Breaking the cycle of silence: Redefining Pacific masculinity

OPINION: I grew up in a household where crying was forbidden.

Even if you were disciplined and it hurt, shedding tears would invite harsher punishment. I learned early to stifle any emotional response.

By 15, vulnerability got beaten out of me.

I bottled up my feelings until they exploded into arguments or violence.

Being accepted by the boys, swinging on someone, flexing a broken interpretation of manhood, all felt right to me.

Dad (left), older brother (centre), and me; I grew up on Hip-hop and rap, especially West Coast music, hence the constant West Side signs. Photo /Aui’a Vaimaila Leatinu’u.

Stay solid

I was raised to believe the world is too harsh to be soft.

My Dad’s family, Sāmoan migrants, fought for survival daily, enduring racism, poverty, and violence. My Mum’s family, Māori-Sāmoan, faced similar hardship.

Mum compared her life to the film Once Were Warriors, where home was so bad she would disappear for days, running with a gang, jacking cars, which landed her in a youth correctional centre.

Although my parents tried to reduce the harm for us kids, we still grew up in rough conditions across South Auckland: Ōtara, Manurewa, and Ōtāhuhu, where you knew staying solid was the primary coping method.

My mother was a nurturing space where I could be vulnerable; however, when, among other men, I learned that was prohibited.

My father and older brother were my models of manhood.

I’ve seen my dad cry only three times and my older brother twice - always at major life events like funerals, births, and weddings.

Then came my younger brother - my cousin adopted into our family - who reminded me of a moment I’d rather forget: a rage-filled episode where I almost turned on my Dad.

There was no pride in that memory. I just felt ugly, which confused me because violence was central to being a man.

My younger brother’s presence made me see the toxic patterns I’d inherited. The shame I felt exposed the hollowness of violence as ‘manhood’.

Me (right) and my younger brother - 2018. Photo/Aui’a Vaimaila Leatinu’u.

Tapping in

In 2024, things changed. I went through multiple metamorphoses. Guided by my older sister’s spirituality, I reconnected with the divine and learned to re-embrace feminine energy: honesty, vulnerability, and balanced love.

I define feminine energy as vulnerability and strength, being honest about what you feel and remaining secure in that truth, even if mocked.

It means love is balance, where you forgive, if you can, those who hurt you but set boundaries so that they can’t do it again, and if they still cross it, you push back.

Love is hīkoi mō Te Tiriti.

To me, someone who embodied this was the late Green MP, and community advocate Fa’anānā Efeso Collins, who always operated from a space of love, not fear.

The best of us. Photo /Joseph Safiti.

‘E le tu fa’amauga se tagata’

Hailing from the home of the brave, Ōtara, Fa’anānā once cried on camera after receiving death threats against his family.

I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t about a funeral, a wedding, or a newborn. It was a threat to those he loved. Instead of lashing out in anger, he showed pain openly and continued to serve with integrity.

I was raised to believe threats like that called for retaliation. In a world of toxic survival, showing hurt was taboo. You were expected to fight back with fists, not tears.

But Fa’anānā fought back differently - through vulnerability and love. When he passed, I saw the immense grief at his memorial, and I understood the power of what he left behind.

My first nephews

Just over a week ago, my younger brother and his partner welcomed twin boys.

Before their birth, I realised why so many men I know, including me, only want daughters.

With girls, we can be soft. It’s silently approved among men.

With boys, how do we show them the depth of our emotions? I had no blueprint. My father rarely showed vulnerability, even when he lost his younger brother and father within three years.

I thought it was the same for my older brother and used to hate myself for feeling weak, but he felt it too - he’d just learned to hide it.

I chased impossible standards, mirroring stoic men who never truly existed.

The first time I saw my dad embrace my older brother (left image), was at the 2022 Saofa’i where my brother became a matai. Photo /Steph Leatinu’u.

New earth

This is our chance to break the cycle. I’ve told my younger brother we must be honest with these boys.

We can’t just smile during joyful times, we must also cry in front of them when we’re sad, and share our vulnerabilities, so they can become emotionally available and in tune for others.

As men, especially Pacific men, it’s time to reprogramme everything we’ve been taught.

Comparative goodness, as in telling the next generation “at least you didn’t suffer like I did”, is not enough, because pain at any depth is still pain.

Our responsibility is to give the next generation the best life, not just a better one. We must become the blueprint for vulnerable strength that we never received from our fathers.

To my nephews, when you’re old enough to understand this, know that we love you deeply. We will grow continually and show you a path guided by love, faith, and hope, not fear and scarcity.

And to Fa’anānā Efeso Collins: thank you for your light. I commend you for fighting for the wider kaupapa that only a few others do in Parliament.

Your legacy lives on in the choices we make and the love we share.