A hīkoi means to march, typically for a long journey, and the three wāhine Capsule has spoken to this week about their participation in this week’s Hīkoi mō te Tiriti have all taken different journeys to arrive at this historic hīkoi. They talk to Capsule about the power of collective protest and why they’re bringing the next generation along with them.
‘I wanted to take my daughter on this hīkoi over the Harbour Bridge because I hope that she never has to do it again.’
“Ihumātao is an example of both injustice, and of Te Tiriti o Waitangi in action, because Māori and non-Māori came together to fight for the protection of whenua, to protect taonga, and to recognise whenua as taonga,” says Qiane Matata-Sipu (Te Waiohua ki te Ahiwaru me te Ākitai, Waikato, Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Pikiao, Cook Islands). “It’s an example of how we work together as a community.”
When Hīkoi mō te Tiriti arrived in Tāmaki Makaurau on Wednesday, there were two activation sites, both with deep historical significance – Takaparawhau/Bastion Point in Ōrākei, and Ihumātao in South Auckland.
For Qiane, there is a significant tie to Ihumātao – her family has been here for generations – and she and her six-year-old daughter, Haeata te Kapua, helped co-ordinate and were part of the haka pōwhiri welcoming the hīkoi onto the land.
“Five generations of whānau of Ihumātao were present at the activation,” Qiane says. She and Haeata te Kapua also took part in the bridge crossing, a hugely symbolic part of the hīkoi that mirrored the historic Māori land march back in 1975, when Dame Whina Cooper lead the protest from Te Hāpua to Wellington.
On Wednesday, Haeata te Kapua was asked by a news reporter why she was attending the hīkoi, she gave a very simple answer: “I’m here because my tūpuna signed Te Tiriti o Waitangi, and I’m tangata whenua.”
“What more could she say?” Qiane says. “And this was coming from a six-year-old!”
That night, Qiane asked Haeata te Kapua how she was feeling. “She said she was tired from playing with her cousins on the whenua all afternoon, and I thought, ‘how significant is that?’ She gets to play on her whenua – whenua that holds 800 years of her whakapapa – and understands what it actually means – that it’s ours, but it’s still not legally ours.”
There is physical significance to the hīkoi in that it takes a message and a belief and moves it throughout the country. But there is also a hugely significant spiritual significance, as well. “It isn’t just mobilising the people, it’s moving the land,” says Qiane.
“The physical steps of every single person that is participating in this hīkoi is reawakening everything that’s in the whenua. And whether there’s 100 people, or 1000 people, or 10,000 people, it always feels greater than that, because every individual body that comes brings with them the energy of all the generations that have come before them, and they’re fighting for the generations coming after them.”
Qiane is hopeful that for Haeata te Kapua and her generation, they won’t have to go through the same battle for sovereignty. “I wanted to take my daughter on this hīkoi over the Harbour Bridge because I hope that she never has to do it again,” she says.
“It’s always my hope that I expose my children to these experiences because their future is going to be different. While at the same time, the underlying message is also that if it does need to happen again, she’s ready.”
“If we can engage younger people earlier with politics, it’s going to make for a better life for them.”
For Poihaere Eruera (Ngāti Whātua, Ngā Puhi, Te Aupōuri) attending protests was modelled for her from a young age. She describes her mother, Bronwyn, as ‘an old-school protestor.’ In fact, famous photographer John Miller took a photo of Bronwyn breast-feeding Poihaere’s older sister at an abortion rights rally and Poihaere’s father, Taura, is also one of the founding members of Ngā Tamatoa, one of the organisations that delivered the 1972 Te Reo Māori petition to parliament. The family value was a simple one: when in doubt, march.
“When you feel hopeless, you can at least be with like-minded people and have this collective spirit,” Poihaere says. “My parents definitely modeled that you just have to get out there and be present and show support. Even in cases where you’re not 100% sold on whatever the protest is, but it’s definitely in the direction you want to move, then it’s a place to start.
In Poihaere’s own case, she says her values are very clear: “I’m fundamentally anti-oppression and apartheid. That’s my line. So, if there is even a whiff of it, I’m marching.”
Poihaere was at the hīkoi this week with her family and says protests are a good reminder of how many people in Aotearoa are willing to show up and fight for a cause they believe in – or even just learn more about it.
