Jaye Pukepuke: Second chances

Jaye Pukepuke knows better than most what it means to be given a second chance, which is why he set up Bros for Change, a kaupapa Māori programme for at-risk young men in Canterbury.

Jaye had gone from being in the Warriors under-19 squad, at the age of 16, to sticking up gas stations for cash, cigarettes and phone cards — leading, inevitably, to a six-year prison sentence for aggravated robbery, and the end of his dream of becoming a professional rugby league player in Australia’s NRL.

He talked to Dale about how he put his life back together after prison, and the work he’s doing to make sure others don’t follow in his footsteps.

 

Kia ora, Jaye. Can you tell me a bit about your names and your whānau connections, and what it was like for you growing up?

My full name is Jaye Graham Pukepuke. Graham is my grandfather on my mum’s side. Pukepuke is from my Tūhoe whānau from Kutarere all the way up to Ruatāhuna. And I was named Jaye after my dad’s brother.

The Tūhoe connection was a bit foreign to me because my grandmother was Ngāti Hine, from Te Tai Tokerau. She and my grandfather had an agreement that whoever died first between them would be buried in the other’s rohe. My grandfather died first, so my grandmother buried him where she’s from, Pipiwai. So we always went back home to visit. And now she’s there, and Dad’s there too.

It would’ve been quite different if she’d passed away first. He would’ve taken her back to Tūhoe country, and we would’ve been submerged there, growing up and knowing that as our kāinga. It’s only been in the last five or so years that I’ve connected back into that half of my whakapapa — just when you think you know who you are, there’s another half of you.

Tenā koe. You’re West Auckland raised, though, eh, Jaye?

Born and raised all around West Auckland, and living in Christchurch now. I was passed around to various uncles, aunties and cousins all around Auckland. And also in Whangārei, Christchurch, and Palmerston North. So, yeah, lots of transitions in my younger years.

Did that play on your mind — why you were never quite settled?

One hundred percent. Thinking back on it, my mindset and behaviour at the time had a lot to do with being unsettled. All the homes and whānau I went to were good and amazing to be able to take me. But not having one place where I could always be together with Mum or Dad or both, or my siblings, was unsettling.

Missing out on what everyone’s doing leaves a gap. And I guess I filled that gap with other things. It was easier for me to rebel or play up because there was less care. It’s only when I look back, and especially working with kids now, that I realise how hard it was. Back then, I had no idea. It was just: “Where am I going next?”

Do you harbour any resentment towards your parents for moving you around?

Nah. Not at all. At the time, a little bit. But thinking back now, I was very hard to handle. And I was different. I saw things differently, and I acted like that. Yeah, there’s no resentment to any of my whānau whatsoever. It was just mostly a result of my behaviour.

What do you put that behaviour down to — being a haututū kid? Do you think there were some undiagnosed conditions that you were grappling with, that you didn’t realise at the time? Have you ever had reason to consider that you might have had ADHD or autism as a kid?

We didn’t have those kinds of labels back then. But, looking back now, I can see it. Even now, when I want to relax, I’ll go climb a hill or drive to Queenstown and look for a deer. I still can’t sit still. I just have to move. But now I put positive things in place instead of the negative behaviours I was doing when I was young.

One constant, though, was sport, and you were very good at it. You played rugby league at a high level. You’re even utilising your love of sport now while you’re working with young men. But your journey forward as a young man changed significantly when you started breaking the law. What do you think happened, Jaye? What took you from the sharp focus of a league athlete into a life of crime?

In my head, there’s a lot in between the two. Sometimes, the way I tell it, it comes across as a big jump from one state to the other. I’d tell people: “Oh yeah, I used to shoplift, and then I did an armed robbery,” and they’d be like, “Woah.”

But at the time, I was doing little petty stuff, niggly stuff, and I was fighting just because I thought I was tough. I never used to talk. I never used to speak to anyone. I’d just keep to myself. And then I became confident and backed myself a little, but my talking was done through physical violence, or fighting, or standing over people. It started small and worked its way up. When I finally did armed robbery, it wasn’t much different. It wasn’t like a big jump up. It was just the next step in how I was behaving and acting.

All that was going on in the background, and I was around all these guys at the Warriors who went on to be some of the league’s best-known legends. Monty Betham, Ali Lauiti‘iti, David Solomona. They were starting to make names for themselves.

And like I said, I didn’t talk very well. I wasn’t great with social cues and wasn’t good at expressing myself or making friends. So I was a bit on the out — or I put myself on the out. But, of course, once I was on the plane and travelling around with all these big names, it gave me a bit of an ego.

Looking back now at where my mind was when I was with the Warriors, I don’t think I ever would have made it. I was nowhere in sync with where I needed to be. And years later, when I felt that my mindset was good, my body wasn’t [laughs].

