Friday, 20 November 2015

The Hinge of Fate: The Siege of Waerenga-a-Hika, 17-22 November 1865

On Tuesday this week I gave a well-attended public talk at the Tairawhiti Museum as part of commemorations organised by Te Aitanga-a-Mahaki to mark the 150th anniversary of the siege of Waerenga-a-Hika (17-22 November 1865). Prior to the talk, I also spoke with Jesse Mulligan on Radio New Zealand about the siege and its commemoration. As I noted, Waerenga-a-Hika marked the start of a four or five year period at Turanga (Gisborne district) that contained among the darkest episodes in New Zealand history. 

The Gisborne Herald provided this report on my talk, followed by an editorial supporting my call for more awareness of the history of Waerenga-a-Hika and the New Zealand Wars more broadly. Local kaumātua also endorsed calls for a national day of memorial marking the New Zealand Wars that had previously been suggested by Tainui representatives and others.

Earlier in the week the local newspaper provided some useful historical background on the siege and the Waitangi Tribunal's findings on it. The day after my talk the main event was held at Waerenga-a-Hika, when a specially commissioned memorial was unveiled before a large crowd that included Kīngi Tuhetia. (See Te Karere's report here).

Subsequent to my talk, I received numerous requests from people wanting copies of it. The full text of my talk would be much too long to post here but a summarised version follows below.

A full house at the Tairawhiti Museum

One hundred and fifty years ago this week there occurred a siege that changed forever the course of Turanga history. It was a conflict that local Māori of all persuasions strove desperately to avoid. But the Crown was determined to impose its rule over the district once and for all while it had the force at hand to do so. And so, repeated Māori pleas to resolve matters peacefully were ignored and 800 Māori taking shelter at Waerenga-a-Hika (including over 300 women and children) were attacked. At the end of the six day siege on 22 November at least 71 of the pā’s occupants had been killed (though other estimates number more than 100, with a further eleven killed on the Crown side). Hundreds more were taken prisoner, many to eventually be illegally detained on the Chatham Islands along with Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Turuki. The government had finally overturned Māori autonomy at Turanga, imposing its own rule instead and setting the platform for subsequent land confiscations in the district. All of this is outlined in the Waitangi Tribunal’s Turanga Report, which found that the Crown breached the Treaty of Waitangi when it unjustly branded Turanga Māori as rebels and attacked them at Waerenga-a-Hika. And yet, despite this, what took place at Waerenga-a-Hika is little known beyond the descendants of those who were attacked. In this, the 150th anniversary year of the siege, it is time that changed. Waerenga-a-Hika as the historian Bill Oliver wrote many years ago, was the ‘hinge of fate for the Maori East Coast’. It is a chapter in New Zealand history that deserves to be remembered.

To understand Waerenga-a-Hika we need to consider what came before. Some Turanga rangatira signed the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840. But it was probably of little significance to them at the time and changed nothing on the ground. Turanga was not even visited by a Crown official for more than a decade. In 1855 the region received the first resident Crown official. He lasted five years before being withdrawn after reporting that Turanga Māori ‘unanimously & emphatically denied the Queen any right in these Islands’ and ‘yielded obedience or refused it as it suited their purposes’. With a tiny settler population in the district (a few dozen compared with a few thousand Māori) local iwi remained firmly in control of their own affairs, their runanga effectively the government of the district. That was a situation that the settlers and government officials increasingly found untenable. And so, it was almost certain that the Crown would seize any opportunity it could to overturn this state of affairs. That opportunity came about in 1865.

Although expressing sympathy for the plight of Taranaki Māori when war broke out at Waitara in March 1860, the Turanga tribes refused to become involved, declaring that it was necessary for them to remain at home and protect their own lands. They adopted a similarly independent stance towards the Kīngitanga, declining requests to support the movement on the basis that they already had their own kings, who were the ariki of their tribes.

