“I must continue to make my small but vital contribution,” writes Aroha Gilling, a wahine Māori public servant. (Photo supplied)

The sheer number of active fronts for Māori protest right now can feel overwhelming, but as Aroha Gilling writes here, even small efforts to contribute and connect matter.

It’s a regular work day and I’m struggling to put together a presentation on Māori values and beliefs for a staff noho marae.

Normally, I present on Te Tiriti o Waitangi. After more than two decades of teaching, my delivery is as refined, nuanced, and relevant as two and a half hours allows. I don’t often get to branch out these days and try something different. So why am I battling to find the right words and ideas to share our beautiful culture?

I’m weary. I have battle fatigue.

My entire career has been spent communicating carefully curated glimpses of te ao Māori to non-Māori. I’ve tried to build empathy and understanding and dispel fear and misinformation. But the current political and social climate, both in this country and across the world, makes it particularly challenging to believe that my little contribution has any meaning. I’m left searching through my internal files for inspiration and insight.

I was a child in the 1970s, and I still recall the Cold War rhetoric and its impact on the people around me, particularly one older friend. He existed in a preternatural state of alertness, as though he could see the four riders of the apocalypse on the horizon. It seemed funny then.

Now it doesn’t seem so funny as I reflect on the psychosocial impact of living in politically challenging and turbulent times. I suspect he was quite an empathic soul who, unlike his younger friends, listened to the news, engaged with national and world politics, and thought deeply about his role in society.

His influence made me think that there might be more to the world than my little suburban life, and I became curious.

That curiosity found form and motivation in the 1981 Springbok tour of New Zealand. It was an event that divided the country — and certainly my own whānau. My parents were dedicated rugby followers who would get up in the middle of the night to watch the away games on TV. My mum knew all the players and delivered her own commentary throughout the games.

On the other hand, I was entering my teenage years and starting to build an identity that was distinct from my parents. Our first real field of conflict was the tour. They were adamant that sports and politics should remain separate. I was equally convinced they were inseparable. We argued incessantly. I cheered on the protesters. They cheered on the players and the rugby union. Dinner was not a pleasant event for weeks.

My nascent sense of who I was as Māori began to form in this pressure cooker of opinion. I could relate to black South Africans far more than the angry white faces all around me. I wanted to contribute to the fight against apartheid.

I watched the tour coverage obsessively. I went to the public library to read the national newspapers, storing away key names and events. I invested in a second-hand motorbike helmet that I’d purchased (pre-Trade Me via a handwritten card on a supermarket noticeboard) from a drunk guy in a grotty South Dunedin flat.

By the morning of the August 11 protest in Dunedin, I was ready. I went to school as usual in my uniform. Well, I went as far as a nearby park anyway. Ditched my uniform, changed into track pants, chained up my ten-speed, headed towards the Southern Motorway and Carisbrook, and joined the protest.

I have to say my part in it was unchallenging and unremarkable. I wavered between abject fear and pride, and sometimes both at once. I blended quickly into the crowd of adults around me and walked beside a kind middle-aged couple who were holding hands. My school friends weren’t so fortunate. They’d stayed in their uniforms and were discovered and disciplined by our principal.

I was back in my school uniform and safely home before the evening news. My parents passed away in 1996, and I don’t know if they had any idea what I’d got up to, but I suspect they knew more than I thought they did.

I carried that helmet with me from flat to flat for years, only getting rid of it regretfully a couple of years ago as I downsized. It had become synonymous with my burgeoning identity as Māori and the formative experiences that eventually influenced my teaching practice over 25 years of Te Tiriti o Waitangi and te ao Māori education.

Has that youthful courage and idealism faded, or has pragmatism tempered it? Why can’t I formulate any words or images for my presentation?

In the early days of my teaching career, I learned the hard lesson that all good educators learn: Think carefully about what you say and how you say it. I’m not naturally a great lesson planner (although, for auditing purposes, I can fake it). Instead, I relied on, and still believe in, a thorough reading of diverse authors. I take notes, synthesise ideas, test them on friends and whānau, repeat them to myself, and slowly incorporate concepts into my delivery.

I also draw relentlessly on my own experiences. I’m a collector. I like to store things. I file experiences, both positive and negative. They can illustrate a point, build empathy, add depth and reality to theory, or make sense of an idea. In this way, I also process my experiences, gain perspective, and sometimes discover distance and peace.

