Mourners at the tangihanga for Kiingi Tuheita. (Photo: Kiingitanga)

At 5am on Monday morning, Siena Yates found herself on the road to Tūrangawaewae, to pay her respects to Kiingi Tuheitia. It wasn’t something she particularly wanted to do, rather something she felt she had to do.  

Here, she explains why, and how it felt to farewell the Māori king in person.

They say that sometimes your wairua knows things before you do.

It knows your reo before you’ve learned it, your maunga before you’ve stood at its feet, and your awa before you’ve bathed in it. It knows the people who are good for you, the spaces that are meant for you, and the things you need.

I think that’s how I found myself standing in a crowd of 8000 people, in the cold and fog of the early morning at Tūrangawaewae, for Kiingi Tuheitia’s tangihanga.

I’ve never really felt any strong connection to the Kiingitanga. To be perfectly honest, the too-staunch, wannabe feminist in my teenage self had switched off when Te Arikinui Dame Te Atairangikaahu passed and was succeeded by a male heir. Besides, at that point, I was so disconnected from my Māoritanga that the whole institution felt like none of my business.

That started to change in recent years — but it’s still so recent that I felt like a massive fraud when I heard about the king’s passing and experienced a deep and unexpected reaction. I was immediately struck by a strange emotion I still haven’t been able to put a name to, like something was suddenly missing. For reasons I couldn’t understand, let alone explain to anyone else, his death mattered to me.

When I saw details of the tangi appear, I felt compelled to go. And again, I couldn’t explain why. I certainly didn’t want to go. Partly because big events and large crowds give me an insane amount of anxiety. But also because I felt an overwhelming sense of fear, guilt and imposter syndrome.

Who was I to show up at Tūrangawaewae all of a sudden, when I’d never once been there before? Who was I to mourn the king when, until very recently, I never even celebrated him? Who was I to intrude on the pōuritanga of Tainui when I still don’t really know my Tainui whakapapa, when I’ve never visited my marae in Kāwhia — and when I’m not even 100 percent sure if that’s my marae at all?

Yet, unlike with te hui-ā-motu or the last three Koroneihana, when I’d wanted to go but let the fear get the better of me, this time, I went. Because there was no longer a “next time”. This time, the kaupapa was far bigger than whatever that voice in my head was telling me.

Sure enough, when the karanga started and we began to take our first steps on to Tūrangawaewae marae, I knew I’d made the right choice. And as I sat and watched each kaikōrero step onto the ātea to speak, I came to understand what it was that compelled me to be there.

I think every single kaikōrero that day, and in all the livestreams I’ve watched before and since, mentioned the word kotahitanga. Many speakers also hailed Tuheitia as “Te Kiingi o te Kotahitanga”: the King of Unity. And I think that’s what called me there. I think that’s what called so many of us there.

Delegations from thirteen iwi arrived at Tūrangawaewae on Monday to pay respects to Kiingi Tuheitia. (Photo: Kiinigtanga)

I visited Tūrangawaewae on the same day many iwi from around the motu sent massive delegations to pay their respects. Among them, iwi from Te Tai Tokerau, where the other side of my whakapapa lies, and iwi from Tauranga Moana where I’ve lived most of my life and where I received my reo Māori education. My hoa and I sat among strangers who didn’t feel like strangers, and we watched together as rōpū from around the motu shared their kōrero, mihi and laments.

I sat under a marquee in a viewing area, separate from the ātea. I watched in awe as each speaker got up, and droves of people left the seats around me and moved to the marae ātea to support their kaikōrero with waiata and haka.

They hadn’t all sat together, they didn’t all know each other. They often moved without a word. Some had clearly prepared to do so in advance, others simply moved when they saw their whanaunga moving. So not only had all these different iwi and hapū come together, but people from within those groups then also came together without even meaning to.

I watched as the thousands of people around me gathered as one, then split into smaller groups, and then seamlessly came back together again. Even more beautiful was that, once they reached the ātea, each speaker and rōpū took the opportunity to represent their people, and celebrate their separate identity, with different regional mita, mōteatea, waiata and haka flowing across the ātea.

That’s the kotahitanga Kiingi Tuheitia called for. Unity. Togetherness. Not in spite of our differences, but in celebration of them. And as that realisation sunk in, it was as if my wairua smugly folded her arms and said: “That’s why you came here.”

The Kiingitanga has always been about kotahitanga but, in the past year especially, Kiingi Tuheitia showed us what that looks and feels like in action, in a way I’ve certainly not experienced in my lifetime.

So while I can’t claim to mourn Tuheitia the man, simply because I never knew him, I do mourn Tuheitia the king.

