Pare Sannyasi’s father Bruce Stewart founded Tapu Te Ranga marae in the 1970s (Photo: Tapu Te Ranga Marae)

ĀteaApril 4, 2021

The new generation rebuilding Tapu Te Ranga Marae

Contributing writer

Pare Sannyasi’s father Bruce Stewart founded Tapu Te Ranga marae in the 1970s (Photo: Tapu Te Ranga Marae)

Pare Sannyasi grew up at Wellington’s distinctive Tapu Te Ranga Marae, founded by her father Bruce Stewart. She tells Charlotte Muru-Lanning about the rebuilding process after the main whare was destroyed by fire in 2019.

Since its establishment in 1975, Tapu Te Ranga marae has been a safe haven for Māori living in Pōneke. Built into the hillside by local gang members, youth, volunteers and whānau, the marae was born out of an urgent need for housing, training and cultural reclamation for Māori in the city, displaced from their traditional whenua.

Tapu Te Ranga looked nothing like the marae we’re used to. It was a shared vision, expressed through recycled wood, corrugated iron and salvaged stained glass windows. Its 350 beds, 350 knives and 350 forks were always ready for the constant flow of visitors from all around Aotearoa and the rest of the world.

But all this was lost in 2019, when a fire destroyed the central whare.

A year after the debris at Tapu Te Ranga was cleared, director Vanessa Patea and producer Ruth Korver released their eponymously titled documentary Tapu Te Ranga Marae. The 28-minute film offers a rich history of the marae, documented room by room, and stands as a record of the hopes and dreams of marae founder Bruce Stewart (Ngāti Raukawa, Te Arawa), who died in 2017.

Patea (Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Maniapoto) and Korver first met at the marae in 2004. At the time, Korver was filming a short documentary about a painting by Patea in one of the marae whare, named Tane Whai Ora. The pair ended up spending six years documenting life at the marae.

While the end product is under half an hour long, it manages to document significant parts of the marae history, Matua Bruce and the unique whare of Tapu Te Ranga. After Bruce’s death and the fire that destroyed much of the marae, the documentary has taken on new and unexpected significance.

“It’s become a really important archival piece,” says Patea. Bruce’s daughter Pare Sannyasi agrees. “It captured us in different stages of our life, the marae in different stages and all the whenua around it, so it was really special.”

Life growing up at the marae dubbed “the Māori Hogwarts” by some was vibrant and filled with surprises, says Sannyasi. “I really felt like the world came to our doorstep and we were able to share something really special.” Visitors came from all over, to visit, for hui and for tangi – sharing their culture and kai. “I never had this huge desire to travel the world, because I really felt like I didn’t need to.”

A teenaged Sannyasi was featured in the documentary, and says the film captured a huge amount of loss in a short amount of time for her whānau. “Things like this tend to test whānau, but I think we’ve come out stronger,” Sannyasi says. “We’re rebuilding ourselves as well as our marae.”

Pare Sannyasi (Photo: Tapu Te Ranga Marae)

Strengthening themselves as a community is at the forefront of this rebuild process. This means a focus on taha Māori, through learning and improving skills that keep marae functioning, Sannyasi says. “Learning to upskill in areas that Māori community and marae need; so that’s rongoā, haka, waiata, raranga, the whole lot and just really immersing ourselves in that lifestyle.” Part of this community building work is about using the time to strengthen relationships with those around them; from hapori to mana whenua, iwi to marae.

In terms of the physical rebuild, progress has been by way of meeting as hapū and whānau to figure out their vision for the physical rebuild. Though there are definite financial constraints, they’re choosing to think about what their new marae would look like if money wasn’t an issue. It’s a thought experiment that allows them to think deeply about what they really want and need, rather than being constrained by what they can afford.

“We’ve always catered to those who need homes; we’ve always had hui and events and functions as a marae and then also on top of that provided things like trades training. That will always stay the same,” says Sannyasi. “If anything we’d probably add more”.

