Making rēwana is about more than just a recipe – it’s a journey of patience, care and persistence.

A subtle smell is filling our living room as my son crawls around playing with his nana. It has the familiar scent of freshly baked bread, with a slight hint of sweetness. In the oven, a boule-shaped loaf of rēwana is almost ready. The lid is off and the crust is becoming a perfect shade of brown. 

I open the oven door, pull the burning hot cast iron dutch oven out and put it on a wooden chopping board. My stomach is already rumbling as I carefully take two sides of the baking paper on which the golden loaf sits and sling it out of the big yellow enamel pot I hope to pass on to my son one day. Before letting the bread cool on a wire rack, I lean in to listen and tap the bottom of the loaf. It sounds hollow, which is a sure sign the bread is cooked as it should be. 

Lesson #1: Looks can be deceiving

After a while, I cut the boule down the middle of the overly exposed middle score. Inside, it isn’t the prettiest loaf I’ve made – one of the scores was too deep and the crumb is slightly uneven, with larger air pockets near the edges. Undeterred, I slice an end piece off and paint it with an unhealthy amount of butter. Surprisingly, this is one of the tangier and more complexly flavoured loaves I have baked. The crust is crispy and chewy. There is just the right amount of sweetness and saltiness to complement the signature tang of rēwana. Looks can be deceiving.

While I can’t recall my first ever taste of rēwana (also commonly written as rēwena), I can remember it being a staple at many marae and Māori households I used to visit with my father growing up. There would often be a loaf of rēwana sitting on the table alongside the meal. It’s the perfect vessel for soaking up the flavour-packed juices of a boil-up and fish heads, or drizzling with golden syrup or lathering with jam for a simple sweet treat. However, in recent years, rēwana seems to have taken a backseat in te ao Māori, with fried bread becoming the more popular choice. 

Lesson #2: Feel the fear and do it anyway

As an avid home cook, I have long made a point of avoiding baking. I’ve always perceived it as being too much of an exact science for someone who usually operates by sight, taste, feel, and listening to my ancestors. However, I’ve since come to learn that feel is particularly important in baking bread, especially with how variable conditions can be and how that impacts the final product. It also helps that rēwana is quite a forgiving baked good.

Until recently, the majority of my recent rēwana experiences had been limited to the sadly subpar $8 loaves from the Hangi Shop in Ōtāhuhu. While I didn’t catch the sourdough bug through the Covid pandemic, I did finally discover the joys of baking bread over the recent summer break – pretty much by accident. At the end of last year, desperate to create a thoughtful secret Santa gift, I decided to make my colleague a kūmara rēwana starter bug.  I chose to use purple kūmara for the bug, hoping to give it a point of difference and authenticity over the more commonly used potato. After realising I probably made a bit too much for one bug, I split it into two, deciding to give rēwana a go – blissfully unaware of what would ensue.

Lesson #3: Trust your gut

As mentioned above, baking bread is very instinctual. What does the dough look like? How does it feel? What are your ancestors saying to you? After a few loaves, you start to get a feel for what the dough should feel like, how long it will need to proof for, and how much sugar and salt is right for your taste.

Lesson #4: It’s good to care for something other than yourself

It didn’t take long for me to realise that by creating a rēwana bug, I had made a commitment to caring for a living organism. It was yet another thing I had to remember to feed, water and keep warm alongside my son, dog, cat, and myself. The first few days after making the bug were relatively uneventful, besides me feeding the bug a couple spoonfuls of flour and sugar every day, and falling into the rabbit hole of dos and don’ts of rēwana.

Lesson #5: Patience truly is a virtue

By day five, the bug was starting to form small bubbles and become visibly active. It was time to bake. With no special secret rēwana recipes handed down to me and so many different suggestions on the interwebs, I did what any reasonable millennial would do – I asked ChatGPT for its ultimate rēwana recipe.

After making my dough, I waited for it to double in size, also known as the first proof. The dough took over 24 hours to increase in size and my patience was wearing thin. It was good enough for me. I punched it down, shaped it into a round boule and left it for a second proof. Again, the second proof took a long time, and I eventually couldn’t wait any longer. I scored the dough, put it in the oven and hoped for the best. After 35 minutes, I had baked my first ever loaf of rēwana. 

Unfortunately, it was far from the best loaf of rēwana I had ever eaten, but it wasn’t a complete failure either. The bread didn’t rise as well as it probably should’ve and the tang was subtle at best. After running some quick Google diagnostics, I realised that the bug probably wasn’t as active as it should’ve been and my proofing needed to be somewhere warmer.

Lesson #6: Nothing is perfect, that’s what gives us character

Approximately three weeks have passed since I made my first rēwana loaf and I have made a few since. I have come to realise that no two loaves are the same. One day your bread might be crispy with uniform air pockets and another day it might have large air pockets and be dense in the middle. Each loaf is unique to its circumstances and that’s what makes it interesting – looking at the bread tells you the story of its journey.

