A war crime at home

Tainui Stephens on the making of Ngā Kōtiro o Taranaki, an animated television series based on a war crime.

 

During my first trip to London, I became a monarchist. Only for the British people, though. It’s their tradition, not mine.

I’d watched the Queen’s procession to open parliament and felt oddly proud. As the vast royal retinue jiggled down The Mall, I was moved by the beauty of the horses. Magnificent beasts, darkly muscled, shredded. Atop them were equally disciplined cavalry guards in shiny uniforms. And atop them were impossibly tall furry black hats that might have once been animals.

It was a parade of exclamation points punctuated with much silver and gold. Yep, the Brits do this pageantry thing well. I felt a sense of pride for a small island nation that for more than 300 years was the only global superpower. Great Britain used to control about two-thirds of the world. In an era of no phones, faxes or emails, this was a staggering feat of administration and logistics.

It’s also true that the British Empire was created on the back of conquest, commerce and colonisation. This aggregation of power and desire was protected by force. The inherent violence of British dominion would lead to conflict with the local Indigenous populations wherever they turned up to hoist their flag. In 19th century New Zealand, bitter civil wars were fought over land and Pākehā attempts to subjugate Māori.

Every war spews out war crimes, where civilians are killed by combatants of either side. Such crimes occurred during the New Zealand Wars. They include British soldiers who set fire to a church in Rangiaowhia, burning to death many sheltering kaumātua, women and children. And the slaughter of settlers’ families at Matawhero by Te Kooti Rikirangi, for reasons of revenge.

In war, atrocity is inevitable.

“Shit!” moans the soldier, “Fuck!” barks the officer, “Auē!” cries the warrior, when they survey the wanton deaths of a moment’s lunacy. It’s now up to them to decide whether to reveal the awful truth. Some don’t. But others do. The witnesses and the survivors.

Rautini O’Brien is a gifted Ngāti Haupoto artist. She’s the great-great-great-great-grandaughter of Waikiringa Hemi Te Pua, a survivor of a war crime.

Rautini inherited a family story that had been told for several generations. It explained why their forebears had become refugees and had to create a new life somewhere else. They’d lost the sights, sounds and smells of their Taranaki home, but never the story that took them away.

According to the story, when Waikiringa was a little girl her people believed the wars were over. A feast was arranged between her village in Taranaki and the Pākehā soldiers. It would celebrate a new era of hope. The soldiers brought flour to make bread as a contribution to the kai.

While the people prepared for the feast, three young girls, including Waikiringa and her sister, were eeling at a nearby creek. They got home late, and when they did, home wasn’t the same. There was no singing, no speeches, no feasting. Only silence. There were no Pākehā soldiers. Instead, their own people lay everywhere, strewn about on the ground.

The flour had been laced with poison. Everyone who ate it — and that was everyone — was now either dead or dying. The girls unknowingly, and by sheer dumb luck, were the only survivors of their village. In time, they would be adopted by Te Ātiawa.

“Waikiringa’s story belongs to all her descendants and is mirrored across the motu,” says Rautini. “The version I know has been passed down to me through the wāhine in my whānau. It’s always felt like my responsibility to put it out there. My mum Paula is a fantastic storyteller, and she’s really supported me to share this story. Yeah, I wanted her to be proud.”

When Rautini studied animation to acquire the skills to tell the story, she encountered her first opposition.

“I was told by my male lecturers to give up, not to pursue a career, and not to even attempt to tell Māori stories, because no one cares. That didn’t diminish my mana, because I knew when I left there, I’d be returning home to Ōtaki to work at Māoriland. I’d be surrounded by wāhine Māori working in te ao Māori, with love and support around me.”

Waikiringa’s story is now an animated television series produced by Māoriland Productions and showing on Whakaata Māori. Ngā Kōtiro o Taranaki is a child’s-eye view of a war crime. It’s also a work of art — and only art can convey profound horror with safety.

The 10-part series brings 1880s Māori Aotearoa to life with a vibrant, colourful animation style inspired by Rautini’s love for Studio Ghibli films. Bold, rich colours soften the story’s intensity and makes it possible for younger audiences to connect with its themes.

“I wanted to show our people in a beautiful light,” says Rautini. “We really wanted an explosion of colours. It’s easier for kids to digest a heavy story like this when it’s wrapped in something bright and magical. But the truth of the history remains.”

