Shane Te Pou: Marama Davidson and other Māori leaders rise above the backlash

Shane Te Pou hopes Whetū Tirikātene-Sullivan, New Zealand’s first Māori woman Cabinet minister, is looking down on leaders such as Marama Davidson with great satisfaction. Photo / Paul Escourt

OPINION

Christopher Luxon’s signature rhetorical move was on vivid display again this week as he first appeared to rule out, then to only kinda, sorta rule back in, the prospect of going into coalition with Te Pāti Māori. This big-step-forward-half-step-back manoeuvre, known to ballroom dancing aficionados as the chassé, is Luxon’s trusty tried and true. On February 1 last year, Luxon denied climate change was the major challenge facing New Zealand – until, hours later, he conceded it kinda, sorta was. Same-sex marriage is a “complicated issue”, Luxon insisted in August 2021, until clarifying 24 hours later that there was nothing complicated about it. A year earlier, sexuality was a “matter of personal choice” to Luxon until it was no such thing. Likewise on abortion, vaccine mandates and China policy, Luxon has lurched rightward only to retreat to the muddled middle in response to the first sign of a backlash. Watching from the sidelines, Luxon’s deputy PM-in-waiting and celebrity ballroom dancer David Seymour may well admire the deft footwork but must thank his lucky stars nothing of the sort is expected of him.

After all, Seymour, uniquely in our politics, is immune to backlash - taken as newsworthy enough to report his every utterance but not seriously enough to warrant scrutiny.

Take his recent turn on the Max Key podcast, where he guffawed over the purported stupidity of outgoing PM Jacinda Ardern, a woman whose career and record of accomplishment leaves him in the dust.

Compare the mild pushback to this egregious outburst to the nationwide clamour that greeted these remarks of Greens co-leader Marama Davidson, made moments after being side-swiped by a motorcycle at a protest in support of the trans community: “I am a violence prevention minister and I know who causes violence in the world, it is white, cis men.”

Davidson herself quickly conceded the comments were unwise: “My intention,” she explained, “was to affirm that trans people are deserving of support and to keep the focus on the fact that men are the main perpetrators of violence.” Did that quell the paroxysms of rage and feigned victimhood? Not one bit. It was almost as if the reaction had less to do with an honest reckoning with family violence and more to do with putting an uppity woman of colour in her place.

During a lifetime in and around trade unions and Labour Party politics, you develop a pretty thick skin. Back in the 80s, if I had taken offence at every real or perceived slight, every ill-judged joke or casually hurled off slur, I wouldn’t have lasted a week. Even these days, I don’t think it helps to be hypersensitive or trigger-happy when it comes to calling that stuff out. Most Kiwis are pretty fair-minded and, in any case, wagging your finger at them is just as likely to make them redouble as rethink.

But don’t mistake that for nostalgia for some bygone era of free speech, by which its advocates these days really mean consequence-free speech. Chatting to an old mate recently, we grimly reminisced how Māori politicians were routinely and openly disparaged in the not-so-distant past, almost invariably as lazy. Once, a Pākehā MP who, traffic-depending, could drive from one side of his urban electorate to the other in under 20 minutes, loudly opined that his colleague Whetū Tirikātene-Sullivan “isn’t putting in the effort on the ground”, referring to her Southern Māori electorate that spanned Hastings to Stewart Island. On countless other occasions, the work ethic of everyone from Mat Rata to Koro Wētere to John Tamihere and Nanaia Mahuta was called into question in my presence. The disrespect ran deep. My mate, a Pākehā of just 19 at the time, recalled getting called up before the designated Māori Affairs researcher in the Research Unit after Labour’s defeat in 1990. “My qualifications? I passed School C Māori, albeit only just. Rocking up to our first meeting, sitting there was Koro, Whetū, Peter [Tapsell] and Bruce Gregory, each of them giants in their own way. Looking back, I’m amazed they didn’t just send me packing - instead, they politely took my gormless counsel and offered respect I had done nothing to deserve.”

But succumbing to hurt feelings was not a luxury leaders like Koro Wētere and Whetū Tirikātene-Sullivan could afford when our culture and language veered perilously close to extinction. This wasn’t about knowing their place but understanding the limits of their power. They, and generations before them, look down with wry amusement and, I hope, great satisfaction, as Marama, Nanaia, Hekia [Parata] and many others explore the limits of theirs.

Shane Te Pou (Ngāi Tūhoe) is a commentator, blogger and former Labour party activist.