ua kai fa‘apea Mr. Viliamu po‘o fea le lalolagi o feoa‘i ai kaliga o lea. Mr Viliamu’s probably thinking where my ears are galavanting about.
Manu and I‘a of course mean bird and fish. The two words when combined forms the word manuia and means good fortune, which is why we say it whenever we wish someone well or after matai drink ava in a circle.
I listened intently to Mr. Viliamu as the breeze caressed both our faces.
He was a walking encyclopedia who knew just about everything there was to know and yet, he always made whatever knowledge he was passing on seem like it was a gift from God and that he was merely the medium with which such a gift was exchanged with those of us who needed to receive it.
Momentarily, I felt lucky and special that he stopped to pick me up. To share this knowledge with my ever curious and hungry mind that seemed to absorb everything he said.
A penny for your thoughts, girl, said Mr. Viliamu, drawing me back into the conversation.
I didn’t know what he meant.
English I’m afraid to say, was not my best subject in school, which meant I paid more attention to it than any of the other classes I loved, like Science, Mathematics, Samoan, Social Studies and Health. I kept vocabulary notebooks and studied them and studied them and studied them until I knew meanings of words but found that there were not too many people in Gu‘usa who spoke it. Perhaps I secretly loved English. Perhaps I didn’t. Perhaps I did and I didn’t. That’s how I felt about English. It was a moody language. At times void of meaning. Empty. Perhaps this feeling of the emptiness of English comes from the blatant fact that I really had no relation to it just as much as it had no relation to me. It wasn’t like my geneaology could be traced through it. Or that the veins in my blood were to be found in its alphabet, the way it is found on my mother’s tattooed thighs. Besides, I did not want to appear fiapoko, like I knew everything, especially before my classmates who struggled with it as it was a language I too found hard to swallow and got stuck always in the middle of my throat, especially when I pronounced words like beach, peach, pig, big, and porridge.
And before I could respond, Mr. Viliamu asked me again.
Why are you so quiet? What are you thinking about? I’d like to know.
Does he really want to know what I’m thinking about or is he just being polite? Besides, why would the thoughts of a 17½ year old girl be of interest to an old man? He’s at least 10, 12 years older than me! Not to mention the fact that he’s a walking encyclopedia who just happens to be our pastor’s oldest son which technically makes him my brother!
Nothing, Mr. Viliamu, I said, not wanting to disappoint him with my lack of enthusiasm.
I’m not thinking about anything. Besides, it’s what you’re thinking of that I’d like to know. Boldly smiling at him, supposing I had said something that he might find intelligent and would be proud of because it originated from him.
But instead he responded quite differently, as if he hadn’t heard what I had said which disappointed me and I showed my disappointment by avoiding eye contact with him and stared instead into the ocean, watching her give birth to waves, listening to them splash onto the lava rocks below the cliffs of Si‘unu‘u which meant we were halfway to Apia.
Mr. Viliamu’s voice echoed suddenly from a far away place, only he was no less than six inches away from me.
You might be embarrassed if I tell you what I’m thinking, he said, rubbing his stomach with one hand as if he hadn’t eaten breakfast as he steered the pick-up truck with his other hand.
What is he saying?
Embarrassed?
Why would I be embarrassed?
Is he going to correct my English?
Should I have said a cluster or a crowd instead of a school of birds?
They’re birds all the same, aren’t they?
But then Mr. Viliamu said something else. Something he spoke through the language of his body movements. He started scratching his knee and my eyes followed his hand as it moved from his knee to his inner thigh so that his shorts shrunk upwards and I caught a glimpse of his pubic hair.
Immediately, my eyes darted out the window.
Not only was I embarrassed, frankly, I became offended not to mention deeply ashamed.
