*This interview is a contribution to an upcoming text on global indigeneity and international humanism from In-Sight Publishing.* 

Eru Hiko-Tahuri, a Māori creative and author of Māori Boy Atheist, explores his journey from religious upbringing to secular humanism. Hiko-Tahuri discusses cultural tensions as a Māori atheist, advocating for respectful integration of Māori values like manaakitanga and whanaungatanga within secular contexts. He emphasizes participation in traditions like tangihanga (funeral rites) and haka without supernatural beliefs. The conversation explores misconceptions around Māori identity, the marginalization of secular voices, and the absence of atheists in leadership roles. Despite limited public representation, Māori secular humanists like Hiko-Tahuri remain active in community life. His book and outreach aim to normalize atheism within Māori communities. The interview underscores a broader call for inclusive frameworks in mental health, education, and policy that respect cultural identity and secular worldviews.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we’re joined by Eru Hiko-Tahuri, a multifaceted Māori creative and intellectual voice based in New Zealand.

Eru Hiko-Tahuri: Thank you for having me.

Jacobsen: He’s best known as the author of Māori Boy Atheist, where he chronicles his journey from childhood religious observance to secular humanism. Alongside writing, he engages audiences as a radio host, musician, and airbrush artist, integrating cultural expression with personal storytelling. Since launching Māori Boy Atheist, with editions available in English, Te Reo Māori, and French, he has contributed meaningfully to rationalist and skeptic communities, offering insights on navigating Māori spirituality as an atheist.

The book was first published in 2015 and has served as a platform to explore the intersection of Māori identity and secularism. His public talks and podcasts, notably The Heretical Hori, encourage free thought and integrity within the indigenous context. They combine art, reflective media, and cultural dialogue to foster conversations on belief, identity, and resilience. Through those platforms, I aim to respectfully explore and challenge ideas, especially within Māori communities where belief systems can be deeply personal and culturally intertwined.

Thank you very much for joining me today—I appreciate it.

Hiko-Tahuri: It’s a pleasure to be here.

Jacobsen: How do core humanist principles align with traditional Māori concepts such as mana, mana motuhake, and whanaungatanga?

Hiko-Tahuri: Whanaungatanga speaks to kinship and the interconnectedness of people. That aligns closely with humanism, emphasizing dignity, respect, and empathy. You treat others as people first—essentially as extended family. It’s about looking after the people within your sphere, which reflects humanist ethics well.

Jacobsen: How can secular humanist organizations incorporate Te Ao Māori—the Māori worldview—into their activities without endorsing supernaturalism while respecting and integrating those cultural values?

Hiko-Tahuri: That’s a great question. It’s not always straightforward, but let me give an example from personal experience. When someone in our family passes away, we take them to the marae—a tribal meeting ground—where they lie in state for three days. During that time, relatives come to mourn, share memories, cry, laugh, tell jokes, and say goodbyes.

Depending on travel or family arrangements, the person is buried or cremated on the third day—sometimes longer. This process reflects core Māori values like manaakitanga (hospitality, care) and whanaungatanga, which coexist naturally with humanist principles of community, respect, and shared humanity. These values shape how we live and commemorate life without invoking supernatural beliefs.

Employers in Aotearoa generally understand that if someone goes to a funeral, they might be gone for three days—that’s just the time it takes. All of that work, by the way, is done voluntarily. We gather at the marae. Some families will care for the food, and others will help with arrangements. You can even sleep there.

We sleep beside the body for those three days. We keep them with us. We talk to them. We joke about them. We tell stories. We insult them lovingly. We laugh. We cry. It’s all done out in the open, and it’s for everyone to witness. That’s just the way we do it. It’s a good, profound way of grieving together as a collective.

Jacobsen: And within a secular humanist context, this isn’t just about superficial inclusion—it’s about acknowledging different ways of being. That kind of grieving is profoundly human and deeply cultural. It’s not about hierarchy—this isn’t about one way being better than another.

Take my Dutch heritage, for example. They’re big on windmills, dikes, black licorice, and clogs. The traditional way of burial there is usually more private—placing the body in a mound of Earth and marking it with a cross or a headstone. The grieving tends to happen separately from the deceased.

But for you, it’s different. Being with the body, telling stories, laughing and crying beside them—all part of the process. I wouldn’t say one way is more valid than the other. These are just different cultural processes for the same human experience. One does not invalidate the other.

Hiko-Tahuri: This is just the way we do it. I don’t judge how others handle it, but this is the way I prefer because it’s how I grew up. It’s what feels real to me.

And yes, there are usually religious aspects involved in the funeral proceedings. When those moments arise, I sit quietly and let them happen around me. I do not participate in those parts because I cannot in good conscience. And that’s one of the problematic areas—Indigenous and non-religious. Those are the tensions.

Jacobsen: How do you navigate those tensions?

Hiko-Tahuri: That’s the most challenging part, honestly. Knowing when to stay quiet, step back, and speak. It isn’t easy.

Jacobsen: Were there aspects where you didn’t feel tension at all? Or places where the friction started to show?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. One of the earliest points where tension emerges is during the pōwhiri—the welcoming ceremony when people arrive at the marae. That includes a series of formal speeches. It’s in that speech-making process where religious content often appears. That’s where the rub tends to start.

Jacobsen: Do you find conversations with others in the Māori community become more difficult when you do not endorse the spiritual or supernatural aspects of the culture?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. It can be challenging. Not always, but often. Some people are very accepting. Others feel that rejecting the supernatural is rejecting the culture itself, which is not my intention. But the tension is real.

Jacobsen: So you’re engaging in the same practices but not endorsing the supernaturalism around them. Is that difficult for people?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. Many people do not understand that distinction. There have been many times when I’ve been told, “You’re not Māori if you don’t believe in these things.” That has happened quite a few times.

Jacobsen: That is unfortunately common. I have encountered similar stories in speaking with Indigenous people—particularly from North America. The closest equivalent, in terms of how it’s discussed internationally, is often with African Americans in more conservative or evangelistic religious circles: Baptist, Pentecostal, Methodist—hardline Christianity in Black communities in the United States.

Suppose you’re a woman in those communities, and you reject the concept of God or Christianity entirely. In that case, you’ve forfeited your “Black card.” You’re suddenly seen as no longer fully part of the community.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes.

