Journal articles on the topic 'Āhuatanga Māori (Māori Tradition)'

This is an essay about rangahau and me. I am a Kai-rangahau. Kai, a Māori language prefix, is added to verbs to form nouns denoting a human agent, the person doing the action. The action is rangahau—defined in this essay through āhuatanga Māori (Māori tradition). This article offers an example of rangahau as seen through the eyes of a Kai-rangahau and a Māori worldview. The example provided highlights the need for Kai-rangahau of Māori tradition “to get it right”—to honor the past, to inspire the present, and to be accountable to the future.

INTRODUCTION: Cultural supervision with Māori (tangata whenua) in social work has been a focus of practice in Aotearoa New Zealand. New approaches to address the cultural needs of Māori social workers and those of other cultural backgrounds have been developed. This article portrays a model of cultural supervision for Muslim social workers in Aotearoa.APPROACH: The broader methodological structure of this reflective account is a kaupapa Māori framework and Rangahau (a Wānanga response to research). Rangahau is the traditional Māori methodology of inquiry utilising mātauranga Māori and āhuatanga Māori – traditional Māori bodies of knowledge from the context of a Māori world view. Critical self-reflection and use of reflective journals are used as methods of the rangahau.FINDINGS: A model of supervision is presented which is tawaf, a ritual of haj – one of the pillars of Islam. Muslims (who follow Islam as a religion) perform haj (pilgrimage) to receive hedayet (spiritual guidance) to cleanse their nafs (soul). In this model, the phases of tawaf have been applied to structure and guide social work supervision sessions designed for Muslim social workers. Some important values of Islam such as tawbah, sabr, shukr, tawakkul, and takwa, have been integrated into the model as every action of Muslims is value-based. The model combines both nafs and a value-based approach in supervision.IMPLICATIONS: Tawaf represents the Islamic worldview and aims to deconstruct and reconstruct supervisees’ practice and assumptions. This will be used in the context of cultural supervision with Muslim social workers by Muslim supervisors.

While Western attachment theory has tended to focus on the interpersonal attachments between people, indigenous Māori attachment perspectives have always included connections and relationships to aspects outside of the interpersonal domain. Collective, cultural and tikanga-based extrapersonal relationships are significant in Te Ao Māori and include connection to whānau/hapū/iwi (extended family and community groups), whenua (land and the natural world), and wairua (interconnection and spirituality). Alongside vital interpersonal relationships, these extrapersonal connections are substantial to the development of an indigenous Māori self which is well and supported within a holistic framework. This article explores the extrapersonal connections outlined above, their importance to Hauora Māori and implications for the practice of psychotherapy in Aotearoa New Zealand.WhakarāpopotongaI te wā e warea ana te arotahi kaupapa piripono a te Uru ki te piringa whaiaro tangata ki te tangata, ko tā te Māori tirohanga piripono he whakauru i ngā here ngā whanaungatanga ki ngā āhuatanga i tua atu i te ao whaiaro. He take nunui te whānau kohinga ahurea o te Ao Māori whakakaohia ki tēnei te here ā-whānau, ā-hāpū, ā-iwi (whānau whānui me ngā rōpū hāpori), te whenua, te taiao me te wairua (ngā taura here, te waiuratanga). I tua atu o ngā here whaiaro he wāhanga tino nui tō ēnei kohinga ahurea ki te whanaketanga o te mana motuhake o te tangata whenua Māori e ora ana e tautokohia ana e te papa whānui nei. E wherawhera ana tēnei tuhinga i ngā here whakawaho kua whakaarahia i runga ake nei, te hira o ēnei ki te Hauora Māori me ngā whakahīrau mō ngā mahi hauora hinengaro i Aotearoa.

AbstractThis paper describes commissioned research on how a Wānanga, a Maori focused post school institution in New Zealand, perceived its strategic options following the publication of the Labour-led government's Tertiary Education Strategy 2007–2012 and the Statement of Education Priorities 2008–10 (Ministry of Education 2006). The research used a Delphi panel process that looks for consensus answers to specific research questions: How should the Wānanga respond to the policies sketched in the Tertiary Education Strategy and the Statement of Education Priorities? What is the range of issues that may need to be addressed as a result of this new policy framework? What options does the Wānanga have in addressing these issues? The Delphi process enabled a clear set of priorities to be established: provide quality teaching and learning reflecting Māori values and practices; develop a consistent internal philosophy based on tikanga and āhuatanga Māori; and provide second chance education for Māori and other learners.

AbstractThis paper describes commissioned research on how a Wānanga, a Maori focused post school institution in New Zealand, perceived its strategic options following the publication of the Labour-led government's Tertiary Education Strategy 2007–2012 and the Statement of Education Priorities 2008–10 (Ministry of Education 2006). The research used a Delphi panel process that looks for consensus answers to specific research questions: How should the Wānanga respond to the policies sketched in the Tertiary Education Strategy and the Statement of Education Priorities? What is the range of issues that may need to be addressed as a result of this new policy framework? What options does the Wānanga have in addressing these issues? The Delphi process enabled a clear set of priorities to be established: provide quality teaching and learning reflecting Māori values and practices; develop a consistent internal philosophy based on tikanga and āhuatanga Māori; and provide second chance education for Māori and other learners.

Hui and hui rūnanga, Māori decision-making gatherings, are vital in Māori constitutionalism. Hui demonstrate the practical exercise of tikanga Māori. There is a set of relatively stable Māori legal norms, derived from tikanga Māori, that can be seen at work in such hui-based decision-making. These norms (mana, tapu, whakapapa, whanaungatanga and rangatiratanga) serve to strengthen and demonstrate group processes. They arguably do not establish merely optional guidelines for group behaviour; they can serve to constrain decision-making. A case study set in a hui in a modern Māori urban context serves to demonstrate the exercise of such Māori legal norms in civic decision-making.

Māori, New Zealand’s indigenous population, have a unique connection to the environment (Harris and Tipene 2006). In Māori tradition, Papatūānuku is the land—the earth mother who gives birth to all things, including Māori (Dell 2017). Māori also self-define as tāngata whenua (people of the land), a status formally recognised in New Zealand legislation. Māori have fought to regain tino rangatiratanga (authority and self-determination; see Gillespie 1998) over lands lost via colonisation. Accordingly, Cowie et al. (2016) found that socio-political consciousness—a dimension of Māori identity—correlated positively with Schwartz’s (1992) value of protecting the environment and preserving nature. Yet, Māori perceptions of land also derive from spiritual associations. Our work investigated the spiritual component of Māori environmental regard by delineating between protecting the environment (i.e., a value with socio-political implications) and desiring unity with nature (i.e., a value with spiritual overtones) amongst a large national sample of Māori (N = 6812). As hypothesized, socio-political consciousness correlated positively with valuing environmental protection, whilst spirituality correlated positively with valuing unity with nature. These results demonstrate that Māori connection with the land is simultaneously rooted in spirituality and socio-political concerns.

