Julie Zhu and Lillian Hanly (Photos: Supplied; additional design by Tina Tiller)
Julie Zhu and Lillian Hanly (Photos: Supplied; additional design by Tina Tiller)

ĀteaFebruary 6, 2022

What does it mean to be tangata Tiriti?

Julie Zhu and Lillian Hanly (Photos: Supplied; additional design by Tina Tiller)
Julie Zhu and Lillian Hanly (Photos: Supplied; additional design by Tina Tiller)

In the lead-up to Waitangi Day, Te Kuru o te Marama Dewes speaks with two tangata Tiriti about the other side of the Treaty partnership, and what they see as their obligations in upholding tino rangatiratanga.

Te Tiriti o Waitangi is the first immigration document of Aotearoa, enabling non-Māori to settle in this country. A partnership between the two races was formed on February 6, 1840, when rangatira from some (but not all) iwi and representatives of the Crown signed the foundational document. 

Rangatira Māori signed Te Tiriti o Waitangi with the aspirational vision of a partnership where they would continue to self-govern and maintain mana over their lands and people. Instead of cohabitation, the Crown opted to conquer and usurp iwi and hapū, and for generations since, Māori have been calling on the Crown to hold up their side of the deal. 

Yet, there is another party to the Treaty, whose rights and obligations aren’t often spoken about – Pākehā and tauiwi. They’ve made a home here in Aotearoa, so have responsibilities as citizens of this country to uphold the promise of tino rangatiratanga enshrined in Te Tiriti o Waitangi.

They’re tangata Tiriti, a term that is aspirational as much as it is political. To be a person of the Treaty is to build a relationship with Māori, to understand the history of how this nation was formed and to commit to the ongoing fight for Māori self-sovereignty. It acknowledges that Aotearoa is a multicultural country, that Pākehā aren’t the only grouping brought together with Māori under the Treaty.

We explore what it means to be tangata Tiriti with two non-Māori, Lillian Hanly and Julie Zhu. They share their experiences reluctantly, and with much persuasion, as they know it’s not their place to take up space from Māori – which is also what makes them good allies.


Follow Nē? on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your favourite podcast provider.


Lillian Hanly: Walking in both worlds as a Pākehā

Lillian Hanly is Pākehā in whakapapa but her worldview has been shaped predominately by te ao Māori. She was raised by her two mums, one Pākehā and the other Māori, speaking te reo Māori with her Māori siblings. We often talk about Māori walking in both worlds, but it’s not often that Pākehā share that experience.

“I think it’s important to point out that I didn’t actually do the hard yards. It was my parents who made the difficult decisions and carried that struggle,” Hanly says. 

She went through kōhanga reo and kura kaupapa, but Hanly’s parents made the decision to send her to an English-medium high school, because they didn’t want her taking the seat of a Māori. This extended to her not going into the Māori-immersion unit at her high school. 

“Those years… it was a reckoning for me. I attached myself to the Pasifika girls at schools, because it was like, OK, here are people who have similar whakaaro. 

“[Then] I would beat myself up and go, ‘Lillian, you’re Pākehā, you have to go find out what the Pākehā people are doing.” 

The Māori teacher at her high school encouraged her to join the Māori unit, because of her capability and her whānau, but she knew it wasn’t her place. 

“I was working through that understanding that there are places that I didn’t need to occupy. It was created for a purpose which I did not need. I had plenty of other spaces that I could occupy and be comfortable.”

Now a political producer for 1News, Hanly refuses to accept roles within Māori news organisations or Māori reporting roles in mainstream newsrooms, despite many offers.

Acknowledging how fortunate she was to be brought up in te ao Māori, Hanly says she has sympathy for Pākehā who find it difficult to begin the process of understanding what it means to be tangata Tiriti. 

“It’s a very different process for other tangata Tiriti doing that whole journey on their own, beginning as an adult, unlearning things and coming to accept things you might have always been taught as untrue,” she says.

“I really do have a lot of admiration and respect for those people.”

She recounts how her partner Farzad Zamani, who is Iranian and tangata Tiriti, had suggested that he would never be considered “from Aotearoa” in the same way as she and other Pākehā are.

A good friend of hers, Mahdis Azarmandi, a senior lecturer at the University of Canterbury, prompted her to further question the idea that Pākehā alone have a special relationship with Māori in relation to Te Tiriti and Aotearoa. 

“There is a relationship there, but it was the first time that was challenged to me that actually, Pākehā are part of a wider grouping of many peoples who have a relationship with Māori in the context of Aotearoa.”

At a time the obligations of Pākehā may have been at the forefront of the conversation, Hanly says, but this fails to acknowledge the many other groups brought together under Te Tiriti. 

“I’ve seen this idea that Pākehā are special because we signed first or whatever, but it totally links into whiteness… [and] continues to put us up on a higher pedestal,” says Hanly. 

Tangata Tiriti is about active citizenship, she says, whereas Pākehā is a passive identity. 

Then there’s “Kiwi”, the soft, commercialised, superficial cultural identity of Swanndris, buzzy bees and All Blacks that New Zealand has marketed not only internationally but to itself. 

