Su'esu'e Manogi: In Search of Fragrance.: Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta'isi and the Samoan Indigenous Reference.

This book is a celebration of His Highness Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta'isi Efi's intellectual and cultural legacy to Samoa, providing Tui Atua's writings and thoughts on Samoan indigenous knowledge. It was first compiled and published as a festschrift in commemoration of his seventiethbirthday. Tui Atua is Samoa'sHead of State and is currently the only holder of one of Samoa's four pāpā (aristocratic chiefly) titles –Tui Atua. The book also contains responses fromfourteenof Samoa's leading and emerging scholars (including two Rhodes Scholars), based within and outside Samoa. The book searches for the best of what His Highness terms 'the Samoan indigenous reference' and enlarges our contemporary understandings of indigenous knowledge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huia Publishers
• Release date: Jun 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775503590

Book preview

Introduction

Tamasailau M. Suaalii-Sauni

I’uogafa Tuagalu

Tofilau Nina Kirifi-Alai

The phrase su’esu’e manogi, which frames this book, means ‘to be in search of fragrance’. It is offered by one’s supporters to bolster the spirit and to remind that one never searches for great heights alone; they go with the blessing and prayers of those close to them, especially family. The ‘ula (garland) and titi (skirt) are symbolic of the support and/or talents that family or close ones have to offer their candidate to give him or her an edge in the political stakes. The ‘searching’ in su’esu’e manogi is not ‘gathering’ as described in the word ao or aoao. It is more than this. It is a deliberate searching for the best, no matter how far or wide one must go to do so; searching with a sense of urgency; a search that utilises a deliberate search methodology. The saying underlines, through metaphor and nuanced imagery, the various aims of this collection.

This book has two main purposes. First, to provide eighteen selected writings by Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Tupuola Tufuga Efi (hereafter referred to as Tui Atua) on what he described in 2006 as the Samoan indigenous reference. Second, is to present a festschrift, by having fourteen of Samoa’s scholars¹, from various academic backgrounds, offer specific commentaries on these papers. Each of these scholars worked tirelessly, with the love and support of their families and friends, to produce their specific ‘ula for this publication. Their efforts form a combined ‘ula, a gesture of a commitment to search for and preserve what is best of faasamoa or the indigenous Samoan reference.

To speak of the fragrances of a culture is to deliberately appeal to its nuances. For special Samoan village affairs, the flowers or plant parts that make up a garland for guests are specially picked, both for their sweet aromas and for their associations with people and place. For example, the ‘oli (eugenia neurocalyx, see Krämer, 1994, p. 439) is a red, sweet-smelling flower usually associated with the village of Salani. It is not uncommon, therefore, for ‘oli garlands to be associated with Salani people.²

Fragrances of the land are so deeply embedded in our psychic and bodily memories that when separated from home, as the famous Afoafouvale was, it is to these familiar aromas that one pines (see Krämer, 1994, p. 282). The importance of these scents to our psyche is highlighted in Afoafouvale’s famous solo (chanted song), where he sings nostalgically and longingly for the scents of the mosooi (kananga odorata), lagaali (aglaia edulis), seasea (parinaria, fruit of the eugenia), asi (sandalwood) and sinago (pandanus blossoms) - the perfumes of his former residences.

In Samoa, metaphors of scent can also evoke feelings and messages about social behaviour and appropriate conduct. In terms of languaging rejection and saving face, the well-known Samoan story of two friends, Nonomaufele and Aliimanaia, who both sought the affections of each other’s sister is often told to make this point. In this story, Aliimanaia, when rebuffed, exclaimed, ‘ua tuavale le mafua o pua na i Aganoa’ (the season of gardenias has come to nought).³ (translation by Tui Atua, pers. comm.) Aliimanaia attempts to save face by equating himself with the sweet-smelling gardenia and by placing their marriage destinies beyond their control. In his article ‘In Search of Meaning, Nuance and Metaphor in Social Policy’ (chapter 6), Tui Atua affirms that there are obvious benefits to encouraging a culture of saving face that relies on gracious rather than violent means for handling rejection.

The impact of scent-oriented metaphors is similarly potent when underlining a point about character, as found in the pejorative saying: ‘E te fiu e uu le tae puaa, e pipilo ā’ (no matter how much you try to perfume pig shit, it will still stink).⁴ While Aliimanaia uses the poetry of fragrance to save face, the pungent metaphor of ‘pig shit’ is meant to sting. Few in modern Christian Samoa would feel comfortable uttering such words privately, let alone publicly. The wisdom of these sayings, is, however, manifest.

Like the use of certain words, tunes and gestures, smell can help set a mood and mark in ‘the brain of the heart and mind’⁵ an emotional link. The smells of a place or land, like a song or dance, touches the senses in ways that can transcend time and space. They urge us to act, feel, think, connect and remember. In inviting Samoan scholars to comment on the themes and arguments in some of Tui Atua’s papers, we offer readers a number of avenues for making sense of his Samoan indigenous reference. The commentaries provide a snapshot of a feeling in time and moment in history; the commentators impose themselves on Tui Atua’s writings, celebrating that which connects, side-stepping that which seems too elusive, and/or interrogating and extending on that which perplexes and intrigues. Many ask quite openly whether the ‘fragrances’ of an indigenous Samoan culture and tradition can survive and flourish in new times and across different shores, or whether they must be now nostalgic memories of a lost time or forsaken past.

Tui Atua’s selected writings published here on the faasamoa, Samoan history and Samoan indigenous reference, promotes an ethnographic present. Each of his papers, including ‘The Riddle’ (chapter 1 in this publication) and ‘Tamafaigā’ (chapter 2 in this publication), first published in the Journal of Pacific History, are what James Clifford (1986) describes as ethnographic allegories. They are pastoral stories told from the ‘inside-out’ to salvage a past; offered as moral beacons to an arguably decaying present and seemingly hopeless future - a future where claims to anything distinctive - distinctively Samoan - will be unheard of. As ethnographic allegories (in the sense advocated by Clifford), Tui Atua’s writings, by their very form and purpose, seek to speak to, replace, reconfigure, challenge and/or trigger, if necessary, other or new stories ‘in the mind [and heart] of its reader (or hearer)’ (Clifford, 1986: p. 100). And, do so in hope of respect for a cultural reference that need not be lost.

