Camp Freedom

It was the strangest thing.

Despite having travelled to some of the dodgiest, most remote third-world countries on the planet, I never thought for a second that one day I would find myself in my own country packing earplugs and goggles for myself and others, to avoid the severity of the possible deployment of sonic weapons, or attacks with tear gas and/or pepper spray that may be used on peaceful protestors.

How had it come to this in New Zealand?

Nevertheless, that is where we were at as my husband and I headed to Wellington, complete with the goggles and earplugs, to help support fellow Kiwis wanting an end to mandates and the enforcement of an experimental injection that remains on trial until 2023.

As soon as we entered the camp we found ourselves surrounded by Kiwi friends, almost all of whom we had yet to meet. Many had pitched their tents, then taken on various volunteer roles to help ensure the camp was smoothly run. There was a security section and an admin tent, where any needs were met, the supplies of which were provided by generous Kiwi donators who supported the cause. Food tents dotted the perimeter, with free food for everyone — also provided by the donations of many thousands of Kiwis.

There were tents set up by Voices for Freedom, midwives, first-aid personnel, doctors and nurses, and a special section, organised by The Health Forum, for the vaccine-injured to be able to tell their stories and be genuinely heard. Here, they were listened to with immense compassion and offered the best possible treatment to help alleviate their suffering. I read every story displayed in this tent and cried for them. Lives unnecessarily ruined. It was so incalculably cruel to have put people through this. The white crosses outside the tent stood sentinel, representing the many whose lives had already been lost as a result of this experimental jab.

The overall vibration of the camp was both heady and liberating as it was completely devoid of fear, and after two years of watching the population being consistently terrorised by mainstream media working in concert with the government incessantly battering Kiwis with wall-to-wall propaganda, it was like entering a different world.

That noise had stopped, except for random messages by Mallard over a loud-speaker that were drowned out with song.

Within the camp there was harmony, acceptance, and a genuine affinity between souls. This irrepressible life reverberated throughout the camp, touching everyone, regardless of culture, ethnicity, or anything else. Maori stood beside non-Maori, and hugged. Rich stood next to poor and hugged. Injection-injured and those not injected, hugged. Oh, what a breath of fresh air! Soul connections were everywhere. Brothers and sisters, arm-in-arm, together as one.

And, as if by magic, this harmonious community rapidly grew into a new New Zealand that held an attraction to which we were all drawn. If something was needed, then it transpired — like a tent where those unjabbed could at last have a haircut, or a creche for the young children, or a homeopathy and essential oils treatment tent, or a massage tent. There were speakers and there was music and an exchange of ideas that were real and were brought into being, as if by magic, which it was.

There were firemen who had lost their jobs, police, first responders, ambulance crew, doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, ex-police, ex-military, producers, artists, writers, labourers, mountain and ski guides, tradies, employees, and the self-employed, who refused to discriminate between their fellow Kiwis. Most professions were represented.

A solution was found for every problem that confronted this camp. Fresh salads were needed. They arrived, compliments of those who grew them. Sprinklers were turned on, drenching the ground, so the can-do Kiwis found another use for the traffic cones and stemmed the immediate flow, while digging ditches to drain the water. The ground was soggy, and almost immediately farmers turned up with wide grins and bundles of hay to protect the grass and to keep it dry underfoot.

Police blocked off the cleaning crews for the toilets, so new toilets were built and hooked into the sewerage drain. Showers arrived and were linked to the water. Every problem was cheerfully met with a solution and it was a creative, industrious hive of activity.

The smiles broadened. The goodwill expanded. Everyone was building a new country, right on the grounds of parliament. Right in front of those who sought to separate us, to create disharmony, to tear down instead of build-up, to create obstacles instead of provide solutions, to work against the people and pit family against family with divisive polices that sought to tear New Zealand apart and destroy small and medium business, so they could build something else entirely that didn’t recognise freedom or human rights, or unity, as un-negotiable cornerstones of democracy.

Undaunted by obstacles at every turn, this brave, burgeoning community soldiered on with little more than a dream in their hearts for a new world and a better New Zealand.

It almost felt that the diggers of old who marched off to fight for our freedom and democracy in times past were right at our shoulders, urging us on and lending a hand with the ‘heavy lifting’. An intangible presence that buoyed us all, made up of the best of Kiwi qualities — an irrepressible spirit.

Shoulder to shoulder and soul to soul, we were rebuilding anew. Foundations were placed here for a New Zealand with unity, care and love for one another, with mutual respect and humour. One where everyone was valued for themselves.

We were there. We were onboard. And we represented hundreds of thousands of other Kiwis who couldn’t be there but supported everyone who was. Each one of us knew that every single person there respected individual human rights — and chief amongst that was the freedom to decide on what medical treatment one would, or would not, have, without penalty. In short, the Nuremberg Code and the NZ Bill of Rights had to be honoured.

I met Shane and his son on a park bench at the camp. As the late afternoon sun slanted through the majestic trees in the vicinity, they told me how they had come from the North with little but their basic supplies. Shane’s son lost his job because of the mandates. They had been there since the start. Shane told me he was standing for the future of his mokopuna, so they were able to attend their sport, their dance, their hakas, their rugby and also their schools — without being forced to have an experimental injection or to hide their faces.

Tears coursed down his weather-beaten cheeks as he shared stories of the segregation and division wrought by this government and the opposition.

But he wanted to be able to look back on this pivotal moment in New Zealand’s history and know, and to be able to tell his whanau, that he had stood for what was right, he had stood for our democracy, and he had stood to protect our sacred God-given spirit within, without it being tampered with by anyone who sought to destroy it.

He stood for our freedom. This was his legacy to his family. And surely, there is no legacy more powerful than that.

We agreed, it is a battle for our very souls. We shared tears, we hugged, and each valued that special moment in time — brothers and sisters standing beside each other for what matters most.

Strong bonds.

Everyone had a story. All were special. Everyone was listened to. Everyone was respected, for we were all here. That was enough.

This was our New Zealand family and we were home.

Everyone, linked in harmony through a common cause and purpose.

The biggest common denominator was soul.

That shone out like a beacon. And the more it is beaten down, the brighter it will shine. For it is immortal.

By Mary Hobbs