Keywords

  • Tēnā e te iti, tēnā e te rahi.

  • Kia areare te taringa, kia areare te ngākau.

  • Ki tēnei kohinga mahara ōku mō te tū a Parihaka,

  • ki te hāpai o te poi, ki te puaki i ngā waiata,

  • ki te pupuri i ngā tikanga tuku iho i runga i ngā whakatupuranga.

  • Ahakoa he kohinga nāku, ehara i te mea nōku,

  • nō Parihaka kāinga, nō Parihaka tangata me ōna manu e rua.

  • Nau mai, titiro mai, pānui atu, whakarongo.

  • To all who give this their attention.

  • For the ear to be open, so too does the heart.

  • This is a collection of experiences and thoughts on Parihaka,

  • the performance of poi, the expression of song,

  • and the transference of principles and legacies across generations.

  • Although I have written these considerations, they do not belong to me,

  • they belong to the village of Parihaka, to the people of Parihaka,

  • to their leaders from the past.

  • Welcome, look, read and listen.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

This is the story of a year-long journey with the people at Parihaka, a small rural Māori community near the western cape of Te Ika-a-Māui, the North Island of Aotearoa New Zealand. It is a depiction of their generous acts of reciprocity, their commitment to manaakitanga (hospitality) and their passionate advocacy of the tikanga (values, principles) of their forebears. It is a narration of our work together to create Witnessing Parihaka, a semi-staged musical work. It is a portrayal of consultation, collectivism and collaboration between a community, a composer, a poet and the performers and musicians, both Māori and Pākehā. This led to tamariki (children) and pahake (learned elders) travelling from Parihaka to Tāmaki-makau-rauFootnote 1—Aotearoa’s largest city—to perform with the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra.

It is my hope that this account will highlight considerations for those intending to work on similar projects and contribute to a wider discussion on collaborative indigenous creative projects. Interspersed within the main text are 12 short chronological narratives beginning with descriptions of my return to Parihaka and ending with my final thoughts and reflections on this cathartic year-long journey.

1 Witnessing Parihaka

Witnessing Parihaka depicts the events surrounding the invasion of Parihaka in November 1881 by a heavily armed Government militia; this was despite the people of Parihaka’s use of non-violent resistance to protest against the Government taking their ancestral land. The opening lines of the text—written by the poet Robert Sullivan—evoke two powerful and pervasive Taranaki and Parihaka symbols, the maunga (mountain) Taranaki,Footnote 2 and the raukura (feather, plume, treasure).Footnote 3

  • First Feather

  • touching hair

  • E tu feather

    • Tu tonu

      • Stand on

        • feather

  • Good Thought Mountains

  • Rongo is peace

    • Maunga is a mountain

  • Maungaarongo

  • Mountain of peace

  • E tu TaranakiFootnote 4

Four Parihaka girls—Rangiawhina, Jameco, Courtney and Tatijana—performed in Witnessing Parihaka. At the time they attended the local kura kaupapa (Māori language and cultural immersion school) called Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Tamarongo and they lived on the papa kāinga (village) of Parihaka. Their kaiako (teacher), Whaea Ngapera Moeahu and Parihaka pahake (learned elders) from all three marae performed with them on stage. The central section of the piece is a series of short soliloquies, spoken by eyewitnesses to the invasion and sacking of Parihaka. These characters are minor protagonists who bear witness to the village’s peaceful stand. They are a Pākehā field press reporter, two Parihaka children, a Parihaka villager, a Pākehā soldier and the militia’s six pounder Armstrong Gun. Two professional actors, Te Kohe Tuhaka and Stuart Devenie, performed these spoken parts. Interwoven into the musical score is the Parihaka waiata poi E rere rā,Footnote 5 as well as other musical references to Parihaka’s musical tradition,Footnote 6 including the traditional performance by Kui Whero Te Rangi Bailey of the ceremonial drum Te Puapua, its symbolic function and musical role unique to Taranaki and the tribal group Te Ati Awa iwi. Witnessing Parihaka was first performed at the Auckland Writers and Readers Festival in May 2011 and then again in 2013, at a UNESCO sponsored schools concert at the Auckland Town Hall.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
One: May 16, 2010: Taranaki coastline

As my partner Kiri Eriwata and I drive along the scenic northern coastal road, in the distance we catch glimpses of snow on the maunga (mountain). Winter is arriving in Taranaki. We are embarking on a journey of return and renewal; for me to a place that holds powerful memories, links to youthful ideals and aspirations, and for Kiri, to the home of her Taranaki tūpuna (ancestors), a pilgrimage to reconnect with her Taranaki whānau (extended family). We have been planning this trip for two months, communicating with people from Parihaka, including my partner’s kuia, Whero Te Rangi Bailey and the director of the Parihaka Peace Festival, Te Miringa Hohaia.

Earlier in the year the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra had asked if I was interested in composing a new dramatised orchestral work. I quickly realised that this was the opportunity I had been waiting for—a chance to return and be with the people at Parihaka again—an opportunity to see if we might work on a creative project together. It had been thirty years since my last visit to Parihaka. I had stayed there several times in my teens and I had become very close to four Parihaka kuia, in particular Matarena Rau-Kupa, or Aunty Marj as she was known by most people. To this day I can still vividly remember the time I spent with her, her strength of character and her tenacious determination to foster and communicate Parihaka’s living legacy. These experiences created a strong and lasting impression on me; I had wanted to return for many years.

