On the small French Polynesian island of Rurutu, Nafille Takamoana spends her days as a server in the kitchen of a local eatery called Snack Piaareare. The modest establishment, with its metal sheet roof and simple wooden furniture, is adorned with a vibrant mural of humpback whales. The shack is a popular lunch spot for divers who visit the remote island between August and October, when humpback whales migrate from Antarctica to warmer waters to give birth and nurse their young.
The 27-year-old’s long hair is often tied back in a tight bun, and her everyday attire is simple: colorful T-shirts, jeans, patterned wrap-around skirts called “pareos,” which emphasize her tall, willowy figure. Her gentle demeanor, merging feminine grace with understated masculine features, hints at a deeper, more complex narrative. Beneath her composed exterior lies the truth that she used to be male.
Takamoana is “raerae,” a third-gender identity that embraces male and female characteristics. Although her sex assigned at birth was male, she has always identified as a woman and lived as such. She shares this identity with her cousins, 26-year-old Teiarau Pito and 17-year-old Teihere Toomaru. The three were assigned male at birth, and since childhood they had all desired to become female.
As cousins from a large, close-knit family, they experienced a childhood marked by similar experiences and a worldview shaped by their shared upbringing on the small, relatively isolated French Polynesian island over 300 miles south of Tahiti, with a population of about 2,200.
Like several other Polynesian societies — and many Indigenous communities around the world — French Polynesia maintains third-gender identities that have morphed and changed with historical contexts. They are the traditional identity of māhū, which means “in the middle,” and the more contemporary identity of raerae. Both are considered part of today’s broader LGBTQ+ spectrum, and both represent specific cultural identities with their own historical contexts in Polynesian societies.
French Polynesia, which has a democratically elected president and a considerable measure of autonomy, is still governed under French law, including at least some of France’s notably progressive views on LGBTQ+ issues. There are antidiscrimination laws protecting LGBTQ+ communities, fundamental rights like same-sex marriage, bans on conversion therapy, and the option for legal gender change without surgery. But within the framework of these laws and the French influence, culturally, the treatment of LGBTQ+ communities on smaller islands can diverge because of unique societal dynamics.
In Polynesian cultures, there has ancestrally been a place of acceptance for māhū and gender fluidity. Before colonization, māhū were respected spiritual figures. They were honored for encompassing both masculine and feminine traits, and played important roles as healers, caretakers and cultural educators. Their gender fluidity was central to their cultural and spiritual traditions, enabling them to provide unique insights and skills to their communities.
But then, in the early 19th century, missionaries began to impose Western norms and Christian values in Polynesia, suppressing cultural practices like dance and oral storytelling traditions as well as marginalizing the traditional roles of māhū.
This continued until the suppression of Indigenous traditions began to decline worldwide in the mid-to-late 20th century, driven by global civil rights and cultural preservation movements. The Hawaiian Renaissance of the 1970s and 1980s, for example, marked one of the major turning points in reviving traditional practices, languages and identities. In French Polynesia, which shares its ancestral culture and history with Hawaii, this global movement led to a revival and celebration of māhū as well as recognition of their integral societal roles. This momentum continued into the 21st century, fostering a greater acceptance of diverse gender roles and cultural practices.
The emergence of raerae, who align more closely with Western concepts of transgender women, is a more recent development influenced by colonial and Western cultural norms. Raerae individuals carry a history full of challenges, particularly on small islands dominated by staunchly evangelical Christian traditional values, such as Rurutu, where the population is generally older and predominantly Christian, with seven churches spread throughout the tiny island. There, raerae find themselves pushed to the margins of societal acceptance.
Anthropologist and gender studies expert Makiko Kuwahara explains that the term raerae emerged in French Polynesia only in the 1960s. France relocated its nuclear testing program from Algeria to the area, bringing over 20,000 French military personnel to Tahiti. The sudden influx of military-age men prompted the development of a booming sex trade. And thus connecting with māhū offered an economical alternative to having Polynesian girlfriends, leading māhū to adopt a more feminine appearance to attract these Frenchmen.
This shift led to the emergence of the term raerae to distinguish the more feminized māhū from traditional māhū. The exact origin of the term raerae is unclear, but Kuwahara says historians believe it was the nickname of a māhū sex worker. Sociocultural anthropologist Deborah Elliston explains that the main difference between māhū and raerae is their adoption of female gender roles and how they express their identity, which varies across Polynesian islands because of cultural, economic and colonial factors.
Māhū often prefer domestic tasks over traditional male roles such as farming and fishing. They will typically wear shorts and T-shirts publicly and more feminine clothing like pareos at home. They do not put on makeup or pursue body modifications like breast enlargement or gender-affirmation surgery.
Raerae, on the other hand, live openly as women. “Raerae will wear female clothing and makeup and sometimes engage in modifications of the body, such as hormone treatment and gender-affirmation surgery,” Kuwahara says.
She adds that both identities are deeply rooted in Polynesian traditions. The term raerae is specific to French Polynesia and not widely used across Polynesian cultures, where each region has its own terms and unique understandings of gender diversity, such as “fakaleiti” in Tonga, “fa’afafine” in Samoa and māhū in Tahiti and Hawaii, each with its own nuanced identity.
