Huia Short Stories 9

by Anahera Gildea

  ‘No more animals Ana, do you hear me?’ her mum would say. ‘By crikey you better hear me girl.’ Knowing full well her offspring had no ears. They were purely ornamental. Mum daily checked Ana’s school bag for small pets, and their backyard for larger ones. Making sure there were no more whāngai there, like the usual stray dogs and cats. Regularly ducks, roosters and guinea pigs. Occasionally, chickens, hens or seagulls. Even eels and frogs from the local creek she kept in Mum’s large Tupperware bowl. Their suburban home had slowly turned into a farm, filled with animals of all walks of life. They gravitated to her. Especially the wounded ones. Her parents drew the line with Ana when, one day, they and the neighbourhood watched her being followed home by a horse. Not just any horse, but a rather large stroppy one. It was one of the wild horses that grazed near the Otahuhu railway yard. Limping and badly scarred. It had been attacked by dogs and then apparently abandoned. ‘We have to look after him, Mum,’ Ana said, shaking her head in desperate concern to make her point. ‘Nobody wants him … but we do.’ That’s what Ana said about all the animals. The horse seemed to agree, as it calmly followed Ana up their footpath and into the backyard. Ana’s mum always left the bigger tasks to her dad. ‘Take it back right now, Ana!’

  Like a hurricane, Ana regularly blew people away with some of the things she said and did. Oblivious to their reactions, she left people stunned and bewildered in her wake. Like so many, Ana had a sense of ‘knowing’. She could see, hear and feel things that many people around her obviously didn’t, or weren’t aware of. And because she always followed her heart and spoke her truth, life became very difficult. She was isolated, ridiculed and even punished. The cruelty and harshness of the remarks still echo through her memory: ‘Don’t say those things Ana,’ or ‘How do you know that … don’t be so silly,’ or ‘You’re pōrangi … you should be in a mental institute,’ and so forth.

  She was bullied, and became a scapegoat. All for speaking the truth. It was at these times that she cloaked herself within the natural spiritual world she loved so dearly, to seek solace and acceptance. Nature healed a deep sense of pain, isolation and loneliness and protected her from the cruelness of the human physical world. In time people would experience for themselves what it was that she was trying to tell them. ‘She’s not pōrangi … That girl has a taonga,’ she once overheard an aunt proudly inform family members. ‘Just listen to what she’s saying … all of it is true.’ At thirteen years old, Ana didn’t know what that meant, and to her, it seemed most people around her didn’t either. They didn’t like her, because they thought she was weird. She was different. Little children, however, just loved her. They looked at her and whatever it was that was around her with awe and fascination, and smiled. They wanted her to see what they could see and smile too, but she couldn’t. Some days, the pain and burden was just too much, and Ana would run out into the backyard, crying to the animals. Manea, the hawk, always rested on her shoulder at these times. The animals just sat quietly near her. In her heart she would commune with nature – the stars, the trees, the animals – and listen to the wind. The soothing sounds of nature. Her parents, who deeply loved her, tried to protect her. They’d say ‘Others won’t understand you’ and that it was ‘best to be quiet.’

  As Ana grew, so did her gift, and the ever-changing world that was to be. Sadly, in time she learnt to suppress and ignore her ability. It was her best friend Ruth who supported her through some of the most trialling times. Ruth came from a very violent and abusive home. One day, she finally ran away, and Ana followed her, to the desperate concern of her parents. She was to enter a life far removed from her own. Both girls resorted to a life on the run, living in Auckland’s inner-city streets with other kids from abusive homes. They got to know the homeless people, the working girls and the city regulars. Ana, now aged fifteen, would sit and listen to each of their stories. She felt their deepest pain and sorrow, but could also see their potential. In time, she grew to know and love each and every one of them, and vowed never to forget them: the kids she enjoyed being with. Ana remembers the first day she met the group. ‘Yous can come stay at my home if yous want,’ she had said. Initially treating the outsider with caution, Gypsy, a hardened ‘streety’, eyed Ana up. ‘Nah it’s OK doll … dis our home,’ she declared. Ana’s heart melts as she remembers the damp mattresses, blankets, clothes and food wrappings scattered between the concrete pillars and old graves beneath Grafton Bridge, the place they called ‘home’. Gypsy was the leader, and made it clear. ‘Dis be our family now … dis a real family.’ Ana knew her own whānau were looking for her and were desperate to have her home. But, although she loved them, she wasn’t ready to go home yet. She had to look after her mate Ruth. By sixteen, they’d met hardened gang members and bikers, and so parties, alcohol and heavy drugs became the norm. Meanwhile, Ana was struggling to subdue the visions and messages she was receiving, which increasingly became more real. Most of the messages to her were warnings to be careful. That alcohol and drugs were harmful and oppressive to the wairua. Like opium to some, marijuana seemed to amplify everything a million times. It was way too much for a sixteen-year-old to cope with. She used to call marijuana ‘one of those freaky buzzes’. She went to parties where everyone was so wasted, no one realised or cared that there were comatose people in the same room or, worse, sitting right next to them ready to OD. She’d know, and just go and pull the syringe out of their arms and alert someone to call the medics.