The mana wāhine movement can be seen as a Māori version of ecofeminism. This definition, however, limits its valence and profound meaning, which can be understood only in the light of a different cultural paradigm. The poetry collection Tātai Whetū, in Māori and English, translated into Italian in the volume Matariki, sciame di stelle, exemplifies writing in the tradition of mana wāhine, that is, a literary genre that inflects political activism, environmentalism, feminism and a deep bond with Māori cultural roots

AbstractThis paper explores the notion of whakapapa as providing a legitimate research framework for engaging in research with Māori communities. By exploring the tradition and meaning of whakapapa, the paper will legitimate how whakapapa and an understanding of whakapapa can be used by Māori researchers working among Māori communities. Therefore, emphasis is placed on a research methodology framed by whakapapa that not only authenticates Māori epistemology in comparison with Western traditions, but that also supports the notion of a whakapapa research methodology being transplanted across the Indigenous world; Indigenous peoples researching among their Indigenous communities. Consequently, Indigenous identity is strengthened as is the contribution of the concept of whakapapa to Indigenous research paradigms worldwide.

This decade can be noted for several distinct approaches to Māori architecture, reflecting a variety of nationalistic impulses. This paper offers a brief overview of the diversity of Māori architecture and ideas in this period. Pākehā, in the search for national identity, and also reflecting the interests of the global Arts and Crafts movement, were enthused by the local example of the carved and decorated whare whakairo, native timbers, Māori adzing techniques and local flora and fauna. This can be seen in the work of architects such as JW Chapman Taylor, as well as the symbolism and trademarks of popular culture, and the pattern of museum acquisitions. By the twentieth century Māori were seen as a culture that could soon become extinct and this is reflected in the images of artists such as Goldie ("The Calm Close of Valour’s Various Days"), Lindauer's interest in preserving ersatz records of tradition and custom, and Dittmer's interest in myth and legend. Parliamentarian Āpirana Ngata, a member of the Young Maori Party, was very influential in the revival of certain customary arts (seen in the later establishment of schools of Māori arts and crafts in Rotorua) but he and his colleagues promoted a form of these arts that while "encouraging national Maori unity" also suppressed the diversity of activity in modern figurative painting and tribal identity for instance. These approaches can be contrasted with the patterns of building by other Māori movements more opposed to the government and actively seeking the restoration of Māori lands, rights and mana. Rua Kēnana's settlement at Maungapōhatu in the 1910s and TW Rātana's hall and church building later in the century (his ministry began in 1918) eschew the use of any meeting house forms or customary motifs – they were turning to new forms and symbols to sustain Māori identity in the new century.

Wānanga is a traditional method of Māori knowledge transmission, and has been described as a place, a school, an act, and a form of governance, practice, and pedagogy. Much of the writing on wānanga focuses on the ancient “lore” of Whare Wānanga (Houses of Learning), but more recent work has explored how that pedagogical tradition is relevant to Māori education today, particularly at tertiary level. There is, however, a growing body of writing on wānanga as a research methodology relevant to Māori and iwi (tribal) communities. This paper discusses the increasingly popular use of wānanga in Māori research practice, examining the definitions, roots, and evolution of wānanga as a concept, place, and indigenous method of knowledge construction and transmission. Drawing on wānanga experiences in two different tribal contexts, this paper explores how wānanga works as a practice embedded in, and shaped by, local knowledge, language, place, people and tikanga.

Race issues featured in political campaigns leading up to the 2005 election. A speech made by the leader of the National Party, Don Brash, at Orewa, 27 January 2004 decrying racial separatism and accusing the government of supporting race-based policies resonated with a considerable sector of the populace and public polling at that time showed increased popular support for the National party (Miller, 2005, p. 166). There was considerable media exposure to race issues following the Brash speech and it contributed to a re-evaluatiuon of Māori policy by the 1999-2005 Labour coalition government which in turn resolved to remove ethnic targeting from public policy. Tradition Māori support for the Labour party dissipated because of the ‘foreshore and seabed’ issue and the newly created Māori party.subsequently won four of the 121 parliamentary seats.

The discipline of psychology grew out of European philosophy into a unique discipline that retained reductionist assumptions regarding knowledge production and ways-of-being. Born out of dissatisfaction with the dominance and ineffectiveness of Anglo-European/American assumptions in psychology, and how the discipline obscured culturally unique ways-of-being and producing knowledge, Indigenous scholars are working to decolonize psychology. This article contributes to this Indigenous project by exploring the ways in which dominant reductionist philosophies in psychology today theorize away Indigenous peoples’ understanding of being. Drawing on the continental and existential philosophical tradition, and Māori (Indigenous peoples of New Zealand) knowledge of being, we provide a critique of how the self has been recast in psychology through a reductionist perspective. We set dominant theorizing and knowledge production regarding the self in psychology against the backdrop of processes of colonization, industrialization, urbanization, and the need for the development of Indigenous psychologies to meet the needs of Indigenous peoples.

As an adoptee, I am haunted by what Lifton (2009) calls the Ghost Kingdom, a place filled with the spectres of the ancestors I have been disconnected from. Derrida (1993), with his notion of hauntology, tells us that we must learn to speak to ghosts, and that by doing so we will learn to live. I am on a journey to speak to the ancestors of my birth father who were Ngāi Tahu (Māori), and through this, to make meaning in my present and future (Carsten, 2000). I am using embroidery as a medium to speak to, and with, my great-great-grandmother, Elizabeth (Fitzpatrick & Bell, 2016), working in a craft vernacular that would have been deeply familiar to her. This paper will discuss how the methodology of autoethnography, informed by adoption scholarship and feminist studies of craft, has led me to stitch work that engages with craft tradition, and speaks to loss, identity and belonging.