Jacobsen: And that is not just an identity issue—it’s social. You’re giving up a significant source of communal support in a society that will not necessarily provide support to you proportionately. So, there are deeper sociological and economic implications at play.

I’ve heard similar things from North American Indigenous people, too—they say, ‘You’ve given up your Indigenous card.

Hiko-Tahuri: Somehow, you’re less Māori or less authentic if you’re secular. On the marae or in the community, that feeling can be present.

Jacobsen: Would you say it is quite that extreme in New Zealand?

Hiko-Tahuri: Probably not to the same extent. New Zealanders are generally pretty liberal. Highly religious people here are sometimes even seen as a bit unusual. We’re more secular than many places—certainly more than I’ve seen in North America. So, it is not as intense, but it can still be challenging.

This is especially true among people in what we might call the Māori Renaissance—those who are just now reconnecting with their heritage. Typically, the first people they learn from are religious, so religion is deeply woven into the cultural learning they receive. Then they meet someone like me, who speaks the language and participates fully in the culture but is openly non-religious—and that creates tension for them. It challenges their framework.

Jacobsen: If you look at the traditional Māori worldview—how human beings were made, how the world came into being—what aspects can be reconciled with a humanistic way of looking at things, and what aspects cannot? And maybe you could give us a bit of a background primer. What’s the general picture?

Hiko-Tahuri: In the Māori creation narrative, everything begins with Te Kore—the void or nothingness. From Te Korecame Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother). They were bound together in a tight embrace, and between them lived their many children—some say seventy, others say fewer.

Because the children were trapped in the darkness between their parents, they decided that their parents had to be separated to live with light and space. This led to a conflict among the children—each had a different view on handling the situation. Eventually, Tāne Mahuta, the God of forests and birds, pushed his parents apart, creating the world of light, Te Ao Mārama.

These children—atua, the closest term to “gods”—became personifications of natural elements. So there’s Tangaroa for the sea, Tāwhirimātea for weather and storms, Rongo for cultivated food, and so on. There’s debate around what at ruly means—whether they’re deities or ancestral forces—but they represent aspects of the natural world in human-like form.

These stories explain natural forces through personification. Of course, much of it doesn’t align with what we know from science about how humans or the Earth came into being. But some aspects resonate. For instance, each atua has a personality—just like humans do. This humanizes nature and gives people a relational framework for understanding their environment.

So yes, while the cosmology isn’t scientifically accurate, the relational values and metaphors can still be meaningful. That’s where the humanist alignment might be found—not in literal belief but in symbolic or cultural interpretation.

It reminds me of reading Joseph Campbell—how mythologies worldwide echo similar patterns. Eventually, you realize that they can’t all be true—and most likely, none of them are. That was my journey. Campbell was instrumental in helping me unpack much of what I had assumed. Once you see that every culture has a creation story—and they often contradict one another—you start questioning which, if any, are “true” in a literal sense.

Jacobsen: I’ve found it helpful to separate spirituality in the supernatural sense from spirituality as a personal or communal meaning-making practice, especially in conversations like this and other interviews. In other words, spirituality that gives a person purpose or peace doesn’t need to invoke the supernatural.

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely. That distinction has been vital for me, too. 

Jacobsen: When people say “spiritual,” I sometimes ask: Do you mean supernaturalism or practices that foster wellbeing or connection? Prayer or meditation, for example, can have measurable health benefits—lowering stress and calming the nervous system—without requiring a belief in the supernatural.

So yes—looking at spiritual practices in the edification or enriching sense—not in the supernatural sense—what practices are done in the community or individually, or at least encouraged, that might be comparable to things like attending Easter or Christmas mass? Or personal rituals like being told to read a specific scripture in the morning, pray for ten minutes, hold a rosary, and recite ten Hail Marys?

Hiko-Tahuri: I was thinking about practices of personal unification. A lot of our communal activities involve singing. We’re a people who love to sing together. You will hear singing at any large gathering—a meeting, a ceremony, or a funeral.

Yes, some of the songs are religious, but what’s significant is that you have 300 people singing in harmony. And the richness of sound—those layers of harmonies—is incredible. Whether it’s traditional waiata, more contemporary songs, or even religious hymns, singing together is powerful. Even if the content has spiritual roots, the experience is about unity, connection, and shared emotion.

Jacobsen: That resonates with me. We’re both secular humanists and atheists. I can relate to my time in a university choir. I was in it for about two and a half years, and we sang many classical European music—Bach, Mozart’s Requiem, and other choral works.

Sometimes, we performed modern songs with a 1950s vibe. I remember people using phrases like “cat” and “daddio” or “you dig,” like something out of an Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor scene. I sang bass, and we once collaborated with musicians from the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra in a 500-seat church. The acoustics were stunning.

It was technically Christian or sacred music—cathedral music, I’d call it—but the overwhelming sense of awe, the physical resonance, the unity of voices… It was a spiritual experience in that broader, secular sense of the word.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, I’d call that spiritual too. It taps into a level of connection and emotion you do not find anywhere else.

I do not avoid using “spiritual” in that context. It describes an experience of profound meaning, joy, or connection. I am not using it to refer to supernatural beliefs.

I’m not one of those people who avoids the word altogether. I use it for deeply moving experiences that are transcendent in an emotional sense. Just because a word has a particular religious usage does not mean it is limited to that meaning.

Jacobsen: Yes—most words have secondary meanings. So, use the second meaning! And if someone asks, explain it.

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely.

Jacobsen: Statistically, I do not know of a single government census that includes hate crime data specifically against atheists, agnostics, or humanists. Have you ever seen one?

Hiko-Tahuri: Never heard of it.

Jacobsen: In Canada, the categories usually include antisemitism—perennially at the top—followed by anti-Muslim sentiment or “Islamophobia,” then discrimination against Roman Catholics. However, Catholics make up about 30% of the Canadian population, so naturally, they’ll be represented in the data due to sheer numbers.

Still, antisemitism usually tops the list. But recent research out of North America shows that people’s emotional responses to atheists are often rooted in disgust and distrust—those deep, visceral reactions.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, I’ve read about that.

Jacobsen: And when you break it down by political affiliation—Democrat, Republican, Independent—in the US, the negative perceptions of atheists remain low across all groups. The numbers are roughly as low as those for Muslims, even among Democrats and Independents. It’s slightly better in those groups than among Republicans, probably due to the strong influence of the evangelical white base.

