Kia Kaha: A Christchurch remembrance in London

It's a big church, the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Westminster. Big and imposing. The ground level is brightly lit while the ceiling is dark, as if night and day are both present. Up above, the gloom barely hints at the Byzantine-styled art.

The congregation buzz and hum before the service, then silence descends ten minutes before the vigil starts. It is not an easy silence.

It is not a congregation at ease.

Forgive me if I do not report the facts. Instead, allow me to tell you a story - a true story.

It is 2am as I write. Like many of London's Kiwis, it feels as if I have not slept for days, staring non-stop at Twitter feeds, news websites, Facebook and a long string of emails, trying to come to grips with the Christchurch earthquake.

I know. Better staring at a computer than broken buildings and bodies.

Very few of tonight's congregation are Catholic - possibly not even Christian. It is a congregation of New Zealanders, gathering publicly for the first time to contemplate the Christchurch earthquake. Our grief is still raw.

The earthquake tore apart a city on the other side of the world to us but it also tore apart something inside of us. People we know are dead or still missing. People we know, family and friends, are homeless. The grief on our faces tonight can only hint at the horrors that Christchurch went through. But they are our horrors too. We are still in shock. You can see it in people's eyes and hear it in our responses. We are hurt. We cry. We mourn. We are not yet ready to sing or laugh.

There is a season for everything, a time for every occupation under heaven:
A time for giving birth, a time for dying; a time for planting, a time for uprooting what has been planted.
A time for killing, a time for healing; a time for knocking down, a time for building.
A time for tears, a time for laughter; a time for mourning, a time for dancing.

Brigadier Phil Gibbons will read these lines from the Book of Ecclesiastes to us later in the service. For now, we sit in silence.

At 7pm, a bell sounds and people stand as Canon Christopher Tuckwell proceeds to the front of the cathedral before welcoming us. Ngati Ranana, all in black, lead us in Whakaaria Mai/ How Great Thou Art, a song that brings to my mind an image of the late Sir Howard Morrison. We listen, but few of us sing.

The Brigadier reads Ecclesiastes to us: Chapter Three, verses 1-14. I do not know if the words are a comfort to anyone. They just seem to reflect what is - a time for tears - and what is to come - a time for healing.

Our Prime Minister has sent a message, expressing his condolences and sympathy and thanking us for gathering together. He promises Christchurch will be rebuilt... best wishes, John Key.

The message is read out by Derek Leask, New Zealand's High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. He follows with words of his own, urging us to stand strong. He too thanks us for gathering tonight. He praises the New Zealand community for our energy and spontaneity in banding together to raise money and organise events like tonight's so quickly. He singles out this event's organisers for special mention - Nick Mitchell, Josh Stent and Bronwen Horton.

Before the vigil, I asked Nick and Josh about the service and why they felt compelled to organise it. Nick answered with typical Kiwi straightforwardness. "It's kind of obvious why we organised it." Fair play. He continued. "If we hadn't, someone else would have done it. We just wanted to do something." And that is how we feel, thousands of miles from New Zealand. We just want to do something.

Nick came up with the idea and ran it by his old uni mate, Josh. They sent an email out to friends and contacts and within three hours the feedback was phenomenal, including interest from the High Commission. Then Bronwen Horton put her hand up to help and the service snow-balled to an estimated 5000 people in attendance.

Back to the service.

Ngati Ranana sing again. It's in Maori but the tune is familiar. I hum along for a minute before everything clicks. It's Leonard Cohen's Alleluia.

Then silence again. This time for two minutes as we call to mind all those who have perished in the quake. Two minute silences usually drag on but not this one.

Paddy Austin, a former Christchurch City councillor, reads from the accounts of some of the survivors. She manages a wry smile as she fights off the tears. She is not the only one. "Whoever thought we'd be living in tents and queuing for water," she reads.

We sing again, this time with Hayley Westenra leading our national anthem. Even now, most people listen or just murmur the words. It is not until Hayley returns to her seat to cry that I remember she's a Christchurch girl.

There are prayers of remembrance to follow. The Catholics in the congregation give the correct responses while everyone else looks despondent. Part of the night's subdued nature may have been the unfamiliar Catholic words but tonight was the first time that many of us had come face to face with our own grief. We were never going to clap along.

After, Canon Tuckwell farewells us at the door. We are quiet. We greet friends, tentatively shaking hands as if something might break and tumble to the floor.

These are still early days for the New Zealand expat community. Over the next few nights, we will gather in taverns and theatres, cinemas and cafes to raise money and probably to raise glasses; to share a tear and a smile or two, but tonight we have acknowledged our grief as a community away from its home.

Tonight was a turning point for our community of Kiwis in London. We have seen and acknowledged the shock and devastation in each other. We will still grieve; we will still weep. And some time in the near future we will come together again and officially remember the dead. But right now we will start to rebuild.

To Nick, Josh and Bronwen: thank you.

To Christchurch: we are thinking of you, praying for you and doing all in our power to help.

Kia kaha, Christchurch.

ENDS

© Scoop Media