It’s hard dealing with should’ve, or would’ve, or could’ve, but you know sometimes in life we have to reflect back on those decisions. How old were you when you went inside? How old were you when you came out? What mark did that experience leave on you, Jaye?

Yeah, that’s a big question. I went in when I was 20 and I came out when I was 26.

And, man, I gained so many impressions from people and experiences. I remember telling some guy that I had four years and 10 months left, and he told me he had 33 years. And I just thought: Ho-ly. It just blew my mind.

The biggest thing I learned in there was that it’s not always about me. I had to consider everyone. In that small, intense environment, everything you did affected everyone. So you had to be very careful about what you did. You just had to think ahead. It taught me how to move through different cultures and people respectfully. But also maintaining who I am. Those are the main sorts of things that I try to pass on to the young guys now.

Also, it’s not actually about the time you spend in there — it’s about your time when you get out. And what you have to cope with, and deal with, and put back together, and negotiate. Because that time inside is attached to you now.

That was almost harder than being in prison. For a lot of years, I thought: “Man, it’s easier to just go back to prison than to try and negotiate with the outside world.” That crossed my mind a lot.

But I was very lucky to have people like Bernie Perenara and rugby league. I had a lot to come out to, and to carry on with. If I didn’t have rugby league when I got out, or people like my sister who I could stay with, I would’ve just gone back inside in the end. It’s easy. You get fed. You’re not cold.

You’ve changed your life and put in a lot of effort as you’ve tried to rebuild your mana. What about your Māori culture? How important was it for you, Jaye, in helping you to rebuild?

My grandparents were very prominent in te ao Māori and kapa haka. I lived with my grandmother and grandfather, and I never took that opportunity. I never grasped it. I almost pushed it away.

It wasn’t until I played for New Zealand Māori, that it came naturally. I was doing what I loved — rugby league — which had some Māori protocols attached to it, which I loved too. And then that sort of led me towards it more. Not in a way where it was forced, but in a way that I was comfortable with. I’m still learning. From getting out, to rugby league, to today.

Te ao Māori, Matariki, the connection to the land, the taiao — it just blows my mind. I feel myself being pulled in that direction, and being pulled away from everything that held me back before. And fully immersing myself and learning about the ways of our ancestors.

When you got out, you headed to Christchurch, which proved to be a good move. A well-known identity in Christchurch, Frank Endacott, was also in your corner, and he offered you the use of a piece of land. Where is this piece of land? And what did you find when you went hunting, camping, and subsequently sharing that with the guys at Bros for Change?

I had told Frank about how I loved Kaikōura — the mountains right next to the ocean. He told me they had land there, and I asked if we could use it to do a camp. There’s nothing there, just bare land, river, and some bush on the mountain. So he said yes and showed me a map. Me and Tieki Kupenga took a group of kids that we had at the time and headed up there.

We set up a camp. We took them riding, walked around the bush, up the river, and ran around the paddock at night playing spotlight. And little did I know then what it would evolve into, but that was the first camp that me and Tieki would take the kids on.

A lot of them had never put up a tent before, or looked up at the stars, or eaten a kina. While we were doing all this — giving this experience to the kids — we were also getting experience and learning our way around the area, the land, and the ocean.

And that evolved into this crazy full-on experience that we do now with Bros for Change. We do three or four of those each month. Not just one or two-nighters — sometimes we’ll go on the island for a week and just live off the ocean. Last week, we took them up the hills. We didn’t drive up — they had to put everything in a pack and walk up. And then we watched the stars come up before sunup on top of the hill.

That’s my rest and relaxation. I feel so in sync there. And the lessons that we can get from it to pass on to help the rangatahi are so important.

You’re doing some great work, and it’s been acknowledged with the awhi that Bros for Change has provided to guys who are in vulnerable circumstances. And what they really need is somebody to tautoko them, an adult who believes in them. I’m guessing, like a lot of young blokes, too, that part of the reason for getting in trouble in the first place is drink and drugs and the like, Jaye. Are you living a relatively clean life now? How important is sobriety and clean living and good attitudes to really find yourself?

I’m no drugs whatsoever. I still love a beer. No crime whatsoever. Obviously, anything illegal is out, even littering. A mate came down from Auckland and he was shocked when I had to tell him not to throw wrappers out the window!

Yeah, I’m the same. We shouldn’t be littering, this is our Papatūānuku, we don’t need to do that. Tell us about the people in your corner going on this journey with you, Jaye. Who would you like to acknowledge in that way?

