Indigenous Inclusion and Indigenising the University

‘Indigenous inclusion’ has been the most common approach to Māori engagement in university education in Aotearoa-New Zealand. Increasingly, another orientation, based on different premises, which might be called ‘indigenisation’, is becoming evident. We argue that indigenisation offers more hopeful possibilities for New Zealand universities as they/we continue to think about their/our obligations under Te Tiriti o Waitangi.

Thirty years before Te Tiriti o Waitangi, northern rangatira like Ruatara and Hongi Hika sought a teacher so that their "tamoneekes and kocteedos" (boys and girls) could learn to read and write; Te Aute College principal John Thornton stated in 1890 that his talented young Māori students should go to university; Māori scholar Mason Durie (2009) (above) argued for the significant presence of Māori and indigenous knowledge in our universities. These are a tiny sample of the leaders who have urged the best of the education system in Aotearoa-New Zealand to serve the needs and desires of the indigenous people-thereby contributing to the social good.
And, at least since the 1990s, universities have been responsive, largely in ubiquitous strategic plans to fulfil "our commitment to the Treaty of Waitangi". Most recently, the Education and Training Act (2020) has tried-albeit poorly-to make it plain that New Zealand universities, as state or Crown institutions, must go beyond the commitment statements. They have a duty to ensure good Māori engagement: "As a partner to Te Tiriti o Waitangi, the Crown has a duty to actively promote and protect Tiriti rights and to develop education settings in a way that reflects Māori-Crown relationships" (Ministry of Education, 2021, New Te Tiriti section).
For universities, under this Act, the Tertiary Education Commission's (2020) 'Tertiary Education Strategy' highlights such priorities as: success for Māori students through barrier free access, learning settings free from racism, relationships with whānau and communities, responsiveness to learners' identities and the incorporation of te reo and tikanga Māori into everyday activities.
These admirable priorities now dominate educational rhetoric. Although they perhaps provide more practical guidance than previous 'commitments', such statements lack an overarching philosophical and political framework that sets a direction for sustained and future-oriented change. As a result, they do not signal any major shift from previous thinking. Most of the priorities above could be accomplished without any significant alteration to universities. Speaking more reo, better Māori access, and making curricula 'responsive' to students do not seem much of a departure from the old 'taha Māori' approach that encouraged schools to include the 'Māori side of things'. It seems the education policymakers are doomed to keep repeating themselves, using slightly different sentences, in the hope that something will change.
In this paper, we-two educational scholars, Māori (Te Kawehau Hoskins) and Pākehā (Alison Jones)-consider two ways this rhetoric can be critically understood in universities in order to move forward from what feels like a 'stuck place'. Our intention for this paper is simple. We do not examine or critique government intentions; we simply want to lay out, in introductory terms, two approaches to universities taking seriously their obligations to Māori: a familiar 'inclusion' approach, and an 'indigenisation' approach, whose rhetoric is now gaining ground in our state institutions.

