We are strongest when we walk together

Some years ago, Will Flavell was head of Māori at Rutherford High School in Te Atatū Peninsula, Auckland. Many of the students in his te reo Māori classes were Sāmoan — and, as he writes here, the language learning flowed in both directions.

 

A few weeks ago, on a Monday evening after work, I found myself in front of my Sāmoan language class, my heart pounding, preparing for a Level 4 oral assessment. My task was to deliver a lāuga from memory without any notes in a mock radio interview, followed by a discussion about my work as an elected member of the Henderson-Massey Local Board.

I watched fluent speakers of gagana Sāmoa effortlessly weave their words with confidence. Then there was me — the only non-Sāmoan in the class — sweating and nervous, relying on memorised sentence structures from my grammar book and hoping I wouldn’t mispronounce the language too badly.

I’m not used to being the least skilled person in a group. I typically have a plan, prepare thoroughly, refine my approach, and execute with certainty.

But I realised that this discomfort in my Sāmoan class was necessary. Growth happens when you step out of your comfort zone. It doesn’t occur in safe spaces.

Early in my career, I moved to Te Atatū Peninsula in west Auckland to take on a new role as head of Māori at Rutherford College, a school with a strong Māori and Pasifika presence. With 21 percent of students identifying as Māori and 14 percent as Pasifika, I quickly recognised how interwoven our communities were, connected through shared experiences, values, and struggles.

At Rutherford College, Year 9 students were required to take a language, with options including Chinese Mandarin, Japanese, German, or te reo Māori. However, there were no options for Pacific languages. As a result, many Pasifika students gravitated toward te reo Māori since it was familiar and accessible.

In my classroom, I quickly began to hear more Sāmoan. Small phrases like “Mālō, sir.” Slang such as “uce” (bro or sis) and “seki” (cool, awesome), and other cultural expressions. For instance, a student would walk past me, saying “tulou” as a sign of respect. My students became my teachers, correcting my pronunciation, laughing with me, and eagerly sharing insights from their world.

I also learned that the Māori “u” and the Sāmoan “u” differ slightly, which added another layer to my understanding of their language. The Sāmoan “u” sounds like “oo”, and to help me remember this sound, I would often enact a deep, rhythmic chest beat. I appreciated their sense of humour when they corrected me, and I welcomed their feedback.

We talked about the similarities and differences between our cultures — the Sāmoan concept of fa’alavelave and how it compares to koha, the role of churches as hubs for Pasifika communities and how they mirror marae.

I remember when I decided to wear an īe faitaga, a formal lavalava, to school, and one of the boys said: “Matua, that’s not how you wear it.” Then he adjusted it for me: “Do it like this.”

These experiences made me ask myself a question. If my students took the time to learn te reo Māori, why wasn’t I trying to learn their language?

That thought pushed me to enrol in Sāmoan language classes through the Pacific Education Centre and Manukau Institute of Technology. I started at the absolute beginner level, moving through basic phrases, making mistakes, and learning through trial and error.

Over time, my confidence grew. I found myself speaking Sāmoan with friends, testing phrases in everyday conversations. One moment stuck with me: At the Kelston Countdown, I greeted the cashier and we made small talk about the weather in Sāmoan. She paused, smiled, and told me my Sāmoan was better than many New Zealand-born Sāmoans.

That comment sat with me. Why would she say that?

I thought about the generations of Sāmoans born in Aotearoa, navigating the challenge of holding on to their heritage language in a country that doesn’t always make space for it.

I realised that, like te reo Māori, gagana Sāmoa faces its own battles for longevity.

Through my language studies, I gained a greater insight into Pacific histories, social justice movements, and the strength of resistance.

I hadn’t fully understood the legacy of the Polynesian Panthers movement until I met former members Melani Anae, an associate professor at Auckland University, and brothers Wayne and Alec Toleafoa. They told me about growing up in a time when racism wasn’t hidden. It was systemic, blatant, and enforced through policies like the Dawn Raids. These stories reminded me of how much work we still collectively need to do.

What cemented everything for me was the measles outbreak in Sāmoa in December 2019, which devastated families, claiming 79 lives — 61 of them children under four.

At the beginning of the summer school break, I flew to Apia with friends to support the relief efforts. We volunteered with a local organisation and went home to home, delivering supplies to families who had lost loved ones.

I will never forget the grief I saw. One woman had lost both her husband and her infant daughter. Another, a solo mother, had lost her only child. And yet, even in sorrow, there was hospitality. There was alofa.

That trip made me understand something I hadn’t before. Language isn’t just communication — it’s about connection, too. And it’s about tautua (service).

Reflecting on all that gagana Sāmoa has given me, I can say this: It has challenged, humbled, and ultimately made me a better person.

A dear friend and mentor, Toeolesulusulu Leataata Laine Tipi, passed away last year. She dedicated more than 30 years to preserving the beauty of gagana Sāmoa for future generations in west Auckland. By establishing the Leataata o Tupulaga preschool, she ensured that tamaiti Sāmoa would grow up knowing their language and cultural roots.

Laine always made time to talk with me in Sāmoan and often invited me to her early childhood centre, where she helped me learn alongside the children, especially learning pese, Sāmoan songs.

My Henderson Massey Local Board colleagues and I have decided to name a street in her honour, with the unveiling set for a future date. This decision was our way of showing appreciation for her commitment and dedication to the community she cherished.

I hear her voice, reminding me to keep going.

“O le tele o sulu e maua ai figota.” The more torches, the better the catch.

We are strongest when we walk together — learning, growing, and uplifting one another.

For me, that is the true meaning of language.

 

Dr Will Flavell (Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Whātua, Ngāti Maniapoto) is the deputy chairperson of the Henderson Massey Local Board in Tāmaki Makaurau and an evaluation partner at the Education Review Office.

E-Tangata, 2025