This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
Thomas Cooper-Johnson, University of Newcastle and Nicholas Foulcher, University of Newcastle
On Lakena, a small, uninhabited islet in the Pacific nation of Tuvalu, a lone church stands among the coconut palms and pandanus trees.
It is the only building on the islet. Yet the church, known as Lotolelei, has not been forgotten. Families still travel from the neighbouring island Nanumea for occasional services and family gatherings.
Built in the early 20th century using timber brought from Kanton Island in what is now Kiribati, the church carries generations of community history and connection to place.
As Tuvalu, a nation of 9,646, invests in protecting its islands from rising sea levels, while creating opportunities for people to migrate to Australia, Lakena raises an important question: what happens to cultural heritage when the people that gave it meaning move away?
Earlier this month, leaders visiting Tuvalu for the Pacific pre-COP climate meetings saw the country’s coastal adaptation and land-reclamation efforts. These projects will ultimately add around six hectares of land to the main island of Funafuti.
Meanwhile, the Australia–Tuvalu Falepili Union treaty provides a pathway for Tuvaluans to live, work and study in Australia. Up to 280 permanent residency places are currently available through an annual ballot.
Tuvalu is investing in its future, while expanding options available to those who choose to, or have to, move abroad due to climate change.
At the conclusion of the pre-COP meeting, COP31 President Murat Kurum said limiting global warming to 1.5°C was about the survival of “cultures, history, memories, your homeland, your homes”.
This comment highlights why cultural heritage deserves greater attention in adaptation and migration planning.
Our ongoing research focuses on endangered architecture and traditional building practices across Tuvalu.
Working alongside Tuvaluan community members, we have documented buildings on several islands, using photographs, architectural drawings, interviews and 3D models to record their construction and histories.
On the northern island of Niutao, the Makaili Hut is now a modest family space used for cooking, resting and storytelling. But its origins stretch back to the late 19th century.
Its predecessor, the Faleomanuka (or “house of wisdom”), was a communal storehouse and gathering place. It held supplies for ceremonies and emergencies, later becoming a council meeting house, and eventually providing timber for a family dwelling.
Following successive rebuilding efforts, including after cyclone damage, much of the original timber remains. Carved joints and coconut fibre lashings reveal construction skills handed down over generations.
In Funafuti, two classrooms tell a similar story. Each draws on building traditions from different Tuvaluan islands – evident in their roof forms and construction techniques. Locals describe these differences as expressions of island identity.
The classrooms are used for education today, showing that traditional architecture is still a part of everyday life.
Buildings in Tuvalu have long been repaired and adapted after storms. Rising seas and changing environmental conditions now add to those pressures, alongside shifts in materials, livelihoods and building practices.
The use of corrugated metal roofing illustrates the compromises involved. It provides an effective surface for collecting rainwater, which is particularly valuable during droughts. But it can also leave interiors hotter than traditional thatched roofs, which offer shade and insulation.
As construction techniques change, there are fewer opportunities for young people to learn the skills needed to build and maintain traditional structures. This knowledge may be gradually lost, even as the buildings themselves remain standing.
Our project also asks whether digital records can help Tuvaluans maintain connections to architectural heritage as places and communities change.
A model can’t replace a building, or the knowledge associated with it, but it can be a valuable tool for sharing stories and construction techniques.
We produced 3D models alongside photographs, drawings and interviews. At a community workshop, participants explored some of these models through virtual reality headsets.
Although some initially found the immersive experience unsettling, they generally saw the value in using digital records to share heritage with younger generations and Tuvaluans living abroad.
The discussion quickly evolved. Participants wanted canoes, oral histories, gathering places, beaches and other meaningful landscapes documented, too.
Some highlighted traditional canoes, which are being replaced by motorised boats, as an example of cultural knowledge becoming less common.
Tuvalu’s choices about new land, existing settlements and mobility will shape more than where its people live.
Heritage should have a place in those decisions, with local communities determining which sites and traditions need protection, what should be recorded, and how building knowledge can continue to be practised.
The Lakena Church – and the families that continue to return to it – remind us why this matters, as they keep their connection to a place they no longer call home.
[Wc/VP]
Suggested Reading:
Subscribe to our channels on YouTube and WhatsApp
Download our app on Play Store
