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Ātea time capsule

ĀteaDecember 17, 2020

The Aotearoa Spinoff Time Capsule 2020: Mementos of a hōhā year for te ao Māori

Ātea time capsule

As all good Treaty partnerships demand, a significant amount of space in The Spinoff Aotearoa 2020 Time Capsule has been saved for tangata whenua. Like a yuck hāngī filled with bewilderment and Zoom, it’s time to bury this year in the ground. 

What a year to be of the non-white or Indigenous persuasion. What has this year even been? Did we smash ceilings or were were dragged into the Dark Ages? Was there progress? For the love of god, someone tell us if we made any progress!

At the end of 2020, New Zealand’s estimated Māori population is 850,500 (or 16.7% of the population). Twenty-six of our 120 MPs have whakapapa Māori. The percentage of Māori with a bachelor’ s degree or higher has more than doubled since 2005 but the Māori unemployment rate (10.8%) remains well above the national unemployment rate (4.9%). Moko kauae, mataora, rongoā and maramataka have never been more popular, yet over the course of the pandemic, research found Māori were more than 50% likelier to die of the virus. Yonder in America, the first ever woman of colour was voted in as vice president. But in the same year, teams of armed civilians, police and national guard shot and killed Black protesters for demanding basic human rights, while the president stood by.

You could say it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster. Except someone filled the rollercoaster with turds, set it on fire and the tracks haven’t finished being built yet.

We’d like to bury the last 250 years in the ground, to be honest, but if The Spinoff Ātea had to put something in a time capsule for 2020 it would be…

November 30 issue of the Dominion Post

At the end of November, many people around the country awoke to their local newspaper apologising to them. “Nō mātou hē”– “We’re sorry”, the Dominion Post, The Press, the Waikato Times, the Taranaki Daily News, the Manawatū Standard, the Nelson Mail, the Marlborough Express and the Southland Times offered humbly. It was a momentous occasion for mainstream media, one precedented by National Geographic in 2018 – an apology by media company Stuff, formerly Fairfax, for 163 years of racist coverage and unfair portrayal of Māori.

Led to this landmark moment by Stuff’s Pou Tiaki editor Carmen Parahi, who came at it from a “it’s this or I’m done” angle, it naturally received mixed reactions. The wounds inflicted by Stuff’s comments section are still raw for a lot of people. A few faux pas followed, including the Dominion Post publishing an immensely racist letter to the editor that suggested Māori were “overwhelmed” by a “stronger race”. Yes, for those reading this in 2120, that was actually published in an actual newspaper (newspapers were like a collection of very thin, manually operated screens with no interactivity).

Regardless, it’s a statement that would have been unthinkable for a large national media outlet 20, even five years ago. The execution may not have been perfect, but the tides have changed forever.

A box of Billy TK Jr CDs

The Advance Party leader definitely has a garage full of his 2008 blues rock album Presenting Billy TK Jnr and needs somewhere to store them.

The Makitānara lament

Yearning for restaurants to reopen was a real vibe in our nationwide level four lockdown, particularly as we edged ever closer to level three aka “level four but with takeaways”. A video posted online of a whakatangitangi (lament) to a closed McDonald’s in Rotorua really captured the essence of this in a uniquely Māori way.

Is it a problematic celebration of unhealthy eating habits? Is it a culturally inappropriate use of tikanga? Is it a celebration of Māori humour and resilience? Possibly all of the above.

“I cry a lonesome lament, for you my dear one, my friend Donald, oh the distress”. Let’s be honest, no other piece of lockdown art has summed up the collective feelings of New Zealanders in lockdown better than this.

Black Lives Matter signs

Protesters march in support of the Black Lives Matter movement on June 14, 2020 in Wellington (Photo: Hagen Hopkins/Getty Images)

Alongside the shared struggle of fighting Covid-19, many countries came together in support of the US Black Lives Matter movement, calling for the dismantling of racist systems and beliefs that have oppressed Black people for centuries.

