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Photo: Getty Images
Photo: Getty Images

ĀteaApril 17, 2020

On the wait, and the weight

Photo: Getty Images
Photo: Getty Images

Ātea editor Leonie Hayden is one of the lucky ones, she says, so why does it feel like there’s a weight inside her chest?

Yesterday was my first happy day in lockdown.

I made fresh pasta. I folded washing and watched Moana. Am I the only one who hasn’t caught up on their washing?

Two days before lockdown began, it stopped feeling like a project I needed to manage and instead became a weight inside my chest. The weight hasn’t gone away. On that day, the prime minister said the words “the deaths of tens of thousands of New Zealanders” on TV and I choked on the air in my lungs. She was talking about how we were preventing those deaths by going into lockdown but it still hurt to hear them, filled with dread and potential. Maybe it’s the spectre of those what-if deaths that’s taken up residency in the walls of my ribcage.

They will, I hope, only have a tenancy of four weeks. I’m one of the luckier ones. I have my health and my job. I thought I would learn more here inside my bubble: Instagram is a sea of messages about how to do it right, Twitter is full of people saying they’re wrong. My neighbour across the way is attached to the exercycle in her garage like it’s her new full-time job. I hope she hasn’t lost her real one.

I thought I would read more and watch classic films, but all I do is look at memes and work, and think about work, and worry about not doing enough work. I take pictures of food. Everything I’ve produced at this time has felt unremarkable while many of my colleagues have produced the best work of their careers. The weight is distracting; it’s that bubble of light in the corner of your eye. Except every so often it’s blinding.

I take endless photos of food.

My day revolves around the 1pm media update, but most days my workmates don’t need my help to cover it, so I watch and my stomach does flips and I hold my breath until I find out there still hasn’t been an outbreak in a Māori community. I wonder why there isn’t more data about Māori communities and why the tangihanga restrictions haven’t changed. I open 10 browser windows while I research who is protecting and advocating for us. I’ve cried for every death. I don’t have enough room to grieve for the thousands who have died overseas. That makes me feel guilty too. Maybe I’m not good in a crisis. I always thought I was.

I have a small, weird park behind my apartment hidden from the main roads by a fortress of medium-density housing. Someone planted nīkau palms in a grid up the steep northern hillside opposite my deck, two or three metres apart from one another. Gold star for social distancing. Nīkau prefer damp and shade and the company of other plants so they never grew past a couple of feet. On sunny days they only cast enough shade for one person and the sight of a dozen people with each their own small tropical sunshade is a perfect, stupid metaphor for modern life. Nīkau means “no coconuts”, an observation made by our distant, disappointed ocean-voyaging ancestors. I’m glad they’re not here to see these ones.

It used to be empty most days, now the contents of an inner-city Les Mills has emptied into it, filled with people doing squats all day. Burpies, planks, crab-like contortions. One day the weight got so heavy I tried to outrun it. I’ve never been a runner but I thought I was going to explode so I ran past the squatters and up a hill, onto the deserted main road. A bus drove by carrying no one. My chest hurt and I turned around and walked home. When I got to the top of my driveway I wrote a poem on my phone:

My feet have each other
For company
But don’t know
Which direction to go
There are no other feet
To meet

It’s not a very good poem. 

I feel the weight of privilege. I’ve started to think of it as survivor’s guilt. Not survival of the virus but survival of the worst aspects of being contained. I volunteered to do shopping and deliveries for The Aunties, who walk alongside families that have escaped from violence. One asshole showed up to his ex-partner’s house on the first day of lockdown and wouldn’t leave. Then he took the money he’d been given to buy nappies and disappeared. What a cunt. When I went to buy nappies for her they were sorted into weights rather than ages. I don’t know how much a six-month-old, or a two-year-old, or a three-year-old weighs. I hope I didn’t ruin her day even more with ill-fitting nappies.

The city is silent except for the occasional siren. When we first moved here I objected to hearing human voices all the time, following me from room to room. I’d only lived in flats in outer-fringe suburbs, always a quarter-acre away from the hum of other people. In the city, other people are an ever-present sound and smell and I had finally gotten used to it. I miss the loud engines driving too fast down Newton Road, about to begin their commute on the western motorway.

There have been moments of peace. Slow dancing to The Ronettes. A freshly baked scone on the doorstep from the neighbours. Watching a ropey rom-com online with my friends that inexplicably starred a 90s R&B singer and some former Shortland Street actors. Sending each other messages that made us cry with laughter. My boyfriend and I have become more gentle towards one another. In week two we started to become cruel. Things were getting under our skin. The sound of him eating made me want to hurl a chair across the room. But now we say nice things to each other and bite our tongues. One night we lay on the bed and listened to Bob Dylan. I never got Dylan. There’s no trace of my life in a Dylan song. But I loved doing that.

He’s started listening to a lot of Sly & The Family Stone.

The days feel wrong, they’re in the wrong order. Each day is longer than the months and years that contain it. I sense we all feel that way and I tell myself there’s no right way to do something that’s never been done before. Yesterday was my first happy day because the weight felt a bit lighter. Maybe it’s tied to those daily numbers we wait with bated breath to hear: 89, 50, 44, 29, 18. 

