From gang to government: Fete Taito has forged his own pathway
Friday, 18 June 2021
Despite beginning on a violent pathway where the power of your fists got you respect, Fa’afete’ ‘Fete’ Taito has earned his mana through his head and his heart. Alex Liu and Brad Flahive reveal how the former Polynesian Panther has always been a helping hand.
Among the muffled murmurs echoing behind a jail cell wall, Fa’afete’ Fete’ Taito heard inmates plotting to stand over new prisoners who had just arrived at Mt Eden Prison.
Taito knew a familiar face was part of the new batch of prisoners, his old friend, fellow Polynesian Panther and adopted father, Tigilau’ Tigi’ Ness.
Ness had been sentenced to 12 months’ imprisonment for protesting against the 1981 Springbok Tour.
**READ MORE:
* Once a Panther: Stuff's new podcast about Polynesian Panthers - racism, dawn raids, and rising up
* Dawn raids on overstayers still happening, despite Government apology to Pasifika
* Polynesian Panthers honour Miriama Rauhihi Ness for dedicating her life to fight for Māori rights
**
“I put my head around the corner and asked them what they were doing,” Taito told Stuff during its latest major podcast, Once a Panther.
They were planning to extort money out of the protesters by threatening them with violence or sexual abuse.
But Taito already knew that; he just wanted to make his presence felt.
“I was 20-years-old and pretty well known in that world by then,” he said.
His notoriety had come from a real-world education in state care.
Taito was born in New Zealand to Samoan parents, but at 12 years old he started running away to avoid the discipline he was receiving at home.
From there, he was in and out of boys’ homes.
While Waikeria Prison was much more violent, he said Auckland’s Ōwairaka Boys’ Home was worse because it set him and the other kids in a similar situation, on a pathway to gangs.
“I used to teach a lot of the boys in there to read, it was amazing how many couldn’t,” Taito said.
“We would run away and stay in abandoned houses until the [police] J-Team found us. We crashed at a house in Ponsonby for a while, which was next door to the Polynesian Panthers. So I got involved with them, delivering pamphlets.”
Two of those Panthers were Ness and his wife, Miriama Rauhihi Ness.
“By the time I was 15, I had fallen in love with Tigi and Ama; they were like my parents.”
They tried to show Taito a new style of resistance, and for a short while, he became a youth member of the Polynesian Panthers.
In much of what they did, the Panthers were ahead of their time: no possession of drugs or alcohol during movement time, no weapons, equality of the sexes.
They were outspoken and visible – their berets and black uniform adopted from their counterparts in the United States – they appeared to threaten white middle-class New Zealand.
But in contrast to their militant structure, the Panthers’ roots were in community work.
The movement started homework centres, organised a food co-operative, created a legal aid booklet with future prime minister David Lange, kept an aggressive police force accountable, facilitated prison visits and campaigned for the rights of tangata whenua.
Former party chairman Will ’Ilolahia puts it more simply: “What was it all about being a Polynesian Panther? Standing up on behalf of our people, being good to your neighbour, don’t take no s… and stop this racism.”
The Panthers’ incredible story, which began in 1971 from Auckland’s Pacific Island in the city, has come to life in Stuff’s podcast Once a Panther.
But despite the Panthers’ influence, Taito’s boys’ home ‘education’ would lead him to only one place.
“Back then, they had a thing called kingpins. It was like an old English housemaster thing,” Taito revealed.
“They would make us fight for their entertainment, Sunday boxing they used to call it.”
That’s how Taito became well-known; his kingpin title kept him in a secure unit rather than the boys’ dormitories.
“They were basically cells.”
He didn’t know it at the time. Still, his fearsome reputation would keep him away from the housemasters who preyed on boys after inviting them into their accommodation for the easier chores.
“I used to be jealous because I thought they would be eating nice food and drink and stuff, but little did we know that’s where all the abuse was happening.”
There was only one pathway in front of Taito and the other boys, predominantly Māori and Pasifika kids, once put in state care.
“I would see the same faces all the time at the boys’ homes, and then I would see them in prison, but we were men now, so we go to Mt Eden.”
It was fortunate, yet tragic, that Taito would be in Mt Eden for Ness’ first day to tell the inmates planning to stand over him that “Tigi’s with me”.
“I was so happy I could be there for Tigi,” Taito said. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to him while he was in there.”
Ness would wake up in the morning to find Taito sitting at the end of his bed, warding off any would-be intruders.
“If it hadn’t been for Fete, I would’ve been raped.”
Ness’ time in prison left him disorientated and lost – but he did meet “a lot of “good brothers in there”.
“A lot of the kaha (strength) from Māoridom is locked up in there,” Ness said.
“If they had the education and resources? Man, what a powerhouse this country would be.”
Ness has gone on to be an influential figure in the education of young men.
It’s a road that Taito would eventually travel after getting himself out of the gang lifestyle.
“I had a strong mind, and when you are a career criminal, I guess you understand the reason you’re there is for the money, but once the drug becomes more important, you’re more lost than before,” he said.
“I had been a P addict for 10 years, and getting off that was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do,” he said.
But he did.
His partner, who he has been with 30 years, was wary of him going back to his old ways and urged him to do something with his time.
He applied for a bridging course at the University of Auckland and now has a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in sociology and Māori.
He is also an integral voice at the Royal Commission of Inquiry Abuse in Care.
The inquiry examines abuse in foster care, police custody, schools or special schools, disability care or facilities, youth justice placement, or at a health camp.
“The commission needs that diversity of voices, if we don’t speak to gang members and the hard-to-reach people, all we have is a monoculture voice, and nothing will change because those voices will reflect the recommendations.”
Education and a new pathway changed his attitude about a lot of things.
Survivors now call the commission and ask for Taito personally because of the mana he still holds.
“I used to feel a little embarrassed by it, but now I embrace it – I just want to help those people that came through the same pathway as me.”
The first five episodes of Once a Panther can be found on Stuff or through podcast apps, including Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher or via an RSS feed.
Where to get help:
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The Harbour, online support and information for those affected by harmful sexual behaviour
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