The fragrance Tui Atua offers in his writings here is a blend of the cultural, sensual, spiritual and intellectual feelers imparted by his many teachers. His writings provide us with a taste of his own blend - a blend that deliberately avoids the bland, systematic, matter-of-factness of the scientific academic voice, preferring the poetics and openness of the allegorical register. Through allegory, he can paradoxically pronounce an implicit universal truth using ethnic specific text. Tui Atua’s English translation of the idiosyncratic Samoan saying, ‘e iloa le lima lelei o le tufuga i le soofau’ demonstrates this, where instead of a more literal translation, ‘The expertise of a Samoan house-builder or carpenter is evident in his ability to build using fau timber’, he takes the opportunity to allusively proclaim a more universal theme: ‘the mark of good statecraft is shown in blending idiosyncrasy’ (Tui Atua, chapter 6 of this publication). This ability to move effortlessly between English and Samoan cultural references is a talent enhanced by the fragrances of his own personal and professional history.

Blending Cultural References aua ou faiva malo

Tui Atua learnt from a young age the power of knowledge and good lineage. Being the eldest son of Tupua Tamasese Mea’ole and the grandson of Ta’isi O F Nelson, he had access to some of the best minds, indigenous and foreign, that Samoa had to offer. Malama Meleisea and Penelope Schoeffel (1987, p. 95) wrote:

Tupuola Efi’s⁶ ancestry was a remarkable blend of the forces that had created modern Western Samoa. His father was the former Head of State, Tupua Tamasese Mea’ole. On his mother’s side he was the grandson of Ta’isi O. F. Nelson, a prominent leader of the Mau [Samoan independence movement], and also a great-grandson of H. J. Moors, an American businessman who had been active in the politics of Samoa during the 1890s.

Born 1 March 1938, he was raised a Methodist in Tuaefu and then a Catholic when he moved to live with his parents, on his grandfather’s death. From a young age he was nurtured in the indigenous traditions of his maternal and paternal families. As a child he was reared in fāgogo (Samoan fables), and as a teenager, he was traditionally schooled in the art of Samoan oratory, history and politics. He delighted in the history and fantasy of Samoan legends and was an astute participant in debates with his cultural mentors over indigenous language use, historical and political data, indigenous Samoan cultural principles and values and their application.

Tui Atua’s formal primary-school education was undertaken in local Samoan Catholic schools, St Mary’s, Marist Brothers and St Joseph’s. He received his secondary schooling and university education in New Zealand at St Patrick’s College, Silverstream, and University of Victoria (Wellington). He gave up his university studies to return home to help look after family affairs when his father died in 1963.

Tui Atua began his political career in Samoa in 1966, aged 28.⁷ To this day he remains Samoa’s youngest Prime Minister at just 37 years old. To those around him, his entry into Samoan national politics came without surprise. Tipene O’Reagan (1995, p. viii) writes: ‘When [Tui Atua] surged through Samoan politics as an M.P. in 1966, as Cabinet Minister in 1970, as Prime Minister in 1976, and as Leader of the Opposition in 1988, no one was surprised.’

Despite his relatively young age, his energy, political wit, lineage and competency in things Samoan seemed to ‘fit the [Samoan political] moment’, a pre-requisite for political leadership success according to Joseph Nye (2008, p. 6).

On the cultural leadership front, by his mid-forties Tui Atua had accumulated a number of matai (chiefly) titles, each increasing in rank and status. At fortyeight years old he was conferred one of the highest chiefly titles of the land, the pāpā (paramount district) title, Tui Atua. Notwithstanding rival challenges, the bestowal of the Tui Atua on him was attended and legitimated by the leading families and villages associated with it.⁸ With the success of this bestowal Samoa held on to an institution core to its indigenous reference. There has not been a successful traditional pāpā conferral since.

In terms of his Samoan cultural education, Tui Atua was taught by some of Samoa’s most revered cultural custodians. His teachers of Samoan culture included Taimalie Meapelo, Mataia Europa, Masoe Tulele, Tugaga Isaaka, Fao Isaia, Soifuā Gese, Leilua Pilia’e, Tevaga Paletalasala, Inu Tulifau, Mai Liu, Fauolo Fuifatu, Faletufuga L, Toluono Lama, Amiatu Tauaneai, Faiumu Fanaote, and Tufuga Pisa. Alongside the learnings from these teachers were those gained from living with his beloved maternal grandfather Ta’isi O F Nelson and grandmother, Rosabel Moors; his parents, Tupua Tamasese Meaole and Noue Irene Nelson; his minders, Talaleu, Tualaina and Nofovale; his siblings, Fialauia, Tusi and Piliopo; and his wife of over forty years, Her Highness Masiofo Filifilia Imo Tamasese. All of these people had an impact on the development of Tui Atua the cultural custodian, political leader, family, village and district matai and now father of the nation.⁹ Each of them influenced Tui Atua’s understandings of and approach to faasamoa and Samoan history and the blending of these with other cultural references, Christian, European or otherwise.

In keeping with the cultural and religious sensitivities of the time, the proceedings for the Tui Atua conferral included a Christian blessing ceremony. A prominent theme in Tui Atua’s writings is the relationship between his Christian (notably Catholic) reference and his indigenous Samoan reference. Tui Atua moves boldly between, implying that both are of equal status in his search for meaning. Tui Atua’s mark on blending cultural reference points can be found in images of him as the barefoot Prime Minister¹⁰ on one hand, and as the paramount chief receiving the Tui Atua title in Mulinuu and Sepolataemo, in full traditional dress and wearing modern spectacles, on the other. Both these images speak to Tipene O’Reagan’s words: ‘... he was always wearing the cultural cloth of Pacific heritage while he managed the political present’ (1995, p. viii). Tui Atua’s cultural blend seems not about creating a hybrid self, but rather creating unapologetic selves’ where the Samoan gives equal time and respect to the different cultural references they take on board as important to shaping their lives.

Tui Atua’s stance on faasamoa has retained across time an internal logic. In September 1973 he was reported in the Fiji Times as stating, ‘... No man is physically capable of embodying Fa’a Samoa [sic]. Fa’a Samoa is a body of custom and usage. It is a mental attitude to God, to fellow man and to his surrounding. It is a distinctive life style.’ (Pacific Islands Monthly, 1973, p. 10, as cited in Meleisea and Schoeffel, 1987, pp. 95-96).

