On Sunday, 9 November 2025, Te Pāti Māori expelled two of its own MPs – Mariameno Kapa-Kingi and Tākuta Ferris – after weeks of internal tension between the party’s elected representatives and its unelected leadership. Co-leaders Rawiri Waititi and Debbie Ngarewa-Packer cited ‘serious breaches’ of the party’s constitution and ‘irreconcilable differences’. The vote was unanimous but here’s the unusual part: Kapa-Kingi’s electorate (Te Tai Tokerau) was excluded from the meeting and Ferris’s electorate (Te Tai Tonga) didn’t vote. That’s not just a procedural quirk – it raises real questions about how representative the process was.
Both MPs rejected the decision as unconstitutional and said they would remain in parliament as independents. Party president John Tamihere, who didn’t attend the meeting, accused them of plotting a leadership coup and misusing funds. The Iwi Chairs Forum tried to mediate, but the split went ahead anyway. Now the party’s leadership won’t say whether they’ll invoke waka-jumping laws to force the MPs out.
This isn’t just a messy episode: it’s part of a much older pattern.
Māori politics has always been shaped by rivalry, repositioning and the pursuit of mana. Conflict isn’t a breakdown – it’s how influence is tested and earned. The idea that Māori were once unified, peaceful and collectively sovereign is a comforting myth. It’s often used to frame the Treaty of Waitangi as a moment of betrayal. But the truth is more complicated: unity was never the starting point.
Before Europeans arrived, Māori society was built around hapū – autonomous sub-tribes with their own leaders, land and priorities. Iwi were broader kinship networks, but they didn’t act as central governments. There was no single Māori authority, no shared foreign policy and no unified decision-making. Hapū operated independently and they often clashed. These weren’t random fights – they followed tikanga and were driven by utu (reciprocity), mana and competition for resources. But they were still brutal. Hapū were conquered, absorbed or simply wiped out. Peace wasn’t permanent – it was more like a pause between campaigns.
Then came the musket.
Between 1806 and 1845, the Musket Wars changed everything. Tribes that got muskets early – like Ngāpuhi – used them to dominate others. The death toll was staggering: up to 40,000 killed and another 30,000 displaced or enslaved. Slavery had been outlawed in Britain by then but, in New Zealand, the Crown had no real control. Māori society was still operating on its own terms. That matters – it shows that colonial power wasn’t yet in charge and Māori agency was still driving events.
Whole regions were emptied. Hapū were destroyed. Land ownership became unclear and contested. The wars didn’t just escalate old rivalries – they broke the systems that had kept things in check. The pursuit of mana through conquest had no limits and the cost was enormous.
By the time the Treaty of Waitangi was signed in 1840, Māori society was fractured and exhausted. Some chiefs saw the Treaty as a way to stop the fighting or get protection from the British. Others saw it as a threat to their authority and refused to sign. There was no unified response because there was no unified Māori nation.
So the Crown did what most governments do when faced with chaos: it simplified. It treated Māori as a single people – not because that was accurate, but because it was the only way to move forward. Trying to manage Māori politics at the time was like trying to herd cats. Every hapū had its own priorities, its own leadership and its own history of grievance or ambition. Some wanted collective representation. Others rejected it outright. But the Crown needed a framework to negotiate peace – not just between Māori and colonists, but between Māori and Māori. Without some kind of détente, there was no chance of building anything resembling civil society. War, murder and slavery were still active forces. Progress – whatever shape it might take – required a pause. New Zealand was very, very, far from a ‘native paradise’ and that pause required a simplification of reality.
It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t fair. But it was functional. As someone once said, “a good deal is one where no one walks away happy”. That’s often the price of peace.
In 1867, Māori seats were created in parliament – not as recognition of tino rangatiratanga, but as a workaround. The colonial government needed Māori representation but refused to overhaul land-based voting rules that excluded most Māori. Despite what you may hear – the colonialist government was being both representative AND taking the moral high-ground. The seats were a compromise: limited, symbolic and designed to contain Māori voice within a settler framework.
Even the Kīngitanga movement, often held up as a symbol of Māori unity, came out of division. It started in 1858 as a response to land grabs and colonial pressure. But not all iwi joined. Some opposed it outright. It wasn’t a natural evolution – it was a strategic move under pressure.
Now, in 2025, we’re seeing the same dynamics play out. Te Pāti Māori’s internal split – accusations of coups, exclusion of electorates and leadership disputes – isn’t a failure. It’s part of the same historical rhythm. The sparring hasn’t stopped. It’s just taken a new form.
When a clear advantage appears – whether it’s muskets in the 1800s or political leverage today – old tensions resurface. Alliances shift. Détente breaks down. The illusion of unity gives way to the reality of contest.
This is an historical flaw in Māori society and has resulted in disparities between Māori and other Māori groups in NZ. It reflects a deep tradition of autonomy, negotiation and competitive leadership. And it also calls for a more honest story – one that doesn’t romanticise the past or pretend unity was ever the default.