Abstract Every culture has its own tradition of intergenerational exchange based on accepted norms, while the meanings of traditional filial values have evolved over time. This paper aims to identify the various forms of filial care, support and respect for older people in Maori and Korean cultures, and reconceptualise current ways of intergenerational exchanges in both physical and virtual contexts. Data were collected through a qualitative inquiry framework consisting of 32 individual interviews and 5 ethnographic observations in New Zealand and South Korea. Thematic analysis of the data was used to identify themes and patterns from the participants’ perspectives and experiences in the multilingual research context. In this cross-cultural study, for Māori participants, whanaungatanga (family relationships) was recognised as a core value that places whanau (family) at the centre of whakapapa (human and non-human relations). For Korean participants, their tradition of filial piety has continued to constitute a major component of familism mindsets and practices, while their ability to support their parents and maintain connections to their ancestors varied. Being knowledgeable about the traditional values of intergenerational solidarity helped generations feel connected and supported by each other, although both monetary and non-monetary support for one’s elders has come under strain due to the impact of changes in family ties and social dynamics. Technological developments have reshaped traditional filial practices, offering new ways of intergenerational exchanges. Redefining whanaungatanga and filial piety can provide a theoretical basis for developing the concept of extended social work through avoiding excessive individualism and culture-blind approaches.

Abstract Some nineteenth century writers like the Scottish born poet William Golder, used the term ‘the Great Britain of the south’ as a description of his new home. He was not alone in this characterisation. There were of course other possible perspectives, not least from the Māori point of view, which these British writers inevitably fail to capture. A third reality was more specific to lawyers or at least to those caught up in the legal system. The phrase ‘the Great Britain of the south’ fails to capture the complexity of the way that English law was applied in the early colony. The law administered throughout the British Empire reflected the common law origins of colonial legal systems but did not mean that the law was identical to that in England. Scholars have emphasised the adaptability of English law in various colonial settings. New Zealand contract law of this time did draw on some English precedents. The early lawyers were steeped in the English legal tradition. At the same time, English authorities were used with a light touch. The legal and social framework within which contract law operated was also quite different. This meant, for example, that mercantile juries were important in adapting the law to local conditions. Early New Zealand contract law provides a good example of both the importance of English law in a colonial setting and its adaptability.

Abstract Ageing is part of life, and so is death. Although death will involve all of us over time, it is often regarded as a taboo topic, and bonds with the dead are seldom acknowledged in contemporary times. The paper presents selected insights on the connection that survives death, learned from a qualitative study on two indigenous knowledges—whakapapa (genealogical connections in Maori) and filial piety (respect/care for ancestors). Data were collected from interviews with 49 key informants (Maori=25; Korean=24) in 2018/19 in New Zealand and South Korea. The research findings indicate that the connectedness with ancestors or deceased loved ones is a significant part of the participants’ mental and social lives. Māori (the first nation people of New Zealand) have established the unwritten convention of whakapapa as the core value that places whānau (family) at the centre of social relationships. In Korean culture, its filial piety/ancestor veneration tradition has emphasised the connection between deceased and living family members. Criticism about the traditions of whakapapa and filial piety was also raised by a few participants. The significance of this study is situated in the innovative perspective that the post-mortem relationship can be embodied, not only by the living who practise memorial respect for the dead, but also by those older people who establish after-life legacy before death. To help capitalise on this whakapapa connection, the so-called concept of “memorial social work” is presented as a potential area of social work practice, which has critical implications in the ageing/end-of-life related fields.

Portrayals of the Anthropocene period are often dystopian or post-apocalyptic narratives of climate crises that will leave humans in horrific science-fiction scenarios. Such narratives can erase certain populations, such as Indigenous peoples, who approach climate change having already been through transformations of their societies induced by colonial violence. This essay discusses how some Indigenous perspectives on climate change can situate the present time as already dystopian. Instead of dread of an impending crisis, Indigenous approaches to climate change are motivated through dialogic narratives with descendants and ancestors. In some cases, these narratives are like science fiction in which Indigenous peoples work to empower their own protagonists to address contemporary challenges. Yet within literature on climate change and the Anthropocene, Indigenous peoples often get placed in historical categories designed by nonIndigenous persons, such as the Holocene. In some cases, these categories serve as the backdrop for allies' narratives that privilege themselves as the protagonists who will save Indigenous peoples from colonial violence and the climate crisis. I speculate that this tendency among allies could possibly be related to their sometimes denying that they are living in times their ancestors would have likely fantasized about. I will show how this denial threatens allies' capacities to build coalitions with Indigenous peoples. Inuit culture is based on the ice, the snow and the cold…. It is the speed and intensity in which change has occurred and continues to occur that is a big factor why we are having trouble with adapting to certain situations. Climate change is yet another rapid assault on our way of life. It cannot be separated from the first waves of changes and assaults at the very core of the human spirit that have come our way. Just as we are recognizing and understanding the first waves of change … our environment and climate now gets threatened. Sheila Watt-Cloutier, interviewed by the Ottawa Citizen. (Robb, 2015) In North America many Indigenous traditions tell us that reality is more than just facts and figures collected so that humankind might widely use resources. Rather, to know “it”—reality—requires respect for the relationships and relatives that constitute the complex web of life. I call this Indigenous realism, and it entails that we, members of humankind, accept our inalienable responsibilities as members of the planet's complex life system, as well as our inalienable rights. ( Wildcat, 2009 , xi) Within Māori ontological and cosmological paradigms it is impossible to conceive of the present and the future as separate and distinct from the past, for the past is constitutive of the present and, as such, is inherently reconstituted within the future. (Stewart-Harawira, 2005, 42) In fact, incorporating time travel, alternate realities, parallel universes and multiverses, and alternative histories is a hallmark of Native storytelling tradition, while viewing time as pasts, presents, and futures that flow together like currents in a navigable stream is central to Native epistemologies. ( Dillon, 2016a , 345)

