Sweet and Sour

Observations from the Anti-Mandate Protest

Thursday, 17 February 2022

Do you remember playing ‘sweet and sour’? It was that game we played out the window of the car, testing the kindness of strangers, whether they were good hearted enough to wave and smile back, or sour enough to leave you hanging. Well today I played sweet and sour again. I drove the outskirts of the protest, baiting the people holding their various signs and flags, waiting for harassment, or love. A man saw me through my window and waved. ‘Stop the mandates’ his sign said, but his smile said ‘haere mai’.

Sweet, I observe.
I would go in.

A wee girl about the age of eight skips rope. She wears all pink, spotted leggings and a jumper that says Wild & Free in gold. She’s not skipping well, the rope is getting stuck in the grass and muddy straw with each flip. Thousands move about her. Bongos are the backbeat to the candy floss stall where a long line of families stand and wait. A man in a Hi Vis pushes a trolley of rubbish bags to a nearby bin, providing another space to place waste. Another man walks with a sign around his neck, he is the person arranging volunteers. A group sing a waiata by the floss line, others join, a man strums a guitar.  The listeners hold their arms up above their foreheads, blocking the sun as they kōrero. ‘You Are My Sunshine’ is sung now, a group claps in time and many join in from neighbouring tents.

I see all their faces.

The media said there were human faeces here, said people yelled, said people spat at other people, at children even. My friends said they had seen this too. So far, however, all that these people have said to me is ‘kia ora’, and one ‘sorry’ for bumping into me.
All I have seen thus far, is peace.
These people are peaceful.

The Māori hold workshops for all to learn Waiata and Haka. A Kaumātua speaks through the loudspeakers:
“Now who here is Māori?”
A cheer rises through the crowd.
“Who here is… not?”
Pākehā and tauiwi raise their hands.
“That’s awesome aye, two peoples coming together to create the platform for many other cultures to come. Kia ora whānau!”

The concrete face of parliament is coloured with Chalk.
Freedom over fear, e tū, wake up, tū tāngata, love conquers, kia kaha, unity!
A young woman sits cross legged beside an easel of a painting in progress. She is meditating, eyes closed, her face and torso soaking in the sun.
A banner waves in the breeze, ‘this hive needs a new queen bee!’

Tent hammocks are perched in the trees. That pristine lawn, the foreground to our Beehive is now straw and mud. Young and old alike trample through the whenua of our government.
The whenua that is now home to thousands, a camped community who are working together for their common cause. People carry tarpaulins of straw to replace the wet stuff. They pile up mats and rake the ground flat. They wear flowing dresses with gum boots, tradie singlets with shorts, face paint, body paint, and tattoos. Some wear what I am, ‘work appropriate’ casual clothing. Clean, and clearly not staying on site. I’ve heard some wore nothing at all.

I recognise a guy I once knew from Christian camps. He holds a video camera that frames children blowing bubbles behind a wahine holding a staff and a flag. Free colouring-in books and pencils lay on a tarpaulin. I hear a conversation about exposing satanism in our government, I see reiki tents and mysticism, I see a painting of Jesus, and hear worship from the 90’s on a speaker by the parliamentary library. Tent-neighbours introduce themselves, “what’s your name again? … That’s right, John.” “He’s an ambassador for Jesus, Debbie!”

A wahine walks by with a beautiful moko.
A strand of hay pokes up my pant leg.
Strung on a tree, a kiwi bird in converse shoes has a syringe stuck into his butt.
‘Yeah… NAH, f*ck off!’ the tshirt screams, while the Hare Krishnas hand out free curry, rice and halva.