A nervousness entered my body and I thought for a moment that I was going to cry. After all, I had never seen that part of a grown man’s anatomy, and I suddenly found myself thinking about all the males in my family, my Uncle Afatasi Fa‘avevesi, who is my mother’s brother and our aiga’s main matai, lives with his wife Stella behind the fale where my mother Alofafua and her sister Aima‘a, Gu‘usa’s traditional healer, and my grandmother Taeao (short for Taeao‘oleaigalulusa) and Ala (short for Alailepuleoletautua), my grand-aunt who was deaf, lived with all the girls of our family and boys under 13, which included my 12 year old brothers Aukilani (Au) and Ueligitone (Ue), identical twins who loved to play identity tricks on people. The older boys, which included our Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s sons Chris and Emau, as well as our adopted brothers and other taule‘ale‘a or untitled male relatives from either Savai‘i, Manono or Apolima, who are all technically considered my brothers, lived in a house behind Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s house, closer to where the umukuka or kitchen was located.
With all these males around, you’d think I would have seen a full grown man’s penis by now. And yet, the taboos that governed the movements of our brothers in relation to us, their sisters known as the feagaiga or the brother/sister covenant were so strictly observed and highly scrutinized that it meant I’d only witnessed a penis once.
Well, twice actually. But they belonged to my twin brothers Ue and Au who had been circumcised along with their friends and were waddling out of the ocean after one of them was stung by a jellyfish.
It was the funniest sight.
Q and Cha and I teased them so badly that their only form of retaliation were in empty threats that further paralyzed them by the state of affairs they were caught in.
Imagine the fastest boys of Gu‘usa reduced to waddling turtles, calling out that they’re going to ‘get us’ once their penises were healed. Because that’s going to ever happen, ha! It was utterly hilarious and became a family and village joke recounted over and over by the women at suipi whenever they needed light entertainment to break the monotony of someone’s winning streak.
I clung to the image of my brothers and their friends for safety as I was beginning to feel uneasy with Mr. Viliamu.
I didn’t know how I was to ever look into his eyes again with the same confidence he had originally instilled in me at school, now that I had seen something so intimate as his pubic hair.
Perhaps it was an accident, I told myself.
He didn’t mean to expose himself to me deliberately.
But then again, wasn’t he the very same person who told our class that there were no accidents or coincidences? That every action we make creates a ripple in the universe which means that all actions are interconnected?
How then could I possibly unsee what I had just seen?
Instantaneously, I told myself that this was a bad idea.
I never should have accepted Mr. Viliamu’s offer in the first place.
I would have wholeheartedly given up the six tala my mother had given me for bus-fare to sit next to an old man who hadn’t showered in a week in a crowded bus with babies crying and old women smoking Samoan tobacco, and Cyndi Lauper’s Time after Time played over and over and over, not to see what I had just seen.
But it was too late I suppose.
As my Aunty Aima‘a always says, Once a cup of water is spilled, it can never be retrieved.
Bibliography
FREELOVE 
First published 2016 by Lo´ihi Press, Honolulu, Hawaii USA
Republished 2018 by Little Island Press, Auckland NZ. 
Translated into French by Aux Vent Des Iles.
To be launched in France, September 2020
Pua and Daffodils: Weaving the Ula in Post-colonial Oceania.
Published by Journal of New Zealand and Pacific Studies, 2016.
They Who Do Not Grieve 
First published 1998, by Penguin Books, Auckland NZ 
Published 2000 by Kaya Books, New York, USA.
Translated into French by Actes Sud.
To A Young Artist in Contemplation 
Published 1998, Pacific Writing Forum
The University of the South Pacific, Suva, Fiji Islands.
The Girl in the Moon Circle 
First published 1996, The University of the South Pacific, Suva Fiji Islands
Re-published 2018, by Little Island Press, Auckland NZ.
Translated into Spanish and French.
where we once belonged
First published 1996, Pasifika Press, Auckland NZ
Republished 2018 Little Island Press, Auckland, NZ
Published by Kaya Press, New York, 2000.
Translated into French, German, Spanish, Danish, Portuguese, Turkish, Catalan
Plays
Fagogo o Samoa
Performed in Salt Lake City, Utah 2013
Performed in San Francisco by Samoan Solutions, 2019
where we once belonged
Adaptation of the novel performed in Samoa, 2013
Audio
TERENESIA
1998, a collaborative CD of amplified performance poetry with the poet and scholar Dr. Teresia Teaiwa, produced by REDFLEA, Honolulu, Hawaii USA.
 
                        
            
             
    