Once upon a time when the world was new...
the thousands of tribes that lived on Earth were separated from one another by mountains and rivers and languages and oceans. The tribes were happy enough in their own places, having developed unique ways of living on their spot of land. Whether they lived on deserts or islands, tropical wetlands or snow-tipped mountains, the people lived harmonious lives.
The gods were bored. The job of creating the world was complete, and the people gave their thanks every day with a continuous supply of sacrificial fruit and incense smoke and roasted meats. This worship made the deities lazy and rotund, with nothing to do all day but listen to human declarations of how wonderful they were. They fought amongst themselves and had too many love affairs with beautiful human men and women, as well as the occasional tree or mythic beast.
The goddess Strife was the most bored of all. She was known by other names and different incarnations: Eris, Sekhmet, Badb, Ereshkigal, Morrigan, Kali, Jezebel, Discordia. The peace and harmony of all the separate nations and cultures of the earth made her sick. She decided to do something about it.
The next day, as her godly brothers and sisters feasted on the bountiful contributions from the Mexican Day of the Dead festivities, Strife leaned over and plunged her arm down, out of the heavens, and into the earth's atmosphere. She stretched out one long, dark, red-tipped finger, through the chill damp of a cumulous cloud, and began to stir. As she stirred she created a whirlwind, air moving so fast it ripped up trees and houses. Soon the people were caught up in the whirlwind too.
When Strife tired of her stirring, she placed her hand flat upon the earth. People were scattered in all directions, disorientated and fearful. They did not recognise the lands they had arrived at, and they set about making the new places as much like their old homes as possible. They fought with the original people, the ones that had not been caught up in the whirlwind. There were wars. There was destruction. New sicknesses spread amongst the original people, as if they were allergic to the newcomers. The newcomers insisted that the way of life they brought from their homelands was better than the way of the locals. Later, after the new and original inhabitants had gotten used to living together, the young ones would sometimes ask why this had happened at all - they had been happy in the time before, why hadn't they been left alone?
Strife had been like a child sucking a milkshake through a straw, greedy and gleeful. The discord and destruction fed her, gave her strength, and made her hungry for more. But in order to have discord, you must have harmony to destroy, so Strife had hidden a gift beneath her terrible appetites. Even while they fought wars with one another, the original people and the newcomers discovered they quite liked each other, and often, quite often, they had babies together. The babies came from both places, the babies belonged everywhere, and even though Strife stayed with her hand placed upon the earth, the people sometimes found peace with one another.
Like most people, Tina Makereti was one of those babies. She has a Pākehā father and a Māori mother. She has Ngāti Tuwharetoa, Te Ati Awa, Ngāti Maniapoto, Irish, Welsh, English and possibly Nordic ancestors. She is pretty sure she has a Moriori ancestor too, though the only thing she has to go by is stories. But then, in the end, that's the only thing any of us have.
The gods were bored. The job of creating the world was complete, and the people gave their thanks every day with a continuous supply of sacrificial fruit and incense smoke and roasted meats. This worship made the deities lazy and rotund, with nothing to do all day but listen to human declarations of how wonderful they were. They fought amongst themselves and had too many love affairs with beautiful human men and women, as well as the occasional tree or mythic beast.
The goddess Strife was the most bored of all. She was known by other names and different incarnations: Eris, Sekhmet, Badb, Ereshkigal, Morrigan, Kali, Jezebel, Discordia. The peace and harmony of all the separate nations and cultures of the earth made her sick. She decided to do something about it.
The next day, as her godly brothers and sisters feasted on the bountiful contributions from the Mexican Day of the Dead festivities, Strife leaned over and plunged her arm down, out of the heavens, and into the earth's atmosphere. She stretched out one long, dark, red-tipped finger, through the chill damp of a cumulous cloud, and began to stir. As she stirred she created a whirlwind, air moving so fast it ripped up trees and houses. Soon the people were caught up in the whirlwind too.
When Strife tired of her stirring, she placed her hand flat upon the earth. People were scattered in all directions, disorientated and fearful. They did not recognise the lands they had arrived at, and they set about making the new places as much like their old homes as possible. They fought with the original people, the ones that had not been caught up in the whirlwind. There were wars. There was destruction. New sicknesses spread amongst the original people, as if they were allergic to the newcomers. The newcomers insisted that the way of life they brought from their homelands was better than the way of the locals. Later, after the new and original inhabitants had gotten used to living together, the young ones would sometimes ask why this had happened at all - they had been happy in the time before, why hadn't they been left alone?
Strife had been like a child sucking a milkshake through a straw, greedy and gleeful. The discord and destruction fed her, gave her strength, and made her hungry for more. But in order to have discord, you must have harmony to destroy, so Strife had hidden a gift beneath her terrible appetites. Even while they fought wars with one another, the original people and the newcomers discovered they quite liked each other, and often, quite often, they had babies together. The babies came from both places, the babies belonged everywhere, and even though Strife stayed with her hand placed upon the earth, the people sometimes found peace with one another.
Like most people, Tina Makereti was one of those babies. She has a Pākehā father and a Māori mother. She has Ngāti Tuwharetoa, Te Ati Awa, Ngāti Maniapoto, Irish, Welsh, English and possibly Nordic ancestors. She is pretty sure she has a Moriori ancestor too, though the only thing she has to go by is stories. But then, in the end, that's the only thing any of us have.
