Hamilton’s day of violence

The late Bill Robson was a member of a Waikato Times team that covered the protest marches and invasion of Rugby Park on Saturday, July 25, 1981, by radio-telephone. What follows is his vivid firsthand account of what happened that day.

The scene was set for violence before Saturday’s anti-tour march left Garden Place. Hart (Halt All Racist Tours) leader John Minto had talked to the chanting crowd about law-breaking, implying that individual decisions had to be made.

And the march ‘‘call-up’’ itself held the promise of confrontation – ‘‘experienced and militant’’ marchers in front, novices and children in the middle, experienced people at the rear.

Along Alexandra St, down Ward St, along Victoria St, up London St – an impressive display of strength, well over 2000 chanting, placardwaving people, on their way to stop a rugby match.

Few, however, could have expected the brutal scenes that were to follow.

It all seemed like a bit of a game until the marchers reached Hinemoa Park, across the street from Rugby Park’s practice ground. Spectators milled around, laughing, indulging in goodnatured taunting, or taking photographs.

Then a frontline megaphone shrilled: ‘‘Everyone in front of us get out of the way. Get out of the way.’’ The procession began moving across the road.

At this point it wasn’t clear which way they would go – to Seddon Rd, straight to the practice ground fence, or into Tristram St.

The marchers turned into Tristram St. They were spread across the entire road, intoning the freedom chant taught in Auckland by Donald Woods. The shoulder -toknees frontline banner took on the appearance of a giant bulldozer blade. The atmosphere had changed as if the street had suddenly held its breath.

The marchers reached Rugby Park’s Tristram St gates; jeers were already coming from inside, punctuated by beer cans. Then, without warning, the front line disintegrated – and, unbelievably, the wire mesh fence was down, torn from the framework as if tied there with string.

The front-liners knew their job. They had to fight their way through, and they did – and to many of those left on the street the scene was frightening, almost unreal. Fists were flying as spectators resisted the assault, bodies dropped to the ground to be swept over by the only wave of protesters to make it on to the park.

The noise, already a deafening mixture of chanting and screaming, swelled as a roar welled up inside the park.

No-one on the outside knew how the successful ones had fared, or how many had got through; the new front line was busy grappling with park patrons, then desperately trying to break through the solid wall of policemen that appeared seconds later.

A number of photographers burst through with the ‘‘Operation Everest’’ group. Cameras were seen in the midst of brawls; one pressman was straddled precariously atop the fence while the mesh was being wrenched to the ground.

One of them was picked up bodily by an advancing policeman and thrown through the gap; he stood up shakily and returned to the fray, obviously unable to believe what was happening, and was pushed to the ground. Hard. He looked as if he wanted to cry.

His photographer was frantically trying to catch the policeman’s face on film, as if seeking evidence for an assault charge. Many of the protesters outside the fence were showing signs of shock. White trembling faces shrieking ‘‘shame’’ as the front line battered itself against the police guard.

One man stood out. Thin and bearded, he went down time after time, only to re-emerge for more of the same, until he appeared on the point of collapse. The police confined their resistance to open handed pushing and baton-waving. The baton blows that I saw were all aimed at arms and shoulders. Only once did I see a policeman make a fist, but the punch was stopped by one of his colleagues.

The protesters mounted assault after assault on the police line without success, and in complete ignorance of what was happening inside the park. They hammered away at this same gap for what seemed like hours.

Further along the fence was where the real tension showed. Physically separated, protesters and rugby crowd traded insults and jeers. Smoke bombs were going off, and the air seemed full of flying missiles – empty and full beer cans, clumps of earth stones, all from within the park until the protesters started sending them back.

People screamed at each other through the mesh barrier, faces at times only inches apart. Hours before, they might have been friends or neighbours; now the air was thick with mounting hatred and mutual contempt.

For those on the street, the battle on the hill was all they had to focus on. Only those who swarmed around Waikato Times radio telephones seemed to have any idea of whether the match had started or not.

Eventually, the order came by megaphone to move along to the practice ground area. The response was immediate. A fresh offensive was obviously being mounted.

Enough stayed behind to keep pressure on the police defending the original gap. The remainder spread out across the road in their new position. They took the fence down without opposition. For a few seconds no-one breached the undefended gap. They were held back by a resistance that wasn’t there – until one of them laughed: ‘‘Anyone want to go in?’’

Protesters, reporters, and photographers crashed through together and dashed for the row of trucks protecting the main ground’s southern end. The attackers began letting tyres down and clambering over the trucks; brawls broke out with rugby supporters, with the police now intervening to keep them apart.

One of the trucks was manhandled out of the way, another tipped partly over. Protesters and spectators met as soon as this gap appeared.

The practice ground became the scene of isolated skirmishes; one news team had the film ripped out of a camera.

The protesters moved back under a hail of rocks and hard lumps of clay thrown by park patrons. Policemen, protesters and rugby supporters were seen breaking up fist fights.

Then came the news the match had been cancelled. The protesters began moving back towards Tristram St; megaphone instructions were to keep calm and stay tightly together. The fear of reprisals as the park emptied was openly displayed. A line of more than 60 policemen formed, separating the factions, and the march began. Simultaneously the park crowd began to appear on the Seddon St side, some were running. It appeared the two large groups would meet at Hinemoa Park, and running policemen appeared along the protesters’ flank, eventually mingling with them.

Less than an hour before, the police were being accused by grimfaced protesters of protecting and siding with the rugby ‘‘racists’’. As the march back progressed, a megaphone voice shouted: ‘‘The police are now our friends. They will protect us. Give them all the help you can.’’

The expected battle didn’t happen. There were taunts and jeers, but no fighting. The march disappeared down London St, minutes before groups of frustrated spectators began appearing on the intersection in search of their cars.

A young Ma¯ ori gave a wry grin as he passed my corner. He said something that couldn’t be printed, but there was a lot of sadness in it.