The comment that no individual person can embody faasamoa is somewhat contradictory given Tui Atua’s more recent writings.¹¹ However, the latter points about faasamoa as ‘a mental attitude to God, to fellow man and to his surroundings’ is still in line with his more recent thesis on the Samoan indigenous reference. This quote provides an early public record of the emerging themes and language promoted in this thesis.

To evidence and fragrance his claims about the Samoan indigenous reference, Tui Atua has had to make more accessible to the general public cultural knowledge still considered tapu (sacred and taboo). In ‘The Riddle’ (chapter 1), Tui Atua argues that he has lifted the taboo on openly disseminating family knowledge in order to protect it, particularly given the problems faced by the Land and Titles Court (as outlined in chapter 9 and chapter 14 of this publication), and because of custodians ‘not sharing their knowledge before they pass away’ (see chapter 9). Publishing his cultural references in academic journals or books such as this was, for him, a necessity brought on by (a) the growing demise of traditional protective mechanisms within the matai (chief) and matua tausi (elder caregiver) systems, and (b) the inability of the current Samoan justice system to protect and appropriately transfer family, village and/or district inheritances - lands, titles and knowledges - for and across successive generations.

This festschrift pays tribute to Tui Atua’s determination to make the Samoan indigenous reference of his mentors and teachers come alive and speak with pride to the hearts and minds of Samoans, today and in the future. His aim in agreeing to (re)publish the eighteen papers in this publication is not to impose a worldview where it is not wanted, but rather to record and invite fair considerations of it. The festschrift republishes Tui Atua’s speeches as he presented them. This meant exposing the repetition of large tracts of text across different speeches. Maintaining the content in this way allows for future analyses of both his speechwriting modus operandi and of how he built on key themes and arguments.

The Festschrift

The editors were approached in March 2008 to consider putting together a publication of selected writings by Tui Atua on the Samoan indigenous reference. During discussions, the idea progressed to publishing a book of selected writings with commentaries, and to gift the publication in commemoration of Tui Atua’s seventieth birthday. A festschrift was deemed appropriate in meeting both objectives.

Because Tui Atua’s aim for publishing his cultural knowledge was to open it up to genuine scholarly scrutiny and make it accessible to all Samoans, i.e., in his words, to give it ‘exposure to sunlight and clean air’ (chapter 1 of this publication), the editorial team believed it apt to invite Samoan scholars, established and emerging, to provide the commentaries. These commentators were to be selected from different academic disciplines, from a range of university and Samoan village affiliations, be male and female, and living inside and outside of Samoa.¹² The only other selection criteria of importance was whether the invited commentators could be easily accessed via email and devote time to completing a serious commentary by October 2008. A total of fourteen commentators were secured, three of whom would comment on two of Tui Atua’s papers. One invited commentator shared the writing of his commentary with his sister. For the purposes of the count, they are identified separately. The editorial team are extremely grateful to these fourteen commentators for their gift. Without them this festschrift would not be what it is.

The idea of selecting emerging Samoan scholars was to capture as young a Samoan generation as possible to see how Tui Atua’s Samoan indigenous reference resonated or not with them. The youngest commentator, Loretta Mamea, is in her early thirties and was university graduate scholar in 2006 in Geography at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. The commentaries provided by the more established scholars do offer, as expected, a level of sophistication and academic robustness still developing in those just beginning their scholastic or writing careers. Also a number of commentators have more professional than academic careers and so their respective commentaries take a more practice-based and/or pastoral approach compared to the somewhat more philosophical and/or intellectual approach adopted by the academics.

All fourteen commentaries probe Tui Atua’s ideas and arguments, in the main, from their respective disciplinary standpoints. The academic areas covered include history, social anthropology, theology (canon law and pastoral theology), education, youth psychology, psychotherapy, politics, international relations, environmental law, architecture, climatology, economics and business management.

Part A presents Tui Atua’s eighteen selected papers in chronological order by year of publication, and if unpublished, by the year the paper was formally presented. Tui Atua decided on the final selection of papers for inclusion. Part B offers commentaries organised according to the sequence used for Part A.

Toeolesulusulu Damon Salesa, an established Pacific historian, picks up on the ultimate aim of Tui Atua’s storytelling: ‘Restoring Tamafaigā is not about revising his reputation, but about facilitating a full engagement with him, and more importantly, with this dense and formative period of Samoan history: exploring without apology’ (chapter 19). In citing sociologist Karl Marx, Toeolesulusulu Damon¹³ reminds us that while we can tell our own histories, we do not tell them as we please. Histories and science are just as partial to cultural bias as creative literature. However, I’uogafa Tuagalu, another trained Pacific historian and Pacific librarian, shows us how literary and philosophical texts, especially those from the European Romantic era, can be used to enrich and broaden our understanding of the Samoan indigenous reference, especially as argued by Tui Atua. In his commentary Tuagalu draws on the works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Samuel Coleridge and others to illustrate this point. Similarly, in terms of environmental sustainability, Papalii Failautusi Avegalio argues the need to recognise the possibilities for blending Western science and philosophies, such as those by Albert Einstein and Margaret Wheatley, with indigenous approaches such as that offered by Samoans. For all three commentators, the exercise is not to take the Samoan indigenous reference into the Western or European reference but to allow it to sit alongside ‘without apology’.

The issues of partiality and change challenge arguments about authenticity, tradition and cultural values. The promotion of a Samoan indigenous reference premised on values that can transcend time and space ring warning bells in the ears of anti-essentialists who can only see a hegemonic train coming for them. Long debated by philosophers, social theorists and activists alike, the vexed subjects of identity, subjectivity and agency all centre on how best to wrestle with the politics of voice and the struggle of finding justice in an uneven environment. Alex Fala with Katie Fala, Loretta Mamea, Karen Lupe, Anne-Marie Tupuola and Uesifili Unasa, each grapples with the complexities of reconciling competing interests in attempting to understand the cultural foundations of those practices and/or institutions purporting to define Samoan funerals, gifting, ceremonial rituals, Samoan youth education, leadership training and identity formation. A number of these commentators draws on post-modern, post-colonial, cultural studies and indigenous discourses to illustrate and substantiate their thoughts. Space and time constraints limited the full development of some of their arguments but in the main, each commentator offers readers much to debate. The issues of identity and representation are complex and many perspectives abound. To help the reader discern some of the layers of this complexity, it is worth dwelling a little longer on the issue of identity, before moving on.