But across the board, atheists still rank low in terms of public trust. So clearly, we’re missing something in national censuses or surveys. The social stigma is real, but it’s under-measured.

Hiko-Tahuri: I’d agree with that. In the New Zealand context, I wouldn’t say I’ve experienced hate for being an atheist. It’s more that I’m seen as an outlier—maybe eccentric or just “different”—rather than hated.

Sure, a few people have been upset or uncomfortable with it. But New Zealand is pretty liberal. Most people here don’t care what you believe—as long as you treat others well. That’s what matters most. We’re not as politically polarized, either.

Jacobsen: That’s refreshing. Demographically, what’s the approximate proportion of people with Māori heritage in New Zealand’s population?

Hiko-Tahuri: They say it’s approaching a million people out of a total population of about five million—roughly 20%.

Jacobsen: That’s significantly higher than in Canada. Indigenous people comprise around 4 or 5% of the population.

Within your community, have you encountered a dynamic similar to what Mariam Namazie describes among ex-Muslims in Britain? She talks about “minorities within minorities.” That is, Muslims are a minority in the UK, but ex-Muslims are a minority within that minority, often facing backlash both from within their communities and from wider society.

Hiko-Tahuri: I understand that idea. You leave a belief system, but you become doubly marginalized. It’s not that extreme here, but there are similarities.

Some Māori do view secular Māori as having stepped outside the bounds of what it means to be Māori, especially when religion has become entwined with their cultural reawakening. So yes, you can feel like a minority within a minority sometimes, but it is more subtle here—less hostile, I would say.

Jacobsen: That distinction makes sense. In the UK context, to support ex-Muslims publicly is sometimes misread as being anti-Muslim, which complicates everything. Identity politics can overshadow human rights issues.

Hiko-Tahuri: When cultural identity and religion are closely tied, questioning one can feel like attacking the other—even if that is not the intention.

Jacobsen: And you find yourself in this strange dichotomy—it is just a category error. You can support both Indigenous identity and secular values without negating either. It is just a mistake in framing. Do you experience that kind of tension in New Zealand as a Māori person? Or, more specifically, as a Māori atheist?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, definitely—as a Māori atheist, I do. I have had conversations with a few others who are both Māori and atheist, and we often feel like a minority within a minority. It is a unique position to be in. Interestingly, though, statistically, about 53% of Māori now report no religious affiliation.

Jacobsen: There you go.

Hiko-Tahuri: Most people would still describe themselves as “spiritual but not religious.” Maybe only 10% would openly identify as atheists. So, it is still a tiny group to which I belong.

Jacobsen: Right.

Hiko-Tahuri: That leads back nicely to the idea of “coming out” as both Māori and atheist. I remember that journey. I had been reading all the usual books—The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins, God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens, and so on.

I struggled with the language in some of those books because they used words I had never encountered before. As the whole topic was so new, I had to sit with a dictionary beside me while reading.

Eventually, I reached a point where I realized, “I don’t believe in this anymore.” Then, the more complex question came: “What do I do about it?” And more importantly, “Can I even tell anyone?”

While I was at university, I met a few other Māori who had started to question Christianity, too. By understanding the colonization of Aotearoa, they began to see that Christianity was imposed here—brought in by missionaries from overseas. It was not ours originally. So some of us thought, “Why should we continue believing something that was forced upon us?”

That was my thinking for a while. But then I had another realization: I had rejected Christianity using a rational lens, but I had never applied that same critical lens to traditional Māori beliefs—the atua, the creation stories, the pantheon of gods.

So I did. When I examined those beliefs through the same standards, I had to admit—they did not add up either.

That is when I had the next big moment: “I don’t believe this either. So… now what? And how am I going to tell people?”

For a long time, I did not. At first, I equated being an atheist with simply not being Christian—since Christianity is still the dominant religious framework in New Zealand.

But it took years to fully embrace the term atheist in the broader sense—to reach the point where I could say, “I do not believe in any supernatural being that controls the world or defines our purpose.”

Eventually—probably after reading The God Delusion for the third time—I thought, “I can’t be the only one.”

Hiko-Tahuri: I remember thinking, “I can’t be the only Māori going through this.” So I started searching for books or articles written by Māori people about being both Māori and atheist. And I found absolutely nothing. There was no one—no one who had written publicly about being Māori and atheist.

Jacobsen: In your experience, had you at least come across others in real life—even if they had not formally written anything?

Hiko-Tahuri: I had met people who had loudly and proudly rejected Christianity and returned to belief in the traditional Māori gods—the atua. But I do not think I had ever met another openly Māori atheist—except for one woman I found on YouTube.

Her name was Nairi McCarthy. She was involved with the New Zealand Association of Rationalists and Humanists.

Jacobsen: Oh yes, yes—I know of her.

Hiko-Tahuri: You could have spoken with her a few years ago. Sadly, she passed away five or six years ago now.

She was the only one I had ever seen publicly acknowledge being Māori and atheist. And I thought, “Damn it. If I’m the only one with some writing skills and talk for a living, maybe I need to write this book.”

Jacobsen: Right.

Hiko-Tahuri: That is what led me to write it. I thought, “I know for certain I cannot be the only person who has come to this conclusion.”

So I turned to my community for support—and found nothing—no books, no articles. I thought, “Well, maybe I have to be the first. I’ll quietly write my story, upload it to the Internet, and maybe someone will find it.”

And that is precisely what I did.

Jacobsen: Was it terrifying?

Hiko-Tahuri: Oh yes—completely. I still remember the day I hit Publish. I put it on Smashwords. And I had no one to turn to—no reference point for what kind of response it might get.

But what I wanted was to leave a record. I’ve been to Māori funerals where they lied about the beliefs of the deceased—saying they were believers, that they loved God, when I knew for a fact they didn’t.

I didn’t want anyone to lie about me to my kids after I was gone. I needed something that told the truth about who I was. So I wrote the book.

It wasn’t to convince anyone. It was just my story—something people could find and know was real.

Jacobsen: How long did it take to write?

Hiko-Tahuri: About a year and a half. It’s a short book, but it took me that long to work through it.

Jacobsen: And the word count?

Hiko-Tahuri: Around sixteen or seventeen thousand words.

