I feel them coming before I see them. The sound of men. A bugle. Horse smells. Dust rising. I’m excited. Not afraid. We boys practise our haka. In front, the girls sing. Behind, the squatting adults murmur quietly. All wear the symbol of passive resistance; a white feather. No weapons. The smell of newly-baked bread wafts tantalisingly over us. Gifts for the approaching British soldiers. Among the crowd, my tattoo-chinned nanny, and my mother, still nursing my younger brother. Mindful of the order, ’Do not resist’, even though the bayonet be pointed at her suckling breast. Grieving for my father, imprisoned for ploughing the land taken from us.
“More land! More land!” the settlers had cried. Land, the key to accumulating wealth. The government listened, confiscating our homes. With my parents I had listened to the stories about this Te Whiti; a spiritual leader, his coming foreseen in a vision; his conversion to Christianity; his determination to retain his lands without hostilities. Yes, his village at Parihaka, would be our sanctuary. In our hundreds, even thousands, we had gathered here. We lived his dream. Around us now, fields alive with spring growth.
In horror, I watch the government man on his high horse demand Te Whiti come forth. Our preacher of peace is taken. There is no battle. We scatter. 1500 soldiers knock down houses, trample crops, smash fences, kill cattle, harass women. I look to the bush to shield my mother. There will be no sharing of this land.
What happened was... 