For post-colonialists, acknowledging the growing hybridisation of ethnocultural identities or selves can undermine the assertion of a unified voice necessary to gain leverage in multicultural politics. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s (1988) idea of strategic essentialism suggests a compromise. While the unified voice must be invoked for political leverage, it does not mean that one claims singular authenticity in that voice. Nor, as anthropologist Virginia Dominguez (1992) puts it, does it suggest that claims of ethnic voice and identity are not real or heartfelt for those who invoke such identities. And it does not say that ethnic identities, cultures or selves are fixed and incommensurable - what Uesifili Unasa argues as ‘unalloyed pure native’ (chapter 23). Rather, it is to say that, while asserting an essential or core self in a multicultural, transnational environment may be problematic, it is sometimes strategically important to do so in order to achieve access to political power; the kind of power that allows for public recognition of cultural values and ideals different to that of the dominant group.

The danger of strategic essentialism, however, lies in the potential for the strategic to become the real, in which case there derives a potential towards unwittingly setting up unfair and exclusionary dictates on the vulnerable - a concern explicit in the respective commentaries of Loretta Mamea, Alex Fala and Katie Fala, Anne-Marie Tupuola, Karen Lupe and Uesifili Unasa. This is the quarrel of post-structuralists such as Michel Foucault¹⁴ (1989, 1991), and of cultural studies theorists such as Homi Bhaba (1983), who caution against the negative effects of reifying and/or universalising stories of self and culture on human individuality and/or minority group rights. However, as James Clifford points out, it does not necessarily follow that by accepting the idea that there is no authentic self or culture, cultural values and/or verities can not transcend difference or time and space. Tui Atua’s point in advocating for the salvaging or reviving of the Samoan indigenous reference of his mentors is not to fix it for all time - as change he admits is a given - but more to advocate strongly in favour of James Clifford’s point about the transcendence of cultural verities and to caution against the belief that there exists a human reference without cultural bias. What each of the commentaries that engage a post-structuralist, post-colonial critique offers the reader is a platform for reflecting on the complexities of Samoan storytelling, Samoan history, culture, identity and subjectivity. A number of commentators (such as Toeolesulusulu Damon Salesa, Aumua Clark Peteru and Anne-Marie Tupuola) also explore these debates of history and identity in relation to one of Samoa’s most important courts, historically and culturally speaking, the Samoan Land and Titles Court, an institution which understandably features prominently in Tui Atua’s writings.

The commentaries by Etuale Lealofi, Aumua Clark Peteru, Penehuro Lefale, Le’apai Lau Asofou Soo and Lealiifano Albert Refiti provide a further interesting mix of approaches to reading Tui Atua’s work. While systematically unpacking the concepts of resident, residence and residency proposed within Tui Atua’s paper on the same (chapter 7), environmental lawyer Aumua Clark Peteru offers the reader access to a broader context for interpreting these, which includes notes on the development of nuu fou (new villages) in Samoa. Climatologist Penehuro Lefale gifts readers with a detailed table of Samoan traditional methods for forecasting or interpreting weather and climate conditions. In this age of highly sophisticated climate forecasting technology, the table affirms the legitimacy of traditional knowledges as scientific ‘bio-indicators’ (Lefale, chapter 31). This legitimacy is recognised by political historian Le’apai Lau Asofou Soo in his discussion of Tui Atua’s efforts to ‘mainstream’ indigenous knowledge and the implications of this in relation to developing a global political leadership ethos (chapter 27). Canon lawyer Etuale Lealofi interrogates the jurisprudential aspects of this ethos, noting that, contrary to what he had initially thought, it is indeed possible to devise a Samoan jurisprudence out of indigenous Samoan philosophical legal principles. Architect Lealiifano Albert Refiti, the author of the final commentary in this publication, takes us through a search for the fragrance of Tupualegase, using a psychoanalytic frame to unpack the metaphor and the metaphoric relationships between the animals, humans and gods embedded within. Certainly the imagination and Tui Atua’s indigenous reference are stretched as Lealiifano Albert creatively plays on the different ways we can interpret symbolic texts and performances. But, Lealiifano Albert’s insights, while offering readers an alternative way of reading Tupualegase, i.e., as figurative monster drawing on our libidinal energies, do not cancel out Tupualegase as figurative god.

What each of these commentaries enables is not only the production of new models and interpretations by which to understand Samoan history and identity, but also opportunities for reaffirming old ones. This kind of rich and open conversation between young and old about Samoan sayings, principles and enduring ideals can only enhance our search for meaning in what we believe in as Samoans, as scholars and as humans.

We close this introduction by telling a story: the story of a young child, bursting with life and promise, spoilt by the unconditional love of his matua tausi. This child delights in his morning ritual of picking the fragrant blooms of nearby bushes and offering them as a gift to his matua tausi. The elders respond by prizing the gift and sharing with him their stories of love, hope and responsibility, each told with their own blend of fact, drama and wit. In these exchanges, the sharing is not only of the mind, but also of the heart and soul.

In inviting Samoan commentators from different demographic, academic and professional backgrounds to comment on Tui Atua’s writings, the editorial team hoped for commentaries that would unpack his arguments and take them to new heights. Some have done this more than others, but all, even the more critical, have taken his work seriously. We have been fortunate and humbled that the final selection of Samoan scholars willing and able to produce a commentary for this publication included two Oxford Rhodes scholars, a Fullbright scholar and a member of a Nobel Prize-winning team. Most hold a PhD or Masters degree and almost all have published writings of their own. This is a great testament to Samoa.

As an editorial team we have been blessed by the opportunity to work closely with Tui Atua and each of the commentators in putting this collection together. It was not the purpose of this introduction to describe Tui Atua’s writings or to explore in detail what he might mean by the Samoan indigenous reference; this is for readers to explore themselves as they move through the book. Instead, we wanted to background the impetus and hopes for the book and outline its organisational structure and rationale.

Tui Atua’s influence on Samoa and its indigenous reference is undeniable. His resignation from political life, as Hugh Laracy (2008) notes, has been academia’s gain. As tama fanau, sons and daughters of Samoa, this book and its fragrances is our gift to our matua tausi, lau Afioga i le Tamaaiga, Le Ao Mamalu o le Malo Tuto’atasi o Samoa, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Tupuola Tufuga Efi.

The book represents the hope that the verities of what makes us Samoan endures. We wish for many more years of sharing with your Highness. Happy Birthday!