“I think it’s really easy to get a bit bogged down for people who think they have to know everything about a cause before they turn up. I just don’t believe that – you go to these things to learn about them, to show up and listen.”
When the coalition government was revealed last year, Poihaere says she remembers her mum Bronwyn ringing her and saying, “Well, I guess we’ll be protesting every weekend for the foreseeable future.”
This has turned out to be the case – not only protesting for national issues like Hīkoi mō te Tiriti, but protesting against the Gaza genocide as well.
In Auckland, there have been weekly protests in support of Gaza and Poihaere, her sister, her mother and Poihaere’s own three-year-old daughter have been to almost every single one. “She really likes marching, and she really likes yelling ‘ceasefire now,’” Poihaere says of her daughter, Sabina.
“We’ve explained it to her and my nephews and nieces that some people are being kicked off their land, and there are a lot of people dying on this one bit of Earth, and nobody’s doing anything about. So, even though we can’t specifically do anything about it, this is how we show that we care.”
Protests are a very child-friendly place, Poihaere says. And, like it did for Poihaere, she hopes attending them with her daughter will model that there is action you can take when the world feels like an overwhelming place. “If we can engage younger people earlier with politics, it’s going to make for a way better life for them,” Poihaere says. “Surely, they’re going to change it.”
“I’ve consciously chosen to help my kids hīkoi for themselves”
Growing up as a kid of the 80s and 90s, Caren Davis (Ngāpuhi, Te Rarawa) says her initial perceptions of all things hīkoi related were not a positive one. “In my mid 20s I became conscious of the fact that for most of my life I had negatively associated symbols from hīkoi, due to my own internalised bias and racism,” she says. “Even the Tino Rangatiratanga flag I associated with people who were out there causing mischief, because that’s what news media showed us repeatedly, and this was reinforced by what was being said around me.”
After finding out she was Māori when she was 10 years old, Caren says her adult life has been a process of rediscovering and embracing her whakapapa.
“I’ve been reconnecting with Māoritanga and also decolonising my own mind.” Part of that process has been bringing her daughter Huia, 10, and her son Matariki, 7, along to hīkoi and protests alongside her. “I’ve consciously chosen to help my kids experience those things for themselves, so they can see what a hīkoi looks like, feels like.”
It can be an important point of difference to how hīkoi are portrayed in the media, she says. “So now, if they both see it on television and it looks different to what they’ve experienced, we get to have a conversation about that.”
Even now, much of the discussion around the historic hīkoi this week focused on disruption, and annoyance, rather than the positive, peaceful atmosphere that is a distinctive part of the hīkoi movement in general.
“Taking part in a hīkoi makes you feel like you’re not helpless or voiceless, and they’re also super uplifting,” Caren says. “We come back from each one feeling so uplifted, our cups are full.”
And the actual hīkoi gathering itself is always a place of community and joy, she says. “It’s not like we’re kind of trudging along, feeling depressed about what’s going on,” she laughs. “It is an opportunity to be together. People sing waiata, people are encouraging each other – there is often people supporting by handing out kai or water, too.”
When her kids were younger, Caren jokes that they didn’t always love a hīkoi – “it’s a long walk surrounded by lots of people they don’t know” – but as they’ve grown, they’ve come to love being part of them. “I like them to have autonomy over whether they come or not – I don’t want them to grow up feeling they were forced to do them – but they really do care,” she says. There have been big discussions over the family dinner table about the hīkoi and what they are marching for. “We try not to make it about people or personalities, but more about problematic ideas,” she says.
They’re still kids in how partly how they approach the day itself – “the day-off-school factor is juicy for them if it’s during the week, but they’re both inquisitive and articulate kids, and they’re keen to express themselves, often getting busy to make their own signs for hīkoi. So, they’re very into a hīkoi – as long as it’s not too long and there are a lot of snacks.” (Who amongst us can’t also agree to that).
For people who are hīkoi curious but are perhaps put off by what they’ve seen in the media, Caren assures that it’s a friendly, welcoming space. “If you have curiosity, please go along,” she says. “Because what you’ll experience is kotahitanga – unity and togetherness – and whakaute – respect, because people will respect you for being there and your reasons for being there. Then there’s the manaakitanga, the people who will look after you along the way. I have always experienced hīkoi as a positive, uplifting and safe environment.”
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