A Treaty of Hope

A Treaty of Hope

(Vocabulary in bold - translations at bottom of document)



         The hut was dark, and a rank smell saturated the air. Some would say it was the stench of death. Some people stirred in restless sleep, others were horribly still. I heard a small child whimper somewhere in the darkness. The Sickness had struck our iwi.

         “Kaihautu,” I felt a hand on my shoulder. Father Isaac was looking gravely at me. I did not take the usual time to marvel at his white skin and fair hair. He was holding the Holy Book in one hand, and with the other he guided me to a corner where a young man lay on a mat, hard earned moko curled on his jawbone and cheeks. I reached out to touch my brother’s hand, but Father Isaac gently restrained me. “Do not let the Sickness touch you,” he warned.

         “How is he, Father?” I asked, withdrawing my hand, still staring at my brother. I had never seen him so still before. His eyes were closed, and the only movement was his painful breathing.

         “I fear Arana will be joining The Lord,” Father Isaac said sadly. Suddenly Arana stirred.

         “Kai?” Arana’s lips moved, and his eyes fluttered open.

         “I am here,” I said. Arana’s breath was labored.

         “I wanted to tell you...” he paused.

         “What? What did you want to tell me?” I prompted, determined not to cry. I looked away as Arana grimaced in pain, glancing at a sleeping child with pock marks on his face. Many had died already, by strange illnesses we had never seen before. Visitors told us that in other parts, whole hapus wiped out.

         “You will be a good tribe leader for us,” Arana finally gasped out. I swallowed hard.

         “No. That’s your job Arana. When you get better.” I spoke the words, forcing myself to believe them. Beads of sweat were forming on Arana’s face.

         “But...be cautious of the Pakeha. They take advantage of the Maori. Don’t let them... do that to the Ngati Rauru.” I swallowed with difficulty.

         “I won’t.” Arana sighed, and his eyes closed. “Arana?” I whispered. There was no response. Arana was gone.

         Father Isaac reached for me, but I was already hurtling out of the hut. Complicated carvings on huts became red blurs as I ran past. Finally I scurried up a tree. The village was laid out before me, a wall of logs surrounding clustered huts. Behind it, the blue shimmering ocean lay. I fingered the smooth bark of the tree. Arana was dead.

         I was the son of the chief of our iwi. Now I was next in line to become the chief. I should not cry. I must be strong. But high up in the tree, I let the branches hide my tears.

         

         Hautu’s little hand clung to one hand, and Atawai to the other. I watched the hui emotionlessly, the carvings on the marae watching over the rituals. Relatives, close and distant were arriving. They brought sorrow and kohas. Wails filled the air as women clothed in black expressed their grief, waxy green kawakawa leaves wreathing their heads.

         “Come on,” I whispered to my sisters, starting to edge into the crowd.

         “No!” Hautu whimpered, her eyes huge with fear. I knew what she was scared of. Beyond the crowd would be the open coffin of Arana. I almost wanted to drag Hautu to it, angry at her fear. He was our brother, after all. Atawai gave me a swift look.

         “Kai, don’t,” she whispered, tugging nervously at her puipui. I knew she was afraid too. Suddenly I was ashamed. Carefully I lifted Hautu up and hugged her close. Her little arms tightened around my neck, and her long dark hair tickled the back of my neck.

         “Will we all die of the Sickness?” Atawai asked. I understood her concern. Arana’s was not the first funeral this week. One week, so many died that there was trouble performing all the needed ceremonies. Now funerals were rushed. Usually they would last several days, with relatives constantly arriving. There would be many huis, with visitors giving speeches, and telling stories. Arana’s was large because he was a very well liked, and the son of the chief. “Kai?” Atawai’s soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “Will it?”

         “No, no. Of course not!” I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. Suddenly I felt like a huge weight had been placed on my shoulders. Now I was the oldest, the younger ones would be my responsibility. My chest seemed to ache with the knowledge that Arana was gone forever.

