Hīkoi (v.24)

A poem by Ātea editor Liam Rātana.

We should write something about it—

strange if we didn’t.

You’d want something insightful, wouldn’t you,

something about

feet moving,

fists pounding,

flags waving,

horns honking,

voices shouting loud enough

to wake even the deepest sleep.

We’re always angry,

ready to mobilise,

to grow big, loud, frightening.

The Treaty Principles Bill is “dead in the water”

but thousands will march, let them know—

we’re pissed off anyway.

Disenfranchised, disillusioned, dishonoured.

Last time, they called for a Māori parliament—

some labelled it a Pākehā concept.

The Iwi Chairs Forum, a UN of our own.

We’ve marched for Palestine,

for te takutai,

for te Tiriti,

te reo,

te whenua.

We’ve marched against the TPPA,

the one percenters,

genetic tampering,

nuclear power.

The soles of my shoes worn thin

from all this marching,

but because I exist,

I resist.

We occupied Pūtiki,

Ihumātao,

Whāingaroa,

Takaparawhau.

We chopped down trees,

flagpoles,

even each other.

A system never built for us,

yet one we’re forced to enter,

changing it from the inside out—

even if it devours us.

Some who take on the nation’s cause

haven’t seen home in months;

the grass grows long in their urupā,

weeds crawl over the headstones of their tūpuna,

and cobwebs drape their whare.

Too many lanes to swim in,

so we drown instead,

caught in currents

we never created,

pushing shit uphill.

Submission,

petition,

repetition—

fatigue.

Tired eyes turn inward,

begin with our broken selves:

whānau,

hapū,

iwi—

maybe then we can change the world, right?

Laws don’t hold us—

only those who wield them like blades.

Revolution is easy

when everyone remembers.

The Treaty is fraud.

Honour the Treaty.

Entrench the Treaty.

Toitū te whenua,

te reo,

te Tiriti.

We crafted peaceful resistance—pièce de résistance—

and guerrilla warfare.