O oe o le ‘ula

Na momoli mai

e le sau mai atu mauga o le atuolo

O lo’u titi

mai le fatu o lo’u faasinomaga

a o so’u ala i malo - a lea

ua ‘ula ‘ula

ua titi titi

saō faalalelei ua le ‘ole lea ...

References

Bhabha, H. K. (1983). The other question: The stereotype and colonial discourse. Screen 24, (6) (Nov/Dec.), 18-36.

Clifford, J. (1986). On ethnographic allegory. In J. Clifford and G. E. Marcus (Eds.). Writing culture: The poetics and politics of ethnography (pp. 98-121) California: University of California Press.

Dominguez, V. (1992). Invoking culture: The messy side of cultural politics. The South Atlantic Quarterly, 91(1), 19-42.

Foucault, M. (1989) The archaeology of knowledge. (A. M Sheridan Smith, Trans). London: Routledge.

Foucault, M. (1991). Governmentality. In G. Burchell, C. Gordon, and P. Miller (Eds.). The Foucault effect: Studies in governmentality: With two lectures by and an interview with Michel Foucault. London: Harvester Wheatsheaf

Krämer, A. (1994). Samoa Islands: An outline of a monograph with particular consideration of German Samoa. Auckland, New Zealand: Polynesian Press.

Laracy, H. (2008). Name says it all: A biographical profile of Tuiatua. The Journal of the Polynesian Society 117(1), 11-14.

Meleisea, M. and Schoeffel, P. (1987). Western Samoa: ‘Like a slippery fish’. In Ron Crocombe and Ahmed Ali (Eds.). Politics in Polynesia. Suva, Fiji: IPS, University of South Pacific.

Nye, J. (2008). The powers to lead. New York: Oxford University Press.

O’Reagan, T. (1995). Foreword. In Tui Atua, T. T. T. Englishing my Samoan: Selected speeches and letters by Tuiatua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Tupuola Tufuga Efi, Suva, Fiji: University of South Pacific.

Schultz, E. (1994). Samoan proverbial expressions: Alaga’upu fa’asamoa. Auckland, New Zealand: Polynesian Press in association with the Institute of Pacific Studies.

Soo, A. (2008). Democracy and custom in Samoa: An uneasy alliance. Suva, Fiji: IPS, University of the South Pacific.

Spivak, G. (1988). Selected subaltern studies. New York: Oxford University Press.

Televise Samoa (Producer), and Luagalau Levaula Kamu (Presenter). (1986). Bestowal of Tui Atua title on Tupua Tamasese Efi. [Television documentary]. Samoa: Televise Samoa.

Tui Atua, T. T. T. (2001). Talanoaga na loma ma Ga’opo’a. Apia, Samoa: Pacific Printers and Publishers.

1 For the purposes of this publication, a Samoan scholar is at its minimum defined as those persons of Samoan ethnicity who actively engage in intellectual debates on Samoan-related research topics and have had either or both an academic publication and/or a postgraduate university qualification.

2 Other villages also use ‘oli flower garlands, but the most commonly known is Salani. In fact, their ‘aumaga (untitled men’s guild) is known as tama o le ‘oli’ ula (guild of the red ‘oli).

3 Schultz has translated this saying as: ‘the perfume of the pua or gardenia had no effect in Aganoa’ (Schultz, 1994, p. 96, proverb 393). There is some debate about the meaning of aganoa, i.e. whether it refers to a place or to a type of gardenia (pua) or seasons.

4 This saying is the title of one of Tui Atua’s chapters, a parliamentary speech, in his Samoan language publication Talanoaga na loma ma Ga’opo’a (2001, p. 103-106). The English translation provided above is that of the authors of this introduction in consultation with Tui Atua.

5 See Karen Lupe in her commentary in chapter 22 where she talks about the idea of ‘heart intelligence’ or a ‘thinking heart’.

6 Tui Atua entered parliament using his first matai title, Tufuga, which was bestowed in the early 1960s. Efi is his Christian name. The Tupuola title was conferred next in late 1960s. Tupuola Efi are the names most commonly associated with him as Prime Minister. The Ta’isi title, from his mother’s family, was conferred on him in 1973. The Tamasese title from his father’s family was bestowed together with the tamaaiga title, Tupua, in 1984. And the Tui Atua title, a pāpā title, was bestowed in 1986. Tamaaiga titles are maximal lineage titles (see Soo, 2008). There are four tamaaiga titles: Tupua, Malietoa, Mataafa and Tuimalealiifano. Pāpā titles are one of four paramount district titles. These are Tui Atua, Tui Aana, Gatoaitele and Vaetamasoalii. On retirement from politics Tui Atua was nominated to the Council of Deputies along with fellow tamaaiga titleholder Tuimalealiifano. In June 2007, after the passing away of the late Head of State Malietoa Tanumafili II, Tui Atua was elected by parliament to be Samoa’s next Head of State. In early 2008 he was appointed Chancellor of the National University of Samoa.

7 See the Head of State of Samoa official website for a more detailed biography: http://www.head-of-state-samoa.ws.

8 See Samoan news footage of bestowal ceremony (Televise Samoa, 1986). See also Soo, A. (2008) for a detailed explanation of the family groups and villages associated with the Tui Atua title.

9 References to the Head of State of Samoa as the Father of the Nation are common [see for example the column by Deputy Prime Minister of Samoa Misa Telefoni in Samoa Observer, 3 June 2007 at http://www.samoaobserver.ws/sundayfeat/feat_index/0607/0307sf001.htm [Accessed 17 October 2008].

10 Tui Atua was commonly referred to as ‘the barefoot prime minister’. Not wearing shoes was a deliberate political statement to the world and to Samoans about the importance of Samoan independence.

11 It may be argued that an individual can at least embody (represent, symbolise) the virtues of faasamoa (if not faasamoa as a whole culture), simply by their stance, visage, presence and behaviour. This is implicit in the Samoan saying: E iloa le tagata Samoa i lana tu ma ana aga (It is possible to identify a Samoan person - person raised in the faasamoa - by their stance, presence, thoughts and behaviours).

12 See Notes on Commentators.

13 Toeolesulusulu is Damon Salesa’s matai or chiefly title. It is standard protocol in Samoan respect culture and naming conventions to use a person’s chiefly title first. The first name usually follows the matai title to distinguish between matai of the same title. Where an author does not have a Samoan chiefly title, his or her surname is used as shorthand as per the usual English academic writing convention.

