Once were Warriors: Parricide and Sacrifice

New Zealand—or Aotearoa, “the land of the long white cloud,” in the language of their first settlers, the Maoris—impresses the visitor with the

beauty of its pristine landscape. Green pastures and majestic mountains, blue-green lakes and crushing waterfalls, are postcard material. Once Were Warriors, the recently released New Zealand film directed by Lee Tamahori, opens up with a deceiving shot of a lake with mountains in the background. An incongruent sound of traffic noise and a slow move of the camera angle produces a surprising effect on the viewer: The shot turns out to be of an ad posted on the side of a busy highway. On the far left corner of the billboard, one word in big characters: “POWER.” A bleak urban industrial vista follows. New Zealand, that is to say, the New Zealand of postcards and tourism, is a romantized landscape of purity. Beyond the cardboard images lies the concrete depiction of its opposite, urban decay. The streets are populated by menacing gangs, drunks, the homeless. Graffiti on the walls, broken glass, pipes, steaming chimneys, blasting music—an attack on the senses. Men working out, lifting weights, building up muscle—power. Are these men the ones who were once warriors, the ones who once were, but are not anymore? The ex-warriors are now violent creatures, abusing women, children, and themselves as well. These men are trapped in a cycle of psychological and environmental destruction that is being transmitted from generation to generation.

Maoris, the indigenous Polynesian inhabitants of New Zealand, began to call themselves Maoris after the arrival of the Europeans. Maoris means “normal”: They were the owners of the land, the preservers of “tapu” (sacredness), “mana” (spiritual power or prestige), and “aroha” (love). Men or women used to tattoo their faces (“moko”). A man had his entire face tattooed, a woman only her lips and chin. A “moko” was the equivalent of an individual signature. Identity was marked on the body. The Maoris we