Norm Hewitt's private world

Former All Black Norm Hewitt lets us into his private world, and the moment he got on his knees in prayer for the first time. It was the beginning of a transformation from violence and alcohol, to reconciliation and discovering his true, quiet greatness.

Norm Hewitt has long been a name synonymous with massive, hard-hitting rugby. And off the field, he was known for his equally hard-hitting lifestyle. But Norm has become a New Zealand redemption story. Today, he is a champion for leadership-building and the anti-violence message. And, yes, a whole new group of Kiwis fell in love with Norm when he won the first season of Dancing with the Stars.

That’s the Norm we know. The Norm we’ve come to love. But behind his public redemption, was a very private journey.

Now, a new documentary, Making Good Men, re-visits Norm’s early years when, as a senior at Te Aute College, he severely assaulted his school mate, Manu Bennett—who has since become an international actor, known for roles like Slade Wilson in Arrow.

Together, the two look at what shaped them up to that defining moment, and find reconciliation with each other and themselves.

Father and son

As so often happens, it all began with the words of a child.

‘My son loves the Arrow series and we were sitting down watching it,’ recalls Norm when he speaks to War Cry. ‘I said, “I know that man.” My son said, “How do you know that man, Dad?” And I thought to myself, “Well, I can say I went to school with him, or I could be honest with my son.” ’ The conversation went like this:

‘Well, son, I went to school with Manu and I gave him a hiding at school.’
‘How did that make you feel, Dad?’
‘It made me feel really stink, son.’
‘What would you do if you ever met him again?’

Norm says that question gave him pause, and he thought about his korero on seizing the moment, and realising your own potential …

Then came the day when Norm spotted Manu in an airport Koru lounge. With heart pounding, he approached Manu. They hongied, and Manu said, ‘It’s really good to see you, Norm’. Norm responded, ‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry that I hurt you.’ The next day both families came together for lunch.

It was a profound experience of reconciliation. But it was also the start of a new journey, exploring what had led them both to that place, where—as Norm recalls with startling honesty—‘something took over me … I wanted to kill him.’

The making of a hard man

Norm remembers his fifth birthday as a day for the whole whānau. ‘Part of my job was to open up the beers and suck the froth off the top. I always remember my mum saying I didn’t attend my first day of school because I had a hangover.’

From early on, alcohol was part of Norm’s life. So was violence. It began with his dad beating his mum, and then he turned on Norm. At the age of nine, Norm was so badly beaten he thought he was going to die. By the age of 13, Norm was angry and disruptive.

But he had rugby and a fierce ambition. ‘I watched the All Blacks doing the haka on TV, and I stood in front of the black and white telly, in my favourite cowboy pyjamas, and said, “I’m going to be an All Black!” ’ recalled Norm when he recently spoke at Tawa Salvation Army Corps (church).

‘I imagined there was another boy out there [training to be an All Black]. I used to say to myself, “There’s a boy out there running when it’s freezing cold, running when it’s absolutely hot.” If I did two push-ups, the other boy did five. That motivated me, but I also believe it was the Lord, pushing me to go further.’

When Norm began high school at the prestigious Māori boys’ boarding school Te Aute College, it was the chance to start again. He was paired with a senior—who he did chores for, and sometimes top-and-tailed with to keep the bed warm. Until, one night, the senior sexually abused him.

Norm says that was the moment his whole world turned upside down. That was when ‘the bullied became the bully’.

Fast forward to seventh form (Year 13), when a handsome, talented new kid arrived at school. His name was Manu Bennett, and he was immediately given a place in the first-15 rugby team. Norm, the captain, wasn’t having a bar of it—in his eyes, Manu needed to be taught who was the boss. And the boss was Norm.

The rise and fall

Norm’s reputation was fierce both on and off the rugby pitch. ‘Yes, I became an All Black and I loved it,’ remembers Norm. ‘But I also got lost in that world, because I didn’t like who I had become. When I looked in the mirror, the person who stared back at me wasn’t the boy who had absolute faith that he could be someone extraordinary.’

Norm describes the turning point in his life simply as ‘99’. In the midst of his 23-cap All Black career, came an incident that scandalised the nation. Here is how it was described in the press: ‘In 1999, drunk, [Norm Hewitt] smashed through a glass door at a hotel in Queenstown,’ writes The Listener. ‘There was blood, headlines and, in times when such things were less common, a tearful tele­vision apology: an All Black making the dismal journey from hero to zero.’

