MĀNI DUNLOP

When I started in journalism, I never made an outright commitment that I would dedicate myself to normalising reo rangatira on the airwaves. Te reo is not my first language and I’m still not matatau (fluent). And so many Māori, working at RNZ and other broadcasters, have done a huge amount of work already.

My reo journey started at age 10 when I was sent from Pōneke Wellington, and my insular yet large whānau unit there, to the other end of the North Island. Watching history repeating itself, my parents had earlier pulled me out of a small Catholic school that refused to teach te reo. Instead, Mum sent me to a public school where a love for the language was fostered by the incredible Ms Tūhoro. The fire was stoked. Not long after, an aunty from Kaikohe arrived with a tono (request): I should go home to the north and go full immersion. She was one of many of our karani ma’s and pa’s (elders) who had dedicated their lives to ensuring their mokopuna had the reo.

So there I was — a reluctant kid leaving my urban shelter and bound for Te Tai Tokerau Northland, where I would go to kura kaupapa on the whenua I whakapapa to. I’m sure it was a hard decision for my parents. I was the whānau baby. My mum’s sister, brother and my many cousins all lived on the same Newlands street. I was a spoiled little shit. I didn’t start talking until I was four, probably because I didn’t have to — I was waited on hand and foot by my sister and cousins.

I’m hesitant to say I was lucky. We shouldn’t need luck to have our own language. But I was. Not because I had easy access to the language, but because a wide whānau effort made sacrifices to ensure access for me. While Mum drove me up the long expanse of the Great Fish, tears streamed down her face. Now that I’m a mother myself, I know exactly where those tears were welling from. She didn’t want to let her baby go — the one who had been her shadow ever since she was born — but Mum also knew this was bigger than her and bigger than me.

I arrived at Heke St, Kaikohe, decked out in Pumpkin Patch and Glassons hand-me-downs from my city cousins. But I also arrived to open arms — and possibly some sniggers — from my northern whānau. Mission was on.

For the unfamiliar, kura kaupapa are total immersion schools that teach exclusively in te reo Māori. The first kura opened at West Auckland’s Hoani Waititi Marae in 1985 at the initiative of local whānau. In a pattern that would repeat itself over the ensuing decades, the government was slow to respond with resources and finance, taking four years before legislating kura into official existence via the Education Act 1989.

In a clear example of this pattern of persistent struggle, an urgent claim is currently before the Waitangi Tribunal. Brought by the kura kaupapa governing body, Te Rūnanga Nui o Ngā Kura Kaupapa Māori, it argues that 38 years of Crown actions have marginalised — and continue to marginalise — Māori in the education system. The first round of tribunal hearings were, fittingly, held at Hoani Waititi Marae in May.

In Kaikohe, more than 20 years ago, I found myself sitting in one of those classrooms being spoken to but not with. It was a long time before I had the confidence to utter a response. My aunties had translations stickered on every single item in the house. We had nightly classes. I had extra classes at kura with Matua Kawhena, who remains my favourite reo teacher to this day. Everyone was invested in making sure I reclaimed what had been stripped and stolen from our parents and grandparents.

I am not here to remind you of the harms of colonisation and the continued trauma many Māori undergo at the hands of the Crown. I am not a reo revitaliser — just a product of a wave of activism and advocacy that many before me dedicated their lives to and continue to uphold. I am the next generation of that struggle, and the story of my own family’s fight and reclamation is part of a much bigger picture, a mosaic made up of every Māori family’s reclamation story. Even if it’s a sacrifice we shouldn’t have had to make. To regain what should never have been taken from us in the first place.

This is a mihi to them, and most importantly, to the bravery of my mum who, when many told her it was a waste of time to send me, did it anyway. Kore e mimiti ngā mihi aroha māu, Māmā.

I started as an intern at RNZ in 2011. I didn’t listen to the station growing up, nor did I understand the role of public broadcasting when I started. One of my first assignments was to do a lovely colour story from an island in the Hauraki Gulf, Te Motu-a-Ihenga Motuihe Island, where mana whenua and the Department of Conservation were releasing tuatara.

A dream assignment for a baby journo — what we call a ‘package on a plate’. I remember it vividly. The nerves, the fear of being caught out as an absolute novice, being looked after by comms staff who could probably tell I was shitting myself. As the karanga and waerea rang out from mana whenua, we watched the tuatara welcomed to their new home. An ancient taonga was being brought back to life by the descendants of those who once frequented the island.

It was a Sunday and I went straight from the ferry to the office, anxious about having to whittle a mountain of audio into a three-minute package to play on Morning Report. The night reporter picked up on my petrified look as I stared blankly at a screen which had no words except “Māni Dunlop was there …” and guided me extensively.

In that moment, I was doubting my life choices. Here I was, on a Sunday night, struggling to put together a fluff story. I was sweating while my script was being edited by a seasoned producer. I kept sweating in the recording booth as I went over and over every line. My internal dialogue was racing at a million miles an hour. Did I sound too young? Did I put the emphasis in the right place? No, I’ll go back. Hewitt Humphrey will cringe at that, surely? Oh my god, my grandad [rest his proud soul] will be listening — I wonder when I should tell him to listen? Fuuuck!