1Tiàmāraa is a word that was frequently mentioned in the Protestant church services on Moorea Island, French Polynesia. The liturgies repeated that the Indigenous Māòhi people need to repatriate tiàmāraa – liberty, independence, or sovereignty – of their land. However, the exact meaning and practical implications of tiàmāraa remained mostly unaddressed.
2At first, I interpreted the term as “national independence”. As the overseas collectivity of French Polynesia continues to exist as part of the French Republic, the local Protestant church is a known advocate for Māòhi cultural repatriation and its accompanying ethno-nationalist discourse. In my communication with the church people, however, I realised that two interpretations of this word coexisted with a blurred line, conceptually different, but potentially compatible with each other: political and religious sovereignties. Tiàmāraa poritita (political sovereignty), means national independence from France. Tiàmāraa faaroo (religious sovereignty), on the other hand, means re-establishing the connection with God through the Indigenous land – a core doctrine of today’s Māòhi Protestant Church (henceforth referred to as epm (Église Protestante Māòhi).
3In this paper, I focus on the local concept of tiàmāraa and trace how people use this term in both religious and political discourses. As Raymond Williams (1988) demonstrates in his historical examination of familiar English terms, vocabulary develops by transcending different cultural contexts and systems. The Māòhi people’s cultural contact with the West and the following colonisation also heavily influenced the use of certain Tahitian words. Vernaudon, Bambridge, and Sam (2011) illustrate how certain proto-Tahitian words have come to espouse modern political concepts, such as territory (fenua), citizen (tiàraa huiraatira) and government (hau fenua). Similarly, by tracing the use of tiàmāraa in contemporary discussions, I aim to elucidate the local conceptions of politics, and the process in which sovereignty develops as a locally unique concept by transcending Indigenous and Western worlds. Specifically, I will examine the concept of religious sovereignty at epm and explore its relationship with political sovereignty.
4Political and religious sovereignty, both expressed by the term tiàmāraa at epm, represent two ostensibly the opposing worlds, of the colonial and the Indigenous. Political sovereignty could reduce the concept of sovereignty into legal terms of modern international politics. On the contrary, religious sovereignty conceptually detaches itself from global political context and focuses on local – both Indigenous and Christian – epistemologies. Religious sovereignty is understood as a self-determining quality that individuals can attain through practical acts of cultural repatriation. This includes speaking the Indigenous tongue, agricultural engagement, and consuming traditional herbal medicine. Religious sovereignty encourages rebuilding the pre-colonial Indigenous land-human relationship backed by Christian theology, and temporarily rejects the idea of land as a politically governed or legally owned territory. However, this rejection is not necessarily incompatible with modern politics or state sovereignty. In fact, the church’s 2021 synod announced that the organisation is now officially in favour of national independence (Pihaatae, 01/08/2021). In examining how these two types of sovereignty intersect, I argue that Indigenous epistemologies are not an alternative to state sovereignty, but rather the practical foundation for it.
5Throughout the paper, my focus remains on epm – the institution that advocates religious sovereignty. It is the oldest and most dominant Christian denomination in Society and Austral Islands. Because most of its followers are Māòhi people who reproduce the indigenised, sometimes ethno-nationalist theological discourses in their religious service, many people outside of the organisation also view epm as a political advocate for national independence. However, the topic of national independence is far more contested within the church than the statement suggests. Most parishioners whom I interviewed in Moorea during 2019-2020 did not directly express empathy toward the pro-independence political stance. To understand their relationship with the ideology of state independence, we need to scrutinise their internal politics, their different approaches to politics, theology, and sovereignty. Being systematically independent of territorial and municipal politics but sharing ethnonationalist sentiments, the organisation offers a unique space in which Māòhi people explore their own medium of sovereignty, both alternative to and compatible with state independence.
6This study is based on my fieldwork research on epm headquarters in Tahiti, its parishes in Moorea and Rurutu, and the pastoral school on Tahaa island in French Polynesia between 2019 and 2020. It is also supplemented with the data gathered through digital methods such as calls and online archival research from 2020 to 2022. During my fieldwork in French Polynesia, I conducted in-person interviews with epm pastors and lay parish members, as well as participant observation in a variety of church activities, such as Sunday services, biblical study sessions, Sunday schools and the organisation of various feasts. Although I have travelled to multiple islands, the ethnographic data is primarily drawn from the parish of Maatea, Moorea Island, where I was based. All the names of interlocutors are anonymised, except for those cited in existing publications.
7The term sovereignty inevitably carries the etymological and historical legacy of European colonialism, and is often defined by territorial integrity and legislative actions. Uncritical applications of this concept – “the European notion of power and governance”(Alfred, 2002: 46) – lead to distortion or negation of Indigenous laws and epistemologies (Barker, 2005; Tlakatekatl, 2014), resulting in further marginalisation of Indigenous knowledge and rights for self-determination. Historically, such damages occurred when settler-colonists granted partial sovereignty to Indigenous groups through treaties, a foreign concept of legal and political rulings, to secure control over them (Barker, 2005). This also partially demonstrates the current political situation in French Polynesia, where France secures its presence in the territory as world powers compete for security and trade deals in the Pacific. France and global NGOs impose the Western notion of the land as a resource that humans “manage” in their initiatives to safeguard its unique ecosystem and Indigenous cultures. In doing so, they discard the uniquely Indigenous relations with the land (Donaldson, 2022). Whether it concerns an ecological, cultural, or political aspect, many Western-driven initiatives for Indigenous recovery from colonialism still revolve around the Western concepts of self-determination and autonomy.
