Parihaka - The power of peace

In this edited extract from Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, Taranaki kaumatua George Tito, chosen by elders as a kaitiaki or guardian of the marae, describes what Parihaka continues to mean to him.

Parihaka has enormous meaning. It's where my afterbirth is buried, so I'm part of it. I was born in the house [Te Paepae] that my sister Freda looks after. I grew up there till my Dad's brother died and then we went to the farm.

A lot of people were living there then. They were hardy people. There's only about four of us alive that used to go chasing the sheep out of the gorse and blackberries, bringing themin to be shorn.

Since my parents died and my eldest sister took over at the marae, it has changed dramatically.

I draw from Tohu and Te Whiti as peaceful people and it's in me to be that way too. With disputes, they always call on me to mediate. Even the police ask for a hand. I've got no certificates for that.

When you are talking about suicide, people have bought their children here and I've helped them out. Sometimes I get a bit afraid of the rules and regulations - you've got to have a certificate for everything. But if they come here of their own free will, I give them an open heart and tell them what I think.

I think it stems from what I've learnt at the marae. But it seems so silly - the cheekiest fellow in the marae caught on to that.

Parihaka was very good when I grew up there. Everybody helped each other and saw the big picture for the marae. We lived off the big orchards - the grapes, cape gooseberries, peaches, plums ... everything.

It was there for the giving, for the taking. But nobody filled their shirts up. We took what we wanted and carried on to the next thing.

There's a bright future for Parihaka. When Dad's brother died I felt sorry for the place. But for some reason the young people have converged back and sometimes on the day of Tohu and Te Whiti it's overflowing and they have to set the tables twice. It's because the history is starting to be told.

When I went to High School in Opunake it was never mentioned. There were only a few of us that came from the marae. We were the only ones that knew about it.

A few years ago Opunake High School came to the marae and some of the children were outside and they said, "Are we allowed to go into that building?"

"Sure,"' I said.

Inside they asked, "What's that Titokowaru (a fellow Maori chief) about?"

"He was the fellow that tried to defend the taking of the land by the Pakeha in those days. How many of you have heard of Titokowaru?" There were only three of them, including the teacher, who put their hands up.

I said, "How many's heard of Oliver Cromwell then?"

Lots put their hands up.

I said, "It's time they taught you the bloody history of your own district."

I knew the teacher and my boy was in that class, and the next day he came back and said, "Dad, the teacher said you tell your bloody father I'm starting on it right now."

That was the sad thing about it - we learnt more about the other side of the ocean than we did about Taranaki.

Those big stones straight opposite the marae - the back-warmers - I think of the old people there in those days sitting, talking, and I think they are talking about the future ... . how long it's going to take before things are straightened out.

Parihaka's got to be rebuilt and there's got to be schooling all over again. There are a lot of people waiting on the sidelines that are good teachers.

Mum and Dad took over the day of Te Whiti on June 6, 1946. Every month I used to take them back to carry out those days, like how Te Whiti used to have his days.

It's exactly the same today. We have a meeting. If there's anything to be spoken about, anything to be bought up, let the people know. No hidden agendas. If there are, you soon find out.

From the marae at certain times of the year, different families would shift down to the beach. There's some land that was for the old people and where they planted kumara, beautiful, beautiful kumara.

Each family dug their own well. That was their fridge.

In the meantime we were there in July before the beds were set down. We're catching lamprey eels [piharau] across the river and all the families joined in to set up the lamprey eel beds.

The old people were really good with their food. They never kept it to themselves. They distributed it out and it's gone on to the young fellows along here now. They distribute it like back in the 50s.

The old people, I have missed them in my life. They used to come down home, sit around the fireplace, but I was there just to nark them instead of listening.

It's totally different now. The people coming are cherishing what they are hearing.

I'd like to see the community expand, but not just to show that Parihaka's emerging back, but to benefit the people on the outside, to encourage them to come back and be free to ask about what is theirs.

There may still be a few young people frightened to open up but it's good if they come here and ask about things: "Why is my family like this on the outside?"

Perhaps someone will stand up open-mindedly and say, "Try this. Come back more often. Bring your family with you."

That's how I've been with lots of people who've come here to ask for different kinds of help. An old auntie, the last one with the moko at the marae, said to me once, "Whether it's your brother, your sister or your cousin, if you don't teach them to be good to one another how else will you get on? Be good to one another."

I get called on from all round to help marae. If I can do it, I'll do it for them. They've made me the speaker up here. The old people back in 72 said, "We want you to be our speaker at the marae, there's nobody else."

I didn't want to be part of that in the olden days. I kicked myself out and I blame myself. I was very fortunate to grasp what I know about my Maoritanga, te reo, the language itself. I would never be frightened to go anywhere.

At the marae I wanted everybody on the same level so there would be no bickering. I would see a young fellow and say, "You can open the mihi for us, please." To be wanted is the greatest thing on earth.

"Stand up and mihi. Just because I'm there don't be shy. The opening is there for you."

Some of the old etiquette will say that's wrong. But how else can you start them off?