Research

Christchurch is very white - I was ‘whangai'd’ out to family who came to live in Christchurch. There was nothing Māori in school, I didn’t know anything about my culture. I was a bit of a late starter. There’s a belonging that I wanted to attach to something. I was disconnected from my culture.

For Māori that have lost our culture or whakapapa, don’t have a strong sense of belonging, because I haven’t been able to be raised in my Reo. A lot of us Māori don’t have that sense of belonging, even though we belong to the whenua. My grandparents died when I was young, so have had to learn from aunties or uncles or through my education. Some Māori have had a privileged upbringing, have been able to live on their whenua, grown up with the tikanga. Being told that we are from this whenua, but we don’t know who we are and we have to do a lot of soul-searching, and history-searching to get belonging.

More so when we moved here, I had to learn a different culture and language, yet it was mine as well. I was understanding it was part of my heritage. I didn’t feel like I fitted in. My parents sent me to kura kaupapa, against my wishes. I’d already gone to 2 diff schools in the space of a year. My sister went as well. She says she stopped using te reo when she went to high school.

I talked to a man who was brought to Christchurch and after many years wanted to connect to his Marae again. Initially it was not straightforward. You can’t just rock up to your Marae and say “hi, I’m here.” Why is it so hard to go back? They [disconnected men] have a feeling that they don’t know the ways, te reo, how to connect. Back in the day, if you were a man, going back was hard because where would you sit on the Marae? With the visitors? No. With the other men? Not with the men if you don’t speak te reo and don’t know how to speak on Marae. So [the young displaced] men were not comfortable going back.

I am Māori, but I wasn’t really brought up Māori. So, I can’t speak Māori. We’d been out at town one night. Me and a friend were standing outside the club and I thought he was a friend. He was speaking fluent te reo, and others came up and they’re all speaking te reo, having a laugh. It felt weird, left out. 'Cause I’m Māori and can’t speak.

Mum identified as Kiwi and didn’t have much connection to her iwi. I’m learning about my iwi connections. They are mostly Ngai XXX and other South Island iwi.

It’s really interesting that me and L are two wahine who both feel like we don’t belong. There’s politicised layers - there’s way more obligation and responsibility assigned to us with being Māori. We can’t have a conversation about being Māori without going back to identity. There’s more of a focus on [being] ethnic now. It’s like we’re sort of born into it, we’re not given the choice. You can’t homogenise a whole group [of Māori]. I just want to note how political it is with the responsibility and obligation [of being Māori]. Like I am Māori, I have whakaapa. I don’t make apologies for myself anymore, but I used to from that lack of connection. I don’t need to apologise. I have children.

The only thing that is missing for me, is my Māori, in that regard. I have no anger about it. My mother did what she thought was the right thing.

Lost my mum by 8, [the] link to my language and [Māori] culture was gone.

I was ashamed to be Māori. Protesting wasn’t a thing. I’d been at this flash school, the whole taking over of the land [this was the land protest at Moutoa Gardens], at that age I was embarrassed. I’d been through Collegiate, probably thought I was a white person by then. It was a brand new world for me. I looked down my nose at my own people.

Growing up I didn’t really know where home was. I knew I was Māori, but we moved a lot but I didn’t know how to describe that. The Christianity took that away from us. My great-grandmother spoke only Māori, she stopped practicing her culture, her children were brought up outside of the culture.

Probably because I can’t speak Te Reo Māori, the judgement has been from Māori. Because I look it [ie look Māori], have a surname that is known in the iwi. Almost having to apologise because I didn’t [speak Te Reo]. Having not done kapa haka or being brought up in the marae, people thinking you’re less Māori because of all that. That’s only because they have the privilege of being brought up in all that.

I’m Māori, but I was adopted at birth, so I didn’t grow up with my identity as a Māori. I was part of the 60s push to adopt out Māori kids to Pākehā families.