“It’s definitely a traditional marae, in the sense of what it’s used for but not a traditional marae in the way it looks,” Sannyasi says in the documentary. Tapu Te Ranga marae looked like the stuff of fairytales, known for its sprawling layout and towering design. Made of salvaged wood, electric blue windows and green corrugated iron roofs – modern building codes and consents would make it almost impossible to replicate the same patupaiarehe-ville style. While this means some elements of the original labyrinth of whare will likely be too difficult to build again, Sannyasi says the flair that made the building so unique wouldn’t be lost in a rebuild.

The old whare (Photo: Tapu Te Ranga Marae)

“Some would call it quirky, but it was just natural. We went with the landscape of the whenua and we complimented the forest around us.” That distinct aesthetic runs through their veins, says Sannyasi. “It’s just our style.”

In the meantime, they’re looking to build a smaller whare to house their community, and to allow them to continue to function as a marae while they rebuild.

“I guess to those on the outside, it doesn’t seem like much progress, but for those of us who are in it here, it’s huge.”

While that fire represented a huge loss, Sannyasi says it has had its silver linings. In the 1970s when the marae was built there was a huge need for Māori to be housed and to live in a way that was culturally comfortable. “It was something that needed to be done, but it couldn’t be legally done at the time which meant that it wasn’t futureproofed,” says Sannyasi.

She believes that though painful, the fire opened a window of opportunity for their community to start afresh. “The marae was just so incredibly special to us, we wouldn’t have let it go and the community wouldn’t have either and so when the fire happened, we really had no choice.”

“Now we’re able to focus on a build of a marae that is equally as special to us and our community around us that we are able to futureproof.”

“Knowing my dad on a really personal level, it just felt fitting – like of course he would take it all back, and of course he would want his whānau and his community to build something for themselves,” Sannyasi says. “It was his treasure, his baby and his life’s work. So there was a small sliver of a silver lining.”

For Sannyasi, now married with kids, it’s a treasure to have those memories documented of her teenage years and her ever-changing favourite nooks inside the whare.

“It’s really important to be able to look back. There are obviously so many fond memories and things we want to keep forever, but I think also when you’re looking at rebuilding it’s also important to look back at things that you can do better and fix,” she says.

In this careful and unhurried process toward rebuilding, the documentary is a memento of what they once had and a constant reminder of the kaupapa they want as a touchstone moving forward. “I know that we will honour and do justice to the marae that we lost.”

Keep going!

Back L-R: Ariu ‘Lanky’ Sio, Eddie Williams, Henry Nee Nee and Wayne Toleafoa Front L-R: Ama Rauhihi-Ness, Betty Nee Nee and Janice ‘JT’ Taylor.

OPINIONĀteaMarch 30, 2021

An apology for the Dawn Raids is long overdue

Melani Anae

Guest writer

Back L-R: Ariu ‘Lanky’ Sio, Eddie Williams, Henry Nee Nee and Wayne Toleafoa Front L-R: Ama Rauhihi-Ness, Betty Nee Nee and Janice ‘JT’ Taylor.

Although it has been nearly 50 years since the Dawn Raids of the 1970s, they remain an open wound for Pacific peoples. Heeding the call for an apology will go a long way towards healing the relationship between the government and the Pacific peoples of Aotearoa, writes Dr Melani Anae, who participated in protests against the raids at the time.

In the early hours of the morning, while most New Zealanders were tucked up warm and safe in their beds, immigration officials, police and their dogs were raiding the homes of Pacific peoples around the country who they suspected were illegal immigrants. This was New Zealand, 1974, and these were what came to be known as the Dawn Raids, or as they were referred to by police, “Operation Pot Black”.

The campaign against Pacific peoples developed after record levels of immigration from the Pacific Islands coincided with the onset of a global recession. These circumstances provided fertile ground for the escalation of overt racism.

Fuelling the fires of prejudice and bigotry were the myths that Pacific peoples were taking the jobs of New Zealanders and were a threat to cultural homogeneity – boosting crime, straining public resources, housing, welfare, and education. The illegal immigrants were branded with the term “overstayer”, a stereotype reinforced in the media and cynically exploited by politicians, as scape goats for New Zealand’s economic and social woes.