14 Although Foucault would probably not describe himself as a post-structuralist, his ideas challenged those of conventional modern theorists who advocate for an essential, universal and/or centred self. In Foucault’s Archaeology of Knowledge and later in his ‘Governmentality’ thesis, he suggests that the essence of this universal self is really a misnomer and that the self is always contingent, dependent on governmental discourses for definition. This self he names a discursive self. The problem with this idea of self according to critics is that it lacks any real agency, which is a problem insofar as shaping campaigns for unified action and commitment to a political cause is concerned. Recognising that a person’s agency is contingent, however, is not the same as saying that they have little to no agency or control over who they are, who they want to be or become or what or how they engage in something. For our purposes here, the tension surrounding acceptance of the discursive self is the issue of personal agency.

PART A:

Tui Atua and the Samoan Indigenous Reference

CHAPTER 1

The Riddle in Samoan History: The Relevance of Language, Names, Honorifics, Genealogy, Ritual and Chant to Historical Analysis

¹

Sometimes a Samoan looking at the representation of his culture’s past in works of history - no less than in the present representation by anthropologists - may wonder whether the cultural roles of such Samoan devices as the riddle, camouflage, and even propaganda and the nature of genealogy have been quite understood.

The Riddle

The riddle is premised on Samoan theology. God pronounced in oracular fashion and the chiefs as descendants and heirs follow suit. When a chief lusts in the confessed fashion of former United States President Jimmy Carter for your daughter he says in oracular fashion ‘I need a perch for my pigeon’; in fact, he is saying in a riddle, ‘I want your daughter to be my wife’.

Mannered language is allusive, so when I have had a gutsful of fighting and want to pick up my marbles and go home, I say allusively, ‘My blood lies in the thick bush and my body is hissed like the owl by the birds in the forest.’ Instead of responding: ‘Oh! don’t be a ninny,’ the other party parries elegantly: ‘Ah! Patience, let us cast our net once again for we may catch a sacred fish [turtle] that you can take home as a suitable trophy!’

And while waxing poetic when grateful, one might venture: ‘I cannot possibly return your hospitality, but this I will say to you: my love for you I shall not expose to the air lest it turn mouldy nor shall I put it to the ground lest the maggots get to it, my love for you I will place between my heart and my lung so that as long as I have breath it too will have life.’

Samoans, on the other hand, can be perverse in the way they name people, like Safeofafine, meaning the sanitary pad of a menstruating woman, which is a jest about a man’s origin, conceived when his mother is in period. I am told by medical friends that it is possible - but the jest was made when it was common belief that it was not.

With regard to deliberate ambiguity or doublespeak intended as camouflage, fudging, hedging bets, or protecting exclusive language and knowledge of a cabal, Samoan practitioners are as adept as any academic, lawyer or politician. Wading through oracular pronouncements, allusions, poetry, perverse nomenclature, deliberate ambiguity and doublespeak in order to identify issues, define initiative and reaction and their interplay, and motive and objective is no simple chore. It requires a good command of the language, an understanding and a ‘feel’ for the culture.

Camouflage

Most of the historical commentators on Samoa, for example, Otto Stuebel, George Pratt, Augustin Krämer, mention the celebrated struggle between Tui Atua Fogaolo’ula and Tui Atua Foganiutea in the fifteenth century. The aftermath of their quarrel provides a crucial link between the lady Salamasina and the district of Atua.

But the identity of the two Tui Atua is a mystery. They do not appear in the listed genealogies nor is there an explanation of who they were in the written histories. How do we begin to look for clues in the puzzle? First, we search for a link.

Fogaolo’ula and Foganiutea we find are the names of residence sites not far apart in Saletele compound; Saletele was originally part of Fagaloa, now a subvillage of Falefa. The honorifics of Saletele provide another clue: recognition of Sefaatauemana as the taupou (belle) name for all the chiefs, which is a high honour. Sefaatauemana was the name of Mata’utia Faatulou’s mother. Mata’utia Faatulou’s father Lalovimamā was the brother of Atogaugaletuitoga, mother of Tupa’i and Tauiliili. Mata’utia Faatulou was the husband of Levalasi, the lady principally responsible for Salamasina’s acquisition of the four pāpā, the royal titles of Samoa.

From this point on we have to speculate unless tapu knowledge is accessible. I am going to break tapu for reasons I shall elaborate later. Tui Atua Sefaatauemana quarrelled with Lufilufi, left Lufilufi in a huff and established her household in Fogaolo’ula. Her daughter, also named Sefaatauemana, the Tui Atua’s taupou, followed her mother and set up her household in Foganiutea. Amituana’i, a chief of Aleipata, paid court to the mother and was accepted, and after the customary formalities they became husband and wife. Shortly after, the husband, in a manner of speaking, took up with the daughter, creating friction between mother and daughter on the issue of faamoetane - taking somebody else’s husband to bed - or mulilua - two muli - rear-ends, meaning an adulterous husband. Roughly translated: who seduced whom? The nub of the issue of course was a woman (and a mother at that) scorned. The quarrel became bitter and spilled over to titles. The daughter claimed the Tui Atua title. Atua was divided and the issue became the pretext for war. The mother called on her nephews by an earlier marriage, Tupa’i and Tauiliili. The nephews responded in the name of the war goddess Nafanua. Once victory was achieved Tupa’i and Tauiliili took away the pāpā Tui Atua and gave it into Nafanua’s keeping; and, to underline dominion, the title Tupa’i was imposed on Lufilufi, who had espoused the daughter’s cause.

The pretext was somewhat bizarre and the custodians of knowledge decided to camouflage it by referring to the protagonists by the names of their residences -thus Tui Atua Fogaolo’ula and Tui Atua Foganiutea. The work of historians becomes difficult when the custodians of knowledge decide to withhold information or specifically to camouflage embarrassing allegations.

Succession and Propaganda

Aside from language, a thorough grasp of genealogy, honorifics and names of, for example, people, house sites, land, villages and districts, is essential. Without this, even professional historians stumble and lose themselves in the welter of claim and counter-claim and propaganda.

