Tension without tikanga: the damaging face of the treaty claims settlement system

Histories of Taranaki

According to Taranaki narratives (Waitangi Tribunal, 1996), there are three waka (ancestral sea-voyaging canoe) that provide the main reference points for connection to Taranaki tribes: Aotea, Kurahaupō and Tokomaru. Prior to the arrival of British settlers, the main inhabitants in the Taranaki rohe (region or area) were linked by tribal affiliations within geographical boundaries. Today, the region is home to eight formally recognised iwi—Ngāti Tama, Ngāti Mutunga, Ngāti Maru, Te Ati Awa, Taranaki, Ngā Ruahine, Ngāti Ruanui and Ngā Rauru. A strong point of connection is found in the rivers that flow from the mountain, Mounga Taranaki (mount Taranaki), which continue to be acknowledged as a core element of collective tribal connection. Although all of the iwi have their distinct identity, they maintain multiple genealogical links through histories, contemporary alliances and overlapping geographical, economic and cultural interests (R. Hond, personal communication, 18 January 2020). There have also been instances of inter-iwi conflict within the region evidenced by a succession of localised hostilities (Te Kupenga Mātauranga o Taranaki, 2011), alongside a history of conflict with iwi from elsewhere.

The signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, an agreement between the Crown and Māori leaders, began in February 1840. There are two versions, one in te reo (Māori language) and one in English containing significant differences in meaning, particularly around issues of sovereignty and rangatiratanga (chiefly authority). From the 1840s and well into the 1850s, there was increasing pressure on government to provide land for the waves of settlers wanting to emigrate to New Plymouth and the Taranaki region (Adds, 2010; Allen, 2009; O’Malley, 2019; Riseborough, 2002; Waitangi Tribunal, 1996). Many arrived with the false understanding that they had already purchased land in Taranaki from the New Zealand Company (Te Kupenga Mātauranga o Taranaki, 2011), which led to escalating aggression by the Crown to acquire Māori land. From the 1860s onwards, a series of wars and attacks by the Crown ensued, and Māori in Taranaki experienced the violent suppression of their rights as a continuous struggle well into the 1890s and beyond (R. Hond, personal communication, 18 January 2020). This resulted in significant disruptions to structures such as whānau (family and extended family), hapū, iwi and papakāinga (Mika et al., 2019; Wirihana & Smith, 2014). In their place, a number of Crown structures, such as collectives of owners or shareholders and management committees, were imposed. Large-scale deforestation and agricultural development of Māori lands exacerbated further disruption in the form of externally imposed operating systems through which the Crown could control Māori aspirations for rangatiratanga guaranteed in te Tiriti.

Waitangi Tribunal

After years of Treaty activism from the land rights movement and other associated organisations (e.g. Harris, 2004; Walker, 2004), the passing of the Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975 was the first official recognition of the Treaty in modern times (Barrett & Connolly-Stone, 1998). The Act led to the establishment of the Waitangi Tribunal—a permanent commission of inquiry empowered to look at breaches of the treaty from 1975 onwards (Belich, 1996; Fitzgerald, 2004; King, 2003; Melvin, 2004; Walker, 2004) and make non-binding recommendations to the government on how to rectify these (Barrett & Connolly-Stone, 1998; Sorenson, 2014; Tauri & Webb, 2011).

The passing of the Treaty of Waitangi Amendment Act 1985 extended the powers of the Tribunal to investigate historical grievances as far back as 1840 (Melvin, 2004; Walker, 2004) and provided many iwi with a mechanism and forum to express long-held injustices. For the first time, Māori were able to voice their experiences and knowledge of colonising processes (Ward, 1999) and histories previously excluded from the public domain (Mutu, 2019). Claimants whose claims were upheld entered into negotiations with the Crown over claims settlements, which mainly involved financial redress and the return of portions of land. With tikanga and kawa (customs) stripped away, the English adversarial system determined by the Crown is the central protocol. Multiple tensions have arisen over the processes, nature and extent of redress offered, including the Crown’s ability to determine who is and is not legitimate in a Crown-imposed Treaty claims settlement context. At its worst, ruthlessly pursued divide and rule tactics (Mutu, 2019) lead to a breakdown of relationships, where claimants defend themselves and fight for recognition at the expense of others who are often relations and close neighbouring hapū.

