Christine Ammunson, placed in foster care from birth until she was five years old, accessed her case files when she was 52: “The pieces of paper inside told me that my family wanted me, and that the government should never have taken me.”
A new website, Kōnae, has been set up to make it easier for people who’ve lived in state or faith-based institutions to access their records. Here, Christine Ammuson, one of hundreds of thousands of New Zealanders who were taken from their families as children, explains why that’s so important.
I was born to a single mother, who was supported by her extended family. Not the easiest start in life, but not the worst. Yet one social worker decided to place me in foster care, and that’s where I remained from birth to five years old.
But why did that happen?
I finally accessed my case files in 2021, when I was 52, and only then did I get answers to questions that had sat inside me since I was three years old, when I realised I wasn’t the same as my foster family.
My records were couriered to me at work because I had to sign for them with ID, so I tucked them in my backpack until 5pm. I went home, closed my bedroom door and opened the envelope.
The pieces of paper inside told me that my family wanted me, and that the government should never have taken me.
Christine, after the government allowed her to return to her family. “It was five years of lost time with my own family. I felt like a guest when I returned, and I still have low-key impostor syndrome feelings to this day.” (Photo supplied)
Throughout my childhood — let’s be honest, most of my life — I carried questions. Why did things happen that way? Why me? Those questions followed me into adulthood, largely unanswered because people didn’t want to discuss it. And especially not me.
I was fortunate in that my foster family doted on me as if I was their own. But I knew deep down I wasn’t. I remember — I would have been three — when my foster dad came home with white paint, and I rushed up to him screaming happily. I thought the white paint was so they could paint me, so I would finally look like everyone else.
But, alas, the paint was for the bathroom. And I stayed brown. He sat me down and told me a story about how, when God was baking people, the only ones that came out perfect were the brown, beautiful ones that were just like me. I remember staring at him suspiciously: even at three, I knew that story sounded unlikely.
Eventually, the government allowed me to return to my birth family. While my foster family were lovely (we remain in touch to this day), it was five years of lost time with my own family. I felt like a guest when I returned, and I still have low-key impostor syndrome feelings to this day.
Fast forward to 2015, and I’m in a meeting at the Human Rights Commission where I worked. The hui was about people who’d lived in children’s homes, institutions and foster families. We were planning a campaign to call for an independent inquiry into their treatment by the state.
I decided to share my experience, but I’d only said a few words when I felt my voice crack. When you start talking about something you’ve never talked about before, it’s not easy. By the end of my few sentences, we were all crying.
We ended up creating the campaign #NeverAgain #EKoreAnō, calling for an independent inquiry. Throughout the campaign, we’d get anonymous tips warning us that some organisations planned to dispose of case file records. Thanks to them and some journalists, many were saved.
In 2018, after New Zealanders voted in a Labour government, the Royal Commission of Inquiry into Abuse in Care was established. The change of government had been vital because the previous government wanted it to be a ministerial inquiry: Yes, the accused investigated by the accused.
Getting your records is an odd process. I hadn’t realised I had the right to access my case files until a workmate told me that we were entitled to them under the Privacy Act. It can take months and years. There are a lot of different people who ring at odd times. Then email. Then text. You are referred to as the “Customer”.
It’s not the same for everyone. My friend, who was in foster families and homes for many years, had few records. He realised churches and other charities probably had the rest of his files, and he’d have to find them all and make many separate requests.
I’ve met people who didn’t realise they were Māori, or Sāmoan or Tongan — until they got their records. Others were able to connect to siblings.
And of course, not everything is nice to read. It’s a weird thing to read a stranger’s words as they observe and describe you and your family, and then, with the stroke of a pen, decide your fate. It’s frustrating, too, because often entire pages are blanked out, apparently to protect the identity of other people.
One government agency has 200 different databases. Many organisations didn’t keep good records, while others destroyed them. So, it’s complicated.
In response to a Royal Commission recommendation, Citizens Advice Bureau NZ was funded to design a website to help guide people through the records labyrinth. They’ve been guided by survivors and people with lived experience.
Kōnae now makes requesting records easier. People can quickly find organisations holding their records through an interactive map and request them directly using an online form. Kōnae doesn’t hold any personal records. It provides clear steps and guidance on how to request records directly from the government or institutions that do or should hold people’s records. CAB’s 2,000 trained volunteers are also available to help from 80 offices across Aotearoa and on 0800 367 222.
The name Kōnae was inspired by a survivor of horrific abuse. Removed from home as a small boy, he began searching for his records in the 1990s and now has a box that weighs more than 20 kilograms.
He told us that finding his records was like hauling in a net that carries part of your life story. Hauling it in has taken ages, and it’s hard and heavy, but worth it.
In te reo Māori, Kōnae refers to a file, a woven basket, and the belly of a fishing net — symbols of gathering, sifting, and keeping what’s valuable. Kōnae embodies reclaiming what matters, and offering users a place to recover, keep, or release parts of their history.
I hope Kōnae helps some of the 655,000 New Zealanders who were taken from their families to find some answers to the kinds of questions I held on to most of my life.
The Kōnae website, launched this week, is for anyone who has records from the times they lived in state or faith-based institutions.
Christine Ammunson designs strategic communications campaigns like “Give Nothing to Racism”, “Never Again: E Kore Anō”, “Love Rugby, Respect Women” and the Māori Language Moment. She lives with her family between rural Wairarapa and Te Awa Kairangi.
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