Before the arrival of the Gospel, our history was marked by warfare — village against village, island against island. As the blood of our ancestors soaked the soil, the cycle of battle shaped not only our land but our hearts, writes Thomas Wynne.

This Easter, as we reflect on peace, we must also remember the moment our tupuna embraced a message that brought peace — socially, politically, culturally, and spiritually.

When Papehia and Tahitian missionaries arrived in Rarotonga, their message to Tinomana — the first point of contact — was one of peace. A peace that could be achieved internally with God, or Te Atua, and a peace that would ripple outward, reshaping tribes and societies alike.

Tinomana was weary of war, as were his people, worn down by the relentless cycle of conflict with the people of Takitumu. The once-mighty fortress of Maungaroa had, in some ways, become a prison — as had the death and grief delivered by constant battle.

Vaiakura and other ava (rivers) still bear names that are silent witnesses to the blood once shed and the lives lost in these wars. Even the tale of Tangiia speaks to this culture of conflict: pursued by his brother to Tumutevarovaro, he joined forces with Al’ia, or Karika from the Island of Manua, to kill him — severing his head, roasting it twice in an umu, and eating his eyes. From this grim act, the place Matavera gets its name, and the spot where his kiikii necklace fell became known as Kiikii.

Atiu — Enuamanu — holds a long history of warfare too with Ariki Rongomatane being the circuit breaker to peace.. Battles raged between villages, including Areora Nui O Tangaroa, once known as Punakau, a name born from the puna (well) of bodies and blood that marked the last battle before the arrival of the Gospel. Mauke and Mitiaro were eventually drawn under Atiu's banner as Nga Putoru, each with their own bitter tales of conquest, resistance, and resilience against marauding Atiu warriors.

From the Atiuan god Tutavake — who demanded the heads of his fallen warriors be brought back to the caves of Atiu — to the weapons of the time: korare, patu, momore, vero — war shaped our people’s lives and landscapes. But over time, as all who have lived through the cycles of violence eventually do, our tupuna became weary. Weary of death. Weary of the toll on their minds, hearts, families, food supplies, and children — none of whom were spared.

And yet today, we often romanticise our past. We dress it in the nostalgia of the “noble savage” — editing out the harder truths to fit modern eyes, or, worse still, dismissing it entirely as “etene,” whitewashing both the violence and the wisdom that shaped us. Both extremes are harmful. Both erase essential parts of who we are.

As we celebrate 60 years as a self-governing nation, we must remember that this milestone rests on over 1,000 years of our tupuna carving and shaping these islands, these communities, this identity. And in their wisdom and volition, our ancestors chose to embrace a message of peace — not because they were naive, but because they understood the heavy cost of war. The Gospel resonated with them for social, political, cultural, and spiritual reasons.

It’s true that the same Gospel was later weaponised — twisted into a tool for colonisation. That is part of our story too, and we’ve spent decades trying to reclaim the pieces, to put them back together. It was never, I believe, Te Atua's plan for us to become a poor brown imitation of our colonial masters.

And unlike our teina Māori in Aotearoa, whose sovereignty was never ceded, our Ariki invited the missionaries and later the Crown into our world. Sovereignty was surrendered. The rest, as they say, is history. But had land ownership remained fully in Māori hands, our story today might have looked very different — and the disenfranchisement and alienation some of us feel from the very enua we call home might have been avoided.

Still, when the Gospel first arrived on our shores, it was a Gospel of peace. That is an undisputable fact of history. And after its arrival, our tupuna never again raised weapons against one another. The power of the Gospel is not, first and foremost, about social justice (though justice is worth fighting for) nor about simply being “good people” (though kindness is always needed). The true heart of the Gospel is the resurrection — and the singularity of Yashua, Jesus, as the way to the Father.

Easter, though rooted in pre-Christian pagan traditions, stands as the reminder of that: the death and resurrection of a man named Jesus, the pinnacle of Te Atua's plan to redeem humanity back to Himself. A price He paid, a plan He orchestrated, and a suffering He endured — so that we could be called sons and daughters, and walk in fellowship with Him.

It really is that simple. Love — deep, eternal, unfathomable love — was the motivation.

And as we mark Easter in a world still fractured by conflict, division, and war, perhaps the greatest honour we can pay to both our tupuna and the Gospel they embraced is to pursue peace in our own lives, in our families, in our communities, and in our nation.

Because the same choice lies before us today, as it did for them: peace or war, forgiveness or vengeance, love or fear.

May we choose peace. May we live peace.

Wishing you and yours a peaceful and meaningful Easter.