At an event at which people would normally be expected to display a human response, some form of deep personal commitment - grief, joy, happiness, pleasure, sadness etc. - the New Zealand cultural response is to wheel out a war dance.
And as recent events have all too graphically illustrated, that’s exactly what the haka is, or was. It’s an expression of intimidation. No surprises there. That is precisely what a war dance is supposed to be. And for all the specious sophistry employed by some of its apologists after the debating chamber recently descended to the level of a medieval jousting pit, that is precisely where it should belong. Its gradual adoption and display by all manner of people, eager to find some outlet for their otherwise suppressed emotions has tended to mask its original purpose.
Over the years, at weddings, funerals, twenty firsts, christenings, engagement parties and, for all I know, bar mitzvahs out have come the, by now, tired old platitudes of bulging eyeballs, stamping feet, guttural grunts and protruding tongues. It's a bit like the All Blacks performing the pas de deux from Swan Lake before a test match; or Joseph Parker doing a haka at the start of his next title fight.
It’s only when base passions are inflamed that its original purpose erupts – to strike fear into your opponents: originally, to cower your enemy or, on the occasion of its most recent exposition, to stifle civilised debate.
Even at a rugby test (where at least it has some behavioural relevance) the whole thing has long outworn its welcome. Where once Grizz Wylie, Waka Nathan and the lads were content to flap their arms and slap their thighs a bit, while solemnly intoning a ka mate ka mate or two, the modern performance has all the gravity of an Aztec Temple sacrifice - choreographed by Neil Ieremia and directed by Jane Campion.
No - scrub it I say. If New Zealanders want some outlet for their feelings they can hongi at a hangi or, better still, smile when they feel sad and cry when they feel happy.
Chris McVeigh is a retired KC living in Christchurch. He was previously President of the Canterbury District Law Society and, in an earlier life, a scriptwriter and performer for the satirical TV programme ‘A week of It’. This article was first published HERE
And as recent events have all too graphically illustrated, that’s exactly what the haka is, or was. It’s an expression of intimidation. No surprises there. That is precisely what a war dance is supposed to be. And for all the specious sophistry employed by some of its apologists after the debating chamber recently descended to the level of a medieval jousting pit, that is precisely where it should belong. Its gradual adoption and display by all manner of people, eager to find some outlet for their otherwise suppressed emotions has tended to mask its original purpose.
Over the years, at weddings, funerals, twenty firsts, christenings, engagement parties and, for all I know, bar mitzvahs out have come the, by now, tired old platitudes of bulging eyeballs, stamping feet, guttural grunts and protruding tongues. It's a bit like the All Blacks performing the pas de deux from Swan Lake before a test match; or Joseph Parker doing a haka at the start of his next title fight.
It’s only when base passions are inflamed that its original purpose erupts – to strike fear into your opponents: originally, to cower your enemy or, on the occasion of its most recent exposition, to stifle civilised debate.
Even at a rugby test (where at least it has some behavioural relevance) the whole thing has long outworn its welcome. Where once Grizz Wylie, Waka Nathan and the lads were content to flap their arms and slap their thighs a bit, while solemnly intoning a ka mate ka mate or two, the modern performance has all the gravity of an Aztec Temple sacrifice - choreographed by Neil Ieremia and directed by Jane Campion.
No - scrub it I say. If New Zealanders want some outlet for their feelings they can hongi at a hangi or, better still, smile when they feel sad and cry when they feel happy.
Chris McVeigh is a retired KC living in Christchurch. He was previously President of the Canterbury District Law Society and, in an earlier life, a scriptwriter and performer for the satirical TV programme ‘A week of It’. This article was first published HERE
11 comments:
The Haka is ugly, grotesque, and infantile.
Totally agree!
The haka does nothing for me - utterly pointless.
True - but sadly an advance signal of the tribal state towards which NZ is clearly reverting,
Agreed. And when they bought politics into the pregame haka last year, they lost me as a supporter forever.
