In response to some mainstream reactions to taniwha as merely fictitious and mythical water creatures (New Zealand Herald, 2002, 2011, 2021), Justine Kingsbury (2022) in her ‘Taking Taniwha Seriously’ attempts to propose grounds for non-Māori or Pakeha New Zealanders to reconsider taniwha. Mindful of the challenges that come with finding common ground between radically different ontologies, Kingsbury hopes to provide one fruitful and respectful way forward by drawing on the work of Māori scientist Dan Hikuroa.

I am generally open to a project like the one Kingsbury is aiming for. By that, I mean that I am open to a project that is looking for common ground between marginalised and mainstream-western philosophies. By mainstream-western philosophies, I simply mean the kinds of philosophies we (tend to) find in European, North American, and Australasian philosophy departments. For quite some time, scholars and practitioners in Aotearoa New Zealand (albeit largely outside of philosophy departments) have explored the similarities and differences between Māori and non-Māori ideas. In so doing, they have worked to navigate fertile space for critical conversations and/or tested the extent to which radically different ideas and methods can be combined and/or remade (see for example: Kawharu, 1977, Kawharu, 1989; Walker, 1978, 2004; Jackson, 1992; Tapsell, 1997, 2021; Kawharu, 2000; Jones & Hoskins, 2017; Matiu & Mutu, 2003; Smith, 1997, 1999; Smith et al., 2016; Mika, 2016; Stewart, 2007). Amidst increased calls to diversify the discipline of philosophy (Brooks, 2014; Dotson, 2012a, 2012b; Mills, 2015; Mulgan et al., 2021; Van Norden, 2017), these kinds of critical explorations are now taken seriously within philosophy departments too. In line with these movements, I take Kingsbury’s project to draw on taniwha (often thought of as powerful water creaturesFootnote 1) to take some first steps toward creating space for deeper and much harder intercultural conversations to follow.

Here, I draw on Paul Tapsell’s work on taonga (treasuresFootnote 2) to help make explicit some of what I take to be working behind Dan Hikuroa’s writings on taniwha and thus Kingsbury’s project (Tapsell, 1997). I detail some of the insights that a more detailed and complex account of taniwha—one that is framed around taniwha and taonga relationships—can provide. I contend that understanding taniwha in relation to taonga helps to highlight the way that Kingsbury’s account necessarily lacks elements essential to taniwha themselves and essential to their relationships with taonga. In particular, I show that the question Kingsbury asks and the framework she uses to answer that question necessarily limit the complexity and multidimensionality of taonga as well as the possibilities for fruitful intercultural conversations in general. On the back of this contention, one conclusion we come to is that Kingsbury merely offers us a way of taking some aspects of taniwha seriously. Another, and perhaps more important conclusion, is that our discussion of taniwha and taonga provides us with a way to recast Kingsbury’s project—allowing us to take as our focus (and thereby value) relationships between taniwha, taonga, and tangata (peopleFootnote 3). One upshot is a framework for thinking about what is required to enable deeper and harder conversations later on that are framed in relational terms too. This, I argue, might not only be a more fruitful approach, but one more in line with Kingsbury’s aspirations.

1 Taniwha and taonga

In his seminal paper on taonga, Paul Tapsell (1997, pp. 328–329) contends that taonga contain three essential elements. The first element, mana (authorityFootnote 4), includes both spiritual and physical dimensions. For Tapsell, an object obtains mana through its initial creation and/or creator, and then accumulates mana further through its direct and ongoing association (as an ancestor) through the generations. For instance, the mana of an object such as korowai (a specific type of woven cloak) is obtained through its very creation and further reinforced when it is worn through the generations or plays a role in appropriate marae (kin-community) based events such as tangihanga (time set aside to grieve and mourn, rites for the deadFootnote 5). The second essential element related to mana is tapu (sacred, restrictedFootnote 6), which restricts or places conditions on the accessibility of taonga and/or the way in which taonga can be used. Unlike ordinary objects, taonga have a special status and may disappear and then reappear when appropriate or called upon. The third—and what Tapsell describes as the most important element of taonga—is kōrero (orally transmitted knowledgeFootnote 7), or the stories taonga represent and transport through time. Like mana, these stories include the primary creation story of the object, as well as accumulated storytelling and re-storying based on numerous interactions (appearances and disappearances) through the generations.

As with all things in the Māori world, taonga represent and reinforce whakapapa (relationships or connections) (Marsden, 2003a, 2003b; Marsden & Henare, 1992; Matiu & Mutu, 2003; Kawharu, 2000; Tapsell, 1997; Watene, 2016a, b, 2022). That is to say that taonga are themselves sites of complex networks of relationships (having a history of connections or whakapapa of their own) and vital for extending a broader series of relationships or whakapapa into the future. Taonga thus both represent and regenerate connections, identity, and authority. They do this by providing a way to code and pass down ancestral and intergenerational knowledge and bridge intergenerational distances in time and space. They also do this by providing starting points for navigating present and future challenges (Hikuroa, 2019).

Importantly, taonga can include not merely material objects such as korowai, but also more-than-human species (such as birds and fish) as well as natural entities (such as mountains, rivers, lakes, rocks, and other features of tribal landscapes) (Wai 262). Like material objects, these more-than-human species and natural entities can have at least the essential elements of mana (through creation and association), tapu (through restrictions), and kōrero (through knowledge-making practices such as storytelling). As such, they play a key role in helping to reinforce relationships with and between human and more-than-human (spiritual and physical) worlds—bringing to life an ontology that takes more-than-human species, landscapes, and waterways to be ancestors and kin.

