The Waitangi Tribunal’s investigation into the treatment of Māori veterans exposed the dark past and tentative progress of the New Zealand Defence Force.

Growing up, I was always fascinated by my grandfather’s war service. Eruera “Pako” Ratana, A Company of the 28th Māori Battalion, fought in Crete, Egypt, and Monte Cassino. His photo in uniform hung on the wall of his pensioner flat in Avondale, and on rare weekends I’d get to see the medals he kept stowed in a drawer. Grandad was a man of quiet mana, and he didn’t really talk about the war.

Once, I asked him what it was like. He looked at me, paused, and said:

“You’re my cousin. One moment, we’re here talking and laughing like you and I are right now. I look away, I look back, and you’re blown into a thousand pieces – that’s why I don’t talk about the war, boy.”

I never asked him again.

That moment has stayed with me for decades. It gave me a glimpse into a legacy most New Zealanders never really see: the internal wars many veterans continue to fight long after they’ve come home. Upon his return from his four years at war, my grandfather was given a parcel of land under the ballot system – then had it taken back by the Crown when they realised he couldn’t read or write. He lived a majority of the rest of his life in a house in Mt Roskill, central Auckland. That’s where I was born.

So when the Waitangi Tribunal opened its latest hearings into the treatment of Māori military veterans – part of the Wai 2500 Military Veterans Kaupapa Inquiry – I tuned in. Forty hours of livestreamed testimony, history, admissions, emotion and silence. What unfolded was both deeply personal and undeniably political. This was a glimpse behind the veil of the New Zealand Defence Force, its past and its present, and the burdens Māori veterans continue to carry.

Wai 2500

The Wai 2500 inquiry is part of the Waitangi Tribunal’s broader kaupapa inquiries process, set up to investigate claims of national significance. This one focuses specifically on the claims of Māori military veterans and their whānau – the sacrifices they made, the way they were treated during and after service, and the obligations of the Crown under te Tiriti o Waitangi. According to the witnesses, 1588 regular force personnel identify as Māori, 407 reserve force personnel, and 235 civilian staff, giving a total current population of 2230 who currently identify as Māori. This equates to about 14% of the total personnel, though the figure is assumed to not be exact, as it is accepted there are some who do not explicitly identify as Māori. Last year, Robert ‘Bom’ Nairn Gillies – the last surviving member of the Māori battalion – passed away at the age of 99.

The Tribunal has heard from claimants and whānau across several hearing weeks over the last few years. But March 2025 marked a shift, with the Crown finally taking the stand. This time, the New Zealand Defence Force fronted up to answer for its actions – historical and contemporary.

The hearing took place at Rongomaraeroa-o-ngā-hau-e-whā Marae in Waiouru, the spiritual centre of the army. Tribunal members presiding over the inquiry include judge Wilson Isaac (presiding officer), Hana O’Reagan, Grant Phillipson, Monty Soutar, and Pou Temara – a formidable and respected panel tasked with determining whether the Crown has breached the principles of te Tiriti in its treatment of Māori veterans.

What emerged during the week was sobering. Senior Defence Force personnel acknowledged that, for decades, tikanga Māori was misunderstood or ignored. From 1949 until the 1990s, there was little recognition of Māori cultural needs. The introduction of Project Harmony and the construction of the national Army marae in Waiouru were early steps, but the damage was already deeply embedded.

The emotional tone was set early. Some of the Defence Force’s top brass shed tears during their testimonies, including the Chief of Army herself. There were moments of genuine reflection – and moments of discomfort. But at least the kōrero was happening. As LtCol Martin Dransfield put it, “this inquiry is the head of the spear”.

“Veterans” – but only if the Crown says so

A recurring issue throughout the inquiry was the definition of a “veteran” in New Zealand. Under the Veterans’ Support Act 2014, only those who served in “qualifying operational service” – deployments where they were deemed to be “in harm’s way” – are officially recognised as veterans for the purposes of support and entitlements.

