(Contains themes of violence and racism)
Remember, remember, the fifth of November – but not for the reason that first comes to mind. On November 5th 1881, in what was then considered the largest and most prosperous Maori community in New Zealand, an armed constabulary of 1,500 marched toward the village of Parihaka in a planned invasion. Upon approaching, they were met by children singing, playing and offering baskets of food. The people of Parihaka had gathered on the marae, aware of the cannon pointed at their village but adhering to the words of their leaders; “You will stretch yourselves over the land and hold it.” Refusing to surrender an inch of land, the two leaders of the settlement were arrested and imprisoned without trial. Members of the constabulary then went on to destroy the village crops, demolish houses, steal livestock and valuable personal belongings, and most unspeakably, rape and assault some of the women. By November 20th about 1,400 people had been unwillingly removed from the settlement. Meeting-houses of special significance were scattered over the ground after being destroyed in order to “deprive it of its sacred character” (as described by the Minister of Native Affairs at the time.)
What happened on this day, 137 years ago, were government crimes justified by laws, delusions of sovereignty and supremacy, and a deeply ingrained racism. This is a story of greed and of a people being robbed; of their land, belongings, culture, and dignity. But it is not unique to New Zealand. It is an old tale where the details vary depending on the nation and it is known well to indigenous people around the world. Buffy Sainte-Marie described it in song with devastating beauty from the Native American perspective: “The eagles of war whose wings lent you glory, they were never no more than carrion crows, pushed the wrens from their nest, stole their eggs, changed their story; the mockingbird sings it, it’s all that she knows.” The belief that indigenous races would eventually become extinct due to their innate inferiority was commonly held at the time of colonization, a belief that unfortunately fed the desire to ‘speed up the process’. Europeans viewed them as the uncivilized savage; an animal that must be tamed or a pest that must be exterminated, their abuse justified by the belief that they were subhuman and their land taken from them because they failed to view it as a commodity to be exploited.
But that is only one side to the story of Parihaka. To finish here with nothing but suffering and devastation would be to neglect its spirit. There was a reason why the government was so determined to collapse the soul of Parihaka: because its people were loyal followers of the two inspiring prophets Te Whiti o Rongomai and Tohu Kakahi. These men had stature, wisdom, and influence far beyond what any Pakeha man had with his set of laws and guns. They had a power that the government envied and feared, a power that would have to be relinquished or otherwise forcibly taken.
Prior to the invasion, the government passed a law that punished the “rebellion” of certain iwi with the confiscation of their land – which breached the agreement made in the Treaty of Waitangi. This was one of many laws enforced in a desperate attempt to control Maori and to give the government an excuse to take, commodify, and sell land to Pakeha settlers. Maori living in the district of Taranaki suffered the largest area of land loss, with a devastating 1,244,300 acres being confiscated. As an act of nonviolent resistance against government theft of Maori-owned land, Te Whiti and Tohu established a village on confiscated soil beneath Mount Taranaki, naming it Parihaka. Their settlement became a magnet for Maori around the country and flourished as the heart of nonviolent resistance to colonization. Donning the white feather in their hair as an emblem for peace, unity, prosperity, and goodwill, their resistance was a proclamation of living peacefully alongside Pakeha without surrendering the land that was rightfully theirs. ‘Passive resistance’ is a term sometimes used, but the word ‘passive’ implies inaction, silence, and weakness – none of which describes the people of Parihaka. Theirs is a story of immeasurable strength and bravery, of the search for peace in a time of conflict and in a nation speaking only the language of war. When the government began surveying confiscated land, Parihaka responded by ploughing the soil (or more evocatively, the “belly of the government”) of settler-occupied land in an act of artful protest. When the ploughmen of Parihaka were arrested and sent to jails around the country, they did not fight back. Each time the fences that marked their land were torn down, they built new ones to put in their place. They continued to resist peacefully, even as the government resorted to primitive aggression on November 5th.
Repeated attempts were later made by the New Zealand government to remove Parihaka from geographical maps (and in turn, memory), and in fact, in the 1959 edition of ‘A Descriptive Atlas of New Zealand’, the village was replaced with the name of the constabulary officer who arrested Tohu and Te Whiti – one last attempt at extinguishing Parihaka. History plays a necessary role in reminding us what came before so that we can learn from our mistakes, but some stories are less known than others. They’re shadowed by those deemed more important, distorted or erased from history books, and ultimately silenced by those who believe their stories don’t matter. Hypocritical attitudes towards the relevance of history manifest in a society who will proudly pin red poppies to their chest in remembrance each year, but decide that we should “move on” and “stop living in the past” as soon as the story does not revolve around our own sense of pride. Refusing to acknowledge the histories that make us uncomfortable means willingly blinding ourselves to the reality of privilege. One person’s poverty profits another, or as Te Whiti perceptively put it upon his arrest “On my fall the pakeha builds his work.” Judging those who struggle as simply not putting in the effort, while believing you have earned your good fortune through hard work, is a simple task if you choose to forget or deny history. For many, it would bruise the ego to admit they have benefited from the oppression of others, to attribute part of their success to something beyond their control or effort. But without acknowledging this, true reconciliation – and the act of “moving on” that is so frequently urged out of frustration – is an unattainable goal.
Te Whiti and Tohu are names that deserve to echo the same way that our war heroes’ do, as it takes just as much courage to reject violence in times of conflict. Te Whiti once said, “I will talk with my weapon – the tongue” because he knew the effect of his words. The greatest power we have at our disposal is not brute force but a raised voice, and our greatest armour not a stoic invulnerability but a community to reinforce us. The story of Parihaka should be engraved in our memories as one of our nation’s greatest examples of bravery in the face of injustice. So remember, remember, the fifth of November. Not in celebration of the day a man failed to bomb someone else’s parliament, but for the day our own government failed to extinguish the spirit of Parihaka.
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“Pakanga” was the term used to embody Parihaka’s fight against the government and the Crown – meant not as a literal war but a metaphorical one, as a battle of words and worldviews. Te Whiti often spoke in metaphors, insightful in his perceptions and wise far beyond his time:
“‘You sit there, I sit here,’ he said, taking his pipe and using the stem as a pointer. ‘Good. I am on the sunny side, you are in the cold of my shadow. Presently you say to me, “Friend, you keep the sun from me; I feel chill; shift.” I say, “No, I will not shift; I sat here before you came; but if you feel strong enough, push me away.” You do so. My dignity is hurt; you have touched me roughly. I not only return the push, but in my anger strike you. We come to blows. We fight until one retires. Now, this is the law of the beasts… The white man in his covetousness ordered me to move on instead of removing himself from my presence. I resisted; I resist to this day…’ The old man’s eyes blazed as he spoke of the evil of war and the blessing of peace. But suddenly he pointed back to the mountain. ‘Ask that mountain’, he said, ‘Taranaki saw it all!’” (Excerpt from ‘Ask That Mountain’ by Dick Scott)