ICH Courier

cross the Pacific, heritage professionals balance institutional roles with responsibilities as practitioners and community members. Ms Senolita Fonokalafi (Nukuhetulu and Vaini, Tongatapu)¹⁾ and Mr Jean Pascal Wahe (Tanna, Vanuatu) bring their deep engagement in community life into their professional work. In this article, each has chosen an element of living heritage – ngatu in Tonga and traditional food storage practices in Vanuatu – to reflect on their roles and responsibilities.

Ngatu (Tapa), Tonga—Ms Senolita Fonokalafi
In Tonga, ngatu (tapa cloth) is a living expression of identity, relationships, respect, and women’s knowledge.
Made from the inner bark of the paper mulberry tree, it is soaked, beaten, joined into broad sheets, and decorated with repeating motifs that carry the histories of places, titles, and events. Among the many forms of living heritage, I help safeguard in both my professional role and everyday life, ngatu holds a central place.
My first memories of ngatu are not of formal lessons, but  of presence. As a child, I sat beside my mother and other women, listening to the steady rhythm of the tutua—the wooden anvil used for beating the bark—and watching their hands move in unison. I remember how it felt: safe, connected, and quietly powerful. Learning came through immersion—watching, listening, passing tools, sharing food. As one younger woman said, “I learned by being there. That is how ngatu becomes part of you.” Ngatu is often described as koloa—women’s wealth or treasure —and carries people and stories. It holds our mothers’ teachings, our respect for one another, and our obligations. Each piece reflects the hands that made it and the relationships it represents. At weddings, funerals, and community gatherings, the careful layering of ngatu speaks on behalf of the people. As one practitioner shared during a workshop, “When we give ngatu, we give our respect and our connection.”

In my work with the Ministry of Tourism, Culture and Heritage, I support community-based projects, listening to community members – including women who practise and teach ngatu-making. I listen to their concerns about time, land, and materials, and to their hopes for younger generations. I help organise workshops where elders sit beside youth, sharing techniques and stories. During one workshop, a practitioner mentioned, “Our children live differently now. We must bring ngatu into their world.” That sentence stays with me. Climate change is reshaping our professional and personal practices. The availability of hiapo, the plant used to make backcloth, is less available, and families must plan differently. Women from Atatā Island, on the northwestern coast of Tongatapu, told me, “Before, we did not worry about hiapo. Now we must plant more and take care for the next generation.” At times, my roles pull in different directions—as a

mother, wife, daughter, niece, practitioner, and heritage professional. Being within the community and the institutional spaces is a position shared by many across Tonga and the Pacific. With limited resources and growing challenges, including natural disasters, it can feel demanding. Climate change and shifting livelihoods affect the time families can devote to ngatu–making. Increasingly, living costs and modern schedules shape what is possible.
Yet, at moments when everything comes together. When elders guide younger women, and I join the beating and pasting of bark and a shared sense of purpose. As one practitioner said, “This is how we keep our culture—by doing it together.” For me, safeguarding is deeply personal: Oku ou tui, ‘oku mo‘ui ‘a e tukufakaholo ‘i he kakai—‘i honau nima, honau loto, mo ‘enau talanoa (I believe heritage lives in the people—in their hands, their hearts, and their stories).

Traditional Food Storage Practices, Vanuatu—Mr Jean Pascal Wahe
On Tanna, I move between my roles as community member, son, father, practitioner, Culture Officer for the Vanuatu Cultural Centre in Tanna, and ICH Ambassador. While my responsibilities cover many expressions of Tannese living heritage, traditional food storage practices are especially important in a context of recurring disasters. This is among the living heritage I most value as a practitioner, and share widely within our communities nurture our traditional food sources, cultural identity and well-being.
In Tanna, our ancestors developed ways to store food so that it will last through hard times. One technique is nemari, which involves slow cooking and  reserving staple crops in an earth oven. We use this technique for foods such as yam, taro, and breadfruit. Yams are stored in special houses with controlled airflow and raised from the ground to keep them dry and safe from birds, while fermented bananas are kept hanging on the roof of the house for several months. Both are essential at times of disaster.
These methods structure my own household. We store yam in traditional yam houses and teach youth how to preserve food and use tools to do so.
bananas, I use a traditional grater made from black palm. When you scrape with this, it preserves banana in good condition.

In response to changing diets, migration and disaster risks, I helped form a local slow-food association with women from nearby villages. We teach other communities and schools slow food preparation, and food preservation during natural disasters. This work is demanding and rewarding, and while more people are interested in this movement, it is important to practice it, and avoid processed foods. I encourage our people to colour their plates with our own foods coloured yellow, brown, green and so on. Of course, our communities face further challenges that impact food related traditions; the migration of younger and middle aged adults seeking employment, and the passing of elders knowledgeable in food preservation.
Another difficulty for communities is the time pressure of earning a living in a cash economy. For me, slow food is also slow time. My mother prepared food for days in advance, cooking early the day before it was eaten or stored.
Slow to prepare, slow to cook, and slow to eat; it cannot be separated from land, belief and social life. I encourage our communities to be mindful of the food that we cultivate and consume, to connect with what they plant. With a strong spiritual connection – no matter the climate situation we can grow plants if we care enough to look after them.
Even under volcanic ash, cyclones and heavy rain, we can survive, and produce food if we maintain this connection our gardens, and even communicate with what we plant.
I also work at the intersection of institutional work and my own community life and practice. This last role especially helps build trust. My community know that our shared culture, our kastom, guides this my professional work, making it more effective for everyone.
For us, safeguarding is woven into our lives—as daughters, sons, parents, neighbours, colleagues and culture bearers. Through our different roles, we strive to safeguard living heritage with communities in Tonga in Vanuatu. We constantly explore opportunities – like all practitioners and heritage workers across the Pacific – strengthen our people’s living heritage and collective resilience when facing climate and other challenges.