         We stayed back, watching people walk past. The Maori had suffered, and it showed in the people. Thin men with shrunken faces clustered in groups. Their kohas were small, and their sorrow worn with countless tragedies.

         “We cannot trust the Pakeha,” a man boomed nearby, complicated moko on his face showing high rank. Some men nodded, others stayed stony faced. Many of them were from our iwi, which gathered during some social events and other events.

         “They have brought us many things,” one man protested. “We can trade with them, and they have showed us many new things. And they have brought us to the Lord.”

         “For what cost, Pui? Our lands have been taken from us, more each day. They bring us terrible plagues which can kill a whole hapu.” The voice of the man was broken.

         “Our village has lost many good people,” one man put in.

         “I remember when the Ngati Rauru got muskets,” one man winced. “We would have all been slaughtered if we hadn’t found a trader who could get us some too.”

         “The Ngati Maru was the first to get muskets,” said a proud voice. This was greeted with cries of outrage. Soon all the men were arguing over which tribe had obtained muskets first and won which tribal war.

         “What do you think about the Pakeha, Kaihautu?” a deep voice behind me asked. I twirled around to find my papa standing beside me. My face reddened as I realized he had watched me listen to the conversation which was not mine.

         “Papa,” I ducked my head. Papa’s face was a maze of lines, both of moko and age. A long cloak was draped around him. He looked as he always did, stern and proud, but today there seemed to be an air of sorrow around him. His face bore new creases of grief, and I wonder if he too had shed tears over Arana. I decided he probably hadn’t. Chiefs don’t cry! I told myself with an air of despair.

    Papa gazed at me, his dark eyes searching me. Hautu and Atawai were silent, perhaps intimidated. Suddenly I realized he had asked me a question. “Papa, I do not know what to think of the Pakeha,” I began cautiously. “They have brought us many goods, and Father Isaac is kind and respectable, as well as a good man of God.” It was true. Many of our items were from the Pakeha, I had some Pakeha clothing, and some of our newer huts were designed like theirs. And Father Isaac had been in the village for longer than I had. His dainty wife had helped Mama give birth to me, Atawai, and Hautu. And Father Isaac each Sunday told us about God and Jesus. “But..” I paused, my voice becoming bitter. “It was their disease which killed Arana. And so many others,” I thought about all the faces I would never see again. “I know they have taken much land too,” I added, racking my brain for anymore knowledge which would impress Papa. I knew from the older men that the Maori once had much more space and land. They said that the Pakeha had made our quarters more cramped, and our conditions worse.

I watched Papa apprehensively, hoping that my answer had pleased him. Hautu squirmed behind me.

    “I thought it would get better…” Papa sighed, looking out over the clumps of people to the ocean. “When they had me sign the Declaration, it sounded like they would leave us alone, but nothing changed,” Papa sighed, and I stood like a statue, not wanting to disturb him. I wasn’t able to believe that he was confiding all this in me. You’re going to be chief now. Maybe that’s why. I wondered if Papa talked like this to Arana. The lump in my throat swelled. After a moment of silence, Papa gave me a nod and moved off.

    Atawai and Hautu dragged me off to watch the women prepare the meal at the marae. They were eager to get away from the wails of the mourners. We picked at the grass as we watched women dug shallow holes in the ground and lit fires. They then put the food inside, on top of heated stones and closed up the holes with flax mats.

    “Kai?” Atawai asked, absentmindedly twisting a piece of grass in her deft fingers. I grunted. “What’s the Declaration Papa was talking about?” Atawai looked at me curiously.

    “Do you remember when Papa went off to a big Pakeha city for a bit?” I asked. Atawai shook her head. She would have been too young. “Well, he went to go sign something that the chief Pakeha wanted,” I simplified the terms so that she would be able to understand.

    “What did it say?” Hautu became interested. I shrugged. Traders had talked about it a little, but I was pretty young when it all had happened.

    “I think it said that chiefs were in power,” I shrugged again. “I’m not sure. A lot of chiefs went to go talk about it.”