I mourn a king who used the mana and authority of his position to bring te iwi Māori together, to provide the time, space and wairua to wānanga solutions, and to give us all hope in the face of the actions of the coalition government.

Government policies targeting Māori aspirations have come thick and fast in recent months and the political direction seems to only embolden and empower racist bigots — whether they’re in office trying to scrap Māori wards, or taking over the front pages of newspapers to spread their vitriol, or flooding the comments sections of social media with hate speech. Lately, it’s felt like every single day there’s a new struggle to add to the list, a new fight to be had.

But the kotahitanga I witnessed and felt at Tūrangawaewae gave me hope again — and that was the hope Kiingi Tuheitia had for us all.

That’s what he’s given us. That’s his legacy. And that’s what I think so many of us went to acknowledge, to give thanks for, and to be part of — and to show him and everyone who loved him that what he started doesn’t end here.

I mourn a king who told us that being Māori wasn’t only enough, it was a form of active resistance — just being Māori, all day, every day. And that’s the other thing I’ve seen this past week: Māori being unapologetically Māori in so many different ways.

There have been tears and laughter, there’s been mourning and celebration, formalities and whakangāhau. We’ve looked to the past, honouring not just Kiingi Tuheitia but Te Arikinui Te Atairangikaahu, and all those who came before them. We’ve also looked to the future by ushering in his successor, Te Arikinui Kuini Nga wai hono i te po, to carry on her father’s legacy.

On Monday, I watched Tātere McLeod command the ātea with charisma and grace, and then at Wednesday night’s Pō Whakamānawa ki te Kīngi, I watched as he and Mātai Smith performed a comedy act as their alter-egos Wii and Waa, complete with wheelchairs and wigs.

So much of that duality, and so much of our culture, tikanga, reo, manaakitanga, humour and talent has been on display not just at Tūrangawaewae but on the livestreams being watched by thousands at a time — and by people outside Aotearoa too.

I mourn a king who remained staunch in his support of our rangatahi, empowering our young people and encouraging them to stand strong in their Māoritanga. A king who would’ve seen the young men standing on the paepae of his marae and celebrated, rather than questioned their place there, as I heard one kuia do in the crowd. A king who stood firmly behind leaders like Hana-Rawhiti Maipi-Clarke, instead of looking down on her because of her age, as some in parliament do. I mourn a king who sees that kind of youthfulness as a virtue and a strength, not a liability.

Kiingi Tuheitia at the funeral of his mother Te Arikinui Dame Te Atairangikaahu at Tūrangawaeware marae on August 21, 2006. (Photo by Peter Drury-Pool/Getty Images)

At Wednesday’s Pō Whakamānawa ki te Kīngi, singer Rob Ruha summed all of this up when he paid tribute to Kiingi Tuheitia as someone who “gave us hope to believe that our way is a good way, hope to believe in our Māoritanga, and hope that our mokopuna are going to guide us to the right place.”

That was what I felt when I first read the news of the king’s passing. The loss of a rangatira who gave us those things when we needed them most, and the loss of everything else he still had to give.

Perhaps that’s why he’s left us with his greatest gift. Our new Arikinui, our new Kuīni, ko Nga wai hono i te po. At just 27 years old, she is Tuheitia’s youngest child and te ao Māori’s second-youngest monarch yet. She is a wahine mau moko kauae, she holds a master’s in Māori studies, she’s fluent in her reo, well-known on the kapa haka stage, and staunch in her Māoritanga and mana motuhake.

Nga wai hono i te po. (Photo: Kiingitanga)

She is the embodiment of the future her father envisioned for us all.

And perhaps that’s why, despite having watched the tangi proceedings every day, and attending in person on Monday, the first time I shed tears was on Thursday, when Te Arikinui Kuini Nga wai hono i te po walked on to the marae in her new role.

I still can’t really explain why I was crying, but I think my wairua was simply overwhelmed with the immense pride and sense of hope that I felt when she appeared on screen.

I cried again, watching the king’s coffin being carried up the maunga, and seeing whānau standing with their tūpuna on Taupiri maunga, to send him off together. They were tears of pride, at the beauty and strength of our culture and people. Tears of relief and gratitude to see that, despite the best efforts of certain politicians, we are not diminished. We are stronger than ever.

And there were tears of gratitude because, while we mourn Te Kīngi o te Kotahitanga, we are also beginning a new chapter with renewed hope.

Arā, ko Nga wai hono i te po Paki tōna ingoa. Nōna te kaha, te mana me te tautoko kia kawe ai tātou ki te āpōpō.

Siena Yates (Tainui, Te Rarawa, Te Aupōuri and Ngāti Kuri) is an E-Tangata writer, and this piece was made possible by the Public Interest Journalism Fund.

E-Tangata, 2024