Children play on the playground I’ve never seen used until this day, ‘tahi, rua, toru!’ they slip down the slide. On the loudspeakers ‘Hold on, Change is Coming’ now plays. I stop and listen for a while, hearing crowds catching on to sing along from all over the camp. A dog barks, startling me, and a man chuckles at my fright, though his smile is kind. Babies are pushed in prams by funky mums in baggy t-shirts and bike shorts. A huge ‘One Love’ banner with Bob Marley’s face on it covers the statue of Richard Seddon. A grandmother is invited to the stage to tell her story. “Jacinda is the same age as my daughter” she begins, “I remember when she came to parliament, she was so pretty, and lively and fun.” She recalls her pain and anguish over Aotearoa, her despair over the control we’re under, she had to come to the protest, she needed to be here. “Since coming here, I feel hope again!” A great cheer rises from the crowds. A wave of body odour rises too, but no one seems to mind.

A small girl hands a big box of ice blocks around.
A man hands out apples, and still another hands out water.
On beach chairs a couple sip tea under an ‘NZ Blood Donor’ umbrella, “make Jacinda go away,” it says.
Other signs are strewn all over:
‘Cancel Mandates’
‘Kids music and dance playgroup, 9:30 am every day!’
‘Democracy is dead.’

‘One whānau’ is written on the canned goods stand beside the barbecue marquee. Twin toddlers are covered in tomato sauce on the grass, their bare legs stick out beneath them, and 20 pink toes wiggle as they eat their sausages. A woman silently sits cross-legged, a headscarf wraps part of her caramel hair, her sign is multicoloured. ‘Free hugs’ I read as she rolls a durry.

I take a seat on what is left of our lawn and watch the marquee in front of me. ‘Nau Mai, Haere Mai, have a seat.’ It is set with tables of mātārata, and the wāhine work the long flax strips with their quick fingers, some teaching others. ‘Mandates are Divisive’ their poster says.  A man interrupts me, holding a peach and wearing a Freedom Fighter T-shirt. He talks about the peach, talks about the community, and then of a conspiracy I don’t understand. I nod and smile, and a woman comes to my aid, making sense of the conversation. The woman and I start talking, her passion for the protest evident in her strong yet graceful hand gestures, moving as if she were trying to pull an answer out of the air in front of her.

She tells me the story of her gift at the palace.
“We call that building…” she points to the parliamentary library,
“…the palace. Doesn’t it look like a palace?”
I agree that it does. Her story begins after ‘the bad day’, where there were physical breakouts between protestor and police.
“What many don’t know, is that our tamariki were right there, all being looked after together, but when the police began ramming into us, they were ramming into our children! They didn’t see them. They got hurt. Their trauma, the poor babies.”
She wipes the tears falling behind her sunglasses.
“I’m sorry, I just get so upset, about the children. They say we cause their trauma, but it wasn’t us! They are so well looked after here.”
I look around. The tomato sauce twins are back in a stroller, their mum is walking them back into shade. The playground behind me is filled with children. They are device-less, running about and laughing.
“I hear them all around, the little ones asking each other, “where are you from, where are you from?” They’re making friends, they’re being home schooled, it’s so beautiful.”
 

The new friend continues as she wipes more tears.
“Sometimes I just cry, and it feels like too much, you know some people here have lost everything. They stand at the barrier and they weep. They need to grieve. So I went to sit at the palace, I placed myself upon Papatūānuku and Tānemahuta to ground myself, and I just let my eyes rain, over the trauma of our tamariki, and freedom of our country. I sat there to send up love. And I asked for a blessing, and right then a wee blue-eyed boy came and sat in front of me, he saw my tears and he asked if I was okay. It touched my heart, God answered my prayers. I told him that I was okay now, these were happy tears. God had brought me joy and hope because of that boy. We had a kōrero about his school, and his friends. We hi-fived with two hands,” she tells me.

My new friend is on night security, so she’s off to bed at 3pm. She gives me a hug and says I’m welcome back anytime. I wander out, the earthy straw stench is replaced by the smell of fresh candy floss at the gates. Five police officers stroll by, two protestors wave, “hey, good to see you,” one says, “hi guys,” says another. “Hiya!” Replies a policewoman.

The train station is barred up, keeping out unwanted activity.
The bus terminal holds no busses, only freedom campers.
I get back into my car, the smell of candy floss still in my nose.
Sweet. I decide. Though my heart knew this all along.

Brittany Ross