Kai kindness

Painful memories drive Ma¯ori response to Covid

On a quiet road in rural Ka¯ whia, 85-yearold Te Papi Cunningham slowly raises his finger and points to an ordinary hill, nestled amongst others, in rolling farmland as far as the eye can see. A small lake glistens at the foot of the hill, covered with lush, green grass being trampled by a flock of meandering sheep.

There are no signposts here in Nga¯ ti Hikairo country, or plaques that reveal the tragic secret lying beneath the indistinct hill on Lake Rd.

‘‘The bodies of the children are there,’’ Cunningham says, as he swipes away a sandfly with his hat.

‘‘Our elders never talked about it to us as kids, we were just told there were sand dunes that were tapu [sacred] and we couldn’t play there . . . The trauma was too overwhelming that they couldn’t talk about it.

‘‘The rows of dead being carried up there, some on their people’s back, some on sledges, some on wagons and laid three-deep at the foot of these hills. Then they would push the sand on top of them. There are wha¯ nau lines that ended from the flu and are buried there.’’

Cunningham was 30 years old before his elders finally told him the story about how the influenza pandemic had ripped through their community, killing young and old.

He says the trauma silenced his elders and, although understandable, the silence has come at a cost.

It’s created an information gap in their history, and now it’s become a double-edged sword in the present day, which Cunningham can see being played out in other communities, with similar histories, across te ao Ma¯ ori (the Ma¯ ori world).

Cunningham believes individual Ma¯ ori aren’t being vaccinated now because they don’t have the ma¯ tauranga or knowledge they need to make proper decisions based on the actual experiences of their ancestors.

It’s why he decided to publicly share the painful history of Nga¯ ti Hikairo, to help people understand they have a role to play in the pandemic. In Ma¯ ori terms this is centred in collective responsibilities.

‘‘Our parents were the survivors of the 1918 pandemic, so no-one put up a fight when a vaccine came.

‘‘Although the elders never spoke about the time of the flu they knew from experience the deaths that came with foreign illnesses and knew that they couldn’t endure that again.’’

Scores died when the 1918 influenza pandemic reached Ka¯ whia Harbour. The costs were felt largely by Ma¯ ori, whose rural population was seven to eight times more likely to die of the flu than non-Ma¯ ori.

And that loss in Ka¯ whia is hidden amongst the hills overlooking the harbour.

No-one got a proper burial, Cunningham says. Tangihanga rituals were not performed and the tu¯ pa¯ paku (dead) were buried the same day they died. During that time the eight marae of Ka¯ whia Moana rallied together, an ancient partnership that navigated their people through the pandemic ensuring the sick were cared for and isolated, wha¯ nau were fed and the dead were buried.

Today, Cunningham’s people are confronted with another pandemic, Covid-19. The new virus has found its way to Ka¯ whia Harbour, infecting locals. Nobody has died there yet but it’s sparked the revival of the ancient alliance of the eight marae, Nga¯ Marae o Ka¯ whia Moana, who are using ma¯ tauranga (indigenous knowledge) and modern medicine to combat not only the virus but a new threat – disinformation.

Vaccination rates are creeping up but not fast enough, which has prompted the group to ask those thinking of visiting during the Christmas holidays to hold off until there is sufficient vaccination coverage.

The group has been proactive. They have targeted vaccination advertising that features local wha¯ nau from the harbour who have survived other viruses. Vaccine advocates Maea Marshall and brother John Forbes, who survived poliovirus, appear on posters sharing the importance of vaccination. The campaign has been picked up and funded to be produced across the country.

But one of the most vital initiatives Nga¯ Marae o Ka¯ whia Moana has instituted is a food bank, which began last year during the first lockdown. It operates from Maketu Marae with locals Shani Whitiora and Kelly Isherwood visiting 800 Ka¯ whia wha¯ nau across the harbour weekly with food packages.

The food bank is based on the historic Poukai practice – a tradition started by Kiingi Ta¯ whiao in 1885, who would go to all Kiingitanga marae to discuss important issues like raupatu, the confiscation of their tribal lands, and finish off with a ha¯ kari to feed the widowed, bereaved and destitute – the survivors of the Waikato land wars. The tradition is still practised today and is a time when local wha¯ nau from the 29 Kiingitanga marae pay tribute to people who have died that year.

This version involves the women going door-todoor to drop kai off and talk to wha¯ nau about the issues they are facing and to find solutions. The practice has been successful.