Turanga Māori had no desire to become involved in what were to them essentially foreign wars. But when conflict came to their own district it proved harder to remain on the sidelines. Substantial numbers of Turanga Māori adopted the Pai Marire faith when its emissaries arrived in the district in March 1865. Those emissaries, Patara Raukatauri and Kereopa Te Rau, had been instructed by Pai Marire founder Te Ua Haumene to convey a token – a preserved Pākehā head – to the paramount Rongowhakaata and Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti chief, Hirini Te Kani. Te Ua had also warned the pair not to harm Pākehā, emphasising the ‘good and peaceful’ nature of the new faith. But at Opotiki, things had gone badly wrong when the missionary Carl Sylvius Volkner had been killed by local Māori, reportedly at the urging or instigation of Kereopa.

Although Turanga Māori condemned the murder of Reverend Volkner large numbers flocked to the new faith, prompting an exodus of settlers from the district. However, the Pai Marire party were quick to reassure those settlers who remained of their peaceful intentions. ‘[W]e wish to remain at peace and protect our Pakeha friends, and trade with them as before’, one was told.

The particular brand of Pai Marire adopted at Turanga was one based on autonomy of religious worship, rather than anti-European sentiment or intentions. Politically, it involved little change from the healthy scepticism with which Turanga Māori had always viewed Pākehā and their government, or from the strict policy of neutrality or non-alignment adopted by the Turanga tribes when confronted with requests from outside groups for assistance. Because of this there was little tension between local Pai Marire supporters and the kūpapa (neutral) or Kawanatanga (‘loyalist’) parties. In fact, Crown officials frequently complained about the extent of fraternization between these groups. Such tensions as did exist at Turanga were fomented by the Crown and its allies – with the full support and encouragement of local settlers. In May 1865 the Ngāti Porou chief Mokena Kohere hoisted a Union Jack on disputed land at Titirangi (Kaiti). Local Pai Marire refused to take this bait and ‘heartily refused to mix themselves in the matter’. In June civil war broke out amongst the Ngāti Porou, as ‘loyalist’ chiefs and their followers, supplemented by colonial troops and government-provided arms and ammunition, attacked Pai Marire members of their own tribe, supposedly in an effort to arrest the Pai Marire emissaries. In September the first Crown troops were landed at Turanga and by the following month the Ngāti Porou ‘loyalists’, having defeated their own Pai Marire followers, were making their way to Turanga in substantial numbers in order to ‘settle accounts’ with local Pai Marire and the refugees from their own civil war who were now seeking shelter at Turanga.

On 1 November, Donald McLean, the government agent for the East Coast, was ordered to march the force from Waiapu to Turanga and ‘enforce’ peace in the district, by immediately expelling all Pai Marire emissaries. War was now fast approaching at Turanga, a prospect apparently eagerly awaited by the Crown, its allies, and settlers full of resentment at having been forced to live according to Māori law for decades on end in what was supposed to be a British colony. Ironically, the only people who do not appear to have welcomed the impending showdown were the local Kawanatanga and Pai Marire factions – supposedly rival protagonists in the conflict. What followed were a series of desperate efforts on the part of Turanga Māori to avoid conflict, all of which were rebuffed.

McLean arrived at Turanga on 9 November and an ultimatum was issued to the tribes the following day. This required the handing over of all ‘murderers’, the immediate expulsion of Pai Marire emissaries from the district, an oath of allegiance, compensation to settlers for any property damaged or plundered, and the handing over of all arms. Within days of this, the Ngāti Porou refugees had left the district and reports were that the Pai Marire party were willing to accept the terms imposed so long as McLean would only cross the river to see them. This McLean outright refused to do. Turanga Māori now had until Midday 16 November to surrender or suffer the consequences.

The Pai Marire party might well have asked, ‘surrender from what’? The East Coast fugitives had already gone home, and restitution had been offered for the damages done to settler property. There had been no ‘rebellion’ at Turanga.

