The first Tongan funeral I went to was during my first month of service. Everyone kept talking about the upcoming “putu” for a well-known older woman in my village. I knew putu meant funeral but had no idea what to expect, as my Tongan was not very good and I had no way of asking questions or completely understanding what people said. The husband and wife who prepared my house and helped me adjust to life in Tonga, Pesa and Moana, came to get me on their way to the funeral with their daughter Kamalita. It was Pesa and Moana who picked me up when I first arrived to Vava’u and because they only have one daughter they quickly started calling me their “daughter”, as having only one child in Tonga is uncommon and not deemed acceptable. During my first few weeks living in my village Pesa and Moana would come and pick me up to have dinner or watch movies at their home, go to town to sit in front of Moana’s brother’s store or drive to the village where Moana grew up and spend time with her family. I would have had a much harder time adjusting to living alone in a foreign country if they hadn’t made such an effort to keep me company those first few weeks in Vava'u.
When we arrived to the funeral I was shocked to see the tremendous number of people, well over 200. Most people were eating at large tables set up under tents, others were sitting on the ground singing hymns. I sat down with Moana, Pesa and a small group of people who were vaguely familiar while they sang. There were different groups of people sitting together taking turns singing songs without any obvious rhyme or reason as to whose turn it was. After a half an hour or so of singing the group I was with got up and we sat down under one of the tents and we were handed plastic bags full of an odd assortment of meats, root crops, and hard boiled eggs as well as hot tea and juice. After we finished our “tea” we went to a pile of tapa cloth, shiny material, and quilts. Someone handing me a folded up tapa cloth and I followed suit as everyone starting walking in a line holding their items towards a little house. As we approached the house I could hear hysterical crying growing louder and louder. I couldn’t see very far in front of me because it was very crowded but as soon as I was inside the house I realized that everyone in the line ahead of me was setting down the things they were holding next to a dead body, kneeling down, and “kissing” the corpse (in Tonga no one kisses, but rather they press their faces cheek to cheek against one another and breathe in deeply through their nose). I followed the example of those in front of me without really thinking about what it is that I was doing. I don’t think any explanation could have prepared me fully for what happened but in retrospect my lack of preparedness was probably for the best, as I didn’t have any time to stress about my impending contact with a dead woman. After my experience with the corpse I sat back down with the group as they sang after a half an hour or so we got up and ate again. This routine continued on for hours, literally. The funeral was supposed to go until sunrise at which point they would bury the body but I knew I couldn’t last that long. At about 2am I asked if I could go home. Pesa and Moana asked if I would take their nine year old daughter home with me, as it was a school night and very late. I tried saying no, as I was in definite need of a shower and some alone time, but I ultimately caved in and went home with my little Tongan “sister” and tried to get some sleep.
After attending a few more funerals everything started to make a little more sense and became a lot less overwhelming. At my second funeral I realized the group I was sitting with were singing songs I didn’t recognize. It turns out the groups of people singing are the different congregations of different people from various villages. I inadvertently sat with the Mormons at one funeral and that was a lesson learned for sure. I realized the vaguely familiar group from my first funeral were all from the Chruch of Tonga that I regularly attend, as it is close to my house and most of my neighbors go there. I now know that the tapa cloth, blankets and other items are gifts that people give to show their respect.
This week I attended a funeral for Moana’s brother, Nita, who was murdered last Friday night in the capitol of Vava'u, Neiafu. There are a few bars downtown and it can get fairly rowdy on Friday nights but someone getting beat to death is very out of the ordinary and unsettling to say the least. This is the first funeral I have attended that I actually knew the person who died. I was not very close to Nita at all but am extremely close to his sister, two brothers, and three children ‘Anaseini, Mele, and Vakapuna who have been living in my village for over a year being raised by their aunt Moana. It is very common for family members to raise children that aren’t theirs as their own, especially if they don’t have many children of their own.
I have always wanted to take pictures at the Tongan funerals I’ve attended because they are such momentous occasions but have never felt comfortable doing so. Moana and her family asked me to document Nita’s funeral so I did not feel invasive at all documenting the event. I took a lot of pictures and have posted those that best illustrate what Tongan funerals are like.
When we arrived to the funeral I was shocked to see the tremendous number of people, well over 200. Most people were eating at large tables set up under tents, others were sitting on the ground singing hymns. I sat down with Moana, Pesa and a small group of people who were vaguely familiar while they sang. There were different groups of people sitting together taking turns singing songs without any obvious rhyme or reason as to whose turn it was. After a half an hour or so of singing the group I was with got up and we sat down under one of the tents and we were handed plastic bags full of an odd assortment of meats, root crops, and hard boiled eggs as well as hot tea and juice. After we finished our “tea” we went to a pile of tapa cloth, shiny material, and quilts. Someone handing me a folded up tapa cloth and I followed suit as everyone starting walking in a line holding their items towards a little house. As we approached the house I could hear hysterical crying growing louder and louder. I couldn’t see very far in front of me because it was very crowded but as soon as I was inside the house I realized that everyone in the line ahead of me was setting down the things they were holding next to a dead body, kneeling down, and “kissing” the corpse (in Tonga no one kisses, but rather they press their faces cheek to cheek against one another and breathe in deeply through their nose). I followed the example of those in front of me without really thinking about what it is that I was doing. I don’t think any explanation could have prepared me fully for what happened but in retrospect my lack of preparedness was probably for the best, as I didn’t have any time to stress about my impending contact with a dead woman. After my experience with the corpse I sat back down with the group as they sang after a half an hour or so we got up and ate again. This routine continued on for hours, literally. The funeral was supposed to go until sunrise at which point they would bury the body but I knew I couldn’t last that long. At about 2am I asked if I could go home. Pesa and Moana asked if I would take their nine year old daughter home with me, as it was a school night and very late. I tried saying no, as I was in definite need of a shower and some alone time, but I ultimately caved in and went home with my little Tongan “sister” and tried to get some sleep.
After attending a few more funerals everything started to make a little more sense and became a lot less overwhelming. At my second funeral I realized the group I was sitting with were singing songs I didn’t recognize. It turns out the groups of people singing are the different congregations of different people from various villages. I inadvertently sat with the Mormons at one funeral and that was a lesson learned for sure. I realized the vaguely familiar group from my first funeral were all from the Chruch of Tonga that I regularly attend, as it is close to my house and most of my neighbors go there. I now know that the tapa cloth, blankets and other items are gifts that people give to show their respect.
This week I attended a funeral for Moana’s brother, Nita, who was murdered last Friday night in the capitol of Vava'u, Neiafu. There are a few bars downtown and it can get fairly rowdy on Friday nights but someone getting beat to death is very out of the ordinary and unsettling to say the least. This is the first funeral I have attended that I actually knew the person who died. I was not very close to Nita at all but am extremely close to his sister, two brothers, and three children ‘Anaseini, Mele, and Vakapuna who have been living in my village for over a year being raised by their aunt Moana. It is very common for family members to raise children that aren’t theirs as their own, especially if they don’t have many children of their own.
I have always wanted to take pictures at the Tongan funerals I’ve attended because they are such momentous occasions but have never felt comfortable doing so. Moana and her family asked me to document Nita’s funeral so I did not feel invasive at all documenting the event. I took a lot of pictures and have posted those that best illustrate what Tongan funerals are like.