Two Approaches: Indigenous Inclusion and Indigenisation
One approach to the task of indigenous engagement in the university can be called indigenous inclusion and the other, indigenisation. Canadian scholars Gaudry and Lorenz use these terms in their "visions for indigenizing the Canadian Academy" (2018, p. 218), and we find them useful.
The first, indigenous inclusion, focuses on equity and inclusion. Over the last 30 or 40 years, this has been the most popular institutional approach in Aotearoa-New Zealand to 'being a good Treaty partner'. Including Māori, who have been left out and left behind, has been the well-intentioned goal. However, despite the persistence with which institutions have taken on the task of inclusion, this approach was never going to yield the necessary real-world changes. We do not reject indigenous inclusion as a strategy in the development of indigenous engagement, but as the goal of universities, inclusion has shown itself to be inadequate for achieving the goal of a properly productive relationship. Some critics would go further and argue that many inclusion initiatives are not just inadequate, but "benevolent forms of imperialism" (Kuokkanen, 2007, p. 56).
The second approach, indigenisation, takes us down quite a different-and, we maintain, a potentially more promising-route. Indigenisation refers not to the inclusion of indigenous people, values and knowledge within a largely unchanged or superficially-changed institutional structure, but to the normalisation of indigenous ways of being and knowing. This approach is new to those universities and other state institutions in Aotearoa-New Zealand finally turning towards a more relational way of doing things based in whakapapa (history, place and relationships) and social justice.
Here we lay out eight points that characterise thinking and practice as universities attempt to make this turn from indigenous inclusion towards indigenisation. We deliberately say 'towards' because we leave open the question of whether 'indigenisation' is ever reached; we see it less as a state to be achieved than as a direction of travel. Such a position expresses our shared sense of constant social and historical fluidity, the impossibility of clear 'solutions' to the big, grinding structural forces within which we all must live including colonialism and capitalism, and the need to simply keep moving in a direction that offers a better, more just, society. The eight points, we hope, provide some clarity on that direction. Before we begin, here are three caveats.
First, we use the term 'Māori' here to refer in general terms to the indigenous people of New Zealand. In doing that, we commit the uncomfortable but sometimes necessary sin of homogenisation. Māori people are extremely diverse tribally, politically, historically, culturally and personally; likewise the terms 'te ao Māori' and 'mātauranga Māori' refer not simply to a singular 'traditional world' or 'traditional knowledge'. They can refer to all contexts in which iwi Māori are/were engaged, yesterday, today and tomorrow: from philosophical thought to shopping, from rugby to rocket science. There is no part of the modern world from which Māori are isolated; Māori bring our culturally-rich meanings to all aspects of our lives including our research and teaching in universities. So, despite misgivings about over-simplification, in this paper for the strategic purpose of writing we use the general term 'Māori' under erasure (to use Derrida's phrase 2 ) at the same time as putting it up in neon lights. That is just one of the complexities of the indigenising university.
Second, we leave aside for the moment the risks of university indigenisation to indigenous people or knowledges, or to the university-that is, the arguments against indigenisation. Some might argue that indigenous knowledges are only safe 1 3 in indigenous universities run by indigenous peoples, or even that indigenous knowledges should remain in communities, in local practices, outside of any institutional structures; others might maintain that the university as a high-status western institution weakened if indigenous knowledges are allowed entry. To keep our focus, we do not address these possible arguments here.
Third, in this paper written by a Māori and a Pākehā author, the word 'we' or 'our' rather than 'them' or 'their' is often used to refer to Māori. We also use 'ourselves' to refer to Pākehā. The reader should be able to infer whose voice is foregrounded in these examples.

Discourse
In universities and schools, it is commonplace to hear terms such as access, retention, participation, success, equity, diversity, culture and inclusion. These remain key words in liberal rhetoric regarding Māori in the education system: A culturally diverse academic student and staff body is desirable; to attract and retain Māori students, institutions seek to engage in inclusive and culturally responsive practices to ensure fair and equitable achievement for all, and particularly for priority groups. Such equity terms are ubiquitous in policy and spoken language; for more than three decades they have formed common sense in institutional discourse. These are the terms of inclusion: the integration of formerly excluded and disadvantaged groups and individuals into the patterns of achievement and success that, in the past, have typically been accessible only to the privileged.
Unlike inclusion discourses, indigenisation discourses tend not to use terms such as diversity and inclusion. Some of the reasons for this are probably obvious. 'Diversity' is a phrase now used in educational institutions to refer to a range of 'priority equity groups' (formerly 'disadvantaged') including: people with disabilities, ethnic minorities, immigrants, Pacific peoples, LGBTQI + , gender-diverse people, and those for whom English is a second language. It has become clear to most people in Aotearoa-New Zealand that Māori are not an 'equity' group in diversity terms, because they are not merely an ethnic minority living amongst diverse other ethnic minorities (although individual Māori people might be members of 'equity' groups.) Rather, Māori have whakapapa rights based in their status as the indigenous people of Aotearoa-New Zealand, rights that the Crown agreed to protect in 1840.
Any 'equity' framing for Māori stems from Article 3 of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, which pledges equality between the 'tikanga' (socio-cultural and political practices) of indigenous Māori and those of the Queen's subjects. This is a guarantee of tikanga Māori having mana or status alongside and equal to (not the same as) those of the British, or the coloniser group (Salmond, 2021).
Characteristically in this conversation, we quickly run into more language problems. Use of terms like 'coloniser' or 'colonisation' is far from straightforward. Given rangatira (leaders), and thus their people, did not relinquish their sovereignty, or tino rangatiratanga, in February 1840 (Waitangi Tribunal, 2014), it is possible to argue that Māori-as-a-sovereign-people do not always recognise themselves as-acolonised-people. The job of indigenisation includes another tension: both the recognition of the fact of colonisation (and the effects of its laws and practices) and the assertion of continuous Māori sovereignty (i.e., non-colonisation). Holding these two contradictory positions is at the heart of the indigenising project.
In other discourse questions, indigenisation is sometimes understood as 'decolonisation'. Decolonisation is seen by some as the proper work of Pākehā and other non-Māori allies, while indigenous colleagues lead self-determining indigenisation work. We tend not to use 'decolonisation' simply because it turns attention towards the coloniser, and invites preoccupation with criticising the 'colonised system' rather than focusing on what might be possible. That is, to foreground indigenisation is to concentrate positively on the implications of rangatiratanga and of Māori worlds for places such as schools and universities. Indigenisation leads to decolonising effects anyway; indigenising and decolonising are usually seen as two sides of the same general project.
In particular, the notion of indigenisation invites the use of Māori language terms that stand more usefully for our aspirations. For example, rather than inclusion (in the university), we would use the word rangatiratanga which states our positive authority and reminds that we are not merely to be understood as a colonised people with a need to be included. Other terms such as whanaungatanga (relationality) and manaakitanga affirm that the mana (authority) of others is to be upheld, that relationships are central. These terms encompass everyone and make ethical and practical demands of everyone; they are not simply about 'including Māori'.
Such Māori terms suggest immediate practices, not elusive goals. They are not as vague as 'inclusion' yet they are all about inclusion; they are not as elusive as 'equity', but they are all about equity. They do not mention 'achievement', but they invite engagement and, therefore open possibilities for varied forms of 'success'.
Another common term in inclusion discourses is culture. Indigenous peoples, like 'ethnic minorities', are often seen primarily in terms of culture. The indigenous scholar Kuokkanen (2007) maintains that culture is a term so heavily overused that it has "lost its analytical utility" (p. 56) and should be used with caution. The dominance of the term 'culture' in relation to Māori can overshadow the intellectual, philosophical, and political dimensions of te ao Māori. Such a narrow focus can lead to 'culturalism', an approach that considers all indigenous issues in terms of culture (Kuokkanen, 2007, p. 55). We return to this point below.

