We are more than just warriors, we are data collectors too. We all have that person in our family who is the data collector – generally a genealogy data collector, writes Thomas Tarurongo Wynne.

When you meet, they ask, “Ko Ai au?” and then you continue on this web of connections and data – names, and multiple layers of people, places, ancestry, and tupuna. Finally, you arrive at that common ancestor, with the “aha” moment of knowing who you are, who you are connected to, and how you are connected to the person, now a family member standing in front of you. That is data collection 101, a skill we have acquired over centuries of systems, connections, multiple layers of information, and data storage and dissemination.

And yes, as in today’s world, sometimes the facts are argued and refuted, and sometimes they are completely wrong. The Land Court and other courts are full of data that has been contested and replaced, land franchised and disenfranchised because of the strength of the data we store in our oral histories, our genealogies, and our stories of ourselves as Iti Tangata, Tumu to the 13 Islands we now call the Cook Islands.

We have always been scientists, investigating the Arapo, the moon patterns to fish, plant, and hunt from, and, of course, our ability to harness the stars and elements as a critical compass, allowing us to navigate vast oceans. While Vikings were raiding the north of England, we had already settled the expanse of ocean we call Te Moana Nui o Kiwa.

However, with the emergence of colonial powers and a deference to other ways of knowing – legal instruments, sometimes in other jurisdictions at the tip of a gun and bayonet, or through education, assimilation, and colonisation – our desire to engage with and adopt this Western diet has led to a reawakening and resurgence of indigeneity. But it is a reimagining, one that strips away and replaces the foreign, or papa’a, layers of clothing with the Maro and Tapa once again – alongside the suit, the cell phone, and this emerging world of AI information and algorithmic connection.

It’s not an “either-or” choice, and neither should we be drawn into binary ways of seeing ourselves or the world we live in, especially when we disagree. Even in the intensity of land meetings and disputes, or uriuri’anga, that vigorous back-and-forth of ideas, words, and sometimes tears, we find ways to reconnect and live as best we can in the harmony of the village that we so desperately need to sustain us – a village that is quickly changing with new ideas, new technologies, and new horizons.

We must, at all costs, resist the “them and us” worldview of ourselves and each other. The sense that we own a space, that we are the only holders of certain values, or that the “other” is incapable of loving our oceans, our land, our people, and our vision for the way forward. I love our term uriuri’anga because it paints such a different picture than talanoa, which at times seems too passive, too quiet, and too formal.

The vigour of our cultural values and ways reimagined in this 2024 world is a developing picture of ourselves – one where we can shake off the “noble savage” stereotype and become all that we are in this modern world. We hold the past, stand in the present, and look toward the future. In fact, Ka mua, ka muri speaks of us walking backward into the future rather than facing it head-on. Because when we look back, we take in all those who have gone before us – all their dreams, hopes, and aspirations that live on through our ivi (bones), our toto (blood), and our manako (minds) today.

Most importantly, we make generational decisions – decisions not for the moment, but for our tamariki, our ina, and our inaina. They are counting on us; they are not yet born, but the decisions we make today need to be good decisions, seasoned decisions, or as the word clearly says, decisions made with a multitude of counsel. They are counting on it, so be a good ancestor.