Despite the intensity of the debate that surrounded Maori-pakeha relationships then, my own view is that ultimately we were all prepared to listen and prepared to redesign this waka, this national canoe of ours, to ensure that it took both Maori and pakeha aspirations, directions, into account. Maori writing of the time at the very least established what was offering from the Maori side—a basic emotional superstructure, a feeling of affinity which we felt was needed if we were to make balanced decisions about plotting our course—which stars to navigate by, which reefs to avoid. So, for all my criticism about the mismatch of Maori fiction with the political reality, it did have a major importance in establishing a basic values system, the trim to the waka. Hone Tuwhare, Patricia Grace, and Rowley Habib’s earlier work all belong here.
Am I wrong, now, in believing that New Zealand today is not so prepared to listen, prepared to even negotiate a new future for us all? Is it so responsive to Maori needs?
*
I made reference earlier to my having stopped writing in 1975. The basic purpose for writing had been to establish and describe the emotional landscape of the Maori people. The landscapes of the heart. I used to think that even if all the land were taken away, our maraes razed, our children turned into brown pakehas, that nothing could take away the heart, the way we feel. In many respects, the heart is really all that I’ve ever had. My knowledge of the language is minimal. My understanding of the culture has mainly been learnt at school and at university. It embarrassed me to be berated by my own people for not knowing Maori. Once I responded to Ngoi Pewhairangi that ‘You’re not Maori with your mouth. You’re Maori here, in your heart. Anybody can learn how to speak Maori, but that won’t make you one.’
But increasingly the emotional reality became less and less important to describe and the political reality assumed a higher profile. I could not, in all conscience, allow people ever to consider my work was the definitive portrayal of the world of the Maori. In my attempts to help, I considered I had created a stereotype. Of warm caring relationships. Of a people who lived in rural communities. But what was the reality? The reality in 1975 was a hardening of attitudes on both sides. Of inflexibility. Of infighting. By 1975 I felt my vision was out of date and, tragically, so encompassing and so established that it wasn’t leaving room enough for the new reality to punch through. I made a conscious decision to stop writing. I said that I would place a ten year embargo on my work. It was the right decision to make. I am, he tangata, he tangata, he tangata. A man, a man, a man.
Since then, it has seemed to me that New Zealand has been in the throes of some massive nervous breakdown. Something has been going wrong out there. Instead of looking outward, we are increasingly turning inward. We feel under siege. We feel defensive. Our first response is distrust and outrage at any attack on the fidelity of New Zealand. We have become divided. We have started to withdraw into our own divisions. We have become autistic. Totally withdrawn.
That doesn’t mean that we haven’t been struggling to repair ourselves. In the Maori world, this has meant vociferous exchanges, most often bitter, but no dialogue. We are either too tired or too hardened to listen to each other. One of the heartening aspects, however, is that the literature, as it applies to race relations, is developing a most commanding voice. I welcome the development of this literature of race relations. It has a role in making the connections, perhaps even better than with fiction about Maori life as mine has been, and reaching across the empty spaces between Maori and pakeha in a more hard-hitting and realistic fashion. How well it has succeeded will only become obvious to you when an anthology entitled Into the World of Light is published later this year. The anthology collects the work of Maori writers over the last decade about Maori life and race relations between Maori and pakeha.
For the future, what can we say about the kind of people we have become? About us? Who are we? We are Maori. We are Polynesian. We inhabit a minority space within a majority framework. We are the unemployed, the social time bomb. About eighty per cent of us live in city areas. Half of us are under the age of 19 and without skills in our culture. Our world is beset with pressures from within and without. We are against the Springbok tour but we have also agreed to welcome the Springbok team on Poho-o-rawiri marae in Gisborne. We are the dispossessed, the under-educated. Yet it saddens many of us to see the Race Relations Conciliator to all intents and purposes sneaking out of the country to take up an invitation to visit South Africa. We are the unemployed. We are one in four children who appear before the Children’s Court. We have a Minister of Maori Affairs of whom it was said last week that he was ‘profoundly ignorant’ of South Africa. He was on television last night saying, incredibly, that he supported apartheid in South Africa. We are tū tangata; we are also members of the Mongrel Mob.
This is the bleak scenario. One hopes that it will not be our future. For there are many positive aspects, and so much optimism about sorting out a future for all of us. The problem is, for we who observe, a matter of timing. There is urgency now. We wish to chart a course for our culture towards life, not death.
Last week, the Prime Minister, Mr Muldoon, in his speech to the Australian Chamber of Commerce in Hobart, said that leadership must be positive, optimistic but not divisive. He then said that inverted racists were trying to create a split between Maori and pakeha in New Zealand. ‘My answer to them is a very practical one. In my party in the House I have three Maori members of Parliament, each of whom was elected for a general seat or what we used to call European seat, where the Maori vote would be no higher than five per cent.’ There were a small number of Maori radicals in New Zealand who did their best to exacerbate whatever problems there might be between Maori and pakeha. ‘But they are small in number and very small as a proportion of the total. We are an integrated society. Something in excess of sixty per cent of Maori marriages today have one European partner.’