Well, when I moved south, I came down by myself. And then I met a lovely lady named Anneka, who’s now my wife. We have four kids. And her family looked after me down here. They’re Scottish and Dutch, so I was quite odd coming into the family — and I felt odd. But they accepted me for who I was. We’re going back 15 years now. They’ve been huge in helping me continue my good journey.

My family aren’t here in the South Island, they’re all in the North Island and the tropics, but they’re all around. They come down often. My Uncle Allen from up north — he’s a big supporter and helper. So many people have helped along the way.

And being among the rugby league community has been massive. When I moved here, the first step was Frank putting me into the community and setting me up with a few people. That just opened up a whole world of support on my side. And you need that to get by.

Tenā koe, Jaye. Bros for Change has been very significant. Sometimes it’s hard to estimate how important your efforts might have been when you’re a teacher or a kaitautoko. What defines success for you when working with these kids, Jaye?

There are many levels of success for me. Every now and then, we get cards from whānau to say thanks. And no matter what is written in that card, the fact that they took the time to write something is a huge lift for me. It gives me strength to carry on.

What I learned about youth work in the early days and what I’m doing now is so different. For me, this work is not a job, it’s a lifestyle. It’s not 9 to 5.

We’ve had some amazing successes. So many kids working, getting their licence, or getting into the army. Parents write to us about kids making their beds, and doing the dishes at home, and say they’re friendlier to talk to.

All of that lets me know that what we’re doing is 100 percent tika and right. It’s not about being in a nice suit or having good statistics. There are a whole lot of things we do that can’t be measured. It’s about us knowing that we’ve been pono. That the kids are feeling our awhi.

The other major key thing for us is that we’re so intense for so long that there’s no end date. With a lot of mahi, you finish at 5pm or finish a three-month contract or whatever it may be. But for us, once you come on, we become whānau. You may finish your intensive work with us, but we’re always here. We’re not just another mentor or another support person. We’re always here.

And I love it when they take that literally. And they ring me 10 years later and say: “Matua, I’ve got a job placement counselling, can I do that with you?” One hundred percent. That’s what it’s about.

You have a book out now, Inner Warrior, and it’s a book to encourage people that change is possible. And it comes off the back of your decade-long mahi with Bros for Change. But it was also sparked by someone who attended a Ted Talk that you’d given. And Ted Talks, as we know, are very brief, so you must have hit the mark. Were you surprised when you gave that talk and were approached by a publisher to think about writing a book?

Yeah, that was crazy. I’d done a few talks, and I’d watched a few Ted Talks. Then I got an email asking if I wanted to do a Ted Talk. And I was like: Wow, that’s kind of a big deal. I just said yup.

I spoke a little about my upbringing. A little about my crime. And a lot about people’s doubts in me and my potential. And I talked about finding your inner warrior, which is the one that people don’t see — the one that’s fighting and overcoming the struggles that you have on the inside.

Anyway, Alex from Harper Collins sent me an email saying he’d seen my Ted Talk and asking if I wanted to write a book. So we got stuck in. He gave me a writer, Steve Kilgallon, and I spoke with him almost every night. I’d do my work, get home, then get on the phone and get talking. He actually reffed me back in the day, so it was good whānaungatanga to have someone like that to open up to and tell everything to.

I didn’t write it — I just talked it. Steve took the photos, and he was the publicist. And now, it’s on the shelves, at the airport, and everyone’s sending me pictures. It’s pretty surreal.

I want to take my hat off to you, and the way that you convey your story. As a younger guy, it took time for you to find your feet. How important is it for us to provide the sort of opportunities and tautoko that we know many young people need? Can we ever do too much to help our rangatahi?

Nah, I don’t think so. For us, it’s about what’s good for them. We’re always asking ourselves: “Is that going to be good for them? No? Well, okay, don’t do it then.” And then we always adjust. We may enjoy a lot of it, or we might not like a lot of it. But that doesn’t matter. Because it’s not about us. It’s about what’s good for them.

I might be driving down the road with people, and I’ll see our rangatahi walking down the street, head down, hoodie on, and it’s after 9pm. And we might say: “Man, where’s that kid’s parents? What’s wrong with him?” And I think we just need to change that kōrero. We need to ask what’s happened for him to be here, at this time, like that?

What I know is that if the kids aren’t shown the right way, they can’t do it. How do they know what to do if we’re not teaching them? We’ve got to teach them.

Once, I asked the kids to put the trailer on the tow bar of the truck. There were like three or four of them. I went away and came back and was like: “Why haven’t you done it?” They just didn’t know how to do it. I’d just assumed that everyone knew how to put a trailer on. So that was my fault. Then I showed them how to do it, and now I can get angry at them if they don’t do it [laughs].

But if we don’t show them, how are they supposed to know? Pretty much sums it up.

(This interview has been edited for length and clarity.)

E-Tangata, 2025