I was fortunate to sit on two paepae this week – one for the funeral of the Māori King, Tūheitia Pootatau Te Wherowhero VII, whose daughter, Ngā Wai Hono i te Pō, was crowned with a Bible soon afterward, and another for those who were abused by another crown, where the Bible was sometimes used not to bless but to curse, writes Thomas Tarurongo Wynne.

One was a paepae of high privilege and rank, with thousands gathered to speak on behalf of the people, and the other, a small crowd of 20, sitting quietly as our people shared their stories. These were those whose simple rights to care, safety, security, and love had been taken away.

Both paepae were a privilege to attend. Both were places where kings and queens sat for those who came to hear their stories and receive the gifts of wisdom they offered – something beautiful and good, for those with ears to hear.

Privilege, power, and prestige can become intoxicating, especially when leaders believe they serve the people, when in reality, it is the people serving them. As I listened to the many leaders speak this week, I noticed the subtle difference between “my people, my country” and “our people, our country”. This distinction revealed who was truly serving whom.

Life presents us with contrasts, taking us into different spaces to learn critical lessons. It is vital that our leaders, those who rise to positions of power, remain among the people, listening to their stories – especially those who have nothing to offer but their truth. Leaders must lower their privilege and rank to truly hear and understand.

This week, the people of the Moana honoured a King. A King who, near the end of his reign, found his purpose, his season, and his call to action – a call to be Maori, and maybe a time to again reconsider the shackle that is this foreign name given to us by a colonial power ‘Cook Islands’ and for strength through unity, kotahitanga (or taokotai’anga).

Across the nation, including our Kanaka Maoli brothers and sisters from the Kingdom of Hawai’i, and those from Ma’ohi Nui, we stood not just as people of the Moana, but as brothers linked by language, ancestry, vaka, and people. The Kainuku family linked to the Māori Queen through Vaikai Tamoko Kainuku, who married Princess Piupiu Te Wherowhero from the Māori monarchy. And of course, our Pa Upokotini Tepaeru Marie Ariki and her sister Mahinarangi, adopted by King Tūheitia’s mother, Queen Te Atairangikaahu Korokī Te Rata Mahuta Tāwhiao Pōtatau Te Wherowhero OBE.

But what about those whose names society has forgotten? Those who have been cast aside and whose names may never be repeated? They too are our families; they too belong to us and are part of our story, longing to be acknowledged. What kind of countries would we have if our leaders felt as comfortable among those with prestige as they do among those without? To sit and listen to the kings and queens without crowns, without titles, and with nothing to offer but themselves –or to those whose crowns were broken, figuratively, by the Crown?

I sometimes wonder what kind of leaders we would thrive under, as a country and as a people, if those leaders were as comfortable at the front of the room as they were sitting quietly at the back. What wisdom could we gain if they listened to the stories of those who had nothing to offer but their brokenness, resilience, courage, and determination to thrive when no one listened, and no one cared?

King Tūheitia Pootatau Te Wherowhero VII was such a leader. The honour and mana he carried was felt by all who attended his tangi – and so strong was his mana as the Prime Minister, Kaumaiti Nui, Pa Ariki, Te Pini Rangatira and the delegation made their way onto the paepae.

Perhaps it is up to us. Perhaps we need to reconsider deeply who sits atop the pa’ata of our lives, whom we elevate in our hearts and minds, and whom we do not. That power is ours – it always has been.

When we choose wisely, and Godly, our people and our country flourish. When we do not, it is a heavy burden for us all to bear.