Jacobsen: So, roughly a thousand words a month?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes—about that. I took my time with it.

Jacobsen: That must have been a difficult thing to do. We should get into that part because if someone stumbles across this ten years from now, it could be helpful to them.

What was the tension you felt when you realized, “Oh, shit—I don’t believe any of this anymore”?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah. I love my community. I love my people. I love our ceremonies. I love the familial nature of it all—the shared values, the collective spirit.

But I couldn’t believe that there were only seventy children of Rangi and Papa or that everything came from Te Kore—the void of nothingness. I couldn’t hold that belief anymore.

And that realization… it was jarring. “What do I do now?” It does suck. But I also knew I could not stay silent. I could not pretend I wasn’t having these thoughts or deny the conclusions I was reaching.

Jacobsen: That must have been a real internal conflict.

Hiko-Tahuri: It was—a deeply personal one. Part of me thought, “If you just keep quiet, you’ll be fine. You don’t have to believe—you can go your own way and avoid the conflict.”

That was tempting. It would have been easier. But I also knew that if someone asked me directly, I wouldn’t lie. I’d say, “No, I don’t believe in that.”

So, part of the thinking behind the book was: If I write this down, I won’t have to explain myself repeatedly. I can point people to it.

That felt honest. It meant I wasn’t lying or hiding anymore, either.

Jacobsen: After you published it, was the reaction proportional to the emotional weight you carried? Or was it mostly internal?

Hiko-Tahuri: Oh, it was all internal. The fear, the anxiety—it was mostly in my head.

Jacobsen: How common do you think that experience is? Do you think there’s a quiet wave of Māori atheists—or what I sometimes call “atheism-lite,” meaning agnostics—people who live by humanist principles but are afraid to come out and say they don’t believe in a deity?

People who think they’ll face judgment when, in fact, most people are too busy trying not to check Elon Musk or Donald Trump’s Twitter feed?

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Yes, right?

There’s a number of us out there. I wouldn’t call it a wave just yet, but there are certainly people wondering, “How do I tell my parents I don’t believe in God anymore?” That kind of question is very real. It’s hard to quantify, of course. But the reaction to the book was primarily positive. People were curious.

One of my cousins—his whole branch of the family is very religious—he reached out to me after reading it and said, “What? I’ve been thinking like that my whole life. I didn’t know that’s what it was called—being an atheist.”

Jacobsen: That is such a simple statement. But it carries so much emotional baggage for no good reason.

It’s fascinating. I’ve heard everything—from people being jailed or harassed for their beliefs to professional consequences to, on the other end of the spectrum, people gaining fame or recognition for speaking out—like the Daniel Dennetts and Sam Harrises of the world.

Hiko-Tahuri: So, I don’t avoid things. I go to gatherings because it’s about family first—and that’s always been my attitude. Family is family.

You put family above what individuals believe. That’s how my religious family treats me, too—my cousins and uncles. A good example: Seven of my closest cousins were wearing religious robes at a recent funeral, but we still talked and connected. The spiritual stuff was put aside because we’re family first.

I’m lucky that way. But it’s also a wider New Zealand attitude—family comes before anything else.

Jacobsen: In the North American Indigenous context, something that often happens is this: to reject the common beliefs—whether those are traditional spiritual systems or Christian indoctrination brought through colonization—is usually seen as rejecting Indigenous identity itself.

Because of colonization, many Indigenous people in Canada and the US identify as Christian. So, if you’re an Indigenous atheist, it’s often seen as adopting a “white” belief—or, I guess, more precisely, a white rejection of religion. Atheism is framed as a white thing.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, I’ve come across that sentiment here, too. I’ve had family members say similar things when I tell them I’m going to speak at an atheist group or do an interview like this. They’ll say something like, “Oh yes, that’s you, and your funny white friend,” or “That’s your weird white thing.”

Jacobsen: [Laughs] So there’s a little dig, but it’s not hostile?

Hiko-Tahuri: It’s more of a friendly poke than a grave insult. There’s no real malice behind it. It’s like a teasing jab, not a deep cut.

Jacobsen: And at least they’re not using racial slurs like you’d sometimes hear in North America—words like “cracker”thrown around with some edge to them.

Hiko-Tahuri: Right, it’s gentler here—more of a soft ribbing than anything else.

Jacobsen: I’ve heard similar things from North American Indigenous people. Atheism is often perceived as white, so any Indigenous person who identifies that way is viewed as having abandoned their roots—when really, they’re just thinking independently.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. That’s the dynamic. But honestly, I don’t care what other people think. I do me. I don’t have the energy to worry about other people’s opinions of me. If something comes up—and it rarely does—I’ll deal with it then. But in the meantime, I live my life.

Hiko-Tahuri: I won’t worry about what the rest of the Māori community thinks about me. I was even on Māori Television, here in Aotearoa, talking openly about being an atheist.

One of the more common comments I received afterwards was, “Oh, he needs to learn more about his culture.”

Jacobsen: This is a sophisticated way of saying, “He’s ignorant of our ways—therefore, he doesn’t accept our ways.” It’s a coded dismissal.

Hiko-Tahuri: Ironically, I practice more of our customs, speak more Te Reo, and participate more fully in the culture than many people making those comments.

Jacobsen: So, would you say that reaction is patronizing within the Māori community?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. That’s precisely what it is.

Another interesting thing is how certain people are automatically respected in the Māori community based on appearance. For example, if you’re an older Māori man wearing a clerical collar—any religious collar, regardless of denomination—you’re automatically afforded the status of someone to be respected.

Jacobsen: For clarity, could that collar belong to a Christian denomination or another tradition?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, it doesn’t matter what religion it is. If you wear the collar, you get that reverence. And I’ve met some of those men—they’re not particularly insightful or wise. I wouldn’t trust them to lead anything other than a church service. But because they hold that religious role, they’re treated with deference. So they’re seen as kaumātua—elders—because of the position, not because of actual wisdom or age.

You can be a 30-year-old wearing a collar and be treated like an elder. That’s one of my frustrations with how religion plays out in some Māori spaces.

Jacobsen: Would you distinguish here—again, using international terminology but applying it to a Māori-specific context—between indigeneity as culture and indigeneity as religion?

