I’uogafa Tuagalu
I saw that island first when it was neither night nor morning. The moon was to the west, setting, but still broad and bright. To the east, and right amidships of the dawn, which was all pink, the daystar sparkled like a diamond. The land breeze blew in our faces, and smelt strong of wild lime and vanilla: other things besides, but these were the most plain; and the chill of it set me sneezing. I should say I had been for the most part solitary among natives. Here was a fresh experience: even the tongue would be quite strange to me; and the look of these woods and mountains, and the rare smell of them, renewed my blood (Stevenson, 1959, p. 21).
These are the opening lines of the Robert Louis Stevenson (RLS) novella The Beach of Falesa.1 Set on a fictional black sand island in the Pacific in the nineteenth century, the protagonist, Wiltshire, a new arrival to the village of Falesa, has come to run the trading station. He befriends another local trader named Case and at the latter’s instigation, a marriage of convenience is arranged to a young ‘native’ woman named Uma,2 complete with a sham marriage certificate. The day after the wedding, Wiltshire finds himself ‘tabooed’ by the villagers, as no one will trade copra with him or use his store. Wiltshire finds that his ostracism is the result of his erstwhile friend’s manipulation of the native, missionary and non-native communities.
Wiltshire finds out that Case is suspected of having murdered a number of Europeans, including burying a paralytic alive and of tempting a native cleric.3 To the native, Case is ‘tiapolo’, the devil himself,4 who is able to control aitu, evil spirits. He wanders alone into the deep bush, among all the aitu.5
Wiltshire, finds a makeshift temple in the bush: it was a contrived ‘church’ with ‘queer figures, idols or scarecrows, or what not. They had carved and painted faces, ugly to view, their eyes and teeth were of shell, their hair and their bright clothes blew in the wind’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 100). In a cave-like structure, there was a large luminously painted pantomime mask-like head. Wiltshire surmises that ‘with a box of tools and a few mighty simple contrivances he [Case] had made out to have a devil of a temple’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 103). The wailing sounds, that eerily pervaded the bush, were produced by a type of Tyrolean [Aeolian] harp - wooden boxes with banjo strings stretched - which were suspended from trees. These ‘contrivances’ were used to convince the native of Case’s control of supernatural forces.6
The final confrontation between Wiltshire and Case is brutal: the temple cave is blown to smithereens; Wiltshire is gunshot wounded, leg broken; Uma is shot in the shoulder and Case is repeatedly stabbed and gutted by Wiltshire. When Case is given a Christian burial, Wiltshire admonishes Tarleton, the celebrant, for not telling the natives that Case’s soul was damned. The removal of Case meant that the impediments to successful missionising and commercial practice on the island were likewise removed. The story ends with Wiltshire reminiscing years later:
My public-house? Not a bit of it, nor ever likely. I’m stuck here, I fancy. I don’t like to leave the kids, you see: and - there’s no use talking - they’re better here than what they would be in a white man’s country, though Ben took the eldest up to Auckland, where he’s being schooled with the best. But what bothers me is the girls. They’re only half-castes, of course; I know that as well as you do, and there’s nobody thinks less of half-castes than I do; but they’re mine, and about all I’ve got. I can’t reconcile my mind to their taking up with Kanaks, and I’d like to know where I’m to find the whites?’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 127).
The Beach of Falesa has had a profound influence on English literature. It presents a convergence of three distinct fiction writing styles: The Domestic; The Adventure; and The Gothic.7 In its time,8 Victorian critics objected to its overt expressions of sexuality (McLynn, 1994, p. 412) and also to the use of the false marriage certificate as immoral (Rosenblatt, 1936, p. 201).9 The evocative ambience of dread expectancy places the novella firmly in the Gothic style. The Beach anticipates Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1902). The stories share similar plot devices and themes. The main difference between the two is their respective treatments of evil: Stevenson demystifies Case’s magic as cheap parlour tricks, whereas Conrad’s antihero Kurtz’s ‘going native’ descends into ‘darkness’, a form of ‘diabolic atavism’ (Jolly, 1999, p. 466). However, it is clear that Falesa and its natives are not responsible for Case’s moral degradation. His evil is all his own, bought on by a lust for power. As Stevenson writes, ‘will you please observe that almost all that is ugly is in the whites’.10
Contrast the political competition and wrangling of the white communities with the seeming stability of the native society:
Five chiefs were there; four mighty stately men, the fifth old and puckered. They sat on mats in their white kilts and jackets; they had fans in their hands, like fine ladies; and two of the younger ones wore Catholic medals which gave me matter of reflection. Our place was set, and the mats laid for us over against these grandees, on the near side of the house; the midst was empty; the crowd, close at our backs, murmured and craned and jostled to look on, and the shadows of them tossed in front of us on the clean pebbles of the floor. I was just a hair put out by the excitement of the commons, but the quiet, civil appearance of the chiefs reassured me, all the more when their spokesman began and made a long speech in a low tone of voice, sometimes waving his hand towards Case, sometimes towards me, and sometimes knocking with his knuckles on the mat. One thing is clear: there was no sign of anger in the chiefs (Stevenson, 1959, p. 55).
The society of the natives is much less fractious. Pictured as perhaps pristine, it is still subject to manipulation by colonial agents: the Trader, the Missionary, the Administrator.11 Stevenson does not idealise the native, they have their own political wranglings. Through Wiltshire’s eyes, we see them as existing, for the most part, separate from white society, yet still subject to its sway. In this case, even indigenous religious belief is adapted and suborned to evil ends. There are many instances in The Beach where it is stated that things would be better, if there were no interference by the white man. In this way The Beach acts as a cautionary tale; native culture is subject to outsider manipulation and malevolent interpretation.
Stevenson was a late-Romantic,12 living in Samoa in the latter nineteenth century, he was deeply embroiled in Samoan politics.13 In The Beach, he expresses attitudes towards indigenous culture that are consonant with the themes of my commentary.
‘In Search of Harmony: Peace in the Samoan Indigenous Religion’ is, I believe, a watershed paper and represents a confluence of themes and ideas that permeate Tui Atua’s earlier and subsequent writings. But in this paper, previously stated themes find an expression that will flower into the more developed methodologies of Tofā Sa’ili (the search for wisdom). For example, in this paper, he has not yet adopted the term ‘Samoan Indigenous Reference’. He uses the term ‘Samoan Indigenous Religion’.14
The term ‘romantic’ came into use in England around the mid-seventeenth century when it meant ‘having the wild or exciting qualities of medieval romances’.15 However, Romanticism became a term that was used in contradistinction to the classical, that is, in rejection of the rationalism of the Enlightenment. Empirical science was deemed unable to answer the questions that really mattered. Romanticism denotes a set of attitudes and preferences such as: nature over culture; imagination over reason; the organic over the mechanical; intuition over intellect.16 Broadly speaking, Romantics sought to explore the irrational forces that gave rise to human action; they did so by examining Nature and the human mind. For the Romantic poets, these explorations generally took one of two paths: ‘directed to persons and characters supernatural’ or ‘awakening the mind’s attention from the lethargy of custom and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us’.17 However, the two paths - supernaturalism and naturalism - were not mutually exclusive. They were at once complementary and different aspects of the same exploration of the ‘inward nature’. The main purpose of the Romantic endeavour is aptly termed ‘natural supernaturalism’, in essence, ‘the naturalising of the supernatural and the humanising of the divine’ (Abrams, 1973, p. 68).