For McLean, and for other Crown officials it was not a question of making peace but of crushing the independence of Turanga Māori by force of arms while the resources were available to do so. While Turanga Māori desperately strove to maintain peace, Europeans were just as anxious to ensure war. As McLean’s close ally J.D. Ormond had written days earlier ‘I expect to hear...that war has broken out at Poverty Bay & I hope so too – we ought to give them a lesson whilst we have the force at hand to do it.’

If McLean had crossed the river to accept their submission then there would have been no war at Turanga, no Waerenga-a-Hika with all of the associated trauma. McLean knew this and deliberately refused to do so. What followed was in no way the fault of Turanga Māori. They had done all they could to avoid conflict.

Rongowhakaata and Te Whānau-a-Kai Pai Marire, led by Anaru Matete, had fortified themselves at Pukeamionga, a hilltop overlooking Patutahi, with their Te Aitanga-a-Mahaki kin taking cover at Waerenga-a-Hika. With the expiry of the deadline on 16 November all available troops set out for Pukeamionga. But in the morning, the troops changed course and instead marched on Waerenga-a-Hika.

As they approached the mission station, they fired unsuccessfully upon a group of Māori coming in their direction. This turned out to be Wi Haronga and his family, who had stayed on at Waerenga-a-Hika to guard the mission property, departing only at the last moment while others were busy removing lead from the roof to use as ammunition against the arriving troops. The commanding officer, James Fraser, and his forces claimed possession of the strategically-valuable Bishop’s house, from which they commenced firing into the pā.

This exchange of sporadic firing continued for two days until, on the evening of 18 November, a party of Rongowhakaata and Te Whānau-a-Kai Pai Marire – who had been watching the siege from Pukeamionga – cleverly managed to sneak in to Waerenga-a-Hika by disguising themselves with the white calico arm badges of the government forces. The following day as many as 200 more reinforcements arrived to support their Te Aitanga-a-Mahaki brethren, this time carrying with them the Pai Marire fighting flag, Riki. These men were soon joined by warriors from inside the pā, and together these groups advanced on the British troops. Rather than wait to find out their intentions, Fraser ordered the advancing party to be fired on. Thirty-four Māori were killed in this exchange, compared with just one slight injury on the government side. On 20 November an hour’s truce was permitted for burial of the dead.

The remains of Waerenga-a-Hika Pā after the siege (PACOLL-8800, ATL)

Even so, this minor victory for the British had hardly altered matters. Fraser reported on 21 November that ‘the aspect of affairs remains unchanged, the Hau Haus being too dispirited to attack us, and their pa being too strong to be taken without a little time’. Yet despite this report, less than twenty-four hours later the inhabitants of Waerenga-a-Hika had thrown down their arms, some having fled and others making their submission.

The received version of the siege of Waerenga-a-Hika would have us believe that, in the midst of a supposed bombardment, the pā’s inhabitants had hoisted a white flag and offered to surrender unconditionally. In reality it was the British side which had raised a white flag of truce and invited them to lay down their arms. Reassured by promises that the vast majority of their number would be permitted to remain in the district, many had done so, with others opting to escape instead.

A clue to the real reason why the people in Waerenga-a-Hika pā surrendered comes from Fraser’s description of them as being ‘dispirited’. They had never really wanted to fight and did not wish to see more of their people killed. They had been backed in to a corner by the government and had responded bravely for a week. But the time had now come to lay down their arms.

Clearly, this was not a war of religion or ideology between rival factions of the same tribe or tribes, but rather a war of conquest directed by the Crown against Turanga Māori with the assistance of its allies. It was a war that Turanga Māori never wanted to fight and one that would have devastating consequences for all of the iwi of Turanganui-a-Kiwa, who would variously be subject over the next decade to military occupation and loss of authority, illegal exile, land confiscations, socio-economic deprivation and starvation, dramatic population declines and further military actions directed against them. Although 150 years ago, those actions reverberated across generations and the consequences continue to be felt in multiple ways today. Waerenga-a-Hika was a pivotal – and perhaps even the pivotal – event in the history of Turanga. If we are to learn from the past and avoid repeating its mistakes in the future and if we are to mature as a nation, confident enough to embrace the difficult parts of our history then we need to ensure that the story of what took place 150 years ago this week is not forgotten.