Because what I’ve come across in other interviews is a concept some call “Indigenous humanism.” It’s a framework where people continue participating in Indigenous practices—storytelling, ritual, community events—but without the supernatural belief component.

But on the flip side, I’ve also seen some Indigenous frameworks begin to mirror structured religions: hierarchy, sacred texts, holy oral traditions, and supernatural entities—almost resembling traditional Abrahamic models with “gods,” sacred teachings, powers, principalities, and so on.

Some Indigenous atheists and humanists I’ve spoken with are worried about this trend—a kind of religious revival forming around indigeneity itself. Their concern is that it could become dogmatic and undermine secular and Enlightenment-based thinking.

Hiko-Tahuri: I get what you’re saying. I haven’t seen that happening here, at least not in a widespread or formalized way. But part of that could be numbers. You’d need a critical mass of people adopting that framework for it to take shape. 

It’s less about isolated belief and more about institutionalization. It doesn’t evolve into that kind of system if you don’t have the numbers, but I understand the concern. Once belief systems become formalized, there’s always the risk that they become exclusionary or dogmatic.

We do not have that many of us, so we have not even had the chance to break ourselves into different “types” of atheists. We have not even come together for a group chat to discuss our thoughts. So no, I have not seen anything like that fragmentation yet because we are such a tiny group in New Zealand.

There has not been enough critical mass within atheism to split into more specific beliefs or approaches.

Jacobsen: If your initial feeling after publishing the book was one of relief—and the reaction was much more subdued than anticipated—do you now see people entering the atheist or humanist space, especially Māori, with this almost irrational sense of fear, only to realize, “Oh… it’s fine. It’s not a big deal”?

Hiko-Tahuri: Honestly? No, we do not even really see that reaction. Because so few people talk about it publicly. When we gather, we have roles to fill. We are there to work—we have responsibilities. There is no time to sit and have long philosophical debates about belief.

Jacobsen: That sounds like a cultural distinction. Take something like the Catholic Church—they gather, sit, listen, and sing. It is contemplative. But you are describing something very different.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. For example, there is much to do if we’re at the marae. We have protocols, hospitality, food to prepare, cleaning, hosting—so much practical work. We do not pause to reflect or debate belief systems during those moments.

At most, you might hear someone say, “Oh yeah, that cousin over there’s a bit different—he doesn’t believe in God.” And that’s it. That’s probably as deep as it goes.

Jacobsen: So the culture itself, in those moments, emphasizes function and participation over theology.

Hiko-Tahuri: We are caught up in the activity of the occasion, not in philosophical contemplation about the universe’s origins.

Jacobsen: So—what was the general reaction to the book? Good, bad, ugly, neutral, controlling?

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Honestly? Most people I knew contacted me to say, “Why am I not in it?”

Most reactions were driven by self-interest—”little me” stuff. Many people who read the book were curious if they were in it. A lot of the feedback was, “Oh yeah, that’s just you being you.” I’ve always been considered a bit weird anyway.

Jacobsen: [Laughs] Familiar.

Hiko-Tahuri: Other than that, people would say things like, “I never thought about that,” or “I didn’t know you couldn’t believe in God.” Because belief is so deeply embedded in Māori identity from such a young age.

Jacobsen: Is it similar to beliefs around wairua—the spiritual essence or spirit?

Hiko-Tahuri: Very much so. Wairua—the spiritual dimension—permeates everything. It’s so ingrained that when someone steps outside of it or says, “I don’t believe in that,” it’s beyond what many people are prepared to consider. They ignore it. It’s too far outside the norm to process.

Jacobsen: Did the book catalyze others—within the community or the broader New Zealand public—to come forward or speak out?

Hiko-Tahuri: I don’t know. I don’t want to claim that other Māori atheists came out because of my book. I can’t say that for sure. But we have a Facebook group called Atua Kore, which means “godless.” It has about 500 members now.

Jacobsen: That’s a solid number.

Hiko-Tahuri: It is. And yes, we’ve had a few people post in that group announcing that they’re atheists—that they’d made the decision, and it was huge for them. That happened after the book came out, but I won’t say it was because of it. I don’t know.

Jacobsen: Are there any prominent atheist or humanist figures in New Zealand generally—Māori or otherwise?

Hiko-Tahuri: No real high-profile names come to mind. One of the cultural dynamics in New Zealand is what we call “tall poppy syndrome”—we tend to cut down the people who stick out. So, self-promotion is frowned upon here. You don’t boast; you don’t elevate yourself. You keep your head down.

Jacobsen: Honestly, North America could use a little more of that.

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Maybe! But because of that, unless you’re already in the community, you’ve probably never heard of any of our local atheists or humanists.

Jacobsen: Are there any other books, aside from yours, by Māori atheists?

Hiko-Tahuri: Not yet.

Jacobsen: That’s wild. Okay, let me put this on the record: open offer. If we can gather around 100,000 words’ worth of conversations with Māori atheists, agnostics, or humanists—fully inclusive—I’ll help compile it. You can tell me your life story, “coming out,” and reflections. No pressure.

Hiko-Tahuri: That sounds good.

Jacobsen: It’s an ironic “coming-to-Jesus” phrase. [Laughs] But really, the point would be to normalize it. To show that being a Māori atheist isn’t a big deal—it’s just one way of being. That #NormalizeAtheism message. You’ve got 500 members in the Whakapono Kore group. Surely, some would be up for it.

Hiko-Tahuri: Maybe. But I don’t know how many would want to go public. That’s always the challenge. Out of those 500 members in the Atua Kore group, I know about four people willing to speak publicly.

Jacobsen: So basically, the secretary, vice president, president, and treasurer?

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Pretty much—except we’re not that organized. It’s not even my group; someone else started it. I’m just a member like everyone else.

Jacobsen: What is the Taranaki Maunga?

Hiko-Tahuri: Oh yes, I am granting personhood to the mountain. That’s an environmental protection mechanism more than a spiritual or belief-based one. It’s a legal framework designed to safeguard the mountain.

Jacobsen: The international community has increasingly formalized support for Indigenous peoples through declarations, conventions, and covenants. Some of the most notable include:

• The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) was adopted in 2007.
• International Labour Organization Convention No. 169 concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries (1989).
• The International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (1965) includes Indigenous peoples under legal definitions of racial protection.

These instruments serve as essential frameworks for recognizing Indigenous communities’ cultural, environmental, political, and spiritual rights.