In which case, Tui Atua’s writings find easy sway with the broad swathe of Romantic ideas. His writings intimate an affinity with the politics of Edmund Burke (1724-1804), the philosophical musings of Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834), the poetry of William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) and the philosophy of Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1830). It is through the rubric of Romanticism that I wish to examine Tui Atua’s writings. My comments on ‘In Search of Harmony’ hinge on four interrelated areas: first, locating the Samoan Indigenous Reference in terms of nationalism; second, the use of allusive language and Samoan oratorical practice; third, Samoan indigenous religion and the notion of the immanent God; and finally, the role of ritual and the revivals of traditional ceremonies.
This essay then, is an examination of the methodology employed by Tui Atua in his exploration of the Samoan indigenous reference. Hence, it will, of necessity, range over a number of his writings. But let us begin with my summary of the main arguments of ‘In Search of Harmony’18. It is from these observations that my own examination springboards:
First, the Samoan indigenous ancient religion is premised on the following conditions:
a. that Tagaloa is the progenitor of lalolagi (earth) and therefore,
b. that divinity is in all creatures great and small; and
c. that, for man,19 the divine can be apprehended through ascetic ritual and contemplation.
Second, peace is not just the absence of discord. It also entails the efforts required to maintain peace. In ancient Samoan religious thought, peace was attainment of harmony within and between the four spheres of human interaction: man and the cosmos, man and the environment, man and fellow man and man and the self.
Third, there is a dynamic that drives and is foundational of the four harmonies: that is the active perceiving and honouring of the divine in the relationships between all animate and inanimate things. Myth and ritual play a central role in the perception, articulation and (in a way) the credence of the divine relationships.
The cosmos is of the same ‘stuff’ as man. The cosmos serves man, but needs man to utilise and perceive the divine relationships. Illustrative of this relationship is the myth of Tapuitea. She was a cannibal who fed on her siblings. She renounced her grisly ways when she was severely chastised by her parents. As atonement, she became the morning and evening star, where she acts as guide to fishing and sailing expeditions and harbinger of significant seasonal events. However, what use is Tapuitea’s remorse for her cannibalism and the service she renders as morning star, if man does not heed her message to plant or fish? In heeding the call of Tapuitea, man forgives and acknowledges her atonement. So there is a divine cycle of remorse, forgiveness and atonement.
Man shares a genealogy with all created things. For if all creation has divine origins, then man shares divinity with all things.
It follows that tapu (sacred restriction or sanction) is more than just a regulatory ritual that guards against the depletion of resources - this is more along the lines of taboo restrictions. Tapu derives more from the sacred nature of a relationship. The cutting down of a tree requires faalanu, asking pardon, for the taking of its life and acknowledgement of its sacrifice. The honorific term for cutting down a tree is oia, which means ‘to cry out in pain’. The illustrative example is of the atule (or mackerel) tradition of Asau, where the tautai (head fisherman) addresses the fish as peers in honorific language, and invites them to shore, thus feeding the village. The fish sacrifice themselves in acknowledgement of the tautai’s own sacrifice through his ascetic deprivations, and the endowment of the Tui Fiti.20 However, the tautai takes only what is needed to meet the needs of the village and no more. This relationship is celebrated in the proverb: ‘o le i’a a le tautai e alu i le faalolo’,21 meaning, the tautai’s fish defers to his will.
Harmony, in this sphere of human interaction, entails the discernment of the divine in other people.
Tui Atua uses the concept of tuā’oi (boundary) to examine the harmonious relations in three crucial areas of human interaction: parent and child; brother and sister; and the offender and offended. Harmony for the parent and child is attained by the social virtues of balanced good judgement and love. It is exemplified in the saying ‘pii pii ama, vae vae manava’ which literally means ‘hanging onto the outrigger, sharing the womb’ (see chapter 8 of this publication). The boundaries are defined by the parents’ responsibility to care for and nurture the child and by the child’s responsibility to respect and care for their parents. The parents also have the power to give blessings (faamanuiaga), or conversely to issue curses (malamatuā).22
Harmony between brother and sister is brokered by the intercessionary role of feagaiga, both the covenant relationship and status between brother and sister. The boundaries are fine-tuned by the interplay between the brother and the intercessionary peacemaker role of the sister. Tui Atua notes that the foundation of the feagaiga is the woman’s ability to produce life. The honorific term for sister is ilamutu, which is the same term that refers to ‘family gods’. Clearly, women’s roles as feagaiga are divinely sanctioned. Should their advice be spurned, they can place the curse of the feagaiga, mala o le ilamutu.
Finally, the restoration of harmony between offender and the offended is contingent on remorse by the offending party and forgiveness by the offended. The ritual of ifoga, public apology, entails the ritualistic abasement of the offender’s family. For the offended party, though they are still free to reject the ifoga, there is pressure to seek a peaceful resolution. For disharmony between family groupings would entail greater social disruption to the communities to which those families belong. So deliberations by both parties of the boundaries between them would hinge on the notions of the benefits, not only to themselves, but also to the wider communities.
For Tui Atua, there are three aspects to the self: the tino (body) is the vessel for the divine; the mafaufau (mind) has the function of the sensory discernment of the divine; and the agaga (soul) taps into the divine. The body and the mind are of the physical realm. The agaga is situated between the heart and lungs. Just as the heart and lungs bolster the body and mind with oxygen and blood, the agaga is nurtured by the processes of anapogi (fasting and seclusion from society), which deny the senses and prepare the self for the dream-dialogue (moe manatunatu) with ancestors and gods. Anapogi also enables the self to reflect on the harmonies that surround it, to apprehend spiritually the divine relationships (feagaiga).
Finally, harmony of the self is the balance of body, mind and spirit, and is the most important of the harmonies: it is the self that discerns the boundaries of all the other harmonies.
One can discern two notions of harmony: the romantic, and the platonic. In all the harmonies there is a projection of human subjectivity onto the natural world, in that the relationships between man and the various spheres are explained in terms of human emotions and motivations, for example, Tapuitea’s remorse. However, for the romantic, ‘nature’s life’ is not just a projection of human subjectivity; there is a correspondence between the interior life of the human subject and the outer world, i.e., Nature is not dead, purposeless, valueless, indifferent to human aspirations.23 This is a common romantic theme, for, as Coleridge writes, ‘the primary imagination, I hold to be the living power and the prime agent of all human perception, and as a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I AM’.24 Coleridge highlights the limitations of the ‘finite mind’ of people and its attempt to recreate, understand, correspond with the infinite, Nature. It is a monumental task,25 this solitary quest, this desire, this longing for connection (conveyed by the German term ‘Sehnsucht’: sehnen, to long, desire; suchen, to search); but it is central to the Romantic harmony: people’s perceptions of the outside world may be dependent on the inward condition of the person, but nature responds to and affects the interior life of the observer.
The notion of harmony is pictured by Plato as similar to the tuning of a lyre; tightening and loosening the string to produce the perfect note. In tuning the string, the musician aims not to ‘overreach’.26 The ancient Greek term ‘pleonexia’ (πλεονεξια) conveys the idea of ‘overreaching, getting more than your share’. It is the notion of maximisation: that more is better. Harmony, however, is the determination of the ‘tipping point’, i.e., when it becomes a case of excess. The idea of attunement is about optimisation. This notion of harmony as attunement can also be seen in the brother-sister feagaiga, where the sister intercedes with advice. Similarly, it can be seen in the conservationist concern of the tautai, he takes only enough to feed the village. It can be seen in the psychic ‘tune up’ of the individual’s ascetic practice of anapogi (seclusion and fasting); and, in the psychic ‘tuning in’ of the moe manatunatu (ancestral dream dialogue).
