05/02/2026
He Kōrero Tūturu mō Maioro – mō te Mamae, te Tohe, me te Manawanui o Ngāti Te Ata
E te iwi, tēnei te mihi ki a koutou katoa.
I want to speak about Maioro, not as a legal issue, but as a truth that has travelled through generations of Ngāti Te Ata. This kaupapa, the protection of our ancient burial grounds, did not begin in the courts, and it will not end there.
1842 – Our tūpuna speak clearly
As early as 1842, five kaumātua and rangatira of Ngāti Te Ata wrote to Te Karere o Niu Tireni, the first government newspaper. They listed 102 pā kāinga that they sought to hold forever — “kia mau tonu kia mātou mō ake ake ake”. Maioro was one of those pā kāinga with urupa— not a single site, but a complex of five pā surrounding Te Puaha o Waikato, rich in life, sustenance, strategy, and burial.
One of those signatories was Kaihau, the leading chief of Ngāti Te Ata — i tā mokomokongia ai. This was an early and clear assertion of rangatiratanga, made in writing, in good faith, long before war came to our rohe and just two years after Te Tiriti o Waitangi was signed. It's been consistently ignored.
1862 – Collective protection of the land
By 1862, with settler pressure intensifying, Ahipene Kaihau — Kaihau’s son and then the leading chief of the iwi — established the Ngāti Te Ata Rūnanga. Its purpose was simple and defensive: to protect Ngāti Te Ata land, to respond collectively, and to uphold rangatiratanga. This was governance created by the people, for the people, in response to threat.
1864 – A transaction in a theatre of war
The so-called 1864 transaction did not occur in peace. It took place in a theatre of war, during a bloody process of colonisation. Ngāti Te Ata men and women went to fight and died in battle. Others were imprisoned. Waka were destroyed. A village of old men, old women, and children was militarily assaulted, with the old men imprisoned. Property was stolen or burned.
All of this occurred under the constant threat of confiscation. And yet, even today, we are told there was no undue influence.
E te iwi — that claim asks us to forget the lived reality of our tūpuna.
Confiscation, return, and confiscation again
Following the war, more than 100,000 acres across the rohe of Ngāti Te Ata were confiscated — including our burial grounds. Through the relentless efforts of our tūpuna, those burial grounds were eventually recognised and returned by Crown Grant. That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Maioro was later taken again, this time by compulsory acquisition under the Public Works Act, in 1939 and again in 1959.
Different legislation.
Same loss.
Same people.
Leadership carried across generations
Ahipene Kaihau’s son, Henare Kaihau, (MP Western Maori) carried this kaupapa into Parliament between 1896 and 1911. He invoked Te Tiriti o Waitangi and the New Zealand Constitution Act, arguing for the return of confiscated lands, Māori authority over Māori affairs, and constitutional change so Māori could govern their own lands. These were not abstract ideas — they were grounded in lived experience and dispossession.
The modern era – the Manukau Claim and beyond
In 1983–84, Henare Kaihau’s mokopuna, Dame Nganeko Minhinnick (who we just called mum), lodged the Manukau Claim before the Waitangi Tribunal. Maioro was central to that claim. The Tribunal found that Ngāti Te Ata had good cause to brood over the way their land had been taken and used, and it recommended the return of the four wāhi tapu at Maioro.
The Crown did not implement those recommendations. That failure led Ngāti Te Ata to the United Nations, and back repeatedly to domestic courts, seeking justice through every available forum.
1990 – Protest, promise, and betrayal
In 1990, while Aotearoa celebrated 150 years of colonisation, Ngāti Te Ata had nothing to celebrate. A demonstration camp was established at Maioro. Kōiwi were unearthed. Access to the mine was blocked. Six of our people were arrested.
Out of that protest came a Memorandum of Understanding in which the Crown agreed to return the wāhi tapu. Ngāti Te Ata upheld its side of that agreement. The Crown did not. When NZ Steel threatened legal action, the Crown withdrew from its promise.
The long road through the courts
What followed were decades of legal struggle: victories in the Environment Court preventing mining; a Māori Appellate Court decision recognising Ngāti Te Ata’s exclusive rangatiratanga, kaitiakitanga, and ownership of Maioro; High Court ancillary proceedings; appeals; and repeated delays.
As the case moved toward the substantive hearing in the High Court, Ngāti Te Ata lost two of its most important voices. Tahuna, (the older brother) who had become the lead negotiator for the iwi, passed away after preparing evidence and only months before the hearing. Not long after, mum also passed — the person who had carried this kaupapa for decades, before the Tribunal, the United Nations, and every forum available to our people. Their absence was deeply felt, not just personally, but for the kaupapa itself. Spending a week under Crown cross examination without them was hard but it felt like they were there, all of them, grounding. Affirming.
Division, loss, and resolve
As the case progressed beyond the High Court, the strain of the journey became even more apparent. Prior to the Court of Appeal hearing, divisions emerged within the iwi. The then chair of Te Ara Rangatū o Te Iwi o Ngāti Te Ata Waiohua Inc withdrew the Iwi legal entity from the case. For those continuing to carry the kaupapa, that moment was one of deep disappointment and abandonment.
Despite this, the kaupapa did not end. The matter was taken forward to the Court of Appeal, carried by Te Tumu Whakarae (the eldest brother Riki), so that the issues affecting Ngāti Te Ata — particularly Maioro — could continue to be tested and heard.
At the Court of Appeal, every issue was lost. Our QC had advised at the very start of the journey not to hold our breath, and that this issue would likely need to go before the Supreme Court. For us, that outcome did not reflect an absence of truth or justice. It reflected the limits of the system itself — and made clear that these issues require the highest level of judicial scrutiny.
Why we are now at the Supreme Court
That loss did not end the journey. It strengthened the resolve to go further. And so the appeal to the Supreme Court has now been lodged — not to reopen wounds, but to finally place the full truth before the highest court we have.
Ngā whakaaro noa iho
E te iwi, this kaupapa represents those who lost their lives defending their lands, the tears and resilience of our tūpuna, and the intergenerational exercise of kaitiakitanga carried forward to today. It stretches from Kaihau’s voice and the rangatira of 1842, to Ahipene’s unity and the Rūnanga of 1862, to Henare’s advocacy in the halls of Parliament at the turn of the 20th century, to mum’s determination before the Tribunal (and nga ruruhi koroheke i aua wa) and before Te Kaunanganui o Te Ao, and to the responsibility carried now.
Maioro is not just land.
It’s who we are.
Where we are from, and;
Why we belong here.
Hei whawhai tonu mātou mō ake tonu atu.
