By Liam Rātana
Copyright thespinoff
‘Don’t be just another statistic.’ That’s what Liam Rātana’s father often told him growing up. At a Far North wānanga in July, Rātana joined dozens of other tāne Māori to confront grief, violence and hope in efforts to turn around their own statistics.
“Fourteen,” I say to myself. The morning sun flickers through the mist of Hine-pūkohu-rangi blanketing the Maungataniwha Range, known locally as the Mangamukas. I’m driving north on the shadowy roads and glance back over my shoulder, making sure it’s the right road sign to start my guess from.
I’ve been travelling this road since I was a baby. As a teenager, I would go to Ahipara with my ex-girlfriend’s family. Every summer, we would head to their bach by the beach. Whenever we went over the gorge, her dad would ask us to guess the number of cars we’d drive past. If we guessed right, we won $20 – a lot of money for someone who grew up with a single father on the benefit. According to the Ministry of Social Development, almost 150,000 Māori are receiving a main benefit in New Zealand – roughly 37% of all people on a main benefit, despite making up only 17% of the population.
As I climb the gorge, I think of my cousin, who once proudly gloated he drove over the gorge in 12 minutes flat. He was raised up north and to me, was the definition of a young far north countryman. It was him that taught me how to put in a fence. He could whistle to his horse and it would come. At the end of a long day’s mahi, my cousin would get on his horse, tell it to go home and wake up outside his house. At just 24 years old, he died in a diving accident.
My mind wanders as I start my descent down the other side. When I was younger, my late father and I would often travel north, visiting whānau and hui hopping our way across Te Hiku o Te Ika. Dad was researching our whakapapa and preparing a treaty claim on behalf of our hapū. As the first of his family born in Auckland, he was part of the large generation of urbanised Māori that grew up disconnected from their culture. My grandparents actively discouraged my dad from speaking te reo or having a connection with te ao Māori, because they were of the generation that was beaten in school for speaking it. Māori urbanisation accelerated dramatically during and after World War II, transitioning from a primarily rural population to an urban one. By 2013, 84% of Māori lived in urban areas, a major shift from the pre-war period when the majority lived rurally.
Growing up, one of my dad’s favourite sayings to me was: “Don’t be just another statistic.” When I was younger, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. At first, I thought he meant don’t blend in and do what everyone else does. However, as I grew older and wiser, I began appreciating what he was trying to tell me. Don’t be another statistic, because so many Māori men are.
We are among the most measured and studied group of people in the world. Countless research shows we are overwhelmingly and disproportionately negatively represented in almost every social measure there is: incarceration, health issues, educational attainment, average life expectancy, rates of gang membership, gambling addiction, alcohol abuse, family violence, sexual abuse, children in state care, the list just goes on.
It’s no secret why we’re like this. The impacts of colonisation ripple through our lives today, generations after the arrival of the British. Māori did not live in poverty before colonisation, though many who view wealth through a western lens of financial riches like to think we did. They say we lived in huts with dirt floors and wore grass skirts, but also fail to recognise that our concept of wealth and abundance was different to the one that arrived with colonisation.
Not only were Māori men wealthy and full of abundance, we were connected to our culture and a valued part of society. Tikanga was the lore of the land and obeyed by all. However, the attempted genocide of our culture led to mass loss of resources, displacement, and the establishment of a system of designed to ensure the ongoing oppression and suffering of our people.
Now, we’re at a crossroads. Society’s awareness of these issues has never been higher. Momentum is building in addressing the inequities Māori men face. While some question why there is a need for equitable treatment of Māori, many understand that a nuanced approach is required to help lift us out of the hole we were forced into. However, the onus is also on us as Māori men to lift ourselves out too. Given the recognition and understanding that it was and is the actions of the Crown that led us here, there is growing acknowledgment that it will not be the Crown that will lift us out – it will be ourselves.
The maiden speech of Kuīni Nga wai hono i te po at this year’s Koroneihana was about the need for Māori economic independence. If we want mana motuhake, she says we must attain it ourselves. It’s a concept that has been increasingly popular in recent years. However, before we can thrive as a nation, we have to address the issues that continue to plague us. For Māori men, we must free ourselves from the shackles of colonisation that continue to weigh us down and prevent us from achieving our potential. That’s why I’m heading north.
I quietly laugh to myself as I remember the time my dad and I were driving south over the Mangamuka Gorge in his blue Ford Falcon. I was about 14 years old and sitting in the back seat when his girlfriend at the time turned around and offered me a toke on the joint she had just lit. My dad stopped her before I could kindly refuse – not because I didn’t want a smoke, but because I knew my dad would kick my arse if I even stuck my hand out for it. He was a chronic user of cannabis, and later in life, he began using methamphetamine too. Just like my father, I too have been addicted to weed and a user of recreational drugs. Māori report the highest rates of cannabis use out of any ethnicity and are two-times more likely than non-Māori to use cocaine and amphetamines/methamphetamine.
