Wearing Culture: Rotuman Tofua

Last year, as I prepared for graduation from a doctoral program in Australia, I wondered if I needed to celebrate in cultural attire to represent my lineages as Rotuman-IndoFijian. While a sari was easy enough to wear to signal my Indianness, tofua, on the other hand, was difficult to find. Tofua is a fine waist-mat woven from sa’aga, or pandanus leaves, from Rotuma. Initially only worn by the Gagaj and Sau—chiefs and royalty—this waist-mat has evolved into a symbol of Rotuman identity worn by many, including those living in diaspora. 

Tofua is often adorned with other cultural belongings depending upon the occasion. In most cases, it is worn with tefui, a cultural garland, as my sister wore when she turned 16. In a recent conversation with Dr. Matthew Bray, a Rotuman cultural practitioner, he shared that “the treasured nature of Rotuman handicrafts is predicated on its mana”—a term commonly used across Pasifika communities to refer to a power inherited or transmitted. However, once passed down and shared within families, this unique cultural waist-mat is now facing difficulties. 

Rotumans have always been diasporic peoples. The island appeared on Western maps through Tahitian navigator Tupaia in 1769, when he helped Captain James Cook navigate the Pacific Ocean. Then in 1791, Captain Edward Edwards of HMS Pandora renamed Rotuma Grenville Island. However, few used the European name and the original “Rotuma” remained. In 1881, Great Britain annexed the island, bringing it under the Fijian administration, even after Fiji’s independence in 1970. During the colonial period, records of Rotumans’ diasporic connections were better maintained. Scholar Makerata Mua, for instance, details the diasporic connections Rotumans have with Torres Strait Islanders in the 1870s specifically for the pearling industry. Many Rotumans have left the island on these various European meeting points, and even more so to Fiji since being politically associated.

The shift of traditional Rotuman leadership within a colonial annexation also shifted the cultural significance of our attire. In 1898, British zoologist Stanley Gardiner wrote that the cultural attire of Gagaj is the tofua. Gagaj were leaders of Rotuman districts chosen from high-ranking kinships, responsible for settling disputes, managing land, organizing communal work, and guiding ritual and ceremony. Their duties included selecting the Sau to ensure the island’s prosperity. 

Over time, colonial and missionary influence reduced their political and ritual power, shifting their role toward symbolic and ceremonial leaderships while still remaining anchors of Rotuman cultural identity. Alan Howard, an anthropologist on Rotuman culture and customs, notes that since wearing the tofua is no longer restricted to chiefs, chiefs can no longer be identified based on their attire. Wearing tofua can also mean we are all eventually chiefs. (Of course this is an over-generalization on my part, but the close ties between ho’aga—kin groups—and district leadership may suggest many Rotuman families today have ancestral links to chiefly titles.) 

“Mana primarily derives from the connection to the land and from hard labor and efforts,” Bray shared with me recently. This history of tofua—being sourced from a plant harvested in the hanua (homeland)—meant those who wear tofua made of sa’aga are bound by its connection. In the 21st century, tofua is worn by Rotumans on special occasions and represents our cultural identity and responsibility. My cultural responsibility when I graduated, although so far from hanua, meant I was paying homage to the labor and connection of Rotuman through tofua. 

Rotumans are migrating, becoming increasingly transnational and diasporic. My sisters and I are part of many other Rotumans who have sought new lifestyles away from Fiji. Many Rotumans online share photos of their special occasions wearing tofua and tefui, and I noticed that as disaporic Rotuman families shift from nuclear to extended, the demand for tofua has increased. 

The tofua is infused with the mana of famor Rotuam (people of Rotuma). Rebecca Wedlock supplies families overseas with these cultural belongings. Wedlock and her sister Fuata Fatiaki are part of the Hanua Handicraft Fiji team, which also consists of many weavers from across Rotuma. Wedlock and Fuata are from Mal’ha’a, and their weavers Linda Joyce and Makrao Pene are from Tuakoi, Itu’tui. Per the members’ requests not to be singled out, I will refer to them as a collective. Hanua Handicrafts sources its sa’aga from Rotuma. The strips are wound into rolls and shipped to Fiji, where the team uses them to weave tofua. Other times, Hanua Handicrafts commissions weavers in Rotuma, and has these items shipped to Fiji. 