All this work builds toward that magical moment in teaching, where student curiosity and openness intersect perfectly with an educator’s experiences and preparation. Together, teacher and student create a learning opportunity. Chasing that educational buzz is one of the reasons I keep teaching.

But right now, inspiration is absent. There haven’t been enough of the highs lately to keep me jonesing for a fix. My world of experiences has lost some richness as age, work demands and fear moderate the appetite for risk.

I think back to 2004, when we marched against the seabed and foreshore legislation. I was helping run a weeklong Te Tiriti workshop at Onetahua marae in Mohua, Golden Bay. With the blessing of my co-facilitator, I drove through the night, including with a flat tyre on Tākaka Hill, to Whakatū marae in Nelson. I joined the iwi of Te Tau Ihu o te Waka-a-Māui to make the ferry crossing to Wellington. We walked with my whānau and Women’s Refuge and Stopping Violence colleagues and entered parliament grounds alongside my iwi, Te Whānau-a-Apanui.

When I got back to Onetahua marae late that night, hau kāinga were still there. They’d saved me a very welcome bowl of seafood chowder, and they wanted to hear about the day. That memory reminds me that all stories matter. How we tell each other what we’ve seen and done, matters. Contributions of any size can be important. A sense of connectedness is critical for continued inspiration.

So I’m left wondering: Have I lost my sense of connectedness? It’s possible. I’m a public servant. When sweeping cuts were announced by the current government, many of us went into hedgehog mode and curled up to protect our vulnerable underbellies. A friend of mine whose role was upended told me about his partner’s experience at a family wedding. Conservative guests applauded the cuts, not even considering for a moment that families in the room were affected.

I’m not only a public servant, I’m a Māori public servant, so it feels like a double bind. Scrutiny of Māori feels relentless, and popping your head up is risky.

So have I let fear intrude?

Recently, I went to the passionate, honest and thought-provoking Aiga at the Nelson Arts Festival. This absorbing and moving show is built around the dreams and experiences of disabled performer and artist Lusi Faiva, supported by a creative ensemble of women, non-binary, disabled, non-disabled, Pasifika and Māori performers. The message I heard clearly was the importance of having your own authentic voice. It felt particularly potent coming from a non-verbal woman who dreams of expressing herself.

The show made me consider my own voice. What factors might be tempering it? I’m not from the kōhanga generation and I do struggle with feeling like I’m good enough, Māori enough, doing enough! But I’ve learned as I get older not to let those feelings be a barrier to action or creativity.

I need to put them aside, find my voice again, and craft my presentation.

I’m no longer that idealistic nearly 14-year-old who joined the tour protest, or the passionate educator who went to great lengths to march to parliament. Those versions of me may have had their time, but the best of them remains.

I’m something more now. Deeper and richer. I am a wahine Māori in my 50s with a lifetime of love, experience, joy and sadness under my tātua. And, yes, this is a complex and challenging world we live in, but it’s not forever, and change will surely come.

I saw that hope for change embodied at the hīkoi ki Paremata.

I saw the raw hope, optimism and vision for our future as Māori, and as a nation, all around me, as we gathered at Waitangi Park, and as we marched through the streets in wave after wave under the fluttering flags.

I felt unrestrained excitement as Te Arikinui, Nga wai hono i te po and Hana-Rāwhiti Maipi-Clarke joined the hīkoi. I laughed at the creativity of the signs, slogans and artwork on display and the absolute joy and resolute pride on everyone’s faces.

Eventually, I trusted that such richness would surface in my work. And it did. I got out of my own way, and found a way to share the beauty and significance of te ao Māori. It wasn’t my best teaching, but I will learn from it and improve next time.

I understand now that I must continue to make my small but vital contribution to a counter-narrative. The hīkoi reinforced to me the importance of standing up and being counted. I must continue to tell my part of our story as Māori in Aotearoa

Aroha Gilling (Te Whānau a Apanui) is an adviser to government departments on Te Tiriti o Waitangi and mātauranga Māori. She has a Master of Indigenous Studies from the University of Otago and a background in adult education and social work. She lives in Nelson.

E-Tangata, 2024