In New Zealand, this solidarity took the form of a number of protests in June. Slogans like “no justice, no peace” and “colour is not a crime” were waved in front of the US embassy, as well as a number of signs directed at a far more local audience. “New Zealand, we have work to do” and a take on the classic Tui advert: “New Zealand’s not a racist country… yeah right.”

These taonga deserve a place in the time capsule for lots of reasons, least of all to mark the year the interconnected world saw clearly the injustice of George Floyd’s murder, and those before and after him, and joined a global uprising against white supremacy.

Our hope that the signs won’t be needed again is likely in vain, but they might at least remind future generations of the actions taken by their tūpuna to help build a just society.

Winston Peters

Winnie. Ngāti Wai heartthrob, a polarising king, pride of the north.

Since entering politics in 1975, Peters has been a fierce advocate for rural communities, the capital-N North and oldies. An unrelenting stone in the shoe to anyone in the house and of course to all the eager journalists waiting outside.

Behind his inimitable swag, double-breasted suits and cheeky smile has always been an “eclectic” collection of political views plucked from all over the political spectrum. A bit of racist fear-mongering over immigration or blocking capital gains taxes one day, while getting free ferries to Waiheke for the over-65s the next. He’s criticised protesters at Ihumātao and been outspoken against any government deal over the land, but also led a successful campaign in the 1970s along with other members of Ngāti Wai to retain tribal land in response to the Labour government’s plan to establish coastal land reserves – helping to inspire the 1975 land marches. Whatever you think of Peters, it’s impossible to dismiss his peculiar influence over our political landscape.

And 2020 was of course not without excitement from the New Zealand First leader. In true Winston style, he broke the rules in level four lockdown by fishing on his back lawn. There was, of course, the New Zealand First funding scandal. And a personal favourite, his response to Nikki Kaye’s false assertion around Paul Goldsmith’s whakapapa Māori: “I hadn’t heard of Paora Heke Goldsmith till this morning.”

Watching New Zealand First failing to win a seat or meet the 5% threshold to get back into parliament in this year’s election felt, well, weirdly bittersweet. It’s the end of an era. And while it’s a relief for many that his reign has come to an end, it’s nice to think that Peters is likely enjoying a whiskey, some fish heads and a durry on his porch in Whananaki.

The Zui

Early on in lockdown, some cheeky aunty smooshed Zoom + hui together. It was cute. It was sassy. It was Māori expressing their digital sovereignty. And then slowly it began to herald a ritual of soul-emptying exhaustion. Remote colleagues mouthing silently before the hundredth gentle reminder to unmute; unmuted uncles having full-on conversations off camera, ignoring your pleas, feedback on a loop from a nearby radio. The constant stress of our own muted/unmuted status. The repeating. The constant repeating.

Farewell Zui, haere, haere atu rā.

Public statue of an old racist dude who may or may not have been to NZ

Goodbye to Captain John Fane Charles Hamilton from Civic Square in Hamilton, June 12. (Photo: Michael Bradley/AFP via Getty Images)

Despite calls for the removal of racist statues and monuments being shouted into the abyss for years by Māori and Indigenous people, this year the fight came to a head when protesters across the world started tearing down the statues of slave owners and colonial figures.

In the UK, a statue of slave trader Edward Coulston was thrown into the Bristol Harbour in a very impressive display of strength from protesters who lugged the 5.5m tall bronze statue down the road and over a barrier into the sea.

Closer to home, the conversation was also being brought up as once again, Māori and Indigenous voices asked if the government would consider removing statues honouring people like James Cook, who caused the murders of many Māori and Pasifika people as he sailed his death ship around the world, and spread STIs and TB to Indigenous populations like gross confetti.

Now leader of the National Party Judith Collins voiced concern on The AM Show about pigeons losing their beloved statue resting places.

“I’ve often looked at those statues as I’ve walked past, and I see Richard Seddon all large as life, larger than life, and I think – where would the pigeons go?” – a bad point, poorly made.

If we are putting one thing underground, let it be all the statues of the people who came to Aotearoa to take what wasn’t theirs, who stole land and property and the lives of Māori people and were praised for it. Rip them down and place them where nobody will see them for at least 100 years. In fact, we wouldn’t be mad if the exact coordinates were lost, and they were left there until the sea claims back the land.

