Maiden Statements

I call Mariameno Kapa-Kingi to make her maiden speech.

Te rangi e tū nei, te papa e hora nei, tihei mauri ora ki te whei ao, ki te ao mārama. E tangi nei ki te rahi o te pō, rātou ki a rātou. Ko tātou tēnei ki te kaupapa o te ora.

Kei aku rangatira o Te Ātiawa, o Taranaki ‘Hānui e pupuri nei i te mana o te ‘henua, tēnā koutou. Huri noa, tēnā tātou e te ‘hakaminenga e tau nei.

[The sky that stands here, the land that lies here, the breath of life to the emerging world, to the world of light. I grieve for the many of the night, they who congregate together. We are those of the living.

To my noble leaders of Te Ātiawa, of Taranaki ‘Hānui who hold the mana of the land, greetings. All around (the House), greetings to the assembly gathered here.]

Mr Speaker, tēnā koe. Over 180 years ago, my tūpuna Te Māhia, Tupe, Ururoa, and Hongi signed He ’Hakaputanga. Wiki Taitimu, and Parāone Ngāruhe furthered this legacy in signing Te Tiriti, a legacy of mana tuku iho.

Here I stand, part of the 54th iteration of a New Zealand Government as a mokopuna of Eparaima Kapa, member of the 11th New Zealand Government as well as Māori Parliament over 130 years ago. He advocated for the rights of women, and here I am as the first wahine to take the Tai Tokerau seat.

I also stand here as an uri of a man whose photo still shines in the corner of my tūpuna ’hare Waimirirangi (Haere-ki-te Rā), Matiu Rata, the very reason the Waitangi Tribunal exists, which also, only at the weekend gone, handed over a key report to my people of Ngāpuhi, further embedding the truth that we never ceded sovereignty, and our whenua as well as constitutional power must come back to us. Matiu aptly described the tribunal as a charter for tangata whenua rights, and here I am, continuing the fight for those rights.

Looking back on this important ’hakapapa, it’s humbling to realise my place in the enduring pursuit of tino rangatiratanga, a pursuit clearly measured in generations. I also follow on the footsteps of other formidable Māori leaders such as Mira Szászy, Whina Cooper, Titewhai Harawira—no walk in the park. It is more like a marathon at an AGM at your favourite marae—the best training ground ever for an aspiring MP, I might add. Moreover, this is an honour and a privilege that I’m taking seriously with both hands.

When I left the House last Friday, I went directly to Te Tii Marae, to Ngāti Rēhua. A dear kaumātua and colleague lay in state, Waitai Tua, and I was determined to tell him off for leaving us at such a critical time. In usual tikanga style, we were called on to the marae. We were able to complain to him profusely. We were able to celebrate him and send him off with great song. The whole time there I was thinking, what would Waitai expect me to do and say as I head into my new job? He would want me to fight furiously for the things that only we as Māori know are important to us and let no one else describe our past nor prescribe our future. That is ours and ours alone. He would say to me: fight for us, Meno, and I plan to do exactly that.

The following day I turned up at Te Whare Rūnanga in Waitangi to support my people of Whangaroa and other hapū o Ngāpuhi in receiving the hugely important report from the tribunal, which I mentioned earlier. In my opinion, the whole motu should have been there, because if Ngāpuhi never ceded sovereignty, no iwi or hapū in the motu ceded sovereignty. The necessary recalibration of an Aotearoa constitutional framework, as recommended by the tribunal, inevitably pulls in all iwi across these islands. Heoi anō, perhaps that wānanga will come to bear this coming Waitangi Day.

Sunday morning, I drove to Te Kao, to fulfil my final formal duties, for now at least, to my iwi of Te Aupōuri at our annual general meeting. The marae was full of whānau expectant with lots of questions and ideas of their own. I also want to acknowledge my relation, Minister Jones, aka Matua Shane. Even if we are at opposite ends politically, whakapapa is a beautiful and peculiar thing in that it reminds us of who we are collectively and in our obligations of aroha tētahi ki tētahi [love for each other]. I hope and expect that aroha rings true in many forms across this whole Parliament as things move forward.

