Journalist Jonathan Milne says the contrast between Maori and Pakeha ideas of land ownership is paralleled in their contrasting ideas of sovereignty. So it is that the calls of groups for 'Maori sovereignty' cause offence to some Pakeha, while the calls for a unilateral move to a republic are abhorrent to some Maori.
"Ahi kaa, ahi kaa, ahi kaa,
I need not live on it
I need not build on it
I need not plough on it
But the land is mine.
Ahi kaa, ahi kaa, ahi kaa,
As long as I return to it
As long as I burn fires on it"
-- Songs to the Judges
t seems some time now since Ken Mair and the protest organisation Te Ahi-Kaa rose to prominence, with their involvement in the occupation of Moutoa Gardens and other activities. Many Pakeha decried the actions of Mair and his followers as 'terrorism', and regarded Te Ahi-Kaa as incendiary. In one respect, they were right. 'Ahi kaa' means the burning of fires, a symbol of the maintenance of land-title by using the land.
Mervyn Thompson, writer of the musical Songs to the Judges, says 'burning fires' covered a multitude of possibilities. "The common thread was the notion of 'keeping the land warm', using the land even when the tribe was not in residence on it. In this way a sense of kinship with the area was established -- the tribe 'belonged'." Many of this country's problems are argued to stem from the different mindsets of Maori and Pakeha.
Different relationships with the land, te whenua. Different conceptualisations of sovereignty, of rangatiratanga. Yet we need not dig back far into our roots to discover that we share much in common. Pakeha are no less able to understand the spiritual importance of land, than Maori are able to understand the value of land as a commodity. Most Pakeha can relate to the farmers of John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath -- like us, their grandparents or great-grandparents were European immigrants in a 'new country'. "Sure, cried the tenant men, but it's our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours -- being born on it, working it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it."
As the end of the millenium approaches, many New Zealanders -- tangata whenua and tangata Tiriti alike -- may seem to have the lost any sense of emotional and spiritual connection with 'their' piece of land. We live in city apartments. We work at desk jobs. We spend our leisure time in bars, cinemas, or in front of the television. However, a little delving into our family histories, our heritage, will reveal the superficiality of our urbanisation. We are all defined by where we come from, by our roots. With a small effort, we are able to use our own heritage to understand another person's experience.
The contrasting ideas of land ownership are paralleled in ideas of sovereignty. When the Treaty of Waitangi was signed in 1840, Maori and Pakeha placed quite different interpretations upon the nature of the sovereignty being ceded. In the 1990s, the misunderstandings remain. So it is that the calls of groups like Te Ahi-Kaa for 'Maori sovereignty' cause offence to some Pakeha, while the calls for a unilateral move to a republic are abhorrent to some Maori. To blame our historical differences on the clash of two cultural mindsets may be justified. But it is no excuse for continuing misunderstandings.
As republicans, we must make the effort to understand and reconcile the different interpretations of land ownership and of sovereignty. Only by doing this can we, and the nation of New Zealand, make a fully legitimate decision to move to a republic.
