1.
Meanwhile, at Parihaka, the extraordinary saga of the fences began.
Picture this: the year is 1880 and villagers are working in the gardens of their expansive plantations north-west of the kainga. There is no school today and, early in the morning, Erenora has gone to the complex of barns and high-timbered paddocks where the bullock herds are kept. As soon as they see her, they crowd around her. ‘No, no!’ she laughs as they press in and nuzzle her. ‘I only need two of you!’
She yokes the lucky bullocks to a sled and is soon off to the stream to fill barrels of water for the cultivations. As she passes through the village, some of the tataraki’i jump impulsively onto the sled. ‘Can we come with you?’ they ask. When Erenora reaches the stream the children happily help her fill the barrels; sometimes they playfully splash each other.
Further upstream, a group of kuia is harvesting watercress. They stand in the stream, their dresses stained dark with the water, gossiping as they pluck the cress from the banks.
June is an important month in the Maori calendar. The heliacal rising of the Pleiades star cluster ushers in Puanga, the Maori New Year. Falling at the end of the harvest, it is the time to prepare the land and plant the new crops.
The cultivations are all neatly divided by sod walls and manuka picket fences. They stretch from the citadel to the outer perimeter near the sea; there are also small shelters and huts between. The walls and fences are there not only to protect the crops from the village’s bullocks, horses and pigs but also to contain and define the plantings: melon, potato, pumpkin, maize and other vegetables, oats for horse feed and, also, tobacco. The gardens are tilled on a rotational basis, so every now and then there is an empty plantation, fallow the current year but to be planted next year. Pigs are fenced in. Domestic fowls roam wherever they wish. Small lanes allow the workers to move between the gardens.
An idyllic scene, you think? Not so. Bryce’s roadbuilders are making relentless progress towards the plantations.
‘I was driving my bullock team, taking the water to the gardens, when all of a sudden the children, who had been skipping beside the sled, pointed ahead, “Titiro! Look!”
‘The road Mr Bryce’s labourers were building had reached the outer perimeter of the gardens. How could you not notice it! The roadbuilders were loud and boisterous, and so was the Armed Constabulary protecting them.
‘I saw an altercation taking place between the trespassers and some of our villagers. “Get out of the way,” two of the constables were demanding. The labourers had broken two of our picket fences around fields where we were storing crops and preparing the land for the coming year. The invaders pushed one of the villagers and, with a cry, she fell to the ground. Then the labourers and constabulary pushed right through the fence onto our side. Quickly, I lashed at the bullock team, “’aere! W’ano!”
‘The tataraki’i leapt aside as my beloved companions trumpeted and put their heads down. Oh, they were so inspiring as they approached the invaders; the barrels of water were falling left, right and centre, and the constabulary scattered. “The road is yours,” I said, as I pulled on the reins of the team before they trampled the men, “but the fences are ours.” I think the labourers and constabulary were more frightened of my pawing beasts than they were of me, but they wisely retreated.
‘That evening, Te Whiti came to see me at my house. I expected him to chastise me for my intemperate action. Instead he said, “You are as bad as your husband.”
‘He told me he had called all the villagers to meet on the marae.’
2.
The space in front of the meeting house was ringed with blazing firelight. The sun had disappeared, and the temperature had plummeted. The villagers huddled in blankets, trying to keep warm.
Huhana smiled at Erenora. ‘We were lucky to get our seeds planted before winter really arrives.’
Te Whiti and Tohu appeared. ‘What are all you people doing sitting out here in the cold?’ Te Whiti joked, stamping his feet and hugging himself. ‘Waiting for me? Then I had better get on with it. It is makariri, freezing.’
The gathering laughed as the prophet got straight down to business. ‘The government has still not proven its right to come onto our land,’ he began. ‘Why have they not stopped their surveying and roadbuilding until the commission reports on its findings? Although it appears that the inquiry is hostile to us we shall, as we always have done, trust to God’s will.’
