All Together We Have Independence
From Poverty Bay to the Bay of Plenty, Maori-run credit unions are being looked at as a tool to end poverty for First Nations in British Columbia
This is an old article I wrote about Maori-run Credit unions. It’s a financial lesson that I think we should take a page from in our current situation in Canada.
I am posting this here in it’s entirety, but it goes with the substack I will be sending out later today about Why A Tax Strike Won’t Work In Canada, and what we can maybe to do to ensure we can keep speaking out without the fear of financial retaliation.
When I got back from NZ my idea was to create a “single mother’s Credit Union, one that leveraged the Child Tax Credit the same way that the Maori had used the predictable income of welfare checks.
I think instead, this is an idea that could be used to create a Freedom Credit Union, one that will simply refuse if the gov’t says they want to shut down bank accounts, and make them go through proper legal channels at least, instead of simply rolling over, thus buying time to figure out a next move.
More on this in my next substack.
I hope you enjoy it, but if you want you can read the other one first and then refer to this.
By Amanda Euringer - First published in Enterprise Magazine 2009
The blazing New Zealand sun beats down on fifty or so tourists as they stare into the crystal blue waters of a steaming volcanic pond named Parekohuru. We are in the village of Whakarewarewa, (Faka-raywa-raywa) located in a 90 percent Maori region on the North Island near the Bay of Plenty. Bags of corn are being cooked in Parekohuru’s boiling depths, an authentic Maori experience that thrills the onlookers, who have paid $25 NZ a piece to be here. Every bubbling mud puddle, and pool in this village is considered family and referred to by name. The air is head-dizzying thick with sulphur. Gaseous clouds of hot steam leak from every house and crevice, infusing the village with the strong odour of boiled eggs.
A conspicuous picket fence runs through the village, segregating tourist paths from residential territory. Behind the pickets daily life continues for the Maori who live here. No attempts are being made to put on a show for the tourists who gawk anyway. Sullen Maori teens smoke idly, dressed in modern clothes. An elder man looks asleep in the sun. A woman busily weaves a traditional basket, oblivious to the curious eyes of those on the other side of the fence. “Auntie!” Rachell Mio, CEO of the Maori-run AWHI Credit Union, calls out to her, “can we come in? I want you to meet the Canadian journalist.” The woman’s hand pauses momentarily on the gate as her dark eyes size up my blue ones. Then, breaking into a huge grin, she says, “oh, it’s our Canadian cousin,” before ushering me inside. I had to be adopted to get in.
Welcome to the dual world of New Zealand. On one side of the fence are the Maori, a people who have almost as many names for family as the Inuit do for snow. On the other side are the Pakeha, the widely used Maori word for ‘white people’. These fences exist on all levels of the society, as separations through language, skin colour, culture, and economics. In 1993, a group of Maori women, led by Rachell Mio’s mother Kitta, decided that the financial barrier had to come down. Despite the fact that government money had begun pouring into their community through reparations from land claims and treaty violations, Kitta Mio and the women of her Whanau (extended family) realized that the money was simply pouring back out again. Lack of basic financial education and an intrinsic distrust of money was adding up to poverty no matter how much they were given.
Mio realized the Maori needed to adopt a financial system of their own, one that bridged traditional values and the modern Western financial world. The AWHI CU was born, starting with only 175 members who donated five dollars each. In the years since, AWHI – which stands for ‘all together we have independence’ – has been used to translate credit union ideals into financial prosperity one member at a time. With three branches in Rotorua, Gisborne and Opotoki, over 1900 members, and $3.5 million NZ in assets, the model pioneered by these self-proclaimed ‘miracle housewives’ is so successful that it is being looked at to help Canada’s First Nations on the coast of British Columbia.
Like many of Canada’s aboriginal people, the Maori have struggled to find independence since British colonization. Nowhere is this more poignantly illustrated than in Gisborne, located in Poverty Bay, three hours south of Rotorua.
Standing overlooking the brilliant white cliffs and endless turquoise sea that surround the city, is Marcus Lloyde, a young clean-cut father of six who identifies as Maori and is the strategic planner for AWHI’s Gisborne branch. From the crest of the bluff Lloyde points out the mouth of a river below. “There used to be a huge rock down there that our people believed was our first landing place,” says Lloyde, “but it was blown up some years back because they thought it was in the way.”
By “they” Lloyde is referring to the Pakeha. “Our first meeting with the Pakeha ended in the death of two of our people. We have been struggling to understand each other ever since,” says Lloyde. While Poverty Bay must have been a paradise, its English name suits the modern-day reality for the Maori. Although Statistics New Zealand cites that their median income has increased by some 40 percent in the past five years, the Maori still lag behind the rest of the country. Many survive on seasonal work supplemented by benefits, New Zealand’s version of welfare.
Like many aboriginal people, the Maori find the idea of individual ownership completely alien, says Lloyde. He also explains that coming from a culture steeped in trade, Maori distrust money, which is seen as intangible and foreign. Lloyde saw the Young & Free Alberta spots on YouTube, and was inspired by the idea of co-operative financial systems. “I thought, how can we teach our people the principles of saving, financial collectivism and independence through this tool?” Then he found Kitta Mio and AWHI.