In addition, rather than a transparent process where contested viewpoints can be aired, negotiations are required to be confidential, a process at odds with the broader claimant constituents (Mutu, 2019). The cost for those excluded or invalidated through this process is further injury among those traumatised by previous hostilities, which can take generations to repair (Mutu, 2019). Validation and participation in this context are made more complex by the Crown’s recognition of rūnanga as legal entities and the subsequent understanding that these are key structures for Crown engagement. Instead of healing, these sometimes exclusionary processes continue to leave some people and entities feeling disempowered and disenfranchised (Mika et al., 2019; Poata-Smith, 2004a, 2004b).

Rūnanga

The Rūnanga Iwi Act of 1990, a short-lived piece of legislation, enabled the establishment of commercially restructured iwi authorities based on the customary notion of a Rūnanga (tribal council) (Cox, 1993; Hall, 2004; Hill, 2009; Poata-Smith, 2004a). Of particular concern was the prescriptive nature of the legislation as it positioned new corporate tribal entities as the official voices for Māori society (Poata-Smith, 2004a, 2004b; Sharp, 2015). This gave rise to concerns about mandate and the risk of fragmentation (Erueti & Ward, 2001; Hall, 2004; Mika et al., 2019; Poata-Smith, 2004a) as not everyone, such as those living away from their tribal areas, felt represented by these structures (Mika et al., 2019; Rangiheuea, 2010). Furthermore, questions over the actual autonomy being offered to Māori through these reinvented Rūnanga structures were raised, as many saw them as another state apparatus through which Māori aspirations could be monitored by the Crown (Hill, 2009).

With the advent of claims processes, the Crown then dealt with selected groups at the expense of others, often resulting in whānau, hapū and iwi being set up in competition with each other. In the example of the Ngā Puhi (an iwi located in the Northland region of Aotearoa New Zealand) claim and settlement, this unilateral approach locked hapū out of the negotiation process (National Business Review, 2018). Hapū struggle to have their rangatiratanga recognised and to be present in negotiations over limited resources (Poata-Smith, 2004a, 2004b). Issues and conflicts arising from imposed structures are compounded and unresolved by the processes used to address claims and give voice to claimants. Crown processes, along with the politico-historical context in which they operate, continue to have a significant influence on shaping the individual and collective identities of Māori in the present (Mika et al., 2019; Poata-Smith, 2004a, 2004b; Rangiheuea, 2010). While not unique to these challenges by any means, Taranaki provides one case study where issues of mandate, fragmentation, mana and tikanga can be observed and further understood.

Treaty claims settlements in Taranaki

The tensions mentioned earlier in terms of who is, and who is not, seen as a legitimate party in these processes can be seen in treaty claims settlement experiences in Taranaki. Ngāti Tāwhirikura hapū, one of eight hapū who collectively make up Te Atiawa iwi (Te Atiawa are one of eight formally recognised tribes in Taranaki), were excluded from negotiations after being relegated to the status of emergent hapū by the iwi authority, a move endorsed by the Crown, and were driven to fight to be included in the treaty claims settlement process. Despite having already established the Ngāti Tāwhirikura Hapū A Trust in 2005 and having directly engaged with the Crown on issues of surplus Crown land in New Plymouth city, in 2009 they were not afforded an independent position at the decision-making table alongside other hapū representatives as part of Te Atiawa Iwi Authority (G. Skipper, personal communication, 8 August, 2019). Although they never ceded their agency, the mandate for Ngāti Tāwhirikura was given to other hapū during the claims settlement process. This left the hapū without a direct voice in political fora that had direct implications for their identity and wellbeing.

In this article, we draw on interviews from a doctoral study that explored initiatives aiming to strengthen and reconnect the people of this Taranaki hapū. We describe experiences of the claim and settlement process from the point of view of key Ngāti Tāwhirikura hapū members and how, despite tensions, this provided an impetus for the development of a hapū aspirations framework as a way of dealing with, and moving on from, the grief and loss of agency.

