A stone statue of a person stands at a forked dirt path in a green landscape, with an old-fashioned map overlaid in the background. Mist partially obscures the ground and the paths.
Design: Liam Rātana

OPINIONĀteaApril 30, 2025

Ngāpuhi at a crossroads: Unity, settlement and the future of the north

Guest writer
A stone statue of a person stands at a forked dirt path in a green landscape, with an old-fashioned map overlaid in the background. Mist partially obscures the ground and the paths.
Design: Liam Rātana

The largest iwi in Aotearoa has yet to settle its Treaty claim. As debate continues, Pene Dalton makes the case for clarity and courage. And settlement.

Ngāpuhi is the largest iwi in Aotearoa, with over 180,000 people connected by whakapapa – and our population is growing. That growth brings pride and potential, but also pressure – more mouths to feed, more rangatahi seeking opportunity, and more whānau navigating systems that have long failed them.

Many in our rohe live with the daily realities of poverty, addiction, poor housing and disconnection. Mane Tahere’s recent public plea to address the meth crisis wasn’t an exaggeration, it was a heartfelt call for help. It voiced what many already know, but don’t always say out loud: Ngāpuhi faces deep and complex challenges.

Some believe a Treaty settlement for Ngāpuhi will solve everything. It won’t, but it could help. A settlement would likely bring resources to support housing, education, language and land-based initiatives. Still, even if Ngāpuhi settled tomorrow, it would take decades to see the kind of results achieved by other iwi.

Tainui and Kāi Tahu, for example, have built economic platforms worth billions – but only after nearly 30 years of investment, leadership and learning from missteps. Ngāpuhi hasn’t even begun that journey in a unified way. We’re still debating how to get to the starting line.

Some suggest a Ngāpuhi settlement might be worth around $500m. It’s not an official figure, just an estimate. Many argue it’s far too low, pointing to bailouts like the $1.6bn for South Canterbury Finance. But the real question is: are we ready to receive and grow that pūtea?

The greatest challenge isn’t the dollar figure, it’s unity. Getting a mandate from all hapū within Ngāpuhi is incredibly difficult. Ngāpuhi is not one voice. Some want hapū-led negotiations, others support a unified iwi-wide approach. There are real concerns about losing mana motuhake and justified distrust of imposed structures.

A banner reading "Ngāpuhi NEVER ceded SOEREIGNTY" hangs on a wall above a row of various flags, including some with indigenous designs. The wall is part of an indoor setting.
Ngāpuhi has long maintained that it never ceded sovereignty. Photo: Leonie Hayden

There is a time to protest and hold the Crown accountable, but some of us have remained in that space too long. There’s also a time to negotiate. The table may be flawed, but we still need people who can sit at it with integrity, strategy, and a long-term view. That mahi will never please everyone, but it’s necessary.

Do we settle as one iwi or splinter into hapū-based settlements? If we settle, can we stay united enough to manage what comes next?

Some critics ask why Ngāpuhi doesn’t follow other indigenous models overseas. But no two treaties are the same. They were signed under different circumstances, with different governments, and different histories. While we may share similar values or trauma with other indigenous groups, that’s often where the similarities end.

Even among iwi here, comparisons can feel uncomfortable. Some say we shouldn’t compare ourselves to others – there’s truth in that. We need to carve our own course. But comparisons to iwi not far removed from us culturally or historically can offer insight. If others have taken 30 years to build their base, we should be honest about the road ahead for us.

We also need to be strategic. If we’re holding out for legal recourse instead of settlement, what would that actually involve? What would it cost and where would that money come from? These questions deserve serious discussion, not just slogans.

Personally, I support settlement –  not because it’s perfect and not because I think it will solve everything – but because I want to see pūtea flowing into kaupapa that are already making a difference. For me, it’s about starting to rebuild, not waiting for ever for the perfect solution.

There’s another hard truth: many of us are still hoping for recognition without realising that political leverage matters. If we aren’t voting, or voting strategically, why would those in power listen? Until we can influence the makeup of a government, we’re relying on goodwill. That’s not enough.

Some argue settlement is a sellout. That money is the root of all evil. That engaging in this process means giving up our mana. I’ve heard it many times, but I disagree.

A person wearing a light-colored blazer with "Ngapuhi" embroidered on it speaks and gestures with their hand. The background is blurred with wooden chairs visible.
Ngāpuhi Rūnanga Group chair Mane Tahere.