This paper contains the main points I made in my two keynote presentations to the New Zealand Association of Psychotherapy (NZAP) conference in April 2015. The theme of mourning, and especially facing the aggression involved in this process, runs through it. The first section describes my emotional experience when coming face to face with the devastation left by the Canterbury earthquakes, and I draw attention to the importance of mourning in freeing up the energies required to adapt and to rebuild. I draw attention to the scale of loss to be faced, and raise an anxiety that aggression mobilised by this process may be difficult to bear, and be displaced onto the long-term project of turning a monocultural profession into a bicultural entity that acknowledges explicitly that it exists in a country that is home to both Māori and Pākehā. The second section has two aims. Firstly, I provide a detailed clinical illustration of my work, which is located within the psychoanalytic tradition, in order to make explicit my conceptualisation of a patient’s difficulties and show how these emerged in our work together. Secondly, I endeavour to show how difficult it is to integrate experience within a new cultural milieu alongside representations that stem from our original one — our “native” world of self and others. The patient I describe in my clinical example used her cultural difference as a defence — a deeply ingrained one — to protect herself from the pain of mourning and thus the possibility of moving on. I go on to discuss this material with special reference to its relevance for the development of the profession in a bicultural Aotearoa New Zealand. Waitara Kei tēnei tuhinga ngā aronga matua o ngā kauhau matua e rua i hoatu e au i te Wānanga a NZAP i te marama o Paenga-whāwhā 2015. Ko te tangihanga te kaupapa, inarā te whakarae i te riri i roto i tēnei tikanga. Ka whakaatahia aku wheako whaiaro i te kitenga ā kanohi i te parawhenua i whakarērea iho e ngā rū i Waitaha, ā ka whakaarohia ake te whai tikanga o te tangihanga hai tuku i ngā pūngao hei urutaunga hei whakahou. Ka huria ngā aronga ki te titiro ki te whānui o te paekura hai taki, te whakapikinga ake o te mānukanuka tērā pea ka uaua rawa te mau i te riri ka puea ake i tēnei mahi ā, ka waiho ki te taha ki te huring mahi akonga ahurea tūtahi ki tētahi mea kākanorua.E rua ngā whāinga o te wāhanga tuarua. Tuatahi, ko te whakaatanga whānui o taku mahi haumanu, te ture pū tātarihinengaronga, kia āta mārama ai taku whakaahuatanga o ngā raruraru o te hāura ka whāki ai i pēhea te putanga ake o ēnei i roto i ēnei mahi. Tuarua, ka nanaiore au ki te whakaatu i te uaua o te whakauru wheako ki roto i tētahi atu nohoanga ahurea i te taha o ngā tūnui o te ao toi waia o te whaiaro me ētahi atu. I whakamahia e te hāura whakaahuahia e au i roto i taku tauira haumanu tōna ahurea hai pākati — toka ana te mau — hei ārai i a ia mai i te mamae o te tangihanga, ā, tērā pea te haere whakamua. Ka tuhia tēnei kōrero me te huri ki tōna hāngaitanga mō te whakapakaritanga o te akonga i roto i te kākanotanga o Aotearoa.

This article addresses a gap in the historical literature concerning Māori urbanisation and economic development by exploring intellectual exchanges surrounding these developments. It argues that a series of key figures transmitted a network of ideas relating to Māori acculturation and urbanisation from the inter-war through the post-war period and considers the evolution, interpenetration and divergence of their perspectives. Although primarily an examination of discourse rather than policy or resulting lived experience, the paper also traces some of the ways in which this discourse informed the actions of government officials as they attempted to manage the exodus of Māori from the countryside.

Western values have long dominated discourse on what constitutes success and achievement in education. New Zealand’s own education system has been described as one which “... gives first priority to academic and western values of success” (Lee, 2008, p. 81). Emphasis is placed upon the individual, academic excellence, literacy and numeracy, economic outcomes, and competence in what western society deems valid knowledge, and as such, current assessment measures are reflective of this. While such measures are accepted as ‘best practice’ for mainstream institutions, it is argued that where indigenous education is concerned, “...success also lies in more holistic ways of knowing and participating within a rich cultural context” (Bell, 2004, p.30). Situated in a Māori world view, this paper considers success through a Māori lens. It is argued that Māori notions of success are not only premised upon academic results, rather cultural factors are considered equally as important to knowledge and understanding of te ao Māori (Māori world view), tikanga Māori (Māori customary practices), whakapapa (genealogy), hītori (histories and tradition) and te reo Māori (the Māori language). This paper seeks to highlight Māori expressions of educational success for Kura Kaupapa Māori (KKM) through the implementation of a holistic approach to education, underpinned by the guiding philosophy, Te Aho Matua. This paper will draw on my doctoral research. Graduates experiences are an integral part of this paper and research, as they give voice and validity to KKM educational success.

This paper will focus on the importance of digitally archiving waiata and haka (Māori song, chant and dance). Māori arrived in Aotearoa from their traditional homeland in the Pacific carrying with them all of the knowledge of their own ancestors, none of which was written down. This Māori oral tradition has taken on many forms, including waiata and haka. Waiata and haka are traditional mediums for the transmission of knowledge including tribal history, politics, historical landmarks, genealogy and environmental knowledge while also acting as traditional forms of expression for the articulation of anger, hatred, sadness, love and desire. Waiata and haka are examples of Māori poetry and literature and have been likened to the archives of the Māori people, preserving important historical and cultural knowledge. Therefore, waiata and haka offer an alternative view of the history of Aotearoa/New Zealand to those that are based on mainstream Eurocentric history books and archives. Waiata and haka are also important for the survival of the Māori language and culture. In this sense, they are bound to Māori identity. As a result of colonisation many of these compositions are being lost through time and with them, a knowledge base regarding the meaning behind the words. The adoption of digital technology to preserve waiata and haka provides a tool that could aid the oral tradition. Tāmata Toiere, a digital repository of waiata and haka, is a national resource which demonstrates the interface between recovering traditional knowledge and storing this through innovative technology for future generations.

Māori are the indigenous people of Aotearoa New Zealand. British settlers arrived in the 19th century with their tradition of the newspaper, and this led to a thriving Māori-language press. Today, news in te reo Māori, the Māori language, is delivered by television, radio and the internet, harnessing the conventions of Anglo-American journalism to tell stories of indigenous preoccupations (Fox 2002). The cultural hybridity that results (Grixti 2011) is particularly marked in the opening titles of Māori-language news. The musical and visual tropes of news-show mythmaking that present the news as sites of power, truth and authority are married to representations of Māori identity and beliefs to speak to a necessarily bicultural audience (A. Middleton 2020). In this paper, a multimodal approach is employed (Bignell 2002; Machin 2010; van Leeuwen 2012), which uses frame-by-frame analysis of speech, scripts, images and music to reveal the semiosis or sign processes in play in the opening titles of the country’s top-rated English-language news bulletin, 1 News, and those of the two Māori-language television news bulletins, Te Karere and Te Kāea. Analysis reveals that 1 News titles employ the sign systems common to their counterparts across Anglophone countries in the way they promote themselves as credible, all-seeing authorities. While the titles of Māori-language news opening titles retain many of the same tropes and signposts in order to be understood as a news show, they also weave in cultural references deeply embedded in Māori language and culture to represent themselves as news by and for Māori rather than the dominant culture.

