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The Spinoff
4 days ago
- Politics
- The Spinoff
Reclaiming the sacred: How we can begin to decolonise ourselves
Decolonisation isn't dependent just on systems-level change, but also change at an individual level, argues Kingi Snelgar. We are often defined by what we do – our jobs, our roles as parents, or our achievements. Rarely are we asked to reflect on who we are at our essence, or what values truly drive our existence. The term decolonisation has become a powerful rallying cry among indigenous peoples and others seeking to reclaim autonomy and self-determination. From iwi and hapū here in Aotearoa to movements in Palestine and beyond, decolonisation signals a call to undo the legacy of imposed power and restore relationships based on reciprocity, respect and justice. But what exactly is decolonisation? At its core, decolonisation is the dismantling of structures, policies and ideas that were imposed – often violently and without consent – on peoples, societies and lands. In Aotearoa, te Tiriti o Waitangi envisioned protection and co-existence between iwi, hapū and the Crown. It was meant to prevent colonisation but that is exactly what unfolded. The call to honour te Tiriti continues to this day. Decolonisation involves structural and institutional transformation, requiring those in power to return it to those from whom it was taken. However, history shows power is rarely relinquished voluntarily. There's an irony here: just as Māori rangatira did not cede sovereignty through te Tiriti, today's power-holders often resist meaningful shifts in authority, even when their legitimacy is rooted in colonisation. Colonisation did not just take away land, but it disrupted identity and mauri. It made whakapapa – our ancestral connection – linear, and wairua something to be silenced or forgotten through the likes of the Tohunga Suppression Act 1907. Many of us learned our culture from books or courses outside our whakapapa network, not from our elders or the environment. The journey to reclaim our life essence and purpose involves knowing and understanding the context that led us to this point of disconnection in the first place. For tauiwi, particularly Pākehā, there is a parallel invitation to remember their place within a greater whakapapa – a cosmic, ecological web in which humans are not at the centre, but part of a wider, sacred whole. The call to connect with mauri and values is universal, not just Māori. Like many other colonised nations, Aotearoa lives with significant disparity between Māori and Pākehā – especially in health, education and incarceration – driven by the enduring impacts of colonisation. While structural change is crucial to decolonisation, a deeper question remains around what steps each of us could take on this journey. We must reframe decolonisation – not as a political or institutional movement, but as a deeply personal and spiritual journey. This isn't to diminish the importance of structural change, but to remind ourselves of the mana we each hold – as individuals, whānau and communities – to reclaim who we are through our whakapapa. In doing so, we begin to decolonise not only our systems, but our spirits. Change begins with the individual. Within the current political system, we cannot afford to wait for systems to shift. Transformation starts when we create space to remember who we are. In remembering, we ignite the seeds of transformation that lie within us. E koru au e ngaro, he kākano i ruia mai i Rangiātea. I will never be lost, I am a seed sown from greatness. Ideas like intergenerational trauma and healing are not merely political or academic concepts – they are deeply spiritual. As our whakapapa reminds us, trauma and pain can linger in our bodies, in our fears and silences. Mamae and hara are carried like echoes through generations. To decolonise the wairua is to tend to these unseen wounds through reconnection to self, to whakapapa, whenua and atua. This is a journey undertaken not just for ourselves, but our past and future generations who have and will carry this mamae. The whare tapa whā model, a Māori health model developed by Sir Mason Durie in 1984, is an excellent example of understanding the holistic Māori view that different aspects of our wellbeing are interconnected. It discusses the need to balance spirit, mind, body and family, and is deeply rooted in Māori culture. The spiritual pillar is where I am drawn, for in the unseen, much transformation can occur. The disconnection from spirit is not unique to us. Across the world, many have become connected to superficial sources of wellness – material possessions, social status or social media validation – while deeper roots of connection to nature and spirit remain neglected. Decolonisation of the self, or decolonising the wairua, begins with humility. It is an act to reclaim tino rangatiratanga over our identity, mauri, our stories and our sacred connection to whenua, atua and each other. If collectives in power struggle to relinquish control, then perhaps we too struggle, on an individual level, to let go of the illusion that we are in control. Recent environmental events serve as a reminder of our vulnerability. For me, decolonisation calls us to surrender – not in defeat, but in reverence – to the truth that we are not the centre, but a single thread woven through the living web of whakapapa. This is not a journey with a fixed destination, but a lifelong one that leads to profound transformation. And it could begin with simple, sacred acts like: Decolonisation is not only about political justice – it is about soul justice. It is the sacred act of remembering who we are, where we come from, and what we are responsible for. In an age of hyper-individualism and fractured belonging, soul justice may be one of the most urgent kaupapa of our generation. Imagine an Aotearoa where wairuatanga is not just predominantly in pōwhiri or tangihanga, but in every classroom. Where our justice system becomes a place of healing. Where governance is rooted in whakapapa and collective wellbeing. Picture an Aotearoa where our mokopuna inherit more than laws and land – a living whakapapa system grounded in aroha, care and interconnection with each other, the whenua and all beings.