Our tūpuna weren’t afraid of money. They weren’t afraid of trade, negotiation or enterprise. Even before coin and currency, Māori had an economy. We bartered across the motu. Pounamu, kai, textiles, tools, knowledge. We understood value. We had systems grounded in reciprocity, mana and trust. Ngāpuhi sent produce across the sea to Port Jackson, Sydney. We traded with whalers, missionaries, merchants. We adapted and we built.

Some prefer the term “restitution” over “settlement”, I understand that. But my impatience to see tangible change – to see investment in the initiatives already doing the mahi –  makes that debate feel more about language than impact.

Money is not foreign to our tikanga – it’s a tool. If we want to restore our people, our land, our reo, our oranga, we need resources. That’s not assimilation, it’s tino rangatiratanga.

Many Māori who were raised in cities are returning home – descendants of those who left in search of work. Some were raised disconnected from Ngāpuhi identity, reo and tikanga. Their return has brought energy, ideas, and sometimes tension. These shifts have reshaped parts of the rohe – for better and for worse – but this too is part of our evolving story.

More Reading

If you carry Ngāpuhi whakapapa, you have a right to care and a right to speak. Whether you’re in Kaikohe, Tāmaki, Perth, or Nagasaki, Japan. Ngāpuhi are some of the most opinionated people you’ll ever meet – and that’s not a weakness – its a sign of life, pride and connection.

We won’t all agree – we never have – but we all have a stake in where we’re headed. Settlement is not the destination, it’s just the beginning. We owe it to our kaumātua who’ve carried this burden for decades and our tamariki and mokopuna who will carry it forward. Most of all, we owe it to ourselves to step up with courage, clarity and purpose.

Now is the time.

Keep going!
Side-by-side portraits of a smiling man with a bowler hat and traditional Maori facial tattoos, set against a dark green background. The left image is oval-shaped and realistic, the right is rectangular and more stylised.
On the left, the original portrait of Te Aho-o-te-Rangi Wharepu (Ngāti Mahuta). On the right is the version on display at Kokomo.

ĀteaApril 28, 2025

The mystery of the Goldie AI reproductions hanging in a Christchurch restaurant

Ātea editor
Side-by-side portraits of a smiling man with a bowler hat and traditional Maori facial tattoos, set against a dark green background. The left image is oval-shaped and realistic, the right is rectangular and more stylised.
On the left, the original portrait of Te Aho-o-te-Rangi Wharepu (Ngāti Mahuta). On the right is the version on display at Kokomo.

Staff at Kokomo said the artworks came from a specific website. The site’s owners deny it. So where did the portraits come from – and what are the cultural consequences of displaying them?

Nestled on a side street near Christchurch’s central city is Kokomo, a restaurant with industrial flair and earthy charm. Inside, a small forest of plants, natural timber, and pendant lampshades create a space designed for slow mornings and long brunches. Above the tables – where patrons sip oat milk flat whites or bite into scallop katsu sandos – hang three portraits of old Māori figures, long passed on.

The prints – portraying Ena Te Papatahi (Ngāpuhi), Te Wharekauri Tahuna (Ngāti Manawa) and Te Aho-o-te-Rangi Wharepu (Ngāti Mahuta) – are a focal point for people sitting in their vicinity. The figures will be familiar to anyone even slightly acquainted with historical New Zealand art. Mataora and moko kauae adorn the faces of the old Māori figures, wrapped in blankets on a marae ātea or smoking their tobacco pipe.

But the portraits, famously by Charles Frederick Goldie, are not originals. Not even close. They’re large, altered reproductions.

One of the portraits hanging in Kokomo

Ask the restaurant where they came from and they’ll say Art Motif. But there’s no seller by that name. Reach out to Pop Motif, with similar offerings, and they’ll say it wasn’t them. “We’ve never sold those,” a representative said. “It’s not us.” They suggested another possibility – New Zealand Fine Prints – but that company also denies any link, noting that while they do sell Goldie reproductions, these particular ones aren’t theirs.

So, where did the reproductions come from? Why are they hanging in a restaurant? And who, if anyone, is responsible?

‘They’re not artworks. They’re reproductions.’

At Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tāmaki, senior curator Māori, Nathan Pōhio, and curator of historical New Zealand art, Jane Davidson-Ladd, couldn’t be clearer: these images are not original works, nor are they creative acts. “They’re reproductions,” Pōhio says, “and we need to be precise about that language.” In other words: taking a portrait, applying a high-contrast filter, and printing it does not make it art.