Now, as Kiri and I near the Parihaka turnoff, my mind is full of questions; will I be able to reconnect with the community, will they accept me after an absence of so many years, and will they be interested in collaborating with me? As we draw into the main entrance, night has fallen. The moon floats high in the sky, its light shining on the waharoa (entrance/gateway) and wharenui (meeting house) of Parihaka. Kua tae mai tāua—we have arrived.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

2 Parihaka—A Place of Historical Significance

The settlement of Parihaka stands halfway between the foot of maunga Taranaki and the rugged west coast of Te Ika-a-Māui.Footnote 7 By the late 1860s it had grown to become a thriving village as Māori from across the region and country travelled there to seek refuge from the strife generated by the land wars that had started to engulf the country. Its two leaders, Tohu Kākahi and Te Whiti o Rongomai, led a spiritual and political movement that employed the use of passive resistance to oppose the New Zealand government from coercively taking ancestral Māori land. With the arrival of Government surveyors and land agents, to assert the continuity of iwi ownership rights, teams of Parihaka workers were formed to remove survey pegs, reconstruct dismantled garden fences and plough up their tribal lands at a range of sites across the Taranaki region. In response to this, in November 1881, 1500 militia and heavily armed constabulary surrounded, plundered and occupied Parihaka. A number of Parihaka men and their leaders were arrested and incarcerated without trial after which the occupying soldiers ransacked and looted houses, intimidating and threatening the remaining families—this included instances of rape. Further peaceful Parihaka protests and illegal arrests took place through till the middle of the 1890s—over several decades, millions of acres of Māori land was seized and taken by the New Zealand Government.Footnote 8

3 Māori Community Narratives

Across Aotearoa, marae based rural communities have retained unique cultural narratives passed down from one generation to the next. As in the case of Parihaka, a significant number of these stories are saturated with the traumatic scars of colonisation, in particular the pain caused by ancestral land being taken forcibly. The disturbing effects of these events continue to be felt by the descendants and have yet to be reconciled or healed. To this day, not many people in mainstream Pākehā society have heard the descendants of the original protagonists tell these highly personal and vivid narratives.

Since returning to Parihaka in 2010 I witnessed several creative artists as well as senior representatives of arts and media organisations publicly approach the community during formal gatherings; they wanted to tell the Parihaka story to the outside world. Unfortunately a few of them did not seem to comprehend the degree of misrepresentation that has taken place in the past, the effect this has had on the community and just how intensely the community feels the mamae (pain) from the past. These feelings are real and powerful. Those making such requests would do well to first devote time getting to know the community, and to patiently observe and listen so that they might understand the prevalent issues and appreciate the needs of the people.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Two: August 20, 2010: Parihaka papa kāinga: Taranaki

A group of us stand huddled against the bitterly cold wind and rain outside the wharenui (meeting house), Te Niho o Te Ati Awa. It is the middle of winter. We have travelled from around the country to acknowledge the life of the kaikōrero (orator) Te Miringa Hohaia—to tautoko (support) his whānau (extended family). Soon everyone is ready. We climb the path towards the marae āteaFootnote 9 of Takitūtū, past the monument placed over the tomb of Te Whiti. As we sing and walk in step, Kui Whero Te Rangi Bailey raises the beater in time and strikes Te Puapua. Boom … boom … boom. Ka rangona atu te patukituki i te pahū i ngā takiwa o te papa kāinga—the sound of the drum resonates across the village.

Our feet touch the whenua, the same ground crossed by the Parihaka villagers and the constabulary soldiers in 1881. We remember the children who sang to these men as they surrounded and invaded their village. We arrive—the marae ātea of Takitūtū lies before us. One-by-one we enter the wharenui, Te Paepae o te Raukura. We hold the whānau in a loving embrace and shed our tears of loss. Speakers stand to acknowledge Te Miringa. “Haere, haere, haere ki tua o te arai tūturu o tō tātou tūpuna (go forth, go on, beyond the ancient veil of our ancestors)”. While each of them speak in turn, Kui Whero stands bowed over Te Puapua gently accompanying each utterance, each prayer, each breath.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

4 Who Should Tell These Stories?

Who has the right to tell an indigenous story and what or who are the most credible sources of information and knowledge? These are important questions for the arts and education communities to consider and reflect upon. There is no doubt that in the past “indigenous languages, knowledges and cultures have been silenced or misrepresented” (Smith 1999, p. 20) and that indigenous communities are still being adversely affected by Western attitudes, methodologies and prejudices. When creative artists (and others) choose to tell indigenous stories and rely heavily upon Pākehā written records—as opposed to indigenous oral accounts—they disassociate and disempower the communities to whom the original narrative belongs.

If we look at written Pacific history we find that most of it is the work of papalagiFootnote 10/outsiders, and that most of it is based on records written and kept by papalagi explorers/missionaries/clerks/etc. So we can say that that history is a papalagi history of themselves and their activities in our region; it is an embodiment of their memories/perceptions/and interpretations of the Pacific (Wendt 1987, pp. 86–87).

The narrator of the story—no matter who they are—has a genuine responsibility to consider whether they have the right to be using or referencing indigenous knowledge in an artistic work, and if so, who has given them this right and what are their obligations to the legitimate owners. Even if the outline of the narrative is publicly well known, the responsibilities remain the same.

