Frozen Feathers in Plastic Bags Woven into a Korowai

I was eleven years old when my sister and I found a kingfisher lying dead on the road.  

We couldn't have been more than fifty meters from home when we found it. Eyes closed, body in perfect condition. No sign of illness or injury, every feather was in place and accounted for.  

You can imagine how an eleven-year-old and her thirteen-year-old sister might feel sad for a moment. So for a few seconds we stood in silence for the bird that was still warm from life. Then my sister turned to me and said: 

“Pick it up, we can give it to Dad to put in the freezer with the others.” 

My dad had been collecting birds for years at that point. He started before I was born and only just finished collecting feathers by the plastic bag-full sometime last year. In between those years, he amassed a wide range of colors and species to boast. Kererū, Weka, Kingfisher, Ruru, Tui — all nested together in a frozen huddle for years on end before they were finally put to use. 

My dad had been collecting the birds that passed naturally in our bush back home because one of his dear friends, Whaea Aroha, had spoken about making a Korowai when the time was right. She proposed the idea when her moko was still in kindergarten, thinking ahead to a future in which her granddaughter would need something to wear when she graduated from university. And while not all Korowai are made with feathers in mind, she wanted the mana of the different birds of our forests to carry her moko through every step of her graduation walk.  

The labor of crafting a Korowai is long and arduous, even more so depending on how traditional one wants to be in their endeavor. The time spent on a single cloak can range anywhere between four weeks to a full year. Made from harakeke that has been gathered and hand-pressed into muka, adorned with hukahuka that cascade down the Korowai itself — every step of the process is done with care and precision. In Whaea Aroha’s case, it was also done with love, with the hope that when her moko wore it she would feel powerful and beautiful.  

After months of weaving the birds of my childhood together to form something entirely new, the Korowai lay finished in her arms. Once it was complete and whole, it was given a name. This is the final step taken when weaving a Korowai. For if something is made with dozens of different creatures and will be present for hundreds of life-changing moments, is it not a living being, too? Is it not deserving of a name that is all its own? 

The Korowai was completed last year, and the feathers that decorated it shone in the light as her moko walked across the stage to receive her nursing degree at Massey. With a pounamu around her neck and the cloak draped atop her shoulders, Whaea Aroha was proud to watch her granddaughter wear her legacy with prestige.  

Last month, that same Korowai was laid across Whaea Aroha’s coffin at her tangi. Since then, it has been safely stored in her family’s marae, where it will lie in wait until it is time to honor someone else in the family.  

Some people might regard the entire occasion as seeming too morbid. When I told others about my dad’s freezer full of dead birds as a kid, I was met with looks of mild horror. Classmates that came over to hangout would lift its lid expecting ice blocks and instead be met with the cold gaze of dozens and dozens of forest birds.  

These days I’m lucky to get a tight-lipped smile and awkward silence when I talk about the Korowai I plan on wearing at my graduation and how it has adorned the coffins of many of my relatives. I understand their reservations, how the mortality of it all can seem to be a bit too much for comfort. But I also understand the hours of work that has gone into collecting and crafting my whanau Korowai, the love and care that each fiber has been stranded with. 

I know that when I give my lecturer a firm handshake and accept the piece of paper that marks the end of my studies, I will look incredible in my floor-length dress and my whanau Korowai. But more importantly than how I will look, I will have generations of whakapapa and at least one kingfisher right there with me to hold my head up high.  

Translations

Moko: Grandchild 

Korowai: Cloak weaved from flax 

Harakeke: Flax 

Muka: The flesh of flax 

Hukahuka: Tassels made from Muka 

Tangi: Funeral 

Whakapapa: Generations of family