Ngā pōtae o Te Paati Māori

A selection of excellent Māori Party hats

“I’m proud to be Māori,” Rawiri Waititi and Debbie Ngarewa-Packer sung as they were sworn into parliament. Their choice of bold cowboy and top hats on the day were not only a bomb accessory choice, but reflective of a new era of the Māori Party and New Zealand politics. Te Paati Māori 2020 is unapologetically Māori and very ready to shake things up.

After failing to win seats in the 2017 election, the Māori Party were the comeback of the year in 2020 with Rawiri Waititi winning the Waiariki seat and gaining enough of the party vote in the final vote count to bring Debbie Ngarewa-Packer into parliament.

Their choice of hats haven’t been without controversy – with many wrongly accusing the pair of breaking parliamentary dress code. Will racists stop being outraged by their hats in 2021? Who could say. But with such an impressive return to parliament, it’s no surprise that the two want to flaunt some impressive pōtae.

Keep going!
(Image: The Spinoff)
(Image: The Spinoff)

ĀteaDecember 9, 2020

From fedoras to fascinators: A history of Māori and hats

(Image: The Spinoff)
(Image: The Spinoff)

Charlotte Muru-Lanning lifts the lid on an intriguing legacy.

First published December 9, 2020

When Māori Party MPs Debbie Ngarewa-Packer and Rawiri Waititi were sworn into parliament last week, both wore impressive hats. Their top hat and cowboy hat drew mostly praise, but also some criticism and confusion. In fact, some responses bordered on horror. How dare Māori wear hats!

People needn’t have been so shocked; Māori have been wearing all kinds of hats, headdresses and other head adornments for ages. Traditionally, bone, stone or wooden combs along with feathers, flowers and leaves were used to adorn the head – the most tapu part of the body.

Hats have played important roles in the public image of many notable Māori too. There’s Tāwhiao, the second Māori king, and his wife Hera, who were photographed multiple times wearing top hats. Mita Taupopoki, leader of Tūhourangi and Ngāti Wāhiao, famous for his ornate hats – adorned with feathers. Te Puea in her iconic white headscarf or Dame Whina Cooper with her brilliantly coloured versions. Poet Hone Tuwhare with his wool flat caps. Academic and writer Ranginui Walker and musician Dalvanius Prime with their respective fedoras of various brim sizes and materials. Activist Tame Iti with his famous bowler hat. Moana and the Moa Hunters in their 90s pan-African kufi and Zulu hats. Che Fu, with his various caps, beanies and bucket hats – far too often overshadowed by his famous backpacks. Even ex-Green leader Metiria Turei celebrated the passing of the vote for the 2013 Marriage Equality Bill in a feathered pink fascinator. Not to mention all the variations of impressive pōtae worn at marae events by kuia and kaumātua. Māori have always worn head adornments as symbols of authority, prestige and honour.

Metiria Turei during the vote on the Marriage Equality Bill in 2013 (Photo: Hagen Hopkins/Getty Images)

A bold hat has become a visual expression of being unapologetically Māori. They also literally take up space. So, it makes sense for Māori politicians to wear them to amplify their presence and to disrupt Pākehā norms.

“For Māori, the head is a very sacred part of your body. We always call the head tapu because it’s where you hold all your knowledge – it’s where whakapapa is held, karakia is held,” says Māori Party MP Rawiri Waititi. He sources his iconic cowboy hats from Australian brand Akubra and American brand Stetson and believes that “if you wear a hat, you should wear a good hat”.

Debbie Ngarewa-Packer and Rawiri Waititi wear their hats proudly in the house (Photo: Māori Party Facebook)

When the Māori Party threw their pōtae into the political ring again this year, the then Waiariki hopeful Waititi stood out immediately with his signature cowboy hat.

“It’s not just fashion – although I do like the look of it – but there’s sentimental value to why I wear the hat.”

