PROTEST TAUTOHETOHE
CONTENTS
PREFACE 06 PROTEST, REMEMBER AND SURVIVE 10 COLLISIONS 18 WAR 48 ANTI-NUCLEAR PROTEST 98 MANA MOTUHAKE 126 ANTIAPARTHEID 166 WOMEN & PROTEST 212 LGBTQI+ PROTEST 250 CIVIL RIGHTS 270 CLASS & ECONOMIC PROTEST 314 ENVIRONMENT 354 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 398 NOTES 400 SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY 404 ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS 406 INDEX 408
ANTIAPARTHEID
The movement against sporting contacts with apartheid South Africa is one of the major success stories of New Zealand political activism, and it has left behind a rich archive of protest material held in collections around the country. Protests were voiced from the very first meeting of the South African and New Zealand rugby teams when the Springboks visited New Zealand in 1921. However, it wasn’t until the proposed 1960 All Black tour of South Africa that a wider protest movement arose. Two years of protests – including a massive petition, lobbying the government and direct action in the streets – brought the issue before all New Zealanders. In 1970 and 1976 protest demonstrations played out in the streets as the All Blacks left to tour South Africa. When the 1981 Springbok tour of New Zealand was announced, unprecedented protest action snowballed into one of New Zealand’s most significant periods of civil unrest. The following selection of objects and images ranges from the ‘No Maoris No Tour’ campaign of 1958–60 to the diverse strategies of the 1981 Springbok tour protests, and ends with the proposed rugby tour of South Africa in 1985. 167
‘No Maoris No Tour’: New Zealand Protests 1959–60 booklet, April 1960. Produced by the Citizens’ All Black Tour Association. Gift of Leslie and Shirley Megget, on behalf of Joyce Megget, 2016. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH024985).
‘My Old Man’s an All Black!’ record, 1960. Recorded by the Howard Morrison Quartet and La Gloria Records. Purchased 2001. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH009828).
Protest against the 1960 tour in Myers Park, Auckland, May 1960. Photograph by Marti Friedlander. Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tāmaki (2000/28/29).
No Māori, no tour
The slogan ‘No Maoris No Tour’ simply and effectively presented the Citizens’ All Black Tour Association’s demand to fight racial discrimination in the selection of the All Black team to tour South Africa in 1960 – and to fight it on New Zealand soil. This was the first time that direct protest action against sporting contacts with South Africa had been seen in New Zealand city streets, and it was in response to the New Zealand Rugby Union’s decision to bow to South Africa’s apartheid laws and send the All Blacks without Māori players. The Citizens’ All Black Tour Association was the first explicitly anti-tour (rather than anti-apartheid) organisation, and it was supported by a wide spectrum of New Zealanders. The association organised one of New Zealand’s largest petitions, with over 150,000 signatures collected. However, the tour went ahead without Māori players. Protest actions and street demonstrations grew in New Zealand after the Sharpeville massacre of protesters by South African police on 21 March 1960. The photograph opposite shows an anti-tour demonstration in Auckland on the eve of the All Blacks’ departure for South Africa. Protests against the 1960 tour surfaced in popular culture. ‘My Old Man’s an All Black’ was written by Gerry Merito (Ngāi Tūhoe) and recorded by his group, the popular all-Māori Howard Morrison Quartet, in the Pukekohe Town Hall in 1960. It repurposes Lonnie Donegan’s ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman’ by wryly mocking the New Zealand Rugby Union’s decision not to include Māori players in the team. The song was a great hit, despite its poor sound quality, and sold an estimated 60,000 copies. Oh, my old man’s an All Black, He wears the silver fern, But his mates just couldn’t take him So he’s out now for a turn. (Fi Fi Fo Fum, there’s no Horis in this scrum.)