8Simultaneously, a simple rejection of the Western epistemological system does not help tackle the ever-more-diversifying social, economic, political, and cultural ramifications of colonial damage to Indigenous life. Postcolonial studies and Indigenous activism have long embraced the hybridity between Indigenous and colonial practices (Bhabha, 1984). Instead of deeming Indigenous cultures and society as statically pre-colonial and parallel to the colonial world, scholars have highlighted the embeddedness of colonial culture in contemporary Indigenous practices (Friedman, 1993; Kuper, 2003; Picq, 2018; Trask, 1991; Filer, 2006). In pursuit of Indigenous resistance in the modern state system too, scholars have called for the hybridity between “pre-colonial and colonial spaces” (Donaldson, 2022: 249), “colonised and colonizing perspectives” (ibid.: 249), and “European and Native understandings” (Picq, 2018: 19). The concept of Indigenous sovereignty can thus be “co-constitutive of state politics” (ibid.: 14) and needs theories and case studies of hybridisation, espousing elements from both colonial and Indigenous worlds to achieve a decolonising future.
9Previous studies demonstrate the diverse forms Indigenous sovereignty can take, involving multiple groups and actors (Le Meur et Mawyer, 2022). Even though the concept of sovereignty itself emerged from the colonial encounter (Anghie, 2013), it was not simply imposed on colonised peoples but rather sparked the development of various Indigenous sovereignties. Expressions of sovereignty involve not only Western state law, but also communities defining their own boundaries and relationships with other entities (Joyce, 2013). Manifesting in “various emic expressions, articulations and contestations” (Le Meur et Mawyer, 2022: 15) Indigenous sovereignty can also develop around culturally specific concepts, such as mana and rāhui (Tomlinson, 2016; Fabre et al., 2021; Bambridge, 2016). In this vein, I present tiàmāraa, a notion through which different actors explore the interconnectedness of people, land, God, and modern politics.
10This article highlights the role of localised Christianity in bringing modern politics and Indigenous epistemologies closer. Through the history of missionisation and inculturation, Christianity in the Pacific has itself become a hybrid product of the colonial and the Indigenous. Christianity “blurred imported ideological boundaries between religion and politics that did not map onto indigenous categories” (Tomlinson & McDougall, 2013) and became “the ground and starting point for political action” (ibid.: 6). This is not only because many independent Pacific Island countries (such as Samoa, Kiribati, Marshall Islands, and Solomon Islands) constitutionally declare that they are Christian nations, but also because the religion itself became highly contextualised to accommodate and glorify the cultures of respective island communities. As we see in Fijian methodist theology (Tuwere, 1992) and Samoan eco-theology (Tofaeono, 2000), mainline Protestantism in the Pacific is an active generator of the contemporary Pacific cultural identities and the ground for postcolonial/anticolonial politics. Whilst epm maintains international connections through organizations like the World Council of Churches and the Communauté d’Églises en Mission, these connections are particularly strong within the Pacific region, as the current president of epm, François Pihaatae, previously served as the general secretary of the Pacific Conference of Churches in Fiji.
11Like their neighbours, Māòhi Indigenous Protestants developed the idea of religious sovereignty in the process of theological contextualisation, in conversation with both biblical and Indigenous worldviews. Building on Saura’s (1993, 1998) studies on the complicity between local Protestantism and politics in French Polynesia, I will explore the contemporary ideas, discussions and conflicts about Indigenous sovereignty in the religious sphere. I will demonstrate how the concept of religious sovereignty, itself practice-based, grassroots, and independent of international diplomacy, intersects with the discussion of political independence. Finally, I will highlight the possibility of hybridity between Indigenous and exogenous, pre-colonial and colonial, practice and ideology, and the past and the future.
12As a French overseas collectivity (collectivité d’outre-mer), French Polynesia is a part autonomous country. Though France retains control over sectors such as justice, security and foreign policy, the territory elects its own president and government, who oversee the legislative branch. The current semi-autonomous arrangement was established in 1977, following its status as a French protectorate from 1842 and an overseas territory since 1946.
13Three major territorial parties hold seats in the Assembly: Tavini Huiraatira, Tapura Huiraatira, and Âmuitahiraa o te Nūnaa Māòhi (formerly Tahoêraa Huiraatira). Moetai Brotherson of Tavini Huiraatira, the current president of French Polynesia, took office in 2023. Founded in 1977 by Oscar Temaru, the pro-independence Tavini Huiraatira initially sought immediate independence without preparation. Today, as the leading party, Tavini Huiraatira advocates for an anti-nuclear stance, social security, food sovereignty, and a future referendum on self-determination. The main opposition party, Âmuitahiraa o te Nūnaa Māòhi, historically favoured autonomy within France. French Polynesia possesses the constitutional right to independence from France, and this right to self-determination has long been a central issue in local politics since the autonomy arrangement (Al Wardi, 2009; 2010).
14Beyond political parties and the formal governing system, local conceptions of politics (poritita) exhibit complex layering. Al Wardi (2009) observed that people navigate between two different perspectives of politics. Clientelist “traditional” politics rests on the chiefly expectation that politicians should provide for local communities, which often focuses on local (often material), neighbourhood concerns. On the other hand, “modern” politics engages more with social ideologies and long-term goals. Al Wardi argues that the local political culture emerges from a blend of historical practices and modern governance, often mediated through family ties and neighbourhood networks.