Additional international instruments support Indigenous rights, which are not often discussed but are incredibly important.

• The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966) — Article 1 affirms the right to self-determination for all peoples, including Indigenous communities.
• The International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (also 1966) contains articles addressing equality, cultural rights, and the right to participate in social and economic development, which directly apply to Indigenous peoples.
• The Convention on the Rights of the Child (1989) — Article 30 affirms the right of Indigenous children to enjoy their culture, religion, and language.
• The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) — General Recommendation 39 specifically addresses Indigenous women and girls.
• The Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious, and Linguistic Minorities (1992) — Affirms collective minority rights, including Indigenous identities.

And there are several region-specific instruments:

• The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (Banjul Charter, 1981) — Article 22 recognizes the right to development, including for Indigenous peoples.
• The American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (ADRIP, 2016) — Establishes principles for self-identification, cultural preservation, and public participation.
• UNESCO’s Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (2003) — Recognizes and protects the cultural expressions of Indigenous communities.
• The Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), Article 8(j), mandates respecting and preserving Indigenous knowledge, innovations, and practices related to conservation and sustainable biodiversity.

So, this is not “nothing.” There’s a body of international law supporting Indigenous rights. Of course, the tension always lies between what is declared and what is implemented. That’s where the evidence and accountability need to come in.

From your perspective—within the Māori context—do you see any of these declarations, covenants, or charters shaping Māori–New Zealand relations?

Hiko-Tahuri: To be completely honest, I’ve only ever heard of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). That’s the only one that ever comes up in public conversation or news here. All the others? I haven’t heard of them.

Jacobsen: That’s insightful. If we take secular humanism as a life stance grounded in an empirical moral philosophy that adapts its ethics based on new evidence, do you think Māori secular humanists could lead in implementing or advocating for some of these international declarations?

Hiko-Tahuri: I would like to say yes—but I worry. Like I said before, in our Māori communities, the people who wear collars—the religious leaders—get the leadership roles. People like me, who don’t wear a collar, are less likely to be listened to.

So, Indigenous secular humanists—are not currently in a position of influence when it comes to policy or leadership. And that’s something I think about a lot.

Jacobsen: That’s a critical and complex conversation. It reminds me of my last in-depth interview with David Cook, Maheengun, who has an Anishinaabe background in Canada. He identified as a traditional knowledge keeper—but importantly, was a knowledge keeper. There’s nuance in how Indigenous knowledge and leadership structures function and interact with humanist and secular frameworks. In the North American Indigenous context, the term for that is that you do not have a collar, but you might be a pipe carrier.

Maheengun gave up his status as a pipe carrier because, for him, there was too much dissonance between his humanist, atheist worldview and the expectations that came with that ceremonial role.

That gets into something I do not think anyone’s explored yet: if someone adopts atheism and secular humanism seriously and then steps away from a role like a pipe carrier or traditional knowledge keeper, how does that affect their voice—not just within the community but in broader systems like government-to-government or what is often termed “nation-to-nation” relations in Canada?

Because if someone lacks ceremonial or spiritual status, they often have no formal recognition—and no seat at the table. So, the representatives federal governments see in these discussions tend to be those with supernatural frameworks. That becomes the perceived Indigenous worldview, even though, as we know, many Indigenous people do not subscribe to that at all.

And the same is true for Māori. Significant portions of the population—like in the 634 recognized First Nations bands in Canada—either reject or question those beliefs. Even if, as in your case, they still participate culturally. Yet they are still not always seen as “real Māori” by some.

Where could that conversation go? What questions should we be asking?

Hiko-Tahuri: I’ve been thinking about this one for a long time—and honestly, I still don’t know.

In New Zealand, the government recognizes several iwi—tribal groups—as official representatives. So, if the government wants to consult with Māori, it will go to those groups and their hierarchies. The structure is established and formalized.

But here’s the thing: because those bodies represent the majority, people like me—those without a spiritual or ceremonial role—do not get much say.

That said, I’ve been fortunate. I have working relationships with some of the local tribal leaders. I’ve worked within their organizations, so I know at least they’re getting one different voice in the room—mine. I can say, “Hey, this is something you must consider.”

But that’s not a system-wide thing. It’s very personal. And yes, it isn’t easy to imagine how to scale that and how to make it more inclusive.

These representatives often claim to speak for all of us. But do they? We don’t know.

Jacobsen: That’s a tension in democratic governance, too. No political party or leader truly represents everyone. They represent the most significant percentage of voters in a particular cycle. So even there, you get a majority-of-plurality scenario, not true consensus.

It’s the same dynamic. When a Māori elder with a collar and status comes forward and tells the New Zealand government, “This is what we want as a community,” it’s assumed that their voice is the voice of all Māori.

But that’s not the case.

Hiko-Tahuri: There’s a presumption that doesn’t map cleanly onto European governance models. But most of our iwi—tribal groups—that the government interacts with are democratically elected. It’s not always a traditional hereditary hierarchy. Leaders are often voted in.

Jacobsen: Interesting. So there’s a mix of democratic process and cultural leadership?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, and I wouldn’t say all of those leaders are particularly religious either. Many use religious language or rituals to connect with the people they serve. It’s less about being deeply spiritual and more about resonating with the majority—many of whom are.

Jacobsen: That ties into self-stereotyping and external stereotyping. It becomes a kind of feel-good activism—what I sometimes call “parade activism” instead of “hard-work activism.”

For example, I attended a session at the 69th Commission on the Status of Women—Canada’s Indigenous. There was an Indigenous panel, and a few participants represented Indigenous communities beyond Canada’s borders.

Some arrived in full traditional dress—massive ceremonial headgear and all. Now, that visual shorthand becomes what government officials expect to see. It creates a kind of caricature—but it also becomes self-reinforcing.

That person becomes the “abstract ideal” of what a proper Indigenous representative should look like, and the government becomes the “abstract system” responding to that image. Both sides feel good about the exchange, but it risks becoming performative. It’s not always representative of the range of Indigenous experiences—especially secular ones.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes,. 

Jacobsen: So it becomes this cycle: “We brought the right Māori to the table,” and “I represented the right version of Māori identity.” Everyone walks away satisfied—but it also acts as a brake. You’re pushing the gas and the brake at the same time.