Sunday, 1 November 2015

Book Review: Tony Ballantyne, "Entanglements of Empire: Missionaries, Māori, and the Question of the Body"

In August 1837, a group of Anglican missionaries belonging to the Church Missionary Society (CMS) assembled at Waimate, one of their stations in the Bay of Islands, in northern New Zealand. There the party proceeded to torch a cottage, destroying the property within it and even shooting dead a horse. A week of prayer and fasting followed. The unfortunate horse’s owner, William Yate, had been dismissed from the CMS months earlier, following allegations of an inappropriate relationship with one of the crew on board the Prince Regent during its journey from England to New Zealand a year earlier. That in turn had resulted in several Māori male youths coming forward to testify that Yate had engaged in sex acts with them.

Yate was hardly the first or last missionary to fall from grace, even within New Zealand. Yet as Tony Ballantyne argues in his new work, a close reading of Yate’s case has often been framed in terms of questions of sexual identity rather than the broader context of his dealings with other missionaries and Māori. Although Yate portrayed himself as a victim of injustice (and that image was largely upheld in historian Judith Binney’s work on the missionary), Ballantyne paints a much darker portrait of the man, whose ego alienated him from missionary colleagues and who, according to this new account, almost certainly coerced, bullied, or misled multiple Māori boys into their various sexual encounters.[1]

This provocative and challenging new reading of the Yate story is one of many incidents to feature in Ballantyne’s account of the place of the body in missionary and Māori exchanges in northern New Zealand between 1814 (when the first mission station was established) and 1840, when the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi heralded entry into the formal British Empire. Yet Ballantyne’s focus is neither exclusively sexual nor unduly restrictive. Employing a broad sweep of bodily practices and exchanges allows Ballantyne to examine many aspects of everyday Māori and missionary interactions. After a period of relative neglect, this is a topic that has been of keen interest to New Zealand historians in recent times.

Ballantyne tackles contending missionary and Māori understandings of such matters as space, labor, sex, and death, with considerable insight and ability. Arguably he overstates the novelty of his overarching argument that we should view these interactions as forms of “entanglement” rather than “meetings” or “encounters.” It is a notion well established in Pacific historiography thanks to the work of Nicholas Thomas (and also one referenced in my own study of pre-1840 New Zealand).[2] In any case, the preferred metaphor is ultimately less significant than the substance it is intended to convey, and here Ballantyne’s work sits comfortably within the recent historiography that overturns earlier depictions of missionaries overcoming initial hazards and trials to eventually triumph over heathen “natives.”

To the extent that the concept of “conversion” has any validity at all, such a process was never straightforward, with both parties influencing each other. As Ballantyne describes it, the missionaries did not, and could not, carve out “little Englands” for themselves but instead were confronted by Māori with their own cultural priorities and practices. The world of missionaries and Māori was one of constant “translation, compromise, and struggle” (p. 97). In spatial terms, missionaries were nearly always required to live where Māori told them—sometimes in accordance with Māori cultural preferences (especially in the earliest phase, when multiple families might be forced to live under the same roof, Māori-style, and without segregation of the sexes).

For Māori, work was outcome-focused and dictated by the wider needs of the community, whereas missionaries viewed the act of laboring as an inherent good in its own right. The result was that Māori worked on their own terms and in their own time, disappointing initial missionary hopes (led by Sydney chaplain Samuel Marsden) that “civilization” was a potential path to evangelization. Death and disease were ever-present realities for both Māori and missionary families in the era before 1840. In a striking analysis, Ballantyne calculates that missionary wives were especially vulnerable, dying on average some thirty years younger than their husbands. But interring and commemorating the dead was a complicated process in a land lacking consecrated cemeteries. Missionaries frequently had to make do in the early days by burying their wives, children, or colleagues in their own gardens. Meanwhile, Māori notions of tapu (sacred or subject to ceremonial restrictions) were not lightly defied.