My Uncle Ted, whose house I have just come from, is another male figure who has greatly influenced who I am today. He would take me and his grandson on trips up home as young men. We would head to Herekino for yet another kaupapa – a tangi, a hui, doing some work at the urupā. I remember on one trip, an aunty was with us and she asked my uncle why I was “wearing my pants so low”. “I think he’s been hanging out with my grandson too much,” he said. I didn’t ever low-ride my pants again.
As I turn right onto Donald Rd, I notice the headlights of a car behind me and figure they must be heading to Hui Tāne too. I don’t really know what to expect at this hui, but I do know it will be full of some characters. It’s national hui that has been called by former politician Hone Harawira, aiming to bring together people who provide services specifically for Māori men. It’s the first hui of its kind in over a decade.
The memories come flooding back as I reach the top of the hill and spot Oturu School in the distance. As a young teenager, my dad and I lived with the school’s caretaker, who stayed next door to the school in an old villa. He had been convicted of drink-driving at least seven times, but somehow managed to avoid incarceration – a statistical anomaly. Between 11% and 13% of convicted Māori receive sentences of imprisonment, as opposed to 7-9% of Europeans.
There was limited electricity in that house – one of approximately 23 houses I lived in by the time I was 21 years old – and we used to do most of the cooking on an old cast iron grill with a small fire underneath. That was the first place I can remember seeing a washing machine with a wringer still in use. One summer holiday, my dad gave me the rudest looking mullet and box cut I’ve ever seen – it was just like the scene in Boy when he asks for a Michael Jackson hairdo. Around 16% of Māori children live in low-income households, and more than one in five live in material hardship with higher rates of relative income poverty compared to other ethnic groups.
At that time – heavily influenced by my low-riding cousin – I was in the midst of thinking I was a graffiti artist. One night, I snuck out and stole two buckets of paint from the caretaker’s shed – one bright green and one bright orange. I carried them all the way to town and proceeded to paint my tag across the side of a building. It was the first time I had ever used a paint roller. The result was big and hideous, but I felt like the man. Sadly for me, by the time I went into town the next day to take a photo, it had already been buffed.
Like a lot of us, I’ve done some dumb things in my life. Thankfully, I’ve never gone to jail for any of them. Research released in 2021 showed that Māori men were more than three times as likely to have been imprisoned by age 25, compared to European men. They represent about 52% of the total prison population in New Zealand, and it’s even worse for Māori women.
Despite having briefly lived nearby, I still mistakenly drive past the turn off from Oturu Rd on to Quarry Rd and have to pull a u-turn. I hit the loose metal road and notice the gravel is so well packed that it almost feels as though you’re driving on tarseal. Eventually, I arrive at my destination a little after quarter past nine, pulling up to the once familiar Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Te Rangi Āniwaniwa. I find a space in the car park across the road, which is full of utes covered in dust and heavily tattooed men standing around puffing on vapes or smoking cigarettes. In 2024, Māori men had the country’s highest daily smoking rate at 29%, nearly four times the national average.
The group starts to gather near the entrance of the gymnasium and I cautiously make my way over, standing inconspicuously at the back. Looking around, I see the names of various organisations and phrases like “Tautoko Tāne” and “he waka eke noa” emblazoned on hoodies and t-shirts. There are faces covered with swastikas and others with fists. Large figures are adorned in hunting garments, with red, blue, or yellow accents. They press noses and exchange handshakes with other men, some of whom are dressed in expensive looking blazers, neatly pressed suit pants, and well-polished shoes.
I begin to recognise some of the faces – former gang leaders Jay Hepi and Phil Paikea, mātanga reo Jeremy Tātere Macleod, men’s mental health advocate Zack Makoare, and renowned Māori scholar Rangi Matamua. Suddenly, Macleod shouts out to the crowd: “Do we have anyone here from Te Arawa or Kai Tahu? Haere ki mua,” he says.
I figure they want someone from each rohe to be represented on the taumata. I think of those brave enough to step up – the courage and mana they have to feel confident enough to speak, representing their hapū and iwi in such a forum. Data from the 2023 Census shows that around 200,000 people – or 4% of New Zealanders – can hold a conversation in te reo. However, the percentage of Māori able to speak their language has remained stagnant over the last two decades.
As I stand in quiet admiration, I think back to the words I remember hearing at a mau rākau wānanga years ago: “Remember, wherever you go, you carry the mana of your iwi, hapū, and whānau with you.” Suddenly, several kaiwero spring forward from Te Puna Ora – the school’s gymnasium – and begin the pōwhiri.