Family and community acceptance helps to foster environments where gender diversity is more openly expressed and for the most part, unless marooned on the more conservative small island, respected. There is no substantial scientific evidence suggesting that genetics play a significant role in the existence of māhū and raerae, even when several appear in one family.
According to Hinaleimoana Kwai Kong Wong-Kalu, also known as Kumu Hina, a cultural practitioner who also identifies as māhū and an advocate for gender diversity in Hawaiian culture, the growing number of māhū within a community, and even within the same family, is due to the influence of others with the same identity supporting one another and the feeling of being accepted.
“In the Western LGBTQ movement, you’re labeled according to your gender identity. That’s not a native perspective on gender expression. Or this idea of coming out. Hawaiians don’t come out: We simply exist,” she wrote in an op-ed. “It’s up to each individual to determine at what point they are comfortable with simply being who they are.”
“Traditionally and historically, there has always been respect for māhū, especially as caretakers, healers and teachers. Genetics has nothing to do with” being māhū, Hina tells New Lines. “It’s about mind, heart, spirit and acceptance.”
Kuwahara says that, compared with māhū, raerae face varying acceptance levels, which differ across Polynesian communities. Because of family and community, they are integrated, as long as their sexuality remains mostly unspoken, which is more difficult for raerae.
“Each [Polynesian] island has a different history of contact with Western society, and the acceptance of raerae may differ accordingly. But, in a small society, everyone is related to each other, either as relatives or in some other way, so someone who transitions to raerae is eventually integrated,” Kuwahara explains.
Takamoana notes that support within the family is not the same as being embraced by society broadly. “On Rurutu, māhū are part of traditions and integrated within our community,” she explains. “Raerae are not genuinely accepted.”
Takamoana says that on bigger islands like Tahiti, particularly in Papeete, the larger cosmopolitan and French-influenced capital of French Polynesia, raerae are acknowledged more positively because the mentality is more open-minded. While there are no precise statistics on the number of raerae individuals in Tahiti, they are a visible and recognized part of the community, supported by various activist organizations.
In Rurutu, the story is different. Gisele Tavita, a 60-year-old Rurutu matriarch and Polynesian cultural educator, explains that raerae and māhū are included in the community but not necessarily as their authentic selves. They participate in various cultural and dance events, including traditional weddings, but are generally not accepted as female. In their traditional dances called “heiva,” their roles are limited.
Female dancers wear pareos for everyday performances and more intricate clothing called “tifaifai” for ceremonial occasions. Men, including raerae and māhū, are asked to wear shirts instead of dresses.
Tavita says that the older generation on the island do not recognize raerae as a separate identity, viewing anyone who identifies as either māhū or raerae simply as different from the norm. The concept of raerae is often ignored, with the older generation acknowledging only māhū. Most view the word raerae as derogatory rather than a distinct identity.
“Māhū are different in their behaviors, mannerisms and dress,” she says. However, from a societal and familial perspective, “they are expected to perform both men’s and women’s tasks within their families.” Tavita notes that “in the past, māhū would hide their identity and conform to traditional male roles in public. But today, their numbers are growing,” especially compared with her own childhood.
“There was only one when I was around 10 years old,” she recalled. Her youngest son is māhū.
One local who goes by the name Teva Temauri is a māhū and is friends with the cousins.
“You are māhū first before becoming raerae,” he explains. “Some māhū will never transition to raerae because they fear deceiving their parents. To dress as a woman is forbidden, and it is challenging for raerae to be accepted by their parents.”
He admits that although he wanted to transition, he could never bring himself to do so because he wanted to be accepted by his father. Today, they have a good relationship, with the son having taken over their family business, a tourism company, while the father continues to mentor him. Still, he identifies as female, wears his hair long, dresses in pareos at home and discretely dates men.
Kuwahara says the definition of identity is rooted in familial connections — whether in blood or a “found” family. For both māhū and raerae individuals, family support is critical. Raerae individuals struggle with the challenges of being openly effeminate and expressing an open sexual preference for men. Raerae can be kicked out of the house by their parents, but with māhū, there is tolerance even if there isn’t bonding or approval.
The cousins explain that most religiously devout parents will lash out at their children on Rurutu if they find out they want to become women. According to Takamoana, there is a common mindset across older generations on the island that the only future for raerae, especially if they leave for Tahiti or elsewhere, is prostitution, and some parents never allow their children to leave the island.
Elliston says the definition of raerae is fluid. “Polynesians move in and out of their identifications as raerae; it is not an identity in a fixed sense.” She cited instances in which raerae who had lived a whole life as women chose to live again as men later in life to build a family, become fathers or reconnect with family members.
She notes that “younger raerae migrate to … the capital city of Papeete to escape the marginalization they report as commonplace in the smaller, more insular outer islands” — like Rurutu. Raerae, often facing family rejection, find solace in friendships and communities that understand their struggles as well as affirmation in places like Tahiti or mainland France, with much larger queer communities. Outside of the islands, raerae can also find more work opportunities, such as becoming dancers, entertainers, hotel workers and hairstylists.
