I spoke painful truths, but I did it out of love
My column, based on my reo Ma¯ ori journey this year, has been a fairly straightforward one. As the column comes to an end today, it’s worth straightforwardly recapping the essentials. The first key point is that, if you think te reo Ma¯ ori is unimportant, unworthy of preservation, then you are wrong.
If you think our country is better off forgetting its Ma¯ ori heritage, then you are also wrong.
If you think that Ma¯ ori people and their sympathisers have taken over, with their primitive culture and their ghastly language, and it’s all ‘‘gone too far!’’, then you’re wrong too.
Ditto for those who believe that Pa¯ keha¯ are hard-done-by in this crumbling empire. Wrong.
Basically, if you’re Ma¯ ori-sceptical then you’re a Flat Earther without the wacky charm. You’re barely a New Zealander. My suggestion is that you jump on the next plane and head off to some other country that more thoroughly and systematically wiped out its indigenous people – because it’s not going to happen here.
So there was the tough-love aspect: pointing out these painful truths to those of limited moral or intellectual or emotional capacity. Statistically speaking, from justice to health to education to the very precarious state of te reo itself, the opposite of what they believe is true. Perhaps this column shook them a little. Or at least shamed them.
The next point was my belief that there were plenty of enlightened Pa¯ keha¯ , born here or overseas, who would love to support their Ma¯ ori partners in nationhood. This is important and necessary.
The simple truth is that, like it or not, Ma¯ ori need support from Pa¯ keha¯ to keep our language alive. This means a mainstream acceptance of increased funding for education to give all people, of all ages, a chance to learn te reo Ma¯ ori properly. Our aim should be to start repaying the debt owed by the system that beat te reo out of an entire generation. Compulsory te reo education in schools should become a reality.
I know that seems difficult, given the lack of speakers out there. This year I chucked in my job and started learning the language fulltime in full immersion at Te Wa¯ nanga o Raukawa north of Wellington. One of the only unsettling things about the experience was understanding just how few people there were in everyday life with whom I could share the gift of speaking te reo. We need to make life easier for adults to take the time out to learn, as a necessary step before the introduction of compulsory reo in schools.
I have no doubts: this reo journey is a gift. I made a lot of mistakes this year in my class, and I was a lousy student, but I can honestly say I never forgot how lucky I was to be there. I had the chance to look outwards, away from the everyday contours of my life, and do something genuinely life-changing.
The morning after the course ended, I woke up knowing that, no matter what happened next, I had learned enough to understand most of what I heard, and be vaguely understood, in te reo Ma¯ ori. I felt genuine happiness, mixed with a profound sense of sadness. I could never return to those extraordinary moments of discovery, with the same group of wonderful people, ever again.
I can strengthen my reo over the coming years, but the magic of the journey’s beginning is now a memory, which will fade over those same years. You can’t discover yourself twice.
As much as we love the comfort of the land, it pays to seek out the ocean every now and again. To look outward. Even if you feel trapped in some crowded city, or some small town, you need to find a way to escape – however you can, whatever your work – and look out from a shoreline with awe, fear, reverence. In Aotearoa we are never far from this reminder of exactly how distant and tiny and lost we are. It’s the best thing about us.
So, we consider the ocean and think about the past and the people who travelled here; the things that sustained them in the middle of that vast, lapping desert. The sea never lets us forget where we came from. We should never forget who we are.
If this column did anything, I hope it encouraged others to start their own journey and learn the language. There’s comfort in knowing the same magic awaits you, if you want it.
I hope you discover what drove our tu¯ puna on their voyages across vast oceans. Courage, love, hope.
The morning after the course ended ... I felt genuine happiness, mixed with a profound sense of sadness.