Social workers are humans too

Kelly Dennett gets an insight into the stressful and often thankless work on the front lines of welfare.

The car was packed with snacks and music and Kaysha Whakarau was set for a ninehour round trip up north with a young person in her passenger seat. The 26-yearold Oranga Tamariki social worker was spending her weekend driving the girl to a family tangi, setting off from Wellington at 5am. It was important that the girl see her family and, even though it was Whakarau’s day off, it was important to her to facilitate that.

But arriving at the purported tangi location, no family were around. Attempts to figure out where they were was to no avail. With a young girl waiting expectantly, Whakarau had to think on her feet to avoid disappointing her. Sitting in the car together, as the young person watched Whakarau make call after call, it dawned on them both they’d have to simply turn around.

‘‘We kind of had to accept the fact we had to go home,’’ Whakarau says. ‘‘And so it was a waste of time, but the silver lining was that this young person saw what going above and beyond for someone looks like. When she cried, I cried. I’m not afraid to show emotion, because it was sad – who wants to see a child go through that?’’

They drove home, stopping for dinner on the way. Whakarau crawled into bed at midnight.

Whakarau never wanted to work for Oranga Tamariki. Known as Child, Youth and Family (CYF) when Whakarau was studying, the social welfare agency had an image overhaul in 2017 after it was sharply criticised for failing families.

A name change was in order (after a short stint the Ministry for Vulnerable Children name was quickly chucked out in favour of simply, Oranga Tamariki), and the organisation championed its positive steps forward – partnerships with kaupapa Ma¯ ori and iwi, and a focus of getting ‘wha¯ nau back into children’s lives’.

But in June, social workers in Hawke’s Bay were accused of attempting to illegitimately uplift a newborn child from its mother. Scenes from the hospital room, filmed on a phone, showed a tense standoff between wha¯ nau, the midwife, police, hospital staff, and Oranga Tamariki.

‘‘CYFs has always had that reputation of being baby stealers,’’ Whakarau says. ‘‘(And) not really doing the job they should be doing, which is keeping kids safe. I didn’t really want to work for an organisation like that. I wanted to work with families and do a good job.’’

Her time at a youth justice centre changed her mind. She learned that ‘‘social workers do try their hardest... and they have every intent of doing everything they can, and more’’.

Since then Whakarau has heard all the barbs, and she’s had grief from her own family (Nga¯ ti Raukawa and Nga¯ ti Ruanui) about her choice of employer. But she wants to make them proud. Four of her parents’ 10 children were wha¯ ngai, and she draws on that experience for her own work.

‘‘From 10 years old I saw social workers come and go from my home. I never saw one social worker stay the whole time. I never saw one social worker ask me how I was, or how my relationship was with my siblings, and how we had been, and I always thought, ‘I could do a better job’.’’

Whakarau has been working in the sector for three years, deliberately travelling to Lower Hutt for her role to get out of her Horowhenua community where she had the potential to meet families she knew. On her first day she was ‘‘so nervous’’, compounded by a lengthy mihi whakatau she found herself singing, alone, to a room of new colleagues who didn’t know the words. And then it was straight into work.

Oranga Tamariki’s media team is keen for the public to see what life is really like for social workers. It’s easy to see why they’ve put Whakarau forward for an interview. She’s young, outspoken and very driven (as well as working she’s completing her masters). A former Survivor NZ reality show contestant, she comes from a large family who has been through the system, and she’s lived a fair bit in her young years. Married at 21, she divorced soon after. Although she earnestly believes in her work, she doesn’t promote a blemish-free image of her job (perhaps that’s why a media team staffer is present for the interview).

The reality is, she says, her caseload is high – she works with around 30 young people aged from the unborn to their teens. Her day is often filled with red tape and administration (all phone calls and meetings have to be recorded).

No day is the same and she spends a lot of her own personal time before and after work making sure young people are having their needs met. She drives some to school in the mornings.

She’s keen on building relationships, despite the sometimes staunch opposition she sees from families when intervention is necessary. She’s modest in discussing the difference she makes in young people’s lives. A colleague has to remind her of the nine-hour round trip for the tangi and Whakarau is quick to remember the positives of that day.

Though the young person was upset, ‘‘upon reflection, she said no-one else has gone above and beyond for me. Despite the fact the day didn’t go the way this young person wanted, she was still able to reflect that she had someone there for her’’. That felt good.

Whakarau’s colleague, family group conference co-ordinator Francie Tawhara, says that from day one Whakarau was willing to listen, and learn. She had a lot of confidence, was articulate and unpretentious.

More recently a gang member phoned her at the office and threatened her. Whakarau was not fazed, but Tawhara overheard the conversation and the language was so ugly she insisted Whakarau call the police. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, that Whakarau has been treated with disdain. She’s been told she’s a ‘‘plastic’’ Ma¯ ori.

‘‘It’s upsetting to think people don’t think you’re good at your job and that you don’t want good outcomes for Ma¯ ori,’’ she says. ‘‘(But) we believe people can make the right changes if we give them the right support and time. If we keep that in mind, we can only hope for success.’’

In her spare time Whakarau travels frequently to see her family and is very outdoorsy. Competing on Survivor NZ last year, where she and 18 Kiwis were marooned on a remote Thai island, she prepared by fasting. She was voted out after 12 days. When she told her colleagues she was picked for the show, Tawhara recalls telling her, ‘‘You’ll get dumped quick, Kaysha’’. The reason: ‘‘You’ve got guts and they’re looking for someone who will struggle’.’’

‘‘When she cried, I cried. I’m not afraid to show emotion, because it was sad – who wants to see a child go through that?’’