Through its visual beauty, the series draws viewers into a traumatic narrative about one of the murderous results of colonisation in Aotearoa.

Rautini also wanted the series to be a resource for the Māori language of Taranaki. The dialogue was translated by Tama Ale Samoa. Fluent speakers play the characters in the dramatic story. The actors included Taranaki kūia Taihuri Rite, Marama Sionetama, Te Rauoriwa Davis, and Kura Ranginiwa. The lead character of Wai was performed by Bonnie Maxwell. Everyone gathered in Ngāmotu/New Plymouth to lay down the voice tracks that would bring to life Waikiringa’s terrible last day at home.

“I think Chris Foreman, the owner of the Swampshack studio, really felt the mauri of the project, and in turn his wairua and his openness to having us in his space was amplified and really nurtured,” says Rautini. “The space was safe, and the cast, who were all new to voice recording, felt comfortable and respected.

“It was very humbling to sit with the kuia and our other actors. It was an amazing first experience for us all. I was very proud of how we did as a roopu. The kuia supported the younger cast, and everyone did the same for each other. It’s always special to be amongst that kind of vibe.”

Every frame of the animated series had to be individually created. Animation is always long, arduous work. The series took three years to make. It involved four animators logging up well over 30,000 hours of mahi.

For anyone who calls themselves creative, talent alone is never enough. The craft and graft of the work in your artform is more important.

“Being a creative is one of the easiest things to be, because you can’t be anything else,” says Rautini. “But it’s also the hardest thing to be, because it takes so much of the soul, body and mind. It’s difficult to put yourself out there to be judged. No one does that more than creatives. To give enough so that you’re satisfied with your work, without breaking down, is a very difficult thing to do.”

Because, as she says, “Animation is time-consuming and very undervalued in New Zealand. It’s so hard to pursue as a career. I didn’t get to where I am on my own. I needed my husband Ethan to cover me financially for years before I could start making money. You get to points in life, in your work, where you just want to quit. It takes a lot of motivation and resilience to keep going and to see it right through to the end.”

At the cast preview of Ngā Kōtiro o Taranaki, we gathered once again at the Swampshack studio. After mihi and karakia, the vivid tale unfurled on the big screen. The rich and loving world of the three girls in the story was, by the end, replaced with deep sorrow for the destruction of the children’s way of life.

After the screening, everyone was quiet as they took in what they had witnessed. Soon, kui Te Rauoriwa got to her feet and spoke for all, when she said: “I feel sad, but in a good way.”

For Rautini, that was the perfect response. It’s also her own.

“It’s sad because the story is harrowing and meaningful and true. It’s sad because it happened not that long ago. It’s sad because it’s happening still. It’s good to finally see it up there. It’s good to feel your sadness in unison with others because you realise you’re not alone.

“It feels good to start a conversation. It feels good to feel represented. It feels good because the world of our story is beautiful, and it’s depicted through a different lens from any we’ve ever used before.”

If nations are to ever banish war and the crimes that come with it, if citizens are to ever understand that it takes all people to make any society work, then it’s the conversations between us that count. Conversations that are informed and respectful. As the Chinese general Sun Tzu wrote many hundreds of years ago, the art of war is not to have war.

The current era of politics, here in New Zealand and in most nations on earth, is characterised by division and an unhealthy reliance on bullshit. The Disunited States of America is the current leader in that regard. Over there, the pitchforks have voted, but they haven’t won.

Here in Aotearoa, at least, we’re creating something new with tikanga that insist on face-to-face contact, and the tools to have meaningful discussions.

Today, war crimes and atrocities remain as the shameful outcome of certain acts of conquest, commerce, and colonisation around the planet. The empires have changed shape, but not their need for domination or shiny parades.

 

The series Ngā Kōtiro o Taranaki can be viewed here

Tainui Stephens, of Te Rarawa, has been fully engaged in the film and television industry since 1984, working with a range of genres and content. He is particularly attracted to compelling Indigenous stories that critique and celebrate the human condition. Tainui lives in Ōtaki with his wife and fellow filmmaker Libby Hakaraia. Together they and a small whānau team run the Māoriland Film Festival.

E-Tangata, 2024