Central to the notion of Romantic harmony is the longing for the infinite, and this endeavour implies no limitations to one’s desiring. The Platonic notion of atttunement, however, has very definite limits and boundaries, in that one tries not to ‘overreach’. As with tuning the strings of the lyre, the main consideration is the determination of ‘how much is enough?’ The two notions of ‘harmony’ that one discerns, the Romantic longing27 and the Platonic notion of attunement, are, however, complementary and do not necessarily conflict. Put simply, the attuned soul,28 i.e., one that is in balance, is free to quest after and long for union with Nature, ever mindful of the limitations of ‘the finite mind’. To continue with the musical analogy, once the instrument (the soul) is in tune, it can then play a myriad of tunes and these may range, for example, from the highly formalistic Bach29 fugues to the rhapsodic piano compositions of Frantz Liszt (1811-1886) and Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) or Beethoven’s30 gigantic Ninth Symphony chorus, Ode to Joy.
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrowed from my country! O divine
And beauteous island! Thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!31
(Samuel Coleridge, Fears in Solitude, 1798)
The search for Samoan Indigenous Religion is bound to nationalist sentiment, which in turn, is founded on the notions of tradition. Tui Atua uses traditional tales, proverbs and sayings to illustrate Samoan indigenous religion. In this, as in other papers, he shows that Samoan ideas are best examined by harking back to a golden age, where certain values or organising principles are more clearly stated, but seem missing in the present day. One can see that Tui Atua’s regard for ancient traditions is similar to Edmund Burke’s (1729-1797)32 view of society.
Burke believed in the wisdom of the ages. The slow building up of laws and traditions - ‘the destruction of which would release the worst passions of men. Once tradition was overthrown, he doubted the power of reason to rebuild anew’ (Harris, 1969, p. 43). Tradition was needed to fortify ‘the fallible and feeble contrivances of our reason’ (Harris, 1969, p. 43). Society is held together by common bonds of love and loyalty.
Society is indeed a contract... it is not a partnership in things subservient only to the gross animal existence of a temporary and perishable nature. It is a partnership in all science; a partnership in all art; a partnership in every virtue, and in all perfection. As the ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations, it becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born. Each contract of each particular state is but a clause in the great primeval contract of eternal society, linking the lower with higher natures, connecting the visible and invisible world, according to a fixed compact sanctioned by the inviolable oath which holds all physical and moral natures, each in their appointed place (as cited in Parkin, 1966, p. 126, emphasis mine).
Hence, the Romantic aversion to the French Revolution, it was an abrogation of the natural order that had been forged over time, and a severing of those social bonds between ‘those who are living, those who are dead and those who are to be born’. For Tui Atua, the quest for the Samoan indigenous reference is one of historical and philosophical reconstruction;33 it begins by examining past traditions. For as he writes:
‘The messages of peace and harmony shared in this paper are offered as testament to the wisdom and insights of my forefathers and mentors and offered as a part of their legacy to Samoa and humanity in our continual quest for peace and harmony’ (Tui Atua, 2005b, p. 2; see chapter 8). These insights are authenticated by a line of transmission which stretches back to ancient Samoa. This wisdom is seen as instructive today, as there is the implication that it has been lost, forgotten, or worse, subverted.34
From the great Nature that exists in works
Of mighty Poets. Visionary Power
Attends upon the motions of the winds
Embodied in the mystery of words.
(William Wordsworth, The Prelude V)
The way that these insights are expressed becomes all the more important. Firstly, if one examines the way that myth, legend and proverb are used in the ‘In Search of Harmony’ paper, one can see each harmony has associated myths, legends and proverbs, for example, the atule tradition of Asau for Man and the Environment. The headings and explanations serve as links to the next series of myth proverb and story. The mapping of ritual, myth and proverb in Tui Atua’s paper, is as follows: Man and cosmos section has the Tapuitea myth; Man and the environment section has faalanu or prayers asking for forgiveness for causing pain, i.e., oia - to cut a tree; Harmony between fellow men section is illustrated by various proverbs and rituals: Parent and child - piki piki hama vae vae manava; Brother and Sister -feagaiga; Offenders and offended - ifoga; Harmony between Man and self is illustrated by a number of rituals and virtues: anapogi; moe manatunatu; tino; mafaufau; agaga; feula le faamanuiaga; the ten Heavens; Amoa and the feagaiga. However, these examples are not just illustrative of some point of argument. The myth, the song and the proverb are the main argument.
So, to speak allusively, there is a cartography of languaging where proverbs and stories serve as landfall; they are shoals of understanding in a sea of multilayered meanings. Readers are free to discern and interpret as they will, with Tui Atua’s explanations aiding in their navigation.
Tui Atua also employs an allusory style of explanation in his methodology. There is a hint of apologia, as Tui Atua explains his use of nuance, metaphor, allegory and allusion, i.e, his chosen mode of delivery. In an earlier paper, he states:
Allusions, allegory, metaphors, are linguistic tools that have the ability to make meaning, to privilege beauty, relatedness and keep the sacredness of the other, whilst scientific discourse privileges precision and evidence, often to the detriment of beauty, relatedness and intellectual titillation.
More and more my audiences request me to be more specific. More and more my audiences request further explanation. And, I ask myself how do you accommodate the duty to teach and simultaneously retain the allure of allusion. Being specific diminishes the allure of allusion. But the message has to impact on the heart and soul for the allusion to endure.
... Occasionally one explains with a pang because allusion traditionally was never meant to be definitively explained, it was intended to suggest many meanings and to tantalise the intellect. It was meant to open the space for multiple ways of interpretation and to invite rather than define meaning or interpretation (Tui Atua, 2002, p. 2, emphasis mine; see chapter 5).
Tui Atua argues that the allusive mode of delivery impacts better on ‘the heart and soul’.35 The Romantics would find little need to explain themselves.36 Speaking to the heart requires an exquisite vocabulary.
However, the use of allusion and elusive phrases is characteristic of Samoan oratorical practice:37 that is, the lauga (formal speech) of tulafale (Samoan talking chief).
Symbolism in Samoan oratory can be seen as a recursive progression along an imagined time axis from the past through the present to the future. Oratory represents a restatement, a micro-model of not only the ceremony itself but also the social and cultural contexts of the history of Samoa, by references to legends, myths, oral traditions and genealogies (Tu’i, 1987, p. 19-20).
The purpose of the Samoan lauga determines its structure: some of the parts are common to all lauga, and other divisions appear only in certain categories of lauga.38 There is always a social purpose to lauga, and it is up to the orator to organise proverbs, honorifics and metaphorical expressions to maximum effect. In this respect, one can see that the Samoan lauga is neo-classical39 in its emphasis on form and structure. Tulafale (orator chiefs), spend a lifetime mastering the various forms and structures of lauga and applying them to social situations.