Some of the group start recording videos on their phones, while others bow their heads or gaze ahead. We slowly start making our way forward and eventually inside. A few of the men are unsure if they should take their gumboots off, with many choosing to leave them on, walking past kaihaka and wāhine pelting out karanga. I spot an uncle and other familiar faces sitting on the haukainga side as I walk past. I find a seat down the back, beyond several rows of heru, taonga, chains, and rings.
The kōrero begins and some of the speakers mention the need for greater whanaungatanga amongst those in the room beyond the hui. They talk about the importance of the kaupapa of Māori men’s mental health and wellbeing.
As the haukainga share some of the history of Te Hiku, I stare at the five panels on proud display atop the stage. Each panel represents one of the five iwi of Te Hiku o Te Ika, otherwise known as Muriwhenua. Underneath them is a banner that reads: Toitū te tiriti me te whakaputanga. I start thinking about the tamariki that attend this school and how different their education must be compared to those in mainstream schools, especially in places like Auckland.
Despite the successes of some kura, data shows Māori school leavers are falling further behind, with just 72% achieving NCEA Level 1 and only 37% reaching Level 3 in 2024.
The kaikōrero from both sides acknowledge the proud whakapapa of the north and the multiple connections those from Muriwhenua share with iwi from around the motu. Within the kōrero, discussions take place about the need to organise. “It’s been too long,” says one speaker. “Our men are dying.” Those in the crowd show their support with a “kia ora”, “tēnā koe”, or invigorated waiata tautoko. Māori men live seven years less than non-Māori, face higher cancer and heart disease death rates at younger ages, and are more than twice as likely to die from preventable illnesses.
Eventually, the pōwhiri concludes with the harirū – the coming together of both sides. I can’t be bothered waiting in the long line, so I dip away for some water. As I’m walking to the cooler, I bump into a whanaunga from Te Aupōuri. We catch up about a kaupapa we’re both involved in and she invites me to have a cup of tea and continue the kōrero.
I grab one of the brown paper cups and throw two small wooden spoonfuls of instant coffee into it. I can tell it’s cheap coffee, but I’m grateful nonetheless. I pour some hot water in and the cup quickly starts leaking from the bottom. Still determined to get my caffeine fix, I grab two new cups and start again. This time, there are no leaks.
While we’re standing there talking, I spot my uncle who has just finished with the harirū. He’s a man that I’ve long admired. Growing up, he was the epitome of a man to me – steeped in Māoritanga, tough but caring, a staunch protector, generous, and skilled in all the things a city kid like me could only dream of. He taught me how to use a weedeater, tame wild horses, freedive for kai, and shoot guns. His son taught me how to smoke weed, drift on a quad bike, race bareback horses, and check your gas tank when the gauge isn’t working. Those are some of my best childhood memories. My idea of what a man is and the kind of man I wanted to be when I grew up was greatly influenced by this uncle.
“When you going to bring that boy up for a holiday?” he asks.
We’re soon ushered by the MC to have some morning tea before the first block of sessions begin. I sit down at one of the large round tables near the back of the room. It’s covered with a heavy black tablecloth and in the middle are two cardboard boxes filled with fruit, wraps, cheese, and crackers. It’s healthy kai and different to what I was expecting, but it comes as a welcome change from the unhealthy food I’m sure many of us in this room are accustomed to. Māori men experience higher rates of diet-related health issues, including significantly higher mortality from heart disease (more than double that of non-Māori men) and increased risk of diabetes.
While we’re eating, the helpers shift all of the chairs from the pōwhiri set-up to face the stage. The group almost fills up three rows across the gym. There were hundreds of people registered to attend and a good chunk of them are here. I sit at the back and am soon greeted by an old school mate. It takes me a second to recognise him – it’s been years since we last saw each other and his once slender face is now covered by a thick beard.
He explains to me how he moved “home” straight after leaving school over a decade ago. Now married with a family and running a successful business, he greets other young men at the wānanga with special handshakes and hugs. Part of me is envious that he chose to move back straight after school and has been able to find his place in the north – but I also realise that there’s nothing stopping me from moving home now.
As the wānanga goes on, I begin to realise why this old school mate has such a close bond with some of the other local men here – they are all part of a crew called the Circle Of Brothers. I’ve heard about them before – it’s a group of Te Hiku men around my age that support one another to be the best versions of themselves. They train together, gather kai together, and hang out doing the kinds of things young men from the north do. They’re exactly the kind of people I’d love to be surrounded by if I was living here – strong, kind and supportive Māori men. But for some reason, I feel as though I wouldn’t fit in – mostly because I’m a townie.
Near the end of morning tea, I spot my cousin Okena Simon and take the opportunity to finally introduce myself to him. It feels strange meeting him under these circumstances. We’re close cousins – I know his nan, aunties, and uncles well – but this is the first time our paths have crossed. His namesake, Atama Okena Hapakuku, is my great-great-grandfather. He was a man of considerable mana, and recognised by many as one of the last great tohunga from our valley. Okena and I share a hongī and make some small talk, before someone starts talking to him through his headset and he apologises for having to leave.