5 Building Relationships of Trust

In the months following our first trip, Kiri and I returned and stayed at Parihaka many times. While we were there we spoke with many people, exploring if and how the project might proceed. We helped in the kitchen, washed dishes, prepared food and had many inspiring conversations with the locals and the visitors. Out of these encounters friendships grew—people got to know us and gradually confidence and trust developed between us.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Three: September 18, 2010: Te Wharenui o Te Niho o Te Ati Awa, Parihaka: Taranaki

Kui Maata Wharehoka, Whaea Ngapera Moeahu and I sit down at one of the long wooden tables in the dining room of the wharenui. Maata is the kaitiaki (guardian) of the marae and Ngapera the kaiako (teacher) at the local kura kaupapa (Māori language and cultural immersion school). It is a soft warm afternoon. We share a pot of tea and talk, joke and laugh—time passes quickly. Maata is curious to hear what my compositions sound like and so I retrieve my bag from the car and we listen—one at a time—through a set of headphones. An animated conversation follows. We discuss how the papa kāinga children—also students at the kura kaupapa—could be part of the new piece. Later that night in the wharenui, Kiri and I sit in the soft dusk light enchanted as the children move poi through the air and sing Parihaka waiata, recounting the stories of their ancestors. Many portraits of their tūpuna hang on the walls of the wharenui—they look on approvingly.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

6 Ngā Tamariki o Parihaka

After this meeting, Maata, Ngapera, Kiri and I collaboratively worked together to develop the role of the tamariki (children). We discussed what waiata (song) they would perform, what they would do and wear on stage, and how best to prepare them to work and perform with a professional orchestra. Maata and Ngapera gave generously of their time and shared their knowledge and insights with us throughout the project. Our relationship developed through discussion, listening and sharing over many months and years and it continues to this day. At its core is the common desire to support the tikanga (values, principles) and the people of Parihaka.

Early on we decided to feature the children of Parihaka in our piece because of their prominent role at the Pāhua—the invasion and sacking of Parihaka. On November 5, 1881, early in the morning, groups of children and women gathered inside the papa kāinga. As the armed constabulary and mounted soldiers entered the village, the children greeted them, singing waiata and playing games, their peaceful response ensuring Parihaka’s non-violent objectives were clear for all to see. Many of the children that welcomed the soldiers that day are tūpuna of the people who reside at Parihaka today and this is one of the reasons why the spiritual and emotional connection felt by the community towards these events is so real and palpable.

After much consultation with the Parihaka community, the poet Robert Sullivan and I met in Tāmaki-makau-rau to consider ways to portray the Pāhua in musical and dramatic terms. We began by discussing the text about the children as Robert had already written about them in a set of previous poems that acknowledges Parihaka, Poems from Another Century, for Parihaka. Footnote 11 Reading these poems had inspired me to ask Robert to collaborate on the project. In the following stanzas Little Voice, one of the Parihaka children, recounts the arrival of the soldiers on the morning of the Pāhua.

Little Voice

  • We can feel them coming. The horses’ feet,

  • and the guns on wheels, make the ground rumble.

  • We keep skipping and singing.

  • The soldiers get close enough to touch us.

  • But we keep skipping and singing.

  • The soldiers aren’t very friendly.

  • They yell at us.

  • One picks me up and drops me on the roadside.

  • His friends laugh at me. Say I’m fat.

  • Then the rumbling starts again.

  • My friend gets stood on by a horse.

  • I feel very scared.Footnote 12

Robert and I decided early on not to quote or make a direct reference to the two Parihaka leaders, Tohu Kākahi and Te Whiti o Rongomai. This was motivated by a desire to avoid misrepresenting the tikanga, teachings, and personal appearance and opinions of these two revered leaders. During the next few trips to Taranaki I read Robert’s proposed new text to Parihaka pahake for their consideration and feedback. Once they were happy I began composing the orchestral music.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Four: December 10, 2010: Māori Land Court sitting, Te Ikaroa-a-Māui, Owae Marae, Waitara: Taranaki

As Sarah Reeves stood and spoke, the words flew from her mouth, cascading, bouncing over the heads of the people in the wharenui; stories and then names—the names of men my father knew well, names from the past, names I had not heard for decades. As I sat at the rear of the whare, Aunty Marj on my left and Kui Whero on my right, the words twirled around me, encircling me. I could not hold them back. The tears flowed—unrelenting, forgiving tears.

It had been thirty years since my father’s tangihanga (funeral); his tangi had been held on the other side of island Te Ika-a-Māui, at Kohupatiki marae just out of Heretaunga.Footnote 13 Further south from there, I had grown up in the town of Waipukurau. Hearing the names of the men my father—and Sarah’s father—knew so well transported me back in time, their names evoking memories, stories and connections between my whānau and the kaumātua (learned elders) we knew.

As I recover I recall the wero (challenge) issued by a kuia to me at my father’s tangihanga—was I going to carry on his work, supporting and helping the people? He aha ngā mea nui o te ao? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata!—what is the most important thing in the world? The people, the people, the people! Now, decades later, I ponder—have I taken up the challenge, and if so, am I up to the task?

$$ ++++++++++ $$

7 Connecting to the Past

Working on this project provided me the opportunity and impetus to contemplate the significance of the past and how it intersects and impacts on our daily lives. Instances such as the above visit to Owae Marae reinforced my desire to consider a number of questions; were there specific triggers that brought the past into the present, why did my sense of connection intensify when it involved people I knew—family, friends or others I felt close to, and was knowing the historic narrative essential or was simply being present at a specific place enough to prompt me or others to feel and experience the events that had taken place there?