The skill and labor it takes to weave tofua has been in decline in the past few decades. Elders who once were present to pass this knowledge have dwindled and the next generation has little interest to learn. “Many young people are now focused on school, work, or making a living through modern means,” the Hanua Handicrafts weavers explain. “The world is changing fast, and traditional crafts take time, patience, and practice—something not many are willing to invest in today.” Additionally, the team shared that the lack of generational knowledge impacts every step in production; very few people still know how to process sa’aga to weave tofua, which also leads to shortages. Although Hanua Handicraft commissions master weavers such as Joyce and Pene to produce tofua for today’s market, they are still not able to meet the demand of their customers. 

The process of weaving sa’aga into tofua is rigorous. Sa’aga takes roughly three to four years to mature, depending on soil quality, salt content, and general ecology. The weavers harvest the leaves at maturity, then they heat, peel, and soak them in saltwater to soften overnight before rinsing in rainwater for two days and sun-drying completely. This bleaches sa’aga, giving it its renown white color. Once dried, the weavers will strip the dried leaves into finer strands and begin weaving. The final product is a soft waist mat, with a hạnu—fringe made from loose strands. 

Fiji has its own species of the pandanus plant, which the Hanua team could presumably use for weaving. However, the weavers have explained that they cannot use Fiji’s pandanus because it doesn’t give the same texture as the Rotuman sa’aga. In an effort to avoid shipping materials between islands, traditional practitioners have attempted to plant sa’aga in Fiji, away from Rotuma. But the plant will not establish itself in a different environment. The Hanua team have suggested that differences in soil quality, salt content in water or the coastal ecosystem could be the reasons. According to the Hanua weavers, Rotuma’s environment is “rich in natural sea breezes, clean salt water, and sandy soil, all of which seem to help the sa’aga thrive.” 

The Hanua team and I discussed the various reasons for this phenomenon, from Rotuman-spiritual aspects to more climate-related ones. We agreed the mana of tofua begins with the plant itself: To process sa’aga that grew on the island becomes part of the sacred creation. When sa’aga refuses to survive even on Fijian soil, it can easily be attributed to its purpose within Rotuman histories. The plant’s inability to grow in an environment away from Rotuma serves as a reminder that cultural survivance is often bound to environmental stewardship. The plant’s fragility mirrors our own diasporic threads—stretched thin, yet holding fast. An already-rare white-mat becomes rarer because of the rapidly changing environment. 

Despite the challenges in acquiring tofua, there are others who find different ways to represent Rotuman identities. Doreen Dolishna Nand posted her “ribbon tofua” on “Rotumans on Facebook” page and pointed out she did not have access to sa’aga, so she opted to improvise. Nand was met with several comments on her post, some of whom admired her craft and skill, others who felt the sacredness of tofua was tainted with her use of “plastic ribbon.” The conversation expressed significant importance over cultural continuity and adaptation. While some argued tefui is now crafted from permanent materials like ribbon, wool, and plastic, others were adamant tofua still carry a sacred element to it, one in which Nand’s “ribbon tofua” could not replace. In her case, she crafted “ribbon tofua” out of innovation to resemble a Rotuman attire, not to dilute the cultural belonging’s continuity, as ribbon cannot replace the mana infused with sa’aga. 

In my hanuj (conversation) with Nand, she reminisced of her upbringing on the Rotuman hanua. Nand’s mother is Rotuman and her father is IndoFijian. She was raised on the island, and hails from Toa'koi, Pepjei, with links to Motusa. Here, she learned to work with sa’aga, and was taught by her aunty. The “ribbon tofua” she wove did not suggest it hinders tofua’s futurity in our current cultural-economic climate. Nand insists that the art of weaving is where the continuity of cultural practice exists. She wanted her daughter who was graduating kindergarten to have the sense of her Rotuman identity. Nand used her skills acquired from her upbringing to remember the difference embedded within crafting a tofua with sa’aga versus that of paper-ribbon. In this way, she was reconnecting to her Rotuman lineage through a physical act instead of a final artform. 

“The hanua gifts us everything: from the land to the sea, all the food we need to survive,” Nand told me. Rotuman belongings are rooted in more than just the final product. Nand made me realize that in the diaspora, our knowledge of the craft and the use of this knowledge and skill contributes to continuity, especially so far from our natural resources. Nand’s practice felt like a cultural continuity, whereas the Hanua Team’s practice felt a reconnection to the homeland.

There is an essence to cultural belongings that separates them from the everyday. When I received my tofua from Hanua Handicrafts,the soft scent of sa’aga and its intricately woven strands reminded me of the tenuous threads of my diasporic existence that require tending, adaptation, and purpose. At my graduation, I wore the tofua as a reminder that our artforms are rooted in more than craft; wearing tofua with sari meant I carried a lineage woven with distance, history, and memory. In that moment, I became a culmination of journeys that represent the past and future of Rotuman people.