How Māori are Understood
When educational institutions seek to 'include' Māori, the underlying intention is to help Māori, principally by successfully imparting the necessary skills they/we lack. The idea of this deficit approach is that Māori need to gain the competence and confidence to achieve, and thereby to access the social and economic rewards of the education system. Few would disagree that relevant academic skills training is needed for many Māori students, given their historical dispossession.
However, externalising Māori student access and achievement problems can have the effect of letting the university off the hook. Problems are rooted a range of conditions outside the university: the students' socio-economic status, poor transition from low decile schools, a lack of preparation due to Covid, or the ongoing effects of colonisation. Universities don't often enough see themselves/ourselves as a significant part of the problem, as not having identified or anticipated Māori expectations, and not having transformed in systemic and cultural ways to become places where Māori students and staff see themselves and want to belong. Research money and energy is spent on identifying inclusive practices such as 'culturally responsive' or 'culturally sustaining' pedagogies. More Māori language and culture make the institution more 'culturally appropriate'. Non-Māori staff are required to become 'culturally competent'.
Two problems are evident with such inclusion. One is that although it is imbued with care and love and good intentions, ultimately it is aimed at transitioning or better fitting Māori to a relatively unchanged university environment. Cultural inclusion may be apparent in Māori language signage, Māori greetings, and even Māori design principles in new buildings and spaces. These are all positive things, but te ao Māori is not limited to material signs, words, names, and designs. Māori knowledge and intellectual traditions inhere (for Māori) in all forms of everyday life.
What is more, in a culturally inclusive organisation, 'cultural competency' is seen largely in terms of non-Māori becoming more competent in understanding te ao Māori and te reo. Cultural competency in an indigenising organisation requires non-Maori to be more competent at being and understanding themselves: how/who they are 'of this place', on this land, entangled in its history and with whatever identity such competency suggests.
And even where Māori cultural knowledge and skills are recognised, this recognition often becomes: 'Can you share with the class/group your knowledge about the marae/Māori language/a Māori perspective, please?' Māori colleagues and students are seen primarily as a helpful resource (see point 5) rather than as individuals who may or may not know much about te ao Māori, who are faced with the impossible request to 'speak for all Māori', or who may or may not want to share their knowledge. Impulses for cultural inclusion can be blind to colonialism, or the power relationships that continue in the institution. That power expresses itself as a conditional invitation to Māori to join in.