Some people are reluctant to discuss and engage with the past particularly when this has the potential to highlight contentious issues or unresolved conflict. This unwillingness is even more noticeable when the incidents in question link people to those they know or are related to. For those living on the Parihaka papa kāinga, the past is ever present and it is frequently acknowledged, discussed and debated. Living with the past like this can be a deeply cathartic as well as a traumatic experience. Recollection and open dialogue have the capacity to spawn feelings of optimism and respect for one’s tūpuna as well as the potential to uncover and heal deep-seated mamae (pain) and taimahatanga (burdens/heaviness/depression).

8 Replenishing the Pātaka of Knowledge

In the nineteenth century, Māori developed strategies to cope with and survive the introduction of foreign diseases and Western ideas and attitudes. From the 1840s onwards, the overwhelming influx of Pākehā immigrants meant land was highly sort after and to acquire vast areas of Māori land the government employed a range of coercive strategies and policies. This loss forced many Māori to move away from their homes and their whānau in search of work and a way to survive. In the case of Parihaka, the invasion and destruction of the papa kāinga and the illegal arrest and detention of hundreds of protestors also took its toll on the community. These events and a decline in the numbers of inhabitants during the first half of the twentieth century adversely affected the continuity and exchange of local knowledge and traditions. Fortunately, in recent decades more and more descendants have returned to live at Parihaka, contributing to a gradual rebuild of the papa kāinga, marae and community. Regular wananga (educational forums) are held at Parihaka to support the revitalization of Parihaka’s traditions. For the community—and those who closely associate with Parihaka—the many waiata that form the core of their musical tradition function as treasured time capsules, expressive vehicles through which they can look back in time and consider and study the thoughts and feelings of the people who composed and performed them. Gradually the pātaka (storehouse) of knowledge is being replenished and restored.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Five: December 2010: Te Paepae o te Raukura, Parihaka: Taranaki

Koro Te Huirangi Waikerepuru sings; his vibrant voice fills the wharenui. “Poua ki runga, poua ki raro … kei whea te pou e tu ana. HEI ANEI! (Drive in the pole, upwards, downwards … where is the pole standing? HERE IT IS!).” Te Huirangi is a Parihaka pahake and an internationally respected orator. He explains the meaning of the kupu (words) he has just sung, the last verse of Pērā Hoki, a Parihaka waiata tawhito. He describes how pou (poles) act as powerful symbolic objects, demarcating land boundaries and communicating political ideas and principles.Footnote 14 We have been sitting together for over half-an-hour discussing the new orchestral piece. He has offered suggestions of waiata to use, explaining the origins and meaning of each. As we sit embraced by the four walls of the wharenui—a place that has witnessed so much—I ponder his many gifts as an orator and his enduring role to advocate for te reo Māori (the Māori language), and Taranaki and Parihaka tikanga. All of these are living taonga (treasures)—they are priceless and timeless.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

9 Mechanisms of Survival

The loss of Māori ancestral land had a devastating effect on a people for whom the whenua (land) embodied everything essential—identity, nourishment, and the physical and spiritual space within which to exist. During the 1860s and 1870s Parihaka became a haven for many. Thousands came to live at Parihaka seeking mutual support, leadership, hope and inspiration.

  • I te Rā o Maehe

  • I te rā o maehe ka iri kei te torona

  • Ka mau taku ringa ki te parau

  • E hau nei te whenua

  • Ka toro taku ringa ki te atua

  • E tu nei ko whakatohe

  • Ka puta te hae a te Kāwana

  • E tango nei te whenua

  • E kore au te taea

  • On a Day in March: The Ploughman’s Song

  • On a day in March I was suspended by the throne of God

  • With my hand to the plough

  • Swept across the land

  • My hand is extended to God

  • Standing resolute

  • The ill-feelings of the Government emerges

  • In the taking away of the land

  • It will not deter me

  • Footnote 15

All of the three main wharenui at Parihaka display historic photographs and portraits of their tūpuna. Upon entering Te Niho o Te Ati Awa, visitors are greeted by whakaahua—large historic photographs, portraits, paintings and other artworks depicting Parihaka’s past. Many of the historic photographs capture scenes of Parihaka in the nineteenth century such as women performing Parihaka waiata poi and the welcoming home of the Parihaka prisoners. Just as these whakaahua and other objects live on, so do the memories and traditions they represent. They testify to a legacy of passive resistance and signify the community’s work towards the reclamation of authority over their land and cultural inheritance.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

10 Collaborative Practices

Working on community collaborative projects such as Witnessing Parihaka have significantly illuminated, invigorated and transformed my work as a composer, artist and educator. Collaboration provides opportunities for a free flowing exchange of ideas, each participant unconditionally offering his or her own perspective, skills and knowledge. These qualities, when fully engaged, provoke a multifaceted open dialogue, where new creative and imaginative ideas emerge, frequently ideas that would not have been conceived by just one member of the group working alone. This exchange can be significantly enhanced when all the participants are motivated by a mutual goal and they work together guided by a set of agreed principles. In the case of Witnessing Parihaka all of the participants were united by the common desire to collectively work towards the betterment of the community, in particular the children—and the flow of ideas and dialogue was highly stimulating, enriching and rewarding.