However, the subject matter carries serious weight. Goldie’s portraits – many of them depicting Māori elders from iwi such as Ngāti Mahuta and Ngāti Maniapoto – are complex historical taonga. While Goldie was once dismissed by art historians for romanticising Māori as a “dying race”, his works have since been reassessed, partly because of renewed Māori engagement with them. Today, descendants of those depicted often regard the portraits with deep admiration.

Side-by-side portraits of a smiling man with a bowler hat and traditional Maori facial tattoos, set against a dark green background. The left image is oval-shaped and realistic, the right is rectangular and more stylised.
On the left, the original portrait of Te Aho-o-te-Rangi Wharepu (Ngāti Mahuta). On the right is the version on display at Kokomo.

That admiration is reflected in how the Auckland Art Gallery handles them. “We follow tikanga Māori,” Pōhio explains. “That means no food or drink near the portraits, karakia before exhibitions, and consultation with descendants before reproduction or display.”

The restaurant setting, then, is clearly at odds with this approach. “They’re in a space where food is consumed – that breaches tapu,” Davidson-Ladd says. “And I doubt there was any discussion with whānau before putting them up.”

Reproducing tūpuna without consent

At the heart of the issue is whakapapa. These are not anonymous subjects, but tūpuna with living descendants. Davidson-Ladd notes that even the gallery won’t put a portrait online without checking with the whānau. “Portraits carry mana,” she says. “And in te ao Māori, the image still holds the essence of the person.”

The law, however, doesn’t see it that way. Because Goldie died in 1947, his work entered the public domain in 1997. That means anyone can reproduce it – legally. Ethically, it’s another story.

“The law has never protected the sitter,” says Pohio. “It protects the artist. But tikanga Māori should guide us – and that means asking: What is your whakapapa to these people? Why are you reproducing them?”

The portrait of Ena Te Papatahi (Ngāpuhi) looks familiar but not quite right

There’s another twist in this tale. The images in Kokomo appear to have been passed through some kind of digital filter – perhaps AI, perhaps not – but the telltale signs of artificial intelligence are there: unnatural contrast, distortions in moko, a synthetic sheen.

Walter Langelaar, chair of the Aotearoa Digital Artists Network, describes the reproductions as “low quality and culturally hollow”. If AI was involved, he says, it likely scraped public-domain Goldie images and applied a filter or enhancement. “Anyone with an internet connection and a printer could’ve done it,” he says. “But the results – they flatten nuance, erase identity, and distort taonga.”

This isn’t new. Goldie has been forged before, most famously by Karl Sim in the 1980s, who changed his name to C.F. Goldie and sold homages under that signature. But with AI, the stakes feel different. “AI is not inherently unethical,” says Langelaar. “But it needs context. It needs intent. And it needs consent – especially when it’s depicting Māori ancestors.”

So why did the Kokomo owners want to display these pieces? Pōhio suggests there may be a deeper irony at play. “Ōtautahi has seen a cultural shift since the earthquakes. You see more Māori language, more Māori art, more presence.” It’s possible, he suggests, that Kokomo’s owners intended the portraits as a gesture of allyship or solidarity.

Two painted portraits of an elderly woman with grey hair and a blue headband, wearing a green shawl and plaid blanket, sitting on a step in front of a wooden structure. The image is split down the middle.
Ena Te Papatahi (Ngāpuhi), as depicted by C.F. Goldie on the left and the reproduction on display at Kokomo on the right.

“But intent doesn’t equal impact,” Pōhio says. “And if you want to engage with Māori culture, there’s a process. It starts with relationships. Not reproduction.”

The restaurant did not respond to detailed questions in time for publication. But the silence itself speaks volumes. As Davidson-Ladd puts it: “This is an opportunity to educate – not to shame, but to inform. That’s how we move forward as Treaty partners.”

What do we owe our tūpuna and each other?

The ethics of representation extend far beyond one restaurant in Christchurch. As AI advances and reproductions proliferate, the ability to alter and commercialise images of tūpuna is no longer restricted to galleries or collectors – it’s in the hands of everyone.

That, says Pōhio, is the real danger. “It looks like a kite in the sky – pretty, but it means nothing. It’s disconnected from people, from context, from whakapapa.”

Instead, he and Davidson-Ladd urge artists, businesses, and the public to ask: Why am I doing this? Who does it serve? And who am I accountable to?

Because in the end, the answer isn’t about copyright. It’s about culture. And as Davidson-Ladd reminds us, “tikanga Māori is not optional. It’s how we show respect. It’s how we show we belong here.”

This is Public Interest Journalism funded by NZ On Air.

Ātea