Heoi anō, I provide this snapshot of my last three days, Mr Speaker, because it exposes the inner workings of the kaupapa and it is a clear reminder to me of what is central to te ao Māori. These days reflect what is possible when we are unafraid and free to express our potential. We call that tapu i te tangata [the sanctity of humanity]. When we treasure te reo Māori, when we know and understand how to apply our own rules and regulations, we call that tikanga Māori. When we understand and cherish the life-death life cycle, we call that hauora Māori.

We cannot be stopped. We are our own walking, talking solutions and aspirations as Māori. We know how critical our tūpuna are to our mokopuna. We name that ’hakapapa. We acknowledge the value of cultural capital. We are vigorous in the mission of economic emancipation; let that sink in. We are the first conservationists. We are tangata whenua. We are the ones that we have been waiting for; no one else.

I belong to all these wonderful people sitting in the gallery, and many, many more, even some over here and some over there. I’m heartened that they came today to deliver me into this House, into the lion’s den. What I know of lions is that it is the lionesses that do the hunting and, might I add, keep house. So it seems I find myself in the right place, ready to do my job in the way that they would have me do so: relentless, fearless, and ready to protect or pounce whatever may come.

Along with my nine siblings, we were raised by two extremely hard-working Māori-speaking parents. Like many whānau living in their rohe in the 1960s, we were swept up in the Māori urban diaspora, forced by meticulous and deliberate Government policy of assimilation. Desperate times indeed to find work and survive in a Pākehā economy meant we lost our physical connection to our whenua in Te Hiku ā tai ki Whangaroa, the closest you can ever get to heaven, as my kaumātua would describe.

My parents were also of the generation who were abused for speaking Māori. Now, I mention this because I know what it is to grow up in a home trying to fit the mould of hard-working and good citizens, which was code for being anything other than themselves. They were forced to mute their voice, cast off their cultural practices, force-fed a foreign persona, and, to clinch it all, shun their culture. My parents, like many others, were not only stopped from speaking Māori but they were also stopped from being Māori. On balance, colonisation ruins a people, destroys their place and corrupts their identity, and expects that you be grateful for the opportunity.

Like many other whānau, the focus was mostly work, school, sport, church, community, and house and home. Becoming more politically savvy or understanding history and impacts on Māori community—Treaty breaches were not exactly the priority for our whānau; surviving was. My parents did their absolute best against the tide. Eventually, alongside others, my mum started a kōhanga reo, which was part of her own liberation as much as replacing her 10 children, who had grown and flown the coop, with 30 Māori and Pākehā children wanting to speak and understand Māori. My dad still struggled with the cultural renaissance movement, having been raised himself by a father dedicated to his church. Despite all these difficulties, I knew that I was understood and loved by my parents.

Words like “colonisation” and “oppression” were not commonly understood, let alone discussed in general at our at our dinner table as kids. But those are conversations I’ve normalised with my own kids, to help them make sense of their world and their reality. I seem to have skipped the picture-book phase and gone straight to writings such as Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Now, our four grown-up babies, Heemi, Tipene, Eru, and Tōrerenuiarua, have taken rank in the resistance and are living versions of mine and their tūpunas’ highest aspirations. They are the improved and evolved version of Korotangi and I, and further growth will come in the form of their own children, my mokopuna, present and to come. They are in the gallery, watching and probably praying that their mother doesn’t go on too long in her first speech. But, quietly, they will be feeling as proud and honoured as I am of them.

He ‘Hakaputanga and Te Tiriti were also not words I heard growing up, but now they are as commonplace as ever, and there is no force in this world that can change that. Even Pākehā are working at waking up to our truth, as enshrined in these kawenata tapu [sacred covenants]. The rest are still catching up, it seems.

In the same way that words can destroy worlds, they can also create them. Words of liberation will continue to ring in these halls. So as long as I sit in this seat, that I can promise. That is my role here: to speak relentlessly the words that have long been suppressed in our hearts and minds, to engineer a world where my mokopuna are happy, healthy, and free to live out their Māori lives with absolutely no inhibition.

My work experience is another thing that has led me here. I’ve worked for some 40 years in the social justice and health sector, focusing on women and children, with my very first volunteer role with the Rape Crisis. Over the years, I’ve worked with community groups, rural adult education, community agencies, youth-care protection, and so on, and most recently with iwi Māori.