Rather tellingly, however, Tu’i (1987, p. 20) notes that ‘in order to understand the figurative and metaphorical expression found in oratory, one has to ‘live lauga’ and acquire a wide knowledge of Samoan culture generally’40. This lived-experience assists with understanding the content of the message and appreciation of the form and purpose of not only the lauga, but for want of a better term, Samoan argumentation. For, if Samoan argumentation leaves certain connections implicit and unstated, so as to allow the audience to draw their own inferences (and to appreciate the aptness of the speaker’s delivery), then ‘speaking to the heart’ becomes doubly difficult. Tui Atua’s English-speaking audiences have varying degrees of lived-experience of Samoa. The implicit and nuanced mode of delivery needs much unpacking simply because of the audience’s lack of familiarity with the use of the proverbs and illustrative rituals.
The feelings, and the feelings alone, provide the elements of religion.
(F. E. D. Schleiermacher. Uber die Religion, 1799)
The notion of ‘speaking to the heart’ is similar to the Romantic emphasis on feeling, impulse and spontaneity41 However, in the Samoan case, appeals to the emotions are not simply a rejection of rationalism. Such appeals have emotional impact because they exemplify some social norm. For example, the story of Ga’opo’a, a respected ‘kaumatua’ (elder), massaging Tui Atua’s arm and intoning with conviction, ‘Tupua, tautuana mo oe le atunuu (Tupua, bear in mind the land of our forefathers)’. This image appeals because of the familial intimacy of the two men: one the elder and mentor, the other the respectful younger. Add to this word picture, the Samoan proverb, ‘Ua tātā i le tua o Fatutoa le la’i o Puava’42 (the back of Fatutoa was touched gently by the winds of Puava) and the sentiment becomes one of manifest destiny and service to one’s country. As a result of this encounter, Tui Atua did not leave Samoa for an overseas posting (Tui Atua, 2003, p. 50; see chapter 6).
There are other poignant instances of appealing to the reader’s emotions by pointing out exemplary or ideal Samoan behaviours: Tui Atua’s dying brother, who notes that things of true importance are to be found at the tip of one’s nose (Tui Atua, 2005a, p. 61; see chapter 9); the elderly couple kissing and massaging their middle-aged handicapped son at Lourdes, as an exemplar of the Samoan proverb, ‘O le au o mātua fanau’ (the pinnacle of parents’ affection are their children) (Tui Atua, 2006b, p. 11; see chapter 12). These depictions serve to personalise instances of ideal virtues such as filial piety, tautua (service) and alofa (love). The power of those images and depictions is that they tap directly into deep ur-springs of emotions as readers remember their own lived-experience.
This appeal to the emotions is more evident in Tui Atua’s writings in the Samoan language. It may be outside the scope of this study but it is worth mentioning that the expression of ideas in the Samoan language is much more conducive to ‘speaking to the Samoan heart’.43
There is an organic unity to Tui Atua’s writings in that there are structural elements that link one paper with another, and that ideas are developed across the papers. One also finds repetition of stories and sometimes sections are restated in different papers. The Ga’opo’a story is a case in point, not only does it act as a thematic device in a book entitled Talanoaga na loma ma Ga’opo’a, but it is re-included verbatim in at least three papers.44 The stories (and their meanings) are re-presented in differing contexts,45 so serve as a thematic continuity device linking the different papers.46
The notion of organic unity also extends to the flowering and developing of ideas and instances of the Samoan indigenous reference. The terms tofā sa’ili and ‘Samoan indigenous reference’ also illustrate the organic growth of Tui Atua’s thought. They are used to describe a developing methodology (see Tui Atua, 2007b, p. 10; see chapter 15). The term ‘Samoan indigenous reference’ makes its appearance in Tui Atua’s writings in 2006 in the paper entitled ‘Navigating our future together’. After introducing the topic of Samoan navigation and the rituals and activities concerning boat building47, Tui Atua states, ‘This is what navigation means in the Samoan indigenous reference. It is not only the physical and mental skills of taking on the elements; it is about the spiritual psyche and the bonding between man, environment and God’ (Tui Atua, 2006a, p. 3; see chapter 11). The terms tofā sa’ili and ‘Samoan indigenous reference’ are part of a developing vocabulary to describe the academic pursuit of knowledge and the place of the sacred and spiritual in that quest.
Tis the sublime of man,
Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!
This fraternises man ... But ‘tis God
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole
(Samuel Coleridge. Religious Musing, 127-131)
‘In Search of Harmony’ is essentially an examination of Samoan theology. In my summation of the main points of the paper, the notion of the immanent God is prominent. The deity is viewed as indwelling, inherent, pervading and sustaining the Universe. Tagaloa is the paternal progenitor of mankind; all life forms are the issues of Tagaloa; the cosmos and all animate beings and inanimate things are biological issues of the god Tagaloa, who is both male and female. The Progenitor God shares its divinity with everything. Tagaloa is described as, ‘e le se Atua fau tagata ... o le Atua usu gafa’ (God is not God the Creator, God is God the Progenitor) (Tui Atua, 2007c, p. 4; see chapter 14). Peace is the perceiving and honouring of the immanent divinity in all things around us.
There are corollary characteristics to the Progenitor God. Firstly, there is the lack of volition: the Progenitor God cannot help itself; progeneration or derivation is in its nature. Secondly, there is a phallocentric emphasis to the model of progeneration in Tui Atua’s articulations. The female element48 is acknowledged by the fact that it is the womb that holds the issue, but examples of the shared divine ability to procreate, invariably centre on the male phallus and ejaculate. The rituals that celebrate or flaunt people’s progenerative abilities, for example the Salelesi ritual,49 the Asau ‘aumaga,50 are all-male affairs. This should be of little surprise given the different socialisation of genders in Samoa. One would expect a masculine emphasis to Tui Atua’s lived experience of Samoan culture.
The Christian Creator God, for example, is viewed as an artisan, fashioning creations into which it then inspires the divine ‘breath’ (Hebrew: Ruarch). The creator model seems much more deliberate as there is an element of choice to its creations; and there seems to be a design or plan to which it works. This Creator view of creation leads to the Great Chain of Being, with its hierarchy of creation. The Creator God is transcendent, in that God, or the Deity, is viewed as outside of and beyond its creations. The Deity is viewed as distinct from the Universe. The progenitor model, on the other hand, seems haphazard in its couplings. The Progenitor model leads to genealogy. The Progenitor God is immanent.51
Some believe that Tui Atua on the one hand, is a high priest of a Tagaloa resurgent religion; and on the other, is an apologist for ancient Samoan religion, bringing it in line with mainstream Roman Catholic thought. It would be quite a feat, were either his intention.52 However, it can be jarring for a Protestant to be reading about Tapuitea and have the myth interpreted in terms of the Catholic cycle of repentance, forgiveness and atonement; to have the feagaiga, the sacred bonds of brother and sister, be compared to Mariolatry It seems to me that in these instances, Tui Atua is searching for a theological vocabulary; the Catholic theological tradition offers it in abundance. However, the adoption of the terms tofā sa’ili and ‘Samoan Indigenous Reference’ arise from a need for Samoan specific terms. And, that Samoan specific vocabulary is increasing with every proverb, myth and ritual that he examines and elucidates.53
Moreover, Tui Atua’s intellectual role models abound with the proverbial ‘dead [and living] white males’:54 Augustine of Hipp55, Thomas Aquinas, Hans Küng,56 Francis Thompson, Emmanuel Kant and Thor Heyerdahl are a few whom he mentions in his writings.57 This indicates that Tui Atua is not averse to using their ideas to clarify and explain his own. This is one of the cornerstones of the academic endeavour. The fact that he translates his English language works into the Samoan language means that ‘foreign’ ideas find easier passage into Samoan religious and social discourse. This has the positive effect of widening the intellectual content of the discussion, and involving more Samoan voices in defining Samoan spirituality.