By this time a group of teenagers, mainly New Zealand-born Polynesians calling themselves the Polynesian Panthers, had been fighting the injustices experienced by Māori and Pacific communities in inner city Auckland for three years. The Polynesian Panthers were slick and well-organised, and their Pacific community survival programmes were firmly in place. They had also formed strong allyships with other anti-racism groups. But now, they turned to confront the horrors of state-sanctioned racism against Pacific peoples – the Dawn Raids.

How is it that only a third of illegal immigrants were from Tonga and Sāmoa and the majority of illegals were from Europe and North America, yet 90% of illegal immigrant arrests and deportations were of Tongans and Sāmoans?

A young Melani Anae caught by the camera protesting with the Polynesian Panthers. (Image: University of Auckland)

Random checks were made by the Auckland Police task force, targeting anybody who was brown, demanding proof of residence or citizenship. Māori were also stopped. The only other place in the world where this was taking place was in apartheid South Africa, under their pass laws.

This was a traumatic time for Pacific peoples especially those who directly experienced the terror of the Dawn Raids. Their wellbeing was forever compromised. The effects of harm, hurt and feelings of abject shame still persist among many Pacific peoples even after almost 50 years – as do the stories of brokenness of both individuals and families.

The Dawn Raids have been described as a shameful and dark period in New Zealand’s history and certainly in the history of Pacific peoples here in Aotearoa.

The Polynesian Panthers maintain that by creating oppressive legislation which overtly targeted Pacific peoples, the government’s management of the illegal immigrants’ issue during the era of the Dawn Raids was racist, unjust and an abuse of power. That is what happened. This is why the Polynesian Panthers are calling for an apology.

In 2020 a claw of Panthers – myself, Tigilau Ness, Reverend Alec Toleafoa and Pauline Smith – initiated conversations with a local MP about an apology for the Dawn Raids. Since then there has been a renaissance of interest in the Dawn Raids and the apology in particular, at both community and official levels. At the moment the Polynesian Panther claw is in conversation about the apology with the Ministry for Pacific Peoples.

Polynesian Panther Party sisters – including Dr Melani Anae, left, and Miriama Rauhihi-Ness, centre. (Photo: Facebook/supplied)

In memory of Ama Rauhihi-Ness

On March 14, we lost a beloved friend and leader. Ama joined the Polynesian Panther Party in 1971. On May 3, 1972, she became the first and only Panther sister to hold a portfolio, as the minister of culture, and in November 1973, Ama was appointed as our first full-time community worker.

Before she moved to Auckland and became a member of the Polynesian Panthers, she had already been active in labour unions in Kirikiriroa. There, she had become involved with Pacific women when she represented them during job disputes in factories.

In her union work she experienced racist Palagi bosses and developed an empathy with the struggles of Pacific women who often laboured, unpaid, through their smoko breaks. That kind of experience prepared her well for the challenges she would face as a Polynesian Panther when she moved up to Auckland.

Sister Ama was a true frontline revolutionary. She made us aware of the ongoing trauma inflicted on Māori by colonisation, systemic racism and entrenched racist attitudes towards Māori and Pacific peoples, and galvanised us to walk beside tangata whenua in their fight for sovereignty .

Ama was an inspirational Panther sister – I remember one of our Panther brothers joining the group after he heard Ama’s rousing speech at a rally.

In 1973, she was the keynote speaker at the AGM of the New Zealand Race Relations Council. Later that year she was invited to address activist conferences in Kuala Lumpur, and was selected as one of four members of a Māori delegation to study Chinese minority groups in China.

Even though Panther brothers held most of the portfolios, and led from the front, Ama demanded that those of them with chauvinist attitudes attend group workshops to work through those issues.

Ama was fiercely proud of her moko kauae. She wore it proudly at home with whānau, she wore it proudly as a Polynesian sister. She wore it proudly in the spirit of Ngahuia te Awakotuku’s words about the power of moko kauae being “…the subtle power of maintaining a femininity that offends, that endures, that persists in the face of the settlers’ and invaders’ descendants…women who continued to inscribe their faces…wear their identity and heritage with pride, were effectively confronting the coloniser, and saying, we are here, and we will never ever go away. My face may make you uncomfortable; but it is my face; made by my pain. It is my pride, confronting your fear, and your infatuation. And we will never go away…”

With Ama’s passing another page of the Panther story is held forever in our hearts.