“You can easily tap into this passive identity of being Kiwi without doing much, but if you’re going to engage with being tangata Tiriti, it’s going to require some shifting of power but also shifting of ways in which we engage and acknowledge,” says Hanly. 

Writing on tangata Tiriti, Tina Ngata says we need good Treaty partners, not non-Māori trying to be Māori. This relates to many aspects of how non-Māori engage with Māori culture. It speaks to taking up space, and recognising when to allow tangata whenua the space to speak, or to determine solutions for our own people. 

“My strength, I think, is just knowing when not to speak, metaphorically. Because that can go in so many ways. This kōrero also shouldn’t be about me as the ultimate ally, because that’s not the case. We all make mistakes, me included,” says Hanly. 

Lillian Hanly and Julie Zhu (Photos: Supplied)

Julie Zhu: Asians for tino rangatiratanga

Julie Zhu is a multidisciplinary creative, a film-maker and producer. She recently produced the podcast Conversations With My Immigrant Parents, as well as the Takeout Kids series coming soon to The Spinoff. Born in Xi’an, China, she moved to Tāmaki Makaurau when she was four years old. 

Zhu learnt waiata Māori at primary school, and at intermediate, her Sāmoan teacher started and ended every class with a karakia. This early engagement with Māori culture inspired a desire to learn te reo. 

She made attempts to study te reo at high school, before completing a diploma in te reo at university, but admits then it was just a hobby, and she didn’t fully understand the wider context.  

“I think through learning te reo, you understand more of the perspectives of the people, and even the concepts of land ownership and what that means from a Māori context versus a Pākehā context.”

Around the time she was studying te reo at university, Zhu was also learning more about systemic issues of race and indigeneity, and the impacts of colonisation. 

“After that I started moving towards activism, meeting up with other people who were similar to me, who grew up Asian and had a particular experience,” she says. “[We were] focusing on that part of our identity, and starting to understand how that was because of how systemic issues work here in Aotearoa.”

That led to the formation of the group Asians Supporting Tino Rangatiratanga, who advocate in support of kaupapa Māori, and are interested in how sovereignty and land can be returned to Māori and damages caused by colonisation remediated. 

“We feel that we have an obligation as tauiwi, or tangata Tiriti, to understand the history of this whenua because we benefit from living here, and because we are still complicit in the ongoing struggles that Māori face,” Zhu says.

There are different types of racism here in Aotearoa: overt racism is what we can see and hear, like name calling; and covert racism is systemic and institutional, prevalent in the likes of the justice and education systems. 

Then there’s internalised racism, “what we face when we grow up not wanting to be our own identities, because of how we’ve seen that perpetuated in the media, or stereotyped”, Zhu says, adding that this is something she overcame in relation to her own identity as a Chinese New Zealander. 

“I think Aotearoa is getting better at recognising the overt racism… but I think it’s much harder for people here to recognise the institutional and systemic stuff.”

As New Zealanders mature in consciousness and come to terms with the history of colonisation, the expectations in terms of responsible citizenship will continue to evolve. 

Zhu says that being a good tangata Tiriti is being open to criticism, being open to being challenged, being humble and never getting defensive about it.

“Being generous and empathetic with where others are at is also important. There’s always more to learn for all of us. 

“See the goal as encouraging more people to pursue the journey, as opposed to proving how far ahead on the journey you are compared to others.”


Follow The Spinoff’s te ao Māori podcast Nē? on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your favourite podcast provider. 

Keep going!
The last living co-designer of the tino rangatiratanga flag, Linda Munn (Photo montage: supplied/Tina Tiller)
The last living co-designer of the tino rangatiratanga flag, Linda Munn (Photo montage: supplied/Tina Tiller)

ĀteaFebruary 6, 2022

The enduring legacy of the tino rangatiratanga flag

The last living co-designer of the tino rangatiratanga flag, Linda Munn (Photo montage: supplied/Tina Tiller)
The last living co-designer of the tino rangatiratanga flag, Linda Munn (Photo montage: supplied/Tina Tiller)

The last surviving kaitiaki of the tino rangatiratanga flag, Linda Munn (Ngāi Pōtiki, Ngāpuhi) wants people to ask first before capitalising on its symbolic imagery.

With the striking red and black background and bold white koru in the centre, the tino rangatiratanga flag is unmissable. It’s become a well-known symbol of colonial resistance since its creation in 1990. Whether it’s flying at Waitangi, or in the face of Richard Seddon on the streets of Paremata, the tino flag stands tall as a visual reminder of the failed promises of the Treaty.

In the Māori text of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, recognised by the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples as having legal precedence over the English text, Māori specified that they would retain tino rangatiranga (self-determination, sovereignty, autonomy, self-government, rule, control and power) over whenua, kāinga and taonga.

This obviously didn’t happen, so the struggle for tino rangatiranga continues and the flag’s relevance remains. Arguably, it’s more visible now than ever, with a new generation of activists embracing the symbol and flying it proudly.

Sadly, as its popularity has increased, so too has appropriation of it. In recent times, fringe activist groups have co-opted the tino flag for protests unrelated to kaupapa Māori. Flags are also being mass produced for profit, on the likes of AliExpress for $11.