Tui Atua states ‘thesis and antithesis co-exist in synthesis’ in relation to the existence of contradictory creation myths (Tui Atua, 2002, p. 2; see chapter 5).58 His point is that the myths do not invalidate one another. This dictum is the strongest intimation of a Romantic influence. It is a restatement of the Hegelian dialectic, which holds that any one concept (thesis) necessarily evokes its opposite (antithesis) and the interaction between the two leads to a new concept (synthesis), which collapses elements of the original and its opposite.59 This synthesis then necessarily generates a new triad. This is one of the defining formulations of the Romantic movement.
The dialectic has a number of characteristics. Firstly, this system is self-moving and self-sustaining, there is an internal logic that moves the process onward and upward. Secondly, the notions of Polarität (polarity) and Steigerung(enhancement) drive the process forward: the melding of a concept with its opposite (polarity) forms a synthesis, a new concept that combines and transforms elements of both the original and its opposite (enhancement). There is a direction to the conceptual change; it is not in a straight line away from the original concept. There is a return to the original concept. However, unlike the Plotinian60 aim of returning to the One, i.e., a circular movement returning to the point of origin, the Romantic return was enhanced and augmented, so the return was to a point slightly elevated from the original concept. The German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe named the direction as a spiral heading ever upwards: the Romantic Spiral (Abrams, 1973, pp. 169-195). The Hegelian developmental model coupled with the prospective Christian view that ‘for always, the best is yet to be’ (Abrams, 1973, p. 37), denotes a theory of progress.
What would constitute progress in Tui Atua’s Samoan Indigenous Reference agenda? Clearly, the elucidation and explanation of a past worldview would be constitutive; but the full measure would be the ultimate use for these explanations. The target audience is the youth of the future. Tui Atua is aware that ‘we, as elders, have a role to play in passing on and sharing with our young their cultural birthrights’ (Tui Atua, 2006b, p. 1; see chapter 12).61 However, there are competing cultural references: ‘liberalism and global consumerism’ (Tui Atua, 2006c, p. 14; see chapter 13).62 One possible solution suggested by Tui Atua lies in the analysis of matua tausi (the elderly) and faafaletui (mentoring). He concedes that the social and spiritual bonds suggested by both these Samoan institutions will not be enough to overcome the material, social and spiritual poverty of those cut off from their cultural roots. However, understanding one’s cultural reference is a beginning especially when the examination ‘speaks to the heart’.63 Finally, for Tui Atua, the insights of the Samoan indigenous reference are for the benefit of all humanity.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice
(Samuel Coleridge. Kubla Khan, 1797)
Clearly, myth and ritual are important tools in Tui Atua’s methodology. The myth provides the spoken or textual version and the ritual provides the performance element. It is the movement between legomenon, ‘the thing said’ and dromenon, ‘the thing performed’ (Kirk, 1970, p. 23). The two characteristics spring from the same psychological basis: ‘Ritual is an obsessive repetitive activity - often a symbolic dramatisation of the “needs" of the society... Mythology is the rationalisation of these same needs’ (as cited in Kirk, 1970, p. 24). Between ‘the thing said’ and ‘the thing performed’ there seems to be a continuum of credence: for Tui Atua the ritual adds a level of credibility to the myth.
By way of illustrating the importance of myth and ritual in Tui Atua’s methodology: in 1995, Felipe Tohi, a Tongan artist, was commissioned to do the lashings for the fale tele on the site of Afeafe o Vaetoefaga. The Tongan lashers were invited in recognition of the Tongan historical connections with the original owners.64
Upon completion of the first phase of lashing, the title Sopolemalama65 was bestowed on Tohi. The permission of the current Ulualofaiga Talamaivao was sought and given. The title was appropriate because it symbolised the feagaiga relationship between Talamaivao and his sister Vaetoefaga and with the Tu’i Tonga.
When all the lashings were finished Sopolemalama Felipe instigated a fafano66 ritual, which aimed at gifting his art and skills to his two Samoan assistants. The ritual consisted of an ‘ava ceremony,67 sprinkling of water and the laying of Sopolemalama’s hands on his assistants.
The artist, as with the poet, has a special affinity for Tui Atua’s schema: ‘Restoring custom through performing custom is the purpose of reviving rituals’ (Tui Atua, 2004, p. 14; see chapter 7). After consulting with Tui Atua as to the nature of the work, Felipe is figuratively and literally taken into Tui Atua’s family. He is the artisan, but because of his bloodlines, he is also representative of the Tu’i Tonga.68 Felipe stays at Vaialua, the Tupua Tamasese residence. In recognition of the work, he is given a title that is of particular relevance to the Tupua Tamasese family. Upon completion of the lashing, Sopolemalama asks to perform the fafano ritual, where he, as tufuga (head artisan), blesses and gifts his assistants (and thereby the family and village) with his art. The mythic connections of the Tu’i Tonga and the Tupua family were re-enacted by the commission of Sopolemalama and the bestowal of his title. There is a reciprocal ritual where the gift of lashing knowledge is passed back to the village through the anointing of the Samoan assistants.
Ritual, however, is not just the acknowledgement of past relationships; the real import of the revival of ritual is its efficacious effects on the moral character of people. Recently, the Head of State presented a talomua, literally ‘first taro [harvest]’ (Risatisone, 2008, July 17, p. 17). It is a ritual presentation of foodstuff from the plantations of the Head of State69 and is little performed in more recent times. The presentation was made to the village of Vailele for ‘good services’(Risatisone, 2008, July 17, p. 17). However, there are a number of reasons why the talomua was re-enacted: one of the residences of the Head of State is at Vailele and, in part, the talomua was in celebration of that fact. Tui Atua also has familial links to this area and the ritual would be acknowledgement of those links. The Samoan reporting is much more pointed: ‘... o se faata’ita’iga lelei tele lea ua fai e lana afioga i le Ao Mamalu e le gata i tupulaga lalovaoa o le afio’aga, ae o se faatupumanatu fo’i mo le afioaga atoa’70 (emphasis mine).
The ritual was meant to be a display that would educate youth as to the virtues of Samoan agricultural practice and arouse in them edifying thoughts.
The Romantics also believed in ritual leading to moral rejuvenation; for example, the Eglinton (Scotland) tournament of 1838. The tournament, featuring mediaeval jousting and combat, was planned after a number of Tory gentlemen, ‘young men of fashion’, became disgruntled that the coronation of Queen Victoria was to take place on a reduced budget. As a result, there would be no banquet; the Queen’s champion would not throw down the gauntlet and no Earl Marshal, Lord High Steward and High Constable would ride into the hall, i.e., the chivalric components of the coronation were discarded. The coronation was derided as the ‘Penny Coronation’. The Whigs felt that this was a march of progress, and ridiculed the Romantics. Whilst the Tories protested against ‘the sordid, heartless, sensual doctrines of utilitarianism’ (Girouard, 1981, p. 93), Lord Eglinton agreed to stage a tournament that would showcase chivalric pageantry and virtues.
