How Witi Ihimaera’s The Whale Rider Helped Introduce Maori Literature to the World

I can’t remember a time when stories weren’t a part of my life. Mum says I was born with a book in my hand. I know mums always say things like this but maybe it is true.

From a young age I read and read, transporting myself to places and lands far removed from my little corner in Aotearoa. I got lost in the wonder and magic of the likes of Roald Dahl, C. S. Lewis, Ann M. Martin, Enid Blyton. And while I loved these stories and still do, there was always something missing.

I am Māori, an Indigenous person of Aotearoa, New Zealand. On my mum’s side, I come from Ngāpuhi, the largest iwi in the country. My ancestor Te Ururoa was a renowned rangatira (chief) of Ngāpuhi and the second to sign He Whakaputanga, the Declaration of Independence, in 1835.

Yet I didn’t know this as a child. I grew up disconnected from my whenua, culture, and language. This is a story all too familiar to Māori and one that many Indigenous peoples can relate to—the on­going impact of colonization, where we grow up estranged from our marae tikanga, reo, and sense of identity.

I grew up in Waipu, a small town that celebrated Scottish pioneers and heritage. It was strange to be immersed in a culture that wasn’t my own. Every year, the town held the Highland Games, with the sound of bagpipes echoing through the streets.

I knew more about Scottish settler Norman McLeod than I did about my own ancestors, was more comfortable in a kilt than in a korowai. At school, we learned about Captain Cook and the arrival of the European settlers. These lessons were often one-­sided, focusing on the bravery and hardship of the colonizers.

Where did I belong? I was living in a world that did not feel like my own, where my existence didn’t feel enough, unsure of myself, my brown skin, frizzy hair, and where the word Māori was always spoken with sharp daggers. There was shame attached to being Māori, a shame I couldn’t understand or articulate as a child.

I didn’t know what racism was or the meaning of the word. No child ever does. But we know what it’s like to feel different. The few Māori kids at my school were often the targets of racism and bullying, so I learned quickly to keep my head down. But I yearned to belong, as all children do.

In some ways, this is why I turned to books, to stories. And everything changed for me when I discovered Witi Ihimaera.

The Whale Rider is perhaps the most well-­known Māori story in the world, especially after the film adaptation brought it international acclaim. The story of Kahu (or Paikea in the film), a young girl destined to lead her people despite the resistance she faces, resonated deeply with audiences worldwide. Seeing Māori culture embraced on the world stage was incredible, but The Whale Rider did more than introduce Māori culture to the world—it reconnected many Māori with our own culture and filled us with pride.

Storytelling is powerful, especially when you’re a young, impressionable child searching for a sense of belonging. The words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie echo in my mind: “Show a people as one thing, as only one thing, over and over again, and that is what they become.”

For too long, Māori had been shown as one thing—as outsiders, as one-dimensional, as every negative stereotype there is. We are descendants of the greatest navigators in the world and yet many of us started to believe the false narratives we were being sold.

The Whale Rider was a revelation. For the first time, I saw myself reflected in the pages of a book. Here was a story that told me who I was and where I belonged. The story of Kahu, a young Māori girl destined for greatness, resonated with me in a way that no other story ever had. In The Whale Rider, Māori are shown as we truly are: complex, rich in tradition and his­ tory, full of strength and resilience.

Kahu’s journey was my journey. Her struggle to find her place in a world that didn’t always value her resonated deeply with me. Like Kahu, I had often felt out of place, unsure of my worth.

The Whale Rider offered a different narrative. It was a story of strength, resilience, and belonging. It was a story that told me that I was enough, that I was strong, and that I had a place in this world. Though I am not from the same tribe as Kahu, I do come from a long line of chiefs. And seeing myself in a strong, female Māori protagonist who was a rangatira was life changing.

But it wasn’t just Kahu. All the characters felt familiar, like they were my own whānau. Kui and Koro could easily have been my grandparents. The dialogue was familiar too—the way each character spoke, the sense of humor. It was like hearing the melody of my own soul, a song I hadn’t realized I had been longing to hear. It was one of the first times I saw Māori portrayed as beautiful, resilient, and full of mana.

When the film was released in 2002, I was around the same age as the protagonist played by Keisha Castle­Hughes. I remember watching it at the movies with Mum. A fresh­-faced Māori girl with bare feet came on the big screen, riding a bike with her Koro.

I heard Mum gasp. “She looks like you,” Mum told me.

It was a simple and yet profound statement. And while I didn’t understand the impact at the time, I realize now how significant this was not just for me, but for Mum, too. We had never seen our culture displayed so beautifully on the big screen and we were there witnessing it for the first time together.

I was honored to meet Witi Ihimaera for the first time a year ago, interviewing him in my role as a journalist. Within minutes of meeting him, I forgot I was in the presence of one of our literary greats. He was soft­spoken, gentle, and full of manaaki. I remember being struck by his humility.

