Language of Marginalisation
His face is pleasant, smiling. His handshake is warm, not too firm, and not too long, so it doesn’t dominate my (smaller) hand. He is relaxed and comfortable, and I should be comfortable too.
But.
His eyes don’t quite meet mine.
Kia ora, welcome, he says.
Kia ora. I smile back.
This report is great; I assure you we have considered many things in this report. We are doing what we can to bring Māori perspectives closer to the centre.
And there it is, the first sting.
Closer to the centre. At the same time, acknowledging that our perspectives are at a distance from this project, have not been considered in the development of this strategy thus far, and that belatedly this report has been commissioned in an effort to consider our realities – but –
at the same time, keeping our views at the periphery. Closer to the centre is not the centre. It is an arm’s length away and a safe distance from the core where it won’t be prioritised. It assumes and maintains the power and control of those currently in the centre, which is not us, not Māori. It has no chance at all of ever being the centre.
We have considered many things in this report [sting].
The report in my hands is barely twenty pages thick but rich with the hopes and aspirations of the whānau we spoke to. In his statement, he is pre-empting my input to this meeting and attempting to quash it before I have even begun to articulate our perspectives. This report is why I’m here; I am the voice of this report, yet he is silencing me before my mouth has opened. He attempts to ensure I know who’s in control and who wields the power. I haven’t even sat down yet.
The meeting starts. Slides flash on the screen one after the other; I struggle to see where we are represented because we are not. I strain to hear the Māori voice in the speakers, but in vain, as it’s not there. We are invisibilised. In keeping us at the margins, we are denied our authenticity, and our truth is obscured for those who most need to see it.
Our questions are respectful yet direct;
Have you consulted with iwi?
Do you have Māori representation in your group?
Did you consider indigenous models?
They shift from foot to foot. They cast uneasy glances at their peers. Their previously confident voices falter, and their replies deflect and distract from the questions. Direct responses are not given, but the answers to our three questions are evident: no, no and no. The meeting continues as before.
The stings are frequent, a torrent. As my colleague and I sit there, somewhat stunned at the opacity of the stream of micro-colonisations pouring forth into the room, she leans into me and whispers;
Why are they so afraid?
I look around the room, and it’s the first time I’ve been in this room, yet at the same time, I’ve been here many times before. I’ve never met any person here before today, yet at the same time, I’ve known many of them for a long time now. The project is new to me, the details new, yet it’s only too familiar. I’ve heard this rhetoric. Many, many times.
So what are they saying?
Our engagement with Māori is on the agenda [it is deferred, and we don’t have a clue where to start]
We know we need to consider that [we are not considering that. We have read it, and we have discarded it]
We will consult the big groups first [we will automatically exclude the Māori groups, which we know have small numbers]
It is difficult to get people with both technical expertise and a kaupapa Māori approach [We won’t try. You don’t have the skills]
Note that we have incorporated some of the recommendations [we want to appease you; please be grateful. We’ll decide which of the recommendations to include, not you]
The government wouldn’t contemplate a parallel governance structure [we’ll ignore the government’s obligation to ensure equal representation of both Treaty partners]
If we consider Māori, we need to consider other ethnic groups [we’ll disregard your status as tangata whenua and make you feel your requests will deny others]
Does anyone else have any questions [we will give others a voice and silence yours]
The indigenous thing is something no one wants to talk about [#@$%#*!]
This is the language of marginalisation. Know it, recognise it, counter it, avoid it, and learn how to respond to it. Give nothing to it. It is silencing, trivialising, and oppressive. It is often couched in faux empathy, friendliness and seemingly good intentions, yet it’s passively aggressive and bullying. It is othering because when it talks of ‘we’, it excludes us as Māori, placing us as ‘them’ and therefore privileging the voice of colonisation.
No one else in the room appears to be aware of this barrage that bruises us. However, we have borne these wounds many times before.
Our response?
We need a place for our language; we need to ensure this is inclusive of all citizens of this country; we need to protect our stories, our data, our environment, our whānau; we have a right to the best possible standards of health, of education, of social services. We have the right to make our own decisions about what is important to us.
In this way, we articulate many of the values that weave through all we are as Māori. Reo, manaakitanga, kaitiakitanga, mana. Rangatiratanga. These are the principles at our centre, and we are here to support you in embracing them.
At the end of the meeting, as small groups are congregating and chatting, I become conscious of a person standing at the periphery of my vision, waiting somewhat apprehensively for my attention, yet with a quiet resolve about him.
Kia ora. I smile at him.
Kia ora, thank you for your words today. Can you help me; what can our organisation do to ensure we are inclusive of Māori? Who can we talk to?
And there it is, a start. An opening, the beginning of shared responsibility, the beginning of an equitable, fair relationship. A step towards bringing us back into the centre, where we, as tangata whenua, have always been.
We exchange business cards, and I know we’ll be in touch. His handshake is warm, and he meets my eyes.
Kia ora.