Many veterans, not just Māori, are excluded from entitlements under the Veteran Support Act due to a restrictive definition of qualifying service – especially those who served after 1974. Before 1974, all service was considered qualifying because ACC didn’t exist, but after 1974, only deployments where significant risk was officially recognised – count, excluding most routine service. Veterans can also miss out if they’re not registered with Veterans’ Affairs or lack an accepted service-related condition. While this affects a wide group, Māori veterans are disproportionately impacted due to lower registration rates, poorer health outcomes, and a cultural emphasis on mana and recognition that is undermined by exclusion from support.

“As veterans, we generally feel as though we’re not entitled,” Dransfield said. “But as you get older, you suddenly realise that you are vulnerable.”

Even among those who do qualify, there’s a disconnect – most veterans have never heard of Veterans’ Affairs, which is legislated under the Act to work alongside other government agencies and veterans’ groups to support those with qualifying service, as well as their whānau. However, many veterans assume they don’t deserve help, or feel whakamā asking for it. There’s no national database of who served where and when, particularly for pre-2003 cohorts, and historically, the system operated on an opt-in basis. However, significant efforts are underway to improve this. In the meantime though, if a veteran doesn’t opt in, the system doesn’t know they exist.

One of the most concerning themes of the week was mental health. For much of the 20th century, the concept simply didn’t exist in the NZDF. There were no explicit psychological services, no decompression protocols, no understanding of PTSD. Entire archives of the NZDF’s history remain boxed in warehouses, undocumented, untouched.

Veterans spoke of suffering in silence. Some left the military and ended up in prison. Others became homeless. Māori are overrepresented across all these outcomes.

There’s still no official tracking of veteran suicides. Unemployment among veterans is 1.7 times the national rate. The public health providers who interact with them post-service often don’t understand the military mindset – and culturally, many veterans don’t know how to ask for help.

For some veterans – particularly those who served in Vietnam – the consequences extend across generations, with exposure to defoliants like Agent Orange linked to long-term health risks and the need for genetic testing and counselling.

Ngāti Tūmatauenga: shared identity or sacred name?

Since 1995, the NZ Army has referred to itself as Ngāti Tūmatauenga – the tribe of the Māori god of war. On paper, it’s a reflection of the Army’s bicultural aspirations. In practice, it’s more complicated.

Some see it as a bold move toward recognising te ao Māori within a Pākehā-dominated institution. Others see it as a form of cultural appropriation – an attempt to claim iwi status without the whakapapa, responsibilities or tikanga that come with it. “With iwi status come various rights, privileges and obligations,” claimant representative Neuton Lambert noted. “That cannot be assumed just because you call yourself Ngāti.”

Tā Pou Temara raised further questions: “What of the women who serve? If Tūmatauenga protects men in battle, who protects wāhine Māori on the frontlines?” His suggestion – that perhaps it’s time to create a new atua, a new god to care for them – was met with thoughtful silence.

The Defence Force has made strides in recent years. There are now cultural advisors in each service branch. A Māori rūnanga co-chaired by the Chief of Army provides oversight. The NZDF is on what it calls a bicultural journey, and many of its senior leaders appear committed to making it work.

However, real change is uneven. Speaking on day four of the hearing, WO1 Aaron Morrison described it as “a struggle” for Māori within the system to create space for themselves and others. The structures still carry the legacy of colonialism and monoculture. Despite efforts like the Kia Eke programme, Māori in the ranks remain underrepresented – and often overburdened by the expectation to lead bicultural transformation from within.

What’s next?

The Crown will return for two more weeks of hearings in August and May this year, responding in full to the claims made by Māori veterans and their whānau. The Tribunal will then begin its deliberations before issuing its findings – and recommendations – to the government. 

Veterans who have spoken at the inquiry so far have called for culturally appropriate trauma support, automatic recognition of service, and more personal engagement with Veterans’ Affairs. They also raised concerns about suppressed tikanga, intergenerational health impacts, record gaps affecting claims, and the exclusionary definition of veteran.

Whether any recommendations are acted upon is another question. But the testimonies delivered this past week in Waiouru are now on the record – a taonga in their own right.

Watching the hearing unfold, I couldn’t help but think of my grandfather again – his silence, his medals, his mana, and the land he lost. He never got justice. He never asked for it. But this inquiry is a chance to offer something to those who followed him: recognition, respect, and a pathway forward.

It’s not about glorifying war. It’s about honouring those who served, understanding what they went through, and making sure their mokopuna don’t have to keep asking why.