The last thing we need this morning is another lament about protests at Waitangi and this will not be one. I like the fact that our national day is a kind of thermometer of our post-colonial project. But I am not at Waitangi this morning and I wasn't there last year because I don't think it fairly represents Maori thinking any more.
Possibly it never did. I first went there when Jenny Shipley became Prime Minister and made it her mission to return to the Treaty ground. I deeply admired her for it. Lange and Bolger should never have let a rowdy and rude reception keep them away. There are ways to preserve dignity in these situations. Bolger never went back after somebody trampled on the flag and spat at the Governor General. Shipley said she would have gone to the flag, picked it up, folded it and taken it back to her seat.
Waitangi was a revelation to somebody who had grown up in the South Island with no Maori connections whatsoever. Te Tii Marae was host to hundreds of campers from other tribes. The Maori sovereignty flags were flying, waka were on the beach, Maori food, art and social programmes were available from the kiosks. Women dressed in black kept a relaxed eye on children and watched waka parties perform and protest marches form with equal pride.
Next morning, in the darkness before the dawn, some of the country's highest-ranking figures in politics, justice and public service shuffled into the meeting house in their socks and sat on the floor. Around the walls, the seats were taken by elders with their walking sticks which they soon used for oratory.
Long speeches were given in a language I didn't understand and didn't need to. This was a heritage of centuries. It was the essence of New Zealand, existing nowhere else, and it was profoundly enriching for those of us lucky enough to be there. It left me thinking this culture could not be denied the national expression that all ethnicities need somewhere. Maori nationalism was real in those days, I wonder if it still is.