The post-flu pandemic survivor, Maudie Ruaka Reweti, 1994. Photo / Leigh Mitchell-Anyon. Whanganui Regional Museum Collection ref: 1995.16.1
The post-flu pandemic survivor, Maudie Ruaka Reweti, 1994. Photo / Leigh Mitchell-Anyon. Whanganui Regional Museum Collection ref: 1995.16.1
The carvings stand silently against the back wall of Te Ātihaunui-a-Pāpārangi – The Māori Court at the Museum.
Their pāua-shell eyes glisten in the shadows, a stark contrast between dark and light. They have borne witness to a pandemic before. Stay calm, they tell me. We are still standing.
The influenza pandemic of 1918-1919 caused global devastation. Spread around the world by men and women returning home from service in World War I, it was estimated to have infected up to 40 per cent of the world population and to have killed between 20 and 40 million people.
The death toll for New Zealand is thought to have been about 9000 people. The death toll for Māori is unknown as many Māori deaths were not registered.
Whanganui was not left unscathed. Official records state that in the Whanganui region 101 Pākehā and 10 Māori died. At the urupā (cemetery) in Pūtiki there is an unmarked mass grave. Around 200 Māori men, women and children lie in that grave, unnamed victims of that influenza pandemic.
My father, Haimona Reweti, told me that many Māori were distrustful of western medical care and would not actively seek help. In reality, they had no access to medical care, no doctors, no nurses. They were buried by their whānau in the clothes they died in. A lethal combination of Māori who had compromised immune systems, and families living together in close quarters contributed to the deaths. Men aged between 20 and 45 were particularly vulnerable. It is a harsh reminder that we must all look after ourselves and our loved ones. Be kind. Be mindful.
Maudie Ruaka Reweti standing in front of Te Paku o Te Rangi, the wharenui at Putiki Marae, around 1997. Photo / Colleen Maria Lenihan. Private collection.
My grandmother, Maudie Reweti, was born on November 27, 1919, very much at the tail end of the pandemic.
Maudie, only a few months old, contracted double pneumonia. Her mother, Tatiana, my great grandmother, was bedridden with postnatal depression.
Dying, unable to breathe properly, Maudie's lips were turning blue. I cannot imagine the fear and panic my whānau would have felt. They would have still been reeling from the losses of the war and the flu pandemic. Health care for Māori was almost non-existent. Traditional Māori doctors, Tohunga, were not allowed to practise. The Tohunga Suppression Act 1907 essentially made these Māori cultural practices illegal. If Tohunga were caught, they were arrested. Māori had very few options in their fight against an invisible killer.
Tatiana's father, the Tā Moko Tohunga (moko expert) Haimona Te Utupoto Teki, gently wrapped up his baby granddaughter and took her to see his friend, the prophet healer Tahu Pōtiki Wiremu Rātana. "Save her. Save my little mokopuna."
I do not know what happened in that moment with Rātana, Te Utupoto and his granddaughter, but little Maudie did not die. Te Utupoto then took her from Rātana to the Broughton homestead in Pākaraka (Maxwell). There, in the old house on the hill, were a group of very elderly kuia. They took turns holding the baby.
"We have a Māori name for her," they said. "We have a name for this tiny Pākehā-looking baby with blue eyes. She is strong, so we will name her Ruaka after the ancestress of the Whanganui River. A strong name for a strong baby."
A baby that lived. A baby that grew up and helped alleviate some of that post-pandemic grief.
• Lisa Reweti is programmes presenter at Whanganui Regional Museum.