The people murmured, ‘Ae. Yes.’
‘Thus I say that until God shows us what that will is, we carry on as usual. Tomorrow, let us return to our gardens and put the fences up again where they belong. Kua pai?’
From the people came a strong, deep chorus. ‘Yes, we are agreed.’
James Cowan describes this extraordinary reaction:
The dispute now assumed a new aspect. A party of forty to fifty men, styled the morehu, or ‘survivors’, marched out from Parihaka almost daily, each man carrying a tree-branch, and on arriving at the road where it entered the cultivation on the south side continued to march along the line, reciting an incantation, until within a short distance of the north boundary of the field, close to the Constabulary camp, and back again to the south boundary, where they planted the branches across the road.15
Every morning, the roadbuilders tore the fences down again and pushed on with their road. Came the evenings, however, and while the roadbuilders were asleep, the villagers rebuilt all the fences they had broken. What happened the next day? The constabulary tore those down. So what did the villagers do? Rebuild them again and again.
That’s when Bryce ordered this, on 19 July: ‘Any Maori who puts up a fence that has been taken down by the government will be arrested.’ Why? Surely it was the government that should be arrested for removing the fence in the first place.
3.
‘By now,’ Erenora wrote, ‘the winter had burst upon us, with squally rain sweeping across Parihaka from the sea. No matter the weather, Mr Bryce’s challenge was too much for our men not to accept. They clamoured to work at the fences! Te Whiti and Tohu chose who was to go and many men were disappointed when the prophets didn’t pick them.
‘Just as had happened with the ploughmen, the arrests of the fencers began, but to our amusement, the constabulary could only handle on average four arrests a day. Who were they going to choose from the large groups of fencers sent out by Te Whiti? Our men were calling, “Pick us! Arrest us!” When their colleagues were carted away to New Plymouth by the Armed Constabulary, those who remained turned unimpeded to repair the fences and fill the breach.
‘Mr Bryce had no option but to post more constabulary to the area. The number of arrests increased. The men held vigorously to the pickets and wouldn’t let go. Prised away, they would run back and hold tight to them again. It ceased to be a game for the constabulary. Bad weather made for short-fused tempers. After all, what constable would not want to be drinking beer in the mess with his mates instead of dealing in the cold and wet with Maoris? The invaders began to use batons to smash the men’s fingers: the crunch of wood on delicate bone was terrible to hear. In pain, the men were wrested from the fences, handcuffed in pairs and taken to New Plymouth.
‘Still, they refused to give in. One day, 300 men went out. This time, they resowed with wheat the very road the roadbuilders were constructing.
‘In all this time, Te Whiti and Tohu stayed inside at Parihaka. They knew that Mr Bryce was awaiting any opportunity to arrest them. Cleverly they continued to keep out of his reach.’
It was a deadly war of attrition.
The male population of Parihaka was being depleted. Seeing this, Titokowaru sent warriors to reinforce the numbers of men at the village, but Te Whiti and Tohu would not let them go out to the plantations. ‘This is our fight, not yours,’ the prophets said.
The weather turned nastier. Taranaki was snow-covered. From July to the middle of August — an extraordinary space of six or more weeks — most of Pariha
ka’s able-bodied men were arrested. One man, almost blind, was released. The prisoners were not deterred by the initial sentence of two years’ hard labour and the threat of continuation.
By the beginning of September, the courts had sentenced 150 to be sent to the South Island. On 4 September, the last fifty-nine able-bodied men and thirty-two boys marched through snow drifts to the fences. The men were arrested.
‘Who was left? Our prophets, yes, and aged tau’eke, old men, women and the tataraki’i. All the rest had been taken away to gaol.
‘It would have been so easy to give up. Everywhere, women were weeping. “What shall we do now?” Ripeka asked me. I thought of Horitana and I looked at her. “We must do our job,” I answered. “Rouse the rest of the wives, but not Meri — she will only get in the way. Tell them it’s our turn now.”
