Muslim man Qais Azimi at the Mt Roskill mosque in the wake of the Christchurch killings. / Jason Oxenham
Opinion by Anna Leask
Anna Leask, specialist in crime and justice reporting for the New Zealand Herald, has covered some of New Zealand’s biggest events, incidents, tragedies and disasters.
"If New Zealand is a vessel of milk filled to the very brim - then consider immigrants as a pinch of sugar - we'll no bring the vessel to overflowing but make the milk sweeter."
Messages of hope and love, support and solidarity. A folded New Zealand flag.
It's eerie scenes as people gather quietly and solemnly, with many children in attendance.
Armed police have brown bags with a supplied packed lunch at their feet.
The people then meander through South Hagley Park, along the seemingly endless line of plastic police tape that flutters in the autumn breeze.
Still, they are quiet.
There simply isn't anything to say.
The walk is punctuated by more armed police - their hands still gripping Bushmaster rifles - ends when they reach the point in the park where the mosque is visible.
Today it is shrouded by black tarpaulins, the horror and tragedy that happened there hidden from everyone's view.
As police forensic staff mill around the scene, collecting crucial evidence, people in the park crouch down to write messages of support, love - anything they can think - on a large sheet.
"Stay strong."
"Our peaceful life in New Zealand for 21 years has been torn apart by this tragedy - we'll stay strong and united."
"This is not us."
"One nation together, one nation who loves, one nation who does not stand for this."
Away from the park, Christchurch is a city of two halves.
It's half raw grief and half desperate normality.
People jog, they walk dogs, they shop.
The sweet smell of flowers is building at tribute sites.
To drive through Christchurch, with the remnants of the earthquakes still visible, it seems incredibly unfair for the city to be in the grip of such extreme trauma again.
It's too soon.
At the hospital you could feel the sheer weight of weariness as Grant Robertson, head of surgery, tried to describe how his staff were feeling.
"We've seen things that have been pretty terrible in the earthquakes. From my perspective just another type of those events."
In the cafe outside, staff are making free flat whites.
Allpress, a coffee company, had dropped off free beans. Hospital staff in scrubs wolf down free croissants and stand in the sunlight, briefly, before heading back inside.
Everything feels surreal. The sunlight is too bright. Joggers running through the park seem like Sims, acting out life.
It feels impossible that life can just go on when so many are dead.
