Song as Lament: The Mōteatea “E Pā Tō Hau”

The Problem of Pain, C.S Lewis

As ngā iwi Māori, we maintain practices and art forms that usher us into a fuller experience of being human. This includes ways to pay attention to pain and to express it. The art of composing and performing mōteatea is one way of doing this. Mōteatea are laments that weave together poetry and sound. They are not just written or spoken, they are sung.

These laments are not melodic in the ways our modern ears are attuned to. To a western ear, the sound is in a minor key and somewhat strange. The vibrato and accompanying vibrations experienced in the performer’s body bring a physicality to the communication of story, memory, and emotion that is not parallelled in other artistic forms. Similarly, in kapa haka, mōteatea are the only items where the individual performers can express themselves however they wish. A rawness of emotion is not only allowed on stage, it is encouraged. In such ways, Mōteatea are at the heart of our cultural knowledge and hold our collective memory.

One of the more famous mōteatea is “E Pā Tō Hau.” It is the heartbreaking account of a survivor of the massacre that occurred at Rangiaowhia on Sunday, 21 February, 1864. Many within the Venn community will be familiar with this story from the visits to Rangiaowhia over the years during the Venn Summer Conference. I’m writing this on 21 February; it is timely and fitting that we bring to mind this mōteatea, 159 years to the day.

Rangiaowhia was a place of abundance. The gardens and orchards produced enough food to trade in Auckland and export to Australia and California. Their wheat was so plentiful and their ovens so large in number they could bake 400 loaves at a time. Māori and Pākehā lived and worked there, and both Anglican and Catholic missions were established in this peaceful village. I don’t know if it was conscious or not, but Ngāti Apakura and the people of Rangiaowhia were living out the intentions of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, and it was working.

Records show that British officers knew that the only people at Rangiaowhia at the time were women, children, and the elderly. The battle of Rangiriri had recently happened, and the men of Rangiaowhia had left the village to join Māori forces who were nearby constructing a fortified pā for another impending battle. On the morning of 21 February, 1864, once scouts confirmed the pā was indefeatable, the British soldiers crept past the pā towards Rangiaowhia. As the people of the village awoke and prepared for church, the colonial forces attacked. It was a massacre of innocents with many atrocities committed.

Survivors fled in different directions, seeking refuge with other iwi. Some came to my people, Tūwharetoa, but, by the time they arrived, they had contracted a disease that covered their skin with sores. It was hoped that the healing geothermal springs at Tokaanu would heal their skin and soothe them in their anguish. But, despite the efforts of our tupuna, most of them tragically died.

“E Pā Tō Hāu” is still one of the most commonly sung mōteatea amongst Tūwharetoa because we, too, hold their memory and keep our interwoven story alive for future generations. We honour Ngāti Apakura when we remember this part of their story. When we perform it, we also insist on attending to the pain and the lessons that must be learned from this horrific history.

E pā tō hau he wini raro,
He hōmai aroha
Kia tangi atu au i konei;
He aroha ki te iwi
Ka momotu ki tawhiti ki Paerau

Ko wai e kite atu?
Kei whea aku hoa i mua rā,
I te tōnuitanga?
Ka haramai tēnei ka tauwehe,
Karaungaiti au, e.

Your breath touches me, o north wind,
Bringing sorrowful memories,
So that I mourn again
In sorrow for my kin,
Lost to me in the world of spirits.

Where are they now?
Where are those friends of former days who once lived in prosperity?
The time of separation has come,
Leaving me desolate.¹

In the Psalms, we see pain and anguish expressed as lament in song. The act of collective remembering is conveyed through such public display. It matters to God that we remember and give voice to pain collectively—to remember and to be reminded, to behold pain and dignify it by giving it voice through lament. In this way, to share lament with others means that our beholding is beheld. It is a sacred communion with each other and with our Creator. It also has spaces in between, which we should pay attention to: between the anguished and the listeners, between the grief and the holding of it, between the sounds and the silences. Lament is a living expression that invites us into itself and asks us to pause there.

So, as people for whom this land is home, how might we pause and hold memories of the land in ways that give dignity to the pain and to the anguished? What might we learn from “E Pā Tō Hau”? And what might we learn from Ngāti Apakura, and the people of Rangiaowhia and the hopeful vision of life they were creating there? And how might we hold spaces open to make way for God’s response?

ENDNOTES

¹Text and translation from NZ folksong: https://www.folksong.org.nz/e_pa_to_hou/index.html