The support structure on Rurutu is small. There are 15 māhū and 10 raerae on the island, including the three cousins. The community continues to diminish because in trying to find work on the island, raerae individuals in particular face discrimination. Takamoana works at Snack Piaareare and perseveres only because of the support she receives from other staff and a loud, resilient indifference to potential abuse. Everyone knows her. Her family members say she maintains the same jovial expression whether she is being yelled at on the street or welcomed into a friend’s house with open arms.
Around sunset on a humid, windy afternoon, Takamoana, Pito and Toomaru are getting ready for a friend’s party at Takamoana’s house. Her bedroom is simple, adorned with colorful fabrics, plastic chairs and old, wooden furniture. The three cousins chat and laugh, gossiping about their days and complimenting one another’s style.
Takamoana puts on a deep red dress with white floral patterns and picks out a pendant for Toomaru, who wears a similar long, flowy teal dress. Pito helps Toomaru with her waist-long hair, but she fusses with how it looks and opts for a straw hat instead. They have prepared together like this all their lives, rummaging through their mothers’ and aunts’ closets when they were kids.
Despite the happiness of these moments, the cousins have faced abuse and rejection at different points from their families and community. Takamoana endured a tumultuous and still fractured relationship with her conservative, religious mother, a leader in one of the island’s churches. It began when she refused boys’ clothing and wore dresses in primary school, then continued wearing skirts in high school.
“We fought all the time. She didn’t want her ‘son’ to be thought of as a woman, especially at church,” she says. The stigma against raerae bewildered her as a child. She didn’t understand the difference between a man and a woman, and after her first sexual encounter with a man at the age of 16, she understood herself to be a woman.
From her earliest memories, Toomaru also wanted to be a woman. She would dance with a towel on as if it were a dress. She began her transition in primary school, caring little about the community’s judgment, but was always concerned about her parents’ reactions.
“It was hard to face my parents,” she recalls. “I was scared. I didn’t want them to know I wanted to be a girl. So I hid from my parents and family.” Eventually, the pressure of hiding was too overwhelming.
Despite numerous arguments, she advocated for her identity. Her parents ultimately accepted her when she was 11, largely because she proved herself by being first in her class.
“The only way to gain their support was to prove that I was the best at something,” she explains. “I didn’t care what other people thought of me — if I wore dresses or grew my hair long. But I wanted my parents to care about me.” Next year, she told New Lines, she will leave Rurutu for mainland France, over 10,000 miles away, to pursue a nursing degree.
Pito, the quietest of the three, discovered her feminine side through dance.
“I love the feeling of putting on a pareo and swaying my hips to the rhythm of the toere [traditional percussion instruments],” she says. But every time she danced, she faced constant verbal and physical abuse from her father and uncles.
She suppressed her identity until her early 20s, when she moved to Tahiti for school, a time during which she fell into a supportive community that allowed her to fully embrace her transition. Pito now aspires to undergo gender-affirmation surgery in France. She explained that most raerae from Rurutu who manage to save enough money end up going to France, Thailand or Turkey for surgery.
In France, costs for gender-affirming surgeries range from $3,000 to $50,000 depending on whether an individual opts for a single procedure, such as top surgery (chest reshaping), usually the simplest and least expensive to the more complex and pricy bottom surgery (genitalia reconstruction) or facial feminization surgery (altering facial features to appear more traditionally feminine or masculine), or chooses to undergo just two or all three surgeries.
In Thailand and Turkey, prices are generally lower, ranging from $1,500 to $33,000 and $1,900 to $25,000, respectively. The type of care varies based on individual circumstances and the surgeon’s experience.
One of Takamoana’s best friends who is also raerae, Kaley Taputu, moved to France in 2019 to advance her transition. “I wanted to discover new things and gain a broader perspective beyond Rurutu,” she says. She found a better quality of life and community as well as more opportunities in France. She manages a sauna and occasionally models.
Taputu has undergone breast augmentation and a Brazilian butt lift and plans to complete her transition with facial feminization and sex reassignment surgery. She explains that she won’t return to Rurutu, not even for a visit, until her transition is complete, hoping that then she will finally be accepted as a woman.
Unlike Taputu, who found more affirmation in France, the three cousins still face adversity in their small community.
Despite their graceful and quiet demeanor, each of the three cousins can throw a punch and, when necessary, is capable of defending herself. Pito shares a story about a party at which leering men provoked her and other raerae friends as they were dancing, leading to a fistfight that spilled out onto the street.
“We always fight back,” she says. “Despite being women, we fight like men.” She says they have to fight back if someone wants to beat them because no one else will stand up for them. She feels that most of the island has “become used to them,” but there is still a minority that cannot stand their existence.
While most young raerae aspire to leave for education or work, many remain to be with family, even though there is no collective activism for their rights there. For Takamoana, the first step to acceptance is to affirm a distinctly separate identity as a raerae, one that is different from māhū.
“We are not the same as māhū,” she says. “Māhū are mostly accepted, and we wish we could be too. More often than not, we just want to be considered women, not raerae.”
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