The MCs take the stage and begin their introduction for a man who doesn’t really need one – Hone Harawira. The famed activist and Te Hiku native is the person who had the vision to rekindle a national gathering of men’s mental health and wellbeing service providers and others interested in the kaupapa.
Despite the challenges the sector is currently facing, Harawira encourages those in attendance to not think about the obstacles, but rather focus on the goals. “Think of your obstacles as challenges,” he says. Harawira talks about the establishment of Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Te Rangi Āniwaniwa and the many problems overcome along the way. He says to remain focussed on the end goal. Now, the school is a registered wharekura, has a state-of-the-art heated swimming pool and gymnasium, and is one of the most well respected education institutions in the Far North.
One of Harawira’s biggest hopes for this hui is that it results in the establishment of a free-to-call number that can provide help to Māori men whenever they need it. It would be a “directory” of services specialising in the care and assistance of Māori men in need of support. However, he jokes the service will have to employ people who aren’t like him, “because I’ll probably tell them to toughen up.” The statement is sad, funny, and true. Harawira is a prime example of a man raised in a generation where being told to “take a concrete pill and harden up” was the norm. It’s the way my father was raised too and that tough-love attitude is something that many of us raised by that generation had instilled in us. The dilemma between being emotionally vulnerable and viewed as weak by our peers is something many Māori men continually struggle with, even today. However, many of the men here are actively working to destigmatise being vulnerable and open.
“I’ll give you something to cry about,” was one of my dad’s favourite sayings when I was growing up. Later in life, some of my cousins apologised for not helping me when I was being abused by my father. They knew he was tough on me, but they say they didn’t realise how tough. Māori children are disproportionately affected by abuse, making up around 40-45% of all child abuse deaths and protection cases, with rates of harsh punishment and inter-parental violence nearly three times higher than non-Māori, and many later suffering long-term harms such as imprisonment.
As a result of family violence and other factors, many children end up in state care. Despite making up just roughly one-third of people under 18 in Aotearoa, Maōri are significantly over-represented in state care – accounting for approximately two-thirds of all children in care and three-quarters in youth justice custody – despite recent legal mandates like (the now repealed) section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act and renewed focus on earlier intervention and whānau-based placements.
Following Harawira’s welcome, local kapa haka stalwart Kiritopa Henare takes the stage. Dressed in an apron, hair net and sporting black latex gloves, Henare explains that not only is he going to be teaching the group a specially written haka over the course of the hui, but he is also in the kitchen with his wife helping to prepare our kai. The topic of the haka is a pertinent one – suicide. From 2009 to 2023, Māori men had the highest rates of suspected self-inflicted deaths. From 2022-2023, the rate of suspected self-inflicted deaths for Māori males was two times that of non-Māori males.
Alongside his role as a tutor and leader of local kapa haka Muriwhenua, Henare also runs a support group for local fathers called the Muriwhenua Daddy Club, supporting young fathers in the area.
While the hui is focussed on men, Simon explains the next part of the programme belongs specifically to wāhine. Te tū a te wahine is a panel of wahine Māori speaking about the role of Māori women in the new Māori world. “Get stuffed. We are here and we are a part of this world,” exclaims Hilda Halkyard-Harawira. She goes on to explain that she didn’t want to be here at the hui and when she was partaking in wāhine wānanga, they didn’t want any men around. However, it only feels right to include wāhine here, as they so often shoulder the burden Māori men fail to carry when dealing with the raft issues they face.
For those on the panel, a Hawaiki hou involves understanding all of our atua and revitalising our culture – bringing back some of our tikanga that have been lost such as performing pure to remove tapu or allowing women to speak on the taumata. Halkyard-Harawira says a Hawaiki hou doesn’t include methamphetamine, alcohol or gangs. “We don’t need any of that, it’s not Māori.”
Historical data indicates that Māori men constitute the majority of gang members in New Zealand. In 2020, police estimated there were over 7,000 patched gang members in the country, and around three quarters of them were Māori. By 2025, the total estimated gang membership in New Zealand is around 10,000 members and prospects. Last year, the government introduced the Gangs Act 2024 to disrupt gang activity and reduce their influence. In March this year, Māori made up 83% of those charged under the act.
Local reporter for TVNZ’s Te Karere programme Harata Brown begins talking about her decision to move home to Te Hiku with her children from Auckland, despite having a comfortable corporate role. “I wanted to give my children the opportunity to know what it was like to be raised in Te Hiku,” she tells the crowd. The idea of returning to the kainga with your children resonates with me, and I picture moving home so that my son can have a similar experience – one that I often wish I had.
