Hold On to the Dawn

At 4:00am we crawled out of bed, to thread our way through Auckland.
We were a moving meditation of strangers, trickling along streets toward the heart of the ceremony: the War Memorial.

We came before sunrise.
Not for selfies or socialising. Not for entertainment.
We came to keep an oath to something older than any of us can remember.

The first singer mumbled "Brothers In Arms" behind sunglasses — in the dark.
When a Māori elder took the stage to speak, cameras splattered our attention to the crowd. The haka was led by a man holding an umbrella.

When the Governor-General stepped up in her poppy-red dress, she held on tight to her hat, but lost our attention. Dogs barked, people muttered and children stared at glowing screens in the dark. But when national anthems played, I looked to the hundreds of faces next to me, and not a single one was singing.

So in the first light of Anzac Day, I stood on a hill full of strangers and wept.
Not for soldiers of the past, but for the living. For those who had come to be there together, but shared almost nothing at all. 

For the unlit torch that would not pass to the next generation.

You had the mic, but no message. 
You had a parade with no precision.
You had resources, but no reverence.
You had the dawn — and you wasted it.

You had the dawn — ​
and you wasted it.

I’m sure you did your best, but it's the actions of men ten decades ago that got us out of our beds. If you want us decades from now, to stand together on that hill for any reason at all, let's take a few tips from the Far North “rebels” who still heed an ancestral call.

As Chairperson of a local community trust, I was honoured to attend two hui (cultural meetings) at two different marae (ancestral meeting house) in Northland.

The first was in Waitangi–the national hotspot of a century-old Crown vs. Culture conflict. “You’ll be bullied,” friends warned. I was braced for tension, but left inspired.

The walls of their sacred house are woven with ancestral connections.
Disenfranchised members of over 120 hapū (sub‑tribes) came under one roof, to be heard, understood and respected. 

I am a red-headed, white-faced foreigner. Even after accidentally violating customs as I arrived, I was met with more warmth and cheek kisses in the first few minutes, than I’ve had in the last four years.

The second invitation was for women in Kaikohe—often labelled the “meth capital” of New Zealand. Poverty scars the town’s reputation. “Don’t go alone,” neighbours told me. I was braced for mess, but arrived to bright smiles and pretty dresses.

We were called to the marae in song along with our ancestors, “Bring them with you,” she said. I tuned into the timeless parts of the people I love, then one breath, one step at a time, I walked onto the marae.

We left our shoes at the door to feel the earth under our feet.
Heartfelt speeches were wrapped in the warmth of wood carvings.
The words of Genesis etched across glass so sunlight would project them.
This was home. We were all welcome here.

We learned from elders how morning dew leaves clues for planting, and phases of the moon are a fisherman’s best friend. We shared food, tears, song and steeping cups of tea. When it was time to go, we bowed our heads in prayer together.

As a Canadian, I am still new here. I don’t know the history of this country. I haven't read agreements that were made, broken or rejected. But you don’t need to read to see that in the rebel stomping ground of Northland, the heart and soul of humanity is still alive and thriving.

When the going gets tough enough, all that’s left is what really matters. That's when the human spirit rises up through the mud, to make an indelible mark on our existence. 

That is what got us up before dawn, ten decades after the men of Gallipoli were already gone. 

“The arc of the moral universe is long,
but it bends toward justice.”

- Martin Luther King

Today’s digital pace of change moves faster than we think.
Screens distract and dilute our attention.
Processed food pollutes our bodies. Drugs muddy our minds.
But the moon was flirting with fish long before any of us got here.
Morning dew left clues for eons before we noticed.

Winds of government change quickly, pulled by political tides. 
When leaders hold on tight to their hats, they let what really matters slide. 
National anthems mean nothing unless sung louder than silence from hearts and minds who still value what their words mean. 

So take your shoes off. Feel the earth under your feet.
Tune into the timeless part of loved ones who left you behind.
Then let go of your mind and find what every marae was built for.

As long as your heart thumps in your chest, and breath animates your being, you have a bone-deep duty to remember where you came from, 
what you stand for, 
and why we stand together.

So next year, I'll stay here with the rebels of the North.
Where remembrance is a way of life, not a scripted agenda.  
We might be messy, but we march in sync. 
We keep cameras on our elders when they speak. 

Our voices are unvarnished, but they unite to rise above silence.
We might be the wilder side of life, but when winds are strong, 
We let our hats blow off so we can
Hold on to the dawn.

Nāku iti nei, nā
With deep respect,

Tera Warner

Chairperson, Love Ōpua
Founder, MicroMutiny

My mountain is Chief Mountain, standing watch on the border of Southern Alberta and Montana. I was raised in Cardston, the heart of Mormon settlement in Canada, nestled beside the Kainai Nation (Blood Tribe) Canada’s largest reserve by land.

From a young age, I found myself between worlds — between faiths, cultures, and questions. As a Rotary Exchange student in South Africa during the final days of apartheid, I began my lifelong path as a seeker of shared humanity. A bridge builder. A listener. A rebel with reverence.

Today I live in the Bay of Islands, once called the “Hell Hole of the Pacific,” it is one of the most beautiful places in the world. I serve as Chairperson of Love Ōpua, and I’m the founder of MicroMutiny, a consulting company built around ethical leadership, communication, and the revitalisation of the human spirit in a technical age.

My work, wherever it occurs, is about restoring trust, remembering what matters, and making room for every voice to rise. This letter is one small part of that.