“We’re all forced to echo small words that make big noise and mean nothing to most of us.”
Indeed. Small words, big noise. That, in essence, is what te reo Māori has become in modern New Zealand: a disproportionately celebrated state hobby enforced by bureaucrats, virtue-signallers, and treaty-industrialists under the pretext of national identity. Te reo is not our national language. It is not widely spoken, understood, or requested. It is being rammed down our collective throat by Wellington’s bureaucratic caste and the Māori elite, a partnership more obsessed with symbolism than with service.