Cunningham, who is related to Marshall, Forbes, Isherwood and Whitiora, asked to be interviewed under the blossoming po¯ hutakawa tree Te Papa o Ka¯ rewa, the place where his ancestral waka Tainui landed near the shore of Ka¯ whia Harbour centuries ago. He can feel his ancestors with him here, he says.

The koroua is an orator, an encyclopedia of Ka¯ whia knowledge who can connect ancient traditions and its relevance today.

He was one of a handful of Tainui children handpicked by Tainui-Waikato leader Te Kirihaehae Te Puea He¯ rangi to receive higher education, and went on to become a land surveyor for the Government. He was immersed in tikanga Ma¯ ori, an education passed down to him by local Ka¯ whia chiefs.

He has walked in two worlds, one working as a land surveyor then alongside Koro Wetere in Parliament, the other as a speaker, for Ma¯ ori Queen Te Arikinui, Dame Te Atairangikaahu and his people of Nga¯ ti Hikairo.

Cunningham returns to the ancient partnership Nga¯ Marae o Ka¯ whia Moana and the power of Ma¯ ori wisdom and history in helping its people.

He says everything is connected, from the decisions his ancestors made to voyage here, the imbalance in nature, the disconnection between Ma¯ ori and their homelands, colonisation, the gaping holes in their history, and the loss of the collective mindset.

‘‘If we go back to ancient principles: Na¯ u te rourou, ‘na¯ ku te rourou, ka ora ai te iwi’ my small gift, and your small gift helps iwi to progress and prosper and that’s what we return to,’’ he says.

‘‘The rights of the collective supersede the rights of the individual. Now, we as Ma¯ ori have pushed this aside, for the modern way of thinking. It’s OK when everything is plentiful. But suddenly, we’ve got a bug in the system.

‘‘Not being vaccinated to protect wha¯ nau, ha¯ pu and iwi, and our ahi kaa on the marae is an

‘‘We were quite blown away by how people were living in this day and age. Some wha¯nau have long-drops, no running water and no power. It was a big eyeopener for both of us. We just felt aroha for them.’’ Kelly Isherwood

individual act that doesn’t prioritise the collective.

‘‘When we think of the collective it is not just those here today, we think in a generational timeframe. We think of our grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, seven generations ahead of our time, regardless of whether we are 15 or 85 today. ‘‘We are leaving a legacy for them . . .

‘‘I didn’t go and get double-vaxxed for me, my time is coming to an end . . . I am double-vaxxed, so I do not give my grandchildren or greatgrandchildren this bug. I will do everything I can to prevent it from getting to them. Not for my benefit, but for them.’’

He says the marae group is proof that the collective mindset works.

Akilometre from Te Papa o Ka¯ rewa, at Maketu Marae, two women on the ground exemplify ancient traditions at work. Shani Whitiora and Kelly Isherwood, affectionately known as the aunties to many, are assembling kai boxes to be provided to 800 wha¯ nau from Aotea to Marokopa, across the entirety of Ka¯ whia Harbour.

Reigniting old ma¯ tauranga has seen wha¯ nau receive help not only for sustenance but for their health and wellbeing. Both describe what they were confronted with when they first went door-todoor.

‘‘People were still living without water and with no power,’’ Isherwood says.

‘‘We were able to identify that, and we were able to work with Raukura Hauora o Tainui, and we got some funding through them to fix homes, and insulation . . . We were quite blown away by how people were living in this day and age. Some wha¯ nau have long-drops, no running water and no power. It was a big eye-opener for both of us. We just felt aroha for them.’’

The aunties identified that some homes were damp and causing illnesses for those who lived in them, so they got funding to install insulation. They saw first-hand that families were grappling with food insecurity and severe hardship. Also, the needs of rangatahi (youth) were not being met, so the pair set up various activities for them with the support of Ma¯ ori organisations.

‘‘They had no school because of Covid and some were suffering from depression,’’ Isherwood said.

Whitiora says a lot are dependent on Work and Income but because of the lockdown many couldn’t access government agencies. Raukura Hauora o Tainui stepped in and provided a vehicle for the women to be able to access those in need.

Whitiora and Isherwood, while participating in the revival of ma¯ tauranga, have seen the huge benefits of it. Not only helping their people but reconnecting them back to their marae.

At first the women felt resistance from wha¯ nau to accept the packages because they were shy. It didn’t last long because both women were recognisable faces in the community. Isherwood is the head of her marae kitchen at Waipapa and Whitiora looks after the kitchen at Maketu Marae.