Reacting to imposed structures

The hapū members attended numerous hui ā iwi (tribal gatherings) to assert their right to be recognised as a distinct entity alongside other hapū in the claim and settlement processes. Reflecting on this time, the participants described feeling voiceless and concerned about the significant tensions and conflict between individuals. The hapū felt they had to prove the existence of a distinct identity to be considered part of the treaty claims settlement process. According to Tamati (male, 48),

Yeah . . . it was all conflict, in order to get anything done and to create any space. Because effectively the political and the economic spaces were already filled and in order for us as a hapū to have any of that space you had to knock someone out of your space. You had to get in there boots and all.

Tamati describes Māori being set up against each other; rather than enabling inclusion and for all voices to be heard, one party is seen as being able to take part at the expense of another. Time is also seen as a factor, with spaces already filled, indicating limited time to work through multiple interests. He acknowledges the tensions inherent in these restricted processes and indicates some reluctance about the felt need to get in there boots and all. Participants contrasted the apparent lack of collective leadership with what they saw as a more managerial structure, which struggled to bring people together in processes of resolution and healing. For Tamati, there was “. . . no leadership you know just management leadership and every meeting you know was just a scrap—it was just dysfunction.” These excerpts illustrate multiple layers of tension and conflict arising during the Taranaki claims settlement process. Together they provide some insights into the damage resulting from selected recognition, with Māori feeling compelled to compete for recognition within the treaty claims settlement processes and the structures developed to supposedly facilitate engagement and management.

Imposed processes

Kara (female, 52) expands on the reluctance to engage in conflict, as they describe grief over the fighting and splits within families:

On this side was this faction and on the other side was another one, and I remember going up and sitting there and just crying, and people loving a fight aye—“what are you crying for?” “Your brother is over there and you two aren’t speaking to each other and you’re telling each other to fuck up.” That was how bad it was it was shocking, and I cried I just sat there and cried, and I said, “This has just split us.”

This excerpt illustrates various feeling positions in relation to tensions. One position is an apparent acceptance of fighting and another is the felt grief at the effects of the disputes—anger, separation and shock. For Tamati, deciding to take on the values of rangatiratanga meant resisting negative responses and looking for guidance to understand what rangatiratanga meant to them:

So, you’ve got this real ugliness being portrayed and it’s thrown against you and your basic instinct is to throw it back—except you don’t want to throw it back, you want to be the best, you want to be the rangatira and act like a rangatira to counter someone acting like a clown. But then I had to know well what does that mean?

These experiences left the participants with unresolved feelings. To move beyond anger and grief, they stepped outside the claims process to seek healing and a way forward, drawing on their tikanga and stories.

Drawing on histories

One pathway to resolving their more negative feelings about voice and conflict involved drawing on iwi and hapū examples. The first was Parihaka (a Māori village 45 km south of New Plymouth), which provided a blueprint for peaceful resistance and standing up in the face of opposition. According to Tamati, “I had learnt and had to learn that from the various times that our whānau have stood up and so there was a clear precedence within our whānau even traceable from Parihaka through other petitions and all sorts of stuff.” Tamati appears to gain strength from this example and goes on to describe strong women within their hapū, referring to a history of telling their story for collective benefit:

. . . there was a clear precedence within our whānau to stand up for other peoples’ rights so regardless of how old we were it’s not me it’s our whānau and I’m just continuing what they’ve done—here’s the petition and this is what they’ve said and this is what I’m saying—it’s the same thing they said 60 years ago, forget about me this is us as a people continuing . . . to state that this is the bottom line.

In addition to drawing on local histories to guide their actions, the participant is positioned within this history by continuing the work of others. They also draw strength from the concept that this is not an individual pursuit for personal reasons but is for our whānau and us as a people. This clearly motivates the hapū leadership to develop their own pathways forward, as Tamati found:

But what it meant for us right from the very beginning, and all of the stuff we’ve kind of done is that we knew we had to do it ourselves, we had to find our own ways forward and we had to act like rangatira (chiefs) . . . act like a hapū, take ownership of issues and be clear.

In this context, Tamati highlights how the hurt and anger of being excluded were used as a basis to explore the notion of rangatiratanga. The ability to do so enabled them to reflect and reconceptualise what rangatiratanga meant to them in the context of their distinct hapū identity and provided a basis for their collective actions towards this.

