Ramari Jackson-Paniora is the daughter of one of the main faces of the 1972 Māori Language Petition – but her relationship with te reo Māori is more complicated than people may assume.

My whānau’s journey with reo Māori is typical of many Māori whānau across Aotearoa. Looking at my parents’ achievements, it may be surprising to some that growing up, te reo Māori was not spoken in our home. There was frequent use of many kupu; everyday Māori words that have since found their way into New Zealand English, like “whānau” and “kai” were commonplace, as well as simple sentences we’d learn from mum and dad or our wider whānau.

Despite not being fluent speakers of te reo Māori we were firmly grounded in where we were from. We often spent time in our parents’ tribal areas, at the feet of our maunga Taranaki and Hikurangi, going to our awa, and staying on our marae. We also got to know our hapū and our iwi, spending quality time with our extended whānau. Identity was an important aspect of our upbringing and being whāngai added whakapapa complexities – ones my parents ensured we understood. 

I was a deeply shy child. When I was about 7 years old Mum took me out of school and we both went into a total immersion Te Ataarangi rakau programme. I was the only child there – expected to join in on the individual assignments and kōrero back to the wider group, a task I struggled with enormously. When the programme was finished, I was put back into school with no other reo Māori speakers or teachers, and was asked to speak English. Thus began my journey of coming in and out of my reo Māori – a journey full of trauma that I have carried for much of my life.

In late August of last year, together with local iwi and hapū, my whānau officially launched the I Am Hana project to commemorate my mother, Hana Te Hemara, who was a campaigner for indigenous rights and a driving force behind the 1972 Māori Language Petition. The project started by connecting Māori muralist ‘Mr G’ Kereama Hoete to Taranaki through historical sites of significance including Muru Raupatu Marae, Parihaka and Mounga Taranaki. The next day, Mr G started painting the words from the 1972 Māori Language Petition on the wall outside the Puke Ariki Library in New Plymouth. 

This was the beginning stage of what is now a five-storey mural of my mother, overlooking her hometown. Our goal was to connect a historic step in reo Māori history to wide-ranging audiences and commemorate the 50th anniversary of the presentation of the Māori Language Petition at the steps of parliament, on 14 September 1972.  My mother was a visionary wahine Māori, a leader and a daughter of Taranaki, whose image is strongly associated with the delivery of the petition. 

Despite my whānau being so vocal in this fight for Māori rights, it was never expected of us kids to be fluent. My parents – especially my father – raised us with a strong Māori identity and one of his many philosophies was that “no one can ever tell you how to be a Māori.” He truly believed that our Māori identity is not determined by what we don’t have, but by the whakapapa we do have. We grew up knowing we were not less Māori because of not having fluency in reo, living at the marae or the tonal colour of our “brown-ness”. 

Centred around the mural of my mother on the Puke Ariki Library wall in New Plymouth, the words “I Am Hana” aimed to speak directly to the message of the campaign: “I am Vibrant, I am Fearless, I am Iconic”. At the heart of these kupu was a drive to encourage Māori to build self-confidence, and to think and speak positively about oneself and our people – a lesson I have taken to heart too. This is exactly what my mother represented in her lifetime. 

This project was challenging, exciting and sometimes frustrating but with sheer determination and an incredible team that worked tirelessly, we made it happen. The team included representatives from the local iwi, Te Ātiawa; local hapū, Puketapu and Ngāti te Whiti; New Plymouth District Council and officials from central government. We were also fortunate to receive support from many Māori owned businesses. The kaupapa created a community around it.

I Am Hana was a significant success – embraced locally, nationally and internationally, but one thing I was not expecting to come of it were the many discussions our team had about overcoming intergenerational trauma centred around Te Reo, acknowledging this trauma as a barrier and talking about what we needed to do to overcome it. This community reaffirmed my own antipathy toward learning the language and my need to resume my journey toward fluency. 

The truth is, my journey with Te Reo has been frustrating. Like my parents, my understanding of the language is strong, however, over the years my confidence to speak it has waned. To rebuild this confidence, my adult children, my wider whānau and I have teamed up to go on the journey together. 

We have created a reo Māori safe space online to learn together with confidence. Some of us are beginners, some are fluent and others are somewhere in between. We are a very close whānau, supporting each other in the kaupapa with humour and aroha, and we stretch far and wide. About 15 of us are on the journey from Aotearoa, Canada and the United States. My nephew Campbell Te Paa, whose business teaches reo Māori and translations has become our reo navigator. It’s a whānau affair where we can make mistakes, ask all the awkward questions, build confidence and have fun learning.