You’re taught more of the values and beliefs of the older days, so you know who you are. Whereas in mainstream you don’t fit in. I remember my kids’ struggles because they’ve been in a Christian school, and the principal used to call our haka demonic. It became a racist environment. Our children weren’t able to express themselves. It was stripped away from them.

For me what makes belonging hard is lack of kindness towards Māori that’s accepted and historical and systematic. So much lack of smiling, blockages to that basic kindness that’s just perpetuated from the start and becomes normalised. Makes me hard to belong to NZ society endemically, we’ve just not had kindness to Māori.

Māori are very spiritual people and get misunderstood. Tohunga were compared to witches of the day - what was going for them to to be so misunderstood when that happened. We are spiritual people and also agree we are there to bring healing to the nation and we do that through going into places and spaces to bring healing to the families that are brought our way.

I have barely met any Māori, not at work. I have absolutely no interaction. I literally don’t. I offered, the Council was going to run a Māori introduction day but it was cancelled because of April. I just don’t know, I don’t know how to, where to go. The only person, when we had the citizenship ceremony, but that was it.

Yesterday, [North Island town] was thinking of establishing Māori wards and they put it out to a poll which means the vast majority of [North Island town], which is white, will vote against wards. I can see the frustration and lack of power with tangata whenua.

The majority of people on Council would say that the Treaty was a thing that happened hundreds of years ago. There’s a heritage festival, and they act like life began when Pākehā arrived.

In college I wanted to learn Māori, and they said no, they wouldn’t allow that. So I had to learn French. It’s a long list of things. They undermine you, they treat you like you’re silly. It’s your colleagues that are treating you like rubbish.

Something I find uncomfortable at council, for example, is the absolute refusal to pronounce names [Te Reo names]. I almost see an acceptance of other cultures to the detriment of tangata whenua. That avoidance of the primary partnership and let’s include everybody. I find it uncomfortable with how to confront that.

That’s what I’m saying, it’s about the respect. I was at the tail end of no speaking Māori at school, and it’s still in here [pats her chest] and I have to deal with that. For my mum, there were times, because of the colour of her skin, if she saw dad – he talked to anyone – bring a white man home, she would go into a panic. The beauty for me is that they are going to teach NZ history, what the blooming heck do we need to learn about Vikings and that?

Our [Māori] children are just being taken away. This nana came to a protest outside Oranga Tamariki, her kids got taken overseas without her knowledge.

Definitely around the land, the settlement..the Waitangi Tribunal. In a predominantly Pākehā environment, [someone might say] when do we have to stop giving them stuff. Sometimes I’m ok to say something, other times it’s like how safe am I to say something? And that’s not even other cultures.

I was ashamed to be Māori. Protesting wasn’t a thing. I’d been at this flash school, the whole taking over of the land [this was the land protest at Moutoa Gardens], at that age I was embarrassed. I’d been through Collegiate, probably thought I was a white person by then. It was a brand new world for me. I looked down my nose at my own people.

When [x] first met my uncle, brought up in [small North Island town], uncle was in his late 60s, tells [x] how Māori were savages before Europeans came in. This was not unusual for us, this is his perspective, he worked with Māori.

When it came to piupiu, they would say just use these plastic ones, no idea of giving funding.

In my organisation – and I work with four midwives in several different roles – we get contacted by women who are being disadvantaged because of race. That is not our role, but people know where we are and what we do, so they feel safe. We also have contacts with health services where we can forward those details on for further follow ups. So, we had one situation, where there was misunderstanding about cultural norms. For example, there was mishandling around placentas during Covid. You see, often the people making decisions quickly are the predominant culture. So, there was a theory that Covid could be transmitted via placenta. During Covid, all placentas going to the lab were going to be decided to be treated. However, in Māori culture, there were concerns about a placenta if it goes to the lab to be analysed and treated. For Māori, they freeze them. But the problem was that cultural identity was not being respected. These decisions were rushed and disregarded the cultural beliefs of the Māori clients.

