Collage showing a woman's serious expression and a child's silhouette, with text discussing Section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act. Headlines question the impact of its repeal on health outcomes for Māori children and mention evidence being sought.
Oranga Tamariki minister Karen Chhour (Image design: Liam Rātana)

OPINIONĀteaFebruary 20, 2025

Can Canada and the US guide the way on Indigenous child protection?

Collage showing a woman's serious expression and a child's silhouette, with text discussing Section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act. Headlines question the impact of its repeal on health outcomes for Māori children and mention evidence being sought.
Oranga Tamariki minister Karen Chhour (Image design: Liam Rātana)

With the repeal of Section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act looking set to go ahead, with some key changes, here’s what we can learn from North America.

The Oranga Tamariki (Removal of Section 7AA) Amendment Bill recently had its second reading in parliament. The bill would repeal section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act, a provision intended to uphold te Tiriti o Waitangi within our child protection system. The proposed removal comes despite widespread opposition from Māori and a 2024 Waitangi Tribunal report that found it would breach the principles of te Tiriti and harm Māori children and families. The report was scathing, with the tribunal concluding that “we are struggling to understand how any government having proper regard to the Treaty could conclude that the repeal of section 7AA was appropriate.”

Despite the above, the repeal of section 7AA looks set to continue. The government’s determination to move forward is hard to fathom, given the widespread evidence – including from Oranga Tamariki officials – that section 7AA has helped to improve outcomes for children. There is no evidence that the repeal will make Oranga Tamariki more efficient or effective. In light of the broad range of anti-Tiriti measures being championed by this government, it is difficult to see the repeal as anything but yet another attack on Māori. 

However, last month’s second reading of the bill featured one notable change. Part of section 7AA compels Oranga Tamariki to consider forming “strategic partnerships” with iwi and Māori organisations. Ten such partnerships have already been formed, and these so-called “strategic partners” were some of the most vocal opponents of the repeal during the select committee process. Perhaps as a result, the revised version of the bill retains these partnerships, continuing to repeal section 7AA but incorporating the partnerships aspect of it elsewhere in the legislation. Will that dampen the opposition to the repeal? More importantly, will it actually uphold te Tiriti o Waitangi and improve things for tamariki and whānau Māori? 

One source of answers to these questions may lie overseas. A recent research project, supported by Ngā Pae o te Maramatanga, has examined the issue of Indigenous child protection in Canada and the United States. Specifically, the project sought to understand the ways in which the legal and policy frameworks for child protection in those countries uphold the rights of Indigenous peoples, and how those frameworks differ from Aotearoa New Zealand. The project found that although the laws and policies of those countries are far from perfect, in some ways they are well ahead of us. In particular, there is a recognition that the care and protection of Indigenous children and families is first and foremost an issue of Indigenous sovereignty. 

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That is a major difference from the approach taken here in Aotearoa New Zealand, where the term “rangatiratanga” does not appear in the Oranga Tamariki Act. This is a significant shortcoming of that law, because tino rangatiratanga is arguably the most central aspect of te Tiriti o Waitangi. The term rangatiratanga has been variously translated as authority, independence or self-determination, with the intensifier “tino” in this context simply meaning “complete” or “absolute”. 

So while reference to te Tiriti o Waitangi was finally added to the Oranga Tamariki Act for the first time in 2017, the lack of reference to rangatiratanga (let alone tino rangatiratanga) means those provisions still fall well short of fully upholding te Tiriti. An earlier Waitangi Tribunal report, published in 2021, found the failure of the law to acknowledge rangatiratanga amounted to a “fundamental and pervasive breach of te Tiriti/the Treaty and its principles”.

In contrast, the legal frameworks for Indigenous child protection in Canada and the US both start from a recognition of Indigenous sovereignty. This has been the case for almost 50 years in the US, with the passing of a law called the Indian Child Welfare Act (ICWA) in 1978 being a key milestone. Developments in Canada are more recent and arguably more comprehensive, most notably in the form of a 2019 law called Bill-C92: An Act respecting First Nations, Inuit and Métis children

Both Bill C-92 and the ICWA affirm Indigenous peoples’ rights to raise their children according to their own laws, traditions and customs, framing child protection as an issue of Indigenous sovereignty. They establish that any government intervention in Indigenous families must be guided by this fundamental principle. Recently challenged in the Canadian and US Supreme Courts, both laws were upheld as constitutional, confirming their alignment with the broader legal frameworks of each country, including human rights protections. In effect, the highest courts in North America have decisively recognised Indigenous jurisdiction over child welfare, signalling a growing legal consensus that treating Indigenous child protection as a sovereignty matter is largely uncontroversial.

