the treasure of home

Sunday was Waitangi Day and I stood at the window at the end of the day and watched the sun go down. It was fiery golden right up until the moment it dipped below the horizon. The girls were in bed and most of the cleaning up from the BBQ lunch we'd had was done. I stood looking out the window at the glowing horizon, the brick house over the road and the trees, green green all the way up to the top of the ridge. I thought about how good it was to belong to New Zealand.

I was born in Spain, but Mum was a kiwi, and Dad immigrated to New Zealand from England as a child. We lived together in Madrid for a few months and then headed to New Zealand via England. I arrived at customs, Auckland airport, still all new at only four months old. There is a photo of my parents walking through the arrivals gate pushing a trundler of suitcases with a woven bassinet perched on top. I was home.

I was home, yet I didn't fully realise it for another thirty-six years. Home is a funny thing. Some people are at home wherever they are. Others can spend years living somewhere and never feel at home. My Grandmother was like that. My Grandfather dragged her to New Zealand when she was thirty-seven, two children in tow. She's about to turn ninety-nine, and she still calls England home. I've never questioned the fact that I am a New Zealander. I have the citizenship papers to prove it. And yet I haven't always known what being "home" really meant. When I was younger I spent a lot of time either travelling or wishing I was travelling. I wanted to go everywhere. I still do.

Then soon after Isobella was born a story was conceived. I don't talk about this story much, but if I'm lucky, you'll get to read it one day. The story was breathed out of the very dust and soil of my mother's home town Raglan. It's an earthy story, with roots that go back farther than I can see. The story made me fall in love with Raglan. It opened my eyes to see that I actually belonged to this place. It was in me.

The Maori have a concept "Turangawaewae" that is sorely lacking in western culture. Turangawaewae means "standing place." Te Ara, New Zealand's online Encyclopedia describes Turangawaewae like this;

"Tūrangawaewae is one of the most well-known and powerful Māori concepts. Literally tūranga (standing place), waewae (feet), it is often translated as ‘a place to stand’. Tūrangawaewae are places where we feel especially empowered and connected. They are our foundation, our place in the world, our home... In the concept of tūrangawaewae, the external world is a reflection of an inner sense of security and foundation. The mountains, rivers and waterways to which one can claim a relationship also express this internal sense of foundation."

I wrote about this a year ago. We had spent a week on Great Barrier Island, and being there I felt the same feeling I'd felt falling in love with Raglan. That same incredible feeling of belonging. The group we were with had gathered to learn and talk about New Zealand History, The Treaty of Waitangi, and the role of the church in all of that. During the week we had a spontaneous powhiri - the welcoming ceremony used when visitors arrive on a marae. Those who were immigrants to New Zealand and those who had never felt like they truly belonged here were invited to be the "manuhiri" or visitors, and the rest of the group were the "tangata whenua" - the welcomers or literally, "people of the land" who would welcome them to New Zealand. I knew straight away I needed to be manuhiri. It wasn't that I was conscious of not belonging, it was that intellectually I have always known I was a visitor. Not just because I was a literal visitor at the age of four months, but because I was pakeha. Deep down I saw myself as an outsider.

The powhiri was the real deal. I joined the group of manuhiri and we stood shoulder to shoulder as the call came out.

"Haere Mai! Haere Mai! Haere Mai!
Haere Mai ra e te manuhiri tuarangi e
Haere Mai! Haere Mai! Haere Mai!"

We moved slowly towards the voice that was calling us and the people waiting for us on the other side of the room. As we walked, I suddenly found that tears were rolling down my face. I hadn't realised I needed to be welcomed. I could have easily chosen to stand with the tangata whenua. The decision to be manuhiri was purely intellectual. But my heart was telling me otherwise. My heart was telling me I needed to belong.

So this Waitangi Day was special. For the first time I actually felt like celebrating. We kiwis are funny about Waitangi Day. Historically it has been a focus for Maori protest. Most non-Maori New Zealanders see Waitangi Day as a holiday and not much else. We turn on the TV news at night expecting to see images of Maori waving placards. A red-necked minority resent Maori and their grievances. Some Maori resent pakeha, understandably. It's a complicated situation, with a history full of tragic injustices and misunderstandings. Not unlike the history of so many other colonised nations.

But there's a difference. We have a treaty. In 1840 Britain was being urged to do something about the growing number of English and other immigrants in New Zealand, and the ensuing lawlessness and land-grabbing. The urgency was being voiced by Christian men - the same group that with William Wilberforce saw slavery abolished. Britain was reluctant, not wanting to repeat the past.  However in the end there seemed to be no other path, and she agreed on the grounds that the transfer of power be just.

So the treaty was born. A well-meaning but hastily drawn-up and poorly translated document. We have a complicated relationship with this treaty of ours. We can go through years of treaty history in public schooling and still not understand either its vitality or its uniqueness.  Waitangi Days come and go, protesters come and go, and we remain ambivalent. Yet it is ours.

The Sunday Star editorial yesterday was entitled "Waitangi Day's evolution cause for cautious pride." The editor noted that treaty settlements are now "treated as normal events" and that they have "restored a small portion of lost taonga and considerable mana."  This is good, and the atmosphere of celebration that is slowly coming to Waitangi Day is entirely appropriate.  But it's hard to celebrate something that's not entirely yours. Belonging to New Zealand means sharing ownership with the others who belong here. Ownership comes with responsibility, but it also comes with the many benefits and priveleges of belonging.

The conversation about the treaty belongs to all of us here in Aotearoa New Zealand. If we leave it to those at either extreme of the political debate then the conversation is not complete. More than that, our absence in the conversation is a form of filial laziness. We are the absent adult children, out of reach just when the family needs us most.

Where are you at home? Whose table do you eat from? How often do you stop to appreciate the feast that is laid out for you? What contribution do you bring?

Dorothy says it, Dave Dobbyn sings about it, we all know it, but there's no place like home. To have a home, and to feel at home, is one of the greatest treasures any human can have.

We got a dog just after Christmas. Silas was a rescue puppy, straight from the pound. He's a sweet and easy-going five month old lab-cross and it hasn't taken long for him to settle in. Two months ago he was wandering the streets, abandoned, but now as I write he's sprawled across our doorway on his back, legs splayed. He's at home.

I've got three daughters and they're at home too. They love their country. They get excited about our beaches and bush and birds, and they sing the National Anthem like a prayer without anyone even suggesting to them that it is one. I've been here since I was four months old, but in a way I'm just as new as my girls or the dog. So I'm taking my cues from them and making myself at home. I'm stretching out and speaking up. I'm home.

Thanks to Cindy Ruakere and friends for making this incredible version of our National Anthem. I've been listening to it as I write, and I challenge you to listen and not feel your spine tingle.