Isherwood and Whitiora agree a for-Ma¯ ori-byMa¯ ori approach is the only way to help wha¯ nau here. Distrust of the Government and its agencies remains strong. While the women have managed to convince some wha¯ nau to get the vaccine, many others have refused. This has been frustrating.

‘‘A lot of them go, ‘we are not getting the vaccine, we don’t know what’s in it, and we’re not doing it’,’’ Isherwood says.

‘‘Well, half of you don’t know half the things you put in your body. When you go to the doctor and get a prescription you don’t ask for the ingredients of the medicine, you just take the drugs.’’

Whitiora says the efforts of Nga¯ Marae o

Ka¯ whia Moana to bring vaccinators, to make access easier for wha¯ nau, have been successful but a stubborn few have dug their heels in.

She says frustration with the anti-vaxxers in the area almost makes her want to withhold kai packs, but she remembers the children. ‘‘We can’t let the kids suffer. . . so we would never do that.’’

But there have been success stories. One young man, a devout anti-vaxxer who had been duped by online conspiracy theories, helped with the kai packs.

That mahi, and being able to talk to the aunties, led to him being double-vaxxed. It’s also what led many others to vaccination as well.

While the Ka¯ whia aunties say it’s about getting the right information out there, one local who did not want to be named says he got it because of them.

‘‘They’re the ones we see at our tangi working in the kitchen. They’re the ones who are there all the time. I don’t trust the Government, but I trust them and if they say it’s legit then I believe them,’’ he said.

‘‘I believe some of the stuff I see on Facebook but when it comes down to it, if I need help it’s not those people on Facebook that are gonna roll with me, it’s them.’’

Aspokesperson for the marae collective and chairperson of the Waipapa marae trust, Cathy Holland, said the roopu (group) recognised the need for a local approach to the pandemic because of the distrust of government agencies.

When the roopu first came together in 2020 it was clear they were under-resourced, both financially and in manpower on the ground. Government agencies said the area was provided for, but wha¯ nau knew differently.

The incorrect assessment left the community feeling vulnerable. It was the fuel needed to reignite the trustees and kaumatua of the eight marae to re-establish Nga¯ Marae o Ka¯ whia Moana.

‘‘When we got established we started to hear and see the home truths of just how vulnerable and exposed our wha¯ nau are,’’ Holland said.

‘‘So . . . the very least we could do was to give out kai. We applied to Trust Waikato for $50,000, and we split it between the eight marae to provide whatever support, in addition to food.

‘‘The basic misconception, by the establishment, was that Ka¯ whia was a rural, isolated community predominantly farming and were able to survive.

‘‘What was missing from that picture was that, yes we are rural, we are isolated, but predominantly a Ma¯ ori population, and what goes along with that is beneficiary status, high levels of

unemployment, lack of access to essential services, distance in travel to get to essential services. That was in our minds but once we started to get out into our community we saw the reality of it.’’

Holland says there is no way government agencies would have been able to go in and establish networks within the harbour like local wha¯ nau have. For so long, Holland says, Ka¯ whia has been out-of-sight and out-of-mind. It has been extremely difficult to get accurate data of the unvaccinated as well as geo-mapping of the area, so the marae group can go door-to-door.

The lack of help from local and national agencies has delayed the work to vaccinate locals at a time when the country is starting to open up under the traffic light system.

Holland says that while they work hard on the ground to bring vaccinations, they are asking those who plan on coming to Ka¯ whia over the Christmas holidays to hold off for now.

‘‘We miss you all but right now it is not a good or safe time for our vulnerable people, and we hope in the near future to welcome you back.’’

The marae group have got the full support of wha¯ nau who are working on the ground, and kauma¯ tua like Te Papi Cunningham. He says vaccination is the key to survival in Ka¯ whia.

‘‘This is the basis of the Ma¯ ori tribe, by going back and picking up our ancient ways of doing things, we support one another and look after one another. I share what I have and in doing so you share what you have, and we complete those things that are left to us by our ancestors,’’ he says.

‘‘There is a contribution to be made, not for themselves, but for the generations following. This is the way we think as indigenous people.

‘‘It’s not for today. It’s not for tomorrow, but it’s for the generations that are coming. It is not about me. It’s what I leave as a legacy for my grandchildren.

‘‘As they say, the sun has risen for me, and is now setting. But my grandchildren, some are not born yet, the sun will rise for them.

‘‘And if I leave them a legacy and these principles for them to live by, and to appreciate what came before them and share what they have, they will survive.’’