Being of service is something I love to do, and I’ve become good at it. To me, that is what “rangatiratanga” means—it is not the pursuit of status but instead the pursuit of the tea towel at the marae. It is about showing up when required for your people and doing your bit for the kaupapa, whatever it might look like. There is rangatiratanga in everything, from diving for kina and kōura, or putting out the net for kanae to feed the people at the hui, to political action for our rights. I encourage us all to find our lane, e te iwi, and I’m confident that I’ve found mine here.

I also want to acknowledge mentors aplenty I’ve had. And I intend to find them in this House, and, hopefully, become one for others, like the likes of Erima Henare, Rob Cooper, Gwen Tepania-Palmer, and Timi and Georgina te Heuheu.

To be part of Te Pāti Māori is an easy choice for me. The only party which is, through and through, about the kaupapa. The only party that will fight ruthlessly for te iwi Māori to the death—political or otherwise. I’m proud to be part of this rejuvenated movement, and excited to see how our younger generation will carry it forward into years to come.

One kōrero I’ll never forget from my father-in-law, Wikuki Kingi: no person is bigger than the kaupapa. I will also say that without people, there’s no kaupapa, which also reflects the famous saying of my tipuna Meri Ngaroto: “He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata.” [It is the people, it is the people, it is the people.]

So to all the people—past, present, and future—who make and will continue to make a new world, kia kaha rā, tēnā tātou katoa.

Waiata—“Toro mai tō ringa”

Haka—“Ka eke i te wīwī”

At the conclusion of the next maiden speech, the House will suspend for the dinner break. When the House resumes its sitting at 7 p.m., the House will go into committee for the consideration of the Fair Pay Agreements Act Repeal Bill. We’ll just wait for a few minutes to see what happens here.

Tēnā koe e te Pīka.

Nō wai te reo e

Karanga i te takutai moana?

Nō te Māngai o ngā ariki

E hora nei i te ora.

[Whose is the voice

That calls from the seashore?

It belongs to the Holy Mouthpiece of the lords

Who spread health.]

Te Matua, Tama, Wairua Tapu me ngā Anahera Pono, ko te Māngai hei tautoko mai āianei, āke nei, āe.

E ngā mana, e ngā reo, e ngā iwi mōrehu maha, tēnā koutou katoa. E kui mā, e koro mā, ngā orangatanga ake rātou mā kua whetūrangihia, tēnei tā koutou tamaiti e mihi atu ki tō ao hurihuri, tēnā koutou, tēnā mai tātou katoa.

Ko au te wai, te wai ko au, ko tāhekenga wai o runga, ka rere ngā wai o raro, ka pari ngā wai o waho, ka pūheke ngā wai o roto, ka maringi ngā wai o uta, ka teretere ngā wai o tai, ko au ko Takutai Moana. Tihei mauri wai, tihei mauri ora.

E kore au e ngaro, he kākano i ruia mai i Rangiātea.

[The Father, Son, Holy Spirit and the Faithful Angels, the Holy Mouthpiece in support now and forever, yes.

To the authorities, the representatives, the many surviving peoples, greetings to you all. To the matriarchs, the patriarchs, the lives of those who have passed on, here is your child acknowledging your every changing world, greetings to you, greetings to all of us.

I am the water, the water is me, the water from above cascades, the water from below flows, the water from outside rises, the water within surges, the water inland pours, the water at sea rushes, I am Takutai Moana. The breath of the water, the breath of life.

I will never be lost, I am a seed sown from Rangiātea.]

I come from an institution o te ahikāroa, and this is my story of how I arrived here as the elected MP for Tāmaki Makaurau. I humbly but proudly stand here as your new MP for Tāmaki Makaurau. I may be new to this Whare, but I am not new to the whānau ora kaupapa and the challenges we continue to face as Māori, and particularly the challenges for my Tāmaki Makaurau whānau whānui. I feel fortunate to be afforded this opportunity by my people. I was brought up surrounded with aroha and connection. I discovered what love, strength, protection, and support looked and felt like. Now more than ever it is pivotal that I bring the same all-encompassing concepts of whānau ora and passion to this Whare.