Māori might have retained the upper hand locally, but Ballantyne argues that they could not control how they were represented in European texts. By the late 1830s, this became crucial as the British government contemplated further intervention in New Zealand and found itself to a large degree reliant on information supplied by missionaries and other “respectable” eyewitnesses for its understanding of what was happening on the ground. As the missionaries became increasingly gloomy as to the prospect of preventing significant colonization altogether, many concluded that there was no alternative to British annexation of New Zealand. That view increasingly influenced and clouded their reports, transforming Māori from the “hypermasculine” and martial people of James Cook’s time into weak and vulnerable victims of European contact. Colonization, at least in the missionary and humanitarian worldview, was to proceed cautiously and in tandem with the protection of Māori interests. Inevitably (although it is not a particular focus of Ballantyne’s work) the latter of these two incompatible objectives would eventually give way.

Considering its focus on the body, some matters might have merited more attention. Ballantyne registers missionary abhorrence of such practices as prostitution, cannibalism, and infanticide but fails to explore how Māori might have viewed these in any kind of sustained way. Given recent sensationalist accounts of Māori cannibalism especially, a careful and scholarly reappraisal of this topic would have been particularly timely.

There is the occasional slip. Abel Tasman did not name his discovery “Zeelandia Nova” but “Staten Landt” (the new name came later, inserted by Dutch cartographers after their own province of Zeeland). Overall, however, this is a work of considerable depth and value. In arguing that “entanglements of empire before 1840 neither destroyed Māori culture nor left it untouched,” Ballantyne seeks to challenge the view of unconstrained Māori agency while at the same time rejecting older “Fatal Impact” analyses (p. 257). Debate over the extent to which Māori were in control of their own destinies in this era remains a lively (and at times politically charged) affair, because it informs wider arguments about the context in which the Treaty of Waitangi was entered. Ballantyne’s work will in the future be essential reading for anyone wishing to understand and engage in this discussion.

[1]. Judith Binney, “Whatever Happened to Poor Mr Yate? An Exercise in Voyeurism,” New Zealand Journal of History 9 (1975): 111-125.
[2]. Nicholas Thomas, Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); and Vincent O’Malley, The Meeting Place: Māori and Pākehā Encounters, 1642-1840 (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2012), 7.

Printable Version:
Citation: Vincent O'Malley. Review of Ballantyne, Tony, Entanglements of Empire: Missionaries, Māori, and the Question of the Body. H-Empire, H-Net Reviews. October, 2015.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Tuesday, 27 October 2015

On Writing History, Colonization and Development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The Seeds of Rangiatea

By  Ian Pool, Emeritus Professor, University of Waikato
Vincent O’Malley has generously made space available to me for a guest-blog in his series. I should mention, even before I start, that I owe a lot to Vincent’s patient responses to my questions and other forms of help in writing my book.

Marching into the specialised territory of real historians is always a challenge for those of us who are on the fringes of the discipline.  In New Zealand this is particularly true, as Aotearoa has a significant corpus of powerful historical research – focused, technical monographs on many topics; elegantly written general narratives in the best humanities’ traditions;  and broader annales-type studies. In sum, I owe a large debt to historians. Above all, historians have carefully documented the 19th century, for example , its prime and momentous events, the key actors and their actions, the constitutional trends, the interactions of Pākehā and Māori (albeit mainly from Pākehā records), and so on. Additionally, also from the “outfield”, Richard Boast’s legal history is an authoritative voice on the policies and mechanics of Māori land loss. Much, of course, remains to done, and I hope that my book stimulates this. 