  There were endless discussions and struggles in which Ana tried to stop potentially fatal fights. And several times she tried to stop others wanting to take their own lives. At seventeen, her friend Ruth overdosed, and she began to spiral out of control. She nearly died on two occasions through reckless driving. In situations in which Ana should have died, she didn’t. Natural spiritual forces intervened, making their profound presence known on every occasion and leaving her with an equally profound, clear message: that that part of her learning was now over, and she had a purpose. This aroused the mauri within her, and gave birth to the realisation that would change her life forever.

  She returned home. Following months of cleansing and healing with whānau, she decided to train to become a teacher. ‘I’m going to become a teacher,’ she told Linda, her older sister, who was a successful lawyer. ‘Fabulous … so what are you going to teach?’ ‘Not sure yet,’ Ana replied. ‘I’ll let it come to me.’ It was still coming to her when she finally went to the Epsom training college interviews. Finding herself amid a very large gathering of people almost twice her age, she should have felt daunted. But no, that childlike fascination had kicked in. It felt exciting. Instead of going to the teacher interviews, she ended up talking to people waiting for the social work interviews being held in the same area. Social work suddenly started to sound appealing – but challenging. It was what her parents did, and it looked like if she studied here, she’d be with aunty and uncle types who could guide and support her. ‘I’m going to be a social worker instead,’ she thought. So she quickly crossed out ‘teacher’ and put ‘social worker’ on the application form, seconds before the actual interviews. During the panel interview, she was asked a variety of questions, the main being ‘Why do you want to be a social worker?’ Ana froze and then suddenly realised, ‘Yes … very good question … why do I want to become a social worker anyway?’ Panic should have set in, but instead she paused and followed her heart. She remembered Ruth, the street family and the many others she had made a vow to help. ‘Because I want to help people,’ she said. To her utter amazement, the acceptance letter arrived one week later.

  That career would take her on a long inner journey that allowed her wairua to grow and blossom. As a child, she’d had visions of the very people she was now working with, and often cried because she could feel their pain and isolation, even before she met them. Now she was living her vision. She was dedicated to helping the forgotten ones: those neglected and placed in the ‘too hard’ basket. She worked with children and their w
hānau in Social Welfare, and with parolees and prisoners for the Ministries of Justice and Corrections (forensics). She became the only brown and the youngest social worker within the region’s mental health services. She met a lot of very gifted people through her career who should never have been placed in the care of social workers in the first place. One of those special people was a forty-year-old woman named Diane. Like the children Ana had known as a teen, Diane always looked at Ana with awe and fascination. Ana embraced Diane, and said ‘You’re not unwell, are you Diane?’ – waiting patiently for a reply. ‘No dear, but there are a lot of people here who need me.’ Ana’s heart melted. ‘This is the only family and home I’ve ever really known.’ Ana had plans to relocate Diane into her own home and help her get a job, but that wasn’t to be. ‘You’re a special person, Ana.’ Diane spoke softly. ‘You’re going to help a lot of people … you’ll grow young … not old.’

  Adults like Diane were placed in the same psycho-paediatric units as innocent children because of their gifts – the same as Ana’s. Many children had been placed there because they had some ‘learning disability,’ or were orphaned. Ana was dedicated to these people. With great humility and respect, she would help bring each to a place of understanding and healing. It took a lot to anger Ana. She learnt to channel the anger that came from learning of decades of mass injustice and inhumane treatment against patients by the psychiatric services, and turn them into proactive positive changes. Clinical meetings with leading psychiatrists and management were eventful.

