The price of citizenship

Anzac Day. Although it was originally established as a public holiday to commemorate the deeds of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (Anzac) during World War 1, it has become a day of remembrance for all those who served and died in wars, conflicts and peacekeeping operations.  On the war front and at home.

Many of us are fortunate to share whakapapa with these people; including my maternal Pākehā grandfather, Private John Bruce Perriam (Artillery, Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force) and my paternal Māori grandfather, Private Mount Paringatai (C Company, 28th Māori Battalion). They are two, among a whole list of relatives, to whom I pay homage every Anzac Day. But I think about them every day.

On November 7, 2024, the Last Post bugle call resounded throughout the country as the final remaining soldier of the 28th Māori Battalion, Sir Robert ‘‘Bom’’ Gillies, joined the rest of his comrades in eternal rest. His passing is of significance to Aotearoa as he was the last physical reminder of the price of citizenship Māori paid by participating in World War 2. According to ‘‘Koro Bom’’, war was a terrible waste of life, even more so when the value of sacrifice made by our Māori men was not recognised on par with those of Pākehā.

Article Three of Te Tiriti o Waitangi reads: ‘‘the Queen of England will protect all the ordinary people of New Zealand and will give them the same rights and duties of citizenship as the people of England’’ (widely agreed translation of the Māori text). Sir Apirana Ngata was of the view that this meant that Māori had an obligation to enlist to support Britain in World War 2. That it was our duty to do so was based on an agreement that our tīpuna had signed 100 years earlier. We heeded the call of our esteemed leader. More than 3600 men served with the Māori Battalion, 649 were killed, 1712 wounded and 267 taken prisoner. This number of casualties was almost 50% more than the New Zealand average. They more than paid for the price of our citizenship. Not that anyone gave them a receipt.

There is no doubt that the impact of war on all soldiers and their families is not one that is peculiar to Māori. Anxiety, depression, nightmares, flashbacks, hypervigilance resulting in disturbing behaviour and habitual addictions does not know gender, race or culture. However, the way the government went about celebrating and compensating those who returned home was not of an equal standard. While many Pākehā soldiers were given parcels of land to begin farming, to develop a strong economic base, it was assumed that all Māori soldiers had access to tribal lands on which to do so. That was not the case. In fact, in some cases, Māori soldiers had had their land seized while they were overseas because of unpaid local council rates, while tracts of land destined for Māori soldiers were so vehemently opposed by local Pākehā, the government had no choice but to renege on their deal. Additionally, while all returning soldiers were eligible for war pensions from the government, Māori soldiers were paid less.

The price of citizenship was comparable to the price whānau paid.

Koro Bom’s passing also elicits memories of the men who many of us never got to meet. Their existence is resigned to the annals of history, their names forever immortalised on the memorial boards that hang on the walls of nearly every marae and community hall in all Māori settlements throughout the country. Pāpā Mount was one of five Paringatai boys who enlisted. Two sets of cousins belonging to two brothers: my great-grandfather and his older brother. Only two of them returned home. We continually lament the opportunities lost of never being in their presence, of never hearing their voices, of never feeling their hugs, of never rolling our eyes at their lame jokes.

Koro Bom’s death challenges descendants of the 28th Māori Battalion to think about how we keep not just their memories alive but also to remember the injustices they faced. How do we continue to speak their exploits as each generation passes? Or will they become nameless faces that sit in frames we dust off once a year?

I decided to be more deliberate than that. My daughter’s name is Manuhou. She is named after Pāpā Mount’s first cousin, Manuhou Snr, who was killed in action on December 16, 1941 and is buried in Libya. His wife died in childbirth and when he enlisted in the army his two children were sent to be raised by their mother’s people in Te Whānau-a-Apanui. His son, Manuhou Jr, eventually ended up in Dunedin with his whānau, where our paths crossed more than 25 years ago. And they continue to cross on a regular basis.

There are very few people in Horoera (the home of the Paringatai whānau) who remember Manuhou Snr, or Manuhou Jr. But through our Manuhou they will. And our Manuhou (and her brother) will learn all about the five Paringatai boys who gave their lives to save ours.

 

E pari rā ngā tai ki te ākau
The tides surge on to the seashore
E hotu nei ko taku manawa
As my heart sobs
Auē! Me tangi noa ahau i muri nei
I lament without restraint
Te iwi e, he ngākau tangi noa
Everyone is heart broken

(Composed by Paraire Tomoana (Ngāti Kahungunu), 1918)