Secular Māori Voices and Global Indigenous Rights: Eru Hiko-Tahuri on Inclusion, Identity, and Reform

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): A Further Inquiry

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/07/16

Part 4 of 5

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. Hiko-Tahuri critiques the invisibility of secular Māori voices in leadership and policy. While spiritual leaders dominate Indigenous representation, Hiko-Tahuri calls for inclusive frameworks honoring non-religious Māori. Drawing from international instruments and personal advocacy, he urges reform in mental health care, cultural practices, and national recognition of secular Indigenous identities.

Scott Douglas 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?

Eru 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 “Irepresented 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.

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