Tā Moko: The Resurgence of Māori Identity | Listening Comprehension

Today’s lecture focuses on a powerful narrative of cultural loss and recovery. We will be discussing Tā Moko, the sacred facial and body marking of the Māori, the indigenous people of Aotearoa, or New Zealand. For many, the image of the Māori Moko is one of fierce warriors from history books or, more recently, a striking symbol of modern identity. The journey between these two points—from a ubiquitous cultural practice to a symbol of near-extinction, and now to a powerful contemporary resurgence—is what I want to explore.

First, it is essential to understand what Moko is not. It is not, in the Western sense, a “tattoo.” It is not merely decoration. Tā Moko is a sacred, sacrosanct process that uses chisels, or uhi, to carve designs into the skin, creating grooves rather than just implanting ink. More importantly, Moko is an external manifestation of a person’s internal reality. It is a visual encyclopedia of the wearer’s identity.

The patterns of a Moko are not random; they are a deeply personal map. They tell the story of the wearer’s whakapapa—their genealogy. They identify the wearer’s iwi (tribe), their hapū (sub-tribe), and their specific family line. The markings can signify social status, achievements in battle or in the community, and readiness for life’s responsibilities. For men, the full-face Moko is known as Mataora. For women, the traditional Moko is the Moko Kauae, worn on the chin and lips. This Moko Kauae is a profound symbol of womanhood, connecting the wearer to a lineage of Māori female ancestors and their inherent mana, or spiritual power and authority.

Before European contact, Moko was a living, breathing part of Māori society. It was the norm, a rite of passage, a way of carrying one’s history on one’s face.

So, what happened? The answer, as is so often the case in indigenous histories, is colonization.

The arrival of Pākehā—European settlers—in the 19th century began a period of profound and systemic cultural suppression. Colonial authorities and missionaries, viewing the world through their own cultural lens, saw Moko as a “savage” or “barbaric” custom. It was a visible marker of an identity they actively sought to extinguish. The goal was assimilation: to have the Māori people abandon their language, their spirituality, and their cultural practices in favor of a British way of life.

This pressure was immense. Māori who adopted European dress and customs were often given preferential treatment, while those who held to tradition were marginalized. But the suppression was not just social; it was legislative. The most significant blow came in 1907 with the “Tohunga Suppression Act.”

A tohunga is a Māori expert, a master of a specific art or body of knowledge—this includes canoe building, healing, and, of course, Tā Moko. The tohunga tā moko was the artist, the priest, and the historian who held the sacred knowledge of the Moko designs. By banning the practices of tohunga, the colonial government effectively cut the lines of intergenerational knowledge. They didn’t just ban the act of Moko; they outlawed the masters who held the knowledge.

The effect was catastrophic. The practice of Mataora—the full-face Moko for men—died out almost completely. The Moko Kauae for women survived, but only just. For much of the 20th century, Moko Kauae was seen almost exclusively on elderly kuia, or female elders, who were often the last in their line to bear the marking. Moko became a symbol of a “dying” culture, a relic of the past.

But, as we now know, the culture was not dying. It was sleeping.

The turning point was the 1970s. This decade saw the dawn of what is known as the Māori Renaissance. Across the world, indigenous peoples were rising up, demanding civil rights, land rights, and the recognition of their sovereignty. In New Zealand, this movement ignited a new generation of Māori activists, artists, and scholars. They began to ask hard questions about their identity, to challenge the colonial narrative, and to actively reclaim what had been lost.

Language was first. Māori language immersion schools were founded. Land protests, like the famous 1975 Land March led by Whina Cooper, brought Māori rights to the forefront of the national consciousness. And with this came the reclamation of the visual arts.

Tā Moko was reborn. It was a profound, visible, and deeply personal way to state, “I am Māori, and I am proud.”

In the 1980s and 90s, artists began reviving the traditional uhi (chisel) techniques. People began receiving Moko not as a link to the past, but as a commitment to the future—a future where Māori identity would be celebrated, not hidden.

This modern revival, however, is not a simple carbon copy of the past. It is an evolution. While the connection to whakapapa remains paramount, the Moko today also speaks to a modern Māori identity, one that navigates both the traditional Māori world and the modern, globalized one.

What is perhaps most striking about this resurgence is its visibility. For decades, wearing a Moko, especially in a professional setting, was unthinkable. It was seen by the Pākehā-dominated mainstream as “unprofessional,” “intimidating,” or a barrier to employment.

Today, that narrative is being dismantled, led by a generation who wear their Moko with unapologetic pride in every walk of life. You see Moko on university graduates, on lawyers, on doctors, and on teachers. The world took notice in 2019 when Nanaia Mahuta became New Zealand’s Foreign Minister—the first female Member of Parliament in the world with a Moko Kauae. This was not a token gesture; it was a powerful statement that a Māori identity, represented by the Moko, is not a barrier to high office but a source of strength. We see it in the media, with news anchors like Oriini Kaipara, who also wears a Moko Kauae, presenting the primetime news.

This visibility is crucial. It normalizes Moko, challenging and changing colonial standards of beauty and professionalism. It shows young Māori that their heritage has a place of honor, not just in their homes, but in the highest echelons of society.

It is important, however, not to view this revival as a monolithic trend. Each Moko is a unique and deeply personal journey. The decision to receive one is often the result of years of research into one’s family history, of learning one’s language, and of a deep personal commitment to one’s culture.

In conclusion, the story of Tā Moko is a microcosm of the wider Māori story. It is a story of resilience. It shows how a practice can endure systemic suppression, be carried in secret by a faithful few, and then be reborn with new vigor. The Moko today is not a relic; it is a living, breathing testament to the enduring power of identity, a visual declaration that Māori culture is alive, thriving, and shaping the future of Aotearoa.