I do not find such comments positive or optimistic. I find them divisive to a degree that can barely be tolerated. Mr Muldoon is making the mistake of assuming that where you have integration of people that you have integration of culture also. Integration of people does not automatically make for integration of culture.
We still have a long way to go. We still need to force a reconsideration of New Zealand’s monocultural perception of itself. We still require that national identity should be bilingual and bicultural. Only then will Maori and pakeha heritages and culture be enriched. There is still a need for New Zealand to take its Maori personality into account. Despite the bleakness of what I have said, Maori literature has a place in ensuring this occurs. If to be hopeful and to push for change in New Zealand is radical, then here I am, here we are.
All of us who write, or who are concerned, about Maori life, have this in common: the commitment to our people. For us, the challenge today is rather as described by Patricia Grace in her magnificent short story ‘Parade’:
I took in a big breath, filling my lungs with sea and air and land and people. And with past and present and future, and felt a new strength course through me. I lifted my voice to sing and heard and felt the others join with me. Singing loudly into the darkest of nights. Calling on the strength of the people. Calling them to paddle the canoes and to paddle on and on. To haul the canoes down and paddle. On and on—
Aotea, Tainui, Kurahaupo
Mataatua, Te Arawa,
Takitimu, Tokomaru
Hoea hoea ra
Nō reira, ko te whakamutunga tenei O taku korero. Tēna koutou, tēna koutou, tēna koutou katoa.
(1981)
Patricia Grace, from Potiki
There was in the meeting-house a wood quiet.
It was the quiet of trees that have been brought in out of the wind, whose new-shown limbs reach out, not to the sky but to the people. This is the quiet, still, otherness of trees found by the carver, the shaper, the maker.
It is a watching quiet because the new-limbed trees have been given eyes with which to see. It is a
waiting quiet, the ever-patient waiting that wood has, a patience that has not changed since the other tree life. But this tree quiet is an outward quiet only, because within this otherness there is a sounding, a ringing, a beating, a flowing greater than the tree has ever known before.
And the quiet of the house is also the quiet of stalks and vines that no longer jangle at any touch of wind, or bird, or person passing, but which have been laced and bound into new patterns and have been now given new stories to tell. Stories that lace and bind the earthly matters to matters not of earth.
Outside and about the meeting-house there was an early stillness. There was no movement or sound except for that which came from the quiet sliding, sidling of the sea.
But back in the houses, and beyond on the slopes, there was activity. At the houses washing was already out on the lines, morning meals were over and the cleaning up had been done. The vacuum cleaners had been through. Steps had been swept and there was a smell of cooking—of mutton and chicken and fish, watercress and cabbage, bread and pies.
In the hills the saws that had sounded since early morning were now still. Branches had been trimmed from the felled scrub, and the wood stacked and bound. The horse waited, occasionally snorting, stamping, or swinging its tail, but not impatiently. Then the tied wood bundle was attached to the chains coming from the big collar. The horse was led down the scented track under the dark shelves of manuka. Tools were picked up by those who went ahead to make sure the path was clear, while others followed to watch and steady the load.
At the bottom of the hill the horse and workers emerged from the cool dark into the sharp edges of light. The wood was unhitched at the woodstack. The collar and hames and chains were taken from the horse and put in the shed.
Work was over for the day. The money man was coming, to ask again for the land, and to ask also that the meeting-house and the urupa be moved to another place.
There was in the meeting-house a warmth.
It was the warmth that wood has, but it was also the warmth of people gathered. It was the warmth of past gatherings, and of people that had come and gone, and who gathered now in the memory. It was the warmth of embrace, because the house is a parent, and there was warmth in under the parental backbone, enclosement amongst the patterned ribs. There was warmth and noise in the house as the people waited for Mr Dolman to speak, Dolman whom they had named ‘Dollarman’ under the breath. Because although he had been officially welcomed he was not in the heart welcome, or at least what he had to say was not.
‘… so that’s what it is, development, opportunity, just as I’ve outlined to you, by letter. First class accommodation, top restaurants, night club, recreation centre with its own golf links—eventually, covered parking facilities … and then of course the water amenities. These water amenities will be the best in the country and will attract people from all over the world … launch trips, fishing excursions, jet boating, every type of water and boating activity that is possible. Endless possibilities—I’ve mentioned the marine life areas … your shark tanks …’
(Plenty of sharks around …)
‘… trained whales and seals etcetera. As I’ve outlined in writing, and as I’ve discussed with Mr um … here and … one or two others. And these water activities, the marine life areas in particular, this is where you get off-season patronage, where we get our families, our school parties at reduced rates. So you see it’s not just a tourist thing. It’s an amenity …’
(An amenity now … already…)
‘… a much-needed amenity. Well there’s this great potential you see, and this million-dollar view to be capitalised on. And I’ll mention once again that once we have good access, it’s all on, we can get into it. And benefit … not only ourselves but everyone, all of you as well. We’ll be providing top-level facilities, tourist facilities and so upgrade the industry in this whole region. It’ll boom ….’
