TUKU – the art of honouring, and releasing mamae

Human rights, Indigenous rights, and environmental rights are, under a colonial regime, constantly under attack. For many of us, defending and protecting them is not a 9-5 job, it’s an all-day-every-day commitment.

By its very nature, it’s draining – most especially for those whose rights are directly under attack, whether they take action on it or not.

Right now, the vast majority of Te Ao Māori are engaged in defence of our world, defence of our Tiriti, defence of our children’s and mokopuna futures. It’s a lot. With that in mind, it seemed that the most appropriate thing to share right now, is a simple tool that has helped me stay in the fight for many years.

I’ve written and spoken before about the physiological, spiritual and mental health consequences of racism and colonialism, and this is well recognised even in our communities. Often, in the Q&A session after a workshop or keynote, I’m asked “how do you look after your energy doing this work?” and while there are numerous approaches to this, one of the tools I’ve come to really value, which is very practical, is the art of TUKU.

Many Indigenous also have a similar process of releasing something that is burdening you back into the universe. The art of tuku is one of these practices, for Māori. A large part of my work is, necessarily, delving into painful histories that recount colonial harm. I don’t enjoy it, nobody should enjoy it, but it is necessary because if we are not going to hold colonialism to account with the history of its harm, it becomes so much easier for colonisers to continue their work, and tell everyone how beneficial it is. The importance of tuku for me was driven home through an experience I had overseas…

Many years ago I was at the United Nations Permanent Forum for Indigenous Issues in New York, it was my first time there and I was overwhelmed by the experience. Each Indigenous organisation is afforded just three minutes to outline the rights abuses they are experiencing, and the organisations come from around the world to speak to the colonial harm happening to our people. Even though there’s a speakers list, you’re never quite sure if they’ll call your name and so leaving your seat risks missing your call up, and wasting your entire journey there. So there I sat, holding onto my seat, listening to three minute slots of Indigenous rights abuses over, and over, and over again.

By the end of the day, when it came time to go back to my hotel room, my arms and legs felt weighed down, I literally felt like I was carrying weights. I was depressed, anxious, and on the edge of hopelessness. I had a week of this still ahead of me and this was just the first day. How could I go on? I got back to my hotel and turned on Game of Thrones, thinking: well maybe some dragons will distract me from my pain for a while.

As luck would have it, I had been paired with a wonderful Indigenous Aunty in the same room, a United Nations veteran who had supported Indigenous women to engage in that space for many years. She walked into the room not long after me, saw me sat on the floor in despair and asked: “What is this?”.

I burst into tears and blubbed a stream of feelings that were barely coherent:

“I don’t know why I’m here, listening to everyone’s pain and just thinking I should turn around and go home, and cede my space to them. How can we ever overcome all of this!?”

If I was hoping for sympathy and a warm Aunty hug, that wasn’t on the menu. She frowned, shook her head and responded with the “warm scorn” that only Indigenous Aunties can pull off:

“No, no no – you’re doing this all wrong.” She motioned towards the television “First of all turn that rubbish off”. Of course now I’m listening because I’m quite clear this woman is channelling my ACTUAL East Coast Aunties and all their tough-love. I turned it off. She looked me up and down, maybe assessing me to make sure I’m ready for what she was about to say, but in any case the next thing she said has been pure gold for me:

“Who do you think you are to carry these people’s pain for them? Did they ask you to do that? No – they didn’t come here for you to do this, they came here to be heard, just as you have. They came here to set the record straight, just as you have. You crippling yourself does nothing for them. What you can do is bear witness for them, stand in solidarity with them and commit to being an agent of change. You have a job to do for your people, just as they have done their job for theirs.”

My sniffles had by now subsided. Each one of her words were shaping me up, I could feel my back straightening and my shoulders shifting back as the plain truth of her words sunk in:

“I am quite sure that your people have a way of releasing hurt…” she glanced disdainfully at the television before looking back at me “and I don’t mean running away from it”.

I thought for a moment and then said “yes, yes we do”

She nodded and then said “Good, then I suggest you do it and prepare yourself for tomorrow, because this…” *waved hand at my messiness* “isn’t doing anything. I’m going shopping.”

And with that, she sailed out the door, leaving me a little sulky but already a little lighter.

The practice she reminded me of is TUKU. It’s not necessary to be a tohunga, or experienced spiritual practitioner in order to carry it out – anyone can do it. All you need is a quiet space and some time – even five minutes will do. For those that are familiar with the deeper practice of pure, it is kind of like “pure-lite”

Tuku is an intentional practice of honouring pain by becoming hyper-present with it, in order to be able to lift it up, and release it. It is not a dismissal of pain and it’s not an escape from pain. Māori practices are, pretty much consistently, about being very present and real at every level (spiritual, emotional, physical, individually and collectively) with what is happening, honouring emotions and giving them due time and place, so that you can then transition on from them to allow the work to take place. This is a divorce from western wellbeing practices which are generally centered upon escaping or suppressing pain (think holidays, retreats, opiates and very stoic western grief practices).

Tuku may look different to people but there are characteristics which are consistent:

1. Quiet your mind
   You need to be free of distractions. You don’t have to be by yourself, but if you are in a group, everyone needs to be quiet, and preferably you should all be engaging in this practice, otherwise the one person who is doing it may feel distracted by being self-conscious.
   
2. Be present with what you’ve heard/seen/experienced
   Think carefully about what you have seen/heard/experienced. If it is throughout the day, walk yourself through the day from the start til now.Envision it, think about its various dimensions, how it sounded, how it felt, how it looked, what else was happening, what it made you think about, how it made you feel, and the emotions you witnessed in others.
   
3. Honour/bless the experience
   What you’ve experienced has purpose, and there is also purpose in you being there to witness it. It has undoubtedly shaped someone, and will shape you by your witnessing of it. Even painful experiences bring important learnings and change. Mihi to it, honour it, and bless it.
   
4. Release it to the universe
   “Tāpae ki te rangi, whakairi ake kia tina” Offer the experience back to the universe. This acknowledges the ultimate design of the universe and humbles oneself in relation to it. Importantly, this is NOT about releasing it to nowhere, it is more akin to suspending it in the sky, like a navigational constellation that can guide you on your pathway forward.
   
5. Commit to being an agent of change.
   If the experience is one of injustice, this process also comes with a commitment to that injustice, and being an agent of change in your space. Even if this injustice is one that is happening far away from you, you can still be an agent of change towards a better world, one free of injustice.

It took me about 5 minutes tops to do this practice, and straight away, I was better, lighter, more prepared to take another day on. It has been a staple of my United Nations practice since then, and a regular practice for me in relation to the Doctrine of Discovery as well.

Kia kaha e hoa ma, the journey to Tiriti justice, and to Indigenous justice, and an anti-colonial future is a long one, we will need deliberate strategies to maintain our energy, strategically pick our battles, and support each other through this.