If Māori leaders want to build something lasting, they’ll need to change their attitudes and allegiances. They’ll need to build trust between hapū – not override it. And they’ll need to engage with history – not as myth, but with realism, to ‘learn from their mistakes’. Because unity was never the starting point and understanding that is the first step toward building something that actually works for them.
Dr Michael John Schmidt left NZ after completing postgraduate studies at Otago University (BSc, MSc) in molecular biology, virology, and immunology to work in research on human genetics in Australia. Returning to NZ has worked in business development for biotech and pharmacy retail companies and became a member of the NZ Institute of Directors. This article was first published HERE
This isn’t just a messy episode: it’s part of a much older pattern.
Māori politics has always been shaped by rivalry, repositioning and the pursuit of mana. Conflict isn’t a breakdown – it’s how influence is tested and earned. The idea that Māori were once unified, peaceful and collectively sovereign is a comforting myth. It’s often used to frame the Treaty of Waitangi as a moment of betrayal. But the truth is more complicated: unity was never the starting point.
Before Europeans arrived, Māori society was built around hapū – autonomous sub-tribes with their own leaders, land and priorities. Iwi were broader kinship networks, but they didn’t act as central governments. There was no single Māori authority, no shared foreign policy and no unified decision-making. Hapū operated independently and they often clashed. These weren’t random fights – they followed tikanga and were driven by utu (reciprocity), mana and competition for resources. But they were still brutal. Hapū were conquered, absorbed or simply wiped out. Peace wasn’t permanent – it was more like a pause between campaigns.
Then came the musket.
Between 1806 and 1845, the Musket Wars changed everything. Tribes that got muskets early – like Ngāpuhi – used them to dominate others. The death toll was staggering: up to 40,000 killed and another 30,000 displaced or enslaved. Slavery had been outlawed in Britain by then but, in New Zealand, the Crown had no real control. Māori society was still operating on its own terms. That matters – it shows that colonial power wasn’t yet in charge and Māori agency was still driving events.
Whole regions were emptied. Hapū were destroyed. Land ownership became unclear and contested. The wars didn’t just escalate old rivalries – they broke the systems that had kept things in check. The pursuit of mana through conquest had no limits and the cost was enormous.
By the time the Treaty of Waitangi was signed in 1840, Māori society was fractured and exhausted. Some chiefs saw the Treaty as a way to stop the fighting or get protection from the British. Others saw it as a threat to their authority and refused to sign. There was no unified response because there was no unified Māori nation.
So the Crown did what most governments do when faced with chaos: it simplified. It treated Māori as a single people – not because that was accurate, but because it was the only way to move forward. Trying to manage Māori politics at the time was like trying to herd cats. Every hapū had its own priorities, its own leadership and its own history of grievance or ambition. Some wanted collective representation. Others rejected it outright. But the Crown needed a framework to negotiate peace – not just between Māori and colonists, but between Māori and Māori. Without some kind of détente, there was no chance of building anything resembling civil society. War, murder and slavery were still active forces. Progress – whatever shape it might take – required a pause. New Zealand was very, very, far from a ‘native paradise’ and that pause required a simplification of reality.
It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t fair. But it was functional. As someone once said, “a good deal is one where no one walks away happy”. That’s often the price of peace.
In 1867, Māori seats were created in parliament – not as recognition of tino rangatiratanga, but as a workaround. The colonial government needed Māori representation but refused to overhaul land-based voting rules that excluded most Māori. Despite what you may hear – the colonialist government was being both representative AND taking the moral high-ground. The seats were a compromise: limited, symbolic and designed to contain Māori voice within a settler framework.
Even the Kīngitanga movement, often held up as a symbol of Māori unity, came out of division. It started in 1858 as a response to land grabs and colonial pressure. But not all iwi joined. Some opposed it outright. It wasn’t a natural evolution – it was a strategic move under pressure.
Now, in 2025, we’re seeing the same dynamics play out. Te Pāti Māori’s internal split – accusations of coups, exclusion of electorates and leadership disputes – isn’t a failure. It’s part of the same historical rhythm. The sparring hasn’t stopped. It’s just taken a new form.
When a clear advantage appears – whether it’s muskets in the 1800s or political leverage today – old tensions resurface. Alliances shift. Détente breaks down. The illusion of unity gives way to the reality of contest.
This is an historical flaw in Māori society and has resulted in disparities between Māori and other Māori groups in NZ. It reflects a deep tradition of autonomy, negotiation and competitive leadership. And it also calls for a more honest story – one that doesn’t romanticise the past or pretend unity was ever the default.
If Māori leaders want to build something lasting, they’ll need to change their attitudes and allegiances. They’ll need to build trust between hapū – not override it. And they’ll need to engage with history – not as myth, but with realism, to ‘learn from their mistakes’. Because unity was never the starting point and understanding that is the first step toward building something that actually works for them.
Dr Michael John Schmidt left NZ after completing postgraduate studies at Otago University (BSc, MSc) in molecular biology, virology, and immunology to work in research on human genetics in Australia. Returning to NZ has worked in business development for biotech and pharmacy retail companies and became a member of the NZ Institute of Directors. This article was first published HERE
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