Girouard (1981) identifies the Eglinton tournament as having a major influence in the permeating of chivalric notions of justice, codes of conduct, honour and duty through all sections of English society. The English gentleman came to learn the virtues of ‘playing the game’ on the cricket, rugby and soccer fields of their public schools. For the Eglinton knights, who took part in the tournament, the experience seemed to have a salutary effect. Most gave up their dissolute lifestyles of drinking, womanising and partying. Lord Eglinton became the epitome of the Victorian gentleman, ‘an indefatigable public servant; a faithful husband, unfailingly considerate and courteous to everyone, genuinely loved by all classes, good at everything except money. When he died, Blackwood’s Magazine wrote ‘Of him it may emphatically be said that honour was his polar star’ (Girouard, 1981, p. 110). In the case of Eglinton knights, ritual led to moral rejuvenation. In the case of generations of English schoolboys, the chivalric virtues were imbued as they became ‘knights of willow’ on school cricket fields.71
There are a number of virtues72 listed in ‘In Search of Harmony’: feagaiga (the brother and sister relationship), loto maulalo (humility), faasoa (good judgement), faamagalo (forgiveness). The myth and proverb contextualises the virtues in the form of ‘the thing said’. The ritual not only provides a performed visual and symbolic depiction of sacred and divine relationships embodied in the myth and its virtues, but the performance is aimed at the moral transformation of the participant.
Just as Wordsworth states that through the individual mind communing with the external world and the external world communing with the individual mind, the two in union will create a new world:
And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be called) which they with blended might
Accomplish: - this is our high argument.
(‘Prospectus’ to The Recluse, ll)
The importance of the ritual in Tui Atua’s methodology becomes apparent: the embodiment of virtues that underpin and intimate the divine relationships of all creations, animate and inanimate. The discernment and statement of the divine relations (legomenon) must have the performative element (dromenon). This is Tui Atua’s High Argument.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.
(Samuel Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 1798)
This essay began its ‘mazy motion’73 with an examination of The Beach of Falesa. RLS is seen to be examining Samoan society from the outside looking in. However, the real focus of his gaze is the European. Tui Atua examines Samoan society from within looking outward.74 His gaze firmly fixed on the Samoan. The Romantic worldview connects both their perspectives. Across time and space, the Romantics, RLS and Tui Atua continue the examination of the human spirit and soul.
In this intellectual peregrination, I have differentiated between a Romantic sensibilité,75 which denotes a particular emotional response or feeling, a longing, and desiring; and the Romantic worldview, which is characterised by a set of attitudes, which favours the imagination over reason; the organic over the mechanical; the irrational over the rational; and where human subjectivity is projected onto the natural world: people commune with Nature, and she responds and communicates back. The Romantic sensibilité requires an object for its emotional outpourings. The object of a Romantic sensibility would, presumably, be the Romantic worldview. So if one adheres to the Romantic worldview, then one need not have the emotional expression (i.e., the sensibilité). The converse does not hold: one cannot have the Romantic sensibilité without adhering to the Romantic worldview.
The question as to whether Tui Atua subscribes to the Romantic worldview is moot. He does not profess it, yet one can discern in his words and his actions, intimations of a Romantic sensibilité. He practises a critical traditionalism,76 which examines and elucidates the virtues of past traditions, so as to inform present action and future goals. Tui Atua’s emphasis on ritual is not only to illustrate the divine bonds between people and all of creation, but it is a means to moral rejuvenation. Tui Atua’s quest for the Samoan indigenous reference involves the retrospective examination of traditions leading to prospective action: namely the inculcation of a number of virtues.
The challenge for Samoan academics is in using these insights in the formation of a Samoan mindset in their own academic disciplines. It entails the attunement of the wider concerns of our subject areas with the particular instances of the Samoan Indigenous Reference. It becomes a contemplative quest to glimpse truths and relevance for today’s circumstances, which result in moral and spiritual rejuvenation. For the Pacific historian, there is the realisation that alongside the documented version of happenings, there are muted Samoan versions. To hear these stories, one has to be adept in the subtleties of the Samoan language and flexible in the notion that there is only one objective truth: e talalasi Samoa.77
There are intensely personal reasons78 as to why Tui Atua’s subject matter is of interest to me. My father, Tuagalu I’uogafa, a proud Samoan tulafale (orator chief) from the village of Satuimalufilufi, died when I was aged thirteen. I never really knew him, in that I never developed an appreciation of him as leader of a family and community, nor had I any idea of his psychological, spiritual and historical make-up. What knowledge I do have amounts to dusky, grey and fading ill-remembered images. The older I become, the less distinct are those images. My father was born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, c. 1880s. This partly explains my interest in nineteenth-century Samoan history. However, Tui Atua’s writings refer back to much earlier times. I feel in my heart that explorations of Tui Atua’s writings and thoughts enables a better understanding of the particular ethos of the time in which my father was born. Tui Atua’s writings enable me to talk with my father in ways that I could not when he was alive, and figuratively to once again hold his hand.
This is a gift that I can never truly repay, but I offer this ‘fragrance’ with love.
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1Originally published in 1892. The island of Falesa does not exist (Stevenson, 1959, p. 11). Stevenson writes that ‘the idea for the Beach of Falesa ‘just shot through me like a bullet in one of my moments of awe, alone in that tragic jungle’. ‘The jungle was the uncleared land behind his house in Samoa’ (cited in Jolly, 1999, p. 463). It is clear that aspects of the plot owe much to his experiences in other parts of Polynesia. There are, however, strong indications in the story that Samoa is the model for his fictional Island. For example, the native language is very like Samoan, people’s names and geographical locations: Fale-alii is similar to the Samoan region Falealili.
2Though much to his surprise, Wiltshire finds himself falling in love with his wife. He says ‘it is strange how it hits a man when he’s in love; for there’s no mincing things - Kanaka and all, I was in love with her’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 64).
3As Tarleton, a missionary, states ‘white men die very suddenly in Falesa’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 80). ‘He [Case] was a party to the horrid death of the paralytic; he is accused of poisoning Adams; he drove Vigours out of the place by lies that might have led to murder’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 83). All were commercial rivals to Case. He also corrupted Namu, a native pastor (Stevenson, 1959, p. 70).
4As Uma explains in broken English: ‘Ese (the native name for Case, meaning ‘other’ or ‘different’ in the native language, and coincidentally in Samoan) belong Tiapolo; Tiapolo too much like; Ese all-e-same his son. Suppose Ese he wish something, Tiapolo he make him’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 91). ‘Tiapolo’ is the Samoan word for ‘devil’.
5The black sand beach acts as a divide between the ‘civilised’ township and the untamed wilderness.
6Tarleton recounts how he was bested by Case when he plucked a coin from behind the missionary’s ear, while loudly proclaiming to the natives, that all Missionaries want is their money. Tarleton says that he was outdone by a common conjuring trick ‘I wished that I had learned legerdemain instead of Hebrew’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 82).
7See Jolly (1999) for a fuller discussion of the interplay of these three narrative styles in The Beach.
8Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), the Welsh poet, wrote a playscript based on The Beach, which was published as a novella in 1964 (see Thomas, 1964). In 1974, it was made into an opera (see Boyd, 1974).
9The wording on the false certificate probably caused the most offence: ‘This is to certify that Uma, daughter of Faavao(sic) of Falesa Island of—, is illegally married to Mr John Wiltshire for one week, and Mr John Wiltshire is at liberty to send her to hell when he pleases’ (Stevenson, 1959, p. 35).
10Booth, B. A. and Mehew, E. (Eds). (1994-5). The letters of Robert Louis Stevenson (8 Vols) vii, p. 282, (as cited in Jolly, 1999, p. 481).