As an educator of composers and songwriters I find myself asking what more can I do to encourage my students to adopt creative work models that utilise collective and collaborative techniques. Many Western based education and arts institutions still continue to elevate the archetype of the individual—the creative artist who in essence works independently from his or her fellow artists. This model continues to be promoted as an ideal despite the acknowledged benefits of collaborative work practices.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Six: December 2010: Ngāmotu—New Plymouth: Taranaki

Koro Rangikōtuku Rukuwai listens intently, his eyes closed, deep in thought. For several minutes he is somewhere else. Rangikōtuku is a direct descendant of the Parihaka leader, Te Whiti o Rongomai and he is the kaitiaki (guardian) of Toroanui one of the marae at Parihaka. He was raised here as a child. The music stops; he takes off the headphones and turns to me, “Yes, I like that. I think it will work.” He has been listening to some explorative drafts of instrumental music I had composed for the new piece. I wanted to know if he thought the music captured the right sort of mood. We are sitting in the lounge of Rangikōtuku’s family home in Ngāmotu.Footnote 16 Kui Maata has come with me to offer support. We finish talking—the room is full of thoughts. Rangikōtuku’s wife, Ngaraiti, brings out a freshly baked fruitcake and hot tea. Koinei a manaakitanga—this is hospitality!

$$ ++++++++++ $$

11 Questions to Consider Before Beginning a Community Project

Before initiating or agreeing to participate in a Māori community project there are some important questions that creative artists should ask themselves, no matter what their skill set or background. Firstly, does the community think the project is directly relevant to their needs? Secondly, what is my personal motivation for doing this work and do I wish the project to ultimately benefit the community group before myself? Thirdly, am I ready and capable of fully accommodating the needs of the community including significantly changing or stopping the project if it looks like it will no longer benefit them? And, finally, who is the best person to work on such a project? Is it the person who grew up in the community or can someone from the outside offer something beneficial, for example, specialist skills? When I asked kaumātua (learned elders) this question their responses have consistently reinforced the notion that first and foremost the creative artist needs to be asked and have the support of the community, whether the artist be from within or outside the group.

To summarise, for community collaboration to be successful, the needs of the community, that is the collective whole, need to be foremost in the creative artist’s mind. Rather than being restrictive, this approach is empowering. In the case of Witnessing Parihaka, Kiri and I waited for confirmation that the community wanted the project to proceed. As we approached the premiere and faced the challenges of mounting and performing such an powerful and emotionally charged real-life narrative, all of us—the creators and performers—were sustained by the knowledge that we had the support and backing of the Parihaka community.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Seven: December 2010: Parihaka: Taranaki

It is the morning of the rā tapu (sacred day) at Parihaka. The respected kaikōrero (orator) and educator Ruakere Hond and I stand outside under the gaze of the burning sun. Earlier, while we sat eating breakfast, I asked him which waiata he thought would be good for the girls to perform in the new piece. Now as we talk again he suggests several options—all waiata the girls know well. Ruakere thinks the Parihaka poi manu E rere rā is a good choice. I ask if there any tikanga I need to be aware of—for example, could one verse be performed by itself? As we stand discussing these things, the final words of E rere rā begin to speak to us. “Ko te hau ka wheru whakamomotu e whiuwhiu ana kei te uru e kei te tonga ka hari mai ki roto ka ko harihari, hei hei hei (a destructive wind beats us down, it tears us to shreds, it is the westerly and the southerly, it penetrates, a deep internal pain, the sound of soldiers presenting arms, hei, hei, hei!)”.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

12 Ownership of Space

In Aotearoa New Zealand progress is gradually being made in the field of bicultural composition—practices that bring together Māori and Pākehā traditions and artists. This is occurring as acceptance and support grows for the creation of new bicultural works, cultural understanding and awareness deepens, and imaginative minds productively respond to the opportunities and demands available. One of the challenges faced during our project was how to successfully present a distinctively Māori narrative and Māori perspective in a performance environment that was dominated by Western performance traditions and a physical space defined by Western notions of spatial organization—a symphony orchestra performing in a large proscenium arch theatre.

For the indigenous world, Western conceptions of space, of arrangements and display, of the relationship between people and the landscape, of culture as an object of study, have meant that not only has the indigenous world been represented in particular ways back to the West, but the indigenous world, the land and the people, has been radically transformed in the spatial image of the West. In other words, indigenous space has been colonised (Smith 1999, p. 53).

For the four Parihaka girls the prospect of performing with an orchestra in a large two-thousand-seat auditorium was both daunting and exhilarating. None of them had any experience of formal theatre or stage performance techniques. Learning how to own and define their own physical space and how to fully embody who they were and who they represented were new goals to aspire towards. Fortunately the girl’s perspective and appreciation of the world was deeply seated in their experiences of growing up on the Parihaka papa kāinga. Like many rural-based Māori children, they were raised in a community where participating in ritual and other forms of cultural and spiritual expressions were natural and routine occurrences. On the papa kāinga they regularly witnessed members of their community perform karanga (ceremonial call of welcome), deliver whaikōrero (formal speeches), sing waiata tawhito (traditional songs) and recite karakia (prayers). Their teacher, Whaea Ngapera had taught them many waiata poi and other aspects of the performance traditions of their forebears. When the girls started to prepare for Witnessing Parihaka we turned to these powerful and tangible understandings for insight and inspiration, to help build their confidence and to contribute depth and meaning to their performance.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Eight: April 16, 2011: Opunake High School: Taranaki

Rangiawhina, Jameco, Courtney and Tatijana sit in a small circle near an upright piano at the front of the local school hall. Ngapera, Kiri and I are preparing the girls for the first performance of Witnessing Parihaka. We have selected the largest local hall to rehearse in. Maata and Ngapera chose the girls—they are now an integral part of piece.