  One meeting, in particular, was ground-breaking. Ana recalled one psychiatrist saying ‘Sarina is very unwell; she will have to remain on chlorpromazine for the rest of her life … another lost cause, I’m afraid,’ dumping the file on the ground like rubbish and picking up another. These people never saw the devastation their decisions would wreak on the patients and their families: nor did they really care. Despite being the youngest staff member there, at twenty-one years old, Ana cared. She stated to a full meeting of senior mental health executives and health professionals ‘It’s time some real changes were made in this service … and we are going to start that today.’ Some choked on their hot drinks. Others shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, and turned beetroot red with guilt and hostility. A handful were quietly proud of Ana, and ecstatic someone had finally spoken out.

  ‘Oh? … And by what authority do you propose making these so-called changes, Ana?’ replied Dr Bural, a senior psychiatrist, with obvious sarcasm in his voice. He grinned to one of his colleagues, believing he’d put a stop to that sort of irrational talk and behaviour once and for all. He was close to shitting his pants though, and spilling hot coffee on his groin, when Ana replied. ‘It’s simple really … You see, it begins by revealing all the misdiagnoses and mistreatments that have been made.’ She opened a diary that she’d kept detailed notes in. ‘Shall I give you all a few examples? … beginning with your practice, Dr Bural?’

  Yes, that hurricane had once again hit, but this time people listened. Soon after, widespread investigations into patient abuse, including individual diagnosis and care, were instigated, and sweeping changes were implemented at every level. But the heartache remained for Ana. She knew that it was too late for so many damaged innocent lives. She believed that much more should have been done much sooner. It was over twenty years ago that that had happened, but there will always be a tinge of sadness and devotion in Ana’s heart for those people.

  Since then, Ana has been in demand as both a healer and a senior advisor to various family and community organisations and government departments. Now aged forty-five, she looks and feels twenty-five. Playing with her precious grandson keeps her young. She enjoys the simple life, teaching whānau to grow their own vegetables and fruit, and to live off the land and sea. She takes regular walks through Waitākere’s native bush, where she goes to karakia and cleanse herself in its many streams and waterfalls. She communes with nature in her heart, possessing a perfect inner beauty complemented by sheer outer beauty. She has a presence that captivates and enchants people. There is a translucent glow to her, as if she is from another world. She is very much a part of the enchanting natural beauty that surrounds her home. Despite all this, she remains very humble. Her life is not her own.

  It’s nearly 2 p.m., and Ana is preparing for her visitors. She notices and senses the hawk is now preparing to leave, and smiles with acknowledgement as it lets out a cry. She hears Josh’s car making its way down the drive, and gradually becomes overwhelmed with emotion. A deepness within is being awakened. That is a sign that something personally significant is about to happen. She calmly waits, and thinks ‘It’s Diane.’ When the car door opens, sure enough, she sees her old friend, who looks well and very happy. That means so much to Ana. Diane now works as a healer and senior advisor for mental health services. They embrace, and all the pain of injustice and sadness Ana has carried for many years slowly begins to heal within her broken heart. Diane has symbolised to Ana all those innocent children and adults who were wrongfully and unjustly incarcerated and persecuted in institutions. That part of her life, which for years has had no closure, is now complete.

  Ana speaks softly to Diane. ‘Life has taught me that the most powerful force in the universe is aroha … it is the key to all understanding and healing.’

  Taku Pūtia Whakahirahira

  Mataia Keepa

  Hone: E mā, i kī mai taku kaiako, he tohunga mau rākau, mau patu hoki a Uncle, kei te tika tēnā?

  Māmā: E aua e tama, uia tō matua kēkē?

  Hone: Engari e mā, kāre ia mō te kōrero. Mutu rawa tāna mahi i te whare tapahi mīti, kotahi tonu atu ia ki tōna punua whare, ka tōia te tatau, ka moe.

  Māmā: Tō ihu e tama!

  Hone: Engari e mā...

  Māmā: E tama, kāti tāu whakahōhā mai i ahau, uia tō matua, he mahi anō āku!

  Ka hīkoi atu a Hone, ka hamumu.

  Hone: Pōkōtiwha

  Ka whakahoki a māmā.

  Māmā: He aha?

  Hone: Pōrōwhita e mā, pōrōwhita. Geeeezzz bloody turi.

  Mutu rawa te whakahōhā a Hone i tōna whāea e pā ana ki tōna matua kēkē, ka puta ia ki waho.