    “Like Papa?”

    “Like Papa.” I affirmed.



    After the sun had gone down, I sat broodingly by the fire. Atawai and Hautu were already asleep. An old man chanted the names of our ancestors. I recognized names here and there from stories that people told. My body ached to get back into the regular rhythm of life, the daily farming, fishing, and gathering. I wanted to wake up in the morning and not be informed that yet another person had died, or someone had gone off to the Pakeha city to find work on a whaling boat. Suddenly Papa slid onto the bench beside me, his face grave. The shadows of the fire flickered eerily, dancing on all surfaces.

    “Kaihautu, I will be leaving tomorrow,” Papa told me. I stared at him. “A messenger has arrived saying that there is to be a new treaty between the Maori and Pakeha,” Papa’s voice was hopeful. “One that will work, and stop all this suffering.”

    “Papa…” I started. Then I nodded.

    “I will not be gone too long. Mao will help lead the hapu,” Papa referred to his best friend and counselor.  “Chiefs which signed the Declaration are being called first.” Papa turned to look at me.

    “I will help,” I blurted. My face reddened. I was not even a man yet, my face without moko. Papa smiled.

The next day, I held Hautu tightly as we watched Papa leave. Atawai huddled at my side. The village was aflame with rumors and opinions. Some said that the Pakeha treaty wouldn’t do anything, like the Declaration. Others were eager to gain more alliance with the Pakeha. But nobody really knew what the treaty was suggesting. Dragging Atawai and carrying Hautu, I sought out Mao. If anybody knew what the treaty said, it would be him.

    “Mao,” I bowed my head respectfully as I approached the tall skinny man. He was crouched by a large piece of wood, carefully carving. Shapes and images sprung out of the wood where his knife passed over. Mao looked up.

    “Kai,” he said kindly. He peered around me at my hiding sisters. “And Atawai and Hautu it seems,” he laughed.

    “Mao, do you know what the treaty will say?” I asked, unable to hold my curiosity in. Mao put his knife down. Wiping his hands on his pants, he stood up.

    “Ah, the treaty,” he sighed. “I have heard many things about it. The treaty will make sure we stay independent and give us protection. It also will make us in a better relationship with the Pakeha.” Mao’s brow creased. “I fear some Pakeha will not read it this way though. They see things differently.” I nodded. Mao had before explained to me the Pakeha’s strange view on buying land, telling me that they saw it more of theirs to keep forever and only theirs. They thought they could do whatever they wanted with it.  Mao picked up his knife again. “The treaty… I hope it will help. Only time will tell. First we have to see if your papa even signs it.”

    Finally Papa came back. He looked tired and hungry, his shoulders sagging. But there was hope in his eyes.

    “Did you sign?” I asked, unable to hold my question any longer. The whole village was buzzing about gossip centering on the treaty. Word from other iwi had come, saying they had signed or not signed. About a dozen different people had explained the treaty meanings to me. Each one was different. The trader had told me that New Zealand was being annexed, and that was why they needed the treaty. “Did you?” I asked, although I knew that Papa would want a moment to enjoy arriving home.

    “I did,” Papa said finally.

    “Do you think it will help?” I asked. Papa paused.

    “I think so. From what the treaty said, it sounds like this will help.” Papa sounded so sure that it lifted my spirits. As Papa explained the Treaty of Waitangi, I knew that it would help. The treaty would share power with the Maori and protect land.

    I remembered my promise to Arana to be cautious of the Pakeha and smiled. Arana would have been pleased with the treaty.

    Then I recalled what Mao had said. “They see things differently.” Sighing, I gazed into the distance. Only time would tell. But maybe things would finally change for the better.



Vocabulary:

Iwi- Tribe                  Pakeha- White people                              Koha- Gifts

Hapu- Sub-trib          Marae- Meeting house, center of village    Puipui- Kilt-like skirt

Moko- Tatoos            Hui- Meeting ceremony                            Maori- Indigenous people of New Zealand