I want Māori to feel at home in society, as I do

At a recent funeral, I was reflecting on traditional mourning practices, as I have experienced them – the wearing of black, the playing of sombre music – and how well they fit my sense of the way things should be done.

That prompted a further thought, about how easy life (even in death) seems to me, because I live in a society set up largely according to my values. When members of my extended family are born, we perform rituals practised for generations. When they die, they are buried in ways I find familiar.

At all times I can freely speak my native language. My schooling was organised by values largely identical to those of my own family. The health system provides treatment based on cultural assumptions and practices that I broadly like. Even in my minimal encounters with the legal and welfare systems, I have known what to expect: treatment based (at least in theory) on classic Western notions of individual responsibility, distributive justice, community care and procedural equality.

All this is true partly because I’m Pākehā. I live in a society, and interact with a state, founded on values inherited predominantly from Europe. And why does that matter? Because it allows me to be whole. I live in a culture in which I am largely at home. Most days I am swimming with the current. I can, at key moments, be myself.

But that isn’t true for people from other cultures – notably for Māori, as their leaders have long argued. Recently I enjoyed reading Taranaki educator Keri Opai’s new book Tikanga, which describes its subject as ‘‘a Māori way of doing things: the customary system of practices and values that are expressed in every social context’’. And those practices differ systematically from Pākehā ones (while sharing some underlying values, of course).

Though iwi protocol varies, as Opai outlines, for most Māori people meetings and events start with greater formality, and a stronger focus on introductions, than is true for Pākehā. At tangihanga, meanwhile, the ceremonials last several days, koha (donations) are brought, and the deceased person is often in an open casket. Such practices are required to give effect to the values Opai identifies, such as whakapapa (roughly, familial connections) and manaakitanga (hospitality).

Colonisation eroded Māori people’s ability to carry out those practices. Now, in response to longrunning activism, our country is becoming more accommodating of them: witness the growing use of pōwhiri and te reo in the public sector.

But progress for Māori within Pākehā structures is always likely to be partial. As iwi leaders have long argued, an organisation dedicated to serving a particular culture is best run by people from that culture.

Hence the creation of kōhanga reo and kura kaupapa, run by Māori and allowing Māori to learn according to a worldview that makes sense to them. Hence, too, the proposed creation of a Māori Health Authority, which might ultimately ensure wider use of rongoā, a distinctively Māori approach to holistic health.

Some Māori have also called for welfare budgets to be devolved to iwi, and for justice systems in which they could resolve disputes among themselves using concepts such as utu and mana.

If the principle of people making decisions for themselves holds, though, such steps might only be precursors to fuller political autonomy for Māori. One report from which I’ve learnt much, and which I’d encourage fellow Pākehā to read, is 2015’s Matike Mai, in which Moana Jackson and Margaret Mutu argue that Te Tiriti o Waitangi guarantees three ‘‘spheres’’ of authority: a tino rangatiratanga sphere in which Māori govern their own affairs, a kāwanatanga sphere in which Pākehā do likewise, and a ‘‘relational’’ sphere in which joint decisions are made. For the first sphere, Matike Mai suggests an ‘‘iwi/hapū assembly’’ but also several other models.

This kind of reform would raise complex questions, especially in delineating the boundaries between different bodies. I don’t have all the answers, nor would I try to dictate what they look like. I just think there are solutions to be found, and I support those seeking them.

The inevitable response from some will be to cry separatism. But to me it’s no such thing. Māori and Pākehā will always come together in all the venues of everyday life. Their cultural practices will continue to influence each other.

The point, as I see it, is for Māori to enjoy what I enjoy, the ability to live in a society run in a way that makes sense to me and which allows me to express myself. Opai says people should be able to ‘‘bring their whole selves’’ to a given situation. That’s essentially what Te Tiriti guarantees. It also strikes me as, quite simply, an ability that everyone should have.

Progress for Māori within Pākehā structures is always likely to be partial.