My mother was a proud Geordie from Gateshead, in Northumberland, England. She came to Aotearoa on a teacher’s exchange in 1970, met my Kai Tāhu father and the rest is history.
After my father’s passing in 2019, Mum and I talked pragmatically about death, funerals and what she wanted when she died. Originally, she said she wanted her ashes taken home to England and scattered with her parents. But after Dad died, she just wanted to be with him.
After she passed, I thought a lot about our whānau in the UK who didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to her in person. How were they coping with her death? Mum never told me what she wanted done with her ashes and neither did Dad. So I decided that a little bit of Mum actually belonged in England and should be returned to her tūrangawaewae. I was anxious, terrified, and still extremely grief-stricken over Mum’s passing. And then a friend and colleague reminded me that this was actually a type of kawe mate, a perfectly normal part of the grieving process for Māori. I am Māori. This was normal. Why hadn’t I made that connection? Thinking of my trip back to England as a kawe mate brought a sense of relief. It would enable my English whānau to grieve her passing and in doing so enable me to join in their grief too. So, I set about making that happen. What I had not expected was how it would make me feel.
I set off to the UK a month before Mum’s one-year anniversary with some of her ashes in my hand luggage. I was anxious. When I arrived, my cousin and her husband met me at Heathrow. It had been nearly five years since I’d seen them, not that time or distance ever made anything awkward between us. Seeing them was a sense of relief. But I had the weight of the upcoming kawe mate on my mind and I wondered what my English whānau thought of this idea. While I got the impression they saw it as a foreign concept, they were on board and had actually been pivotal in helping me plan the trip. They came with me and supported me through it.
Kawe mate is not just a singular process. It can take place at different times and in different places. The journey to where I would eventually scatter mum’s ashes involved multiple overnight stops to mourn with friends and family along the way. There were whānau members that didn’t engage with me or in the process, which was their decision. Perhaps the unfamiliarity in gathering for this purpose was too much for them. A foreign process for some. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask why. I was disappointed and felt let down, but I can’t say that I was surprised.
The day arrived to scatter Mum’s ashes. And to see my mum’s only surviving sibling, Uncle Billy. When he opened the door, I was shocked to see my mum’s face looking back at me. They looked so similar, had the same accent, mannerisms and sayings. We stayed with him for several hours. I gave him a copy of the service booklet. He was emotional, having only lost his wife a few months prior so it bought back a lot of tears. We decided not to tell him that we were going to scatter Mum’s ashes after seeing him, it would have been too much for him to bear. From there we went to the memorial garden at Saltwall Park in Gateshead, where my grandparents’ ashes were scattered, so a part of her could join them there.
I have attended many tangihanga and funerals, but most involving burials. Ashes were not familiar to me. I was nervous. It was really hard. I cried. We took turns scattering most of her ashes. The rest are sitting on a windowsill in my cousin’s house, overlooking a field with her pounamu wrapped around her.
I did not think it would hit me as hard as it did. Knowing that a piece of her would always be there. So far away from me here. But once it was done, I felt a huge weight had lifted off my shoulders and I could enjoy the rest of my time with my family.
Looking back, while it was hard, it was the right thing to do. I approached the first anniversary of her passing feeling more settled.
Three years on, I have a sense of calm having done a kawe mate for my mum. It completed the process of laying her to rest. Tikanga grounded me during her death. Tikanga guided me through her passing. Tikanga healed me in the months afterwards. Grieving is the privilege of those left behind. Just because a loved one is not Māori, does not mean as Māori we cannot practice our tikanga. What is right for Māori can also be of benefit for others. I know this, I saw it.
