Forty years ago yesterday, on the 10th of July 1985, a friendly nation committed an act of terrorism on New Zealand territory. Two limpet mines placed by French secret agents exploded in Auckland Harbour, sinking Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior and killing crew member Fernando Pereira.
That night, my view of international diplomacy changed. Like many New Zealanders, I felt betrayed — not once, but twice. First, by France, who initially condemned the attack as terrorism, before admitting to orchestrating it. Then by our so-called allies, who responded with deafening silence. Neither the United States nor the United Kingdom publicly condemned the bombing, even as France imposed a punitive economic blockade against New Zealand’s exports to Europe.
We had little choice but to capitulate. The UK, adding insult to injury, quietly purchased French goods while our own produce rotted at the border. It was a blunt lesson in power politics: a great way to find out who your friends aren’t.
It should come as no surprise that, less than two years later, 92% of New Zealanders backed our landmark nuclear legislation. Though foreign observers still refer to Aotearoa as “nuclear free,” they often miss the nuance — we are nuclear weapons free. The distinction matters. So does the story.
In the wake of the bombing, the U.S. tested our resolve by requesting port access for the USS Buchanan, capable of launching nuclear depth charges. Accepting would’ve been political suicide. President Reagan, apparently misreading the national mood, reacted by ejecting us from the ANZUS alliance. For years, New Zealand envoys were frozen out of Washington. While adversaries like China and the Soviet Union maintained dialogue with the U.S., New Zealand was sidelined.
Twenty-five years later, New Zealand was finally permitted to rejoin multinational military exercises and trade negotiations. Yet the shadow of the Rainbow Warrior lingered. While the Obama and Biden administrations accepted our nuclear-free stance, the current Trump administration has taken a more assertive posture — reviving militarism and casting doubt on multilateral diplomacy. Tensions around AUKUS and nuclear-powered assets continue to test the resilience of New Zealand’s nuclear-free identity. Meanwhile, voices within the American right persist in tying deeper cooperation to nuclear policy rollbacks, reminding us that friendship, even among allies, is often conditional.
Even now, I wonder whether the rupture changed us for the better. Perhaps the Rainbow Warrior sinking was a turning point — one that clarified our values and carved out an independent path in global affairs.
Today, as AUKUS stirs renewed tensions and Pacific communities continue to resist nuclear imperialism, the Warrior’s legacy remains potent. The vessel may have been destroyed, but its kaupapa endures — in environmental advocacy, indigenous rights, and the pursuit of justice.
Forty years on, the Rainbow Warrior hasn’t sunk from memory. It sails in the hearts of those who believe sovereignty includes the right to protect life — human, marine, and planetary.
Much like the reappearance of Matariki in our midwinter sky, the memory of that night in Auckland Harbour calls us to pause, reflect, and renew. Just as the stars of Matariki invite us to honour those who came before and envision the shape of what’s to come, the Rainbow Warrior reminds us that identity is forged not in isolation, but in defiance of injustice and in the collective will to choose peace.
We still look to those stars — not for escape, but for guidance.