My research covers three axes: (i) population, (ii) development and (iii) their broader contexts. For the third of these I turned, with confidence, to the extant history by the “conventional historians”,  as represented by my blog-host’s own work both on pre- and post-Waitangi issues.  This, I thought, would be the easiest and most enjoyable aspect of my work. When I last drew systematically on historical research for my 1991 book Te Iwi Maori, I was impressed by what I had found. But the world had changed since 1991 – for the worse. Instead of a fast and comfortable passage, I have had to navigate through waters churned up by what I have called  “tabloid historians”. In its place “tabloidism”,  making history popular, is no bad thing, but also it must adhere to standards set by the discipline. 

Perhaps inspired by the American neo-con “culture war” or the revisionist Australian “history wars”, we have seen a wave of “historical” studies that have emphasised the lurid, very often inaccurately, particularly for the pre-Waitangi period. These “histories” rely on selected European sources. William Jennings seems to be that rare and patient author who has read 2000 documents of the Marist Brothers in mid-19th century French; “tabloid histories” even seem to by-pass a treasure trove of first-hand observations in the 1838 Report of the Select Committee of the House of Lords. By contrast, Victorian sources, often written well after Waitangi by people who had not been there but seemingly accepted uncritically by “Tabloidists”, often demonised Māori to justify their displacement and deprivation, arguing that the British were not responsible. Moreover, “Tabloidists” and their mentors – read Keith Windschuttle on Anne Salmond, a scurrilous and inaccurate attack – avowedly eschew Māori sources as “unreliable”.  Unfortunately, as Bain Attwood found when he confronted Windschutle – that so-called  “John Howard intellectual” – documenting a detailed rebuttal is a tedious process. Thus, I thought long and hard before I took on this challenge. Finally, I did so for three reasons: 

1. “Tabloidists” throw population data around with a total lack of care and little knowledge about what are drivers, and what are the maxima and minima of reported demographic trends – that is, what is feasible: I had the tools to set the record straight and felt obliged to do so (see below). 

2. “Tabloidist” soundbites and other pronouncements unjustly demonise Māori as stone-age “savages” – contrasting them with a “superior race”,  the British. They were were busily “clearing” the Scots and Irish from their lands, brutally putting down the Indian Mutiny and about to use Maxim guns on Mahdi’s poorly armed cavalry at Omdurman, a slaughter applauded by young Winston Churchill. Unfortunately, these notions have entered the public dialogue, right up to the highest levels – one only has to think of Key’s comments in 2014, to say nothing of Don Brash’s, Paul Holmes’, Michael Laws’ and others.

3. Perhaps most importantly, the attention of the thinking public has been drawn away from the “everyday story” of Māori life, especially pre-1840. Tumult and savagery are the profiled events. Yet, most Māori were in fact engaged in  “the factors of production and reproduction”. Even the emblematic and terrible “Musket Wars” were spotty in terms of geographic distribution and periodicity, probably more significant for population redistribution than for lethality. Here I was fortunate in having access to Ron Crosby’s incredibly detailed book; Michael King’s endorsement of Crosby is truly justified. Crosby also carefully cross-checked my parsing of his book – a very generous act. Despite one “tabloidist” arguing that from 1850 Māori benefited from a Pax Britannica, the New Zealand Wars, especially those of the 1860s, were both highly lethal and caused massive displacements, besides finally destroying most of Māori commercial horticulture. Moreover, from a military standpoint as James Belich has shown, the British resorted to massive force: 27% of all Imperial troops outside Britain and India were in New Zealand at one stage, far outnumbering the Māori warriors pitted against them, and engaging in all the actions that were to characterise colonial wars (eg “scorched earth” tactics in the Urewera in the late 1860s). Even modest protest – the 1899 Rawene Dog Tax “War” – saw military might (eg a naval ship, machine guns) brought to bear. And the attack on pacifist Parihaka by 1600 armed militia and police, led by the Native Minister, Bryce, must be New Zealand’s lowest moment.