Hiko-Tahuri: Right—and then when someone like me comes forward, without the collar or ceremonial role, they’re seen as the outlier.

Jacobsen: Like the cranky guy on the porch yelling at the sky.

Hiko-Tahuri: The Garfield of the meeting, if you will. [Laughs]

Jacobsen: No one wants that person. They’re not the story anyone wants to hear.

Hiko-Tahuri: That reminds me of something recent. The New Zealand Psychological Society referenced my book.

Until now, the society’s approach was based on a framework developed by a respected Māori elder—someone known in cultural and philosophical spaces. He proposed a four-sided model of well-beingwellbeing, likened to a house. It’s used widely in Māori mental health services.

The four sides are physical, family, spiritual, and—something else. But the point is: if you’re working with Māori clients, the model says you must consider all four, including the spiritual.

So, twenty years ago, I went to see a therapist. They used this exact model. We sat down, and they said, “We need to begin with a karakia—a prayer.”

I said, “I’m not religious. I don’t want to pray.”

But their training told them they had to do it. So, I was forced to sit through a religious ritual I didn’t believe in to access mental health care. And worse, I was pressured to participate in that prayer myself. That’s a significant example. It shows how models meant to be inclusive can become exclusionary—especially for Māori who are secular.

Jacobsen: That’s like people being forced to go to AA.

Hiko-Tahuri: I presented to a group of psychologists about a year ago. One of the prominent members—someone involved in the humanist movement here—submitted a formal statement to the New Zealand College of Clinical Psychologists.

He said, “Look, this is a perspective you haven’t considered.” That spiritual requirement—where practitioners were required to begin with a prayer—was challenged. As a result, recommendations have now been made to adjust those protocols to include people who do not believe. That’s one positive change I can point to that came out of it.

Jacobsen: Is the traditional Māori dance called the haka?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, the haka.

Jacobsen: That seems like one of the more benign aspects of cultural tradition, even for someone transitioning ideologically. I don’t see how a dance would be impacted by whether someone is spiritual.

Hiko-Tahuri: No—not at all. The haka isn’t inherently religious. It’s a form of emotional and communal expression. While its origins include warrior preparation, it’s evolved far beyond that.

There are haka for celebrations, mourning, farewells, and graduations. At university ceremonies, if someone Māori walks across the stage, people from their whānau will often leap up from the crowd and perform a haka in celebration. It’s done everywhere, for all kinds of moments. It’s how we express collective feelings—joy, grief, pride, and love.

Jacobsen: So, when you begin mapping the geography of Māori secularism—as a relatively new concept—are there any aspects of traditional Māori governance that could be considered appropriately secular? That is, are there spaces where ritual or spiritual practices are distinctly set apart or is everything more or less integrated?

Hiko-Tahuri: So, in most traditional Māori contexts, everything tends to be intertwined—spiritual, social, political, and cultural dimensions are not separated in the Western sense. In that way, Māori culture is similar to many traditional religious cultures, where secularism, as we understand it in liberal democracies, was never really a category.

Jacobsen: Now, tapu—the concept of sacredness or restriction in Māori culture—retains significant cultural power. But from a secular Māori perspective, like yours, tapu can be understood metaphorically rather than metaphysically. It functions symbolically to mark respect, boundaries, or social norms rather than indicating belief in the supernatural. What does that mean in practical terms?

Hiko-Tahuri: Take karakia, for example—these are often translated as prayers or incantations. I don’t perform them myself. But in spaces where karakia are expected—such as ceremonial openings or public gatherings—I’ve written secular alternatives, essentially nonreligious invocations. I cannot authentically engage in the religious or supernatural aspects, but I can offer something meaningful and culturally respectful that fits the moment. That’s how I bridge the gap: by replacing the supernatural element with a secular expression that still honours the cultural context.

Jacobsen: This reminds me of the situation in Canada. Canada is a federal state divided into municipalities, provinces, and territories, and then the national government, which is functionally similar to the U.S. structure of counties, states, and federal governance. In 2015, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled in Mouvement laïque québécois v. Saguenay (City) that opening municipal council meetings with prayer violated the state’s duty of religious neutrality. It effectively made official prayers at government meetings unconstitutional.

Following that decision, organizations like the British Columbia Humanist Association began investigating compliance across municipalities. Despite the ruling, they found that many local governments continued to include prayer in official meetings. In response, the Association sent letters to these municipalities pointing out the legal ruling, sharing data, and urging them to comply with the law by removing religious observances from public sessions. This kind of advocacy led to meaningful change in some regions.

So, when I consider your experience, I think of it in that light. You’re not opposing cultural participation or public service; instead, you’re drawing a line where religious practices—like prayer—are included in civic spaces where they may no longer be appropriate, especially in pluralistic or post-colonial contexts. Countries like Aotearoa, New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States, and South Africa all fall under the category of “post-colonial” states grappling with how to reconcile Indigenous traditions, secular governance, and religious pluralism.

So, let us return to the historical backdrop. Christian missionary efforts primarily drove colonization in Aotearoa, New Zealand. I understand that many of those involved were of European heritage—like my own. When people refer to “post-colonial” in this context, they often mean a phase following that religious and political imposition—perhaps even envisioning a society in a reconciled, pluralistic state where Indigenous and settler cultures have negotiated a new equilibrium. Would you say that is accurate?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, that is broadly correct. Among post-colonial nations, I would say Aotearoa, New Zealand, has gone further than many in terms of acknowledging and integrating Māori language, culture, and perspectives into public life. You can see the effects of that on things like the census data. As of the most recent census, about 53% of New Zealanders identified as having no religion. That makes New Zealand a post-Christian country, at least in terms of demographic majority. Christianity is now a minority belief, which shifts the dynamics.

Jacobsen: And how does that shift affect your everyday life, particularly as someone who identifies as an atheist and a humanist? Does it allow you to live more comfortably and authentically?

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely. As I mentioned earlier, overt religiosity is a bit unusual here. People who are very religious are more of a minority now—and may be looked at as slightly outside the norm. The country itself is pretty secular. Yes, we still have prayers at the beginning of some public meetings, but those are more about tradition than belief in most cases. There are calls to remove such practices, and I support that. However, overall, New Zealand has a very relaxed and liberal society. People do not care what others believe or do not believe. There is a strong cultural inclination toward individual freedom and tolerance, so we rarely see heated debates or conflicts over religion here.