Linda Munn, one of the original three designers of the flag, and the last living kaitiaki, wants the original kaupapa of the flag to be upheld.

“The main thing is for our people to feel like they’re unified. This is their flag, but don’t go and rip it off — still ask.”

In 2009, then-Māori Party leader Pita Sharples called for the flag to fly alongside the New Zealand national flag on the Auckland Harbour Bridge during the Waitangi Day celebrations in Auckland. (Photo: Hannah Peters/Getty Images)

A symbol of liberation and identity

The flag was born out of a design competition run by Te Kawariki, a collective of activists in the Far North in 1989. They wanted to create a national Māori flag to fly at Waitangi the following year for the 150th anniversary of the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi.

As the story goes, the design for the flag was drawn up by Hiraina Marsden on a napkin in a wharekai. It was later used as a basis for 10 flags of the same design that were sewn by hand by Linda Munn and Jan Dobson, supported by many others. Linda Munn emphasises the flag is the result of a group initiative, acknowledging the influence of Hilda and Hone Harawira within the Te Kawariki collective.

An official poster of the flag, printed by Te Kawariki, explains what the different elements represent. Munn attributes elder Poua Erstich for setting the kaupapa and tikanga of the flag:

The black represents Te Kore, the realm of potential being. It is the long darkness, from whence the world emerged: the formless, passive, the male element. The white represents Te Ao Mārama, the realm of being, the physical world. The koru represents the unfurling of new life: a promise of hope for the future. The red represents Te Whai Ao, the realm of coming into being, Papatūānuku, Earth Mother, sustainer of all living things. Red is the colour of the earth from which the first human was made. 

A $5 poster was printed locally to cover the costs of promoting the flag. Within days people were asking for one for their kohanga reo or to use the logo on their team uniforms. (Image: Mana News/Te Kawariki)

“It was meant to take away from the colonised flag, the New Zealand flag. The main point about designing something that is uniquely Māori, is that it’s for Māori and represents Māori,” says Munn.

Some of the kaupapa set by Te Kawariki included that it must never be worn on someone’s behind, that the dimensions can’t be changed, and it must be used to support kaupapa Māori, not for personal gain. The original artists also wanted any royalties to go towards setting up an arts wānanga in Ngāpuhi.

As the last surviving kaitiaki of the flag, Munn says she appreciates it when people approach her first and explain their kaupapa.

“There is a process, it’s not a huge one, I don’t make people jump through hoops. The key thing is that they have to give back. They have to pay it forward.

“Give back to your marae, you kōhanga reo, your community. If you’re working with homeless people, make some money, feed them, house them. It has to be going back into the community.”

In service of the collective

Alongside her work to protect the mana of the tino flag, Munn is dedicated to helping rangatahi and wāhine Māori.

She’s a mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, niece, and long-serving member of Te Rōpū Wāhine Māori Toko i te Ora (Māori Women’s Refuge).

“It’s something I’ve been involved with since I was kid,” she says, which put simply is about “keeping our women safe and alive”.

“Last year and in 2020, we lost some girls that I was personally working with, they were killed, and that really knocked us around. It really hurts us when our girls… get taken.”

This is the stark reality of the negative impacts of colonisation that Munn works tirelessly against. Beyond that, she also sits on hapū trusts that support rangatahi through education by finding them places in kura kaupapa, and getting them out of “mainstream bullshit”.

“If there’s a need, there needs to be something there to help them. Who better to help them than our own people? To help them know that there’s another way to learn.. to come back to the marae and learn wānanga space, not classroom-colonised.”

The tino rangatiratanga flag flies on the maunga during the occupation at Ihumātao. (Photo by Phil Walter/Getty Images)

Mahi toi as healing

Munn’s mahi has always been about wāhine, she says. This extends to her down time – she’s an avid painter, and says it helps clear her mind. She is currently preparing works for an upcoming exhibition she’s curating alongside Robyn Kahukiwa and Tracy Tāwhiao. The exhibition ‘Wāhine Māori – The art of resistance’ features the works of 12 Māori women who have opposed colonisation and the impact on their culture, their history, their language and belief systems.

From her garage studio, she has poured onto canvas her own whānau mamae caused by colonisation in the form of the work, Hineteiwaiwa.

“My grandmother died as a result of poor care in a hospital following childbirth, after being beaten up by my grandfather [causing her] to go into early labour. She haemorrhaged to death in Kawakawa hospital in a hallway.

“So this is acknowledging her and all our other wāhine who haven’t been looked after properly in a health service.”

Her other piece is about stories her grandmothers would tell, transmitting whakapapa, which she says is at the heart of her work. “It’s just me painting memories. That’s all art is. It’s a visual tool. It’s like when you’re in the marae or wharepuni, and you look at the carvings, you’re able to relate whakapapa.”

Read more about the history of the flag here.

The exhibition Wāhine Māori – The Art of Resistance opens on the 13 March at Northart Gallery, Auckland.


Follow The Spinoff’s te ao Māori podcast Nē? on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your favourite podcast provider.