He Whakaaro “Hello, brother”

Nā Ward Kamo

On Friday 15 March 2019 Haji-Daoud Nabi stood at the door of the Al Noor mosque and welcomed his killer with the words, “Hello, brother.”

These two words of faith, of welcome, and of fellowship are the light of hope that shone brightly that dark day. There was no anger in the voice of Haji-Daoud Nabi, who would be killed for his faith. There was no aggression. There were just two gentle words of welcome that will reverberate throughout our history.

“Hello, brother.”

And to ensure those words take their place as some of the greatest ever spoken in New Zealand, a terrible toll was exacted: the lives of 51 of the followers of Islam who entered the Al Noor and Linwood mosques that day to worship with their families. Little could they have known of the sacrifice they would have to make – that they would be required to become martyrs for openness, for tolerance – for freedom for us all! What a terrible price to have to pay for that which is held so dear, so valuable, in New Zealand.

At the same time these worshippers were being killed or injured in Christchurch for expressing their faith and beliefs, in Auckland, thousands of migrants and the children of migrants were expressing their culture and beliefs at Polyfest 2019.

The worshippers of faith in Christchurch and the practitioners of culture in Auckland were joined by common New Zealand values – the values of diversity, openness, tolerance – and freedom. The freedom to express yourself as New Zealanders, no matter your background.

We must not fall victim to the intolerance and fear that drives us to intemperate words amongst ourselves, in our media, and on our social forums. Words that lead us to blame those whose political views do not correspond with our own, and lead to claims that social commentators, media personalities, and politicians have blood on their hands.

And so it is incumbent on us as a nation to not allow these deaths to be in vain. For us, in honouring the fallen martyrs, in ensuring that the values we hold so dear and that make us the place of choice for people of every colour, creed, and race – that those values are not lost to us in our grief and anger.

We must not fall victim to the intolerance and fear that drives us to intemperate words amongst ourselves, in our media, and on our social forums. Words that lead us to blame those whose political views do not correspond with our own, and lead to claims that social commentators, media personalities, and politicians have blood on their hands.

Because the blood on people’s hands is the blood that we saw on the clothes and on the hands of the family members, of the Muslim faithful, and on the members of the public who sought to stem the blood from the wounds of those killed and injured that day.

The memory of that blood might wash easily from hands and clothes, but it will not wash as easily from the hearts of those who sought to help their fellow humans that day. And yet, nor will that blood stain them or our country.

Rather, that blood will be a reminder of sacrifice, of honour, and of the sorrow that was forced upon our nation, and upon our Muslim brothers and sisters. It is blood shed to cleanse New Zealanders of hatred, of intolerance, of division.

As we reflect on that awful day, we should listen to the words of wheelchair-bound Farid Ahmed, who sat in the mosque calmly preparing to die alongside his wife. His response to the killer was to say, “I love him.”

His wife has just been killed and Farid Ahmed says of his wife’s killer: “I don’t hate him at all, not at all.”

Farid Ahmed must be honoured for his words of strength, courage, hope, and faith. He could have righteously hated his wife’s killer. He could have railed against a small man who sought to kill him, but instead chose the path of leadership and forgiveness.

His is the path we as a nation can choose to make sense of the senseless. Because in desperately seeking answers from a place of grief and anger, we will only find grief and anger in response.

Farid Ahmed has laid down the way to making sense of this all; a way of love, tolerance, and forgiveness.

To ensure that we remain open, free, and tolerant, we must turn our face to the light of hope, to those two words of welcome uttered by the first person martyred that day, and say to each other, “Hello, brother.”

These are words of humility and hope that stand as a beacon to all of us. And as we reflect on the events that followed the killings, we should take heart from the response of the people of Christchurch – of Ngāi Tahu.

Extraordinary leadership was displayed by the hapū in leading the response, and that leadership was matched by the tireless care and hope demonstrated by Christchurch mayor Leanne Dalziel.

Equal leadership was displayed by the people of Christchurch. The outpouring of love, fellowship, and unity was not remarkable as some have suggested; rather it is entirely consistent with who the people of Christchurch are.

Up and down the country Kiwis of every race, creed, and colour poured out of their homes and into places of worship and places of gathering, to show that one man’s actions do not define us.

Equally, we know that while the Christchurch Muslim community recovers from this tragedy, it will do so with cultural and religious practices that, like our tangi protocols, will lay the path to recovery. It is this strength of faith and belief that will carry this community through, as much as the support we give them.

And to the adherents of Islam, the worshippers of Al Noor and Linwood mosques, to all Muslims who are the followers of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon them, and may peace be with you all.

Ward Kamo (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Mutunga Chatham Island, and Scottish decent) grew up in Poranui (Birdlings Flat) and South Brighton, Christchurch.