Guiding values and tikanga

The hapū began to focus on and explore internal development based on reframing the dynamics of engagement. This was an impetus to better explore individual and collective rangatiratanga, rather than perpetuating the breakdown of relationships between whānau. The hapū focused on what they aspired to for the wellbeing and sustenance of their people. Here, Tamati underlines alternative aspirations aimed at ensuring access to necessities and basic living standards:

I just think that we wanted more. We felt that we could, with something really aspirational to really be able to make a difference, to really be able to put roofs over people’s heads and food in their bellys kind of stuff.

Drawing further on local values, including those exemplified by the Parihaka movement, the hapū developed an aspirations framework document, designed to guide their actions in pursuit of their goals. This provided a way for the hapū to seek self-determination regardless of the treaty claims settlement processes and disruptions. According to Tamati,

. . . the values have been set by us in reflection of some of our stories around our tupuna. So, the value of holding on to that last piece of land for our marae (tribal gathering place) for instance. There’s a lot of things in those values documents that we took from Gary’s actions for instance around holding on to that land.

Guiding values were drawn from hapū, iwi and tupuna (ancestor) narratives, as well as their history of peaceful resistance. Land was seen as being of crucial importance to the development of self-determination, and the tikanga provided a roadmap to guide development. As Tamati elaborates,

We also have things like the pou tutaki and a lot of other things like Parihaka, the values of Parihaka strongly entrenched in that document and there’s a whole heap of things like that (pou tutaki refers to the carving erected in the Waiwhaiho valley as a symbol of the Māori land league that sought to resist the further alienation of Māori land in Taranaki). We have things like we won’t stand by idly; they’re all calls to action, they’re all action kind of values I suppose, you know about how we’re going to get on and do stuff.

A key aspect of development in this context was the need to ensure the safety of hapū members in the process, as Tamati continues:

I knew I needed it (the framework) so bad to keep me safe. But also to keep the hapū safe too, to keep us heading towards rangatiratanga—not being, you know, diverted towards things that weren’t real you know, things I didn’t think were real, like money. You know money is a tool, money can be a great tool but it’s not what we were there to do.

These reflections illustrate the way that narratives and histories of resistance were embedded within the hapū ethos and in hapū concepts of development. Although Tamati felt unable to resolve conflict within the treaty claims settlement space, here he works through ways of being safe, as an individual and as a hapū. To do this tikanga, processes underpinned by guiding values need to be articulated as a way forward.

The aspirations

Although the exclusion of the hapū from treaty claims settlement negotiations with the Crown was fraught and painful, it provided the group with an impetus to nurture their identity, celebrate hapūtanga (kinship links) and formalise this in some way. Tamati explains how

. . . we needed a statement; we needed a declaration and that was also something that we as a hapū had made a declaration about hapūtanga. Remember that iwi are in a Crown settlement situation and so you need things like these statements these broad statements to kind of legitimise yourself against a Crown kind of entity and to legitimatise yourself in their eyes or anybody’s eyes up against everybody else.

Development of an aspirations framework was also inspired by one of the participant’s engagement with a local social services model on relationship dynamics in the context of domestic violence. The contributions of power and control to toxic relationships and seeking ways to respond peacefully resonated with the hapū experiences in the treaty claims settlement process. Here Tamati reflects on work-related facilitation training he undertook, where the potential to learn from and adapt domestic violence frameworks became apparent:

I . . . was exposed to a whole lot of different frameworks around power and control and one of them stuck out to me as a really simple model which I kind of later realised it was a model for interpersonal relationships and how to maintain positive, or how to actually realise poisonous and really destructive relationships and what they look like.

The twin notions of power and control were given more context when the hapū considered the disempowering effects of Crown interactions with Māori that led to widespread disenfranchisement. Tamati explains that “. . . what I was framing up was . . . the taking of power and control by the Crown and what that has done to us. And just the same as when the . . . abused becomes the abuser.” These dynamics provided inspiration for the development of a framework for guiding transformative relationships for themselves and with others. For Tamati, the first step was to focus on examining and reframing their thinking:

. . . this whole framework was all about relationships, positive relationships and how that empowers people to get on and be the best they can be. But we’re so entrenched in the crap we can’t see a way forward and these things were really starting to frame up a way forward.