In te ao Māori, to know who you are and to know where you are from is to know where you are going. I wish to acknowledge my whakapapa and those that got me here today. They’re all here in this Whare. I am the mātāmua of Clark Karaka Kauika-Stevens and Ngaire Anne Te Hirata Kauika-Stevens née Steedman. I was named Takutai Moana after my father’s mother, Takutai Moana Nora Wirihana Tawiki. Both my parents were hard-working, community focused, whānau-driven, and very, very loving parents. I want to acknowledge my parents, today, who are here. This is where my whānau ora seed was sown. Raised by my grandparents, my nana Takutai Moana was my world. She had 18 siblings, a descendant of Ngāti Pourua, Ngā Rauru, and Ngāti Maniapoto. She was given that name when she was baptised as a mōrehu of the Rātana faith. Nana married my papa, Temanea Turereao Sonny Kauika-Stevens, also of Ngāti Pourua and Ngā Rauru. Together these Ngāti Pourua born and bred veterans raised not one or two but 24 children; six of their own and the rest were my dad’s first cousins. I was brought up with them and they are my village. Many are here today, surrounding this Whare. Tēnei te mihi ki a koutou ōku mātua, ōku wa’ine, ōku kāti.

[This is an acknowledgment of you my patriarchs, my matriarchs, my cousins.]

My father enlisted in the Corps of the Royal New Zealand Engineers and was posted to Linton army camp in 1977. The following year, the waka pakanga of our whānau arrived—my sister Leaara Jade Tārete Tangituohu, tēnei te mihi nui ki a koe e taku tuahine.

From Marton to Singapore as Dad served, I then headed to Takirau marae in Waitōtara Valley, South Taranaki, to be raised by my grandparents at seven years old, as it is common tikanga for the eldest mokopuna to be brought up by their grandparents in te ao Māori. Nana and Papa had returned home to Ngāti Pourua to rebuild Takirau marae and to build our whānau papa kāinga.

This was the start of my marae upbringing as I lived there and attended Ngamatapouri School. Takirau is where I was immersed in tikanga Māori and brought up to manaaki people, particularly under the leadership of my grandmother. She made many decisions for the mahi that needed to be done, even from her bed. Takirau was a busy marae. We had many hui and wānanga including hosting international manuhiri. Papa taught taiaha and had rongoā wānanga with Auntie Olive Bullock; waiata wānanga with Uncle Dalvanius Prime, Morvin, Simon, and Uncle Rongopai Broughton, and many others.

My papa and Uncle Dalvanius composed a waiata together called “Pupurutia”, which was recorded by Moana and the Moahunters. It’s a waiata about retaining and passing on te reo Māori me ōna tikanga.

Kia mau ki te reo Māori, ākona ā koutou tamariki, he reo, he reo rangatira nā te Matua i runga i te rangi, pupuritia.

[Hold onto the Māori language, teach your children, it is a language, a noble language from the Father in the heavens above, hold onto it.]

It is ironic that we still to this day are debating whether we use or speak te reo Māori in this very House. Toitū te kupu; toitū te reo Māori.

[Long live the word; long live the Māori language.]

Everything I know can be attributed to my upbringing at Takirau marae, our whānau, our ahi kā. At 10 years old, I was in charge of two of the most crucial jobs on our marae, the logistics of the pantry and our wharekai, and in charge of all my cousins. Don’t ask the ones sitting up there, but they know it’s true. I will always be grateful for my whānau who raised me a home on my whenua, surrounded by my cousins; we’re proud to be Māori. Even though my papa was a composer of waiata and karakia, my grandparents never spoke or taught Māori to us. This was because Nana was beaten by her teachers at Orangimea School in the Waitōtara Valley for speaking Māori. Like so many of their generation, the trauma and suffering experienced at the hands of our then Government—they never spoke te reo to us, their mokopuna, even on our marae. I want to mihi to my mother’s grandparents, Rongokino and Paora Hekenui, Koko Mum and Koko Dad known to many of us, who are influential in the revitalisation of te reo Māori through Te Wānanga o Raukawa.