Jacobsen: Tell me more about your podcast, Heretical. Is it still running, and where can people find it?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, it is back. I originally launched it some time ago but had to pause due to other commitments. I have now restarted it. The first season includes 10 episodes, where I read my book chapter by chapter. The book is free—I never wrote it to make money; I wrote it to tell a story. That story forms the basis of the podcast. I have also added another episode where I talk about a strange encounter I had with what I would describe as a cult-like group who tried to recruit me. That experience was eye-opening and worth sharing. There will be more episodes in the future. I plan to delve into some of the more common arguments for theism—things like the cosmological argument—and explore why I do not find them convincing. These kinds of discussions are not often had within our community, so I think it is essential to create space for them.

Jacobsen: What about your music and your airbrush art? Do elements of secularism or humanism show up in those creative outlets?

Hiko-Tahuri: Not so much in my music, no. It is more of a personal expression, and I keep it separate from my secular identity. But everything I create reflects my worldview in some way, even if not explicitly.

I have been playing in the same band with friends for about 25 years now. We only get together to play once every five years or so these days, but we are just a bunch of old mates who enjoy making music together. I played my first gig when I was 14 years old for a country music club here in New Zealand. I got pulled into country music because there really were not many other musical options in the small town I grew up in.

Music has always been part of my life, but I have never chased fame or done it for recognition. I do it because I love it. The same goes for painting. I have created a few pieces where I’ve expressed thoughts on some of the more absurd or troubling beliefs in the Bible. For example, there is that passage—1 Timothy 2:12, I think—that says women should remain silent and not teach. I did a painting responding to that. I also painted a Celtic cross overlaid with Māori designs to symbolize how religion, especially Christianity, colonized us just as much as the English did. I have sold or given away some of those pieces, but really, art is something I do for personal fulfillment rather than profit.

Jacobsen: How do emerging networks like Māori atheist and freethinker communities offer space for collective doubt or help individuals express personal doubts within a shared context?

Hiko-Tahuri: That is a good question. I do not know if that is even the aim of the group I joined. It is not my group—I just found it and joined. For me, it was more about discovering that there were other people out there who think like me and also look like me. That alone was meaningful. We have not tried to turn it into a collective movement. Māori atheism is still in its infancy. Until I wrote my book, I had not encountered any serious discussion about it, at least not that I could find. That group did exist beforehand, but I stumbled upon it afterward.

So, right now, most of the Māori atheists I see are solo actors. We speak up when we feel like it, but there is no organized collective activism or shared identity. We are in such an early stage of development as a community that it has not yet coalesced into anything more structured or strategic.

Jacobsen: Since we last spoke, have you had any recent thoughts on the protocols and principles of Indigenous declarations?

Hiko-Tahuri: No, I have not looked into it lately. I know that the New Zealand government initially chose not to sign the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, though it eventually endorsed it in 2010. But beyond that, I have not followed recent developments very closely.

Jacobsen: I have not had a chance to read into some of those areas, but I would like to. What about the precise etiquette and civic customs—honouring those customs that come from the subculture while not reciting the prayers? What is the balance being struck there?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah, I think that is one of the most challenging parts—figuring out what you can do respectfully while maintaining personal integrity. If we are talking, for instance, about pōwhiri—that is, the formal welcome ceremony—part of that involves speech-making. And during those speeches, spiritual language is often invoked. It is hard to categorize it strictly as religious, but it carries spiritual overtones.

Navigating is a challenge because there is a specific formula for constructing those speeches within our culture. They follow a traditional structure that includes spiritual references—things I do not believe in. So, I often have to rework those parts, recreating the tone and form without the religious or supernatural elements. It is difficult and takes much careful thought. That is probably the main struggle for Māori atheists who speak the language and actively participate in cultural life. We are trying to maintain the integrity of our heritage while adapting it to a secular worldview.

Jacobsen: Have you ever had an experience—either due to your ethnic background or lack of belief—where someone got confrontational with you? The proverbial finger-wagging, shouting match? I cannot imagine that happening much to a Kiwi.

Hiko-Tahuri: No, we are generally not that confrontational in New Zealand. And there are a couple of practical reasons, too. Because of how I look—my physical presence—people usually do not get up in my face. I am around six feet tall, and I guess I have a face that might be intimidating. So, people do not tend to push those boundaries. I am not aggressive or threatening at all, but sometimes, just my appearance is enough to make people think twice.

Jacobsen: That reminds me—there was a story out of the U.S. involving Eminem. I think gang members were extorting him—either the Crips or the Bloods. But apparently, there was a Samoan-American gang so feared that even the Crips were hesitant around them. Eminem hired them for protection, and they ended up defending him and collaborating on music. I believe they even put out an album together.

It was a pretty wild story. It shows how much physical presence and group identity can shape interactions—whether in music, culture, or personal safety. It is funny how those dynamics play out in so many different places.

Hiko-Tahuri: It can be imposing. I am five-eleven, but I am not baby-faced. Still, I have heard of incidents where Māori women in New Zealand—especially those who wear moko kauae, the traditional tattoo—get hassled often.

Jacobsen:How so?

Hiko-Tahuri: By members of the public, saying things like, “You shouldn’t be here,” or “You look intimidating,” or “You shouldn’t be in this park.” One of these incidents happened just last year in a local park. A woman was told she could not be there when someone’s kids were around, as if she was somehow threatening—just for wearing the moko kauae. These things do happen, particularly to women. I have noticed that it never happens to me. Maybe that has something to do with physical presence or perceived threat, but yes—it is a pattern. That does happen, and fairly often.

Jacobsen: I am out of the questions, too. So, am I missing anything? What do you think?

Hiko-Tahuri: I do not think so. I cannot think of anything else at the moment. That was a solid session.

Jacobsen: Thank you so much for today. 

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, that sounds great. Thank you very much.

Jacobsen: All right. Take care.

Hiko-Tahuri: You too. Bye.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978-1-0692343) and Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369-6885). He writes forThe Good Men Project, International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332–9416), TheHumanist (Print: ISSN 0018-7399; Online: ISSN 2163-3576), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), A Further Inquiry, and other media. He is a member in good standing of numerous media organizations.

Photo by Wallace Fonseca on Unsplash