In 1995 I was hired as the Communications Manager for the new office of the Health & Disability Commissioner. I was now a highly-paid civil servant. It was a not entirely agreeable and often bizarre experience.
The office politics could become toxic, perhaps inevitably with a CEO with an out-of-control ego. Further stress arose out of the politically correct environment, with far too much time wasted on Maori ceremonies that were meaningless to most of us. We had a kaiwhakahere, or Maori affairs manager, in the form of Moe Milne. That made good sense as the health status of Maori in New Zealand is well below that of the general population. I liked Moe, a thoroughly good sort who taught me a great deal about the iwi (tribes) and hapu (subtribes) of the areas we visited. At the time and to some degree even today I could point at any location on a map of New Zealand and tell you which iwi held tangata whenua status (hegemony) there. I learned a lot of te Reo, necessary because both Robyn and Moe were women so on marae I was the one who had to respond to the mihi (greeting). We also learned a number of Maori songs which I enjoyed because I love singing and Maori is a beautiful language for song.
Not so agreeable was the fact that Robyn had arranged for a Commissioner’s kaumatua (elder), an elderly Maori of no particular distinction whom, when special occasions called for it, we would fly to Auckland or Wellington and put up in a hotel so he could deliver a speech which only Moe could understand. He showed no interest in us as people and happily toddled off after getting his cheque. Whenever we hired someone new, a frequent event in the first year, they would be presented with (or subjected to) a powhiri (welcoming ceremony). Both I and Tina, the investigations manager, were particularly vocal behind the scenes about the absurdity of welcoming a new non-Maori staff member with a powhiri attended by over-whelmingly non-Maori employees when the traditional Kiwi cake and cup of tea would have been much more welcome. What rankled most was the hypocrisy entailed in the karakia. Tina and I and various other staff members objected bitterly to having to bow our heads in prayer as civil servants in a supposedly secular state. This was enforced religious observance in an office that had been set up to define and protect people’s rights, an odious farce.
Then there was the Treaty of Waitangi workshop, conducted in the Wellington office by a milquetoast with a huge bone carving dangling from his scrawny neck. Tina, myself and others curled our toes and gritted our teeth through a day openly designed to underscore the irredeemable inferiority entailed in not being a Maori, garnished with a liberal serving of imposed guilt. Of course it achieved the exact opposite effect. Tina was a middle-aged woman with a lifetime of experience in the health service who suffered fools not at all. I admired her courage in saying exactly what she thought of the so-called workshop when the ‘facilitator’ outlined a map of New Zealand on the floor and told everyone to stand where they had been born. Those who had been born outside the country were supposed to stand some distance from the map, driving an egregious point home with a sledgehammer. Tina flat-out refused to participate. I took part reluctantly but my patience was almost gone.
Next we were instructed to take our positions on the spot where we or our ashes would be buried. I returned to my seat. Challenged, I simply declared that I would not be buried anywhere because I would certainly not tolerate such a thing while alive and had no intention of dying.
“But you have to die someday,” came the predictable objection.
“Sorry, but to indicate where I supposedly wish to be buried when I have no such wish is absurd. Besides, in my culture such matters are personal and private.”
Tina and a couple of the braver souls actually applauded. By the time the farrago of misinformation and brow-beating ground to a close no-one was happy. Moe, Robyn and the milquetoast could see that no hearts had been won and the usual feedback session that closes most workshops was silently dropped.
Working closely with the Department of Health and to a lesser degree with Te Puni Kokiri and the Ministry of Pacific Island Affairs brought home the disturbing realisation that New Zealand is losing its status as a secular state. It is no exaggeration to say that the Treaty of Waitangi has become an object of worship in the offices of the bureaucracy. It was quite common to enter an office and see a huge framed image of the Treaty draped with flags, flowers and Maori symbols. Certain self-evident truths, for instance the fact that New Zealand has no indigenous people, that every single one of us is descended from immigrants, could cost you your job if spoken aloud. A peculiar version of Maori traditional culture was being enshrined as the official religion, that version being the state of Maori culture and beliefs as it stood in, say, the year 1890. Christian prayers, obviously not an historic component of the original culture of the Maori, played a big part. Our being forced to sing a Christian hymn such as How Great Thou Art at an office event would have rightly provoked an outcry. But translate it into Maori and suddenly we were obliged to join in.
Such a slant celebrates colonialism as much as Maori culture. If you give it a moment’s thought you must acknowledge that if this country were to truly honour the authentic culture of the Maori we would hold annual tribal wars – with real weapons. We would allow utu (payback)as a defence for murder. In fact there actually are quite sizeable and significant organisations living out the true culture of the Maori: the Mongrel Mob, Black Power and the Filthy Few, among others. They not only embody the drawbacks to society resulting from gang activity, they also hold fast to the values of family, of tribal loyalty, of territory. No wonder they attract so many young Maori.
Don’t get me wrong – I personally enjoy participating in Maori cultural events. I loved returning the mihi in the Maori that Moe taught me. My family has a multi-generational association with Ngati Whatua o Orakei, a treasured privilege. But enforced submission to any culture under the threat of losing one’s job and the abandonment of the strict secularity of the state are evils that must be called out.
At this point I could very easily launch into a diversion on the appalling erosion of personal freedom in this country. We have more laws and regulations allowing various officials to enter our homes than any comparable democracy. We allow the police to stop us from going about our business to perform any check they please, be it a breath test or to check that we have paid our road tax. No other first-world country I have lived in would tolerate such a thing. I believe I understand the reason for this national lack of spine: it is because we have never had to defend ourselves, never had a revolution. We remain only loosely attached to a freedom that we have never had to defend.
Play With Strangers 