Dr Jessica Sneha Gray (BA. MA. Phd)
Certified Clinical Sociologist (AACS)

RECENTLY, at The Strand, I was racially abused. A person yelled that they were tangata whenua and that I should “go back home”.

Let me be clear from the beginning: this is not a lament. This is not an abuse about an entire population. This is not a mourn-fest. This is not a plea for pity. Nor is this an invitation for people to hide behind the lazy phrase, “there are two sides to every story”.Halfway through the abuse, I recorded – because they were recording. And sometimes, when you are treated as an outsider, you learn very quickly that your word alone may not be enough.

You feel the burden of needing proof. Cameras were present. Witnesses were present to prove my case if needed.

And people came afterwards to apologise for the treatment I received when with my elderly mom.

That should tell its own story.

But this piece is not about two abusive people. It is about something much bigger.

It is about the racism we do not want to talk about, because it’s too hard, and quite frankly, most of us are not biased.

But you know the reality is racism exists in Whakatāne, in the Eastern Bay, and across New Zealand – in many forms, from many directions, and against many people.

We need to talk about all of it – so we can make our places better, safer, greater.

After the incident, an older kuia came to me and my mother with kindness.

She asked us, gently, not to judge all whānau because of the abusive behaviour of one couple. I reassured her immediately: I would never do that.

One person’s behaviour is not the reflection of an entire race, culture, or people.

That kuia’s response was what leadership looks like. Quiet. Courageous. Humane. She did not excuse the behaviour. She did not defend the indefensible.

She simply stepped forward with dignity and reminded us that one act of ugliness should not be allowed to poison the whole picture.

Another well-intentioned person said to me, “You will never convince people like that couple.” And they are right too. As someone who has more often than not shut up and put up with it, I get it.

But today for me as I did walk away that is not the point. I want through my writing create change, change for the better.

The point for me today is not whether we can convince people who are already committed to hatred.

The point is whether the rest of us have the courage to say, clearly and publicly, that this behaviour is not acceptable in our rohe.

This is not the first time my whānau has experienced racism here.

My daughter was once almost run over, and the excuse given was that the person was “from here”.

Some workplaces bias just because of what I think is fear of the “other”.

The sad thing is – so are we. This is our home too. This is our whenua too. Many of us were born here.

Our children live here. Our families contribute here. Our work, service, relationships, grief, joy, and belonging are here. We are not visitors in our own lives.

I may be of mixed ethnicity, but I look visibly South Asian. And because of that, I know what it is to be treated differently before I have even spoken. I know what it is to be measured by my skin, my face, my name, or someone else’s assumptions about where I “belong”.

As a therapist and investigator, I have seen the damage racial hatred causes.

As a sociologist who studies place, identity, and belonging, I also understand that land carries deep history.

Whenua is not just scenery. It carries memory, pain, mana, ancestry, struggle, and survival.

We must respect that.

We must respect the history of this land – from 700 years ago, 600 years ago, 200 years ago, and through to the present day.

But respecting history does not mean abusing people who look different. It does not mean telling people to “go home” when their home is right here. It does not mean using indigineity, pain, or place as a weapon against others.

That is not mana. That is not justice. That is just racism wearing a different cloak.

And yes, I say this to immigrants too: if you want this land to be your land, then you must also learn its history. You must respect the mana of this place. You must understand that New Zealand is not a blank page waiting for your arrival. It has stories, wounds, obligations, and relationships that existed long before you came.

But respect must go both ways.

Belonging cannot be built on humiliation. It cannot be created with an expectation that some mixed-race or different-looking immigrants stay quiet.

Unity cannot be built on fear. A thriving rohe cannot be built by making people feel unsafe in public places.

I have heard from medical professionals and other workers who have considered leaving or have left, or who do not want to come here, because they do not feel safe or welcomed in Whakatāne.

That should alarm us. If professionals, families, migrants, and people who look different feel pushed out, then the whole community loses.

We lose skills. We lose care. We lose trust. We lose the chance to become better than the worst voices among us.

For too long, many of us have walked away from moments like this.

We have swallowed the hurt. We have told ourselves to stay calm, to rise above it, to not make trouble, to not make it worse.

But silence has a cost. Sometimes silence protects the abuser more than the abused.

Sometimes silence allows hatred to grow roots. Sometimes silence teaches our children that dignity must be surrendered in order to keep the peace.

I do not want that lesson for my children.

So, yes, at some point, we must say: stop. This is not right.

Surprisingly, I am not angry at the couple who abused us. My greater concern is with the people in positions of influence – political figures, community voices, and pseudo-religious personalities – who spread fear, misinformation, and division until ordinary people feel entitled to abuse others in the street.

That kind of hatred will ruin us.

It will ruin our towns. It will ruin our relationships. It will ruin the very whenua people claim to be defending.

Because whenua cannot thrive when the people on it are encouraged to hate each other.

The way forward is not denial. It is not pretending racism only happens elsewhere. It is not pretending that only one group can experience harm, or that only one history matters.

The way forward is honest conversation, mutual respect, and the courage to call out racism in all its forms.

We need to be able to say two things at once.

We can honour tangata whenua and the deep history of this land.

And we can also say that abusing people because of how they look is wrong.

We can respect the pain of colonisation.

And we can also say that racial hatred against migrants, mixed-ethnicity families, South Asian-looking people, or anyone else is unacceptable.

We can protect the mana of this whenua.

And we can also protect the dignity of every person who now calls this place home.

That is the middle ground we need – not a weak middle ground, but a courageous one.

A place where truth is spoken without hatred. A place where history is honoured without weaponising it.

A place where we can disagree, negotiate, learn, and still treat each other with dignity.

The kuia who came to us at The Strand understood that.

So did the others who apologised. They reminded me that there are many good people in this town.

People with heart. People with courage. People who know that one couple’s abusive behaviour does not represent everyone.

Now the rest of us must show the same courage.

We must stop letting abusers get away with this behaviour.

We must stop excusing racism because it is uncomfortable to confront.

We must stop pretending that public abuse is just an unfortunate incident between individuals.

It is bigger than that.

It is about what kind of rohe we want to be.

It is about whether our children can grow up knowing they belong.

It is about whether our elderly parents can walk beside us without being humiliated.

It is about whether our towns will be places of healing or places of fear.

And it is about whether we have the courage to say, together: this is not good enough.

Not here.

Not in our town.

Not on our whenua.

Not to anyone.

If our rohe is to thrive, then racism in all its forms must be named, challenged, and refused – not with more hatred, but with truth, dignity, and strength.