To analyse Māori population trends I have drawn on well-tested methodologies (empirically as well as mathematically), grounded in demographic theory, plus the vast knowledge-base about how population dynamics and structures change over time, including what are limits to demographic trends. For dynamics (births and deaths), the so-called “indirect estimation techniques” of demography are robust and very useful. They are employed across the entire Third World to gain basic vital rates where data are inadequate, and thus the statistics used for almost all macro-level social and economic planning. But the rates merely provide skeletons, allowing hypothesis-building. I hope these postulates will be investigated in depth using the tools of expository research, particularly by historians with access to the “iwi” and “hapu” books written in Māori in the 19th century. 

This becomes even more important when one turns to the third aspect of my work: development. I have explored this mainly using secondary sources. But, until there is detailed expository analysis, my research on what “Mr and Mrs Everyday Māori” were doing in the 19th century must remain speculative. Despite the tumult of the inter-tribal wars and other dislocations due to contact and by the invasion of pathogens, against which Māori had no previous exposure and thus no resistance, everyday life continued and, in some ways, Māori prospered. Māori adopted and adapted new foods, tools and other technologies: I call these “clip-ons” to their economic system. But, they also built on their own skills and structures, such as the trading networks from the far north to the far south. By 1840 they were at a “take-off point” for serious development. They also brought a very tangible, huge dowry to the Waitangi Treaty table – all their land, their economy and their vibrant international trading ventures. What did the British bring? Intangible advantages of joining the British Empire?

This bring me to the end of my story. By 1897 (Queen Victoria’s Jubilee), Māori were in an “under-development trap”. They were barely surviving because of introduced disease. This was, of course, an unintended consequence of contact and colonisation. Given the state of 19th century health sciences, even had they wanted to, the settlers had no real means of  improving Māori health. But the gradual natural gains in resistance through exposure to disease were delayed for Māori because of the “development of [their] under-development” by their brutal displacement from their major capital base – land (to use Thomas Piketty’s definition of capital). But Māori did not have access to the financial capital that could allow them to escape this trap.

The sequel, which I am now working on, will explore their “escape”, first by improved survival, and later, but only partially, by building an asset base. 

[Colonization and Development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The Seeds of Rangiatea is published by Springer]

Monday, 19 October 2015

Colonization and Development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The Seeds of Rangiatea

Emeritus Professor Ian Pool of the National Institute of Demographic and Economic Analysis, University of Waikato, is an acclaimed demographer who has worked across Asia, Africa and the Pacific over many decades, including for the United Nations. Within New Zealand he is particularly known for his immense contribution to the demographic history of Māori. His work Te Iwi Maori: A New Zealand Population Past, Present, and Projected has been hugely influential since it was first published in 1991 and has been especially important in helping those of us interested in understanding the impact of colonisation on Māori to consider the demographic dimension to this story. Now, some two decades later, Professor Pool has returned to explore this theme, though with a wider focus on issues of development.

Colonization and Development in New Zealand between 1769 and 1900: The Seeds of Rangiatea is published by Springer, from whose website the following synopsis is taken.

This book details the interactions between the Seeds of Rangiatea, New Zealand’s Māori people of Polynesian origin, and Europe from 1769 to 1900. It provides a case-study of the way Imperial era contact and colonization negatively affected naturally evolving demographic/epidemiologic transitions and imposed economic conditions that thwarted development by precursor peoples, wherever European expansion occurred. In doing so, it questions the applicability of conventional models for analyses of colonial histories of population/health and of development.

The book focuses on, and synthesizes, the most critical parts of the story, the health and population trends, and the economic and social development of Māori. It adopts demographic methodologies, most typically used in developing countries, which allow the mapping of broad changes in Māori society, particularly their survival as a people.

The book raises general theoretical questions about how populations react to the introduction of diseases to which they have no natural immunity. Another more general theoretical issue is what happens when one society’s development processes are superseded by those of some more powerful force, whether an imperial power or a modern-day agency, which has ingrained ideas about objectives and strategies for development. Finally, it explores how health and development interact.