In our conversation, Ihimaera expressed his excitement about the current generation of Māori writers. He praised the diversity and richness of Māori creativity and emphasized the importance of authenticity in Māori storytelling. As a writer, I found his words encouraging and reaffirming, reinforcing my commitment to contributing to the literary tradition he had helped to establish.

He then pointed to a copy of my own book The Pōrangi Boy on the dining table and asked me to sign it for him. Witi Ihimaera—one of our greatest writers of all time—wanted me to sign my book for him. The meeting was a full­circle moment, a connection between my own journey and the legacy of one of New Zealand literature’s most influential figures.

Witi Ihimaera’s impact on Māori literature cannot be over­ stated. When his novel Tangi was published in 1973, it was the first novel in English by a Māori writer. In the ’90s, when I was growing up, there were few Māori writers to look up to.

In fact, I knew of only two Māori authors: Witi Ihimaera and Patricia Grace. But even though they were few, their impact was profound. Ihimaera blazed a trail for future generations of Māori writers and his work has inspired countless Māori to pick up a pen and tell our own stories, to reclaim our narratives and our voices.

Today, the landscape of Māori literature is vibrant and diverse. The rise of Māori writers reflects the growing recognition and celebration of Māori voices. The Kupu Festival, a literary festival founded in 2022 that showcases only Māori writers, is a testament to the flourishing of Māori literature and the increasing visibility of Māori authors.

It is an exciting time for Māori storytelling. It is clear Ihimaera didn’t just pave the way; he broke down barriers and opened doors for many of us to walk through.

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Ihimaera’s catalog is expansive and timeless—from Pounamu, Pounamu to Bulibasha—he gave me the courage to write my own stories, to explore the complexities of being Māori, and to contribute to the growing body of Māori literature.

I write because I want to see more stories about Māori, by Māori, and for Māori. I write because I believe in the power of stories to heal, to connect, and to inspire. And I write because, like Ihimaera, I want to make sure that the next generation of Māori doesn’t have to search so hard to find themselves in the stories they read.

My first novel, The Pōrangi Boy, was published in 2020. It tells the story of Niko, a young boy fighting to stop a prison from being built on sacred land—a story inspired by the protest at Ngāwha in 2002. The Pōrangi Boy won the Young Adult Book of the Year at the New Zealand Children’s Book Awards and has been embraced by schools across the country.

When I look at the success of The Pōrangi Boy, I see the seed of Witi Ihimaera’s influence. He showed me the importance of telling our stories, of writing from our own perspective, and of standing proud in our identity.

Since then, I’ve released an adult novel, All That We Know, and have written for various publications. There is immense power in seeing yourself reflected in stories, but there’s an even greater power in witnessing your own people excel in fields where it is rare.

I never doubted that I would become an author and that is because of the trailblazing work of Witi Ihimaera and Patricia Grace. Both Ihimaera and Grace showed me that Māori can achieve greatness in literature—and how amazing it is for me to live out my dream of being an author and the privilege to mihi (acknowledge) them both.

Recently, I reread The Whale Rider. Even though it was published in 1987 and before I was born, I appreciate even more how groundbreaking it is. The Whale Rider challenges tikanga within the complexities of te ao Māori. There is a queer relationship that would have been unheard of back then. The Whale Rider explores the role and power of whakapapa, emphasizing the importance of knowing who you are and where you come from.

I am reminded of the whakatauki when I read The Whale Rider and its powerful message. He hono tangata e kore e motu, kāpā he taura waka e motu. The genealogical connections of people cannot be severed; on the other hand, the canoe rope will be severed.

If The Whale Rider was published today, I believe it would be as timely and as relevant as it was nearly forty years ago. In fact, the novel’s powerful messages and themes resonate even more strongly now than ever before. In the midst of the current political climate, where our language, our culture, and our ways of being are under assault, it is stories like The Whale Rider that will bring us hope, reminding us of who we are and what is most important.

In Māori culture, the role of the storyteller is sacred. Our stories are passed down from generation to generation, not just as entertainment, but as a way of preserving our history, our knowledge, and our identity. I see my work as a continuation of this tradition. I write to honor my ancestors, to keep our stories alive, and to ensure that our voices are heard. And I write to inspire others, to show all of us that our stories matter and that we belong.

The Whale Rider will forever remain a taonga embedded in the hearts of all of us. And while Ihimaera might have brought te ao Māori to the world, he also brought te ao Māori to people like me. Every time I return to The Whale Rider, it feels like coming home.

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From The Whale Rider by Witi Ihimaera published by Penguin Classics, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright (c) 1987, 2008 by Witi Ihimaera. Introduction copyright © 2025 by Shilo Kino.