‘The snow still lay on the ground. The women wrapped themselves up against the chill. Te Whiti didn’t try to stop us. Instead he came to watch as I marched with the other wives out to the fences. “Good, Erenora, so the women now act as the men,” he said. “Be resolute, be strong.”
‘The constabulary and the roadbuilders were shocked when we arrived. “What do we do now?” Ripeka asked.
‘“Pick up the broken pickets,” I replied. “Weave them together with flax and build the fences again.”
‘Piharo was among the invaders. “Stop those wah-hee-nee,” he ordered. He rode towards me, bent down and with his whip nudged my chin up so that he could look at the weals around my neck. Then he tapped his own scars and, smiling gently, said, “We have such pretty decorations, you and I.”
‘It began to hail, the ice stinging our faces. The constabulary cursed as they moved among us. Their body odour was rancid and bitter. Some of the invaders were lascivious, handling our breasts in an obscene manner. “Ignore them,” I ordered. “Keep making a fence.” One man tried to put his hand into Ripeka’s groin. She spat in his face.
‘And then Meri came running to help, almost slipping on the icy ground; Kawa was strapped to her back. “You left me behind,” she rebuked me. “I know you think I’m hopeless, but I’m not entirely useless.”
‘“It’s too dangerous for you,” I answered.
‘But the arrival of a woman with a baby made the constabulary nervous. I took the advantage and said to Meri, “Sister, sing us a poi song.”
‘“Titiro taku poi!” she began. “’Uri atu, ’uri mai! Watch my poi as it weaves the broken rakau! It goes up, it goes down, it binds the wood together, ’ei ’a ’ei, ’e ’a!”
‘There was such defiance in the song. The constabulary threw up their hands in desperation. Arrest women?
‘“Let them go about their useless work,” Piharo said. “When they leave, as eventually they will, we’ll carry on.” He sidled up to me and asked, “By the way, have you heard from your husband lately?” He laughed and laughed.’
A few days later, Erenora was woken by singing.
She thought she had overslept and that the women were going to the fences without her. When she looked out of her w’are she saw the tataraki’i were walking into the bright morning, over a hundred of them. She ran after them, calling, ‘Children, no!’
They took no notice. They were like little soldiers tramping through the melt-water and splashing through the mud. When they reached the fences, they didn’t even care about the constabulary. Instead they looked around for every branch or twig they could find and laid them across the road.
It didn’t matter that what they erected wasn’t really a fence. What mattered was that they were trying their best. Their chirruping was loud and deafening and the steam from their lips created a large, hovering cloud.
Erenora had never heard them so angry.
4.
‘A reprieve came, of sorts,’ Erenora wrote. ‘The government was forced to return some of the men who had been sent to the South Island.
‘The weather was fitful now, sometimes very cold but most times struggling towards spring. In October I went to the port with Ripeka, Meri and other women to welcome the first of the prisoners home from Dunedin Gaol on the SS Hinemoa. Imagine our shock and consternation when, as they came to land, we saw that their time in prison had gravely altered their appearance?
‘And then Huhana noticed a small group of a dozen men who were in worse condition; they looked like koiwi, skeletons. At first they stood stock still, almost disbelieving that they were back in the Taranaki. Then a loud sigh came from them like the moaning of a lost wind. Puzzled, Huhana approached them to give them comfort. Suddenly she gave a sharp exclamation and beckoned to me and my sisters, “Bring water and food. Quickly!”
‘When we joined our mother she had tears in her eyes.’
‘“Who are these men?” I asked her because none were recognisable to me.
‘She answered, “They are warriors who fought in Titokowaru’s war. Many were captured back in 1868 and shipped off to the South Island. These men must have been boys at the time and among the first to travel ‘The Trail of Tears’ to Te Wai Pounamu.”
‘We moved among the men offering them bread, fruit and water.
‘“Weren’t those men released in 1872?” I asked, referring to the warriors from Pakakohe, Ngati Ruanui iwi, sent to Dunedin in 1869.