15The ideas of politics demonstrate further complexities in liaison with religion. epm parishioners frequently perceive politics (poritita) as a realm of power struggles and contests, one they believe should be kept separate from the church. On the one hand, epm members insist on a concept similar to laïcité, despite the historical absence of its enforcement in French Oceania. Political participation by deacons and pastors was permitted until the late 1990s, but the church eventually implemented a ban, fearing it could become a pawn in local politics and subject to internal control (Pouira-Lombardini, 2013). When I asked epm parishioners whether their church is political, most denied it and stated that the church remains apart from politics, emphasising the fact that those who hold religious titles (pastors and deacons) cannot participate in municipal elections. The above usage of “politics” is rather limited to the political organisation of the territory.
16On the other hand, many outside of the organisation strongly associate epm with its traditionalist character and ethnonationalist discourse, and further, pro-independence political ideologies. General voting patterns from the 1950s to 1980s signal this liaison between Protestantism and pro-independence political stance, as shown in Bruno Saura’s monograph (1993). His detailed examination of the geographical residence, religious denominations and voting tendencies over the territory demonstrates a certain trend: the Catholic-dominant communes (such as the Marquesas Islands, Tuamotu, and the Gambier Islands) show voting trends for pro-France candidates whilst the Protestant-dominant communes (the Society Islands and the Austral Islands) favour pro-independence candidates. However, Saura also emphasises the difficulty of making simple associations between religious denominations and political orientations and suggests the significance of sociological factors particular to the Catholic and Protestant populations.
- 1 The relationship between the Catholic Church and pro-French politics in French Polynesia is multi (...)
17The persisting association between epm and Tavini also partially stems from the stereotype that both groups are composed mainly of working-class Māòhi people. Historically, Tavini supporters and Protestants were associated with the agricultural sector, a traditionally Indigenous upbringing, and even poverty. This stereotype is contrasted with the pro-France party and the Catholic or the Mormon churches.1 However, the diversifying demographic of pro-independence voters, as evidenced by the party’s 2023 victory in the territorial election, undermines the validity of such generalisations.
- 2 Âmuiraa is the sub-divisions of a parish community based on geographical residence. As close kin (...)
18Nevertheless, a brief history of missionisation in French Polynesia partially explains the local Protestant culture and its endorsement of the pro-independence ideology. Today’s Indigenous-led Protestant church has its roots in the London Missionary Society, a group of non-conformist British Protestant missionaries that first landed in Tahiti in 1797. After some struggling decades, the missionaries eventually succeeded in mass-converting the Indigenous population by the mid-Nineteenth century. Becoming Christians not only meant a religious shift from the pre-Christian worldview and rituals but also a more holistic social and political transformation. The traditional chieftainship as the governing politico-religious system was replaced by the parishes and âmuiraa that make up the Protestant church organisation today2 (Robineau, 1984).
19The Paris Missionary Society (pms), which took control of the church in 1863, was heavily invested in the “civilizing mission”, aiming to expand the French empire through Protestantism. (Pouira-Lombardini, 2013). However, the church remained a distinctly Indigenous organization. Firstly, within the colonial administration where forms of political protest were suppressed, the lower structure of the church functioned as a unique local democratic body based on a diaconate of local family heads. Secondly, the church remained a space where some local traditions were preserved while the colonial government increasingly succeeded in assimilating people into French language and customs. The church continued to use the Tahitian Bible and hosted a variety of competitive events, such as communal feasts and tuaroí (prolonged biblical discussion contests). Consequently, the Protestant church today still represents the specifically Indigenous values nurtured in the parish-based community living (Garrett, 1997; 1992).
20The church eventually became an independent congregation in 1963, after a century-long rule of the French-controlled mission. Notably, French-educated Indigenous theologians Duro Raapoto and Henri Hiro’s influences in the 1980s marked a critical shift that characterises the Protestant church as the ethno-nationalist organisation today. Particularly, Raapoto left a significant number of theological publications in which he advocated a new indigenised theology as part of his activism for the liberation of his people.
21Raapoto’s new theology emphasises the centrality and sacrality of fenua (land) in religious aspects of life. Fenua is considered the nourishing mother (te metua vahine faatupu ora) as well as the most significant mediator of God, and the life centred around fenua is promoted as a means to approach God (Monod and Vernaudon n.d.; Saura 2009). To cultivate a relationship with God, therefore, a Māòhi must practise Indigenous customs and cultural arts that root back in their land. Preparation of a traditional meal with local ingredients in a soil oven, treating illness with traditional herbal medicine, speaking the Indigenous tongue, and learning traditional art crafts all contribute to strengthening one’s relationship with the land, which extends to its Creator.
22Encouraging traditional cultural arts and customs empowers and glorifies the idea of Māòhi Indigeneity as a divine quality. It fosters an awareness that the Māòhi people are a distinct ethnic group Indigenous to the land. This whole new theological development focused on land and indigeneity, also called fenua theology (te parauatua o te fenua) today, could be extended to more nationalist-sounding discourses. In fact, this theological reform also made many people leave epm due to its newly gained political tone, which further strengthens the association between epm and Tavini. Some people left for other denominations, like Catholicism, Mormonism, and the Seventh Day Adventists, seeking a more “purely” religious experience.
23Above all, epm’s political engagement enhances its synchronisation with Tavini Huiraatira. The two organisations cooperate on some political issues and are often listed together by local media when discussing certain political topics. Along with Tavini Huiraatira, epm made a claim to include French Polynesia in the list of non-self-governing territories of the United Nations (un) in 2013. When it was reported that France had made another claim in 2020 to “review” the inclusion of French Polynesia in the list, spokespersons from both Tavini and epm were interviewed by Tahiti Nui Télévision. The claim for damages from French nuclear testing is probably the issue on which the two organisations come closest to each other. Both made claims at the un for the removal of the testing facilities, and they are also the two largest organisations to participate in the annual anti-nuclear-testing protest. As the final and the most determining event for the epm-Tavini liaison, epm officially announced its position for “independence” in the 2021 and 2022 annual synod, though they denied its political undertone and insisted that the statement is religiously justified. I will analyse this in the next section.
