Heroes who fought for equality pay a heavy price, we should all remember

Thursday, 24 June 2021

Like their seafaring ancestors before them, the Polynesian Panthers guided their people to a new horizon in Aotearoa but fighting a red-blooded nation raging with rugby, racism, and beer wasn’t without sacrifice. Alex Liu and Brad Flahive report.

His nerves hardly had time to settle; the jury deliberated for just one hour before reaching a unanimous decision in the trial of New Zealand revolutionary Will ‘Ilolahia.

‘Ilolahia’s lawyer had told him to expect a sentence of 10 years imprisonment for his role in protesting the 1981 Springbok rugby tour of New Zealand.

“We knew if you’re called up early, it usually means you’re done,” remembers ‘Ilolahia, a co-founder of the radical activist group the Polynesian Panther Party.

**READ MORE:

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* From gang to government: Fete Taito has forged his own pathway

* Once a Panther: The revolutionary Polynesians who stopped the dawn raids

* Once a Panther: Stuff's new podcast about Polynesian Panthers - racism, dawn raids, and rising up

**

Waiting for the jury foreperson to read out the verdict, ‘Ilolahia had only one thought: how would his parents feel.

“How would my mother take this?”

His hopes of avoiding prison lay with a ‘Hail Mary’ play from his legal team and the Halt All Racist Tours (HALT) movement.

The campaign against apartheid in South Africa had gathered international momentum by that time, but the fiercest confrontations were during the Springbok rugby tour of New Zealand.

South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu had emerged as a last-minute character witness for ‘Ilolahia and his co-defendants.

As the archbishop glided through the courtroom to the witness box, ‘Ilolahia and the other defendants stood up.

That led the public gallery to rise from their seats. The prosecution and police officers followed suit and stood to attention. Even the jury stood up.

“The judge nearly stood up but then realised ‘oops, I’m the judge’… this was the mana of the guy.”

Tutu went on to tell the court the men and women charged with inciting a riot while standing up against apartheid were not criminals – they were freedom fighters.

“When I heard that not guilty [verdict], I couldn’t believe it,” ‘Ilolahia says.

Despite avoiding a 10-year prison term, the New Zealand-born Tongan would suffer a different kind of sentence that would last just as long.

Dwelling on the prospect of a decade behind bars, and then fearing a threat from police that he was now a wanted man, affected ‘Ilolahia’s mental health.

“I was p…ed off that it took a guy from South Africa to tell the country I was born in that what I did was OK,” he says.

“I didn’t feel like a Kiwi anymore … I was anti-New Zealand … I just wanted to get out of there.”

‘Ilolahia exiled himself in Tonga for the next decade.

Meanwhile, ‘Ilolahia’s fellow freedom fighter and Polynesian Panther, Tigilau Ness, sat in Mt Eden Prison.

Ness was one of the first to be arrested following the protests during the third rugby test at Auckland’s Eden Park.

He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 12 months imprisonment.

“You weigh it up: what’s worse, jail or apartheid?” Ness says. “If it’s apartheid, you’ve got to front it all the way, all the way.”

In prison, he was fortunate to have a helping hand from a man who knew how to keep Ness out of harm’s way.

“You’re sitting in the yard, and hearing buses go by over the wall. You realise there’s a life out there, and this is a world within a world,” Ness remembers.

”You think about home and mum, but also that nobody really knows. I might die in here.”

The plight of the two is brought to life in Stuff’s latest podcast, Once a Panther.

Once a Panther is funded by NZ on Air and details the work of the Polynesian Panther Party, a New Zealand-based activist group inspired by the Black Panthers in the United States.

The group fought against racism and an oppressive New Zealand state hell-bent on scapegoating Pacific Islanders to gain political favour during the 1970s.

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.

’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.”

At that time, New Zealand was hurtling towards a bitter clash as a post-war generation was desperate to halt an invasion of baby boomer ideologies.

That battle lasted decades, and the toll of their sacrifices still lingers. But today, many of the Panthers are concerned about a renewed ignorance emerging in different parts of Aotearoa.

Earlier this year, Manawatū District councillors voted 6-4 to defer a decision on whether to introduce Māori wards until 2024.

It spawned accusations that aspirations of re-election were put ahead of their convictions.

A law change in February meant binding public polls could no longer stop the introduction of Māori wards. Palmerston North and Rangitīkei councils have both since introduced Māori wards.

Mayor Helen Worboys and deputy mayor Michael Ford both said they were personally favouring a Māori ward but feared public backlash and were concerned the council and iwi were too busy to implement the change in time for the 2022 elections.

The Manawatū council had tried to do the same ahead of the 2019 local body elections to honour Treaty of Waitangi obligations and improving Māori representation. Still, it was resoundingly defeated by a poll in which 77 per cent of the public who voted opposed the change.

Tears, anger, and heartache followed tangata whenua out of the room as an historic opportunity became, in the eyes of some, cynical sidelining.

It took the civic action of a hīkoi, led by local marae who withdrew all dealings with the council, threatening its ability to honour governance requirements, to reverse the vote at a later meeting.

The Panthers concern mainly lies with the people who have to sacrifice their health to fight for a fair and just society.

“When I was convicted and imprisoned for fighting for what I thought was injustice, I got made to feel guilty,” Ness says.

“When I hit a wall, that’s prison, I had to search deep to find that strength to carry on and believe what I had done was staying on the right side of history – otherwise the system would have crushed me.”

It’s that personal sacrifice that ‘Ilolahia wants would-be revolutionaries to have prominent in their thoughts.

“Anyone who is thinking of doing this kind of work needs to make quality time for their loved ones because it takes a lot away from them,” he says.

“I’m proud of what I did, but it cost me a lot – for the revolution.”

Once a Panther can be found on Stuff or through podcast apps, including Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher or via an RSS feed.