Lesson #7: To grow, we have to make sacrifices

The key part of rēwana is the starter bug. When caring for your bug, it’s important to make sure it has enough space to grow. Often, that can mean discarding some of the bug so you can feed it more. It’s a good analogy for the sacrifices we have to make in life. At times, we have to let go of what no longer serves us so we can keep moving forward.

Another practice I have learnt is tearing off some of your dough and feeding it to your bug before baking your bread. It’s the circle of life. Give and take.

Lesson #8: Everything has mauri

Some starter bugs have been passed down through multiple generations of a family. Just as with my dutch oven from The Warehouse, I also hope my son will one day inherit my kūmara rēwana starter bug. Hopefully, it’ll teach him some of the lessons it has taught me. These things have mana and mauri. They have their own life force and that deserves to be respected and nurtured. 

Lesson #9: Love is the most vital ingredient

Breadmaking often reflects a person’s mood and energy level because it requires patience, creativity and effort. If a loaf is over-kneaded, it might suggest a day of trying too hard or overthinking things. If it’s burnt, the person might’ve had a rough day, full of distractions or stress. If it’s a tasty loaf with lots of time and effort clearly put into it, then the person is probably feeling good. It’s highly likely you will be able to feel and taste the love.

This is Public Interest Journalism funded by NZ On Air.

With dozens of Māori seats up for referendum, this year’s local elections will reveal where Aotearoa truly stands on representation.

Last year, the government introduced legislation requiring all local authorities that had established Māori wards and constituencies to hold a referendum on these seats during this year’s local government elections. The policy, which faced strong opposition from councils and Māori communities, has resulted in a total of 42 authorities set to hold a referendum on Māori wards in October. 

The cost of these referendums is estimated to exceed $2 million, with the Greater Wellington Regional Council alone projecting costs of $350,000. This financial burden, coupled with the likelihood of anti-Māori representation outcomes, has fuelled frustration among advocates of Māori representation.

The move reverses a Labour government policy that had removed citizen-initiated binding referendums on Māori wards. Critics see this shift as a blow to Māori wards, given the anticipated majority opposition in October’s votes. The challenge for them now lies in mobilising enough public support to retain these wards through the ballot box in local elections with notoriously low voter turnout.

In a December High Court ruling, Te Rūnanga o Ngāti Whātua’s appeal against Kaipara District Council’s decision to abolish its Māori ward was dismissed. Among New Zealand’s 78 councils, only Kaipara District Council and Upper Hutt City Council opted to disestablish Māori wards. Councils that established wards through votes were not required to hold referendums, and others, like the Far North District Council, continue to explore the ramifications of avoiding a public vote.

Six months ago, I wrote about the evolution of Māori activism, emphasising the need for collective efforts beyond hīkoi and grassroots protests. Late last year, one of the largest ever hīkoi to parliament took place, opposing perceived anti-Māori policies. The movement led to a record number of submissions on the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill – which is apparently “dead in the water” – and a surge in Māori voter registrations. Over 3,000 people enrolled on the Māori electoral roll during the hīkoi, driven by calls from prominent Māori leaders.

Stats NZ data from June 2023 compiled by the Local Government Commission indicates that if all eligible Māori voters registered on the Māori roll, and all local authorities had Māori wards, there could be 113 Māori seats across local authorities, which would make up approximately 13% of all council seats. With the growth in the Māori electoral population in the year and a half since, that number is now likely to be even higher. However, civic engagement remains a challenge. Despite growing awareness, voter turnout at local elections has steadily declined in recent years.

In the last general election, total voter turnout was 78.2%, down from 82.2% in 2020. Turnout for Māori voters on both the general and Māori rolls was 70.3%, slightly lower than the 72.9% in 2020. Yet, young Māori voters defied the trend. Turnout among 18 to 24-year-old Māori rose to 70.3%, marking a significant increase over previous years.

In 2023, parliament published an inquiry into the 2022 Local Elections, with low voter turnout being a primary focus. A statistical analysis conducted by Auckland Council found that those who identified as being of Māori descent when enrolling were less likely to vote than those of non-Māori descent, with 25% of Māori likely to vote vs 39% of non-Māori. In 1989, there was an average turnout of 60% across all local authorities. By 2022, that average had decreased to 42%. The inquiry made a number of recommendations to improve a range of areas like resources, processes and even trials for online and electronic voting. The aim was to implement key changes before this year’s local elections.

The referendums on Māori seats are about more than local governance; their outcomes will shape the trajectory of representation and inclusivity in New Zealand for years to come. They serve as a barometer for the country’s evolving views on equity and partnership under Te Tiriti o Waitangi. A vote to remove the wards would signal a retreat from efforts to uplift underrepresented voices, while a result that keeps them could bolster momentum for broader structural change. As voters cast their ballots, the implications of their decisions will ripple beyond local councils, influencing debates on national identity and governance in ways that will be felt for generations. 

This is Public Interest Journalism funded by NZ On Air.