Tapsell’s account of taonga is influential—providing insights into the way taonga in all their forms can play a central role in the transfer of intergenerational knowledge and connections. For our purposes, Tapsell’s account provides us with one way to think about the nature of taniwha—by providing us with a way of exploring the relationships between taniwha and taonga. Indeed, one way to understand this relationship is in spiritual terms. Here, taniwha can be understood to be spiritual guardians over taonga—what Tapsell (2021, p. 35) terms ‘sleeping protectors’ that act as supra-natural ancestors and provide a portal to a supra-natural realm (Tapsell, 2023 pers. comm). A second way to understand this relationship is in a more engaged or integrated way. Here, taniwha can be understood as integral in some way to the very creation of taonga—thereby having a role in the way such things as rivers and other waterscapes are created or take shape. A third way to understand this relationship takes taniwha and taonga to be even more entangled. Here, taniwha can be understood to be bound up with taonga in the sense that taniwha and taonga can be(come) one and the same.

Hikuroa’s (2019) account of taniwha is based on tribal pūrākau (oral narrativesFootnote 8) that detail taniwha as simultaneously warning signs and guardians. For Hikuroa, taniwha serve as one way to encode information about risks in the land- and waterscapes and thereby provide a useful way of transmitting and recording knowledge about these risks between generations. Important to the way that we understand Hikuroa’s view is, I think, to recognise that each of the three relationship layers that can operate between taniwha and taonga—namely guardian, co-creator, entanglement—is relevant. On Hikuroa’s recounting, alongside its relationship as spiritual guardian, taniwha provide us with a way of ‘conceptualising the river’ and its geomorphology, helping us to understand the way it interacts with and thereby shapes the landscape or ‘flicks its tail’. The latter combines both the way that the river is created and what the river is.

But Tapsell’s account helps us to see that we should say more than this. This is because integral to understanding taniwha is not just understanding the nature of taniwha-taonga relationships at this broad level, but also the way taniwha relate to particular elements of taonga too. For instance, taniwha can relate to taonga in ways that protect, enable, and/or carry forward the mana, tapu, and kōrero of taonga. Here again, we should take Hikuroa’s account of taniwha to recognise and relate in some way to each of these essential elements—mana or the spiritual and physical importance of the river and its creation, tapu or the importance of restrictions, and kōrero or the stories (about risks for instance) that the river contains. And this extends to include relationships to tribal communities also, as tangata (people) play a central role in protecting, regenerating, and transforming taniwha, taonga, and their relationships (Tapsell, 1997). Indeed, a rich and multi-layered account of taniwha is critical to understanding the way taniwha feature in the lives of tribal communities, and important for understanding the social values, relationships, and responsibilities that define those communities.

2 Toward intercultural conversations: taking each other seriously

Such a complex and multi-layered understanding of taniwha is, necessarily, absent from Kingsbury’s account. Such an understanding of taniwha is not, after all, all that helpful to a project aimed at people sceptical of supernatural entities such as gods, demons, and mythical or spiritual water creatures. By privileging a particular audience and ontology, Kingsbury has no option but to meet the audience where they are. Such an audience needs particular kinds of reasons to believe that taniwha are real. This is precisely why we end up with an account of taniwha that is a representation of the river and its scientific kōrero. The result, however, is essentially a translation project that is able to make sense of some aspects of taniwha within a different worldview at the cost of failing to account for the complexity, diversity, and whakapapa of taniwha within Māori philosophy.

Another option open to us is, however, to take relationships as the starting point. In addition to asking how taniwha can relate to taonga and tribal communities, we can ask how different communities of people comfortably relate (or not) to taniwha and taonga. We can explore how these relationships are grounded, what constraints there are to relating in different ways, and what might enable new ways of relating. Such a project begins not with a question about the conditions under which taniwha can be taken seriously, but by recognising the relational network embedded in taniwha and considering how different communities sit within that network (Tapsell, 2021). Our starting points and the way we frame our questions are far-reaching after all—constraining the kinds of conversations we can have not just about or from the perspective of taniwha, but in general. The cost, then, is not just an account of taniwha detached from Māori philosophy, but a weakening of the grounds on which to engage in deeper intercultural conversations.

There is, to be fair, much to appreciate in what Kingsbury is hoping to do. Kingsbury’s intention is not, for instance, to reimagine taniwha for Māori or tell Māori the grounds upon which they should take taniwha seriously. Such a project would after all transform not merely the way taniwha are understood but the relationships taniwha can have with taonga and tribal communities. Rather, Kingsbury hopes to provide reasons for Pakeha New Zealanders to rethink taniwha in ways that allow them to take the idea of taniwha seriously. Doing this, Kingsbury hopes, will transform Pakeha New Zealanders’ relationships with taniwha and by extension relationships between Māori and Pakeha communities.

As respectable as this is, an intercultural project requires that we are willing and able to communicate and travel across different worlds to meet each other (Dotson, 2012b). ‘World-travelling’ (Lugones, 1987) does not require that we leave our ontological commitments at home, but it does require that we travel well or with at least some ease. We need epistemic tools and ethical guidelines to support respectful engagement. We need a process that helps us to ‘understand what it is to be [each other] and what it is to be ourselves in [each others’] eyes’ (Lugones, 1987, p. 17). And this process begins with examining the questions we ask and choosing a framework in which to explore those questions. In intercultural projects, the engagement process itself becomes integral to the solution. Intercultural projects might be demanding, but one way forward is to take a relational approach. Such an approach shows us that there are ways to take seriously the complexity and multidimensionality of taniwha, while acknowledging that there are layers that different ontological commitments make it difficult for some of us to relate to. This just may provide a better starting point for thinking about taniwha while also building a stronger foundation for deeper conversations to follow.