By Shazia Usman
My paternal great-grandmother Amina passed away in the ‘90s when I was in primary school, yet she left a lasting impression on me. While we weren’t particularly close, and I can’t recall any significant interactions, my memories of her are vivid. I remember her fearless attitude, her delicious yet sweat-inducing curries, and her striking red lips—remnants of her last paan.
She had a knack for effortlessly delivering a string of Fiji-Hindi expletives, sprinkled with Malayalam, whenever she was annoyed. Though her name was Amina, we all knew her as Sarava-Nani, a beloved figure from Sarava near Ba Town in Fiji.
What impressed me most was her remarkable freedom to go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted—a privilege not often granted to women of her generation. Dressed in her hand-made blouse and long skirt, with a white veil loosely covering her shock of grey hair (not a single strand remained black, much to the wonder of us great-grandchildren), she was a familiar sight walking the dusty unsealed road from her home to the main road, which was over an hour away.
Over the years, she made countless five-hour taxi journeys from Ba to visit us in Suva—her grand- and great-grandchildren—all by herself. This seemed fantastic to me, especially since she had never received formal education yet continued to travel alone well into her late seventies. I often wondered if she ever felt scared or how she remembered the addresses to direct the drivers in Suva, the capital of Fiji.
Once, when someone asked her this very question, she replied that she relied on landmarks—houses, junctions, and trees. I remember a time when her driver, also from Ba, couldn’t find the house she wanted to visit. Instantly, she recognised he had taken a wrong turn. Without hesitation, she made him turn
back, guiding him from a different street next to a supermarket she recognised, until they were able to find the house.
Fast-forward 20 years, and I found myself standing on Lebuh Chulia in Georgetown, Penang, in Malaysia with a map in hand (I didn’t have a smartphone then) and a head full of landmarks spotted the day before.
Memories of that eavesdropped conversation flooded back, along with thoughts of a woman I
hadn’t considered in years. Fast-forward another ten years, this time using Google Maps on my smartphone, I thought of her policing her decisions? I wish I knew more about her life and again while directing a taxi driver in Kigali, Rwanda. I was about to attend the launch of a remarkable collection of stories about girls’ resistance across the globe, for which I curated a section from the Pacific. An hour later, I met the famous Malala, the keynote speaker at the event, on my birthday—my big 4-0.
Unlike Sarava-Nani, I am not a fearless traveler. I research, plan, and worry. I make arrangements and stress about finding safe accommodation and travel routes for women. I pack an extra packet of Panadol, make photocopies of my passport, print out maps in case my phone fails, carry extra cash for when
cards don’t work and email my family my itinerary so they can track me if needed. I arrive early for flights and, most importantly, pack a book (or two) in case my Kindle dies. This is my way of traveling, and it helps me feel at ease in unfamiliar environments, especially as a woman.
From what I’ve learned from my father and other family members, Sarava-Nani was quite a force to be reckoned with. Married twice and the mother of three daughters (my grandmother being the eldest), she was a woman of her own mind. My father recalls her confidently donning her husband’s pants to help cut cane, unfazed by what others might think.
In many ways, she was far more independent than my own grandmother, who lived a more traditional life. Was this freedom a result of her coming from a less traditional, less religious time? Or was it because she was widowed early, free from anyone could have known her better.
I often wonder if I’m romanticising her legacy. Aside from a cousin or two in my generation, I have no other reference points for feminism in our family, and she stands as the closest elder who embodied freedom. I sometimes question whether I’m embellishing her story. Yet, I know that even today, a 70
plus, paan-chewing, suki-smoking, widowed Indo-Fijian Muslim great-grandmother traveling unaccompanied throughout Fiji would likely be frowned upon.
History often paints our ancestors, especially women, as one-dimensional—pious and dutiful pillars of society. But I am grateful to have witnessed that my great-grandmother contained multitudes—and she lived, oh so freely!