While we’re eating lunch, Okena comes over to me and pulls up a chair. We get to talking about our own whānau, careers, and lives. He tells me he and his son only moved home from Tāmaki Makaurau about six months ago, after being asked by Harawira to help organise the wānanga. “He basically just called me up and said ‘boy, I’ve got a job for you’.” A successful automotive parts delivery business owner and rugby league referee, being charged with organising an event of this scale was different than anything Okena had done before. However, the opportunity to return home to a meaningful job lined up was too good for him to pass up.
“I was using the league games as an excuse to come home every weekend, so when this role came up, it was the perfect opportunity to make the move,” Okena says.
After lunch, we return to our seats and project facilitator for Patua Te Ngangara Shane White takes the stage. White begins his kōrero with a story about two rats: One rat is in a cage with nothing but two types of water, one normal and one laced with cocaine. The other is in a “rat hotel”, complete with lots of food, toys, and rat friends. Unsurprisingly, the rat in the cage with nothing but the water chooses to drink the laced one, while the rat in “rat hotel” chooses the normal water.
I think about what my own cages have been like throughout my life, particularly when I too battled addiction. I’m grateful to now have a cage with a lot more in it – enough to ensure I stray away from substances I know do not serve me well. I think about my son, and what I can fill his cage with, so he doesn’t feel a need to fill a hole.
A former user of methamphetamine, White talks about the stages of substance use, sharing that he gets referred to as “matua makimaki” because he is often laughing like a monkey after a couple glasses of wine. However, he goes on to talk about the later stages of substance use: the binge, tweaking, the crash, the hangover, and finally withdrawal. It’s a sobering reality check for a few men in the room and I can feel a sense of shame start to seep from some of them. But the seriousness is broken by White sharing a story he heard about Hone Harawira driving a pair of addicted men up Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe under the guise of going for a cruise to get some kai. Once they were at the northern end of the beach, Harawira told them to get out and then drove off, leaving them to fend for themselves and make their own way home. White called it a “cultural detox”.
The prevalence of methamphetamine here in Northland is so bad it’s been labelled a crisis. From 2023 to 2024, methamphetamine use almost doubled in Aotearoa and tripled in Te Tai Tokerau. The government has responded to the methamphetamine surge by forming a cross-ministerial “meth harm sprint team” and a Ministerial Advisory Group on transnational, serious and organised crime. The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) and FBI are here too, but critics say all these efforts amount to “rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic” without major new investment in addiction services, harm reduction initiatives like Te Ara Oranga, and properly funded community-based, kaupapa Māori programmes.
Phil Paikea was a founding member and president of the Black Power Whangārei chapter. He’s candid about his journey to becoming a gang leader – it began with factory work in Auckland, then came buddha sticks, drinking and eventually the opportunity to join the Black Power. From there, Paikea details how his life spiralled before he managed to gain control again.
Paikea pauses his speech and plays a song. I’ve never heard it before but Soundhound tells me it’s ‘‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ by Harry Chapin. It’s hard to fully appreciate a song the first time you listen to it, but the story is about a father who is always too busy for his son. Eventually, the son becomes too busy for his father, and the dad realises his son had grown up to be just like him. However, the song’s not just about being busy, but all aspects of life – violence, addictions, abuse, any habit. “What runs in the father, will run in the son – good or bad,” Paikea says.
Paikea and his wife have fostered 243 children. He shares some of the issues he has experienced as a father of seven. “Often, we’re too busy being too busy,” Paikea explains. As a father of a young child myself always busy with the chaos of life, I ponder what traits of my father I carry: do I also have a short fuse, a propensity for violence, a hidden gentleness, a desire to do the “right thing”, a tendency to ignore my shortcomings, a tough love approach?
I always told myself I would only carry the good lessons from my childhood and I like to think that I’ve done so, but how easy is it to actually separate the good from the bad and how do I even know which is which? Throughout my life, I’ve caught myself thinking I’m becoming more like my dad – his sayings, his mannerisms, and his outlook on life. It’s a realisation that has both scared me and filled me with pride.
Something I admire about Paikea is his willingness to not only be open, but also show his gentle, compassionate side. His ability to do so is testament to the transformation he’s gone through – especially considering he spent most of his life in circles where showing that sort of vulnerability was unheard of. While Paikea’s kōrero shows the sort of compassion he had come to develop, he still jokes about his ability to “marry you and bury you”, referring to the fact he is now a registered marriage celebrant.
I start to feel a strong pull to go and visit my urupā in Manukau, about 30km southwest from where we are. I tell myself I’ll stay for the final speaker of the afternoon before going.