The Spinoff
28-05-2025
- Politics
- The Spinoff
Removing tikanga from legal education is a symptom of a wider disconnection
At its core, this isn't just a legal debate – it's a challenge to the legitimacy of Māori worldviews within public institutions, argues Kingi Snelgar. Just last week, the government took the unprecedented step of disallowing a regulation – recommended by the New Zealand Council of Legal Education – that would have embedded tikanga Māori as a core part of every law degree in Aotearoa. The regulation reflected the growing recognition of tikanga Māori as a source of law, as affirmed by the Supreme Court in cases like Ellis v R. Despite broad support from the legal profession, this disallowance marked only the second time in our history that our parliament has reversed such a regulation. This decision does more than impact law students. It raises a deeper question: whose knowledge systems are allowed to shape our laws, and whose are excluded? At its core, this isn't just a legal debate – it's a challenge to the legitimacy of Māori worldviews within public institutions. Tikanga, grounded in relationships, collective responsibility and spiritual connection to land, presents a profound contrast to a system rooted in individualism and legal positivism. This tension is not new – but in 2025, amid climate upheaval, mental distress and political polarisation, the stakes feel higher. We urgently need to ask: what kind of future are we building, and whose values will guide us? This moment, though centred on legal education, is a symptom of a wider disconnection – from community, from whenua, from purpose. Since the 1700s, Aotearoa has wrestled with new arrivals bringing new systems and values. These tensions – between land as commodity and land as ancestor, between individual rights and collective responsibility – aren't unique to us. Indigenous peoples worldwide continue to navigate them. We may pass laws or set climate targets, but without structural change – political, economic and legal – we will fall short. Transformation begins not with policy alone, but with a shift in worldview from human-centred to environment-centred, from extraction to interdependence. In recent decades, the global rise of individualism has prioritised rights – speech, property, movement – above collective responsibilities. These rights matter. But when elevated above our duties to each other and the environment, they sever the very connections that sustain life. Fortunately, Aotearoa is not without solutions. Indigenous-led models already exist. Matike Mai, the constitutional transformation report grounded in tikanga and te Tiriti o Waitangi, imagines governance based on relationships, not domination. We led the world in recognising Te Urewera and the Whanganui River as legal persons. These decisions reflect a worldview where land and water are not resources, but living ancestors. Despite being more digitally connected, we are more socially and ecologically disconnected than ever. It only takes a scroll through social media to find trolls, ridicule or dismissal of anything labelled 'woke'. These are symptoms not of oversensitivity but of spiritual and cultural alienation. We belong to a wider whānau – not just people, but awa, maunga, ngahere and all living beings. These aren't poetic flourishes; they are relationships with obligations. We've forgotten this. Reclaiming it is the work of our time. For me, the answer lies in indigenous values – not as relics of the past, but blueprints for the future. They offer practical and spiritual frameworks for addressing climate change, inequality, disconnection and ecological collapse. This isn't just a cultural challenge – it's a structural one. Our systems prioritise profit and growth over people, the environment and long-term wellbeing. Some may feel uncomfortable with the idea that nature could have rights – or mana. But this is not about diminishing human worth. It's an invitation to see ourselves with humility, as pōtiki – younger siblings within a vast, living whakapapa. Transformation is not easy. It requires confronting deeply held assumptions about what it means to be human. But as stories of Māui, Tāwhaki or Whina Cooper remind us, growth comes through descent – into darkness, into challenge – before emergence into light. I write not from ideology, but from aroha – for our tamariki, our whenua, our future. I see the way children engage with the world: with awe, care and instinctive whakapapa. This is not a Māori-only kaupapa. It's a call to all of us: to relate to land not transactionally, but as kin. For non-Māori, this may mean stepping back, listening and supporting indigenous leadership. It means reshaping the systems – legal, political, and economic – that frame our lives around care, interdependence and collective wellbeing. This work is also healing. Disconnection damages spirit and mind. Indigenous frameworks offer more than environmental solutions – they restore belonging and meaning. Change won't come overnight. But through small acts – reflection, gratitude, resistance, reconnection – we can begin. Aotearoa is uniquely placed to lead: founded on a treaty, rich in indigenous knowledge, and shaped by resilience. Let us move, together, from darkness into light.