24Evidently, some epm leaders and members support the prospect of national independence. “We need to regain control over our own land,” Pastor R raised his voice at the microphone. “People think we are Tavini Huiraatira, but no, we are not. We have nothing to do with them. Political independence (tiàmāraa poritita) is not a political issue. It is God’s calling. It is a religious necessity.” Pastor R is an influential actor within the organisation. He is part of Rautī Pīpīria, a group endorsed by the epm headquarters which is assigned important tasks and whose writings are used to educate future pastors at Terereatau and current pastors in their regular study meetings. Some deacons expressed the opinion that this group largely consists of Māòhi nationalists who are inclined towards national independence in their interpretations and expressions of religious ideologies. Pastor R, however, is certainly not the first person to have openly declared support for political independence. Duro Rapapoto (1988) had already expressed that political independence (faataaeraa) is part of the church’s obligation to liberate (tiàmā) the Māòhi people, and this idea has been embraced by some parishioners, pastors, and notably, the president of epm.
25epm leaders have become increasingly vocal and transparent at the prospect of national independence and decolonisation in recent years. epm hosts an annual synod in July where its pastors discuss issues in contemporary society and how they can tackle them as a church. Their active engagement with social issues is based on the widely shared idea that Protestantism is there to “protest”; it is the church’s religious duty (tuhaa) to help people, the community, and the wider society. In the past too, epm synods made various political propositions for the promotion of Indigenous rights. These includes the proposal to change the territory’s name from French Polynesia to Māòhi Nui (2007), the support for registering French Polynesia in the un list of Non-Self-Governing territories (2012), the request to make Reo Māòhi the territory’s official language in addition to French (2018), and the demand to make 2nd of July (the day the first nuclear test was conducted in 1966) a territorial holiday (2019).
26Building on the past proposals, epm announced their position for “initiating a debate” about national independence in 2021. In the interview with the epm president François Pihaatae conducted by Tahiti Infos, Pastor Pihaatae admitted their endorsement of pro-independence ideology whilst insisting it is not their political position. According to him, they “don’t do politics (on ne fait pas de politique)”, and that the question of independence is not a political matter but that of faith:
“We don’t do politics, but when we read the Bible in the book of Exodus where God liberated the people of Israel from Egypt, we see that independence or liberation of a people is a question of faith, of religion, and not that of politics, it is the will of God. We serve the will of God and not of men.” (Pihaatae, 01/08/2021, translated from the French by the author)
27When asked about the church’s position in this debate, he simply responded that they invite everyone, including the state, to sit around the table for discussion on how to “place the liberty and dignity of the Māòhi people (la liberté et la dignité du peuple māòhi)” as the central question. They invited political actors, notably the territorial and national presidents, to join the discussion at the annual synods (though both have declined the invitation). Instead of clearly positioning the church as pro-national independence for its sake, the president’s emphasis rather seemed to be on challenging the stigma against being political. One year later in 2022, the synod concluded that the church now advocates “the founding of a Māòhi government (la fondation d’un gouvernement māòhi)”. This time too, President Pihaatae emphasised the religious aspect of the statement:
“We need to understand it through the Bible. It is not a Māòhi government (un gouvernement māòhi), but a government of God (un gouvernement de Dieu), to put it simply. We are waiting for the Lord to tell us when he will come to establish His Kingdom. The Lord’s Prayer “Thy kingdom come” is the origin of the word government in our [synod] statement. We need to be patient to wait for what God is going to do for us.” (Pihaatae, 31/07/2022, translated from the French by the author)
28Considering the increasingly progressive political statements in their synod history, “the founding of a Māòhi government” could easily be interpreted as national independence. However, Pastor Pihaatae’s strong emphasis on the statement’s religious implication and ardent refusal of the “political” one also signals certain reluctance to make the political statement explicitly. This is, at least partially, because the organisation boasts a membership of over 100,000 people all over the territory of French Polynesia with considerable social, regional, and ideological diversity. In the previous section, I indicated that epm and Tavini Huiraatira share some characteristics in their demographics and political engagement. However, the question of independence remains controversial within the institution to the point that it is not explicitly discussed in parish-level gatherings and services. As often as epm is compared with Tavini Huiraatira, the organisation certainly comprises a more diverse political demography with more subtle political expressions.
29Internal conflicts permeate the epm at various levels. Theological differences exist among leaders and pastors, sometimes manifesting in organised groups. Whilst Duro Raapoto’s significant work Te rautīraa i te parau a te Atua e te iho tumu māòhi (1988) insinuated the theological basis for political independence, a counterpoint emerged in 1979 with the Gaullist-founded Te Ea Porotetani, for the purpose of fighting against the politicisation of the church (Saura, 1993). Today, Rautī pipiria, a group of pastors, deacons, and theologians, strives to develop Indigenous theology further, perceived by some as politicisation.
30epm’s hierarchical structure relies on pastors stationed in individual parishes to disseminate knowledge, acting as key intermediaries between headquarters, theological educators, and laypeople. However, the historically strong presence of deacons, particularly in opposition to pastoral authority, creates challenges in disseminating and enforcing specific ideologies within certain groups (see Malogne-Fer [2007; 2016] for examples of parishes resisting fenua theology). Additionally, parishioners’ diverse political affiliations, influenced by family ties, can lead to visible internal conflicts when the parish associates with specific political parties. In essence, epm experiences internal conflicts both vertically (between leadership and parishioners) and horizontally (within individual parishes).