Although she would never take the credit, Kitta Mio is the indestructible rock on which AWHI is built. With boundless patience she pulls 12-hour days balancing budgets, sourcing loans, and finding time for her children, grandchildren and AWHI members alike. When asked for her mother’s official title Rachell Mio laughs, “I might be the CEO, but Kitta is the boss.” Kitta Mio spent many years travelling the world with her four children and army husband. In the late 1980’s Mio, her husband, and four children relocated to the tiny coastal village of Torere, located between Gisborne and Rotorua, and were shocked by the poverty of the 250 inhabitants. Most people subsisted on benefits. Many families lived in one-room shacks with no washrooms; people lived in the backs of cars. Everyone had to take a long bus ride into the next town to shop, cash cheques, or see a doctor. Then the bus was cancelled.
Mio and the women of her Whanau decided that a Maori-run credit union was needed to educate the community about money, and also be used as collateral for loans to buy much needed resources for the village. Regular banks expect people to have savings before applying for loans; Mio wanted to teach her people to save and fulfill their basic living needs right away. AWHI’s success began with the financial education of each individual. New members were taught simple budgeting tools to understand their cash flow, and AWHI insisted on a savings plan, even for as little as five dollars per week. Once a year, around Christmas, members could withdraw their savings and start again.
Take Karena Butler, a slight 36-year-old with waist-length dreadlocks and six children under the age of 14. She had managed to rack up debts in excess of $5,000 NZ, although she and her husband lived a subsistence-based lifestyle. Under daily threats from creditors, and feeling uncomfortable around banks where, as her husband Rama says, “they look at you like you might rob the place,” she approached AWHI. Right away things were different. There were faces she recognized behind the counter. They spoke her language and understood her situation. In just two years, AWHI helped Butler create and stick to a budget that had her not only pay off her debts, but also built savings for the first time in her life. According to Butler, it is the infamous ability of these women to gently refuse to let people “blow their money”, and firmly insist that they stick to a mutually decided financial plan that keeps membership growing.
“We were really just housewives with budgeting and people skills,” says the self-depreciating Mio, whose warmth and charisma perfectly define what Lloyde describes as ‘nanny power’.
“These women are mothers and grandmothers within our community,” explains Lloyd. “They have the power to chide members about their expenses without it turning into a fight.” While the image of the Maori as fierce warriors might be mostly a product of Hollywood, the Gisborne branch has panic buttons installed under the counters, and no chairs in the waiting area because they have been used as weapons more than once. The ‘nannies’, as they are commonly referred, have the capacity to keep members on track without causing a branch brawl. This can be as radical as refusing withdrawals that are not based on necessity and outside of an agreed budget; a delicate task that could only be accomplished by the nannies, according to Lloyde.
AWHI came to international attention in 2000 through the housing project in Torere. In conjunction with Habitat for Humanity (HFH) and Housing New Zealand, the credit union arranged 21 interest-free mortgages to build new homes. As most of the recipients were first-time buyers on social assistance, a variety of budgeting and homeownership courses were included in the package to insure successful management of their new investment. Those who were chosen also had to donate 500 hours of time to the build.
“For many of our residents, it was the first time they had gotten up early to be involved in something that was meaningful to them in years,” says Mio. She felt that residents had a chance to see their million dollar views and potential for the first time. Many became motivated to find work so that they could do more than simply subsist in their new homes. The village even hired a company to clean up old cars and garbage that littered the area.
The transformation of Torere did not go unnoticed. Volunteer builder, Canadian Dennis Anderson, was so impressed that he approached the Aboriginal Land Stewardship Community Development Program to arrange an exchange between the two communities, and ascertain if the AWHI model would work in Canada. Anderson had been working with the Heiltsuk Nation from Bella Bella, a small isolated island off the central coast of British Columbia. According to Statistics Canada, Bella Bella has one of the highest unemployment rates in the country, at three times the national average. Anderson says that housing is basic at best, and self-esteem is low. The nearest town, Port Hardy, is nine hours away by ferry, meaning that chances for employment outside the dying commercial fishing industry are meager, leaving few prospects for young people other than welfare.
In 2008, Pauline Waterfall, a respected teacher and member of the Heiltsuk Nation visited Torere where she instantly saw the parallels and possibilities.
“Historically in Canada, through the Indian Act, native populations were not allowed to have disposable cash,” says Waterfall, speaking from her office at Heiltsuk College. She says this has added to feelings among First Nations that money “doesn’t belong to them”. She loves that AWHI has created financial prosperity, self-esteem, and empowerment from inside their community. “It is a very holistic model for building economic and cultural capacity among people who normally don’t have access to these services,” she explains.
After their reciprocal visit to Canada, Kitta and Rachell Mio agree that Bella Bella would benefit from its own credit union, but are afraid that it would flounder without support. They are hoping that a Canadian credit union will see the value of a model based on self-determination, and back implementation here.
Starting AWHI wasn’t easy; no one got paid in the first seven years, and Mio and the others still volunteer many late nights and long hours to make sure that it continues. Tighter financial regulations within the credit union system mean that AWHI couldn’t happen in the current economic climate; it now takes $200,000 NZ to start. With more money at stake, there also needs to be a better support network for any aboriginal population that wants to follow in AWHI’s footsteps.
While mergers seem to be the way of the future for credit unions, Mio says that it is AWHI’s ability to respond on a community level, that has engaged her people. Financial institutions like the Affinity Credit Union in Saskatchewan, and the First Nations Bank of Canada are trying to reach out to First Nations by including them in a western model, but AWHI has created a model that begins with indigenous values and instead includes western ones. With the right support, Pauline Waterfall feels that the Heiltsuk Nation could follow in their footsteps. “I think AWHI has created a model that can be used anywhere. The template is there, and the demonstration of success is there,” she says. One thing is clear, the Maori have set an example that breaks down barriers on their own terms, by inviting the financial system onto their side of the fence rather than the other way around.