Once Were Warriors

Grace’s suicide, the climax of the novel, becomes a catalyst to drive the falling action in this section in which different characters confront the damaging cycles that have plagued the Heke family and previous generations. Grace’s funeral becomes a site where Beth and her family (save Jake and Nig) are brought into contact with traditional Māori rites and, by extension, are reintroduced to their Distorted History and Disconnection From Cultural Identity. Jake and Nig, who do not attend her funeral, have their chosen identities put to the test.

The presence of Beth’s community and the empowerment she feels from speeches, waiatas, and hakas at the ceremony reinstate Beth within her cultural identity. Her reintroduction, however, is not without barriers. Her inability to speak te reo, the Māori language, means that she must rely on others to translate not only the words but the meaning of what her elders and, specifically, Te Tupaea are doing: “The Matawai, Beth’s maternal aunt, began what Beth presumed was a translation, perhaps it was a rough outline of what the chief was saying” (117). But the core of their message as they send off Grace on her journey to meet her ancestors is one that Beth suspected all along: The Māori of Pine Block struggle because they do not know who they are. Her aunt explains:

He is saying, Beth, that we are what we are only because of our past…and that we should never forget our past or our future is lost…Beth wondering if perhaps that was what ailed her people: their lack of knowledge of the past. A history (118).

This final short sentence of “[a] history” answers Grace’s previous thoughts: “History. (He’s got history, Grace and Boogie Heke, and you ain’t.)” (29). While in the rising action, the idea of history is presented as European and oppressive, in the falling action, the idea of history is ascribed to Māori culture. Duff varies the first-person and third-person blended narration to indicate the moment that Beth reforms a connection between herself and her Māori community: “Half ofem with their eyes closed. In joy, pure joy at being Maori. Oh aren’t (they) we a together race when (they) we’re like this?” (120). The parentheses highlight and mimic the division between groups—“they” versus “we”—yet the fact that the word “they” is in parentheses suggests that Beth now feels part of the collective rather than separated.

The feelings of rapture culminate under the motif of music, and Beth-as-narrator does away with the parenthetical exclusion when she brings together both pronouns under a single, inclusive sentence: “They are history and therefore so are we, and who needs anything else when you got the strength of history supporting ya?” (120). As Beth accepts her community, the connection to her history is renewed and signals a change. Duff creates a final juxtaposition of two contradictory images to cement the change about to happen to Pine Block: although Grace lies still in death, “[life] was seething the opposite in the two hundred and more inspired living around her” (122). Although Grace will remain buried, they will move on.

Duff intimates how Nig, in comparison, fails to find the flaws in his chosen identity by writing parallel narratives: the fight that he must win to be inducted into the Brown Fist gang and the haka performed at Grace’s funeral. Nig’s fight is meant to be a show of loyalty, dedication, and strength. This ritual would have him believe that, should he be obedient enough, Jimmy and the Brown Fists will welcome him and offer him a place in a community. The demands for entry into such a group, however, are high:

Just another prospect Brown Fist hopeful being pitted against his own kind to do battle until one was no longer able to lift a fist in defence, and even then it might continue, if leader Jimmy Bad Horse said, Carry on, kick the muthafucka’s head in” (122).

The Brown Fists’ test involves a prospective member climbing above one of “his own kind” (122) for a shot at being selected for membership. In contrast, Te Tupaea and the haka performers at the funeral offer the complete opposite: “[H]is blood relations, his kaumatua, his kuia, were joined as one in dance of war” (122). By choosing to make the Brown Fists his community, Nig has to stand alone to prove his worth and commitment through his pain and suffering, as well as that of his opponent. The performers at Grace’s burial, however, are made strong together and face pain and grief as a collective. Jimmy denies Nig the chance to go to Grace’s burial, isolating him further from “his own kind” (122). It’s only when Nig sees Warren beating and kicking a woman in a way even Jake never would that Nig understands that Jimmy is exploiting other Māori for a Pākeha: Then, “the dream’d turned to a nightmare.” (152). However, Nig remains with the Brown Fists because, as he explains to Tania, “man, you don’t know how I wanted to be a Brown” (146). Nig clings to the gang instead of taking part in his mother’s eventual revitalization of the Māori community in Pine Block. Duff hence emphasizes the depth of the disconnection from a sense of history and culture for Māori people like Nig.

Duff develops Jake’s character significantly in this section. Grace’s death almost breaks the identity that he’s cultivated over the years. Though Jake does express some concern as to whether he was a bad father or not, his grief seems short-lived. Ultimately, his daughter’s death becomes an excuse to drink and have a large party at his house. But by doing so, Jake doesn’t observe tradition to have the house “done [for] the spirits” (139) by the Māori priest; instead, he dismisses it as inconsequential for his “societyless lot, this structureless pack of arseholes […] unable to bear the thought of being banished from a promising party” (140). Jake, like Nig, seeks some semblance of community in his familiar party; these are the people of his supposed kingdom. However, when Beth accuses him of raping their daughter, his “societyless lot” turn away from him. The main catalyst for his development, however, is when Sonny Boy Jacobs defeats him in front of all his friends. The two blows—the physical hit and the rape accusation—shatter his self-confidence and his peace of mind, leaving him haunted by his uncertainties: “Ya did it! No, I didn’t! Ya did! No, honest, I didn’t, man!” (158). Jake’s belief that “I’m a warrior, man” (157)—the ideal representation of Māori warriorhood—is presented as a lie. Rather, the imagined voice of Sonny Boy replaces his mantra: “Ya suck, man” (157). His character, therefore, undergoes major and public development: from a self-proclaimed and invincible king to an incestual rapist, downed by one punch. Tellingly, when Jake leaves his house, it is under a night with no stars—the symbol of his ancestors throughout the novel—suggesting that the connection between him and his ancestors has been ruptured and he cannot find his way home by following their guidance.