Together we discuss big spaces and how people through their thoughts and actions can fill them with their voice, their presence and their sense of being. I ask the girls to be really quiet, to close their eyes and listen. “Open up your ears, further … and further. What can you hear?” We wait for a minute; they listen intently. When they have finished, they tell us; “We heard the sounds from outside—birds, the wind, a squeaky door somewhere…” We talk more about their singing and I ask; “Do you think the sound of your voices can fill this big hall, can it reach into every corner, every space?” I then ask. “How far do you think your voices can carry? Can they reach back in time? Who will be listening?”

$$ ++++++++++ $$

13 A Tradition of Collaborative Composition

Parihaka’s musical tradition is a testimony to the strengths and benefits of community composition. Waiata were often written collaboratively involving an extended process of refinement and selection, in particular, the search for the most evocative text, and in the case of waiata poi or waiata ā-ringa, physical gestures that supported and added meaning and nuance to the views expressed in the text. Compositional practices such as these would have probably taken longer but the end result would have had the backing of the wider community, confirming its broad appeal and ensuring its ongoing use.

From 1860 through to 1881 the core philosophy and community approaches at Parihaka were formed. Passive resistance tactics became a larger feature of their strategy from 1878 and in 1880 Parihaka’s position increasingly came under attack from the state. This tension gave rise to newly established forms of composition and performance including the use of poi becoming particularly prominent between 1881 and 1900. These new waiata provided a way of voicing their principles, experiences and position in the conflict. They also acted as a means of communication in getting messages out. They were statements of philosophy where people presented their ideas and tested their perspective of the issues. If they weren’t responded to well by their audience then they fell from use and other ones were composed. Waiata that were appropriate or resonated with the people were the ones that were retained. They were shared with others and taught to successive generations, continuing to be performed. Other waiata were retained because they conveyed the shared identity and narrative of a specific group of performers. These were not shared but were sung only by those hapū or descendants (R. Hond, personal communication, December, 2010).

The qualities found of the text in E rere rā—the waiata performed in Witnessing Parihaka—are typical of Parihaka waiata. The words are multifaceted; they include double meanings, irony and innuendo. They are candidly outspoken and uplifting, capable of reviving the spirits of the performers and encouraging feelings of kotahitanga (togetherness in purpose) among the community. Waiata such as this ensured the maintenance of integrity and they inspired people to uphold the tikanga of Parihaka, even against insurmountable odds.

14 Te Puapua—Parihaka’s Ceremonial Drum

Te Puapua, one of two Parihaka ceremonial drums is nearly as old as Parihaka itself. It is a large Western bass drum made of calfskin, rope and wood—it is thought to originally be an instrument from a nineteenth century Pākehā fife and drum band. One of the early strategies employed by the people of Parihaka was to appropriate Pākehā objects, imagery and narratives. These were decontextualized and reused by the community for the purposes of affirming authority over the government and communicating their strategies of assertion and survival. The use of a Pākehā designed drum was as much a political statement as a musical one, its performance confirming their declaration of rangatiratanga (sovereignty).

The experience of witnessing Kui Whero playing Te Puapua at Te Miringa’s tangihanga (funeral) had a powerful effect on me. I learnt then what an iconic part of Parihaka’s musical legacy it was and I was entranced by her subtle and expressive performance skills. A few weeks before the premiere, kui confirmed that she was able to travel to Tāmaki-makau-rauFootnote 17 and join us on stage. At the rehearsals and performances she skilfully improvised throughout set sections of the piece—as she had done during the informal speeches at the tangihanga. At these points in the orchestral score I left rhythmic space for her to be able to extemporise, and the piece ended with her final improvised solo accompanied by a single delicate sustained orchestral chord. This ending ensured the audience’s focus remained with Parihaka—and not the orchestral music. Kui Whero’s solo provided a riveting and poignant finish.

We were very fortunate to have Te Puapua and Kui Whero onstage with us at both public performances, in 2011 and 2013. Musical instruments such as Te Puapua are live entities, they are independent living figures; people cannot control them. They have their own mana (prestige, authority, spiritual power) and their own mauri (life principle, vital essence), spanning both time and place.

15 Ko te Rā Tapu—the Sacred Day

The Parihaka descendants have maintained a tradition of remembrance that dates back nearly 150 years. The rā tapu (sacred day), held on the 18th and 19th of each month, are set aside for all to gather at Parihaka, visitors and tangata whenua (local people) alike. It is a time of commemoration, celebration and discussion about Parihaka’s history and tikanga. It is also a time for collective consideration of any requests or proposals made by residents or visitors. The format—after the whakatau (official welcome) and whaikōrero (formal speeches)—is an open forum where consultation is highly dynamic and very public; all can contribute, all can listen.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Nine: April 19, 2011: Mahi Kuare, Toroanui, Parihaka: Taranaki

It is 11.30 am on the rā tapu, the 19th of the month. We are assembled inside the wharenui Mahi Kuare. Maata, Ngapera, Kiri and I have been preparing for this opportunity to explain to those living on the papa kāinga about the planned trip and performance of Witnessing Parihaka. The other two marae confirmed their support yesterday. Seated on the pae (the speaker’s bench) are the pahake who have been advising us. Looking on from the many whakaahua (photographs, paintings, drawings) hanging on the walls are the tūpuna of this marae. “Ngā mihi nui ki a koutou katoa. Ka huihui mai tātou katoa.” I finish my speech, sing a waiata and sit down. What will their response be? Will the community support the forthcoming performance?

