I’m doubling down. The portfolio of parks and reserves in many towns and cities of New Zealand still demonstrates attitudes to health, community and rights that trace back to the colonial systems of the 1800s. This view can be uncomfortable for some people, probably because I also hold another opinion, that giving real effect to the promises of Te Tiriti would mean managing parks and reserves in ways that acknowledge and soften those inherited patterns of separation, othering, and top-down authority that remain embedded in the 1977 Reserves Act.
In 2023, a group of researchers published findings from more than 1600 people responding to an online survey about their understanding of wellbeing and how it is affected by violence. Many respondents reported experiences of harm within the care institutions linked to the misnamed welfare and justice institutions. But what was also reported was the impact of institutional violence associated with land and its management, including the Māori Land Court, local councils and Crown land agencies, such as the Department of Conservation, and its predecessors, the Lands and Survey Department and the Forest Service.
Much Māori land was taken by these various agencies for use, preservation and extraction, sometimes accompanied by promises of co-governance and involvement from hapū who had lost their land, at other times, assurances of compensation. The result of these actions, and what is embedded in the Reserves Act 1977, was and still is, the separation of whānau from their land.
For some iwi, Treaty settlements have returned some parts of their land to their care. However, most local authority parks and reserves are not available for redress, as generally considered to be private land. The land that is returned is often focused on sites of cultural or historical significance, rather than the places that were part of everyday wellbeing. And many iwi, including one of my own, have yet to reach a settlement with the Crown.
I also hold the view that the continuation of colonial approaches to parks and reserves is linked to the historic and ongoing exclusion of hapū, iwi and other groups from these public places. One visible example of this othering is in the names of parks and reserves. In Dunedin, about 75% of the names of parks commemorate people and events not associated with mana whenua, thus remembering from the last 150 years, and not associated with the occupation of this region for the 600 years before that. Furthermore, within that 75%, women’s names and events are also significantly under-represented. This might be explained as a product of its time, but it also raises the question, should it be so now?
The language of the Reserves Act 1977 is about power and ownership. It echoes the land acquisition approaches that stripped my hapū and iwi of land from the 1860s onwards. The preamble of the Act, the part that sets the tone and direction, reflects that legacy. By contrast, my hapū and iwi, along with many others, had a collective approach grounded in values that remain highly relevant today: collectivism, multigenerational wisdom,
ancestral connections, relationships and kinship. These aren’t values unique to Māori families, many families and communities, of all backgrounds, understand wellbeing as something shared, grounded in relationships and care for the land.
Unfortunately, the Reserves Act 1977 still requires each parcel of reserve land to have a central and single determination of its "purpose", whether as recreation, scenic, historic, nature, scientific, government or local. Even that final, flexible category still demands a singular focus, although it may be for a cemetery or community hall. This framing ties the establishment of reserves to a world-view that sees land as something to be categorised and controlled, rather than lived with. Because the 1977 Act built on earlier legislation, those older attitudes remain embedded in the system.
Any injustices and imbalances from the way reserves were first acquired continue to influence the way they are managed now. My former colleagues, who still work in parks and reserves management, talk about the inequities that persist in the attitudes of some central and local government staff, reluctant to share. This idea of co-governance seems to send some people into conniptions, but it is worth remembering that co-governance of parks and reserves has always been there — kia ora to the golf clubs, rugby clubs, gun clubs, and hall committees, who have long held leases of parks and reserves.
Colonialism is not an accusation; it is simply part of our shared story, a system that shaped how land was taken, named and governed, and one that is still visible. Acknowledging that history doesn’t diminish anyone’s pride or belonging, it enriches both. Let us reimagine our parks and reserves as spaces that reflect us all and prioritise the redress towards those who are not represented in these spaces. Te Tiriti and the Treaty set out that foundation.
Te toto o te tangata he kai, te oranga o te tangata whenua.
