Phillip John Hohapata–Oke

It began at the Whakatāne rubbish dump in 1988, where I founded the Whakatāne Resource Recovery Centre—the first of its kind in the world.

Before “resource recovery” became policy language, before councils across Aotearoa, Australia, and beyond adopted the model, we were already doing it.

I secured salvage rights, sorted through waste, and saw the future: recyclables needed to be separated at source—within the home.

I approached Whakatāne District Council to support a public education programme.

It refused, citing budgetary constraints.

So, I created my own education package, which I presented to local schools, science classes, and community events.

I was not alone. People like Trevor Davidson, Brian Simpson, Basil Simpson, Bau Hemopo, and the crew from Wairaka all played a part.

Uncle Trevor built all my sheds—every one of them, out of the rubbish. “Good man the King,” he used to say.

Cuzzie Brian gave me my first dump tractor. That was awesome and was a huge help. He backed me with more than words—he gave me the means to move.

And Basil—he was the man. We travelled the country together, chasing innovation, looking at new ideas. I loved him like an uncle. He was a few things to a lot of people and loved his rugby.

Bau Hemopo was my right hand. Quiet, steady, always there. He carried the kaupapa beside me, through the heavy parts and the hard calls. I couldn’t have done it without him.

And the crew from Wairaks.

They didn’t just stand beside me; they helped build the kaupapa, piece by piece. Quiet champions who saw the vision and helped shape what the world would later call resource recovery.

Sadly, many have since passed on. But their breath remains in the foundation. Those who were there will know.

That was the first lesson: to make change, you must be inside the decision-making process.

Out of frustration, I unsuccessfully stood for Whakatāne District Council in the early 1990s (falling short of under 100 or so votes). Not for profile, not for politics, but because the system refused to listen from the outside.

I had seen the breach; I had named it. Still, the machinery stayed silent.

That loss exposed something deeper—mesh blocks.

Mesh blocks are the smallest geographic units used by Stats NZ to group households for statistical and electoral purposes. They’re meant to help define ward boundaries and allocate voting papers accurately.

But in practice, they became tools of distortion.

In Whakatāne, my aunty and uncle lived next door. One received voting papers for my ward. The other didn’t.

The boundary—according to the mesh block—ran through the bed.

That’s not just absurd. That’s electoral distortion.

Mesh blocks were designed to serve accuracy. But when left unpoliced, they split whānau, misallocated votes, and disenfranchised Māori.

The breach wasn’t incidental. It was systemic.

And when we named it, the system resisted correction—until we recalibrated it through ceremony, not complaint.

I took the council’s returning officer to court. The judge ruled in my favour and offered a re-election. I declined, citing the cost to ratepayers.

I rested my case, approached the bench, and pressed noses with the judge.

No words. Just breath. The recalibration was complete.

But the distortion ran deeper. Many of my people weren’t even on the electoral roll. The Electoral Act, the only law that favours Māori—by requiring accurate enrolment and fair access to vote—was never policed.

Why?  Because enrolment means presence.  Presence means power.  And power, when held by Māori, unsettles the system built to keep us outside the frame.

So, the law sat there—on paper, in statute—while rolls went unchecked and Māori voters were left off entirely.  The breach wasn’t just administrative. It was deliberate.

They didn’t want us enrolled. Because enrolment is authorship.

After the mesh block ruling, I turned my focus to regional politics. I unsuccessfully stood a couple more times for high-level posts—positions with real decision-making power.

Each time, I saw the same pattern: Pākehā strongholds too large to shift by vote alone.

The numbers held. The gate stayed closed.

I won’t say too much here—those moments were heavy.

But they taught me something: the breach wouldn’t be corrected by contest alone.

So, I changed course—not out of defeat, but out of strategy.

I came up with a new idea: constitutional correction through legislation.

And this is where the Resource Management Act came into focus.

Section 6(e) recognised the relationship of Māori with ancestral lands, waters, wāhi tapu, and taonga—not just as a cultural note, but as a matter of national importance.

Section 8 added a Treaty check, asking decision-makers to take into account the principles of Te Tiriti o Waitangi.