Today, from the removal of bilingual signage on our national roads to rearranging the names of Government agencies, the immediate actions of this coalition signals a strong reluctance to treasure our national language and taonga tuku iho. The potential impact this Government can have on a whole generation saddens me but also provides the drive and determination to show up for our mokopuna and hold steadfast in the face of adversity. I look forward to being an unapologetic voice in this Whare as we face this adversity. This is our new reality, and we will not be silent bystanders. E tū rangatira mai i tētehi whakatupuranga, i tētehi.

[Stand tall from one generation to the next.]

I returned to my parents when I was 11 years old and went to Monrad Intermediate School at Palmerston North and strengthened my hononga to the Rātana Church. My whānau are mōrehu; my papa Sonny Kauika-Stevens, my great-grandfather Paora Hekenui were āpotoro. I spent many years at Rātana Pā and I mihi to the Tirikatene whānau. My papa’s mother Huatahi Peina Hawira and my great-grandfather’s sister Mariana Hekenui were part of the rōpū that travelled with Tahu Potiki Wiremu Rātana on his world tour in 1924. These two kuia remind me of my own whānau connections to a significant piece of history concerning the Tiriti grievances. The party of 38 left Rātana Pā on 9 April 1924, returning on 24 December, after touring Britain, the US, Canada, and Asia. Rātana carried a petition on the Treaty of Waitangi and land confiscations to present to King George V and the League of Nations. Rātana was searching for mutual remedies for the troubles that the Government put on Māori. Again, it is ironic that today in this Whare, 100 years later, we are fighting for the same Treaty grievances—toitū Te Tiriti.

Like my father’s whānau, my mother’s Steedman and Hekenui whānau from Taihape are also Te Ahikāroa and continue to uphold their roles in this institution of governance and beneficiary roles with determined passion. This is reflected through our whānau contributions and participation in the hearings of our iwi claims against the Crown for breaches of Te Tiriti. My mother and two sisters attended all of these hearings with my cousins, and I led the rangatahi voice to support my mother’s submission regarding the loss of te reo Māori. To quote my sister’s words, “Whakahokia mai tōku whenua, tōku whakapapa kia whakapiki ai tōku whānau me tōku wairua.”—return our lands and our identity to uplift our whānau and spirit.

“Te iwi roa o te motu” is a statement used in our current settlement negotiations for Mōkai Pātea, and it refers to our iwi and our resources being the backbone of this country to this day—resources that continue to be used by the New Zealand Defence Force’s Waiōuru military training area, the Tongariro power scheme construction, and use of the Moawhango Dam and awa, State Highway 1, and the main trunk railway that runs through our rohe. Incredibly, 74 percent, or 58,000 hectares, of our Māori-owned land are landlocked with no legal access, although the Government is the neighbour for much of this land. The expectation is that our settlement returns our land and our identity—whakahokia mai tōku whenua me ōku whakapapa—it empowers our whānau and uplifts our spirits—kia whakapiki ai tōku whānau me tōku wairua.

I mihi to my whanaunga Tama Potaka—our whānau are watching us.

At 14, we moved from the whenua to Tāmaki-makau-rau. I soon left school to study at Auckland University, Te Wānanga o Raukawa, with a focus on anthropology, health, education, and mātauranga Māori. I worked as a community health worker supporting teenage hapū māmā, working for Putea o Pua midwifery support services in Ōtāhuhu alongside the infamous leader and rangatira Syd Jackson. I was fortunate; he mentored me for many years. He always said to me, “Tarsh, look after your people; they in turn will do anything for you.”—manaakitanga 101 is important.

In 1995, I had my son Temanea Ereru Kauika-Quinlan, and two years later my daughter Tania-Jade Waimarie Kauika-Fairbrother. They have brought a new understanding to love, strength, sacrifice, and determination. Temanea lives in Brisbane now with his wife Talay and my beautiful mokopuna Ludy-Anne, and I’m so lucky that they are here today—hi, my darling. I can feel their love. Even though they don’t live in Tāmaki-makau-rau, I feel their love every day with me, and I’m proud to be their māmā and my Ludy’s nanny.