  Ka roa ia i te pātiki o te whare e whakaaroaro ana i ngā kōrero a tōna kaiako, mea rawa ake ka rongo ia i te ngunguru mai a te taraka o tōna matua kēkē i te pito rā anō o te tiriti, nā wai ka tau mai te taraka rarā ki te kāinga, ka pāka, ka weto.

  Ka tūhera te kuaha o te kaitaraiwa, ka puta te kamupūtu mā tuatahi o tōna matua i te taraka. Kāre noa iho i roa, ka puta hoki te waewae tuarua, anō nei kāre he paku māharahara i te ao. Puta rawa mai te katoa o te tinana o tōna matua kēkē i tōna taraka, ka tū, ka hītakotako i te kaha ngenge, ka mutu ana tana hītakotako, ka tika anō tā Hone i kī ake ai, kotahi tonu atu tōna matua ki tōna punua whare, ka tōia te tatau, ka moe.

  Heoi, i tēnei rangi tonu nei ka rongo ake a Hone i tētahi momo reo anō e hamumu mai ana i te whare o tōna matua kēkē, ka whakatata atu a Hone, ka rongo ia e karakia haere ana tōna matua, ka taka te kapa, āe ākene pea kei te tika tōna kaiako.

  Ao ake i te ata, ka rapia e Hone ngā toretore i ōna kanohi, ka titiro ki waho i tōna pihanga, ohorere ana ia i te kite ake kua oho kē tōna matua kēkē, e kapu tī mai ana ia i te mahau o tōna whare. Ka rūpeke a Hone i tōna moenga, heipū tonu atu ki te pātai i āna pātai ki tōna matua. Ka mea:

  Hone: Uncle, he aha kē hoki tāu i tēnei wā o te ata? Kāre anō te riroriro kia tangi?

  Uncle: Āe koirā te wā pai.

  Hone: Wā pai ki te aha Uncle?

  Uncle: Wā pai ki te karakia e tama.

  Hone: Karakia? He minita koe?

  Uncle: Kāo e tama.

  Hone: He aha then?

  Uncle: He Māori.

  Hone: Ehh koirā noa iho.

  Ka mingo kata tōna matua kēkē, ka whakahoki.

  Uncle: Mā te aha i tēnā e tama, mā te aha i tēnā.

  Hone: Kāre ahau i te mārama Uncle, he āhua r
erekē koe i ētahi wā.

  Uncle: Kei te pai e tama, ‘he wā e taka’ ka mārama koe.

  Hone: Mārama ki te aha?

  Uncle: Hei aha atu māu i tēnei wā e tama, ‘he wā e taka.’

  Ka tū te matua kēkē o Hone. Ka herea tana tātua tapahi mīti ki ōna hope, ka whakaurua āna māripi ki ōna tahataha, ka haere ia i tana haere.

  Ka whakaaro anō a Hone, he aha kē hoki te tikanga o te kōrero, ‘he wā e taka …’ he tohutohu tēnei? he aha rānei?

  I a ia e whakaaroaro ana i te mahau o te punua whare o tōna matua, ka oho a Māmā.

  Māmā: E tama, he aha tāu i waho nei? Hoatu, haere ki te horoi i a koe anō, māku te parakuihi e tunu.

  Hone: Mō taku hē māmā, i te karakia ahau.

  Māmā: Karakia? Nō hea kē hoki tērā whakaaro? Hoatu, whakatika koe i a koe!

  Ka haere a Hone ki te horoi, hoki rawa mai ka kohikohi ia i āna kai mō te rā i ngā kāpata kai o tōna whare, ā, ka patu anō ia i te rori kia tae ki te kura. Nōna e hīkoi ana ki te kura, ka kite anō ia i te kaiako nāna te kōrero he mau rākau, he mau patu tōna matua. Ka uia anō e ia.

  Hone: Whāea, kei te tika pea tāu e pā ana ki tōku matua, i rongo ahau i a ia e karakia ana inapō. Rerekē nē?

  Kaiako: E nge! Kei āta noho koe ka kī anō he rūkahu ahau. Arā, kua mau te iro ināianei nē?

  Hone: Ehara! Ehara! Heoi e whae, nō te ata nei ka kōrero tahi māua ko taku matua, me tāna kupu paremata mai ki ahau, e mea ana, ‘he wā e taka.’ He aha ia te tikanga o tērā kōrero e whae?