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HART / Heart
Protesters gathered in Wellington on the night of 13 June, when the All Blacks flew out to South Africa for their 1970 tour. For this tour, the South African government had agreed to treat Māori All Black players and spectators as ‘honorary whites’. Several protesters painted their faces in black and white halves. In the photograph above, a woman carries a placard with a poster that features a detail of the famous photograph of a women’s protest at Cato Manor, Durban, in 1959, in which South African police attacked protesters with batons. This image of state oppression was incorporated into protest objects for many years afterwards, as can be seen on the T-shirt opposite. The badge was worn by those protesting against contacts between South African and New Zealand sporting teams in the 1970s and 1980s. HART’s split black-and-white heart motif became the most well-known symbol of the anti-apartheid movement. It neatly makes visual the double meaning of the movement’s acronym: that black and white are together and part of the same human heart. It was designed to be easy for anyone to draw, paint or print. HART was formed as a national body in Auckland in 1969 to halt the proposed tour of 1970. (Its name was coined by Tama Poata.) Trevor Richards, its chair, observed that in the early 1970s a ‘cause [wouldn’t have] made it if there wasn’t the badge to buy. HART sold tens of thousands of them each year.’1
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Protest against All Blacks going to South Africa, Wellington, June 1970. Photograph by Ans Westra. Purchased 1993 with New Zealand Lottery Grants Board funds. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (O.012048). Halt All Racist Tours badge, early 1970s. Produced by Halt All Racist Tours. Gift of the Estate of Ron and Carmen Smith, 2015. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH024496).
171 Stop the tour
‘No Tour’ T-shirt, 1981 (front and back). Produced by Halt All Racist Tours. Gift of Annette Anderson, 2009. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH016677).
The 1981 Springbok rugby tour was a seminal event in New Zealand political and social history, exposing deep rifts in society. Pro-tour supporters argued that politics should be kept out of sport. Anti-tour protesters argued that sport was not separate from politics, and that playing rugby against South Africa condoned apartheid. Many saw the tour as an opportunity to address racism in New Zealand. Protests caused obstruction and the cancellation of games, and violence escalated between protesters, supporters and police as the tour progressed. The front of the T-shirt (above left) lists anti-tour organisations and people, and demonstrates the diversity and range of those who protested. New Zealanders from all walks of life opposed the tour; many were professionals from the larger urban centres – civil servants, church leaders, teachers, university lecturers, artists, researchers, scientists, librarians, public administrators, social workers, office workers and nurses. The back of the T-shirt (above right) features a detail from a photograph of a policeman raising his baton against protesters in South Africa in 1959. This image became potent in a New Zealand context as police violence against protesters increased during the 1981 tour. Cheap and easily printed, T-shirts were a common way for protesters to declare their allegiance.
‘Strike Out Apartheid’ match book, 1981. Produced by Halt All Racist Tours and the New Zealand University Students’ Association. Hocken Collections, Dunedin.
Objects of solidarity
No object was too small or humble to be co-opted by the anti-tour movement, particularly when double meanings and word play could be mined for maximum effect, as with the match book above. HART’s split black-and-white heart motif features on the badge top left (opposite); it became one of New Zealand’s most memorable and effective protest symbols. On the badge top right a rugby term (‘ruck’) is subversively combined with an unprintable expletive. The badge bottom left was worn by protesters during the controversial 1981 Springbok tour and in the lead-up to a proposed All Black tour of South Africa in 1985. The upraised clenched fist is an internationally recognised symbol of solidarity and strength. The badge bottom right was made for women protesting against the 1981 Springbok rugby tour. Many walks of life were represented in the protest movement, and many groups voiced their concerns independently to ensure all perspectives were acknowledged by the movement.
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‘STOP The ’81 Tour’ badge, 1981. Produced by Halt All Racist Tours. Gift of Annette Anderson, 2009. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH012531). ‘Ruck off Boks!’ badge, 1981. Maker unknown. Gift of the Estate of Ron and Carmen Smith, 2015. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH024498). ‘Women against the Tour’ badge, 1981. Unknown maker. Gift of Annette Anderson, 2009. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH012534). Women Against the Tour, 31 August 1981. Evening Post. Alexander Turnbull Library (PAColl-7327-1-069/2967).
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Amandla flags flying on the Day of Shame march, Wellington, 12 September 1981. Photograph by Ans Westra. Courtesy of Ans Westra.
Mobilisations
Opposite: Amandla flag, 1981. Made by Chris McBride with input from Dave Kent, Wellington Media Collective. Purchased 2001. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH009801).