I then became the CEO of Te Kaha O Te Rangatahi for 13 years, delivering sexual health education in schools, alternative education, intermediate kura, and wharekura. Here, I learnt the true value and love for working with rangatahi and the takatāpui community. I encouraged rangatahi to stand proud, that they had a voice, that they mattered, and that they were valued. We developed one of the most successful suicide prevention programmes, called talk2me. The vision is: you matter, your life matters, reach out, talk to me. That was our purpose, and I’m very, very proud of the mahi that we did as Te Kaha O Te Rangatahi, and a big mihi to the whānau that are here today.

As my children grew up in Tāmaki-makau-rau, they developed a love and passion for hip-hop dance. They spent 15 years with some of the most influential dance crews that were produced across Aotearoa, through Dziah Dance Academy. We always said hip-hop saved our lives as a whānau, and Dziah was that life and a lifestyle for us. I went from the “dance mom” to become the Hip Hop International New Zealand Director, travelling the world through the World Hip Hop Dance Championship for 20 years. Last year, I retired, but this year they gave it back to me but in a new competition that’s been grown and owned by Aotearoa. Why? Ko ngā rangatahi te take [the youth are the reason]. In 2021, I was humbled to be acknowledged for my years of dedication to my hip-hop community when I was awarded an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit.

Amohia ake te ora o te iwi, ka puta ki te whai ao—the health and wellbeing of our people is paramount. Until today, I was the active CEO of Manurewa Marae in South Auckland, where manaakitanga is at the forefront of how we uplift our community. We were the first marae set up to support whānau with vaccinations in Aotearoa. We were committed to putting our whānaus’ oranga first, to stand up and support them when the system was failing. We were one marae that delivered 65,000 vaccinations for all whānau across Tāmaki-makau-rau. I want to acknowledge my Manurewa Marae whānau for championing the needs of our whānau. It takes courage, bravery to stand up for what your community needs and to navigate tikanga through uncertain times. To all our kaimahi who are here, and those that couldn’t travel, who have continued to hold the front line for our people, I mihi to you and your continuous, unconditional aroha for our community. I will never forget the mahi that our marae did and what we stood for. Ka nui te aroha ki a koutou.

And now, because of you all, I am here. Thank you, Tāmaki Makaurau, for believing in me. You are why I’m standing here today. You voted for change, and I will deliver that change for you all day, every day. Tāmaki-makau-rau is a vibrant city with 250,000 Māori. It is the Māori capital of the world. I have lived in Tāmaki-makau-rau for 35 years, raising my children with all our communities. In fact, I’ve raised many children across Tāmaki-makau-rau through my mahi of hip-hop. A lot of them call me Auntie; a lot of them call me Mum, and I’m proud of all of their efforts and achievements.

I’m a ringa raupā, grassroots marae girl born and bred. Caring for whānau runs through my blood, just like my tūpuna, who 100 years ago fought for the right for a Tiriti-centric Aotearoa. Our future in Tāmaki-makau-rau and across the motu is on the right path with our “to Māori, for Māori, by Māori” approach. I would like to recognise the “Proud to be Māori” movement of Te Pāti Māori that has supported six unapologetic Māori voices into this Whare. We will not let you down, and I can promise you we will never be quiet.

But in conclusion, I stand before you, honoured and ready to represent and fight for Tāmaki Makaurau, not only from this tūru but, most importantly, shoulder to shoulder alongside you all. Our people have been left out of the conversation for too long, and we have been waiting for this moment, for our voices to be heard and our passion to be felt, pushing for what is right for us, as we know that what works for Māori will work for all of Aotearoa. I’m an advocate for whānau and the catalyst for change, our urban Māori in Tāmaki-makau-rau. I am your voice, I am your representative, I am here for you. I will strengthen whānau ora in our communities. Never forget: we are magic people. We live in an Aotearoa hou. We will walk and talk and we are proud to be Māori. Toitū te reo Māori, toitū te whenua, toitū Te Tiriti. Believe in you, believe in me, believe in Māori. Kia ora.

[Applause]

The House stands suspended.

Waiata—“Tērā te uira”

Haka—“Kiringutu”

Sitting suspended from 6.16 p.m. to 7 p.m.