Jeremy Tātere Macleod has achieved celebrity status within te ao Māori, but it wasn’t always the case. As an Australian-born second-language speaker of te reo Māori, Macleod is now nationally recognised as a mātanga reo me tikanga Māori. However, his kōrero centres on the fluidity of tikanga. He says tikanga is about how we lift each other up, not weaponising it or te reo as a means of diminishing the mana of others. The crowd laughs as Macleod reminds us of the ways many break tikanga almost daily, placing food on seats in the car or letting a masseuse massage our scalp, the most tapu part of our bodies.
It’s time for afternoon tea before workshops begin, and I decide to sneak a snack before hitting the road. However, just as I’m about to make my escape, an older gentleman with a familiar face grabs my hand and pulls me in for a hongi. “Bundy Waitai,” he says.
“Liam Rātana. You knew my old man, Joe,” I say. Bundy pauses, his hand still gripping mine, looks at me and responds: “That was your dad?”
I remember going around to Bundy’s house in Waipapakauri when I was just a young boy. My dad was in the throes of carrying out research for a Waitangi Tribunal claim and we would often visit people all over the north. They were people knowledgeable in whakapapa, the history of Te Hiku, and naturally influential in iwi politics. Bundy was – and still is – one of those taonga. We spend the best part of an hour catching up and chatting about dad, his mahi in the treaty claim space and mana motuhake. Bundy tells me about a claim he currently has before the tribunal, his disdain with the current state of affairs, and his vision for the future. It takes me back to those days I spent as a boy with my father, his enduring legacy, and the burden we continue to carry as tāngata whenua.
The words of Phil pop into my head: “What runs in the father, will run in the son – good or bad.”
Finally managing to escape Bundy, I dash for my ute and start the 30-minute drive to Herekino. Whenever dad and I would come north, the first port of call was always the urupā. Because the hui began early in the morning, I wasn’t able to make it out beforehand, so here I am, making a desperate attempt to get there before the sun sets.
I turn on to the dusty metal of Manukau Road as the light fades into the night sky. Opening the large swing gate, I look towards my maunga Orowhana and walk to where my whānau lay. Running my hand over the pictures on their headstones always provides a strangely sombre, yet comforting feeling. I say a quick “kia ora”, close the gate, rinse my hands and begin the journey back to the hui. It’s only a quick visit, but a necessary one.
My alarm wakes me up at 4.30am. By 5am, I’m on the road. I park out the front, grab my gumboots and head to the field at the back of the gym. I walk past a man securing Te Kara and the tino rangatiratanga flag to a long fishing pole, towards a group of men huddling around several braziers burning a bright orange against the dark backdrop of the early morning sky. Near the middle of the circle of fires, a dim light shines upwards on an atamira covered with leaves and various types of kai. There is a small fire underneath, with smoke billowing through the food towards the heavens.
I’m standing next to one of the fires when a man starts walking around the circle quietly performing a chant. I feel he’s preparing us for the spiritual journey of the whāngai i te hautapu ceremony about to begin. Soon enough, the familiar voice of Rangi Matamua ushers us to huddle close. After a short briefing, a group of men begin performing karakia and various incantations, giving thanks to the stars and atua, one-by-one.
While this isn’t my first hautapu ceremony, it is my first one in Te Hiku. With my whakapapa to Muriwhenua, hearing the dialectal and tribal differences in the karakia makes me feel as though this is the closest to what my ancestors would have done to mark the rise of Puanga. I am overcome with a sense of reconnection. Looking around, I see a few men recording the ceremony, while others have their eyes closed, and some gaze hopefully towards the cloudy sky, seeking a glimpse of the stars.
After a final, unified “tāiki ē”, we are invited to consume some kai from the atamira. “Check out the size of that kūmara” exclaims one man. “Oh, that’s sweet,” says another, tucking into a chunk of snapper. I eventually make my way up and grab some kūmara to nibble on.
After breakfast, we take our seats for the first speaker of the day – Mike King. Despite my preconceived notions about King, I find his kōrero raw and honest. There are moments in his speech that are hard to stomach, but his overall message about the “inner critic” seems to resonate with the room. Focussing on how we talk to our children, King highlights how one little put down a day can soon add up. “One put down a day, 365 days a year – that’s a hell of an inner critic,” King tells the crowd.
Growing up, my dad could be very critical: “Look at your child-bearing hips – you look like you’re pregnant,” was one of his favourite digs when I started putting on weight. However, he also used to make me stand in front of the mirror some mornings and say at least five positive affirmations before starting my day. One thing I’ll always carry with me was that my father was proud of me, despite being critical at times. However, like King is talking about, I know I have a strong inner-critic within that was undeniably influenced by my father.