The flag opposite was one of several made by Chris McBride and Dave Kent of the Wellington Media Collective for anti-Springbok tour protesters to carry in street demonstrations. Many were seen on the Day of Shame march in Wellington on 12 September 1981, the same day as the final test match in Auckland. Organisers planned to make the march as safe as possible so families could bring their children. The vivid red flags flying in the Wellington wind were considered a great success. The flags’ colour and tactile qualities and their softness and constant movement helped generate a nonthreatening environment that felt safer than previous protests. ‘Amandla’ is a Xhosa and Zulu word meaning power. Protesters would call out ‘Amandla’ and others would respond with ‘Ngawethu’ (‘to us’), meaning ‘the power is ours’. The upraised clenched fist symbolised strength and solidarity, and was a key symbol of the black South African liberation movement. The posters on the following pages called for nationwide mobilisations on 1 May and 3 July 1981 to pressure the New Zealand government to force the Rugby Union to withdraw its
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invitation to the Springboks and stop the tour from going ahead. Thousands of posters and leaflets were printed to advertise the mobilisations around the country. About 75,000 people marched on each date.2 The 1 May poster on page 176 features a crowd of black South Africans with their arms raised in the clenched-fist salute. The 3 July poster on page 177 features a crowd of New Zealanders carrying a banner seen at the 1 May protest. The image of the protesting crowd is important to protest propaganda as it shows solidarity with a cause and leaves a ‘quotable’ visual record, which can be easily repurposed for subsequent protest material. These posters were designed and printed by the Wellington Media Collective (1978–1998). The collective began as a volunteer organisation in 1978 and shared skills in design, photography, screenprinting and offset printing with community organisations, trade unions, individuals, activist groups (including Māori, feminist, unemployed), theatres, musicians, actors and artists.
Following pages: ‘Mobilise May 1st’ poster, 1981. Designed by Dave Kent and Chris Lipscombe, Wellington Media Collective, in association with HART. Purchased 2015. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH024611). ‘Mobilise July 3’ poster, 1981. Designed by Kathy Baxter, Dave Kent and Chris McBride; printed by the Wellington Media Collective for the July 3 Mobilisation National Publicity Committee. Purchased 2015. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH024612).
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Mabel Howard holding up inconsistently sized bloomers in protest at Parliament, 1954. Evening Post. Alexander Turnbull Library (EPNZ Obits-Ho to Ht-01).
Te Whenua, Te Whenua, Engari Kaore He Turangawaewae (Placenta, Land, but Nowhere to Stand), 1987. By Robyn Kahukiwa. Purchased 1988. Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tāmaki (1988/32).
Power of hidden objects
On 22 September 1954 Opposition Labour Member of Parliament Mabel Howard protested against the inconsistency in women’s clothing sizes by holding up two pairs of bloomers in Parliament during the second reading of the Merchandise Marks Bill. She was illustrating her argument that garments marked OS (oversize) varied in their dimensions, making it very difficult for women to purchase the correct size. She called for labels to carry measurements, and for manufacturers to stop ‘this pinching of material out of women’s clothing’.9 Waving her bloomers startled the House and drew laughter, but also support. This was no overnight gimmick – Howard had protested against inconsistency in the quality and sizing of women’s clothing and footwear for ten years. But her dramatic presentation in 1954 became the most memorable moment of her parliamentary career, demonstrating that performing protest with objects can create the most impact. Howard made public what had previously been hidden and she was successful; standardisation of sizes was soon legislated. However, a downside of this memorable moment was that it was the only thing some people remembered about Howard, despite her long career devoted to many causes.
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Te whare tangata
Artist and illustrator Robyn Kahukiwa (Ngāti Porou, Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti, Ngāti Hau, Ngāti Konohi, Te Whānau-a-Ruataupare) began painting while caring for her two small children. Having grown up in Australia, Kahukiwa moved to New Zealand at the age of nineteen and has exhibited widely since 1972. Her work has often been inspired by, and depicted, wāhine Māori and atua wāhine, their mana and mauri resplendently celebrated. Through her work, she also explores the harsher aspects of te ao Māori: the geographical dislocation that comes from international and national migration. Through her work she negotiates these spaces herself, maintaining a strength of connection that cannot be doubted. This work references the burying of whenua (placenta) in whenua (land) after a baby is born. This tikanga often sees whenua being taken to one’s tūrangawaewae, but how do you practise this tikanga if you have no connection or knowledge of your tūrangawaewae? This painting depicts that pain of displacement while strongly asserting that that connection is still present in the knowledge of the tikanga. It is also a strong assertion of the position of a Māori mother, of her role as the whare tangata.