Despite Aotearoa not being identical to the US or Canada, we can learn from these examples. The development of iwi social services and other kaupapa Māori organisations over the past 40 years has left Māori communities better placed to resume control over our own child protection systems. Such organisations are part of what academic Kathie Irwin has termed “the Māori cultural infrastructure”, and are a key reason why now is the time for change. As Moana Eruera, chief executive of Ngāpuhi Iwi Social Services, said during the hearings into the repeal, “we have obligations to our people, and want accountability and responsibility for providing those solutions. We have them, we work on those solutions every day.”

In many respects, these developments on the ground mirror what is happening in Canada and the US, but our laws are yet to catch up. In New Zealand, successive governments have passed child protection laws which ignore rangatiratanga and fail to reflect te Tiriti. They have often claimed that doing so would be too complex, but this is simply not the case. Our child protection laws can, and should, start from a place of rangatiratanga. Reference to tino rangatiratanga in the principles of the Oranga Tamariki Act would be a good start, and genuine power sharing would be an important next step, but the ultimate goal should be a transition towards the “by Māori, for Māori” system described by the Waitangi Tribunal in 2021. 

The opposition to the repeal of section 7AA should therefore continue, despite the government’s plan to retain strategic partnerships. The organisations within those partnerships do vital work for tamariki and whānau, but those agreements still fall short of what is envisaged by te Tiriti. Tamariki Māori remain significantly over-represented in the child protection system, and the repeal of section 7AA will make that worse, just as the Waitangi Tribunal predicted. But there is another way – as Indigenous peoples in Canada and the US are demonstrating. We should perhaps take greater note of that as the debate continues.

Keep going!
A glitch art image showing overlapping, distorted figures. One figure on the left appears in multiple layers with a serious expression, while the figure on the right is eating popcorn, smiling. Several question marks are scattered across a blue background.
Design: Liam Rātana

OPINIONĀteaFebruary 17, 2025

Who is Matua Kahurangi and does it matter if he’s fake?

A glitch art image showing overlapping, distorted figures. One figure on the left appears in multiple layers with a serious expression, while the figure on the right is eating popcorn, smiling. Several question marks are scattered across a blue background.
Design: Liam Rātana

A search for the person behind a social media account ridiculing Māori.

Last week, while scrolling Facebook, I came across a post shared to the New Zealand Centre for Political Research group. The post began, “From Matua Kahurangi on X”, before pasting his critique of iwi leadership – particularly Ngāpuhi – accusing the “Māori elite” of failing their people. It shared a story about a woman who couldn’t afford to cater a tangi, contrasting her struggle with the perceived wealth of Māori executives. The post argued that those in power drive “flash utes” while the people they claim to serve are left behind.

The New Zealand Centre for Political Research is a right-wing think tank, so I was initially skeptical of this “Matua Kahurangi”. But as I read on, I found myself agreeing with some of the points made. Te Tai Tokerau does face serious challenges – like the post mentions, the region struggles with a widening wealth gap, homelessness, addiction and violence. Even I was surprised to see Hone Harawira driving a Range Rover at Waitangi.

“The vape shops are booming, the liquor stores have queues before sunrise, and the local meth dealer is running a more successful business model than half the Māori trusts combined,” the post read.

The post hit home for me but also raised questions. Who was behind it? How credible were their claims? And why did it seem – in parts – oddly constructed?

The further I read, the more I suspected artificial intelligence played a role in crafting the post. The use of American spelling (“mobilize,” “realized”) and capitalised headlines were early indicators. The image attached to the post had the familiar distortions of AI-generated visuals. The tone also, felt strangely detached.

Despite these oddities, the post quickly gained traction. Māori and Pākehā alike engaged with its themes – some supporting its arguments, others condemning them. When I visited X to investigate Matua Kahurangi further, I found an anonymous profile built to criticise Māori institutions, left-wing politics, and to subtly (and sometimes overtly) advocate for Act Party policies.