R P Gilson, for example, writes: ‘The Samoans had no sanctions or rules restricting title succession to a specific heir - to the eldest son for example.’² This is a serious error. There is a principle known as alii o aiga that recognises privilege or precedence accorded to the eldest male of the first official usuga (formal marriage alliance). There is a second principle known as suli sosoo, meaning precedence accorded to the immediate heirs, which one of the ranking Tupua titleholders, Galumalemana, attempted to perpetuate by creating a collective status for his immediate descendants known as aloalii, which Gilson translates as ‘princes of the royal blood’.³ Galumalemana was attempting to defeat cultural convention according to which his suli sosoo or immediate heirs’ rights were superseded by rights of the immediate heirs of his successor. To the extent that aloalii became a powerful pressure group in the politics of war and succession, Galumalemana’s objective was fulfilled. Gilson would have been spared error by the most elementary knowledge of genealogy. A cursory examination of Samoan genealogy shows that usually the alii o aiga principle is observed, i.e., the eldest male of the first formal usuga succeeds, or alternatively but less frequently, the suli sosoo, i.e., immediate heirs. The exception is where the successor is neither alii o aiga nor suli sosoo. In this case convention is subverted by mavaega (last testament), family or village preference, or by war.

Conventionally the alii o aiga is the manaia, which reinforces the former’s claim to succession. The manaia is the official head of the ‘aumaga (the formal name of the association of untitled men). The ‘aumaga is a formally recognised component of the village body politic. Manaia has the equivalent of matai status. As manaia the alii o aiga serves an apprenticeship by leading the ‘aumaga and striking bargains with other components of the body politic, for example alii and tulafale (formal grouping of chiefs), faletua and tausi (formal grouping of chiefs’ wives). Organising marriages of the manaia, like those of the principal chiefs, is a function of the village executive.

Foreign sponsors, such as merchants, land speculators, plantation owners and consuls pursuing conflicting agendas, ensured a long-lasting political hiatus. The new political equation spawned parameters which set aside centuries’ old convention. Claimants of pāpā or tafa’ifa did not found their claims on alii o aiga or suli sosoo and their advocates understandably denied the existence of sanctions or rules restricting succession. Opposing parties canvassed candidates for succession to titles as a way of winning allegiance of villages and districts. When it suited political convenience, parties promoted candidates outside the category of alii or aiga or suli sosoo. In these circumstances the parties had a stake in denying that succession was governed by rules. Today, because of the increase in members of the family, reluctance to create titles in recognition of prowess, and parameters imposed by the money economy, the principle of alii o aiga and suli sosoo is recognised by the Land and Titles Court as one criterion, but not necessarily the determining criterion. Gilson may have been influenced by propaganda or by the rationale of the Land and Titles Court.

Genealogy

Gilson equates the Tooā of Tuimalealiifano Sualauvi and the Tooa of Mataafa Iosefo and cites Krämer as his authority. This is again a serious mistake, that Gilson compounds by saying that Tooa is a title in Manono.⁴ There is no such title in Manono.

In Manono, Tooā is the taupou name of Leiataua Lesa. As to Tuimalealiifano’s Tooā, Malietoa Laulauolefolasa married Aliitasi (daughter of Mata’utia, descendant of King Muagututi’a) and sired Malietoa Ti’a, who married Lamana (daughter of Ta’isi, grandson of Tupua) and sired Tuitofa (f), who married Tuimalealiifano Suatipatipa and sired Tuimalealiifano Sualauvi. By Samoan standards the union between Tuitofa and Suatipatipa is the equivalent of a marriage made in heaven. The fact that Tuitofa, aside from being the daughter of Malietoa, was also granddaughter of Ta’isi and a direct descendant of Muagututi’a gives her (and through her, her son Sualauvi) the highest status in the Malietoa hierarchy. Her status is reinforced by the fact that the mother of her brother, Malietoa Fitisemanu, was a daughter of Li’o of Sapapalii, and the mother of Fitisemanu’s son, Malietoa Vainuupo, was a daughter of Memea, again of Sapapalii. Sapapalii is one of the two villages in which the Malietoa titleholder officially resides.

Sualauvi was accorded Tama Sa status, the highest honour that can be given to the female line, and named Tooā, which gave him precedence over any other link and parity with the Malietoa titleholder. The allied Aana and Atua districts, exhausted by the long-drawn-out war of the 1850s and wary about the uneasy peace that followed, invited Sualauvi to be their champion. Sualauvi became in turn the Tui Aana, Vaetamasoalii Gatoaitele, and was poised to acquire the Tui Atua title when he fell ill and died. Because of his status the Malietoas did not oppose his acquisition of the Tuamasaga pāpā (Gatoaitele and Vaetamasoalii). Revealingly, missionary and consular commentators were indifferent to Sualauvi, preferring to focus on Malietoa Talavou, Malietoa Moli or Laupepa.

To the foreign commentators the principal determinant was commerce. Commerce was equated with Apia and control of the municipality. The main qualification for kingship was the wherewithal to acquire and retain control of Apia. Pāpā and the politics associated with pāpā were irrelevant so long as they did not impinge on the commercial imperative. Apia, situated in the middle of Malietoa territory, gave the Malietoa cause an advantage. George Turner, the missionary and author, premised his political involvement on this advantage.

Names and genealogy matter again in the case of Mataafa Iosefo’s Tooā. The mother of Mataafa Iosefo was the daughter of Futi, the foremost orator in Manono. Leiataua, principal chief of Manono through marital ties with the Malietoas, acquired the name Tooā for his taupou. As we have seen, both Malietoa and Leiataua’s taupou name is Tooā. Futi Mataafa’s grandfather was a descendant of Leiataua Lesa. Tuimalealiifano Sualauvi’s Tooā refers to Malietoa’s Tooā; Mataafa’s Tooā refers to Leiataua’s Tooā. Mataafa’s Tooā is no less distinguished in history and politics, given the role of Manono in the Samoan polity.

Manono ascendancy was at its peak by the time of Tamafaigā’s death in about 1828. Tamafaiga and his allies had defeated the Malietoas and subdued Atua/Aana. It is therefore unlikely that Aana, which had held the malo jointly with Atua for centuries, would be Tamafaigā’s ally as suggested by Gilson at the time of the former’s assassination.⁵

Taking pāpā away from Lufilufi and Leulumoega was not unprecedented. That part of Savaii represented by Tonumaipe’a title holders achieved as much just before the Salamasina era. Consistent with the Tonumaipe’a tradition, Tamafaigā did not assume the Tafa’ifa title. Tafa’ifa was irrelevant to the substance of power.