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NGAHUIA TE AWEKOTUKU First whisperings of women’s liberation around campus: in mildewy Grafton flats, on the marches against the Vietnam war, through the dog-eared pages of Notes from the Second Year, all this came together in a poorly attended, very brave first event pulled together by Janet Bogle. Seen as something radical – which it was – the meeting was avoided by most of us, and attended by menacing young males, who thrust their phallic symbols into the air and threatened. Activity was suspended over the summer break, when the first on-site Waitangi Day protest occurred. With the new term came new people with fresh energy. Susan Kedgley, an articulate graduate student in politics, revived interest. Women met during lunch breaks to discuss the various issues – equal pay for equal work, safe reliable contraception, equal educational opportunities, and childcare. Having just rapturously consumed Robin Morgan’s Sisterhood Is Powerful, l turned up at their second meeting with Janet Bogle. Even though I was the only Maori there, and (if I recall correctly) the only lesbian, I felt absolutely amazed. It was wonderful talking about being women in a ‘man’s world’ as a political reality! Projects were put together. Structurelessness was the accepted mode, so we appointed no ‘leaders’; instead, alas, the media selected them for us. But more of that later on. Consciousness-raising groups were organised, with some dire consequences. Trust (or the lack of it), competitiveness, and a muddled naïvety made these experiences of questionable value for me. I acknowledge
that many women gained a great deal, and of course I now realise that much of my own alienation came from being a Maori lesbian. And (ho hum) the only one. Two other projects are worth mentioning. We organised a seminar on Women in Society, invited speakers including Merimeri Penfold, whose ‘Maori women are this country’s factory workers!’ still echoes in my ears, and with Connie Purdue on Women in the Trade Unions. Women and the Law, and Women in Education were discussed as well. We also did something a bit silly, a delicious attentionseeking device that almost went awry. By this time, my ‘girlfriend’ Val, a streetwise pakeha usually seen astride a small Suzuki, started getting involved too. The Auckland University Women’s Liberation Group appeared in the annual student capping parade (now defunct, probably just as well!). It was nearly a riot. We dressed in the roles women were traditionally limited to – a promenade of sexist stereotypes. In shimmering green with a beauty queen’s satin sash, Kedgley swanned and smiled exquisitely; her friend Cederman looked crisply secretarial; one voluptuously beautiful playboy bunny dazzled the male and female masses; Val cavorted about in a stripper’s sheer negligee and fishnet stockings; lots of ‘frumps’ pushed prams and wore haircurlers; and Ngahuia (shame on me) sashayed along in her Miss Maori Courtesy Maid costume – piupiu, backless taniko bodice, and black patent leather high heels. What a sight. We made some sort of impact – the media were thrilled! – but we never followed it through effectively, like so many of our planned events. We were all much too carried away by the drama of what we were doing to really take stock of the consequences. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, another group had been mustering for some time. This was Women for Equality, otherwise known as the Herne Bay Group, which eventually relocated to Williamson Avenue. Strangely, I felt very comfortable here; even though there were men (shock horror!) at their meetings. There was good food, too, and a more relaxed sense
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of listening to each other. Everyone was clear – Joce and Bruce Jesson, Fern Mercier and Ross, Bronwyn and Terry, Margaret Brown; they were all very warm and friendly, and Val and I felt right at home. The group was very issues-oriented; this also appealed to my cousin Donna Awatere, who was pregnant and thus preoccupied most of that year, but worked on the psychiatric nurses’ industrial action at Oakley Hospital, a major concern. Another was the so-called ‘pantyhose dispute’ at either Southdown or Westfield freezing works, where female freezing workers were trying to negotiate a special ‘pantyhose allowance’ for the hosiery ruined on the job each day. We tried earnestly to bring such working women to our meetings. It’s important to remember, too, that there were other issues demanding media attention – immense protest rallies against the Vietnam war, amid escalating violence and despair; ethnic gangs germinating in the raw asphalt of Otara and the bleak back streets of Ponsonby/Grey Lynn; and the Labour Party winding up to win. In the winter months of 1971, we hit out hard. The Great Northern saga took place over a six week period. What a muddle. What a mess. It was one of the very few joint events organised by Women for Equality and the university group; as l think back, it seemed doomed from the beginning. Liaison between the groups was sticky and acerbic. The plan was to ‘take over’ that sacred male space – a male-only bar, the working or business man’s ‘refuge from the wife’. Similar actions had drawn fierce media fire in Britain and North America. So we ended up – of all places – at the Great Northern Hotel’s infamous Sports Bar, known to those truly in the game as the Lily Pond. My girlfriend and I were fully aware that this was where the gay boys went to play, but who’d listen to us? And we got totally swept away by the mad media rush that followed. Pictures in all the national dailies, interviews on TV, Kedgley (especially Kedgley) and I instant stars. Over the following weeks we continued