Koro Len Robinson, an elder at Toroanui stands. “Kororia ki te Atua i runga rawa, maungaarongo ki runga i te whenua, whakaaro pai ki ngā tangata katoa (glory to God on high, peace on earth, goodwill to all mankind)”. He continues, speaking with intensity, vigour and passion. He supports the new piece and performance; he believes this is an opportunity for the mokopuna (grandchildren) to be heard outside the papa kāinga, for them to represent Parihaka. Suddenly, without warning he stops and he sits down abruptly, collapsing in his chair. People rush to him. Is he all right? I tēnei wa, ka rere te piwaiwaka kei roto i te whare—at this moment a small bird (a pīwaiwaka) flies into the wharenui. It flits around above our heads in a wide circle—then departs as quickly as it arrived. Time seems to stop. I watch Koro Len to see how he is doing. Someone says he is OK—we breathe a sigh of relief.

Others stand—they support the project too. At the end of Ngapera’s kōrero, the four girls perform E rere rā; the support of the community is confirmed. The bell is rung—the food is ready.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

16 The Guardianship of Knowledge

Before presenting our proposal at the rā tapu we followed a process of informal consultation across the whole papa kāinga lasting many months. This was to ensure we had observed Parihaka tikanga and had the support of the elders from the three active marae. Publicly discussing the merits of Witnessing Parihaka at the rā tapu seemed a daunting prospect at the time as debate at this type of community forum can be intense and sometimes confrontational, and yet, presenting the project in this way was essential as confirmation guaranteed we had the full support of the community. The public performance of a new creative work like this, away from the home papa kāinga, is open to claims of misrepresentation. Everyone needs to be given the opportunity to question and be assured that the work will uphold the mana (prestige, authority, spiritual power) of the community.

Traditionally Māori observed strict oral traditions for learning and maintained rigorous processes of selection to ensure matauranga (knowledge) was only passed on to those who had the prerequisite skills and understanding as well as an appreciation of their collective responsibility to use knowledge wisely. To care for the people and to care for the knowledge is one in the same therefore whoever is entrusted with the knowledge has a responsibility to consider the needs of the people, the needs of the collective group. Parihaka matauranga is unique and it needs to be protected and treasured. By presenting our proposal at Parihaka’s monthly open forums we were acknowledging a vital community practice that ensured its ongoing guardianship.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Ten: May 10, 2011: Main stage, Aotea Centre, Tāmaki-makau-rau (Auckland)

It is the day before the premiere of Witnessing Parihaka. Kui Maata, Paora Joseph and I stand before three very large bound rolls of hand painted cloth. Each one depicts a raukura (feather, plume, treasure) and measures several metres in length. Janine, Paora’s partner has painted them. They will be elevated to stand like tall pou (poles) among the performers on stage. Ka whakatū ngā raukura—stand tall raukura!

Soon the orchestral stagehands will arrive to set up stands, chairs and percussion instruments for the orchestra. We unravel the panels, rolling them carefully out across the wooden stage. Paora speaks quietly; the words of the karakia (prayers) drift and then hover above the images. He acknowledges the tikanga they represent; he speaks to the past, to the people of Parihaka. As he finishes we notice one of the feathers lies in the opposite direction to the others, not because it was painted this way but because of the direction the panel was rolled. I wonder what to do. Maata smiles, “This is how they’ve revealed themselves to us, so this is the way we’ll hang them.” We carry in the tall three-metre-high wooden frames, attach the panels, two facing the sky—ko Ranginui—one facing the earth—ko Papa-tū-ā-nuku.Footnote 18

$$ ++++++++++ $$

17 Consultation and Observing Protocol

Every hapū and every marae follow their own distinctive set of protocols and although there are common customs, the differences can be significant. For Witnessing Parihaka we took advice from the Parihaka community at every phase of the project. I soon learnt who was happy for me to approach them for guidance and when I needed to understand more important issues I asked the advice of three or more people or pahake (learned elders). Throughout the project I tried my best to listen carefully, remain flexible and be free from any personal agenda. I was fortunate to be patiently guided through numerous decisions by many elders and overtime began to observe and appreciate the continuity of understanding that shaped the advice.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

18 Responsibilities to Indigenous Communities

Being part of this project highlighted what it feels like for Māori communities to have their cultural identity and knowledge misunderstood and misused by others. I witnessed firsthand the distress caused to members of the Parihaka community by the unsanctioned appearance of their taonga (treasures) on YouTube and other digital platforms. Composers, writers, artists and the arts communities have a responsibility to support indigenous people “to protect themselves from further misrepresentation, misinterpretation, fragmentation, mystification, commodification, and simplification” (Louis 2007, p. 132). Educators need to encourage their students to take the time to undertake an in-depth study of the origins and deeper values contained within an indigenous story and urge them to always meet and learn firsthand from the authentic knowledge holders. Learning the associated forms of cultural expression that accompany a narrative—such as an indigenous language, dance or music—is critically important. Similarly it is essential arts organisations consider how best to support collaborative projects that hand back control to indigenous communities and what constitutes best practice methodologies. Likewise creative artists can contribute much by discussing and considering the implications of how they engage with indigenous communities and what short and long-term effects this engagement has on them.

Indigenous methodologies are not merely “a political gesture on the part of Indigenous peoples in their struggle for self-determination” (Porsanger 2004, p. 8). They are necessary to “reframe, reclaim, and rename” (Steinhauer 2002, 70) the research process so that Indigenous people can take control of their cultural identities, emancipate their voices from the shadows, and recognise Indigenous realities (Louis 2007, p. 133).

19 Cross-Cultural Exchange

The final phase of this project brought together the Parihaka performers and the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra.Footnote 19 The intersection of these two divergent cultural outlooks, musical traditions and performance practices produced unexpected and moving exchanges. Members of both groups were personally enriched and inspired by the opportunity to work and perform together.

