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O le e lave i tiga, ole ivi, le toto, ma le aano

He who rallies in my hour of need is my kin

This is a weekly post on the writings of one of Samoa’s last remaining scholars, historians, thought leaders and thinkers: Samoa’s Head of State Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi.  Tui Atua is, in fact, our present-day King of Samoa.  And as one of Pacific pioneers in literature has pointed out, Tui Atua’s background, his upbringing, makes him unique in Samoan history:

….because he was, is, and continues to be a unique fusion of many traditions, historical circumstances, upbringing, education, and two languages. Because he is a master of Samoan and English he has been able to give us his vision in both languages. That…has also helped us understand…and allows people, who are not fluent in Samoan, to have access to his work.
Albert Wendt, 2008
Foreword
Su’esu’e Manogi In Search of Fragrance

Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi

Head of State of the Independent State of Samoa
Keynote Address
New Zealand Families Commission Pasifika Families’ Fono
TelstraClear Pacific Events Centre, Manukau City, Auckland.

3 November 2009
This address is dedicated to the victims of the 2009 Tonga and Samoa Tsunami

Excerpt of Keynote Address O le e lave i tiga, ole ivi, le toto, ma le aano
He who rallies in my hour of need is my kin

In the immediate aftermath of the tsunami there are many images of the strength of family, of the pain of parents who have lost children and children who have lost parents. But nothing as heart-wrenchingly raw and vivid as the sight of a mother, at the call of a new body being found, rushing over to see if it is hers and on realising that it is, oblivious to the stench of the rotting body, hugs and kisses it as if it were newborn.

The depth of the bond between mother and child is captured here. For me watching this scene, both grotesque and beautiful, my stomach turns, my heart breaks, my legs go weak but in my mind’s eye I see the strength of the pute (or umbilical cord), the vae vae manava (sharing of body and life), that links mother and child.

On deeper reflection the tsunami not only caused death and destruction, it also gave opportunity for a reappraisal of family and societal values and a cleansing, if you like, of that which, in the light of so much pain and grief, became peripheral, nonsensical, vain and excessive.

Let me turn to the issue of family faalavelave or to the culture of reciprocal obligations and the social stigma that is sometimes associated with it.

Family faalavelave and social stigma

In Samoan the word faalavelave literally means an interruption. It speaks of an interruption to the family’s usual schedule. Families would have to reorganise their day or week in order to rally family members for enough resources to meet their faalavelave obligations.

In earlier times faalavelave made it possible for the burden of resourcing large family events to be shared. The belief was that participating in faalavelave were acts of reciprocity. In the ideal these acts were manifestations and demonstrations of family love and bonding. They personified the best of family loving.

Samoan custom and usage finds the quid pro quo principle relevant in this context. There is a common saying – ‘A e iloa a’u i Togamau, ou te iloa foi oe i Siulepa (literally meaning, if you do me a good deed in Togamau, I will reciprocate in Siulepa)’.

The reciprocal performance of the custom or duty implicit in the cultural imperatives of faalavelave is not to be motivated only by what one can receive in return. Rather it should be motivated by the knowledge that if performed with the best possible motives then it will be reciprocated in time and in kind.

The disparaging comments too often associated with faalavelave today are cries for reappraisal. This is implicit in the discussion between a chief or matai of my family and his sister.

This matai, who lives in Wellington, rang up his sister, and said gently: “the faalavelave is now over; I suppose you had forgotten about your contribution?”

She responded: “Look here dear brother, one of my principal prayers is: Dear God, call us to heaven before our children spurn what we ask for because there are too many faalavelave!”

The tsunami has created the ideal context for reassessing faalavelave. For years now our funeral culture has been the target of fierce criticism and discussion.

The focus has been on corruption, exploitation and abuse, said to be motivated by vanity and greed. In one fell swoop the tsunami imposed a context, forum and environment within which to re-examine the core values of the Samoan funeral culture.

[ See the attached Tuifeamalo Tuatagaloa Annandale eulogy, which provides a different expression of the same point.]

Sorting through the scale of destruction and the number of dead, dying and injured preoccupied the community so much after the tsunami that funerals of the deceased victims became very simple affairs.

The sheer number of decomposing bodies requiring immediate burial dictated the imperatives of when to hold the funeral, how, where and who should attend.

When driving past these funerals the absence of the village congregating in the falelauasi [funeral house] and of the Greek chorus which usually accompanied the procession to the church then to the gravesite, was poignantly conspicuous.

The paraphernalia that we have become accustomed to seeing at a Samoan funeral, especially one held in the villages, was so scaled down that one could not help but ask: how much of it do we really need?

Will our funerals and their cultural imperatives lose meaning and substance if we gave to the grieving and demanded nothing or only accepted the bare minimum in return?

Would the dignity of the deceased and his or her family be undermined by simple but true gestures of reciprocity.

Funerals are meant to provide relief (financially and emotionally) and do justice, i.e. dignify the memory and legacy of the deceased. Instead Samoan funerals have become very expensive and stressful, with some families getting into grave debt financially, mentally and spiritually by the end of it. The social stigma of losing face if family resources are found wanting is so great that family heads are willing to do almost anything to avoid it, including creating inter-generational debt.

The seeming ordinariness of the tsunami funerals, with the minimum fuss and bother that surrounded them, did not, however, lose any face by their simplicity. Instead they gained in that they reminded us of what really mattered. In this instance, rather than raging menace the tsunami chastened and cleansed.

We might say that it forced us to front up to our vanities and cupidity, violently shaking and unmasking us of the façade and exploitations that befalls status at funerals and making profane anything other than what is fundamental to the act of celebrating life and providing relief from sorrow and pain.

In a nutshell, the tsunami has forced us to ask: Are our families suffering because of our own misplaced and inflated expectations?

If the answer is yes, then we must take pause to sort out why this is so.

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