31Former pastor Lucas Tihiri, who served as a leading epm pastor and Dean of Studies at Terereatau theological school, declared in his PhD thesis (2003) that he is “un théologien de la croix” and not part of the political movement within the church. He also points out the diversity within epm and asserts that epm cannot be reduced to Raapoto’s discourse, its headquarters, or its synodical decisions. My interviews with lay persons and deacons in the parish of Maatea in 2019 and 2020 also revealed a diversity of political opinions within a single parish. In fact, most of my interlocutors did not interpret tiàmāraa in religious discourses as political independence. This does not necessarily mean that they are against national independence but rather that they prefer not to voice their “political” stance on this matter through the concept of tiàmāraa. Men of politics could serve as a symbol of corruption and human greed, and general mistrust in politicians is often expressed in conversations. This is in part a rhetorical strategy to avoid revealing one’s ideological position (if there is any) or association with political party and potentially causing conflicts. “God is my party; people of politics are not to be trusted.” Sometimes accompanied by the hand gesture meaning “money”, this was the most common response that I got from people when I asked them if they favoured a political party.
32Unlike the diversity of the lay community and their general unwillingness to engage with political ideologies, the church headquarters has progressively become politically vocal, albeit with certain subtleties to insist that they are not “being political”. However, this does not mean that the bottom of the organisation receives and interprets the messages from the top as they were intended. Instead of fuelling pro-independence ideologies in the lay community, the concept of tiàmāraa rather allows a multitude of interpretations on the receiving end. In the next section, I will explore the discourse of “religious sovereignty” (tiàmāraa faaroo), an alternative understanding of sovereignty centred on the human relationship with the land.
- 3 This expression is based on Teuira Henry’s (1928) description of Taaroa’s creation myth.
33Te tiàmāraa o te nunaa Māòhi i mua i te Tumu Nui3
34(The tiàmāraa of the Māòhi people before God)
35This phrase was selected as the 2018 annual theme of epm by Rautī Pīpīria, a group endorsed by the epm headquarters that produces the latest theological knowledge and interpretations. Throughout the year, pastors and lay parishioners alike discussed and articulated the concept of tiàmāraa for the Māòhi people in theological contexts. In the parish of Maatea, this meant that deacons wrote liturgical scripts focusing on the theme, parishioners were given opportunities to discuss what tiàmāraa meant for them, and pastors often tailored their sermons around the concept.
36When I conducted interviews with Maatea parishioners in 2019-2020, they seemed rather reluctant to express their positions on national independence through this concept. Especially within church space, certain theological expressions are made sufficiently obscure for all to be able to find their own interpretations. Tiàmāraa māòhi is probably the most contentious expression that is often heard during services and religious speeches. As a general noun, it translates as “liberty” or “freedom”. Yet the same word can also translate as “independence”, and more specifically, “national independence”. Although faataaeraa (separation) is a more transparent term that specifically means political independence from France, the frequent use of tiàmāraa reinforces the stereotype of epm being a pro-independence church. I had also initially believed it was a somewhat evasive, ambiguous expression favouring the prospect of national independence until I discovered it is only a minority who interpret tiàmāraa as implying political independence. Although the word tiàmāraa evokes an association with national independence, the epm discourses on the concept reveals that tiàmāraa, or sovereignty, does not necessarily translate to political sovereignty. The word contains a certain ambiguity in which a multitude of interpretations is possible. In order to explore this concept which stretches over from “critical indigeneity” (Perley, 2014) to political independence, we need to begin by unpacking its etymology, or heuraa parau, with which epm’s theological and social discussion meetings always begin.
37Tiàmāraa is the nominalisation of tiàmā. Tià means to stand, and mā means clean, pure, or transparent. “Kids nowadays are given too much freedom (tiàmāraa). That’s why they no longer listen to their parents.” Such phrases are often heard when elders bemoan the behaviour of the younger generation. However, the meaning of the word that epm intends to convey reveals a somewhat different nuance to the same word used in daily conversation. It is common in Polynesian languages that a word has multiple meanings depending on the context. Māramarama can mean light, and deriving from that, a window, clarity, or intelligence. The word tiàmāraa is no exception to the multitude of meanings. The circumstantial and abstract nature of the concept tiàmāraa māòhi is best explained in papa haamori (the liturgy script). The following excerpt is part of the speech that I recorded and translated from Tahitian in Maatea on Sunday, 16 June 2019, and demonstrates the ways the concept is used:
“God and the tiàmāraa
O God the parent, God who is the creator of himself, who has no mother or father, who gave birth to himself; being born into the godly world, You face no error, no evil, no injustice, and no difficulty. Pure (mā) God and tiàmā, tiàmā of love and unconditional compassion, tiàmā of the prudent guardian who looks over our small land of Māòhi Nui. And here I am for who I am here, existing, forever.
The tiàmāraa of heaven and land
Our Father of heaven, there exists tiàmā in the sky father (papa nìa) and earth mother (papa raro), in your parental, unconditional love; tiàmā of heaven’s light, the light in the seasons of abundance and aridity, namely, tiàmā of the life’s development, tiàmā of the land’s renewal. Heaven and the land are the immovable, unwavering foundations. You created the solidity of these two foundations, just as You manifest Your solidity in the coming age, as the gospels and God’s ministry reign.
