Going on strike

Geographies 

of justice 

of gentrification 

of holiday destinations

of raupatu whenua 

of farmland stretching out and circling in 

of productivity

of 100% pure 

Fanon once wrote that “The Manichaeism of the colonist produces the Manichaeism of the colonised”

It means that we are conditioned to believe in 

categories

only ‘two’ genders 

capitalism with all the trimmings

that we have the right to speak for us all 

We are categorised and branded as one thing 

We cannot be another 

So we surrender to a position so futile in nature 

It cuts like obsidian 

It bleeds like the rata tree

While Taawhaki cries out 

In seeking vengeance we found only death 

Amongst other things we have forgotten

The numbing stench of rain 

The chance to listen

The gift of learning 

The ability to be humble 

The suffering of others 

The necessity of place 

We don’t know how to be complicated

We don’t know how to be nuanced 

We don’t know how to be wrong 

We don’t know that to be wrong is to be free

Freedom is conditional 

But it grows like Lichen 

It dries out in the summer 

And regenerates in the winter

We don’t see how we are the ones who perpetuate the violence 

We say I am right and you are wrong

It’s like George W Bush all over again

“Your either with us or against us”

I want to be the shoe that hits you in the face 

We run a gallery named after a slave ship 

But we want to give platforms to grave robbing as art 

But we don’t want to be told that we are the ones who need to do the work 

But we don’t realise that some of us never forget these things 

But we don’t realise memory is a stain that can only be undone through acknowledgement 

But we don’t realise we should heal ourselves first 

Here we are during this true blue kiwi summer  working our tan 

burning our skin 

not in communion with Tama nui te ra

while the world is dying 

while terrorists attempt a pathetic coup 

while prisoners drink brown water 

while the ice melts as we pillage 

Protecting our property we lock our car doors 

We accumulate and close ranks

We sell decolonize mugs for $70 

We sell decolonize earrings for $70

We sell and sell and sell and sell

We upset ourselves 

We upset each other

We doom scroll 

We don’t dream 

We don’t show tenderness 

We don’t take time be present

We don’t take time to be awake 

Under sheets of rain we watch the splitting of spaces into the interstices of empire 

Afraid of anything but especially ourselves 

But what other ways could they have possibly broken in two or is it that we broke into ourselves and revelled in the smell of salt that we can hear

Imagine just saying saying     no

I want it all to stop sometimes 

I think about the loops that the waves make as they lick the edges of the rocks 

I remember that plastic slowly disintegrates as it travels through the ocean’s currents 

Remember the Roman tar marking the roads across Europe 

Remember the asphalt on Jewish and Romani homes 

Remember Govenor Grey in the cape colony, south Australia and New Zealand 

Remember the gun holes in the wall on University property

Remember

Remember

Remember

The prisons on my ancestors stolen lands are of course deliberate 

The difference between protest and protector 

The difference between a riot and a protest 

The fall of empire 

The decline of the west

The beginning of the end 

Our lives are like raranga 

Rich fibres knotted together 

Through many bodies 

For which we must honour them 

We honour them through 

our complications

our flaws that we work to unlearn

our ability to show love even in the face of the wretched 

Hana Pera Aoake

Hana Pera Aoake (Ngaati Mahuta, Ngaati Hinerangi, Tainui/Waikato) is an artist and writer based in Te wai pounamu. Hana recently published their first book of essays and prose, A bathful of kawakawa and hot water with Compound Press. They currently co-organise Kei te pai press with Morgan Godfery.