11One could argue that colonialism is itself responsible for the moral degradation of the coloniser. Perhaps, a case of absolute power corrupting absolutely.
12‘His [Stevenson’s] first impulse maybe romantic, but his second thought is almost always classical’ (McLynn, 1994, p. 261).
13See A footnote to history (Stevenson, 1996) for Stevenson’s observations of European interference in the nineteenth-century Samoan political scene.
14The term ‘Samoan Indigenous Reference’ first appears in the paper ‘Navigating our Future together’ (Tui Atua, 2006a; see chapter 11 of this publication).
15See Harris (1969, p. 16). This still forms a large part of the contemporary understanding of the term; the other part consists of having a sentimentalist or ‘rosy-eyed’ view of something, as in the expression ‘romanticising the past’
16See Honderich (1995, p. 778). Romanticism is further defined as ‘partly a reaction against the stiff rationality of the Enlightenment and its official, static, neo-classical art, in favour of the spontaneous, the unfettered, the subjective, the imaginative and emotional and the inspirational and heroic’ (Blackburn, 2005, p. 320).
17Samuel Taylor Coleridge outlined this division of labour in describing the differing tacks that he and William Wordsworth were adopting in their poetic endeavours (see Harris, 1969, p. 17).
18‘In Search of Harmony’ was first offered in the Colloquium for the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, January12-15, 2005. It was published in the Proceedings. The paper was then offered at ‘The Pacific Regional Interreligious Colloquium on Indigenous Cultural and Religious Concepts of Peace and Good Governance’ December 27-30, 2005. It was republished with a commentary on ‘In Search of Harmony’ by Manuka Henare (Henare, 2007), in the edited book entitled Pacific Indigenous Dialogue on Faith, Peace, Reconciliation and Good Governance (Tui Atua et al., 2007a). A Samoan translation of the edited book is also available (Tui Atua et al., 2007b). The Samoan translation is currently into its third reprint, showing the popularity of these ideas articulated in the Samoan language.
19I keep with Tui Atua’s use of the term ‘man’ to denote humankind.
20In an earlier paper (Tui Atua, 1999, p. 7). The Tui Fiti bestows certain villages in Samoa with gifts of fish, when his daughter is returned to life. The village of Pu’apu’a is endowed with anae (mullet), the village of Asau is given atule (mackerel) and Auala is provided with manini [fish species, Acanthurus (see Milner, 2003, p. 129)].
21See Schultz (1994, p. 14, proverb 22), ‘the fish seem to do the will of the tautai’.
22See Tuagalu (2008, p. 116) for the Cycle of Faamanuiaga: Worthy social actions are acknowledged by elders in the form of a blessing, the blessing is acknowledged by the recipient and then becomes the spur for further worthy action.
23As is the case in the existentialist notion of ‘the absurd’.
24See Coleridge, Bibliographia Literaria, chapter 13.
25The immensity of the quest is best conveyed by the iconic landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840), e.g. ‘Monk by the Sea’ (1809) or ‘Wanderer over the Sea of Fog’ (1818), where the solitary wanderer is framed by, and contemplative of, huge tumultuous landscapes. The observer is dwarfed by Nature.
26See Plato (1946, vol 1 pp. 86-91, in particular 349E).
27The notion of yearning is evident in Tui Atua’s writings (see Tui Atua, 2006b, p. 12; see chapter 13 of this publication) ‘... pining for the legacy of the matua tausi’. The term tofā sa’ili has connotations of questing for wisdom.
28Plato conceived of the soul as comprising three mentalistic parts: logistikon (the reasoning), thymos (the spirited), and the epithymia (the appetitive), quite different from Tui Atua’s distinction of the agaga.
29Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)
30Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
31England is the ‘beauteous island’ of which Coleridge sings, yet these lines aptly describe Tui Atua’s love of his home isles and of the God(s) who made him.
32Edmund Burke is commonly referred to as the founder of Whig conservatism.
33In this activity he seems to be following in the footsteps of his beloved maternal grandfather Ta’isi Olaf F. Nelson. Ta’isi wrote an article for the Journal of the Polynesian Society in 1925 on Samoan myths and legends, see Nelson (1925). There is continuity, as Tui Atua reworks myths and legends outlined by Ta’isi.
34Tui Atua writes elsewhere ‘Samoan custom marks tradition, Samoan culture marks change’ (Tui Atua Tupua, 2004b, p. 13; see chapter 7).
35In many ways the ‘scientific’ endeavour parallels that of the poetic. Both aim to elucidate that which is not immediately apparent. It is just the difference in method and mode of delivery. Though one should be mindful of Tui Atua’s warning: ‘Frankness is crass because of its potential to offend. The availability of many meanings can help save face’ (Tui Atua, 2003, p. 52; see chapter 6). Those who indulge in scientific discourse should not be callous.
36One is reminded of William Blake’s indignant reply to Dr John Tusler’s suggestion that his illustrations required interpretation:’... You say that I want somebody to Elucidate my Ideas. But you ought to know that what is Grand is necessarily obscure to Weak men. That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care. The wisest of the Ancients consider’d what is not too explicit as fittest for instruction, because it rouzes (sic) the faculties to act’ (Letters, 1038-9, cited in Harris, 1969, p. 23).
37See Tui Atua (1994, p. 66; see chapter 1) for the political uses of allusive and elusive language.
38For a list of categories of lauga and their constituent parts (see Tu’i, 1987, p. 30).
39Blackburn (2005) defines classicism as ‘the aesthetic and cultural perspective guided by admiration for what are believed as classical qualities: order, maturity, harmony, balance, moderation’. The literary, artistic and architectural models were those of ancient Greece and Rome. Furthermore, ‘in the late 18th century, the more idiosyncratic free, unfettered spirit of Romanticism rebelled against what became perceived as the artificial restrictions of classicism’ (p. 63). The Romantics spurned the strict adherence to form and structure.
40Elsewhere I argue that Samoans learn their identity (faasinomaga) in the Samoan village (Tuagalu, 2008).
41There is an emphasis on feeling in the late eighteenth century brought on by ‘the growth of a cult of sensibility, the substitution of ‘je sens, donc je suis’ [I feel therefore I am] for ‘cogito ergo sum’, the increasing value attributed to impulse and spontaneity and the decreasing importance attached to pure reason’ (Willey, 1961, p. 207).
42See also Schultz (1994), p. 115, proverb 455. Fatutoa felt an overwhelming compulsion not to leave his homeland.
43Samoan and English versions of speeches, academic papers and writings of both His Highness and Her Highness Filifilia Tamasese are available on the Head of State of Samoa website at www.head-of-state-samoa.ws.; they are masters of the Samoan idiom.
44See and compare the use of the Ga’opo’a story (Tui Atua, 2000, 2003, 2008). The earliest paper was delivered to the Pacific Medical Association; the second was published in the Social Policy Journal of New Zealand; and the last was a paper delivered to young Pacific and Maori university mentors.
45It is worth noting that this reiteration not only reinforces the central message, but stands in contrast to the consumerist notion that every paper should have some ‘new’ instance of the Samoan Indigenous Reference. This might partly explain some people’s comments as to the ‘sameness’ in Tui Atua’s academic work.
46It is also indicative of the time frames that he has to work on his papers. Tui Atua has stated that he has a ten-year window of productivity. His academic work forms a small part of his routine duties and responsibilities; albeit an important part. Some may hold that his academic articulations of the Samoan indigenous reference are at odds with his role as Head of State. However, it is apt, to my mind that the ‘Father of the Nation’ seeks to define the ‘best’ of that nation.