to drink at the Sports Bar with the Women for Equality die-hards, but the university group stayed well away, and in the end it fizzled out. But for Val and me, harsh words kept coming from our gay brothers. (Or ‘sisters’, as many claimed instead to be, for a few of those lilies were gelded.) That made the whole event even more bizarre and unforgettable. And what, exactly, did we achieve? The next key event was Suffrage Day. With a morbid death march ‘mourning’ Victorian morals and values, we paraded to Queen Victoria’s statue in Albert Park, and issued some peculiar misogyny awards to various males and male-dominated institutions. All very weird. After this came an extraordinary TV interview. We were in two rows like a school hockey team. From the sensible and the sublime to the subversively sapphic. I declared myself a sapphic woman, on national television. I stated that sapphic women have been in the vanguard of women’s struggle for centuries. It was an honest comment, and I’d certainly do it again, but a flaming row followed. And I had been so careful not to say ‘lesbian’. Certain heterosexual women accused me of ‘putting the movement back many years by my rash and irresponsible remarks’. These women included my teachers, for I’d also published a rather breathlessly romantic piece on ‘Lesbianism, the Elegance of Unfettered Love’ in Craccum, the university newspaper. I was gay and proud – or kamp, that was the word then – kamp and bold and I loved loving women. There was nothing feminist or political about that on its own, way back then. Val and I simply were like that and the real tragedy, for us both, and for our relationship, is that we were the only ones, although we were surrounded by some who wanted to ‘try it and see’. We had neither the analysis, nor the support group, to sustain us. Excerpt from ‘Mana Wahine: Seeking meanings for ourselves’, in Maud Cahill and Christine Dann (eds.), Changing our lives: Women working in the women’s liberation movement, 1970-1990, published by Bridget Williams Books, Wellington, 1991.
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The Women’s March
Pussyhat, 2017. Made by Erin Kennedy. Gift of Erin Kennedy, 2017. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH018161). Women’s March T-shirt, January 2017. Produced by Women’s March on Washington – New Zealand. Gift of Kari Highstead, 2017. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH018176).
This pussyhat is a New Zealand-made response to the Pussyhat Project, launched after Donald Trump’s election as president of the United States in 2016. Knitters around the world made thousands of pussyhats in preparation for the Women’s March on Washington and Sister Marches around the world on 21 January 2017. Erin Kennedy made this hat as a member of the lesbian craft group Stitch and Butch, and wore it on the March on Washington in Wellington. The Women’s March was a global phenomenon, with a broad coalition of nearly five million participants in over six hundred marches in sixty countries on all seven continents. Marches took place across New Zealand, with the largest in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and Dunedin. They were timed to protest the inauguration of President Trump on 20 January 2017, and were intended to send a message to his administration on its first day in office that women’s rights are human rights. The Pussyhat Project aspired to turn the Women’s Marches into a ‘sea of pink’, creating a strong collective visual statement of solidarity. The name ‘pussyhat’ aimed to reclaim a derogatory word for female genitalia. The cat-ear design was developed in part as a response to a 2005 recording of Trump released during the 2016 election campaign in which he declared, ‘Grab them by the pussy … You can do anything’ – a claim he later dismissed as ‘locker room banter’.14 Making pussyhats also celebrates the traditional female crafts of knitting and crochet. Pink is considered a female colour, representing caring, compassion and love. ‘Wearing pink together is a powerful statement that we are unapologetically feminine and we unapologetically stand for women’s rights.’15 Clothes and accessories play a significant role in protest movements and demonstrations, and in the accompanying visual record. They can inspire creativity and collaboration in their making; they can take courage to wear; they attract the notice of spectators and the media; and they can express the zeitgeist of a particular moment. The T-shirt at left was worn by protesters on the Women’s Marches held throughout New Zealand on 21 January 2017. The Women’s March organisers designed a strong graphic identity that could be downloaded and shared anywhere in the world. This particular T-shirt was worn by Grant Highstead. His wife, Kari Highstead, and their ten-year-old daughter, Jordan, all wore the T-shirts on the Wellington march. Kari recalled the march as ‘a beautiful and peaceful demonstration of unity and love’.16 Branded T-shirts are a useful tool for protest movements, declaring allegiance and identity and acting as walking billboards.
