Violence beat te reo Māori out of my whakapapa. Aroha brought it back.

Green Party co-leader Marama Davidson might look confident speaking her reo in public, but the fear is there too. To celebrate Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori, which begins today, she writes about her journey toward beating shame.

 

When missionary schoolteachers beat my nana as a child, they eradicated te reo Māori from the tongues of the next three generations of my whakapapa.

Today, her great-mokopuna have won the Korimako speech competition, and received a Prime Minister’s award for exceptional marks in reo rangatira.

Violence beat te reo Māori out of my whakapapa. Aroha brought it back.

And yet, whakamā still pervades those of us who are working out how to let our beautiful language slide like silk from our mouths.

I’ve been a public figure for over a decade now. I’ve spoken at public events to thousands, joined live television shows to the nation where political arrows are aimed right at my heart and head, and addressed town halls filled with people heaping desperate hope on my over-burdened shoulders — all the normal politician and activist stuff.

But there’s nothing like the fear of speaking my native language to my own people. Whether that’s speaking to our reo Māori media, a handful of Māori at a small community hui, or our large marae gatherings.

When speaking the language of my tūpuna, the deep shame of getting it “wrong” sits in my puku and clutches at my chest. That feeling is something I still can’t explain when I stumble through my reo in front of an audience.

I know we need to stop flogging ourselves for the violence of settler colonisers. But I know that forgiving myself takes more than just writing it.

Our language is so beautiful and cherished. It’s natural to think we are desecrating it if it comes out rough and incorrect, especially if we have whakapapa Māori. But if we only kōrero in public when we are expert enough for it to slide out of us like silk, our language will not endure.

I love our matatau speakers and orators. There’s nothing more hopeful in this world than our fluent babies speaking our reo rangatira, our kaumātua sharing their stories in their native tongue, and everyone in between. Those for whom te reo Māori is the language they dream in. The joy, the pride, and the hope that they bring is powerful beyond measure.

Normalising our reo being spoken everywhere, and striving for excellence, are essential. Our fluent matatau speakers have given me some of the most mana-protecting encouragement on my own journey to confidence.

This includes the encouragement from our matatau Māori broadcasters, which came early on in my political career. Their response to my struggle was consistent. Instead of changing to English, or even cancelling the interview, they delivered a message loud and clear: “We need more people stepping up, to give permission for our non-expert speakers to just speak. Marama, if you’re up to it, that’s important role-modelling.”

Our people need to see a range of Māori public speakers giving it a well-intentioned go.

This is what I take with me when I accept reo Māori radio slots, Te Karere live crosses, and my speech responsibilities. It doesn’t stop my stomach tightening up, my shoulders tensing, my hands going sweaty, and my heart flurrying. But it removes any excuses for me to run away.

So I want to thank all our Māori broadcasters and reo revitalisation warriors who call us in to walk the talk. I’m no longer a total beginner. I’ve got a fairly good grasp of the fundamentals, and the cheek to put myself forward for public conversations.

But I was a beginner once. I grew up in Hokianga and on our marae, but it wasn’t until I started formal reo learning at Auckland University that I really did get past an absolute beginner stage.

Much later, attending week-long wānanga reo on marae opened another door, and my confidence increased. When I forced myself to take on reo Māori speaking roles as a politician, it was another leap out of my comfort zone.

We each stand on the shoulders of giants in our own whakapapa. Aotearoa today benefits from decades of people operating so far out of their comfort zones, so that our reo Māori can be our reo rangatira again.

My nana’s name was Patricia Charlotte Broughton (nee Hancy). She was from Ngāi Tupoto and Ngāti Here hapū and Te Rarawa iwi. She had such an impact on my life that I feel her presence constantly, even though she died when I was 14 years old.

I remember when I was a little girl at her home in Ōtara. There, she would only speak her native language with her siblings and people of the same generation. I have vivid memories of her joy at being able to speak her first language with her safe people, at her formica kitchen table. I remember thinking: What are those words they’re saying? What is that beautiful language? Why don’t they speak it to us?

As an adult, I worked out that it was trauma that kept her native tongue confined to only the safest spaces with only the safest people.

Generational trauma rises in me every time I think of Nana as a little girl being violently punished for speaking the only language she knew. Generational aroha pushes me forward to the mic.

Today, every generation of my nana’s uri — including her own children — are at different stages of our reclamation journey. Some of us have beautiful reo Māori names, some are reo Māori protectors, some are attending reo Māori classes as adults, some are practising saying their whakapapa, some are learning to pronounce our kupu.

All of us, together, heal the pain of my nana.

As we mark the 50th Wiki o te Reo Māori, I look back on the people without whom we wouldn’t be where we are today. From the champions we know well, to our community kuia who opened their homes and garages to our babies to start backyard kōhanga with not much more than their aroha for our language.

Last year’s Hīkoi mō Te Tiriti o Waitangi saw tangata whenua, tangata Tiriti, tagata Pasifika, and tauiwi alike show up for the promises our country was founded on. In 2025, we continue to see the coalition of carelessness disregard our reo Māori.

For our reo to flourish despite the constant attacks, we need to accept that te mana o te reo Māori is in our hands, just as it was for those tohunga reo who got us to where we are today.

Our way forward is together, with our tūpuna, for our whakapapa. With aroha, always.

Marama Davidson (Ngāpuhi, Te Rarawa, Ngāti Porou, Ngāti Tahinga) is the Green Party co-leader, born into a family of young, urban Māori activists. In 2020 she was appointed the first Minister for the Prevention of Family Violence and Sexual Violence. She was also Associate Minister for Housing with responsibility for addressing homelessness. Prior to entering Parliament, Marama worked for the Human Rights Commission and was the Chief Panellist for the Glenn Inquiry into Domestic Violence and Child Abuse. Marama and her husband have six children and three mokopuna. They have lived most of their lives together in Manurewa.

E-Tangata, 2025