‘Huhana nodded, “Yes, and those who didn’t return we presumed were dead. Let us rejoice that at least some are among us again.”
‘I saw Ripeka and Meri offering smiles and aro’a to the men. I knew their hearts were breaking that their own husbands were not among the returnees. I was so proud that even so they could turn to welcome others who had been released.
“‘Perhaps next time,” I said to them.
5.
The following year, 1881, all the cultivations ringing Parihaka were broken through by Bryce’s men and the road finally reached the citadel itself.
Then Bryce’s illegal process was checked. Questions had mounted in Te Paremata o te Pakeha about the welter of despotic acts afflicting both Parihaka and the exiles in prison. The consequences of such mass imprisonments were now being commented on both overseas and nationally. At this rate, it was said, New Zealand could become a vast prison-house with every gaol a Bastille.
In an effort to ameliorate the bad publicity, the government released four further groups of prisoners from South Island gaols, among them Wiremu Kingi Te Matakatea. Although this appeared to be a magnanimous gesture, many of the men had in fact already served their sentences.
The returnees were landed by ship either at Opunake or New Plymouth. They came mainly by the SS Hinemoa from Dunedin and Lyttelton gaols in January and May, from Lyttelton only in June, and the fifth and last group arrived from Hokitika on the SS Stella in the same month. When they gathered to attend the monthly ’ui at Parihaka on 18 June, they were a moving sight. Some were so broken were they in health and spirit. Others, having been sentenced to solitary confinement for up to seven weeks, were seriously ill and still recuperating from the harshness of their prison conditions. They had not been properly fed. A number had been beaten for not working hard enough; some were whipped for minor or trivial infractions.
Te Whiti praised them for their travails. He reminded them that they had not suffered in vain. ‘My heart is glad to welcome you,’ he said. ‘Though you be halt or blind you have conquered. You were not imprisoned for heinous crime, or theft, but for upholding the words of Te Whiti. In such a case prison-houses lose their disgrace and become houses of joy. You were imprisoned for the land, for the chieftainship, and for godliness. A sea of fish lying dead on the strand taint the atmosphere for miles around but the fact of your unjust imprisonment is now known far and near throughout the world.’
On their return, what did most of the men do? Why they joined the women and children repairing the fences and planting the road. They arrived home only to be arrested and sent back to the South Island again.
‘Of course,’ Erenora wrote, ‘it was not easy for my sisters and I to have
our hopes dashed again and again when our husbands were not among those who had been returned. Meri, in particular, took it very badly, mocking me unfairly with my own words, “Perhaps next time, Erenora?” However, we had good news from Whata, one of the men. “The last time I saw Horitana, Paora and Riki,” he said, “they were still alive. That was, of course, almost a year ago, though,” he cautioned, “at Mount Cook before we were shipped to Dunedin.”
‘Although our hopes rose, the rest of Whata’s information was alarming. “Horitana was in solitary confinement. This was because the prison warden regarded him as a ringleader among us and, also, he had fought with Titokowaru. He made matters worse for himself by refusing to wear the prison clothing with its broad arrow insignia, and was thrown into the cell clad only in his loincloth. He must have suffered dreadfully from the bone-chilling cold, but he never thought of himself. He would call out to the other prisoners, ‘Kia ka’a, kia manawanui. Have strength, and be of good heart.’ One night, in an act of rebellion he turned up his gaslight when the order came for lights out. In solidarity with him, some of the other prisoners turned their lights up too. Guards warned him, ‘You’re only making things worse for yourself.’ He was given a lashing for starting a mutiny. Two others, Tamata Kuku and Te Iki, were put in solitary confinement with him and fifteen more men — including Paora and Riki — were on bread and water for two days.”
‘“Do you know if our husbands are still in Mount Cook Prison?” I asked Whata.
‘“No,” Whata answered. “You should ask one of the other men.”’
The Parihaka Woman Page 10