“Her farewell was her final gift,” writes Shonelle Wana about the tangihanga for her Aunty Rose (pictured) who died recently, aged 75. (Photo supplied)

A tangihanga is a gift that reminds us of the power in kaupapa Māori, writes Shonelle Wana.

The news came from Wellington. Our Aunty Rose, the eldest sister on my mother’s side, had passed away.

Aunty Rose was 75 years old. She had lived a full life, a worldly woman shaped by travel, ceremony, and her years of military association. Yet at her heart, she was Māori, of chiefly bloodlines.

The call for us all to head home to Te Pāroa marae was both practical and spiritual. Practical, in that the marae needed to be readied for her return. Spiritual, because her passing summoned us back to the teachings of our grandparents. They had taught their 14 children that the marae is not an optional place of belonging, but a duty, a living covenant with our tīpuna.

We mokopuna had been raised with those teachings, too. And as we gathered for this tangihanga, we felt the mantle fall on our shoulders.

As an academic, I often hear kaupapa Māori being discussed in terms of theory, the words, the frameworks, the concepts. But I write this tribute to my Aunty Rose as a ringa raupā, someone whose hands work constantly behind the scenes during this raw and living example of kaupapa Māori in practice.

My koro was a man of action, discipline and urgency. His words were few, but they carried weight. Whenever there was a tangihanga, his instruction was simple: “We’ve got a tangi.” No more needed to be said. Those words meant: “Get to the marae.” They set everything in motion. My whānau dropped what we were doing, made our way to the marae, and went straight to work.

Nan was the steady hand, the quiet force. She showed us that manaakitanga lives in the details, in the way mattresses are laid carefully and evenly, tables are set, and food is served with pride, never carelessly, and always with aroha.

Together, Nan and Koro raised their 14 children to understand discipline and service, and as adults, they stepped naturally into the roles their parents once held. They led in the kitchen, directed the flow of kai, ensured that every ope was fed and every detail was attended to.

To prepare for the return of Aunty Rose, whānau scrubbed toilets, laid mattresses and prepared the wharekai. In grief, this familiar work felt heavier and holier. Every corner made ready was an act of aroha.

This is what my grandparents meant when they spoke of manaakitanga. It wasn’t a lofty word to them, but labour. Polished floors, freshly baked bread, a warm meal waiting. These ordinary tasks carried extraordinary meaning. They prepared the space not just for people, but for wairua.

As cars arrived, the marae filled. Aunties, cousins with tamariki, uncles with meat freshly killed and wood for the hangi. Hapū delivered pūhā and baking. At the back of the kitchen, teasing and banter accompanied the seafood shelling and vegetable chopping.

This is how grief is carried in te ao Māori. Together. In laughter, as well as tears. In food as well as speech.

Every koha of kai was aroha made visible. Every hand that prepared it drew us closer. Te Pāroa was full not just with people, but with the memory of all who had stood there before and the promise that we would stand there again.

Aunty Rose returned home on a wave of sound. Her son Jimmy and my cousins carried her onto the marae ātea, followed by whānau and mourners. At the mahau, my mother and her five sisters broke down. Their wailing awakened the ancient spirits, as they called to Aunty Rose by name.

The lament tore through the air and shook us to the bone. I saw my mother and her sisters, the women who had always led with strength, who had always carried us, collapse under grief. They were not ringa raupā, workers on the marae, that day. They were mourners, kirimate. Their duty was to weep, and ours was to hold them in that space.

What followed was tikanga that is older than all of us. Early mornings preparing kai. Karakia before dawn. Stories woven through whakapapa lines by whaikōrero. Waiata giving voice to love and grief.

The wharemate was dressed in Rose’s honour. Linen neatly laid, flowers carefully chosen in her favourite colour. Even in death, her mana and character guided the details. This was tikanga reflecting the life it upheld. Kaupapa Māori and mātauranga Māori alive in every act, as children’s laughter rang out from the back.

We cooked and carried, scrubbed and served, poured endless cups of tea. We worked through tears, through exhaustion, through grief. Though the days were long and the grief was sharp, it was a privilege to serve in this way. Each task was a reminder of Nan and Koro. When I scrubbed a bench, I heard Nan’s voice urging me to do it properly. When I looked at the food set out in abundance, I thought of Koro saying that no ope should ever be left hungry.

And when I saw us, the mokopuna, leading, with our elders floating and supporting, I realised succession had happened. We were no longer filling in, we were upholding the legacy of Nan and Koro.

On the last morning, we gathered as one. The coffin lid was closed. The cries of sisters, the silence of brothers, and the tears of mokopuna filled the room. We shook in sorrow, voices broke, and we leaned into one another. It was grief in its rawest form, softened by the karakia guiding her spirit onward.

Outside at the urupā, the grave diggers worked. As Aunty Rose left the marae for the last time during the final karakia, I saw hundreds of people. Some didn’t know her, but they knew our family. My koro always said: “When you give, it returns to you,” and that’s what I saw then.

Aunty Rose was lowered gently into the earth, her body returned to Papatūānuku. Flowers lay bold and beautiful against the soil. And with the final shovelful, the last words from our whānau: Thank you for your service, Aunty Rose. Haere atu rā.

What remains with me is not only the loss, but the wairua. I saw kaupapa Māori alive in every area of the marae. In the grief of sisters crying her name. In the strength of brothers standing steady. In the aroha of nieces and nephews who carried trays, scrubbed pots, fed the ope and cleaned the toilets. In hapū who supported us. In tamariki who reminded us that even in death, life goes on.

Present in every act were the lessons from my grandparents. They had raised their children to serve, and their children had raised us to do the same.

The tangihanga of Aunty Rose at Te Pāroa marae reminded us that to be Māori is to weep and to work, to grieve and to give, to uphold the marae so that aroha may carry us all.

Her farewell was her final gift. She showed us the strength of our culture, the resilience of our whānau, and the power of kaupapa Māori when it is lived, not just spoken.

Mokopuna of the Wana whānau. (Photo supplied)

Dr. Shonelle Wana (Ngāti Awa, Tūhoe, Ngāpuhi, Te Whakatōhea) was born and raised in the Whakatāne district in a large whānau connected to her culture and many hapū. She holds a Doctorate in Indigenous Development and Advancement and currently serves as a Post-Doctoral Research Fellow at Te Whare Wānanga o Awanuiārangi. Her research centres on Māori women’s leadership with a strong commitment to uplifting wāhine voices. She is also an active member of her marae within Ngāti Awa and Tūhoe, contributing to cultural preservation and community development.

E-Tangata, 2025