‘It’s good that you have come here to meet us, meet all of us, to discuss what you … your company has put forward. Much of this you have outlined in your letters which we have all read and talked about amongst ourselves. We have replied to your letters explaining our feelings on what you have outlined and we have asked you to come here for a discussion. Now you are here which is a good thing. We can meet face to face on it, eyeball one another, and we can give our thoughts and feelings and explanations more fully. As I say we have all discussed this and I have been asked to speak on behalf of all of us.
‘This land we are on now—Block J136, the attached blocks where the houses are, and J480 to 489 at the back of the houses, is all ancestral land—the ancestral land of the people here. And there are others too who don’t live here now, but this is still home to them. And a lot of them are here today, come home for this meeting.
‘Behind us are the hills. That was all once part of it too. Well the hills have gone. A deal went through at a time when people were too poor to hang on. It is something that is regretted.
‘But it won’t happen … to the rest … what’s left here. Not even in these days of no work. We’re working the land. We need what we’ve got. We will not sell land, nor will access be given. Apart from that, apart from telling you that none of this land here will go, we have to tell you that none of us wants to see any of the things you have outlined. We’ve talked about it and there’s no one, not one of us here, that would give an okay on it. None of those things would be of any advantage to our people here, in fact we know they would be greatly to our disadvantage ….’
‘Well now, you’ve said that the developments here would be of no advantage to you. I’d like to remind you of what I’ve already said earlier. It’s all job-creative. It’ll mean work, well-paid work, right on your doorstep, so to speak. And for the area … it’ll bring people … progress ….’
‘But you see, we already have jobs, we’ve got progress ….’
‘I understand, perhaps I’m wrong, that you’re mostly unemployed?’
‘Everything we need is here. This is where our work is.’
‘And progress? Well it’s not … obvious.’
‘Not to you. Not in your eyes. But what we’re doing is important. To us. To us that’s progress.’
‘Well maybe our ideas are different. Even so you wouldn’t want to stand in the way ….’
‘If we could. That’s putting it straight. If we could stand in the way we would. But … as we’ve said, the hills have gone, your company, we believe, now being the owner. We can only repeat what we’ve said by letter. If you go ahead, which I suppose we can’t prevent, then it won’t be through the front. Not through here.’
‘I’ll explain about that, about access from behind. Access from behind is … not impossible, but almost. Certainly not desirable. We need to get people in, quick ….’
(Dollarman)
‘… from all parts of the world. Mostly on arranged tours. Every detail taken care of. And need to be able to get them in, get them accommodated, comfortable…’
(Minus the dollar)
‘… and they … people don’t want to be travelling all those extra miles. Costly for them, costly for us. Then when they leave … of course we want to be able to move them … as conveniently as possible. But apart from all that, and even more important as far as smooth running goes, is services, and workers. This is the main area of concern, why we have to get in and out quickly. It’s costly, for people getting to work, for the trucks and vehicles coming in every day. There’d have to be miles of new road. And apart from costs there’s time. But with good access, with your say-so we could be into it, in part, next season ….’
‘Well as we’ve said, these ideas are not welcome to us people here. We can’t stop you from setting up … what you’ve outlined, on what is now your land. But, I have to say very strongly, on behalf of us all here—we’ll never let this house be moved. Never. Even if we could allow that, then there is the piece of land behind here where our dead are buried, which you would need also. That is a sa
cred site, as we’ve said in our letters. Our dead lie there. You will never get anyone to agree to it. No words ….’
‘I hope I’ve made it clear. There would be no damage. Your hall…’
‘Whare tipuna. Ancestral house…’
‘… would be put on trucks, transported, no cost to you. Set down exactly as it is now. No damage whatever. Two days from start to finish. And your cemetery. There’s no real worry, let me assure you. Well it’s nothing new, it’s been done often enough before. A new site, somewhere nearby. And we’ve already had a think about this. All laid out, properly lawned, fenced, everything taken care of, everything in place…’
(Toe bone connected to your jaw bone…)
‘… and you’ll be well paid…’
(And there’s the worry of it all)
‘… for your land.’
‘Mr Dolman, no amount of money ….’
‘Well now wait a minute. We have, since our previous communication, had another look at the figures. I’d like to ….’
‘Mr Dolman, I know we’re hurrying you, but it’s only fair that you should know. There is nothing you can say, no words, no amount of money ….’
‘But look. I’m not sure that you have fully understood, and this is something I haven’t pointed out previously. Your land here would skyrocket. Your value would go right up ….’
(Dollarman. There’s the worry of it all ….)
‘You would have work, plus this prime amenity. On your doorstep, so to speak ….’
‘We already have ….’
‘Work ….’
‘On our doorsteps ….’
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 100