A quiet living room in Tuirara, Makoi, Fiji, became a chamber of revelations last week. Saini Rokoiwaca, 65, sat hunched over her phone, surrounded by her grandchildren: Joshua, 17; Salote, 14; and Rupeni, 12. The screen glowed with old messages from their daughter and mother, Anaseini Nai Waqavuki—texts that once seemed mundane, now screamed warnings. “If we had understood it sooner…” Saini whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her weathered face. What the family once dismissed as simple relationship spats or vague complaints had transformed into a harrowing timeline of escalating danger. Anaseini, 38, wasn’t just venting; she was sending cries for help, hidden in plain sight, as she desperately tried to flee a toxic relationship that ended in her brutal murder on December 28, 2025.

The messages, uncovered in the aftermath of Anaseini’s funeral in Perth, Australia, paint a picture of a woman trapped in a cycle of abuse, her words carefully coded to avoid direct confrontation while signaling peril. One text from October 2025 read: “Things are getting rough here. I need to find a way out soon. Pray for me.” At the time, the family thought it referred to work stress in her demanding role as an aged care nurse in Sydney. Now, they see it as a plea amid intensifying domestic violence from her ex-partner, Anare Vunitabua, 47. Another, sent in November: “He’s acting strange again. I don’t feel safe at night.” Attached was a blurry photo of a bruised arm—dismissed then as a “work accident.” These weren’t isolated; a series of similar signals stretched back months, each one a breadcrumb leading to the tragedy that claimed her life and that of her friend, Epi Naitini, 30.

Anaseini’s story began with hope. In 2018, she left her three children in Fiji to migrate to Australia on a skilled worker visa. As a dedicated nurse in Sydney’s aged care sector, she endured grueling night shifts, sending every spare dollar home for school fees, uniforms, food, and dreams of reunion. Daily video calls bridged the ocean—laughter about school days, stories of Australian adventures, promises of a brighter future. “Just a little longer,” she’d say, her voice warm but weary. “Then we’ll all be together—better schools, safer neighborhoods, our family whole.”

But beneath the facade lurked darkness. Her six-year relationship with Vunitabua, a fellow Fijian in the diaspora, soured into control and violence. Friends later revealed she confided in hushed tones about jealousy-fueled arguments, isolation from loved ones, and physical threats. She tried leaving multiple times—packing bags, staying with friends—but promises of reform or veiled intimidations pulled her back. By October 2025, she made her final break, focusing on her career and securing permanent residency to bring her children over. “I’m done,” she told a colleague. “For my kids, for my peace.”

The signals started subtly. In August 2025, a message to her niece Georgina Bulewa: “Life’s complicated right now. Need advice on moving forward.” Georgina replied casually, assuming it was about visa paperwork. September brought: “Feeling trapped. Wish I could fly home.” The family encouraged her to visit, not realizing “trapped” was literal—Vunitabua allegedly monitored her phone, restricted her movements. October’s “rough” text escalated to November’s “strange” behavior warning. In early December, she sent: “If something happens, know I love you all.” Attached: a selfie with tired eyes, a faint mark on her cheek—brushed off as fatigue.

These weren’t overt screams; they were whispers, coded to evade escalation. Domestic violence experts explain why: Victims often minimize abuse to protect themselves and loved ones, fearing retaliation or disbelief. Dr. Lena Vasquez, a Sydney-based psychologist specializing in migrant women’s trauma, notes, “Migrant women like Anaseini face compounded barriers—cultural stigma, financial dependence, isolation from family networks. Their signals are subtle because direct pleas could provoke worse violence.”

The night of December 27, 2025, seemed unremarkable. Anaseini hosted a small kava session—a traditional Fijian gathering for relaxation and community. Epi Naitini, a happily married friend from the diaspora, joined others for grog and conversation. Salote’s goodnight message around 10 p.m. was their last: “Love you, Mum. Sweet dreams.” Anaseini replied with hearts and a promise: “We’ll get ready for the New Year together soon.”

Screams shattered the dawn before 5 a.m. on December 28. Neighbors on Illabo Street, Quakers Hill, called police. Officers found Anaseini in the kitchen, stabbed multiple times. Epi lay on the footpath, fatally wounded. Vunitabua turned himself in at Blacktown Police Station, charged with two murders. Police ruled it domestic violence-related, rejecting “love triangle” rumors—Epi was innocent, caught in the crossfire of Vunitabua’s rage over the breakup.

News hit Fiji like a tsunami. Saini’s home plunged into chaos—stunned silence, then wails. Joshua, awaiting Year 12 results, stared blankly. Salote clutched her phone, rereading the final message. Rupeni asked endlessly, “When’s Mum coming home?”

The funeral in Perth was a whirlwind of grief and logistics. GoFundMe raised over A$180,000 for visas, flights, and costs. The chapel blended Fijian masi mats, frangipani leis from Nakini village, hymns in native tongue. At the open casket, Joshua whispered his now-viral plea: “Mum said we’d be getting ready for the New Year… I’ve been waiting. Mum, please wake up.” Salote placed a letter; Rupeni kissed her forehead, begging her to return.

Back in Fiji post-funeral, the family began decoding. Sifting through years of chats, they pieced together the puzzle. “We saw patterns,” Georgina said in an exclusive interview. “Mentions of ‘accidents,’ ‘stress,’ ‘needing space’—all code for abuse. If we had understood sooner, maybe we could have intervened, gotten her out.”

Hindsight brought unbearable regret. Saini replayed a November call: Anaseini sounded distant, ending abruptly. “I thought she was tired from work,” Saini lamented. Joshua recalled her urging him to “be strong, no matter what.” “She was preparing us,” he said, voice trembling.

Experts validate their pain. Dr. Vasquez: “These signals—vague distress, physical hints—are common. Families miss them because abuse is insidious, hidden behind normalcy.” She cites statistics: In Australia, one woman dies weekly from intimate partner violence; migrants face higher risks due to language barriers, unfamiliar systems.

The Fijian-Australian community reels. Vigils in Sydney honor Anaseini, candles flickering for Epi too. RED HEART Movement advocates decry “preventable tragedy,” pushing for better support: faster emergency housing, culturally sensitive counseling, awareness campaigns.

Anaseini’s legacy endures in her children. Joshua pursues nursing; Salote teaching; Rupeni piloting—all dreams she nurtured. They vow to break silence cycles, sharing her story to save others.

Yet questions haunt: What if one message had been decoded? What if “rough” prompted a flight home? “If we had understood sooner…” echoes as a cautionary lament. Anaseini’s hidden cries remind us: Listen closer. Act faster. Before time runs out.

In decoding her words, the family found not just pain, but purpose—to amplify silenced voices, ensuring no other mother’s signals go unheard.