It is a Stone Age war dance, designed to intimidate and threaten extreme violence and slaughter.
Time for it to GO !
Whenever I see some idiot doing the haka it puts me in mind of Croc Dundee and the knife skit where he says "That not a knife, THAT'S a knife". It will only take a couple of times where someone doing a threatening haka gets put on his back to stop the silliness.
A Pommie mate told me how it ridiculous that a visiting elderly ladies bowling group was doing a haka in the UK !!!
Quite right !!!
My culture focusses on manners where rolling eyes at people, sticking out tongues, yelling, grimacing in a threatening manner, simulating a slitting of the throat gesture and pointing a weapon are deemed to be most unacceptable. The haka has been described in many contradicting ways from warrior intimidating & threatening gestures to a form of welcome; I dislike it intensely & refuse to watch it. Unfortunately my grandson has to learn it as part of his "education"; he knows not to perform it in my house.
The last thing New Zealand needs is more encouragement to primitive, violent behaviors through kapa haka, reinforcing aggression among those already culturally inclined to it.
The Māori Party’s disgraceful shutdown of Parliament over a Bill threatening their brown supremacist privilege is a case in point.
A culture that institutionalises violent display, ritualised confrontation, and naked aggression as markers of cultural identity inevitably breeds thugs and bullies. Many New Zealanders—both white and brown—find this aspect of Māori culture unappealing for good reason.
The more “Māori” someone is, the more he tends to define himself by his fists—never alone, always with the bros backing him up. Or within his own family, where “Jake the Muss” rules over his missus and kids.
For such people, a big arm matters more than a big heart or a big brain. As one of Alan Duff’s characters reflects: "Us Maoris, we love our staunchness. Dunno why, juss is."
I do.
Centuries of intertribal warfare meant the small, the weak, the sensitive, and the contemplative were soon weeded out. Only the strong and brutal survived to pass on their genes and values. In a world where survival depended on battle, the highest status went to the fiercest warriors.
Duff captures this in Once Were Warriors. The barroom talk is all about who "smacked over" whom. Need your missus to cook a bro some eggs? Someone give you a ‘smart look’? Want to shut down a Treaty referendum? Just use violence, confrontation, and aggression.
Since Māori culture has produced no meaningful discoveries or inventions for humanity, the only tūrangawaewae it offers is “Me Warrior!”
As Duff observed: "There’s a culture of violence that runs through Māoridom."
That’s why Māori TV promos always feature aggressive haka as self-definition. It’s why ANZAC Day on Māori TV is reduced to a self-congratulatory celebration of the Māori Battalion—as if only they fought bravely, as if my grandfather and great-uncles of Māori descent who served in non-racial units didn't exist.
One online wannabe I debated had a profile pic of whānau males striking staunch poses, showing off boxing medals.
Nothing wrong with sports—many in my family having played to at least provincial age group representative level. But if my part-Māori family were to take a self-defining photo, it would feature us in academic dress, holding our university degrees—not bare-chested in piupiu, rolling our eyes like mad dogs, contorting our faces, and waving taiaha.
See my point?
The ability to throw a punch is no measure of a man.
In many “more Māori” whānau and mateship circles, the dynamic resembles a dog pack. "Top dog" is the one who throws the hardest punches. Everyone else knows their place—who they can snarl at, and who they must submit to. Children quickly learn that climbing the ladder means being harder and more brutal than those above them.
And how to gang up on outsiders.
Then they bring “Me Warrior!” to our schools, streets, bars, late-night takeaways, gas stations, footy sidelines, and road rage incidents.
It’s not just the men. The “wahine toa” are on board too—brawling, cursing, and posturing like men.
It’s ugly. Unfeminine.
Like that paru hua who desecrated our Parliament with her ethnocentric nonsense.
This part-Māori wants no part of it.
It has been a total embarrassment for the past 50 years and makes one feel ashamed of out country.
Post a Comment