As the founder of the I Am Hope Foundation, King is not shy to criticise the government for what he labels a severe lack of adequate resourcing of the mental health sector. He mentions underfunding and poor coordination of mental health services, leaving them overstretched, fragmented and unable to meet demand – particularly for young people. Long wait times, limited specialist care, and inadequate data collection highlight systemic gaps, while short-term, reactive investments have failed to deliver lasting change. Critics like King argue that without a comprehensive, long-term strategy focused on prevention and community-based solutions, mental health crises will continue to worsen.
King is followed by another literal heavy-hitter, former boxer and gang member Dave Letele. Also known as the Brown Buttabean, Letele has become known as a staunch community advocate responsible for the Brown Buttabean Motivation programme, helping people on their fitness journeys. He shares his story of growing up watching his dad rob Amourguard trucks and being employed himself to guard cannabis grow houses, to becoming a beacon of hope and motivation for thousands around the country.
While the life of a career criminal may be appealing to some, Letele says we are often served a glorified portrayal compared to what it’s really like. He talks about his cousin being found dead in a warehouse full of stolen goods after committing suicide. “Don’t take a shortcut, because it’s often a long way around,” Letele says.
After lunch, we head into the workshops. I missed them yesterday, so I’m excited to jump into a more intimate setting and learn from some of the extremely knowledgeable men here. There are nine workshops in total, and only two hours for them, so I have to choose wisely. From dealing with sexual abuse with Alexander Stephens II to de-escalation to haka and mau rakau, there are several workshops I would love to attend. I decide on maramataka with Rikki Solomon – a well-respected mātanga of the maramataka Māori and funeral director. While I’m not entirely sure what to expect, my hope is that I leave the workshop with some practical knowledge and tools to use once the wānanga is over.
The large group begins to split as we head our separate ways. The maramataka workshop is packed and there are no empty seats in the classroom. Solomon is a large man with a thick dark beard, sporting a cowboy hat and hiking boots. He looks like the kind of guy that could survive in the bush for some time. After handing out pens and pieces of paper and tells us that today, we’ll be focussing more on astronomy instead of the maramataka. We are asked to draw a cross with equally long lines. Each quadrant represents a different part of Te Whare Tapa Whā, a holistic model of health developed by Mason Durie. There are notches on each line from the centre to the end. We are asked by Solomon to place a dot on the notch where we feel how brightly our tīnana star has been shining. We then repeat this for our hinengaro, whānau and wairua stars, before drawing a line to connect all the dots, creating our own star.
As I draw the lines between each dot, my eyes suddenly begin to well up. It’s a moment of self-realisation – an epiphany – that my star isn’t shining as brightly as I would like to think. I quickly turn my paper over on the desk, try to hide my star from others, embarrassed at the results. It makes me feel like a failure. Why have I let my star become so dim? What is causing this and why haven’t I taken the steps I need to in order to make it shine brighter?
In the past, I have been a staunch believer in controlling your environment, which controls the way you feel. I look outside through the dust-covered window at the toetoe swaying in the cold winter wind. There’s a storm brewing, but just like the forthcoming rain, I know this feeling inside of me will pass.
We make our way back to the gym for dinner and I end up sitting next to Alexander Stephens II and his colleague from StandingTallNZ.org, drug and alcohol clinician Sione Finau. Their mahi supporting people and communities affected by childhood sexual and physical violence intrigues me, especially because of how sensitive of a topic it is and the shame many Māori men have as victims of such abuse.
They tell me dozens of men have already approached them at this hui to share their own experiences of abuse and to seek help. By the end of the wānanga, that number has exceeded 40. Approximately one in six males in the general population experience sexual violence in their lifetime. For Māori men specifically, the rate is higher – about one in four.
After dinner, I start chatting with Okena again. We begin talking about our hapū and the politics of it all. I tell Okena how impressed I am with his mātauranga and that he should be the one leading our hapū, not me. He admits to me that he doesn’t know a lot about the political side of things, but he is keen to learn more. I realise we plug each other’s gaps.
Outside, I’m sitting in my ute talking to an uncle about hapū politics. We chat over the phone for almost 40 minutes about the need for us to have a wānanga and several other issues. He agrees and we make plans that I am eager to follow through with, but I know my capacity is already severely limited, as is my ability to make things happen from Tāmaki. The constant guilt of wanting to progress the work my father started all those years ago battles with my renewed sense of wanting to be more present with my son.
Waking up on the final day of the wānanga, I have mixed feelings. On one hand, I am excited to get home to my family. On the other, I am sad that I will be leaving Te Hiku and returning to my normal life routine. I duck to a local cafe to complete a side quest for work, before heading to the beach to check if there are any fishermen mad enough to be out in the terrible weather.
It’s always nice being back on Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe – a place that holds a lot of fond memories for me. Today, except for a lone car near the Ahipara ramp, the beach is empty. After a short drive, I get off the beach at Ngapae and make my way back to the wānanga via Awanui.