‘Kate Sheppard Sent Me’ placard, 20 January 2017. Made by Leah McFall. Gift of Leah McFall, 2017. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH025260).
This placard was made by journalist Leah McFall for the Women’s March on Washington in Wellington. It invokes and pays homage to New Zealand’s most famous woman activist – Kate Sheppard. McFall salvaged the cardboard from a city skip, after deciding at the last minute to march. She recalls: ‘The evening before I jumped online to see what other marchers were planning over in the US. I read a list of placard slogans and the comedy message “Carrie Fisher sent me” made me smile. I thought it was brilliant to reference the actress, who had just died and was supposedly in feminist Heaven, and combine her iconic status as an avenging princess in the Star Wars movies. I wondered if I could adapt the gag for a New Zealand march. Kate Sheppard seemed the obvious pick, especially as we were marching in Wellington … Because the sign was light-hearted, loads of marchers loved it … I think humour is an incredibly powerful means of expressing a passionate opinion without alienating anyone. The funniest signs often got the most attention … I felt as ardent as any other marcher, but enjoyed carrying a sign which made people grin, as well as making them think.’17
Visibility
This protester was one of several thousand who took part in the lesbian and gay rights march in Wellington on 24 May 1985. Gay rights activist Phil Parkinson observed that ‘the public had to see us. So we took to the streets with banners, placards, massed balloons and good humour.’3 Many homosexual law reform activists fought for the age of consent to be the same as for heterosexuals: sixteen years.
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Pro-reform marcher, Wellington, 24 May 1985. Photograph by Mark Wilson. Lesbian and Gay Archives New Zealand, Wellington (0607-179).
‘Age of consent’ poster, 1985. Produced by the New Zealand University Students’ Association and Wellington Gay Task Force. Gift of Lesbian and Gay Archives New Zealand, 2017. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (GH025207).
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(Influ)enza, 2008. By Siliga David Setoga. Courtesy of the artist.
Exporting influenza
As has been explored elsewhere, New Zealand has long benefited from the seasonal labour force that Pacific Islands provide. However, for Sāmoa, the relationship between the two countries dates back to the trusteeship that New Zealand had over Sāmoa from 1918 to 1962, after seizing the country from German control at the request of Britain in World War One. As part of this trusteeship, an export relationship also formed between the two countries. A legacy from this time is the influenza epidemic carried to Sāmoa from New Zealand in 1918; approximately one-fifth of the Sāmoan population died – 8500 people. This work from Siliga Setoga makes reference to this legacy by appropriating the highly recognisable ‘enza’ logo and adding the prefix ‘influ’ to reference the role that New Zealand had in the spread of influenza in Sāmoa. This work operates on multiple levels, bringing the history of New Zealand’s role in spreading the virus to the fore, while also adding in a commentary about how the labour force continues to be filled by workers from Sāmoa.
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Tools of protest
Save Aramoana Campaign Basic Information Kit, 1980–81. Produced by the Save Aramoana Campaign. Hocken Collections, Dunedin (MS2124/108). ‘No Smelter’ badge, 1980–81. Maker unknown. Hocken Collections, Dunedin.
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Both anti- and pro-smelter groups released huge amounts of research and educational materials to support their positions. Both sides translated technical and scientific information into everyday language to appeal to wide audiences. The Save Aramoana Campaign took every opportunity to present its cause in public. The small paper flag opposite was waved at a demonstration at the opening of Parliament in 1980, and featured the campaign’s bird motif – the South Island pied oystercatcher. The Aramoana Philatelic Bureau in Christchurch produced first day covers with stamps featuring artworks by Don Binney and Marilynn Webb (see opposite). The first issue featured Binney’s 1976 painting Puketōtara, twice shy (held in Te Papa’s collection). They looked like real postage stamps, but they were not official – they could only be used as stickers on envelopes. However, they were successful fundraisers and the odd one may have slipped through as postage. They also attracted international philatelic interest.
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Save Aramoana flag, 1980. Produced by the Save Aramoana Campaign. Alexander Turnbull Library (Eph-CEnvironment-1982-02).
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Independent State of Aramoana stamps (first issue), released 8 May 1981. Painted by Don Binney, issued by Aramoana Philatelic Bureau. Private Collection (image courtesy of Te Ara).