This paper aims to explore and understand the definition of indigeneity from a Māori world view. Presented is a selection of narratives by authors and scholars that provide their knowledge and experience of Māoritanga. In this way, indigeneity is described by the indigenous themselves, which often contrasts to the non-indigenous definitions. The following sections will also include the effects of post-colonial assimilation on Māori culture, beliefs, philosophies, and way of life, which negatively impacted on the identity of Māori. I also include my personal views on the terms "indigenous" and "indigeneity" from the perspective of a wāhine Māori that was born and raised in an urbanised environment in the 1970s. Religion also contributed to the misinterpretation of my indigeneity and indigenous background. As a consequence of this, I have personally experienced what’s known as an identity crisis that has led me to search and discover my inherent identity as wāhine Māori. Therefore, I present a culmination of knowledge that I have learned through a personal journey of identity, which has evolved into my desire to reclaim my indigeneity. With this said, the need to reclaim one’s indigenous identity implies that an indigenous born person can lose their indigeneity. For many Māori this is true, and I include the effects that colonisation has had on the loss of indigenous knowledge throughout Aotearoa. Despite this, the knowledge which tūpuna passed down from one generation to the next has always been available if there is enough desire to seek it out and learn from it. This essay attempts to disentangle the fabrication of indigenous Māori from a colonised viewpoint, and present the authenticity of tradition, belief, and philosophy from a Māori worldview.

A DECADE AGO I asked one of our leading Ngāti Porou artists about his views on tradition and modernity. This was his reply: ‘Traditional art and modern art. For me there’s no such thing. It’s about continuum of movement because tomorrow my art will be tradition. I have frequently pondered that statement and its implications, seeking to find its resonances and deeper meaning in the many histories of indigenous negotiations in this country and beyond. For me, A Whakapapa of Tradition provides one of the most recent instalments relevant to this statement, contextualised in a discussion of how Ngāti Porou art and architecture underwent ‘radical’ change in the century from 1830-1930. Focusing on the Iwirakau school of carving based in the Waiapu valley, Ngarino Ellis (Ngāti Porou and Ngā Puhi) argues that during this time Māori art in Ngāti Porou territory underwent a radical transformation, in which the dominant forms of waka taua (war canoes), pātaka (decorated storehouses), and whare rangatira (chief’s houses), were replaced by whare karakia (churches), whare whakairo (meeting houses), and wharekai (dining halls).

This article follows the growth of written communication by Aotearoa New Zealand's indigenous Maori. The research focuses on nineteenth century developments, linking four significant areas of Maori writing--tuhi rerehua (calligraphy), tuhi motumotu (printing), tuhi waitohu (lettering), and tatai kupu toi (typography)--into a continuous whakapapa (genealogy) of what might be described as hoahoa whakairoiro Maori. Through a number of fascinating case studies, the research sheds light on the distinctive history of Maori lettering and typography. While some of these subjects have been explored separately within the literature of Maori cultural history, none have connected these practices into a definitive Maori tradition of creating and using letterforms for the purpose of visual communication. Importantly, this work also introduces a number of new kupu Maori relating to Maori visual communication design. For the indigenous Māori of Aotearoa New Zealand, written language remains a relatively new method for communicating and storing information.

Abstract This article takes a fresh look at the history of private colonial enterprise in order to show how companies influenced British settlement and emigration to South Australia and New Zealand in the 1830s, thus connecting the settler revolution to global capitalism. Bringing into a single analytical frame the history of company colonization in the antipodes and its Atlantic predecessor, it examines how and why the actors involved in the colonization of South Australia and New Zealand invoked North American precedent to justify their early nineteenth-century colonial ventures. The article shows how the legitimating narratives employed by the colonial reformers performed two key functions. On the one hand, they supplied a historical and discursive tradition that authorized chartered enterprise in the antipodes. On the other hand, they furnished legal arguments that purportedly justified the appropriation of Aboriginal Australian and Māori tribal land. In illuminating how language and time shaped the world-making prophesies of these colonial capitalists, the article aims to extend recent work on corporations in global context.

[Intercultural collaborations between Te Ao Māori and Te Ao Pākehā are notoriously difficult for all concerned. What knowledge is and is not, who or what has agency in the world, how and when things happen, and the nature of relationships themselves, are situated within different culturally informed worldviews. Attempting to make a repository of knowledge about Te Maramataka (lunar calendar) through an immersive interactive artwork, means engaging with two distinctively different, but equally valid, knowledge frameworks and their attendant foundational metaphysics. Navigating between and through these knowledge frameworks is to participate in speculative and practice-led approaches that foster relationally emergent phenomena. It is through collaboration at the intercultural hyphen that we deliberately walk into the innovation space, whilst also attempting to be mindful of upholding the mana of existing experts. At present, we represent a partnership between Te Rūnanga o Kirikiriroa and Wintec rangahau and creative arts research practitioners, each with our own institutionally informed accountabilities. By acknowledging ourselves as a collective rōpū (group) embarking on a shared endeavour, we can place emphasis in the process of learning about our shared whanaungatanga (interconnected relationships) in order to seek mutually acceptable agreements grounded in the useful. This emphasis on process is critical and must take its own time, particularly when Te Maramataka emphasises the influences of the turning moon phases on our own selves, as well as on everything else that is also already going on. In practice, agreeing that that the knowledge of Maramataka experts is situated, embodied and relational within the life context is easy to say, but should the modes of the finished work and the approach itself be representational and/or epistemological? Or if we acknowledge the relationality between things, then we must also acknowledge that knowledge itself is experiential, embodied, and performative – in other words, how we ‘get there’ is part of the destination ‘there’ itself. In the context of deciding which digital technologies to employ in the making of an interactive art installation, contemporary understandings of what art is, how meaning is made and understood, and who or what has agency within the surrounding field of relations, are destabilised. In our practice-led undertaking, turning with the moon means acknowledging the dynamic tensions that exist between tradition with innovation, representation with experiential learning, and the knowable with the hidden, mysterious, and ultimately unknowable. Whether we are talking about rules-based claims of indexicality vis-à-vis digital twins informed by cognitivist frameworks of operational logics, or stateless open-ended AI/pattern recognition paradigms, these must be balanced against the existing knowledge of Maramataka Māori experts and their live, embodied knowledge.]

