‘One of the worst parts of my career’
Knowing deportation would sever crucial income for his family and village back in the islands, a Tongan man pleaded for amnesty from the young Polynesian constable sent to catch him before dawn.
But the officer, sent as an agent for the New Zealand immigration department during the 1970s, was powerless to intervene. Now, more than 50 years later, using the cover of dawn to raid Pasifika homes in Auckland’s then working-class suburb of Ponsonby still haunts former police detective Luther Toloa.
Toloa recalled the role he was forced to play in the shocking racebased Dawn Raids for a new Stuff podcast called Once a Panther. It chronicles the work of the Polynesian Panther Party and their role in a homegrown revolution during the 70s and 80s.
The group is still an active voice for their people and helped successfully campaign for a government apology for this grim part of New Zealand’s history.
‘‘It was uncomfortable for me to look at the man and say I’m not Tongan, and I can’t help you in the way that you’re asking me to,’’ Toloa recalled of that early morning raid nearly 50 years ago. ‘‘Seeing his look of despair and hopelessness . . . [the Dawn Raids] was without a doubt, apart from dealing with dead bodies, one of the worst parts of my career in the police – and I was not the only one [to think that].’’
In the 1970s, the Labour and National governments of the time authorised raids on homes, workplaces and even churches to check for people who had overstayed their visa.
The practice had followed a boom period where migration from the Pacific Islands was encouraged to fill labour shortages. But when the economy declined, the Pasifika community was demonised by politicians and media as the reason for the country’s social problems.
The raids targeted only people from the Pacific Islands even though statistics showed the vast majority of overstayers were from Europe and the United States. ‘‘I have no recollection of being asked to enter any houses where they were Europeans – it was targeted at Pasifika,’’ Toloa said. ‘‘The irony in all this is that one-third of the officers on the [raids] were either Pacific Islander or Ma¯ori and this was the role they made us do.’’
By targeting Pacific Islanders, people from Niue, Tokelau and the Cook Islands – all of whom had the legal right to live in New Zealand – were also caught in the government’s net.
‘‘It was sad [the people who were removed] just wanted a better life for themselves, their village and a lot of other people. I don’t know what I would have done if I was in their shoes.’’
Toloa knows what it’s like to walk in those shoes laden with responsibility. At just 12 he was sent to live in New Zealand from his home in Tokelau, carrying the hopes of an entire island.
‘‘My parents told me to walk across to the other side of the island to say goodbye.
‘‘Almost every home I walked by the folks would motion me in and say good luck – that set the scene for me growing up in New Zealand later on,’’ Toloa said.
Sailing away from the only place he had known, Toloa had no idea what to expect: ‘‘I knew there was a horizon and I knew there was an island called Samoa, but I did not know anything beyond that.’’
His first stop in Samoa was a sight to behold, whole streets of houses with iron roofs.
‘‘At home, the only building with an iron roof was the church, all the other houses had thatched roofs.’’
Once in Auckland, he was allowed a brief glimpse of the metropolis before he was whisked down to chilly Masterton.
‘‘I remember seeing a man in a dark [police] uniform with a white hat on, and I can remember thinking I would like to wear that
one day – he looked so smart.’’
Toloa was placed in a boys’ home, and got an insight into the state care system responsible for the abuse of many Ma¯ori and Pasifika children. ‘‘Very few kids stayed a long time and the ones that would return did so screaming and yelling.’’
The presence of other boys also sent from Tokelau made his stay more comfortable – one of the boys being the father of Labour MP Kris Faafoi – but there were still challenging moments.
‘‘We weren’t allowed to speak Tokelauan amongst ourselves, if we did, we got told on: ‘Those kids are talking jabba-jabba’,’’ he said.
‘‘We were made to speak English, but I don’t think it was about learning English, they were just uncomfortable hearing a language they couldn’t understand.’’
Toloa later realised his boyhood dream and joined the police and, despite his experience in the 1970s, his career was one of the ‘‘highlights of my life’’.
‘‘But there are some people or things I should have taken to task
or people I should have avoided, but I don’t think it’s any different from other working sectors.’’
Toloa, now retired and back in Masterton, said the apology announcement had brought back challenging memories ‘‘for me, and I would suspect other Pasifika officers’’.
‘‘Did I do enough? Where does the oath I swore fit in if the duty I undertake at the direction of the government is morally wrong, or even illegal? ‘‘History has a tendency of repeating itself, be it in subtle ways.’’
Toloa continues to work with the Pasifika community, motivated by how his people were left behind during Covid-19, including visa and RSE workers.
‘‘I suspect deep down in my inner being there was a sense of guilt from that small part of my career, a career which for the rest of the time, was most enjoyable and an honour to serve.’’
The first five episodes of Once a Panther can be found on Stuff or through podcast apps, including Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher or via an RSS feed.