It’s a Sunday evening, the eighth of June 2025. I walk into Te Pou Theatre and, as someone who doesn’t love crowds, I am rather unpleasantly surprised. I do not expect to see so many people. I am not expecting much, to be honest. All I really know is that it’s a solo show by an Aboriginal and Vanuatuan artist, and that it’s described as “a ceremony for those who didn’t get their ceremony.” I read that somewhere online. I’ve skimmed a few reviews and the marketing from Pacific Dance NZ, which use words like powerful. But, you know, everyone says that. I’m not buying it just yet. I have to see for myself.

My boyfriend has come with me tonight, and I’m grateful. I’m expecting a contemporary-heavy, very abstract, artsy-fartsy kind of show. Not usually my cup of tea, but some people enjoy that sort of thing. Welcome sounds begin to play over the speakers, and people file into the theatre. We find our seats and wait while the hum of anticipation builds around us.

The stage is already partially set. On the right, a large white structure stands with paper mâché at its base and leaves scattered around. On the left, a circle of large white rocks. It’s interesting, but I don’t yet know what to make of it.

As the audience settles, Pacific Dance director Iosefa Enari takes the stage. He welcomes us on behalf of the Pacific Fono Trust, expressing gratitude that Kuramanunya has finally reached Aotearoa’s shores. He thanks the Wantok community for their presence and reminds us that this work fulfils Pacific Dance’s mission to celebrate and include the whole Pacific. He closes with the well-known Sāmoan song Ua Fa’afetai.

Then the show begins.

The lights dim. The stage glows red. Thomas E.S. Kelly enters, moving fluidly, speaking in his native language. His movements are smooth, then suddenly sharp. The music builds. Something is coming. A sound like pounding hooves erupts, followed by gunshots. Kelly’s voice changes. He is warning, calling others to run, to escape. But they don’t survive. The red lighting makes sense now. The moment is powerful, jarring, even frightening. I feel a shadow of their pain, which is all we can really feel. No performance can ever fully put us in their shoes.

Throughout the show, Kelly moves between past and present, or perhaps between spiritual and physical realms. I am not entirely sure which, but the shift is clear. His body holds anguish and resistance. His performance speaks of the grief of those who were lost, those never remembered.

There is a change in the atmosphere as the ceremony unfolds. It becomes tangible. Something inside me feels it, and I am no longer watching a dance performance. I am witnessing a ritual, a space being held. Kuramanunya goes beyond movement and sound. It does what it says it does. It creates a ceremony for those who never received one. And in doing so, it reminds us that art can be more than expression. It can be justice. It can be remembrance.

Kelly appeals to our hearts. He calls us to think of our ancestors, our family trees, our legacies. I think of my grandparents, my parents, my sisters. What if this happened to us? What if no one remembered? What if no one cared? Kuramanunya reminds us that this has happened. It happened. Who remembers them now? Who tells their stories? Who mourns them, who says goodbye? No one. We do not even know their names. And their only crime was to belong to land a foreign crown desired.

As the show ends, Kelly addresses us directly. He gestures to a table where leaves are laid out. He invites us to come forward and write our names on a leaf, as a pledge to remember those who otherwise would not be. It is an invitation to bear witness, to take part in a collective act of remembrance.  People in the audience murmur kia ora in agreement before applause erupts. It lasts a long time.

Then something remarkable happens. People start queuing. Not a few, not some, but just about the entire theatre. The line at the table grows, blocking the exit. People of all ages, backgrounds, and communities walk quietly forward, one by one, to add their name. It feels sacred. I glance at my boyfriend, who has never been to a dance show before, and he says he really enjoyed it, that it felt important.  I agree. This moment holds weight.

Kuramanunya, by Karul Projects, is a tribute to those who were taken. To the Indigenous Australians, the Aboriginal people who did not survive British colonisation. Those who fell for their families, their tribes, their countrymen. But really, they fell for nothing. And that is the heartbreaking truth. This work carries their stories. It pairs movement with words, translates memory into the language of the body, and reminds us that these people existed. That they mattered. That they must be remembered.

I can safely say I have eaten my words.

This show is powerful. It is thought-provoking, challenging, and vital.
It deserves to be shown again and again.
Because they deserve to be remembered.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer