Canon Minnie Pouwhare nee Haunui Ngāti Kahungunu te Iwi, Ngāi Tamatea te Hapū 1936, 88 Ko Ōhiwa te Moana Ko Waiōtahe te Awa Ko Maromahue te Marae Ko Te Pōho o Kahungunu te whare Ko Pouwhare Kura te Whare kai Ko Ngāi Tamatea te Hapū Ko Ngāti Kahungunu te Iwi I was born in Ōhiwa on October 10, 1936, and we had a dairy farm, milking cows. We didn’t even know it was the depression years – we just lived simple. We grew up and went to school at Waiōtahi. There were eight of us kids, and I was the oldest. When I was twelve, my mother died of TB, so I had to leave school to look after my siblings and my father. I really didn’t want to leave school, but I had to. Before Mum died, I remember seeing her puku and thinking, ‘Oh no, she’s hapū again.’ I’d be like, bang on the head, because it meant we’d have to look after the new baby while she went out to milk the cows. ‘Oh no, she’s hapū again – bang, bang, bang!’ We’d have to be up early to do all our chores and everything – lighting the fire, chopping wood, feeding our animals and milking cows. And of course, at that time we’d just milk by hand, you know, washing the udders. Once a week, we’d have a wash in a big copper tub. We’d light the fire, fill the tub, and bathe – all in the same water, of course – with Jeyes Fluid. My goodness, our bums would sting! Horrible, absolutely horrible. We’d clean our hair too, because we’d come back from school full of kutu, and Mum would just shave all our hair off. Oh, we must’ve been the ugliest-looking kids ever! Ohhhh! It was hard times, honestly, but Mum had big gardens – a māra full of flowers and vegetables. She wore the pants in our family, and Dad never said a word. He never said anything. We’d get quite a few hidings because we were naughty. We’d spill the cream all the way home, you know. And because we used to ride our horses to school, we’d have to pick up our loaves of bread from the shop, from Mr Campbell. He’d always look at us, ‘Don’t you eat this bread on your way home!’ So, what did we do? We ate the bread. We’d do things like tie our horses’ leg up, so they tiko on you, you know. Plop, plop! Those are the sort of things, so we’d get a hiding. Yeah, she was strict. I remember Mum being sick all the time. She was never well – she’d have to rest and that. And that’s when I took over her chores. She’d just tell me, ‘Do this, do that,’ and I’d do it. But I remember her, she was a sick lady. Going to the doctor was a no-no for her because, back then, it was taboo. It was sacred for our people. She was so used to going to a tohunga, and going to a Pākehā doctor was a different thing. It was the nurse who told my father, ‘Take your wife to the doctor in town.’ From there, she went straight into hospital, and about two weeks later, she died. At the time, we didn’t realise how very, very sick she was – TB was going around then. We had her tangi, and of course, her whānau from Maraenui came up, and her brother did the service. This was in 1949. Before Mum passed, she was home with the youngest baby – who would’ve been about six or seven months. When she died, that’s when I had to leave school to look after the baby. It was very hard. I was only twelve and didn’t know much about anything, like how to do the shopping or manage the household. Luckily, my father’s sister, our aunty, would come over from Kutarere on her horse. She’d ring my dad, asking, ‘What do you need?’ Of course, he didn’t know our sizes for clothes, so she did the best she could. Even if the clothes were too big for us, we wore them just the same. For shoes, it was the same. Oh… there was us thinking we looked lovely, you know – just lovely with our new clothes. I worked so hard. I was so young and that’s why I say I grew up too early. I aged, really... Before I had to look after my siblings, I loved going to school in the Waiōtahi Valley. We’d ride off on our horses, and there were sports and everything, you know. There were lots of Māori and Pākehā at school. I really thrived at school, but of course, this was all cut short. Even as an adult, I’ve found it quite hard with writing, you know, essays and that sort of thing. That’s when I turned to books – I read a lot to try and help myself a bit. Growing up, everything at school and around us was in English. There was no Māori spoken at school – we weren’t allowed to speak it. At home, though, it was different. We spoke a lot of Māori there, and when we were out riding our horses after school. But at kura, it was all English because… the strap! My parents spoke both languages. At home, it was all Māori. But when they were on the phone talking to the neighbours, it was English, of course. When they kōrero Māori, though, you’d always listen – whakarongo, eh? All of us Māori kids only knew Māori. We could barely speak English, and not at all fluently. It wasn’t very nice when they told you, you couldn’t speak your own language. I was quite mamae, quite hurt about it. You know, it’s in you – Māori – but they instilled in us not to use it. We grew up like that – whakamā, shy, you know. We were embarrassed because we were Māori and we spoke the reo, but now everything had to be in English. It’s what they instilled in us. Those teachers, they weren’t very good. Mine wasn’t. My teacher was very strict, very hard on us Māori. I can still remember it now. Oh, I remember this real old bag, you know – the shrew. Horrible. She was horrible. I can see her now with her stick on the table. Those teachers instilled that shame in us about our language. So, we became whakamā, you know, shy, and we never talked about it. I got smacked plenty of times. I had so many chores – milking and that – before school, and I’d be so tired. They’d give us homework to learn our times tables and stuff like that, which I couldn’t always do. My teacher would say, ‘What are your skills?’ I’d tell her the truth, and next minute – whack! So, we grew up in that era – you know, a hard life. Back then, we only had candles or kerosene lamps. No electricity or hot water, just running cold water. I’ll quote what my brother would say: ‘We were a very poor whānau because all we lived on were pipi and cockles, pipi and cockles.’ I’d say, ‘Yeah, but our mother had ways of doing it. She’d make a gravy or a different sort of sauce to make it taste better.’ But yes, we were very, very poor. We weren’t the only ones, but in my brother’s mind, it sticks out because we grew up that way. When my father told me I had to finish school to look after my siblings, I cried and cried because I knew what was in store for me. I had to take over where Mum left off, you know. It was quite hard, but just as well I knew how to peel potatoes and make some sort of bread, you know. I could boil meat and cook veggies, all mixed together. There was me, mixing everything together in one pot. The whānau ate it! As time went on, I got better – improved, I suppose. I started looking at recipes, cooking, baking. Yeah, it was hard. It was a hard life – a really hard life. There were a lot of aunties around. When we’d go inside the meeting house, we were disciplined. That’s just how it was in my time. We had to sit still because we were frightened, you see – frightened of our aunties and uncles. When you looked at them, they seemed so old – really old. But thinking back now, they weren’t actually that old – it was just their āhua, their appearance. Life was hard work, and it aged them, you know. My mother was like that too. We thought she was so old, but it was just from all the hard work – out in the garden early in the morning, cooking, washing clothes by hand, everything. Ohhhh gosh, it was hard. That was during the Depression age. Life was tough. Just looking at their faces was enough to put you off. We always sat still, listened to everything, and if we even dared to turn around – eh? – we’d get a kick in the back. There was one koro with a walking stick. He’d just go, dong! Yeah. So, we were taught that way. Back in those days, meeting houses were sacred – tapu. We weren’t allowed to eat in there or bring anything inside. Our aunties and uncles were very clear that we kids weren’t to go up to the meeting house and our place was down below near the kitchen. We had a partition where we could play, but not on the ātea or anywhere near the back. Our aunties and uncles instilled that in us – tapu, tapu, tapu. There was no explanation; they’d just say the word: tapu. We knew what it meant, so we kept away. Everything was scary. Yeah, tapu, tapu, tapu. Scary, scary, scary. Like going past the urupā – the cemetery. We wouldn’t even look because, to us, that was tapu too. So, yeah, I remember growing up with that. Everything was tapu – this is tapu, that is tapu – and it was always this very scary thing. But going into Christianity later, it felt lighter than tikanga. It was much easier to deal with. Looking back now, I think it was more about respect. That’s how I see it now. The old people would say these things to frighten us, but it was to teach us respect – for the meeting house and everything else. Not running in and out, that sort of thing. That’s how I see it anyway. Back in the 1970s and 1980s, a lot of the tapu was lifted in many places to make things easier for the mokopuna, so they could come in and play. Like with the Ringatū, they’d lift the tapu, letting the mokopuna feel free to be part of it. Dad’s health wasn’t the best after my mother passed, so he went to Murupara to find a job. When he did, he moved all eight of us to Kiorenui Village, which was set up for all the workers of the forestry, and that’s where we lived. It was quite big, with a post office and everything. When we came here, it was a different environment, I’ll put it that way – so different from the sea where we grew up. We had come inland where it was cold, and we didn’t have kaimoana all around us. You know, we weren’t used to it, and we had to adapt. In Ōhiwa, being on a farm, we were more isolated, with no neighbours, and I remember my mother going to the shops on a horse in those days. But the village here in Murupara was so new to us in many ways. Like now we had neighbours living right next door, and it was frightening for us, just frightening! We were scared because looking around, there were so many people, and we were shy. We didn’t know anybody, so we’d hide. But our father growled us and said, ‘No, we need to come out.’ Well, we made friends with the children, of course, and then we met the parents, who’d ask us questions. We’d tell them that our mother died, and so it all stemmed from there. We all got on well, and we’d do things like walk together from Kiorenui Village off to the pictures. Oh, that was new to me – dressing up and going to the pictures. I loved it. It wasn’t until Dad remarried and his wife took over the care of my siblings –who were much older by then – that I left home and went to Ōpōtiki. I was almost twenty, and it was time to start my own life, for me. That was the beginning of my journey of ‘going out,’ and in Ōpōtiki, I started nursing to make money and help my siblings. Growing up, we didn’t know the difference between Pākehā and Māori because, to us, we were all one. It wasn’t until we went to nursing college, out in the world, that I thought, Oh my goodness me. You’d hear things like ‘nigger,’ you know – ‘You’re a black nigger.’ That was the first time we ever heard anything like that. Living in an isolated place like Ōhiwa, and then Murupara, we were mostly Māori. It was all just farm life, and we were all one. Coming into town, though, it was different – people name-calling and everything. I thought, Oh my gosh. My first job was at the hospital at Ōpōtiki. Of course, they had rules – rules again – but I enjoyed it. Going out into the world, learning how to dress properly, that was another thing. Being from the country we just wore pants, but when we saw other girls, neatly dressed, you could tell they were from town. We could tell the difference. We called them the townies, and us country ones. Well, we were from the bush! All through my nursing training, I spoke English. No one really knew I spoke Māori. I just kept it to myself, because we were told never, ever to speak our language. ‘Don’t you dare speak in Māori.’ When they said ‘natives’ to us, well, we knew the meaning of natives, you know. It was mamae, eh? We knew native meant you’re just running around in the bush or something. They’d class us as that. We heard it a lot growing up, especially at kura. That’s how they saw us. Later on, at places like our wānanga, people didn’t realise I could speak Māori. They’d get such a fright. But then my tutor said to me, ‘Kōrero i tō reo.’ So that was it – I spoke Māori there. There were some who couldn’t speak or understand Māori, so we identified them and supported them. It was emotional for us. It gave me such a lift, like a heavy burden was finally off my shoulders. Carrying that burden for so long, that’s hard, you know. We tangitangi for our own, for Māori, because I think back to our aunties and nannies who had to speak in secret. At the time, though, I thought Ōpōtiki was a beautiful town. Oh, what a beautiful place. Going to Ōpōtiki felt like going to a big city or something – like going to the pictures, you know. While I was working, we’d go dancing and all that. These were all learning experiences for us because we had no mum, you know. But we’d hear things from our friends or aunties, and they’d tell us the dos and don’ts, the birds and the bees and all that. It was quite fun in those days. We had our ups and downs, but looking back now, I’m glad for the experience of hardship. It taught me a lot. The Pākehā girls I worked with were lovely – lovely mates, you know. We learned from each other about our backgrounds. They were all farmers’ daughters living around Ōpōtiki, so we all came from similar experiences. There was no problem getting on with each other. We Māori nurses, though, had our own protocols. When we had sick patients, we’d say karakia to ourselves quietly. We wouldn’t tell anyone. When you’re nursing, you see a lot, and you just do it quietly and move on. My first experience, when this kuia died, I was frightened because, being Māori to Māori, I didn’t want to touch her or anything like that. But we were made to wash and everything, because that’s part of our training too. But, you know, that first one –it was very frightening, very scary, and it stays in your mind. We were frightened in the dark, you know, all we could think of was tapu. You, see? It was sacred, sacred to me. I’ll tell you something too. Dad was a tohunga, but it was all hush-hush, you know. If you were sick, he could see what was wrong and perform a special karakia, the old ones handed down from way back. Once, I did something wrong, and I got sick. Before I got home to my father, he already knew why I was coming. He never said a word, but I could tell he knew. He said to me, ‘Haere mai, haere mai ki waho.’ Outside we went, and he had a karakia with water. Then he said, ‘You did something wrong.’ See, they could sense these things – they could feel it. He told me, ‘Next time, be careful –kia tūpato.’ Those were the things we learned. Those unseen things, they’re very powerful, even today. As time went on, I got used to it – after two, three years, it was no problem. But tikanga and all that, it stays with you. I stayed in Ōpōtiki for four years at the hospital to help my siblings, especially my brother—he was the one I helped the most. I really loved nursing and later went to Rotorua to do my training. The hands-on work was no problem for me, but the theory – sending papers, exams, writing everything up – that’s where I struggled because I’d left school young and never learned all of that. Back then, you had to battle through it yourself. If you failed, you failed; if you passed, you passed – simple as that. There was no support like there is now, no whānau backing or anything. After failing, I thought, well, maybe I didn’t know enough, and for a while I blamed my father for that. But then I thought, no, there’s always a reason – there must be a purpose for me. My heart and soul were completely in nursing. Later, a group of us from Rotorua decided to go to Australia for a holiday and to work, planning it all out before we left. We were going to work in hospitals, starting from Melbourne to Brisbane, Sydney, then up the Gold Coast and right up to Mount Isa. Some of us ended up waitressing as well – oh, good money back in those days, you see. It was good. I was on another journey, learning overseas and seeing how they lived over there. It was a good time. While I was away, my father passed, and the whānau tried to track me down, but they couldn’t find me because I was already on my way to Mount Isa. We had planned to be away for two or three years before coming home. So, I was away for those two or three years, and then I came back to Murupara and got married. I wasn’t planning on coming back to get married. I’d had plenty of proposals, but I always said no. I wanted to do my own thing, be free, go out and explore, and expand my knowledge. I was coming back for a rest, then heading back to Auckland, but no, that was it, and here I was – and still am – in Murupara. I was quite old when I got married. I had vowed not to have any children because I wanted to enjoy life. After bringing up my siblings, which was so hard, I’d had enough. But I knew I didn’t want a big family, and neither did my husband. So, when I had my two boys in my thirties, and a whāngai, that was enough for me – I didn’t want any more. My husband was known as Butch, but his actual name was Renata Boyd Pouwhare. He was called Butch because his late grandfather was the first butcher to have a shop in Murupara. I already knew him from when we’d all go to the pictures as kids, but I actually met him properly because of my little sister, Doris, she was a friendly, vibrant ginger-haired seven-year-old who wasn’t shy to approach people. When she was little, Butch’s sister was smitten with Doris and asked my father if Doris could go up to Butch’s family home to stay with his sister, and that’s how we met. When we saw each other again and were going to get married, Butch wanted to remind me of things – like how they didn’t have hot water and all that. But it was the same with us, you know, like we’d light the copper for our wash and everything. We had the same background, but our lives were different. He’d say, ‘Oh, you sound as if you were poor,poor.’ But the funny thing is, we didn’t realise we were poor, poor because, when you’re young, you don’t think about that, eh? It’s not until you grew up, and then you look back, and I was like, ‘Oooh gosh.’ Well, his family was better off than us. They were much better off. The whare I live in now is where Butch and all his family and sisters were brought up. You see, at that time, they had just a dirt floor, a big open fire, and my mother-in-law had boxes for her things, you know. The table I sit at now with my whānau – it belonged to her. When we moved in, we modernised it with my mother-in-law. We maintained that history, the story about here. My mother-in-law, Kahupounamu Pouwhare, was a beautiful-natured woman, you know. She was one of those that, no matter what a person had done wrong, to her, there was always a good side. She’d always say to us, ‘Ah-ah. Have another look,’ you know. I couldn’t thank her enough for all she taught me about children and looking after ourselves. She’d say, ‘Now that you’ve got children, you need to look after your body,’ and give me tips, like wearing singlets to keep our kidneys warm and things like that. When I was a mum working at home, my late mother-in-law said to me, ‘Well, young lady’ – that’s how she talked – ‘I think it’s about time you came down to the marae to learn at the back and get to know everyone, whānau whānui.’ So that’s how I started. In the marae, we always start from the back and do our ‘apprenticeship.’ It’s just like your own home – how you look after your whānau, make sure things are clean and everything. When you know you’ve got visitors coming, you give the best, don’t you? You bring out the best china or whatever. So, we take these values down onto the marae. I’d been there for six years, and the women from the top, they knew when I was ready to go up to the front of the marae. One day, Dianne Grace, the kuia in front – my sister-in-law, came to get me. She said, ‘You need to come up to the top - to the wharenui.’ Well, at the time, I had gumboots on and an old shirt, and I said, ‘I can’t sit in the front.’ But Dianne said, ‘Yes, Nanny Taima said you had to come and sit there.’ So, I went to sit in the front, but it was embarrassing, really. I felt so stink about it, you know, because I had my old clothes on. I had a hat on, and she told me, ‘Take your hat off.’ Oh, my goodness, I was sweating and so ashamed of myself. Anyway, halfway through, Nanny Taima said to Dianne who we also call Titi, ‘I think you’d better take her home to put some blacks on.’ Right there, in front of everyone, Titi said, ‘Have you got any blacks?’ I said, ‘No, I haven’t.’ She said, ‘Well, you can borrow mine.’ That was the funny part, you know – I had no blacks. But that’s how I started as the kuia karanga here at Painoaiho Marae. It was a good learning experience. Oh, we made mistakes –words all back to front, shaking with nerves. It was scary, frightening, you know. The kaumātua of those days were different – not like us today. A big difference was that they didn’t explain things. The back kitchen was fine, because we knew from home, but in the front, the calling… When I asked, ‘What am I saying? What does that mean?’ All they’d say was, ‘Just listen, listen, listen.’ That’s why the reo was so important. It wasn’t until we went to wānanga that another world opened to me. It was totally different. Now, when we have our wānanga and teach the next generation, we make sure they understand the art of calling. I mean, now they can google every karanga too – it’s amazing what they can do. But we had to listen, listen, listen to pick it up. From the marae, I moved into the church. My late husband, Butch, and all his family belonged to the Anglican Church, which today we call Te Hāhi Mihinare. Luckily for me, growing up in the Hāhi Ringatū meant I already understood tikanga and protocol, but coming into this church felt alien. It took a while to adjust to it being a Pākehā church with Pākehā priests and all that. Around the 1970s and before, it was run by the Pākehā – there were no Māori ministers. Ever since, though, that’s been my life. If it wasn’t for my late mother-in-law, Kahupounamu, – from there to Painoaiho and then to the church. She introduced me to that side of the church, the Pākehā side. She had passed on before I went into the priesthood, but it all started with her. My father was a tohunga, and when I was about thirteen or fourteen, my father baptised me and all of us kids. That’s how it was. We grew up understanding discipline through Ringatū services, night and day. When someone was sick, they used kapa – pennies – that became tapu. Only the tohunga knew where these pennies were buried. They didn’t teach us; instead, they told us to whakarongo, to listen. It’s like learning Māori – you aren’t taught step by step, but you listen from birth, because of your parents speaking it. When someone was very sick, they took you to the river, where they hold the service and the baptism. Before the age of twelve, it was just a blessing, but when you were older and had understanding, they baptise you as a Ringatū. That’s when you truly came to understand the tikanga, ngā karakia, and the sacred practices that came with it. I didn’t step too deeply into those sacred areas myself. It’s too tapu, especially for a woman. Some women do – they dare, and they know how to handle themselves. But me? I only go so far. I stick to Karaitiana, Christianity, which feels like a lighter path – not so sacred. The Mihinare faith feels lighter – it’s a big difference. Ringatū has its own sacred practices, like the pennies, the baptisms, and the tapu, but Christianity is different. It feels lighter because we’re all praying to one God. When I go back home, I slip into Ringatū like it’s nothing. I can still do it – well, I could when I was younger. Back then, I could recite all the pānui, chant the karakia, and everything. But now, I’ve forgotten some of it. When I return, I listen to the tunes. Different areas have their own notes and their own ways of doing things. I’d been going to Te Hāhi Mihinare for quite some time, and in the late 1980s, there were a lot of changes happening – especially at the leadership level, because we’d been under the autonomy of the Pākehā. That’s when they came up with the three tikanga: tikanga Māori, tikanga Pākehā, and tikanga Pasifika. Around that time, they started talking about women entering the church, like into the priesthood. This was something that had never been heard of before. There was one lady from up north who became the first Māori woman to be a priest, but they didn’t announce it – it was sort of hush-hush. She did a lot of mahi in the background, working with children, the homeless, and addressing violence. She was a beautiful, wonderful woman, and that’s when all the changes started happening. The Church was still suppressed by the top bishops – we’re talking about the hierarchies now. Even though our Māori were there, they didn’t have a say in it at that time because it was still run under the diocese, and our language wasn’t spoken then, you see. So that’s the difference. I was sixty-six when I went back to school, back to wānanga. It was my late brother who introduced me to that side of the church – the Pākehā side. From there, it was wānanga and then back to school. Before I changed over, before I became a priest and a kaikaranga, I went home first to talk to my people about it. They gave me their blessings, took me down to the river for a karakia, and performed waiata over me to clear everything for me to go ahead. There’s a big difference between the Ringatū and the Mihinare. But now that I understand, many of ngā waiata Ringatū, stem from Te Whare Mihinare because of the prophet, Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Tūruki. When Te Kooti was a young boy, he went to mission school, he was a Mihinare. But it’s what he saw that changed him... That’s when he left it, and that’s where Ringatū stems from. You see all their pānui in there – Solomon and that. It’s all in there. But the only difference for the Ringatū faith is there are sacred days. For example, te tekau mā rua – the 12th day of each month, is a special time for gathering, hākari and prayers. And they have special days before Christmas, like for kai, for planting, and all of that. I think we’ve got all of that now, you know. We’ve got that māra. We go by the moon, you know, for fishing and all that, and so they sort of combined – like from the old and the new. So, we had our vicar – the late Venerable Dr Te Waaka Melbourne – in charge, and he was going around recruiting men and women to go to wānanga. I remember that time well –that’s when Yvonne Rewi, my sister-in-law, said to me, ‘Oh, I think you better go to the church just to listen.’ So, it was me, the late Parehuia Tamepo, and the late Libya Heke-Huata, and the three of us decided to go and listen. My whakaaro at that time was to learn about karakia, but Parehuia wanted to set up the church and all that. And Libya, she just wanted to be a priest, you know. It was a shock to us because we had to go back to school, to the wānanga, to learn all over again. If I would have known that at the time, I wouldn’t have put my name down! God works in mysterious ways, he does, God works in mysterious ways. So that’s how we began our ministry in the 1990s, and we were the first women in our rohe of Te Ika Whenua to attend Te Whare Wānanga o Te Pīhopatanaga o Aotearoa in Rotorua. I was one of the first of my generation of Māori to go into that church. There were only four of us to start off with, but as the months went on, we grew, and there were more and more coming on board to be trained as priests. We also had to do a lot of mahi as well. In wānanga, we all learned about taha wairua. When we were calling at that time, we didn’t know what we were saying, you know. I just couldn’t see the picture of it. So, I’d ask Nanny Taima Rangitauira at that time, ‘What are they saying?’ And then she just said, ‘Whakarongo ki te reo.’ So, I was listening and thought, ‘That’s beyond me.’ But thank goodness, thank God for this wānanga. Through the wānanga, we learned about the taiao, the mountains, the trees, and where we come from and who we are, you know. We also learned about the Bible and the connections – like whakapapa, all that. And that’s where we started the learning. Then, the penny dropped for me –this is it. Ahhhh! When you’re calling your mate, or whoever, calling beyond... connecting with the spiritual side. It’s a beautiful learning, and learning about the Bible and the connections, especially the taha Māori, because we can relate to that, of course. Because I finished school so young and didn’t have much of an education, I had to study hard. I thought, ‘Oh my goodness.’ We had to do so many assignments. But I think it was through experience that I got through. We did all sorts of things – interviews for the marae– asking the hapū for permission to use the marae and that. And yes, I think it was just through experience and all the learning that helped me pass my exams. When I got through my ministry, when I became a priest, I continued to do my other work, what we call ‘awhi whānau’ papers. Our late Bishop, Whakahuihui Vercoe, told us women ‘we needed to take that on because of our experience as mums and nannies, to help āwhina whānau. It took the three of us women from here in Murupara six years to complete that paper, and we earned our degree through NZQA. It wasn’t easy! We had to learn to type, and some of my papers had to be resubmitted where I went wrong. But there’s something I learned through that. When we passed all our exams, our bishop sent us down to the South Island, to Hanmer Springs, to work in drug and alcohol rehabilitation. We saw a lot of violence and things like that, but it was a good experience for us. That was part and parcel of our journey down there. When we came back, we shared our kōrero in our wānanga classes. We continued to deal with a lot of issues, but it’s all confidential, of course – it’s just between the priest and the whānau. What I do is very hands-on, and I’m very good at that. But when it comes to the theory part, that’s difficult for me. I think experience, and being older too, helped me. We did our training and became kaikarakia, then deaconesses, which expanded our mahi. At that stage, we couldn’t do baptisms, tangihanga, or any of that, but we could help. It wasn’t until we became priests and got our licenses that we could fully step into the mahi. We had our graduation at the Church of Holy Trinity here in Murupara when we became priests, and our hākari was brought back here to Painoaiho Marae. The late Whakahuihui Vercoe had warned us about the tikanga for women and everything that came with it. Luckily, we already knew this part. But there was still a barrier. We had a tangi, and we weren’t allowed to do the tangihanga – only the men could. That was the rule, and it was a tough one to challenge. Our kaihautū, Te Waaka Melbourne, explained to the people that we were spreading the good news, the rongopai, and that as women, we understood where we should stand. But the answer was still ‘kāo’ – a flat-out ‘no.’ It took a long time – three years or so – before Painoaiho Marae opened the door for us women to do tangihanga here. That was one of the hardest areas to break through as women, our position on the marae. We faced so many challenges – our people’s prejudice, the sexist comments – but eventually, care and love won the day. From there, I think it was Moewhare and Tipapa Marae that supported us women. Then lastly, Ngāti Hui opened their doors, which took a bit of time. Eventually, though, we broke through those barriers. We had so many knockbacks, but we were always careful. We knew the tikanga, and we were the only women who got through this for our rohe. So, from then on, we women took on everything – our church mahi, tangihanga, weddings and kaupapa, all of it. But low and behold, two of my beautiful friends, Parehuia and Libya passed away, and now I’m just a lone ranger here. When I think back to my first tangihanga, all I can remember is feeling nervous… nervous… because it was our first time standing in front of people. In a church, that’s no problem, but a tangihanga? It’s just full of whānau, you know. It's just full, and there’s so much pressure. Even when we were taking our service, our voices were shaky, and the pānui, the reading, was no better – oh, it was shocking. That was quite an experience to go through! Gosh, I remember going back to school afterwards, and they’d always want us to share about our first experience. So, we’d tell them how nervous we were, the wiriwiri, the shaking, in our hands, and how horrible our reading was. I couldn’t stop shaking; my hands were just trembling, and our hīmene were all over the place. Honestly, I was a wreck! But, you know, with those experiences, we learned, and we were able to help others later. It was such a relief once we got through it, our first tangihanga and everything. We’d always come back and have a debrief among ourselves, sharing what we’d gone through. It made a big difference because it’s hard to handle on your own when you’ve got no one to turn to or talk to. Now, with the younger generation coming up, we guide them along. We’re getting on in age, so it’s time to help them. Not so long ago, I got sick, and my niece Valerie Bishop-Tamaki was able to do the karanga here at Painoaiho Marae, which was good. It’s important to let them take on the role now and then, while we’re still here to guide them along. You see, when you think back, women were so suppressed. Our voices weren’t heard – it was always the men. From the beginning, they were in front, and we women stayed in the background. That’s just how it was. We grew up with that suppression, and it’s only now that some of those barriers are finally breaking down. As women, we carried that with us. Like I said, it was always the men’s voices that were heard. But now, there are women who are quite vocal – very much so, you know. Still, because of the protocols, it’s only recently that we’ve been able to talk about it, to express our feelings, and all that. I suppose men have a different way of looking at life too. Back then, they were still dominant. I still feel that, even today, with some men – you can feel it, you know. So yeah, it’s taken a long time, but the men here in Ngāti Manawa have opened up more. They kōrero and they have discussions, then bring it back to the hui or the hapū. That’s when they allow us to speak, but we’re not doing whaikōrero – we’re just doing the Lord’s work, that’s all. Our focus is the tūpāpaku, the deceased, and their whānau – that’s what’s important. When we finish the tangihanga during the day, I’ll take off one hat, as kaikaranga, and put on another. Taking the prayers for the evening, through to the burial process. That’s the job. If I have to go into another rohe, I always notify the priest in charge there and let them know I have a kaupapa. I’ll ask, ‘Do you mind if I come in?’ It’s always up to them to say ‘āe’ or ‘kāo’. But it’s almost always ‘āe’, because we all know one another throughout the whole area. Still, it’s about courtesy and respect – you ring them first, you ask for permission before stepping in. So, when I go back to my homelands, I feel the connection there. And for church, every time we return, they always ask, ‘Whaea, would you like to take part in a service?’ Sometimes I say, ‘Kāo,” because I just want to sit back. But they insist, ‘You’re supposed to be up here.’ It’s the same at tangi – they always ask me to take part, but I usually say, ‘No, you do it,’ because I’m not there all the time. Still, it’s a spiritual journey, something I reflect on more deeply now as I get older and think about everything before I pass on. I think back to my father, our old people and our old ways. We grew up whakamā – though before that, we were proud of being Māori. But things changed. We had to battle with everything: our reo, colonisation, and even the Tohunga Suppression Act, which stopped our people from using our own healing practices. In those days, the church was a big part of life. Many of us went to Sunday school, and the marae was always full of children. Hardly anybody comes to church now, you know. The numbers are dwindling down. But when there’s baptisms, tangi, weddings, and things like that, everyone knows who to ring. But apart from that, they don’t come to church, you, see? Even though we have our eulogy, because we speak about it, it’s different. Our vestry members used to get upset with us because they felt our people didn’t appreciate our mahi and would only reach out when they needed our help, when they had no one else to do the service. But it’s important we do this – being whānau, too – and we explain to our vestry that we must, because we know who they are. It’s quite difficult, you know – what do we do? But they’re whānau, and that’s what I do – my commitment to the Lord. Things have changed a lot in my lifetime. I cried, you know, when the kōhanga started in the 1980s. They had to fight for it – to bring our language back. It was such an important time. But my own boys never grew up speaking te reo; they missed kōhanga because they left school by this time. They always say to me, ‘Why didn’t you speak Māori to us?’ My late husband spoke the reo fluently, but no, we didn’t speak it to them. I’m sorry now – I regret that choice. I just don’t know why we never did. Now, though, my moko in Rotorua is going to primary school, and I make sure to speak Māori to her. My boy, Jonathan Pouwhare, he understands. He’s trying to get his tongue around it. So, the next generation, they’re learning again, and that gives me hope. And then there’s my other mokopuna in Australia. She’s in her thirties now, and she always wants to hear from me – what it was like growing up, my time at Ōhiwa, the stories of our past. I look at the next generation of my moko and think about the world they’ll grow up in. It makes me reflect on my own life and how appreciative I am that I went through my experiences of hardship. It has shaped who I am. My moemoeā, my dream for my mokopuna and ngāi Māori is kia toitū te reo Māori hei reo kōrero mō ake. I want te reo Māori to resume its rightful place in Aotearoa as a living language, kia ora.