The tiàmāraa of the Māòhi
O God (Te Tumu Nui), the source (tumu) of our māòhiness, the tiàmāraa of women in Māòhi Nui. You created Māòhi with the tiàmā and dignity; the same tiàmāraa and dignity with which You created Tonga, Samoa, all other peoples in the Pacific, and further, all others in the world. O our God, Tiàmāraa of the Māòhi is the most beautiful thing that You gifted to us Māòhi people. It is the tiàmāraa that You established in dignity and good; the tiàmāraa that never allows Māòhi women to suffer trouble and illness; the tiàmāraa that exists in your purity.”
38The above liturgical expression allows interpretations of tiàmāraa relatively unconstrained from the dictionary definitions of “liberty” or “independence” (Académie Tahitienne, n.d.). The paragraph on “God and tiàmāraa” implies the godly origin and nature of tiàmāraa, and that it derives from the purity (mā) of God. “The tiàmāraa of heaven and the land” further indicates that tiàmāraa is an intangible quality that godly creations maintain, which is at the centre of natural cycles and principles. Finally, “the tiàmāraa of the Māòhi” reveals that people are also equipped with tiàmāraa, as they are also godly creations. It is a god-given inner quality guaranteed for humans universally, which cannot be negotiated by non-divine agents. Tiàmāraa can thus even be interpreted as a “blessing” or “spirit”, given its fundamental quality in God’s creations.
39Although the common use of tiàmāraa could evoke an association with political independence, this specific religious context makes an alternative interpretation possible. It is a foundational human quality independent of their political status, yet still bound to culturally specific groups of people, such as Māòhi and others in the Pacific Ocean. Tāvita, a deacon of Maatea, tells his vision of tiàmāraa as an individual choice in accepting God’s gift. Similarly, Tiarenui, an active parish member and a niece of Tāvita, sees tiàmāraa as a purification process in which individuals strive to meet God’s expectations:
“There are many ways of looking at this word. There is of course political independence. But in my view, it [tiàmāraa] is within yourself. It means that you find who you are again, learn your language, eat your food, and live the life that God gave you. I’m not saying it’s forbidden to eat steak frites. It is not forbidden to learn English. But you must remember your own. What God gave you. It starts with you as an individual.” (Tāvita, translated from Tahitian, 18 January 2020)
“Most of the time when we talk about tiàmāraa [in the church], we talk about purification. Understanding what God expects from you, and if you finally meet those expectations, then you are purified (tiàmā). In front of God, you are purified. It is not unrelated to political independence, but before we even talk about it, it begins with you. You don’t have to act politically, because it begins within yourself. As for me, I have not attained tiàmāraa yet. I would have to purify my household, the tie that was created through alliances. In your manner of living your culture, your language, and within your Māòhiness. Do you accept yourself, who you are? […] Anyways, you can see the difference between religious tiàmāraa and political tiàmāraa. Everyone is angry at the French government, and I understand where that comes from. But it [anger] is no longer tiàmāraa. Because it is no longer what God expects from you. […] Those who are taken by their anger are those who have not understood the concept of tiàmāraa yet.” (Tiarenui, translated from French, 29 October 2019)
40As opposed to political independence as a collective political goal, many emphasised the view of tiàmāraa as a personal or individual choice. Liberty is gained through one’s relationship with God and not solely through the governance (faatereraa) of the land. In this sense, tiàmāraa demonstrates an autopositioning aspect of sovereignty, where it designates “both its own identity and the scope of its authority” (Derrida, 2003: 35). It primarily concerns the relations between people, fenua, and the Christian God but not state politics. Living life as Māòhi is no longer an automatic condition in the still-colonial state of French Polynesia, where the French curriculum dominates the school programme and formal Indigenous cultural education is still in development. Through ever-increasing French linguistic dominance, the aftermath of nuclear tests, and the subsequent industrial changes and modernisation, epm leaders have consistently encouraged active consciousness and participation in Māòhi indigeneity. For many, tiàmāraa is a state that one attains through the effort to regain consciousness as Māòhi and their connection to fenua, and doing so is a religious act of approaching God. Valentine, the wife of a deacon, explains this:
“There are two types of tiàmāraa. Political independence (tiàmāraa poritita) and liberty of God (tiàmāraa a te Atua). When people take distance from fenua, abandon fenua, when fenua loses its importance to its people, that’s when people are also estranged from God. Nowadays, people have moved away from the wealth of fenua, which means that they have also come farther from God. When people recognise the importance of fenua again, that is when they gain the tiàmā of God (tiàmā anae ona i te Atua). It means that God recognises you again. When our church talks about tiàmāraa, everyone thinks that political independence is discussed. But that is a different matter. One is political separation, and the other is recognition of God.” (Valentine, translated from Tahitian, 15 January 2020)
41Tiàmāraa, or to make it more active and engaging, faatiàmaraa, is a process whereby individuals act in their day-to-day lives to repatriate fenua. Valentine’s husband, Deacon Mataio, asserts that one can be tiàmā with or without legal authority over the land:
“There are deacons in the church who think it [tiàmāraa] refers to political independence. Not only deacons but even some pastors. But the tiàmāraa of fenua is unrelated to the administrative governance (faatereraa) of fenua. The right to govern fenua only would not liberate you. Because liberation (tiàmāraa) is within yourself. It depends on the people. In other words, even if you gain the right to own the land, you are still not liberated (tiàmā). It has to come with your lifestyle (oraraa).” (Mataio, translated from Tahitian, 15 January 2020)
42The Māòhi lifestyle (te oraraa māòhi) is a holistic lifestyle that individuals can actively pursue. It extends to various domains of life, such as what you eat, how you cook, what language to speak, how you engage with your neighbours, and with the land through agricultural work and fishing. Adults in Maatea often reminisced about the time when the whole village community took a bus to go to the Sunday service for the whole day, when their diets mainly consisted of taro and fish, when the smoke of ahima rose to the twilight sky, when children spoke Tahitian at home, and when a family sitting on their balcony called a passer-by to stop for a meal. They really meant to treat them to a meal.