Back at the school, taonga puoro are playing as I walk into the gym. There is a line of redbands near the door and I laugh as I spot a pair with a swastika drawn on the inside with a permanent marker. A small group of men spontaneously gather near the front of the stage for an impromptu breathwork session. Others meander around, recovering from a morning full of activity. There is an impressive barbecue lunch, before a panel of rangatahi begin sharing their ideas about manhood and a Hawaiki hou.
Again, the theme of being a present, emotionally available father is discussed. My eyes are opened to the pressures of social media and navigating the online space as a young man in the modern world. I think of my son, the issues he will face and how I can prepare and support him through these challenges.
“Please make an effort e te whānau,” begs Okena as he gives us the briefing about the gala dinner tonight. It’s the last hurrah before the wānanga comes to a close and he wants us all to scrub up.
I go back to the motel, shower, pack my things and head to check out. In reception, there’s an elderly Māori man talking to the receptionist. He’s quietly asking for a bunk for the night and while I can’t be sure, I assume he’s homeless. Standing there in my collared shirt and polished leather boots on my way to a feast I’m sure will be fit for a king, I feel a sense of entitlement while looking at this kaumātua looking for somewhere to shelter from the weather. My mind wanders back to the nights me and my dad would spend up here, crashing on someone’s couch or sleeping in our truck up in the gumfields.
Māori men are significantly overrepresented in New Zealand’s homelessness crisis, with Māori experiencing severe housing deprivation at a rate of 394 per 10,000 people, compared to 228 per 10,000 overall for non-Māori. Māori males make up around 39% of the homeless population, despite Māori comprising less than 20% of the general population.
Government responses such as the Homelessness Action Plan and MAIHI framework aim to address these inequities by partnering with iwi and Māori organisations and embedding cultural principles like whanaungatanga and manaakitanga into services, though long-term solutions rely on systemic reforms to housing affordability and access. Critics argue the government changes are falling short of meaningfully addressing the crisis.
For the last time this wānanga, I head back to the venue. As I walk in, I see the gym has been transformed into a banquet hall. There is a table in the middle laden with mini pāua tarts, raw fish, smoked fish, and more. The smaller round tables are full with hāngī and fried bread. I spot a table near the back with an empty space and take a seat.
“You from up here?” I ask the man sitting opposite me. He nods and asks where I’m from.
“Here, but I live in Auckland,” I respond. It’s an important distinction to make.
Eventually, he asks who my whānau are. I tell him and he responds with a shake of his head and short whistle in admiration.
“Hapakuku? Youse are the chiefs eh? The royalty,” he laughs.
After dinner, Harawira gives his closing address. He starts talking about how happy he is with how the hui went and reiterates his desire for the kaupapa to continue. Harawira thanks Okena and all those behind the scenes who made it happen. Okena is presented with a taiaha for his mahi. As he takes possession of it, the Circle of Brothers rise to perform a haka from Muriwhenua. It reminds me of what I feel like I’m missing out on by not living here – I know a few haka but embarrassingly none specific to where I whakapapa to.
Okena then takes the stage with a tewhatewha, a taonga emblematic of the mauri of the wānanga. In times of war, the tewhatewha was a flag-like weapon, used by leaders to communicate and give directions to war parties. All the kaikarakia in the room are invited forward to whakamana, or give authority to the mauri. Gathering in a circle, the men take turns performing karakia, with the tewhatewha sitting in the middle. It’s a significant spiritual moment and the mauri is strong.
To close the wānanga, the group rises to perform the haka they have been learning throughout. It’s a powerful display of the unity and learning that has been formed over the course of the hui. Slowly, people begin filtering out, beginning the journey home. I catch Okena for a brief moment to say goodbye. We make plans to catch up again soon and continue our kōrero about our hapū politics and a way forward for us.
‘Cat’s In The Cradle’ is playing on the radio as I drive over the last bridge before the Mangamuka Gorge and guess how many cars I’ll pass this time. Cruising back to Auckland in the middle of the night, I begin craving a cigarette to help keep me awake. I used to be a habitual smoker, as was my father, and smoking while driving was normalised behaviour. My father passed away when I was 16 years old from a heart attack. The smoking, drug use, poor diet and high-stress lifestyle he led undoubtedly contributed to his premature death at just 50.
Over a decade later, when I found out I was going to be a dad, I chose to stop smoking regularly. With each craving, I keep reminding myself that I’ll soon be near my son and don’t want to smell like cigarettes.
Eventually, I am home. I quietly walk upstairs and tuck myself in next to my partner and my son, grateful to be with my family again. The next day, I clear my schedule and take my son out to a local reserve – just me, him and our dog. It’s wet and there are lots of muddy puddles around. I let him go wild and start splashing in the puddles too. Although he’ll never remember it, the smile on his face as his small yellow gumboots stomp in the mud is a memory that will stay with me forever.