Despite my mum’s work in Māori language and indigenous rights advocacy, I never felt the pull to re-immerse myself in reo until I got older. Now, more opportunities are available for my learning style, and it feels right to be coming back to the language of my tīpuna. Like the tides, the strength of my te reo Māori has come in and out throughout my life, but now I continue on with confidence. I am not just immersed in te reo Māori, but in the support of my whānau, and although I am not yet fluent, I feel as Māori as ever.

As the country’s northernmost GP, and later as the MP for the country’s northernmost Māori electorate, Bruce Gregory was the ultimate community doctor.

We’re not on a road, not even a dirt road. We’re crawling through a rutted gap between sand dunes in Bruce’s ancient Land Rover. It is, to put it mildly, an uncomfortable ride. “Bruce. This must be the oldest Land Rover in the North Island. You’re a doctor. You’re making rounds. Why don’t you t-t-treat yourself to something newer, faster, a b-b-bit less b-b-bouncy?”

Bruce downshifts to a still lower gear. “The new ones are too powerful. You need slow and weak to get you through the sand.”

At the end of the non-road sits something between a bungalow and a shack. An old white guy is the sole inhabitant. He’s clearly glad to see Bruce, invites us in for a cuppa. This will be our first cup of tea of the day but far from our last. We spend about half an hour with him, during which he and Bruce chat while Bruce takes his pulse, listens to his chest and performs other doctorly procedures.

As we drive north, Bruce asks me, “What’s your diagnosis?”

I’m not a GP, not any kind of medic, but I think back to the old guy and give it a go. Hmm. He had a cough. “Pneumonia.”

“No.”

“Lung cancer?”

“No.”

I try a few more dead-ends, then say, “OK, Doctor, what is the diagnosis?”

Bruce sighs. “Loneliness.”

Bruce Gregory held two distinctions. He was New Zealand’s northernmost general practitioner and one of its few Māori doctors. Otago Medical School had given me a grant to follow him on his rounds for a week, and Bruce and Elaine had kindly ensconced me and the Older whānau into their crib on Ninety Mile Beach.

During his weekly run north, starting with the lonely man, Bruce treated people at home and on the marae, in a clinic and under a tree, and over dinner at the table of one of his patients. I saw him paid in cash, in crays, and not at all. That day, he treated individuals, couples, entire families. I witnessed superlative medicine in action.

Bruce and I also spent time together in Dunedin. I invited him to lecture young med students on practicing medicine with Māori patients. Because med students were among the most conservative on campus, what I viewed as straightforward clinical lectures raised strong feelings, heated exchanges, loud arguments. At the end of the strongest, hottest and loudest, Bruce slid a kōauau (a bone flute) out of his jacket pocket and played a quiet tune. It instantly calmed a roomful of 200 angry, upset students. I later learnt that Bruce had made the kōauau himself; along with attending cuts, coughs and bruises, he was a master carver.

One of the lessons he imparted in his med school talks was this: “When a Māori kid comes in, the whole family will come too. Treat them all. On the spot. Regular visits to the doctor are not part of their lives, so use the opportunity to treat them all.”

I wasn’t the only one to recognise the skills of Bruce Gregory. The Labour Party invited/entreated him to run as the MP for Northern Maori (now Te Tai Tokerau). He won in 1980 and served until 1993. 

When he became a politician, did he give up doctoring? Not according to Pete Hodgson. Pete was also a Labour MP (and multi-portfolio’d minister). His time in office overlapped Bruce’s. He recalls, “Bruce was always ready to be the resident GP to all and sundry — MPs, staff, security folk alike. He was widely respected for it.”

And when Bruce left government, that didn’t end his public service. In the blink of an eye, he joined the NZ Council of Social Services, NZ Māori Council, Northern Advisory Health Committee, Kaitaia College Board of Governors, the Far North Regional Museum and more. Bruce became chairman of the Tai Tokerau District Maori Council, founded the Far North Credit Union, and chaired Te Taumata Kaumātua o Ngāpuhi-nui-tonu.

In and out of politics, he championed teaching Te Reo, honouring the Treaty of Waitangi, recognising Māori ownership of the foreshore, protecting our natural taonga, and other then-unpopular issues. 

In his honor, Te Hiku Hauora in Kaitaia created the Dr Bruce Gregory Merit Award; it goes to local secondary school students who show outstanding achievement in te reo Māori. Along with prizes, the awardees get free basic dentistry. Bruce would love that.

Dr Bruce Gregory was of Ngāi Tahu, Ta Rawara and Scottish descent. He died in 2015 at the age of 78.