43Those moments of life have gradually disappeared in the socioeconomic changes of the last half-century. Secularisation is certainly on the rise, and the church community is losing its active members. Though many families buy traditional Māòhi foods for Sunday lunch, a typical daily meal of a Māòhi household today is made with canned and frozen ingredients, such as imported frozen chicken legs, lentils, and corned beef. Almost all children and young people exclusively speak French, resulting in an emerging threat of Indigenous language extinction. A more individualist mindset became common in the oraraa moni (literally: life of money), in which people depend on the cash economy and focus more on their own benefit than that of the collective. Elders’ nostalgic narratives paint a picture of the time when people embraced “the Māòhi lifestyle”, which is being lost in today’s growing socio-economic, cultural, and agricultural dependency.
44Many parishioners expressed religious sovereignty as a re-enactment of the Indigenous relationship with the land (fenua). In an individual’s effort to repatriate the Māòhi lifestyle, one recovers the lost relationship with fenua, and in strengthening the ties with fenua, one attains religious sovereignty. This is also based on Duro Raapoto’s metaphor of Māòhi people as fruits. He states that fruits are meant to be attached to the tree, but there are also “drifting fruits” (hotu painu) who estranged themselves from the tree. Drifting fruits, despite having their origin in the tree, forgot where they originate and prefer participating in non-Indigenous cultures and values (notably French ones) (Saura, 2003). The idea of religious sovereignty resembles this fruit metaphor of Māòhi indigeneity. Sovereignty is a state achieved for individuals through their conscious effort to repatriate their land – not necessarily in a political or legal sense but in their unique Indigenous connection with the land.
45This individual and constructive quality of religious sovereignty also compares to ideas expressed by some Canadian Indigenous scholars. Graham and Penny (2014) suggest “performative indigeneity” as Indigenous people’s self-conscious public performances. As in the nature of performance, Indigenous identity is also in constant flux, reconstruction and improvisation. Similarly, “resurgence” as a theory and practice encourages to reclaim Indigenous perspectives such as traditional knowledge, ethics, and protocols in the present context. It does not “literally mean returning to our pasts [...] but rather re-creating the cultural and political flourishment of the past to support the well-being of our contemporary citizens.” (Simpson, 2011: 154-155).
- 4 There has also been criticism pointing out that some epm actors struggle to translate their rheto (...)
46Although Māòhi Protestants strive for the human-land relationship that existed in the past, attaining religious sovereignty does not require time travel. In fact, Mataio explains that religious sovereignty is attainable while sustaining a modern lifestyle.4 “When you come back from your full-time job, plant one banana tree in the ground and do the same with manioc and breadfruit.” He gives me the exact instructions on how to attain religious sovereignty. “What then happens is that God will give you bananas, manioc, and breadfruits. It’s all that simple.” In touching the soil and eating the fruits, one strengthens the relationship with God through the land. Religious sovereignty is essentially practical, individual, rooted in the past but reproducible in the present. Mirroring the struggles of other Indigenous communities to reclaim their heritage (Clifford, 2013), religious sovereignty can also be understood as the active and creative process of linking the past to the present. This entails drawing on historical knowledge, cultural values, and collective memory to navigate the challenges and opportunities of the contemporary world.
47The interpretations of religious sovereignty examined above propose an alternative relationship with the land to political and legal governance. It demonstrates the “ordinary people’s” reaction to macropolitics and economics (Hauofa, 1994). It is important to highlight, however, that religious sovereignty is not practically alternative or mutually exclusive to national independence. In this section, I will explore the relational aspect of religious sovereignty and suggest how it possibly extends to the other tiàmāraa: political sovereignty.
48Mataio insisted that one can attain tiàmāraa without national autonomy, and national autonomy has little to do with the Indigenous mode of religious sovereignty. According to him, religious sovereignty is attainable by individuals through simple daily actions of resistance. Without political reform, one can distance oneself from various colonial consequences, such as domestic agriculture, the territory’s increasing integration into the global economy, or the decline of Indigenous language speakers. Unlike Mataio, however, some argued that the concept is not unrelated to the prospect of political independence. For them, tiàmāraa does not equal national independence, but rather a condition or a preparation for the Māòhi to achieve it.
49Even among the pro-independence political actors, including Tavini Huiraatira, the consensus is that the French Polynesian territorial government must commit itself to closer engagement with France to arrange the possibility of independence, instead of claiming it immediately (Tourland, 2009). The wider population also fears that people might lose access to basic infrastructure, such as electricity, medical care, and education without the continuing territorial tie with France. This fear of future uncertainty is partially what causes people’s reluctance in discursive engagement with the topic as well as their passive acceptance of the current state of partial autonomy. Deacon Tāvita addressed this fear as irrational anxiety, referring to the time when Māòhi people had tiàmāraa without the modern infrastructures that they entirely depend on today, such as the state welfare system (cps: Caisse de Prévoyance Sociale):
“cps has brought the life of money (oraraa moni). Because of that, many people seem to believe that if we become [politically] independent, people would die because there will no longer be state medical care. But that is not true. Our tupuna never had cps, or White doctors. They were still not ill; all the diseases today did not even exist in their time. Because they ate well, they ate taro and fish, manioc, all the things fenua. That is why you must liberate (tiàmā) yourself in your own living first, before talking about political independence.” (Tāvita, translated from Tahitian, 18 January 2020)
50Religious sovereignty is considered a quality that existed in the past and is to be regained in the present. It represents an image of sovereignty that traces itself back to past economic, social, and cultural self-sufficiency and self-determination. The past in this type of discourse does not always mean the pre-colonial times but can also refer to some generations ago before the nuclear test industry transformed the socioeconomic conditions of ordinary people. The self-determination over the land and its resources that religious sovereignty expresses is compatible to, or as Deacon Tāvita would rather say, indispensable to the achievement of national independence. Whilst economic dependency is still a widespread issue in many politically independent island nations in the Pacific, religious sovereignty precedes material, agricultural and cultural self-determination for political independence.