Digital health is expanding, driven by international and national strategic imperatives for improving health systems. Nurses are key stakeholders in healthcare and therefore nursing leadership plays a key role in supporting the nursing workforce to develop the skills to fully engage with digital health. This review aims to synthesise the research exploring how nurse leaders can develop digital capability in the nursing workforce using the research question: “How do nursing leaders enable hospital nurses to adopt and use digital health technology?” The literature search utilised three databases: CINAHL, MEDLINE and EMBASE, plus Google Scholar and hand searching using keywords based on four concepts: nurses, leadership, digital health and in a hospital setting. Articles needed to be in English and published from 2015 to 2022. The search netted 909 articles, which after removal of duplicates and screening, including screening for quality, resulted in eight studies. For the findings three main themes were identified: “Connecting the digital and clinical worlds”, “Facilitating digital practice development” and “Empowering nurses in the digital health world”. Nurse leaders need to create a link between clinical and digital worlds to facilitate integration of digital tools into nursing practice and this requires them to have digital competence and credibility. To facilitate digital practice, they need to drive education and practice development; have visibility in clinical practice to advocate for nurses and to hear and relay their concerns, which will facilitate solutions. Providing adequate resources is also important. Dedicated digital nurse champions can support nurse leaders in facilitating the adoption and use of digital health. In conclusion, nurse leaders can support hospital nurses to adopt and use digital health technology and this may be accomplished by using aspects of transformational leadership, though confirming this is an area for further research. TE REO MĀORI TRANSLATION Ka kawea ake e ngā kaiārahi tapuhi te hauora matihiko: Ngā hua o tētahi arotake pukapuka tuhinga tōpū Ngā Ariā Matua Kei te whakawhānui haere te hauora matihiko, he mea pana whakamua e ngā ākinga ā-ao, ā-motu hoki hei whakapiki i ngā pūnaha hauora. He kaipupuru pānga taketake ngā tapuhi i roto i te tiakinga hauora nā reira, ka riro mā te kaiārahi tapuhi e kawe ngā mahi tautoko i te rāngai tapuhi hei whakawhanake i ngā pūkenga e taea ai te mahi nui i roto i te ao hauora matihiko. Tā tēnei arotake he whai kia tuia tahitia ngā rangahau e mōhiotia ai me pēhea ngā kaihautū tapuhi e whakapakari ai i ngā āheinga matihiko o te kāhui kaimahi tapuhi, mā te whakamahi i te pātai rangahau nei: “He pēhea te whakamanawa a ngā kaihautū tapuhi i ngā tapuhi hōhipera kia hāpai, kia whakamahi hoki i ngā hangarau hauora matihiko?” I whakamahi te rapunga tuhinga i ētahi pātengi raraunga e toru: arā, CINAHL, MEDLINE me EMBASE, waihoki a Google Scholar, me ētahi rapunga ā-ringa nā te whakamahi kupu matua i runga i ētahi ariā e whā: ngā tapuhi, hautūtanga, hauora matihiko, me te ao hōhipera. Me tuhinga reo Ingarihi, ā, me tuhinga hoki i puta mai i 2015 ki 2022. E 909 ngā tuhinga i puea ake, ā, i muri i te tangohanga o ngā mea taurite me ētahi atu tātaritanga, tae atu ki te tātaritanga kounga, e waru i kitea. I kitea ētahi tāhuhu matua e toru mō ngā kitenga; te tūhono i te ao matihiko me te ao tiaki tūroro; te whakangāwari i ngā whanaketanga mahi matihiko; me te whakamanawa i ngā tapuhi i te ao matihiko hauora. Me tahuri ngā kaihautū tapuhi ki te hanga hononga i waenga i te ao tiaki tūroro me te ao matihiko, hei whakangāwari i te tuituinga o ngā taputapu matihiko ki ngā mahi tapuhi, engari me mātua matatau te kaihautū tapuhi, me tino mōhio pono hoki ki ōna āhuatanga. Hei whakangāwari i ngā mahi matihiko, me kōkiri rātou i te whanaketanga mātauranga, tikanga mahi hoki; me mātua tū hei kanohi i roto i ngā mahi tiaki tūroro hei māngai mō ngā tapuhi; me rongo, me puaki hoki e rātou ō rātou āwangawanga hei whakangāwari rongoā. He mea hira hoki te hora i ngā rauemi tōtika. Ka taea e ngā mātātoa tapuhi matihiko te tautoko i ngā kaiārahi tapuhi ki te whakangāwari i te kawenga me te whakamahinga i te hauora matihiko. Hei kupu whakamutunga, ka taea e ngā kaihautū tapuhi te tautoko i ngā tapuhi hōhipera te hāpai me te whakamahi i ngā hangarau hauora matihiko, mā te whakamahi āhuatanga mai i te hautūtanga whakaumu tikanga, engari me haere ētahi atu rangahau mō tēnei kaupapa. Ngā kupu matua: matatau; hangarau hauora matihiko; ngā tapuhi hōhipera; hautūtanga