There’s so much storm left to weather. My neighbour on her exercycle might ride to Fiji and back. Will we emerge to a new normal? Or snap back into old habits like millions of little rubber bands, forgetting the shape we were during these long months. I couldn’t say. Papatūānuku needed a rest so I’m happy for her. Many of my friends have lost their jobs. Assholes will continue to steal the nappy money. I’m hoping I can be strong for them when gravity returns to normal. 

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OPINIONĀteaApril 17, 2020

Food insecurity for Māori is getting worse. Here are some ways we can all help

Foodimage_

Access to healthy food is a big issue for Māori whānau during the Covid-19 crisis. Dr Geoff Kira (Ngāpuhi), a public health senior lecturer at Massey University’s School of Health Sciences, says Māori need Māori solutions at times like this, and he has some suggestions.

On March 25, 2020, the United Nations System Standing Committee on Nutrition (UNSCN) published the article ‘The Covid-19 pandemic is disrupting people’s food environments: a resource list on food systems and nutrition responses’. The article highlighted the far-reaching impact of Covid-19 on the global and local food system from primary producers to manufacturers and retail to consumer.

We noticed in the first few days our supermarkets had a run on edible product lines like flour and meat. The supermarkets could not meet the demand during that period and the perceived food system deficiency could have induced widespread panic. Thankfully consumers heard the call from supermarkets that they could meet demand but that their processes had to adjust, and social distancing prevailed. Now the focus has moved on to our whānau households who are at risk.

Pre-Covid-19, two in three whānau from Māori households could not reliably access healthy kai (food insecurity). There are a number of reasons for this unreliable access, including lack of transport or living too far away from a good food outlet. The main reason for food insecurity is poverty. Most whānau do not earn sufficient income to purchase an adequate healthy diet. This is in spite of the fact that back in 2009, UN Food and Agriculture identified access to food as a human right, specifically for indigenous peoples. Since 1997, the Ministry of Health has officially recognised that our whānau have struggled to consume an adequate diet.

But the issue is much older. The 1913 smallpox epidemic infected many of our people. Māori, starving and with no medical access, were turned away by councillors in Hamilton, with the infamous words “let them starve”. Since that time our country has developed for the better, but as the whakataukī goes, “Kia whakatōmuri te haere whakamua” – “I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on the past”. We need to acknowledge past mistakes and develop Māori solutions for issues that affect Māori.

If a whānau has already been receiving food support when a pandemic like Covid-19 arrives, it’s likely they might lose income, jobs or their business. And that hits a whānau hard. Some community organisations have been proactive, such as Tāmaki Makaurau’s Spark Arena, which has turned the arena into a factory line to pack and distribute food parcels. Door-to-door delivery is supported by couriers without having to come into physical contact.

In Te Whanganui-ā-Tara, the city mission’s food bank had its food parcel demand quadruple during lockdown. Similarly, the Compassion Soup Kitchen has had to double its output. Ōtautahi has also had a quadrupling of food parcel demand in the past week. Those are the major cities, so what about those who might not qualify, live rurally or are whakamā about receiving assistance? Usually those of us living in the countryside share our surplus, but that can’t happen under Covid-19. We need the kūmara vine to spread the word, not the virus.

There are a few ways in which we can improve the situation for whānau during the pandemic and they all just happen to celebrate our culture.

Tuatahi, leverage our whanaungatanga to find out who might be missing out. Think about our koroua, whānau hauā (disabled), single parents or unemployed. They might be whānau, neighbours or someone might have mentioned them to you. Put them in touch with services that can help. I know our local health and social services are still working to help their community, so I’m sure yours are too. This is no time for pride, this is a time for manaakitanga.

Tuarua, if you are like us and have surplus kai such as fruit and vegetables, consider dropping off your kai to the local food bank or food rescue. Make sure you give these places a call before you drop off kai as they have certain protocols in place that we need to respect.

Please don’t drop the kai off to community food pantries, sharing tables or give away surplus produce to neighbours. We need to minimise all forms of possible transmission. We have 20 apple trees fruiting and although there is no evidence that the virus can be transmitted through food, we won’t be sharing it with our neighbours.

Tuatoru, let’s develop our own kai networks in our local regions for the future. There are plenty of regional food networks in which we can participate – kotahitanga. Sometimes these regional networks have difficulty servicing our people and our contribution may help enormously. We’re trying a slightly different strategy by introducing whānau to traditional kai. We teamed up with Tāhuri Whenua National Collective of Māori Vegetable Growers to develop an online database, “Tūpuna kai”, so whānau can grow, forage and prepare their own kai. But we need your tautoko to know if, and how, we might put the database in place. Please complete and share the online survey found here.

Next year, Aotearoa is hosting the APEC (Asia-Pacific Economic Co-operation) 2021 meeting. From August 23 to September 5, the issue of food security will be discussed among world leaders from 21 economies including Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and China – representing 2.9 billion people and US$48 trillion in gross domestic product. This is an opportunity at which change in the global and local food systems can be made. With any luck I will be there to promote an indigenous food security systems agenda that aligns with the economic vision the APEC countries are seeking. In the meantime, our best hope is to strengthen our virtual connections to overcome the Covid-19 pandemic and maintain the whakawhanaungatanga that is the mainstay of our people.

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