Now the manner of Tamafaigā’s death roused his adherents to a frenzy. Tamafaigā’s last moments were described by John Williams:

Immediately the beads were from his neck they struck him a blow with a sharp axe which severed it from his body; after which they carried him into the house, cut off his legs and his arms and parts of his generation. They then cut off his tongue, assigning their reasons as follows: they cut off his legs for gadding about to other peoples’ settlements, they cut off his hands for seizing other peoples’ property and dragging off their wives, they cut off his parts for having connexion with other men’s wives and they cut out his tongue for his intolerable insolence.⁶

There was proud Aana, defiant and alone. For centuries she had wielded power as the malo and yet in recent times had alienated her traditional allies in Atua and Savaii. Malietoa and his party saw the Tonumaipe’a bandwagon developing and decided to throw in their lot with the predictable winners. It was not, as some say, a war of succession but a war of revenge and reprisal. The atrocities perpetrated by the victors are evidence in support. To the extent that it was a war of revenge it was therefore more the Manono regime’s war than, as commonly believed, Malietoa’s. Malietoa was the defeated opponent who joined the malo party of Manono and Sa Tonumaipe’a to redeem the honour of the mutilated Tamafaigā and simultaneously validate the impugned legitimacy of the associated Nafanua religion and tradition. The Manono regime was blessed by Nafanua and Tamafaigā was her designated high priest. The manner of Tamafaigā’s assassination reflected on Nafanua religion, as was intended by the assassins and their supporters. The ferocity of the reprisals was accordingly deliberate and premeditated - it was meant to restore legitimacy to a religion whose mana was threatened by sacrilege committed against the person of the anointed.

The big issue after the war was power, not titles. The malo represented the party in power, and the malo was in Manono, not in Sapapalii. The dilemma facing the Malietoa party was how to wrest the malo from Manono without alienating Manono. The dilemma was illustrated by the Manono invitation to Malietoa to join them in Luatimu, the main malae in Manono, to deliberate on a successor to Tamafaigā. Malietoa declined by saying that there should not be another Tamafaigā. A second invitation, more imperious in tone, followed the refusal of the first invitation. Malietoa was invited to join the rest of the malo in paying tribute to the skull of Tamafaigā. Malietoa declined again on the ground that there was only one Lord - Jehovah, in Heaven. Manono felt insulted, declared war and appointed a special mission to assassinate Malietoa. Against the wishes of his sons, Malietoa made peace overtures and war was avoided.

John Williams in 1832 reported on the incident, having arrived three months after it happened. Williams paraphrased the reports of resident missionaries. Vaovasa, the designated head of the assassination squad, had killed a favourite daughter of Malietoa. Vaovasa had abducted the girl. John Williams writes:

The young girl would not accede to his wishes and all the people raised their voices against Vaovasa saying it was a bad thing in him to take so great a lady to wife, with this he took his club saying if he did not have her no one else should and struck her a blow on the head which split her skull in two and killed her instantaneously. Old Malietoa has never forgotten this. His sons also urged this upon him but he said he was determined if possible now he had become a Christian to end his days in peace.⁷

Instead of ifoga - the ritual pleading for pardon - Manono invited Malietoa to come to Manono and pay tribute to the skull of Tamafaiga. In pursuing their objective, the Malietoa party judiciously decided to avoid confrontation using other avenues, for example, advocacy of the London Missionary Society (LMS) missionaries, and the status of Tafa’ifa and the title Tonumaipe’a. Missionaries decided that the best attempts at central government could be made through a Malietoa; and therefore foreigners speaking on behalf of commerce, religion or governments were encouraged to parlay with the Sapapalii regime. In effect the malo in Manono should be bypassed.

Unable to wean the malo from Manono, and unwilling to fight for it, the Sapapalii regime indulged in gesture politics. They claimed the Tafa’ifa for Malietoa Vainuupo. Tafa’ifa symbolised the Salamasina inheritance and implicit in this inheritance is the claim to the malo. There was no attempt to establish this claim inside the relevant regions, Atua/Aana. If there had been, the missionaries assuredly would have reported on it. In its rivalry with Manono, the Sapapalii regime was consciously trying to establish credentials with foreigners who were already a factor and foreseeably an increasingly important one in the political equation. In contrast Manono’s focus was in seeking a successor to Tamafaigā.

The Sapapalii regime negotiated a marriage between Talavou, son of Malietoa Vainuupo, and a lady of Tamafaigā’s family in Manono. Through this marriage Talavou acquired the title Tonumaipe’a, at the instigation of Manono. Because Talavou resided in Sapapalii and later became Malietoa, Sapapalii claimed first call on the loyalty of the Tonumaipe’a people. Manono power-wielders were not unaware of the nuances of Sapapalii posturing. Whereas they were prepared to provoke a confrontation in the early 1830s, the military reverses in the late 1830s and throughout the 1840s caused them to be circumspect and less inclined to break the alliance. Manono was reduced to underlining a point by espousing a religion other than that of the LMS or provoking hostilities as a way of regaining waning power and prestige through prowess in war.

Notwithstanding severe military setbacks in the 1850s and 1860s and the shifting of the capital to Apia, Manono persevered in the belief that the malo remain in Manono. In 1889, whilst Malietoa Laupepa was in exile, Mataafa losefo was installed as Malietoa by the opponents of the Tamasese regime. Manono does not have an Ao or pāpā; the next best course was to make Mataafa their Tama Sa by naming him Tooā. Thus, the latter became Malietoa Tooā. By this gesture Manono was asserting its status as malo. After his defeat in Fale’ula in 1893 Mataafa retreated to Manono. Commentators mistake the move as seeking refuge. He was not. He was indulging in residence politics. He was flinging a challenge to his opponents: ‘I am Tooā Tama Sa of Manono, residing in Luatimu, the seat of the malo!’ The representatives of foreign powers read the situation correctly and sent warships to fetch Mataafa. Warships implied recognition that Mataafa was not an impotent refugee but a potential threat or menace.

Residence politics emanate from the cultural significance attached to residence. The essential attributes of a Samoan chief are among other things kava cup name, taupou, manaia, and residence. The site, stone formation and height of a house specify status. The residence name commemorates a landmark occasion in family history. The emblems of the family god and family icons, such as remains of ancestors and trophies of war, were buried under the principal pillar in the middle of the house. The ultimate punishment short of killing or execution is