This has been us lately, as a whānau and as a hapū. Tangihanga. For months. Funerals and funeral rites. It’s been relentless. The tikanga that guide us through tangihanga, the kawa that stands as a reminder that some aspects must never change, because they represent our ties to the ways of our tūpuna, our ancestors and more importantly, represent the determination of our agency to our future. Kawa acts as teachings for what must be done before we enter the world of Hinenuitepō, the guardian of the dead. But so much has changed. Keeps changing. Some things, like who should speak on behalf of those who are grieving, have been forced to change and take time to change back.
Three days ago, I cried uncontrollably at a relations house. We were at a meeting when we were all told of his passing. On the way back from our marae, to town, to pay our respects, my tāne asked, “Is it whati tikanga if I speak at his tangi?” I knew what he meant. My tāne is one of a small number of speakers for our marae – and that number is getting smaller. We’ve lost two of his brothers in the space of four months. As a speaker for our marae it is custom that he rests under what is known as wahangū, a state of respected silence, until his brother’s headstones are unveiled. We lost one brother last November and the other three weeks ago and we still haven’t had the time to acknowledge either of their passing, let alone our own grief. During and around their passings are other relatives who have passed away. We’ve (collective) been on a painful journey recently and ā wairua, ā tīnana, ā hinengaro, we’re exhausted.
There are so many facets to take into consideration when talking about tangihanga. In our culture we have adopted the eulogy – loved ones of the deceased sharing their kōrero of the deceased to somehow ease their pain – but at tangi, your job as whānau pani is purely to grieve as a collective. To cry, to get angry, to laugh, to debate, to let go, to forgive, to remember, to allow your emotions to flow, as a family/hapū and that’s the beauty and importance of attending tangi when you can and staying at the marae when you can, to share in the collective pain and help heal as a collective. But then there are things that you see and take for granted and don’t think about until they are hurting. Like the pae tapu/taumata. The paepae is to tangihanga what it is to all kaupapa Māori. It is the beginning and the end. No kaupapa at a marae starts without those who are the voices of the marae, those who help to uphold the customs, protocols and narratives of the people. From kaikaranga to the last speaker, they are the voice of the marae. They speak for the marae, our ancestors and those passed on.
There is a tikanga that we try to uphold. One that I remember from when I was a kid. Those who are under the kapua pouri (cloud/cover of sadness/mourning) are meant to be in a state of tapu and therefore our role at a tangi is to acknowledge and release our sadness when and wherever we see fit. Our women and sometimes our men wail at their loss, salty waterfalls of love, anguish and at times, relief, flow. It’s been the role of those who are not immediate family to speak for whānau pani so that whānau pani are free to grieve openly, unabated. It’s the role of the kaikōrero, as a non-immediate family member to speak on behalf of the whānau pani and the tūpāpaku. But at this tangi, there was literally no one there to do this. Everyone who spoke on behalf of the whānau pani and the tūpāpaku was whānau pani. There was no one to speak on behalf of our whanaunga, in the language of our ancestors. His brothers were speaking to him, to his own whānau, to their siblings, children, mokopuna, everyone, of the loss they all bear; that WE all bear – and I cried because this is not meant to be how we mourn and acknowledge our dead or their loved ones left behind. I cried heavy hearted tears.
Because I know why there was no one there to do what needs to be done. Whānau are working. Whānau are learning. Whānau are living in their present. Unfortunately, that brings a heavy toll to the pae; if everyone else is living in their present it leaves the old people to man the pae because their present involves everyone’s pasts. Our pae are in need of rest. They are deserving of younger vision and voices as they have been the younger vision and voices of the pae before them. When our pae become whānau pani they are still deserving of time to be able to carry out the customs and protocols of our old people – because grief takes time. It takes effort. It takes energy. It takes kōrero. It takes memories. It takes whānau.
The last portion of this post has been written at our relations poroporoaki – his final evening with us before his burial day āpōpō. It’s an opportunity for the wider whānau to share their memories of him and ease some of the mamae carried by the whānau pani. His cousin stands to deliver the final kōrero before we finish poroporoaki and I’m reminded yet again that although he stands with love in his heart, he is a speaker for our marae, spends a great deal of time on the whenua and at kaupapa and is also whānau pani. Kia ngawari, kia ū, e te pae tapu/whānau pani.
Māori Muser 