The insulting, the fear of Māori communities, that’s constant in media and politics, all the racism stuff.

It’s really interesting that me and L are two wahine who both feel like we don’t belong. There’s politicised layers - there’s way more obligation and responsibility assigned to us with being Māori. We can’t have a conversation about being Māori without going back to identity. There’s more of a focus on [being] ethnic now. It’s like we’re sort of born into it, we’re not given the choice. You can’t homogenise a whole group [of Māori]. I just want to note how political it is with the responsibility and obligation [of being Māori]. Like I am Māori, I have whakapapa. I don’t make apologies for myself anymore, but I used to from that lack of connection. I don’t need to apologise. I have children.

You can feel that. Like in [small North Island town] from my colleagues. I felt like I was treated like I didn’t belong. How can you question my pepeha? They’re getting very territorial. Is that who we are? I know we’re protecting it from non-Māori, but do we need to do that with Māori who are trying to find the location of our tipuna. I think they think it’s a threat to the land, they want to take our land.

There’s this political side to being Māori, there’s such a focus on Māori and being Māori, and me, not being able to know my whakapapa, I don’t know what to say in my pepeha. There’s all that and also other ways that keep me from belonging like I’m an adult student - I’m in Māori and Indigenous Studies to learn more about my culture. I’m a single mother.

Probably because I can’t speak Te Reo Māori, the judgement has been from Māori. Because I look it [ie look Māori], have a surname that is known in the iwi. Almost having to apologise because I didn’t [speak Te Reo]. Having not done kapa haka or being brought up in the marae, people thinking you’re less Māori because of all that. That’s only because they have the privilege of being brought up in all that.

We got asked ‘ko wai au?’ when we were studying. That brought up a lot for me. My kids are Māori. My parents and grandparents are European descent. How do I fit in their world, and how do they fit in our world?

For someone who’s, like tradition and culture, you may have experienced coming to NZ, that you don’t feel accepted on this side, and don’t quite. Get that on the marae, staunch kaumatua if you couldn’t speak Te Reo on the marae, you were disciplined, and look down on. Our grandparents were hit at school for speaking the reo, so we didn’t grow up learning.

It’s really interesting that me and L are two wahine who both feel like we don’t belong. There’s politicised layers - there’s way more obligation and responsibility assigned to us with being Māori. We can’t have a conversation about being Māori without going back to identity. There’s more of a focus on [being] ethnic now. It’s like we’re sort of born into it, we’re not given the choice. You can’t homogenise a whole group [of Māori]. I just want to note how political it is with the responsibility and obligation [of being Māori]. Like I am Māori, I have whakapapa. I don’t make apologies for myself anymore, but I used to from that lack of connection. I don’t need to apologise. I have children.

On one of my placements, I didn’t do my pepeha. Tutor said, “why didn’t you do your pepeha?” I felt stung. I wanted to say I didn’t feel confident. I guess when you can’t explain where you’re from, it takes away your sense of belonging. But I knew I should know it and I’ve worked hard to learn te reo.

I am Māori, but I wasn’t really brought up Māori. So, I can’t speak Māori. We’d been out at town one night. Me and a friend were standing outside the club and I thought he was a friend. He was speaking fluent te reo, and others came up and they’re all speaking te reo, having a laugh. It felt weird, left out. 'Cause I’m Māori and can’t speak.

The other thing, sometimes it’s not safe to be together with a whole lot of different people. The reason we’re here today is because it would be safe to say what would be true to us. Particularly in the service sector with other funders and providers. Because it’s not safe. For example, we’re having issues at the moment with the Family Violence and Sexual Violence Joint Venture Business Unit. They’ve got this whole notion that they want a partnership relationship. But they put all Māori participation on hold until after the elections. They have a tangata rōpu that are basically holding [xx] to account.