IntroductionThe debate about the responsibility of museums to respect Indigenous peoples’ rights (Kelly and Gordon; Butts) has caught our attention on the basis of our previous research experience with regard to the protection of the tangible and intangible heritage of the San (former hunter gatherers) in Southern Africa (Martin and Vermeylen; Vermeylen, Contextualising; Vermeylen, Life Force; Vermeylen et al.; Vermeylen, Land Rights). This paper contributes to the critical debate about curatorial practices and the recovery of Indigenous peoples’ cultural practices and explores how museums can be transformed into cultural centres that “decolonise” their objects while simultaneously providing social agency to marginalised groups such as the San. Indigenous MuseumTraditional methods of displaying Indigenous heritage are now regarded with deep suspicion and resentment by Indigenous peoples (Simpson). A number of related issues such as the appropriation, ownership and repatriation of culture together with the treatment of sensitive and sacred materials and the stereotyping of Indigenous peoples’ identity (Carter; Simpson) have been identified as the main problems in the debate about museum curatorship and Indigenous heritage. The poignant question remains whether the concept of a classical museum—in the sense of how it continues to classify, value and display non-Western artworks—will ever be able to provide agency to Indigenous peoples as long as “their lives are reduced to an abstract set of largely arbitrary material items displayed without much sense of meaning” (Stanley 3). Indeed, as Salvador has argued, no matter how much Indigenous peoples have been involved in the planning and implementation of an exhibition, some issues remain problematic. First, there is the problem of representation: who speaks for the group; who should make decisions and under what circumstances; when is it acceptable for “outsiders” to be involved? Furthermore, Salvador raises another area of contestation and that is the issue of intention. As we agree with Salvador, no matter how good the intention to include Indigenous peoples in the curatorial practices, the fact that Indigenous peoples may have a (political) perspective about the exhibition that differs from the ideological foundation of the museum enterprise, is, indeed, a challenge that must not be overlooked in the discussion of the inclusive museum. This relates to, arguably, one of the most important challenges in respect to the concept of an Indigenous museum: how to present the past and present without creating an essentialising “Other”? As Stanley summarises, the modernising agenda of the museum, including those museums that claim to be Indigenous museums, continues to be heavily embedded in the belief that traditional cultural beliefs, practices and material manifestations must be saved. In other words, exhibitions focusing on Indigenous peoples fail to show them as dynamic, living cultures (Simpson). This raises the issue that museums recreate the past (Sepúlveda dos Santos) while Indigenous peoples’ interests can be best described “in terms of contemporaneity” (Bolton qtd. in Stanley 7). According to Bolton, Indigenous peoples’ interest in museums can be best understood in terms of using these (historical) collections and institutions to address contemporary issues. Or, as Sepúlveda dos Santos argues, in order for museums to be a true place of memory—or indeed a true place of recovery—it is important that the museum makes the link between the past and contemporary issues or to use its objects in such a way that these objects emphasize “the persistence of lived experiences transmitted through generations” (29). Under pressure from Indigenous rights movements, the major aim of some museums is now reconciliation with Indigenous peoples which, ultimately, should result in the return of the cultural objects to the originators of these objects (Kelly and Gordon). Using the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990 (NAGPRA) as an illustration, we argue that the whole debate of returning or recovering Indigenous peoples’ cultural objects to the original source is still embedded in a discourse that emphasises the mummified aspect of these materials. As Harding argues, NAGPRA is provoking an image of “native Americans as mere passive recipients of their cultural identity, beholden to their ancestors and the museum community for the re-creation of their cultures” (137) when it defines cultural patrimony as objects having ongoing historical, traditional or cultural importance, central to the Native American group or culture itself. According to Harding (2005) NAGPRA’s dominating narrative focuses on the loss, alienation and cultural genocide of the objects as long as these are not returned to their originators. The recovery or the return of the objects to their “original” culture has been applauded as one of the most liberating and emancipatory events in recent years for Indigenous peoples. However, as we have argued elsewhere, the process of recovery needs to do more than just smother the object in its past; recovery can only happen when heritage or tradition is connected to the experience of everyday life. One way of achieving this is to move away from the objectification of Indigenous peoples’ cultures. ObjectificationIn our exploratory enquiry about new museum practices our attention was drawn to a recent debate about ownership and personhood within the context of museology (Busse; Baker; Herle; Bell; Geismar). Busse, in particular, makes the point that in order to reformulate curatorial practices it is important to redefine the concept and meaning of objects. While the above authors do not question the importance of the objects, they all argue that the real importance does not lie in the objects themselves but in the way these objects embody the physical manifestation of social relations. The whole idea that objects matter because they have agency and efficacy, and as such become a kind of person, draws upon recent anthropological theorising by Gell and Strathern. Furthermore, we have not only been inspired by Gell’s and Strathern’s approaches that suggests that objects are social persons, we have also been influenced by Appadurai’s and Kopytoff’s defining of objects as biographical agents and therefore valued because of the associations they have acquired throughout time. We argue that by framing objects in a social network throughout its lifecycle we can avoid the recurrent pitfalls of essentialising objects in terms of their “primitive” or “traditional” (aesthetic) qualities and mystifying the identity of Indigenous peoples as “noble savages.” Focusing more on the social network that surrounds a particular object opens up new avenues of enquiry as to how, and to what extent, museums can become more inclusive vis-à-vis Indigenous peoples. It allows moving beyond the current discourse that approaches the history of the (ethnographic) museum from only one dominant perspective. By tracing an artwork throughout its lifecycle a new metaphor can be discovered; one that shows that Indigenous peoples have not always been victims, but maybe more importantly it allows us to show a more complex narrative of the object itself. It gives us the space to counterweight some of the discourses that have steeped Indigenous artworks in a “postcolonial” framework of sacredness and mythical meaning. This is not to argue that it is not important to be reminded of the dangers of appropriating other cultures’ heritage, but we would argue that it is equally important to show that approaching a story from a one-sided perspective will create a dualism (Bush) and reducing the differences between different cultures to a dualistic opposition fails to recognise the fundamental areas of agency (Morphy). In order for museums to enliven and engage with objects, they must become institutions that emphasise a relational approach towards displaying and curating objects. In the next part of this paper we will explore to what extent an online museum could progressively facilitate the process of providing agency to the social relations that link objects, persons, environments and memories. As Solanilla argues, what has been described as cybermuseology may further transform the museum landscape and provide an opportunity to challenge some of the problems identified above (e.g. essentialising practices). Or to quote the museologist Langlais: “The communication and interaction possibilities offered by the Web to layer information and to allow exploration of multiple meanings are only starting to be exploited. In this context, cybermuseology is known as a practice that is knowledge-driven rather than object-driven, and its main goal is to disseminate knowledge using the interaction possibilities of Information Communication Technologies” (Langlais qtd. in Solanilla 108). One thing which shows promise and merits further exploration is the idea of transforming the act of exhibiting ethnographic objects accompanied by texts and graphics into an act of cyber discourse that allows Indigenous peoples through their own voices and gestures to involve us in their own history. This is particularly the case since Indigenous peoples are using technologies, such as the Internet, as a new medium through which they can recuperate their histories, land rights, knowledge and cultural heritage (Zimmerman et al.). As such, new technology has played a significant role in the contestation and formation of Indigenous peoples’ current identity by creating new social and political spaces through visual and narrative cultural praxis (Ginsburg).Online MuseumsIt has been acknowledged