A group of men in suits and ties stand in front of a traditional building. The man in front has facial markings and holds a briefcase. Other men in the background also carry briefcases. The building has a peaked roof and ornate carvings.
An example of the AI-generated imagery being shared on the Matua Kahurangi X account. (Image: Matua Kahurangi X)

Matua Kahurangi’s bio read: Investigative journalist, protector of whakapapa. Hunter, fisher, kaitiaki of the whenua. Staunch supporter of the Treaty Principles Bill.” Earlier iterations interestingly described him as a “New Zealand historian” and mentioned his support of the “Treaty Principals Bill”.

The account was created in March last year but the earliest post on the page is from January 26 this year. Scrolling through posts on the page, it is difficult to find a commenter who appears to be an actual person. Notable figures like Zuru founder Nick Mowbray and NZME editorial director of business Fran O’Sullivan were among the few high-profile individuals interacting with or following the account – otherwise, it seemed largely populated by anonymous users and bots.

As media reports picked up on the post, focus turned to figuring out the real identity of the person behind the account (or behind the AI-generated profile pictures of a man with a poorly drawn mataora eating fried chicken). Last week, Kahurangi shared that he had launched a Substack, leveraging his newfound visibility to build an audience. His reach was growing – but his identity remained elusive. 

I was determined to figure out who Kahurangi was. Was he an Act Party staffer employing the most cynical of political tactics? Was he a troll? Or was he a concerned Māori too afraid to critique so heavily under a real name? I downloaded Python, attempting to scrape Kahurangi’s data, but hit access restrictions. I analysed his X following, looking for patterns or connections, and found myself on the page of a random OnlyFans model he followed. I reverse-searched his profile images, combed through right-wing blogs and scrutinised his interactions. Kahurangi was careful. He knew how to cover his tracks.

His pinned post on X read: I genuinely believe that if my identity was exposed, my life is at risk.”

Such fear isn’t entirely unfounded. Screenshots circulated on right-wing blogs such as Simon Anderson’s Substack and Good Oil (run by infamous blogger Cam Slater) showing threats allegedly directed at Kahurangi, though their origins were unverifiable. This paranoia, whether justified or performative, only deepened the mystery around his true identity.

While Kahurangi claims ties to the Far North, specifically Te Ngaere Bay, no supporting information exists. His previous X cover photo showed Matapouri, his current one a coastal scene near Leigh – both scenic Northland locations, but hardly definitive proof of whakapapa.

Zuru founder Nick Mowbray recently shared a post from the Matua Kahurangi acocunt. (Source: screenshot from x.com)

“Many may have seen a post making its way around the motu this morning.  After investigation we can confirm this is a fake account with fake AI generated pictures,” read a statement from Te Rūnanga-Ā-Iwi O Ngāpuhi posted on its Facebook account.

Two self-proclaimed journalists, Simon Anderson and Hannah Spierer, claimed to have spoken with him. Spierer described his voice as hori from Northland,” using racially charged language to frame him as someone who had “left the plantation” and was being attacked by “slaves”. I reached out to both, but Anderson declined to comment, and Spierer did not respond.

Unable to send direct messages to Kahurangi, and with no solid leads remaining, my search for his identity reached a dead end. But while his name remains unknown, his impact is undeniable. The original post sparked conversations about the distribution of iwi wealth, the state of Te Tai Tokerau and the credibility of anonymous voices in online discourse.

More importantly, it underscores a broader trend: the rise of anonymous digital commentators shaping political narratives. Whether Kahurangi is a real Northlander or an ideological grifter hiding behind AI-assisted content, his influence is real. His posts exploit genuine frustrations, blending fact and rhetoric in ways that resonate with an audience looking for validation rather than verification.

The case of Matua Kahurangi isn’t just about one account – it’s about the evolving nature of political discourse in the digital age. Social media has democratised access to information but also created fertile ground for anonymous, agenda-driven actors to shape public opinion without accountability.

For Māori communities, this raises pressing questions: How do we separate fair critique from manufactured dissent? How do we address internal inequalities without allowing external forces to exploit them? And, crucially, how do we respond to digital ghost stories that gain traction despite their lack of provenance?

Matua Kahurangi’s identity remains unknown. But his existence – real or fabricated – reflects a moment in time where online narratives shape real-world conversations. Whether we engage with them critically or blindly accept them will determine their lasting impact.

Ātea