I happened to be in the right place at the right time to see it clearly. Not because I was looking for it, but because I was already living it.

The relationship of my people with the whenua wasn’t something abstract—it was daily, ancestral, and real.

The awa were speaking, the taonga were being managed, and the breach was visible—not in the wording, but in the way the law was being applied.

Tino rangatiratanga sat beneath the surface, unspoken in the clauses that mattered.

Crown agents—regional councillors—were making decisions over taonga while Māori were sidelined.

Ownership was still being disputed, yet management was happening without Māori presence.

Consultation replaced inclusion. Dialogue replaced decision-making.

The system looked consultative, but it kept us outside the frame.

So, I shifted focus to the regional level. For over 10 years, I represented Te Rūnanga o Ngāti Awa on the Māori Regional Representatives Committee (MRRC) of the Bay of Plenty Regional Council.

It was here I raised the issue of Māori representation—not as a favour, but as a Treaty right.

The MRRC was formed to bring Māori voices into regional governance, but it had no binding power. It was advisory, not authoritative.

Still, it became the platform where we could name the breach and begin the correction.

When the three Māori seats were formally established, our committee became redundant.

Not because the kaupapa ended—but because it landed.

The correction had been authored. The seats now held the power we had long stood for.

It took 12 months for fellow members to fully grasp the depth of what I was proposing.

Then, alongside Keni Pihana and Tony Wihapi, we formed a working party.

Together, we authored the paper that led to the draft Bay of Plenty Regional Council (Māori Constituency Empowering) Act 2001.

Before our proposal was presented to the House of Representatives—now fully endorsed by the regional council—it was recommended we seek an independent peer review.

We invited the wise counsel of retired Judge Peter Trapski, a respected legal mind and former ombudsman.

We didn’t just want support—we wanted scrutiny.

We wanted the sharpest legal mind to test our thinking, challenge our assumptions, and confirm our constitutional footing.

His review was clear: the proposal was constitutionally sound, Treaty-consistent, and legally robust.

It was his endorsement—grounded in law and integrity—that pushed the kaupapa over the line.

The system could no longer ignore it. The breach had been named. The correction was now unavoidable.

The Bay of Plenty Regional Council (Māori Constituency Empowering) Act 2001 became a template for constitutional correction.  That’s how the movement spread.

That’s how Māori representation began to take root—not through policy shifts, but through a precedent we authored.

I name it now to restore authorship and protect the legacy it carries.

That Act was not a policy win. It was a constitutional correction.

But even after the seats were established, uptake was slow. For years, Māori representation remained underutilised.

It wasn’t until 2021, when national attention turned to Māori wards, that the tide began to shift.

Councils across the motu began to move. The pattern was finally being seen.

And now, barely a few years later, the same machinery of distortion reappears—referenda targeting Māori wards alone, treating representation as optional, reversible, conditional.

The good thing is the three Māori seats on the regional council are not affected by these referendums.

Why? Because they were established through a local Act of Parliament—the Bay of Plenty Regional Council (Māori Constituency Empowering) Act 2001.

This Act sits outside the Local Electoral Act. It cannot be overturned by local referendum.

It is entrenched in law. It stands as precedent.

Though I now reside outside Aotearoa, my wairua remains present within the whenua—running through the streams and waterways, carried by the rhythm of whakapapa.

The whenua remembers. The awa speaks. And the legacy we authored continues to flow, undistorted.

Conclusion. We set a precedent for others to follow.  Not a gesture nor a plea—a precedent.

Let this be a call to action:  Be present by registering on the Māori roll.  Because together whānau—we got this.  It’s our time.

Nō reira, ngā pou e tokowhā me ngā mema o te Rōpū Māori ki te Regional Council kua wehe atu—haere, haere, haere atu rā.

Kāore i warewaretia.

Ki a mātou e noho nei—tēnā koutou.

Tēnā tātou katoa.

Phillip John Hohapata–Oke, originator and co-author, Bay of Plenty Regional Council (Māori Constituency Empowering) Act 2001. Global Pioneer in Resource Recovery (1988)