Growing up, being in a small town NZ, being at school. When it came to being Māori, the other kids didn’t think I was, because of my name. Even though at home I had a Māori environment, they didn’t know know that. School did things for Māori kids. If I tried to do those things, the other kids would comment “are you even Māori, you don’t look Māori?”

Then because I was a lesbian, but mum wanted a whakapapa, so I pick someone and boom, I got a pēpi. Then I got my baby, and I gave her a Māori name – ‘Full Moon’ name, ‘[x].’ Mum changed it to [x], after her grandfather’s mother. My next child was [xxx] because there is a great union between the families. The family thought it was a joke – said, “you should have a boy anyway.”

And then we get down to alert level 1 or 2 and the homeless people are out on the street again. Part of it is to accept that it is a crisis. We are always at a point of change, change is little, small, minute. Seeing the response. We see the domestication of kaupapa Māori. On the one hand people say they know the kaupapa, but there is no accountability back to the people who’s knowledge and information we’re using. Covid was good, that we didn’t need government to be involved.

I would never give my pepeha like I did in the South Island, I’d draw on my other whakapapa side. That’s the space, the other ones I draw on. Because you’re there to build connections. Raru still exist. I see it up here, competitiveness of the different hapu. It’s another level of connectedness and disconnect.

In terms of barriers? Our system is broken, absolutely broken. Government policies are barriers. From a Māori perspective, when we adopt systems from overseas and try to fit tikanga into Pākehā ways of doing things – I don’t know how many times we need to go around and around with this. The three P’s? [Protection, partnership, participation] Those three P’s to me are “Piss Poor Policies.”

It’s the office culture and organisation culture that doesn’t make you feel like you belong. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like we’re working in a Māori world view, it’s a corporate world view that we have to present ourselves as. This kind of white, we can’t just be Māori. There’s a lot of things we do in our organisation that we wouldn’t do on the marae or in our whanau. It’s not healthy.

When I was younger, those were the times, there were a lot of disparities around Māori culture. My parents felt it was safer to put us into education, and our Māori side was put in a corner. Now we’ve gone back to our culture.

Our [Māori] people are dying in droves. Meth, alcohol, drugs. Colonization played a huge part. The 1960s brought in social welfare and that destroyed our people – turned us into dependents. They were giving us something we didn’t need.

Nothing is going to really change until people who benefited from colonisation realize it. I did some study recently and looked into my own family background and I have Māori and colonial ancestry, and my show is about those two parts of my family. My mother grew up and was not allowed to talk about her father who was part Māori. That part of her life was completely thrown out and it really affected her.

I was born in Wellington, adopted into a Pākehā family as a baby. I was part of the 1955 Adoption Act, 46,000 Māori babies were put into white families. My biological family asked the social workers that I went to a Māori family and I never did. We moved up to Auckland before I was 5. To Onehunga. I stayed with them until I was 12, they abandoned me at a boarding school and I never saw them again.

Growing up I didn’t really know where home was. I knew I was Māori, but we moved a lot but I didn’t know how to describe that. The Christianity took that away from us. My great-grandmother spoke only Māori, she stopped practicing her culture, her children were brought up outside of the culture.

We can’t even fight for our own land. We had land, I see mum had title to that but then I see someone’s name on top of it. They’ve just taken it. People are shifting to a Western perspective. Some of us know no better.

You’re taught more of the values and beliefs of the older days, so you know who you are. Whereas in mainstream you don’t fit in. I remember my kids’ struggles because they’ve been in a Christian school, and the principal used to call our haka demonic. It became a racist environment. Our children weren’t able to express themselves. It was stripped away from them.

I belong to school kapa haka group, and I feel like I’m borrowing that culture, and a lot of the songs are about land being taken away and please can we get our land back, and (started crying), how do I feel like I belong but take responsibility at the same time? It’s so painful to know that these terrible things happened, and I am part of the side that is responsible, but how do you change this?

Look at Māori health statistics – they get less treatment from doctors, those small issues, those prejudices add up and can kill people.