Lee Martelli, the orchestra’s education manager supervised our relationship with the orchestra and did so with care and sensitivity. Due to her understanding and assistance, significant adjustments and considerations were made to accommodate the bicultural nature of the piece—for example, karakia particular to Taranaki and Parihaka were said at the start of every orchestral rehearsal and before the first performance began, whaikōrero took place onstage.

For a project such as this it is important to have in place mechanisms and people that are able to respond and negotiate with the leaders of the professional Pākehā arts organisations. For Māori, the prioritisation of principles and processes that ensure transparent representation and collective decision-making are crucial. These often run counter to Pākehā values and systems that are founded on hierarchical management structures and processes that prioritise efficiency and the quantification of time.

20 Whanaungatanga—Interconnectedness

Three days before the premiere—almost a year since the project began—a convoy of vehicles from Parihaka arrived in Tāmaki-makau-rau carrying both performers and supporters. The next day we started our final preparations. The whanaungatanga (kinship, close friendship) felt by all was unmistakable; we were connected by our collective commitment to the project and months of preparation together. Our excitement and anticipation was high. From the first orchestral rehearsal through till the time we gathered side-of-stage to perform, we all felt the presence of ngā tūpuna o Parihaka—the ancestors of Parihaka—the people who, with dignity, courage and determination had upheld the principle of passive resistance and opposed the taking of their ancestral land 130 years ago.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Eleven: May 11, 2011: Main stage: Aotea Centre: Tāmaki-makau-rau

It is 6.30 pm. Rangiawhina, Jameco, Courtney and Tatijana are almost ready; Kui Maata and Whaea Ngapera have been helping them. At the orchestral rehearsal the girls performed their moves and singing with great skill: the waiata poi, the pūkana, and the ‘prisoners walk’. Outside the dressing rooms, Koro Len Robinson and I stand in the brightly lit corridor. He is elated—these girls have such confidence and composure and they are about to represent their tūpuna on stage. They symbolise the future of Parihaka.

It is 9.15 pm. All the Parihaka performers are gathered side of stage. We have completed our preparations, our karakia. It is time. Our bare feet feel the coolness of the wooden floors. From the darkness we walk through the orchestra into the light of the main stage, into the gaze of the audience waiting—the past is in front, the future behind us. The orchestra begins. A high-sustained chord sounds, steadfast and resolute. As it grows in volume Kui Maata starts the karanga (ceremonial call of welcome). Each wahine (woman) joins in, one after the other, voice upon voice, layer upon layer. The actors Te Kohe and Stuart begin, expertly capturing each character’s gesture and tone, “Maungaarongo, mountain of peace, e tu Taranaki”. The girls stand confidently—their singing fills the theatre. As the performance nears the end, all ears are transfixed—the ceremonial bass drum Te Puapua rings out for the last time as Kui Whero strikes the coarsely textured skin. The audience stand. They acknowledge us and applaud—on stage, we bow and hongi each other.

$$ ++++++++++ $$

21 Being Heard

For the performers from Parihaka, to plan, create, and then perform their own story in this way was a compelling statement to the world and to themselves. At the end of the performance, as they stood side-by-side in front of the orchestra, they witnessed firsthand the audience’s response. This was an opportunity to be heard and acknowledged by those outside their immediate community. As for the audience, their reaction was immediate, heartfelt and sincere. Their response confirmed that narratives told by the descendants of original storytellers do have the capacity to engage the wider public in a meaningful conversation with the past—to transcend cultural gaps in understanding. The positive benefits of creating and performing Witnessing Parihaka were undeniable, for the storytellers and audience alike. Perhaps if more people were to hear stories like these, discussions that foster greater understanding of past injustices would follow, encouraging tangible acts of reconciliation.

22 Discovering Our Ancestral Past

It is my hope that this account will encourage others to collaboratively engage and work with communities to tell their ancestral stories. Currently 40% of my tertiary songwriting students’ whakapapa to Māori or Pacific Island genealogical lines, while others have ties to a wide variety of other ethnicities: Russian, Dutch, Chinese, Korean, English, Scottish and Irish among others. After working on this project I started teaching a new songwriting module where students compose a song about their forebears, about someone who has personal significance to them. They begin by researching their wider ancestral past and they frequently uncover fascinating family stories—stories about conflict, love and loss, as well as ones that tell of overcoming adversity. This investigation has provoked them to consider further who they are and who their forebears were. Because of this work they produced some of their most personally revealing and poignant songs.

$$ ++++++++++ $$
Twelve: June 18, 2011: Parihaka: Taranaki

As Kiri and I arrive at Parihaka I reflect upon all the people we have met in the past twelve months—sons, granddaughters, nieces and nephews of the people I had known all those years before. It feels like the first part of the journey is now over—we have returned and again feel close to the community. At the premiere in May I was deeply moved by the expressions of aroha (love) and acts of generosity—by the fact that so many had made the long trip to Tāmaki-makau-rau to perform and tautoko (support) our new piece. The circle is complete.

23 The Journey’s End

The experiences of this yearlong journey reaffirmed to me the importance of honouring the communities we live in and acknowledging our connections to the people that surround us, to the places that hold significance to us. This project has informed my work as a composer and educator, reinforcing the indisputable power of the narrative to communicate and transcend cultural barriers as well as the capacity of ancestral knowledge to cultivate and strengthen a deeper understanding of who we are and where we come from.