for some time that a presence on the Web might mitigate the effects of what has been described as the “unassailable voice” in the recovery process undertaken by museums (Walsh 77). However, a museum’s online engagement with an Indigenous culture may have significance beyond undercutting the univocal authority of a museum. In the case of the South African National Gallery it was charged with challenging the extent to which it represents entrenched but unacceptable political ideologies. Online museums may provide opportunities in the conservation and dissemination of “life stories” that give an account of an Indigenous culture as it is experienced (Solanilla 105). We argue that in engaging with Indigenous cultural heritage a distinction needs to be drawn between data and the cognitive capacity to learn, “which enables us to extrapolate and learn new knowledge” (Langlois 74). The problem is that access to data about an Indigenous culture does not necessarily lead to an understanding of its knowledge. It has been argued that cybermuseology loses the essential interpersonal element that needs to be present if intangible heritage is understood as “the process of making sense that is generally transmitted orally and through face-to-face experience” (Langlois 78). We agree that the online museum does not enable a reality to be reproduced (Langlois 78).This does not mean that cybermuseology should be dismissed. Instead it provides the opportunity to construct a valuable, but completely new, experience of cultural knowledge (Langlois 78). The technology employed in cybermuseology provides the means by which control over meaning may, at least to some extent, be dispersed (Langlois 78). In this way online museums provide the opportunity for Indigenous peoples to challenge being subjected to manipulation by one authoritative museological voice. One of the ways this may be achieved is through interactivity by enabling the use of social tagging and folksonomy (Solanilla 110; Trant 2). In these processes keywords (tags) are supplied and shared by visitors as a means of accessing museum content. These tags in turn give rise to a classification system (folksonomy). In the context of an online museum engaging with an Indigenous culture we have reservations about the undifferentiated interactivity on the part of all visitors. This issue may be investigated further by examining how interactivity relates to communication. Arguably, an online museum is engaged in communicating Indigenous cultural heritage because it helps to keep it alive and pass it on to others (Langlois 77). However, enabling all visitors to structure online access to that culture may be detrimental to the communication of knowledge that might otherwise occur. The narratives by which Indigenous cultures, rather than visitors, order access to information about their cultures may lead to the communication of important knowledge. An illustration of the potential of this approach is the work Sharon Daniel has been involved with, which enables communities to “produce knowledge and interpret their own experience using media and information technologies” (Daniel, Palabras) partly by means of generating folksonomies. One way in which such issues may be engaged with in the context of online museums is through the argument that database and narrative in such new media objects are opposed to each other (Manovich, New Media 225). A new media work such as an online museum may be understood to be comprised of a database and an interface to that database. A visitor to an online museum may only move through the content of the database by following those paths that have been enabled by those who created the museum (Manovich, New Media 227). In short it is by means of the interface provided to the viewer that the content of the database is structured into a narrative (Manovich, New Media: 226). It is possible to understand online museums as constructions in which narrative and database aspects are emphasized to varying degrees for users. There are a variety of museum projects in which the importance of the interface in creating a narrative interface has been acknowledged. Goldblum et al. describe three examples of websites in which interfaces may be understood as, and explicitly designed for, carrying meaning as well as enabling interactivity: Life after the Holocaust; Ripples of Genocide; and Yearbook 2006.As with these examples, we suggest that it is important there be an explicit engagement with the significance of interface(s) for online museums about Indigenous peoples. The means by which visitors access content is important not only for the way in which visitors interact with material, but also as to what is communicated about, culture. It has been suggested that the curator’s role should be moved away from expertly representing knowledge toward that of assisting people outside the museum to make “authored statements” within it (Bennett 11). In this regard it seems to us that involvement of Indigenous peoples with the construction of the interface(s) to online museums is of considerable significance. Pieterse suggests that ethnographic museums should be guided by a process of self-representation by the “others” portrayed (Pieterse 133). Moreover it should not be forgotten that, because of the separation of content and interface, it is possible to have access to a database of material through more than one interface (Manovich, New Media 226-7). Online museums provide a means by which the artificial homogenization of Indigenous peoples may be challenged.We regard an important potential benefit of an online museum as the replacement of accessing material through the “unassailable voice” with the multiplicity of Indigenous voices. A number of ways to do this are suggested by a variety of new media artworks, including those that employ a database to rearrange information to reveal underlying cultural positions (Paul 100). Paul discusses the work of, amongst others, George Legrady. She describes how it engages with the archive and database as sites that record culture (104-6). Paul specifically discusses Legrady’s work Slippery Traces. This involved viewers navigating through more than 240 postcards. Viewers of work were invited to “first chose one of three quotes appearing on the screen, each of which embodies a different perspective—anthropological, colonialist, or media theory—and thus provides an interpretive angle for the experience of the projects” (104-5). In the same way visitors to an online museum could be provided with a choice of possible Indigenous voices by which its collection might be experienced. We are specifically interested in the implications that such approaches have for the way in which online museums could engage with film. Inspired by Basu’s work on reframing ethnographic film, we see the online museum as providing the possibility of a platform to experiment with new media art in order to expose the meta-narrative(s) about the politics of film making. As Basu argues, in order to provoke a feeling of involvement with the viewer, it is important that the viewer becomes aware “of the plurality of alternative readings/navigations that they might have made” (105). As Weinbren has observed, where a fixed narrative pathway has been constructed by a film, digital technology provides a particularly effective means to challenge it. It would be possible to reveal the way in which dominant political interests regarding Indigenous cultures have been asserted, such as for example in the popular film The Gods Must Be Crazy. New media art once again provides some interesting examples of the way ideology, that might otherwise remain unclear, may be exposed. Paul describes the example of Jennifer and Kevin McCoy’s project How I learned. The work restructures a television series Kung Fu by employing “categories such as ‘how I learned about blocking punches,’ ‘how I learned about exploiting workers,’ or ‘how I learned to love the land’” (Paul 103) to reveal in greater clarity, than otherwise might be possible, the cultural stereotypes used in the visual narratives of the program (Paul 102-4). We suggest that such examples suggest the ways in which online museums could work to reveal and explore the existence not only of meta-narratives expressed by museums as a whole, but also the means by which they are realised within existing items held in museum collections.ConclusionWe argue that the agency for such reflective moments between the San, who have been repeatedly misrepresented or underrepresented in exhibitions and films, and multiple audiences, may be enabled through the generation of multiple narratives within online museums. We would like to make the point that, first and foremost, the theory of representation must be fully understood and acknowledged in order to determine whether, and how, modes of online curating are censorious. As such we see online museums having the potential to play a significant role in illuminating for both the San and multiple audiences the way that any form of representation or displaying restricts the meanings that may be recovered about Indigenous peoples. ReferencesAppadurai, Arjun. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1986. Bal, Mieke. “Exhibition as Film.” Exhibition Experiments. Ed. Sharon Macdonald and Paul Basu. Malden: Blackwell Publishing 2007. 71-93. Basu, Paul. “Reframing Ethnographic Film.” Rethinking Documentary. Eds. Thomas Austin and Wilma de Jong. Maidenhead: Open U P, 2008. 94-106.Barringer, Tim, and Tom Flynn. Colonialism and the Object: Empire, Material Culture and the Museum. London: Routledge, 1998. 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