The Māori experience of contact and colonization, lasting from 1769 to circa 1900, narrated here, is an all too familiar story for many other territories and populations, Natives and former colonists. This book provides a case-study with wider ramifications for theory in colonial history, development studies, demography, anthropology and other fields.

Thursday, 8 October 2015

Terra Nullius New Zealand-style? The Curious Case of Tiritiri Matangi Island

Tiritiri Matangi is a 543-acre island that is today a wildlife sanctuary. Located in the Hauraki Gulf, just a few kilometres from the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, the island is a popular destination for daytrippers taking the ferry from Auckland. Besides abundant wildlife (including kiwi, kokako and takahe), the island also boasts New Zealand’s oldest working lighthouse (constructed in 1864). 

Tiritiri Matangi Lighthouse

The island was also the focus of a baffling and quite extraordinary Native Land Court decision in 1866, when the Māori claimants found themselves ranged against the Crown, which claimed the island on the basis of an 1841 deed of purchase. Although the court quite rightly rejected this claim (since the deed made no reference to the island), it nevertheless awarded the island to the Crown. That was despite declaring that it was ‘unable to discover the origins of the Crown’s title, or by what means the native title has been extinguished’.

It did so, according to the judgment, because it found the Māori claim to the island insufficiently strong to eject the Crown from its possession of Tiritiri Matangi Island. And so, as Richard Boast has pointed out, the court appears to have relied on the English common law rules regarding possession in reaching this conclusion (in itself revealing, given the court was supposed to determine ownership ‘according to Native custom’). The Crown had already constructed the lighthouse and in the court’s view this gave the Crown possession. 

Francis Dart Fenton, first Chief Judge of the Native Land Court, PAColl-7489-01, ATL

That decision ignored a great deal of Māori testimony regarding their own use of the island. Although no longer permanently occupied by the mid-nineteenth century, multiple witnesses told the court that they regularly visited Tiritiri Matangi to collect kaimoana and fish or to hunt pigs. Chief Judge Fenton’s assertion that this constituted a weak claim to ownership of the island – that Māori did not really occupy or utilise Tiritiri Matangi – did not reflect customary Māori law.

Instead, I would argue that the court’s Tiritiri Matangi judgment was influenced by the doctrine of terra nullius (literally, ‘nobody’s land’) that held that seasonal fishing or hunting was not consistent with European forms of ownership. Tiritiri Matangi was deemed to be vacant land because Māori did not expend capital and labour on the island to a sufficient extent to be recognised as owners. Building a lighthouse was considered evidence of occupation. Collecting shellfish was not.

Tiritiri Matangi Island

New Zealanders tend to assume that terra nullius was a legal doctrine applied in respect of Australia but having no bearing on our own history. But there are other examples where the influence of such ideas can be seen, including the Crown’s willingness to proclaim British sovereignty over the South Island in May 1840 by right of discovery, despite knowing full well that Māori occupied the island (the island was subsequently claimed by right of cession when Thomas Bunbury obtained the signatures of a number of South Island chiefs to the Treaty of Waitangi).

That was reflected further in the derisory prices and reserves awarded Ngāi Tahu in the series of Crown purchases that followed. Although Ngāi Tahu ownership was nominally recognised, a common assumption was that they too small in number and too ‘uncivilised’ to have anything more than a weak claim to the land.

In the case of Tiritiri Matangi, the court rejected Māori claims outright, refusing to recognise customary Māori ownership or occupation of the island. I wonder just how many of the estimated 20,000 plus annual visitors to the island are aware of this more troubling history of the legalised land grab that saw it handed over to the Crown.

Postscript: There is more to this story, including subsequent Māori petitions and complaints over the court’s judgment. I discuss the Tiritiri Matangi case at length in Beyond the Imperial Frontier:The Contest for Colonial New Zealand (2104), from which the short summary above is drawn.