Self-reflection extended into a closer inspection of some of the core values the hapū ascribed to in a way that encouraged deeper reflection on their meaning and application, as Tamati elaborates:

. . . we already had all these words like manaaki (support) and kaitiakitanga (guardianship) and started to see them in a new light but I never had time to flesh out what they meant. But then all of a sudden all those whakaaro (ideas) they started to make sense to me with this idea that if you have the right framework within your community, that tikanga was really around projecting and enforcing the best out of the people—the best out of the community . . . that tikanga and words like kaitiakitanga and manaaki and aroha (love) and all these other words are actually about setting you on the best pathway.

The aspirations framework provides a benchmark against which their development can be measured. This enables the hapū to monitor and reflect on the effectiveness of strategic actions and related initiatives in the context of their collective hopes, goals and dreams. As Tamati articulates below, progress has been slow and steady:

Our horizon is up here and yes there is stuff happening below that but big picture stuff and stuff that’s really going to make a difference is up here—and how do we get up here? And it’s been for the last 6, 7, 8 years it’s been a slow steady climb towards getting ourselves in a position to really make a difference up here . . .. Yearly we update this so in ten years’ time we’ll be doing this—well it’s year 3 now . . . where are we going?

The aspirations framework was described as an expression of hapū resistance to the processes of colonisation and dominant ideologies and practices. For Tamati, the way the framework was put into practice was as important as what got done:

That model is the antidote to colonisation, but it’s hard. Obviously the last 170 years have been about breaking down that model . . . . None of those energies to destroy that model have disappeared. The only difference is that we’ve gotten a bit harder and we’ve got a few resources to push against it. But every time we want to do something it’s not just about getting it done, it’s about how we’re getting it done; who’s out there speaking on our behalf; what are we reflecting back to our community? What’s our story?

A key element of their resistance is the overarching value of manaakitanga (hospitality), where people are nurtured within the mana whenua (authority over an area of land) of Ngāti Tāwhirikura. As an expression, this means the ability to welcome people into the manaakitanga of Ngāti Tāwhirikura through kai (food) and common kaupapa (themes). According to Kara,

We can’t go and feed the multitudes you know. But they can come up here and have a feed of fish when we have a hui (gatherings), we always have fish you know trying to flip that and having the central point up here, “Come up to Kātere and hang out here, we’re having these hui and we’re doing this and that.”

Realising rangatiratanga

Ngāti Tāwhirikura refocused their energies towards Rongo-mā-tāne (the domain of peace and associated with food cultivation and cooperative activity). This shift led them to use their whenua (land) to establish a garden environment to re-centre their wairua (spirit) and express rangatiratanga through manaakitanga. Development of the aspiration’s framework has enabled them to track and monitor progress towards achieving this and other outcomes set by the hapū, which to date has been gradual and steady.

The path towards achieving their aspirations was supported by multiple small wins. The sense of achievement and progression in the short term continues to feed into their long-term visions and aspirations, as Tamati explains:

. . . we’re kind of coming to a point where we’re starting to accumulate some putea, so resources where some of the bigger aspirations might be manifested like a papakainga, Te Rewarewa, a business development; stuff we had talked about and dreamt about but had no idea really how to . . . but I feel like we’re on a cusp of breaking through some of those things. But we’ve had lots and lots and lots of small wins, continuous wins and we grade that stuff on whether it’s completed or still pending.

There was a tangible sense of accomplishment in connecting with and being able to focus on empowering and growing people to be the best they can be regardless of whether they were descendants of the hapū or not. This led to the formation of the “Friends of Tāwhirikura” group to recognise the relationships and contributions of non-hapū people to different hapū kaupapa. Kara articulates this approach:

And we’ve taken on the more the merrier, you know we said, “do we care if they’re Tāwhirikura or not?” As long as you’re tika (true) and pono (sincere) and behave the way we want, you’re most welcome to come and stay or whatever.

For this group and other non-hapū people, the chance to build positive relationships with the hapū has had nurturing effects that provide a sense of belonging through the ability to contribute to shared passions and interests. This collective approach has helped to build and sustain a community of active participants involved with actions and initiatives linked with the aspiration’s framework. Reflecting on the earlier impetus to develop a hapū identity and embody rangatiratanga, Kara felt that they were validated as a hapū if people were actively engaged, as she explains below:

. . . where do we see our hapū in twenty years’ time? Are we going to have an extra 1,500 people registered or does it matter? For me it doesn’t matter how many people register with us. We could have 500 people register and we’re still validated in my mind as a hapū as long as we’re active.