There’s no such thing as a closed casket in my culture. In Samoa, the dead are still part of the living until they are buried.

Growing up on the island of Savai’i, one of my earliest memories was being thrust into a coffin to kiss one of my great-uncles goodbye. This may sound horrific, but for Samoans, this is the norm, and at any given funeral, you will witness a child being held over the face of a dead relative, a mother trying to pull the body of their loved one out of a casket or an adult son or daughter being physically removed from the casket of their parent.

We grieve openly and the body of the dead is usually on full display, with people welcome to touch, kiss and even hug the body in an open casket. We talk to them as if they hear us, families sing hymns, pray, have family meetings and dine with the casket in the fale (house) for days before the burial.

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But at my mother’s funeral, I found myself apologising to her as I covered her face with a fine, white lace and closed her casket. It hurt every part of me to do so, because in life, she never hid from anything.

She was proud, fierce and an extraordinary orator and High Chief. My mother Vaasiliifiti Moelagi Jackson, was a passionate advocate for the environment, a fashion icon and a pioneer of indigenous women’s rights in Samoa and the Pacific. The woman found ways to stand out, even at funerals, and yet here I was covering her face at her own.

But it was for the very fact that she was the strong, dignified and fiercely proud woman that she was that I covered her face on the occasion of her own funeral. I did not want her to be photographed in death and I did not want such images of her to be posted and shared on Facebook, a now common practice among Samoans.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest The author (right) with her siblings at the grave of their mother, wrapped in tapa cloth, as per Samoan traditional practice. Photograph: Tautalailelagi

Our open grief practices have taken a different turn in the age of social media as the practice of interacting with the dead has extended to filming “grief TikToks” with the dead, and the sharing on Facebook of photographs of the dead in hospital beds, on mortuary slabs and in their coffins. The photo could be shared by a grandchild, a son, a daughter, but also by a co-worker or former classmate.

My Facebook feed usually has a photo of a dead person once a week; Samoa is that small and that inter-connected. The last thing my family wanted was for our mother to be one of such images, shared widely and permanently on the web.

The decision to stop all photography of our mother in her final days was not easy. It was met with hostility by many; she was, after all, not just our mother, but a friend, a mentor, a chief and relative to many. But, her dignity was far more important than observing an extension of traditional grieving which would includes images of her dead body on the internet for all to see. No amount of cultural upbringing or pride would make this OK, in any era, and I personally was willing to lose friends and relatives to protect her.

A coordinated approach was taken to ensure no photos were taken by others. Strict instructions were given to every member of our family, and everyone played their part in ensuring that no phones or cameras were near her when her body was in view.

While she was on her deathbed we wrote notices and taped them all over the hospital room to prohibit relatives from taking photos of her. Any visitors were advised not to photograph her in her final moments.

At the morgue, at one point we literally pulled a phone off someone who was about to photograph our mother. I understood where the person was coming from, it was their way of grieving in the age of social media, but there are limits to interpretation of culture, and I decided as she was dying, that my line was drawn at the open sharing of images of her body on social media.

Some friends have made announcements prohibiting relatives and friends from photographing them when they die, but we are in the minority. We all grieve in different ways, and traditional grieving processes, coupled with cultural norms are entrenched and hard to resist.

As a way to still meet the need to mourn on Facebook, a public page was set up for friends, families and those who knew our beloved mother to share stories and photos as an avenue to grieve that was respectful.

Some cultural practices are just meant to be observed in the way they were intended – in person, with actual tears and meaningful personal exchanges. The dead did not consent to be photographed and as such we should not disrespect them in their final moments. After all, respect and honour are also deeply rooted in the Fa’aSamoa (Samoan way).

Although covering my mother’s face and having closed casket was met with dismay, I am comforted by the knowledge that not a single image of her was posted online after she died. At the end of the day we maintained our mother’s dignity and she was remembered as she deserved to be: as the strong, vibrant and humorous High Chief that she was.