But here’s how Norm remembers it: ‘In 1999, when all that came to the fore in a very public display of what people call humiliation … it was the first time I could be me. It was the journey of freedom.

‘When ’99 happened, the first thing I did was get down on my knees and pray. I had never prayed before, but I realised I had to humble myself, get on my knees and ask forgiveness for what I had done.’

Behind the scenes

While still reeling from his public disgrace, Norm got a call from iwi leader Selwyn Jones who took him to Huria Marae in Tauranga. ‘He started filling in the gaps of who I was in my whakapapa … he talked about the marae, the whare, as being the embodiment of male and female. He talked about the significance of wāhine and of karakia,’ remembers Norm. ‘We were there for six hours, but it felt like two minutes—he talked directly to my soul.
‘He told me to ask the Lord to help me. And those moments of getting on my knees, in tears, and asking the Lord to help me is a big part of who I am today.’

From that day, Norm has been alcohol-free, he still says karakia with his family every day, and he has become a passionate anti-violence campaigner. Among his many charities, Norm is a ‘kahukura’ (influencer) for E Tū Whānau—a Māori initiative that focuses on strengthening whānau to bring about changes that prevent violence.

Father and son, again

Yet, his private journey continued … and continues. It was only recently that Norm was able to put a final piece of the puzzle in place.

The documentary Making Good Men culminates in a powerful and moving moment of reconciliation with Norm’s father. But in reality, that reconciliation was years in the making.

‘First, I had to get myself ready, preparing myself very deliberately, emotionally and spiritually. I needed to seek forgiveness from the people I had transgressed against,’ explains Norm.

He reached out to his parents, inviting them to come and live with his family. He bought them both hearing aids, because he saw that this had become a barrier to communication.

‘So, I started having conversations with my parents. Five years ago, I said, “Please help me to put in place this last piece of healing and forgiveness. Please invite me in for a cup of tea so we can talk about it.” ’ But a year went by, and then another year. Norm realised his father didn’t have the tools to start the conversation about their violent past, so Norm began to open up the discussion over cups of tea.

‘[Dad] went through the angry stage, where he didn’t want a bar of it. But I just kept going back. You have to sow those seeds with love, so I kept going back.’

Eventually, Norm’s dad told his own story—of how his dad had been a violent man towards his mum. How he had yelled at his dad to stop, and his dad had chased him, dragging him out from under the bed and beating him until he thought he was going to die.

‘My father stands and he starts to weep. He walks across the lounge and we hug and he is sobbing, and I’m sobbing. And I said, “Dad, at nine years old, you scarred me.” And Dad said, “Son, it was never your fault.” At the age of 45, I heard my father say the words “I love you” for the first time. Now, I know I can describe peace and freedom.’

In the documentary, Norm takes his 10-year-old son Alex to visit his grandparents—three generations of Hewitt men coming together to face up to the past. ‘The violence stops with me,’ says Norm. ‘The violence in our whānau stops with me. Alexander will never grow up with the violence I grew up with.’

It has been a long journey of forgiveness and being forgiven, says Norm. But he has discovered there is no greater gift, no higher purpose. This is what it means to be extraordinary.

‘It’s been an amazing journey. As much as I had to work hard as an athlete, I had to work 10 times as hard to be a father and a husband,’ says Norm. ‘Nothing is greater than than that.

Find out more | The story behind the Making Good Men documentary | www.teamokura.com/making-good-men

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by Ingrid Barratt (c) 'War Cry' magazine, 1 October 2016, pp 8-9
You can read 'War Cry' at your nearest Salvation Army church or centre, or subscribe through Salvationist Resources.

Stand Against Violence

If you’re aware of violence—during or after the incident—you can:

• Talk to the person who is displaying abusive behaviour in private, when things have calmed down. Tell them what you witnessed was not okay, and they need to get some help.
• Talk to a group of the perpetrator’s friends and, together, decide on a course of action.
• If you have witnessed a friend or colleague abusing a partner, talk to a group of the victim’s friends and develop a group response.
• Talk to the victim and let them know you saw what was going on and you’re willing to help.
• If you’re a high school or uni student, approach a trusted teacher, social worker, or health professional. Tell them what you’ve observed and ask them to do something, or advise you on how you might proceed.

If friends are engaged in harassing/abusive behaviour:

• Distract them, e.g. by saying ‘Chill out, guys.’
• Try to convince your peers to stop.
• Walk away, signalling you reject their behaviour.

Always keep yourself and others safe! Phone 111 in an emergency.

Source: www.whiteribbon.org.au