There are “immense expectations” on Māori leaders in the public eye, writes Shonelle Wana. (Photo: RNZ)
The public implosion of relationships in Te Pāti Māori is a reminder of the immense pressure on Māori leaders, writes Shonelle Wana.
There can be a quiet loneliness that accompanies Māori leadership in the public eye. The visibility that brings opportunity also brings scrutiny. Every word, every gesture, every silence can be misread or magnified.
Māori leaders face immense expectations both from their own communities and from the wider public, who often misunderstand the true meaning and responsibilities of Māori leadership.
We are living in a time when Māori are more visible than ever in government, academia and business. That visibility is something to celebrate. Yet being seen doesn’t always mean being understood.
Many Māori leaders spend their days translating intentions, walking a fine line between cultural integrity and institutional survival. They lead on behalf of collectives in systems that reward individualism. They are asked to be visionary and practical, spiritual and strategic, Māori and modern all at once. That is a quiet daily negotiation that few outside our world can see.
Few moments capture this balance more beautifully than the maiden speech of Te Arikinui Nga wai hono i te po, when she first addressed her people and the nation. Standing before leaders, dignitaries, whānau and te iwi Māori, she spoke with poise and humility. Her words carried the weight of whakapapa and the softness of wairua.
In that moment, she embodied both tradition and transition: the sacred line of ariki leadership, and the modern realities of representing her people in an increasingly global, political world. Her message was about service and remembering who we are, and her commitment to walk gently with a humble heart. Like those before her, she carries the contradictions of being both revered and scrutinised, sacred and public.
When we speak of Māori leadership, we might also speak of compassion, not only for others but for the leaders themselves. It can be easy to forget that leaders are human too. They carry whānau responsibilities, grief and self-doubt. They are often the last to rest and the first to be criticised.
Whina Cooper once spoke about this in her interview, Whina Cooper: Te Whaea o te Motu 1992. She defined mana as “the power of God that is displayed through men and women.” Her sleepless nights, she explained, were the weight of that responsibility, the endless worry and planning for the betterment of her people. “If you’ve got it,” she said, “it never leaves you alone. You have to be thinking about the people and working for them all the time.”
Similarly, in Te Puea: A Life, Michael King recalls how Tiahuia, the daughter of King Tāwhiao and mother of Te Puea, reminded her own daughter of the humility that must anchor leadership.
“It is only because of the peoples’ agreement that you have been elevated in status so that you can be called a person of consequence. So, it is for you to honour these people whether you consider them greater or lesser than you. If they are cold, give them clothing. When they are sick, look after them. It is only through the people as a whole that you will be called somebody of note. But if you blow your own trumpet because of this, you are worthless.”
At a time when many of our kaupapa are being attacked from so many directions, we are also seeing Māori criticising Māori in the public eye. It feels heavy to witness.
Rather than stripping each other down, perhaps this is the moment to hold compassion for those we have chosen to lead us, even when we disagree, even when they fall short.
When a new vision or strategy is offered, one born from lessons of what has or has not worked in the past, it deserves our proper consideration.
Our rangatahi bring fresh vision and energy, our elder leaders carry the wisdom of time and the learnings from hardship. Together, they create balance.
When both generations are willing to listen to each other, without ego or self-gain, the kaupapa has more chances of thriving. But when pride or competition takes root, the purpose falters.
Across the world, we see leadership driven by conflict. The arguments and political posturing that play out here in Aotearoa, in our government, in the media, even among ourselves may seem small by comparison. Yet great conflict begins this way — with small-scale dissent and disagreement.
These ways of behaving can be the result of hierarchies that clash with our collective Māori ways of being. Decision-making becomes individualised. Success is measured in outputs, when it should be measured in our relationships.
Many of our Māori leaders live with that contradiction every day, translating between worlds, carrying the tension of two realities. Each step they take is part of a much longer story, the story of us as a people finding our way forward, moving beyond survival into a place of renewal, strength and thriving.
Perhaps the challenge before us is not to agree on everything, but to stand together in spirit. To lead with humility and to follow with trust are both acts of service. When both are guided by aroha, our people may then move as one heartbeat, one breath, one kaupapa.
Unity, then, is not a slogan but a practice to live by.
It is found in the quiet gestures, in listening, in truly forgiving, in choosing empathy over ego. It grows every time we set aside the need to be right and focus instead on being righteous. If unity becomes our true legacy, then our children and mokopuna will inherit more than survival, they will inherit a people healed.
Shonelle Wana (Photo supplied)
Dr. Shonelle Wana (Ngāti Awa, Tūhoe, Ngāpuhi, Te Whakatōhea) was born and raised in the Whakatāne district in a large whānau connected to her culture and many hapū. She holds a Doctorate in Indigenous Development and Advancement and currently serves as a Post-Doctoral Research Fellow at Te Whare Wānanga o Awanuiārangi. Her research centres on Māori women’s leadership. She is also an active member of her marae within Ngāti Awa and Tūhoe, contributing to cultural preservation and community development.
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Thank you for the timely reminder that the past offers many lessons for us to set our barometer by. But that requires naming the architecture and the foresight to change it, case in point: Foreign Affairs statesman Winston Peters, Oxford Union Debate. In short, Peters argued that Māori had historically “taken their dirty laundry to England” in the 1800s, referring to petitions and appeals. Ironically, the very theme of his speech: the unpredictability of leadership in democracies — played out in real time. The audience chose not to follow a seasoned statesman’s lead; they used their hindsight of 140/70, sensing the argument leaned more toward political grievance train than constitutional principle.
On record, our tūpuna did not carry their petitions to England out of weakness, but out of courage and clarity — they sought justice at the very heart of the British empire. That was not “dirty laundry,” that is what righteousness looks and feels like today: the determination to use every avenue available to defend our people, our wai moana and our whenua.
When governments legislate against Māori rights despite near‑unanimous opposition, when protests are criminalised for Māori but status quo for others, and when foreign powers are invited to rewrite our story, we cannot simply wait for a change of government. Each government has shown its willingness to redraw the lines of our rights.
When Te Pati Māori recently burned a copy of the foreshore bill on the steps of Parliament, police and ministers described it as “lawbreaking” and “a threat to order.” Yet there was no equivalent condemnation when ACT leader David Seymour drove a tractor up the steps of Parliament in 2021 during a protest against agricultural regulation. The coalition plays a dirty double standard — harsh scrutiny for Māori protest, indulgence for Pākehā political theatre.
The lesson becomes clear: aroha must walk alongside strategy. We need leaders, yes, but also strategists who can map these contradictions, expose them, and prepare our people for what comes next. These kinds of debates are exactly where strategy is born in the space between frustration, clarity, and courage. That is how we honour our tūpuna and how we help our mokopuna stay sharply focused today.