51Religious sovereignty is essentially a bottom-up, practice-based movement supported by Christian theology and developed by those who live the faith. In its potential to bolster the prospect of national independence, however, it also suggests a possibility for hybridity that weaves the practice into the ideology, the religious into the political, and the pre-colonial past into the decolonizing future.
52When discourses of religious sovereignty extend to political sovereignty, they translate the apparently apolitical, extra-legal actions into political ideologies. The term poritita, though it can also encompass political ideologies, often carries negative connotations, reflecting local power struggles over immediate goods. These connotations can also create a disconnect between diplomatic discussions and people’s everyday lives, making national independence seem like an unnegotiable, distant affair. The concept of religious sovereignty, however, focuses on individual actions of resistance against social issues, which can be elevated onto broader ideological discussions about the future of Māòhi Nui. In the Marquesas Islands, Donaldson (2022) suggests that Indigenous habitus, ordinary people’s daily interactions with the land, hybridises Indigenous and colonial practices and forms a foundation of resistance against colonial inequalities. Similarly, the individual actions to reconnect with the fenua, though they might be small everyday practices, can develop into social ideologies of self-determination in a variety of political domains, such as education, agriculture, and foreign and economic policies.
53Religious sovereignty also challenges the idea of laïcité that has been claimed among epm members. The ideology of laïcité causes controversies in mainland France today as it is repackaged as assimilationist rhetoric on ethnic minorities, especially targeting public expressions of the Muslim faith. Many studies expose today’s French secularism as a locally biased universalism and an “echo of the colonial past” (Chabal, 2017). Although the context in French Polynesia significantly differs from mainland France (Saura, 1993), dismissing religion as an illegitimate player in political discourse remains counterproductive. As the principle of laïcité was not observed by the Protestant church especially under French control (see note 2), expecting today’s Indigenous-led church to pursue solely religious affairs independent of state politics is deficient in historical and cultural contexts. As the oldest surviving social structure after the fall of chieftainship, epm served as a unique Indigenous-centred space even under the assimilatory colonial government. It has demonstrably preserved various aspects of pre-colonial social life, encompassing religious, spiritual, festive, functional, ecological, and political dimensions. This historical continuity suggests that when religious sovereignty overlaps with political sovereignty, it can potentially re-evaluate pre-colonial categorizations and challenge the modern separation of religion and politics.
54Finally, the practice of religious sovereignty carries the past into the present and the future. The Tahitian (as well as other Polynesian) language suggests that the past implies something that is known, something that can be seen with one’s own eyes, something solid and irreversible such as one’s origin and past events (Saura, 1996; Tcherkezoff, 1998). The quality of religious sovereignty belongs to this solidity of the past, along with Māòhi’s ethnic and cultural origins, rooted as far back as in God’s creation. In contrast, the concept of the future hints at a certain ambiguity that cannot be seen. Political sovereignty in the modern nation-state system is an unprecedented venture for the Māòhi people, reaching back into the realm of uncertainty. The grassroots practice of religious sovereignty relocates the past solidity into the present political and economic circumstances. By extension, it also highlights the importance of preserving the uniquely Indigenous mode of land-human connection in the discussions and prospect of national independence in the future.
55Tiàmāraa and its multitude of interpretations demonstrated that the idea(s) of Indigenous sovereignty in Māòhi Nui develops by interacting with both Indigenous and Western epistemologies. To explore how people construct a culturally appropriate notion of sovereignty, this paper specifically focused on the use of this term within local mainline Protestantism. As an engaging actor in fighting social injustices that the Indigenous Māòhi people face, epm also called to initiate a debate on the future of political independence, justified by theological convictions. Simultaneously, the expression “religious sovereignty” emerged as a reaction to the politicisation of religion, suggesting an alternative, “religious” interpretation of sovereignty. It withdraws from the realm of international politics, defers the idea of national independence, and focuses on rebuilding the relationship between the land and humans through various cultural revitalisation means. Religious sovereignty exhibits contrasting elements to political sovereignty. It enables individuals to attain sovereignty in their relationship with God in contrast to a factually assigned political status. Religious sovereignty builds upon religious and Indigenous epistemologies rather than colonial and/or global ones. It is rooted in actions and practices rather than social ideologies. It looks back into the past solidity in contrast to the unprecedented future of national independence.
56However, conversations with epm parishioners also suggested that religious and political sovereignties can be compatible, and so can their dichotomic features: Indigenous and colonial, religion and politics, practice and ideology, bottom-up and top-down. Although religious sovereignty conceptually differs from national independence, it simultaneously suggests possible hybridity that fuses the Indigenous past into a political future. Religious sovereignty encourages the Christian and Māòhi identity, the local agricultural and medical practices to undermine the dependency on the global market and French infrastructure, and the revitalisation of Indigenous languages to fight the French linguistic dominance. These grassroots activities are not only meaningful for the sake of attaining religious sovereignty itself but also to practice the self-determination seen as necessary for national independence as a possible future path.
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