Waititi, brought up on a dairy farm, wears his cowboy hat as a nod to his rural roots as well as to his tūpuna who fought in World War II. Their company within the Māori Battalion was also known as Ngā Kaupoi (cowboys), because horses were a common mode of transport along the East Coast.

For Māori, clothing can convey a range of information about the status of the wearer and the region they’re from – it plays an important part in iwi dynamics and identity. So while on the East Coast the cowboy hat has continued to be popular since World War II, the Kiingitanga have green tartan shawls or blankets and Ngāti Porou have purple scarves. These items of clothing have become a way for Māori to express associations with particular groups.

The regional significance of the hat is also reflected in Te Rohe Pōtae (area of the hat), the alternative name for King Country. The name stems from King Tāwhiao, who is said to have delineated the area of land by throwing a hat down on a map in the late 1870s. As we know, the head is sacred to Māori, and the idea that the pōtae related to authority over land was derived from the crown worn by Queen Victoria – a symbol of her authority. While the name “Te Rohe Pōtae” is most often associated with the King Country, it’s also used elsewhere to refer to autonomous Māori land.

While some have reacted with outrage at the pair for “breaking the rules” of parliamentary dress code, Waititi has checked the tikanga around wearing hats indoors. “If the roof is high, you can wear them.” In fact, historically there was a whole raft of rules and etiquette around hat wearing in New Zealand parliament. For example, if an MP wanted to speak after the doors had been locked for a vote, they had to be seated and wearing a hat. These days, it’s up to MPs whether or not they wear a hat. To everyone who has voiced concern – you can sleep easy tonight, Waititi and Ngarewa-Packer haven’t broken any rules.

Unidentified members of parliament in the debating chamber in Wellington in the 1890s (Photo: Malcolm Ross, Ref: 1/1-006657-G, /records/23177618, Alexander Turnbull Library)

Chanel Clarke (Ngāpuhi, Waikato), is curator Māori at Auckland Museum. Clarke’s research looks at the social and cultural aspects of clothing and textiles – in particular, clothing worn by Māori in the 19th century.

Clarke explains that Ngarewa-Packer’s choice of colonial-esque outfit punctuated with a top hat harks back to when Māori began wearing European clothing – a style of dress that we’ve most likely all seen in 19th-century photography of Māori. Instead of dressing by European norms, many Māori “adopted and adapted” pieces of clothing. Shirts might be worn as scarves, piupiu or kākahu would be cloaked over blazers or lace dresses, and wāhine would wear hats traditionally reserved for men. In response to a commenter on Facebook questioning her choice of hat, Debbie Ngarewa-Packer replied defiantly: “As a wahine I’ll wear what I want”.

“It shows Māori agency in the way they’re dressing and that they weren’t bound by those European norms; so if a woman wanted to wear a top hat or a bowler hat, she would,” says Clarke.

Similar examples exist in other indigenous cultures too – Aymara and Quechua women in Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador wear bowler hats as a way of reclaiming their indigenous identity.

Historically, Māori women wearing hats was a way for them to display their status and to play with gender norms. According to Clarke, Ngarewa-Packer’s choice of hat clearly references these ideas.

In many ways these hats parallel the position of the Māori Party within parliament too. Just as wearing these hats is a disruption of Pākehā norms, so too are their political goals. It’s about taking Pākehā ways of doing things – whether that’s wearing hats or making legislation – and modifying them to liberate and empower tangata whenua. They’re also a joyful acknowledgement of tūpuna – a sentiment echoed last week by Rawiri Waititi in his maiden speech as he replaced his necktie with a bone pendant: “I will adorn myself with the treasures of my ancestors.”

“They’re making that political statement; this is who we are, this is where we’ve come from and as we move forward, we intend to keep referring back to those people who have put us here,” says Clarke.

Wearing a hat for Māori can be a totally practical decision; something to keep the sun off our faces, to hide a bald spot or bad hair day, to protect ourselves at work or to keep our heads warm. But the unwavering significance of pōtae throughout our history means that wearing one can also be imbued with a whole lot more meaning and be one small way of walking backwards into the future: ka mua, ka muri.

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