We have to look horror in the face
As darkness fell on Christchurch, we filled the silence with tears and platitudes. ‘‘This is not us,’’ we declared, as soon as the gunshots had stopped. ‘‘We’re a peaceful, multicultural country. Egalitarian. Accepting and tolerant. The monster who stole 50 lives does not belong here.’’
Media were encouraged to diminish the profile of the alleged gunman. To give him no oxygen; no airtime; no platform. Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern vowed that the murder-accused’s name will never escape her lips.
It’s one thing to prevent a narcissistic terrorist from gaining the notoriety he craves. But erasing his brutal hate crime from our national consciousness is another.
To ignore his dark motives and warped ideology means we will remain ignorant of the rising tide of hatred beneath the surface of our culture.
Every day in Aotearoa, we hear racial epithets around our water-coolers and in our classrooms. We hear them in the breathless editorials of our radio shock-jocks, and in the divisive rhetoric of our politicians.
Most Kiwis of colour, including me, have been on the receiving end of racial abuse. And then there’s the Muslim community. Tired of cleaning swastikas off their mosques, Muslim leaders have pleaded with public officials for greater protection from the rise of Islamophobia. For years, those calls fell on deaf ears.
Far from being shocked by the Christchurch attack, Muslim leaders tell me that it didn’t come as any surprise.
Remarkably, many Kiwis still want to put their fingers in their ears. In the wake of the shooting, some viewers were disgusted by my reporting.
‘‘You did not need to do a programme on this horror. It just perpetuates the hate of the man who did this,’’ wrote one person. ‘‘We don’t want to hear how the shooter went about killing people – there are children awake at this hour!’’ wrote another.
I wonder, what about the children who watched their parents bleed to death in those mosques? They don’t have the luxury of changing the channel.
How dare we sanitise our reporting to make it more palatable? How dare we prevent Muslims from telling their own stories – simply because the rest of us are uncomfortable with hearing them?
In 2015, I discovered that a white pride group was dropping flyers into letterboxes across the North Island. Dressed in military fatigues, they spoke to me about their xenophobic views, including the idea that ‘‘immigration equals ebola’’.
I wanted to understand their motivations. One bloke told me that his wife left him for an Arab man. Another watched his manufacturing business get shifted to China. Hurt and loss had transformed these men into creatures of fear and hatred.
I was criticised for giving them airtime. But I strongly believe that simply ignoring racist rhetoric doesn’t make it go away. In fact, it makes us complacent.
When Donald Trump was elected US President, we dismissed him as a bombastic orange buffoon. When Britain voted for Brexit, we were incredulous. When so-called ‘‘free speech’’ activists visited our shores, we were indifferent.
These events, and others, have created a climate in which hatred has flourished. We can no longer deny that.
It’s easy to light a candle, buy flowers or put on a headscarf. It’s easy to change our Facebook status or donate to a Givealittle page.
It’s much harder to confront our own prejudices. To find meaningful ways to reject racism and build bridges with minority groups.
We can only achieve social change by being honest about who we are as a nation – and that includes the ugly parts.
On the morning after the massacre, I stood behind the police tape in Hagley Park and stared at the entrance of Al Noor mosque. A gilded doorstep covered in blood, and laden with cold bodies covered by tarpaulins.
Those images, I will never be able to forget – and nor do I want to. Right now, the last thing we should do is close our eyes.