47These rituals include appeasing the God of the Forest, asking pardon of the tree chosen for boat building, preparing the sennet and wood for the outrigger.
48Lupe (2007, pp. 127-129) offers a different interpretation of the creation myth with the Tuli (plover), which was used by Tui Atua in an earlier paper, see Tui Atua (1999, p. 1). Incidentally, Tui Atua’s beloved Grandfather, Ta’isi, outlines the same myth, (see Nelson, 1925). Lupe’s interpretation is based on a Samoan ego structure that is founded on a feminine universe.
49See Tui Atua (2000, pp. 3-4; 2008, pp. 5-6; see chapters 3 and 18) for the Salelesi ritual.
50See Tui Atua (2003, pp. 52-55; see chapter 6) for the aumaga on handling rejection.
51This is, of course, an oversimplification, as the Christian God is viewed as both immanent and transcendent.
52Given his status, public criticism is unlikely. However, privately, people wonder what he is trying to do. The observations above were made to me by Samoans upon hearing about Tui Atua writing about rituals at Pulemelei (Tui Atua, 2007a) and after reading the ‘In Search of Harmony’ paper. The fact that the Samoan versions of his books and writings are very popular shows that his ideas are gaining a wider Samoan speaking/reading audience.
53Tui Atua refers to a glossary of 1213 Samoan words, many of which were not found in George Pratt’s Samoan Dictionary, of which the earliest edition was in 1862 (See Tui Atua, 2002, p. 10; see chapter 4).
54There is an attitude amongst groups of indigenous scholars that the work of ‘dead white males’ is of no relevance and is responsible for the colonisation of indigenous peoples’ minds.
55Not that it matters, but there is debate as to whether St Augustine was a black man.
56His paper Tupualegase: The Eternal Riddle (see Tui Atua, 2008; see chapter 18) is dedicated to Hans Küng.
57Of his Samoan mentors, Tui Atua names: Mai Sio, Amiatu Tauaneai, Pilia’e Iuliano (Leulumoega), Faamatuainu Tulifau (Lufilufi), Le’apai Sefo (Malie), Fauolo and Faletufuga (Safotulafai), Toluono Lama (Palauli), Tevaga Paletasala (See Tui Atua, 1995, p. 3; see chapter 2, footnote 1), Ga’opo’a, Fao Avau (see Tui Atua, 1999, p. 7) and Fao Isaia (see Tui Atua, 2000, p. 10; see chapter 3).
58The same phrase is used in a later essay (see Tui Atua Tupua, 2003, p. 51; see chapter 6).
59Tui Atua’s formulation is different in its wording, in that he states that the original and its opposite ‘coexist’ in synthesis. The usual formulation is that the original and its opposite form a new synthesis. There is dispute as to how much of the original and its opposite is recognisable (see Honderich, 1995, p. 342, for discussion of dialectical logic).
60Plotinus (204/5-270). ‘Platonist philosopher and initiator of Neoplatonism ... He was a contemplative who sought contact with the supreme principle, the Good or One’ (See Honderich, 1995, p. 689).
61Thesis
62Antithesis
63Synthesis
64Vaetoefaga was the daughter of the Tu’i Tonga and tenth wife of Tui Aana Tamalelagi (see Tui Atua, 2004b, p. 9; see chapter 7).
65Sopolemalama derives its name from a question asked by the brother Talamaivao of his sister Vaetoefaga, ‘Why do you come when it is not light?’ Aisea ua e sopo mai ai e le’i malamalama? She responded, ‘My life and the life of my child are threatened.’ The question posed by Ulualofaiga Talamaivao became the name of his residence in Vaialua, abbreviated to Sopolemalama, by which it is known up to this day’ (Tui Atua Tupua, 2004b, p. 10; see chapter 7).
66Pratt, (1893, p. 147) defines fafano as ‘wash the hands and rinse the mouth’. Milner (1993, p. 52), defines it as ‘wash (hands or feet)’
67It is a ceremony of welcome, where ‘ava, the beverage, is served. Usually only chiefs drink in the ceremony It usually occurs before a village meeting or in greeting visitors to the village. The ava ceremony denotes an occasion of great cultural significance.
68My colleague Albert Refiti has an interesting notion of Samoan identity, it stems from his reading of the term ‘tagata’, the usual term for ‘person’ or ‘people’. An alternative meaning for taga is ‘pocket’ or ‘bag’. So, tagata can be read as ‘pockets of ta - after Dr Okusi Mahina’s Ta/Va dichotomy. Refiti holds that Samoan titles are like pockets within which sits the current title-holder, but one is regarded as if s/he were the original title-holder (Refiti, 2005, September, p. 55).
69Tui Atua describes the pageantry of a talomua that was taken by Palauli, Savaii, during the time of the New Zealand administration of New Zealand (See Tui Atua, 2000, 2003; see chapters 3 and 4).
70See Samoa Observer (2008, July 17, p. 4). Translation: ‘this is a good showcase by His Highness that will influence not only the youth of the district but will hopefully raise the consciousness of the country at large’ (translation mine).
71Tui Atua also believes in morally uplifting effects of sport. See Tui Atua (2002, p. 6; see chapter 5): ‘In the ultimate rugby is about people. A hard fought test is a comment about the human spirit’.
72Virtues can be viewed as a set of moral rules or principles, which entails that obeying certain rules will lead to morally correct outcomes, i.e., Kantianism. Aristotelians describe the virtuous individual, as not one who follows rules, but one who perceives and acts upon situationally unique moral requirements. Plato viewed virtue as an inner state, i.e., harmony of the various interacting aspects of the soul; correct or just action is action that sustains or enhances inner virtue (see Honderich, 1995, pp. 900-901). Other important Samoan virtues include usiusita’i, obedience, and faaaloalo, respect.
73Referring to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem Kubla Khan (1797): ‘Five miles meandering with a mazy motion/Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, ...’.
74This corresponds with the distinction between the Etic (outsider) and Emic (insider) views of society.
75The Oxford English Dictionary online defines ‘sensibility’ as ‘in the 18th and early 19th c. (afterwards somewhat rarely): Capacity for refined emotion; delicate sensitiveness of taste; also, readiness to feel compassion for suffering, and to be moved by the pathetic in literature and art’.
76Critical traditionalism as opposed to naive traditionalism, the distinction is analogous to critical and naive realism (Blackburn, 2005, pp. 84; 245). The critical traditionalist examines the central tenets of the tradition in terms of understanding what they may represent. The naive traditionalist accepts traditions as they have been handed down, hence uncritically. Futhermore, it seems to me, that there is an element of demythologising in Tui Atua’s explanation of myth and ritual. However, he does not follow the theologian Rudolph Bultmann (1884-1976), who, in an effort to make the Bible more relevant to modern-day audiences, advocated the stripping away of supernatural accretions of the New Testament, so as to arrive at the kerygma, the essential message of Christianity (see Bowker, 2000, p. 106; p. 312). Tui Atua seeks to preserve the supernatural and spiritual links between all creation: the va tapuia and va fealoaloa’i (see also Tuagalu [2008] for a discussion on the primacy of the va tapuia).
77‘There are many Samoan versions of the historical truth’ (translation mine).
78I wish to thank Peter Barton and my sister Ofusina Rosa Barton for all their help in the construction of this paper. It has been a family affair. Any shortcomings, however, are entirely my own.