What Changes in the University?
An inclusion model seeks cultural change in an educational organisation by making it more accessible and comfortable to diverse groups, with Māori students as a priority. But, as implied in the points above, the burden of such change usually falls on individual indigenous students and staff members. They change by becoming something 'more' than they were: more 'skilled', more 'included', more 'successful'. On the face of it, this is a good thing. Yet too often Māori students report that they must 'fit in', and 'leave their full selves at the door' to be successful. They still have to change. They feel as though the focus is on the problems of Māori rather than the problems of the institution.
Indigenisation keeps a firm eye on institutional change; the university (or the school) becomes 'more Māori'. Success on this model is evidence that the university has more (permanent, high status) Māori staff, and students, teaches more Māori knowledge in more Māori ways, is a place where Māori assumptions and priorities are supported and resourced, where people at all levels engage with each other on the basis of friendship and individual care (whanaungatanga and manaakitanga). The organisation is recognised as one production site and storehouse of mātauranga, which is universally valued as a taonga (treasure) (see Kuokkanen, 2007). As the saying goes, "it's about smartening up, not dumbing down".
The institution being 'more Māori', does not mean simply that there are more Māori language signs, more Māori names for units, and a karakia at every meeting. It does not mean that non-Māori individuals in the organisation try to become 'more Māori'. Rather, it is an invitation for non-Māori to understand their own identities in relation to Māori, to history, to this whenua, and to Te Tiriti o Waitangi in its modern status as a foundational guide to our work. For Pākehā, it is an invitation to 'be Pākehā', that is, to orient ourselves towards Māori with undemanding attention (see point 5). For Pacific peoples it is an opportunity to think through whakapapa relationship with Māori and with Te Tiriti (Suaalii-Sauni, 2017); for immigrants from Britain, India, China, Afghanistan and elsewhere, it is an invitation to consider who you are in this place, at this time in history, in relation to the indigenous people and New Zealand's historic agreements.
Indigenising, or mobilising mātauranga, can mean something as simple as prioritising a sense of belonging (whanaungatanga) for students and staff in the university. Universities are notoriously scary for students who struggle to navigate its impersonal spaces; if manaakitanga is an accepted and 'normal' aspect of university life, degree programmes and courses would have built-in practices that encourage collective loyalties and open engagement for students and staff.
In summary, what changes? From the position of a Māori member of the organisation, an inclusion model asks me to change-thus contributing to the improved culture of the institution-while an indigenisation approach emphasises the organisation's ability to be Māori. This reminds us of the word 'māori', which in English can be translated as 'ordinary, everyday, usual'. Can the university become māori for Māori communities?

Who Are 'We'?
The difference between 'tātou' and 'koutou' is helpful in thinking about the 'we' or 'us' in this context of inclusion and indigenisation. 'Tātou' and 'koutou' are heard when people meet. "Tēnā koutou" is a common greeting which means, roughly, "there you all are" or "hello to all of you". "Tēnā tātou" is "here we all are", or "hello to all of us". The second sort of greeting is not usual amongst English speakers; greetings in English such as "hello everyone" typically do not include the speaker. It would be very unusual to hear: "hello all of us". Māori language gives more attention than English to who is being addressed, which is not surprising in a deeply relational culture.
Who is the 'we' when inclusive institutional change is spoken about, when it is said that "We are changing our policies to … be more accessible to Māori"? Who is 'the university' when it is announced: "The university aims to have a partnership with Māori communities …"? In the push for indigenous inclusion in the university, who is the 'us' who have an ethical concern about poor Māori achievement and employment statistics, or about the reputation of the university, given its "duty to actively promote and protect Tiriti rights"? The 'we' or the 'us' can be the university leaders who must report to the Tertiary Education Commission and Ministry of Education (the Crown) on how it is fulfilling its duty; it can be staff or students who take up the work of 'Tiriti rights' or 'Māori achievement'. The 'us' are often non-Māori university leaders who, with the best intentions, assume or assert that 'we' know best what is good for Māori inclusion, given 'we' are powerful and in a position to help. 'We' welcome Māori warmly: "Tēnā koutou katoa" (greetings to you all).
When the indigenising university can say "Tēnā tātou katoa", who might be the 'tātou', the 'us'? When indigenising the university is a process rather than an end point (see point 8), it is possible to move towards a shared identity for Māori and all other members of the university, where we recognise the institution as 'ours' because it holds and nurtures our knowledges and ways of being. For those used to being in charge in the university, this collective 'us' might be less direct and certain, and more oblique, than it has been in the past. Nevertheless, 'we' could all-to use a modern cliché-create 'space' to enable mātauranga and Māori initiatives to thrive because we/tātou (all of us) are proud of these things.
'Making space' is more subtle and difficult than it appears, because it is not a matter of clearing a blank space for Māori to fill. When Māori have effectively been denied western educational success for more than 150 years, it is absurd to expect an immediate grateful stampede into the 'open' space. Māori colleagues regularly report that when they make contributions in institutional settings, others pause and listen politely, then everything continues 'as usual'. This ignoring is not necessarily deliberate; it is because a Māori suggestion often finds no purchase, the listeners seem not able to hear what is said; they do not have even basic scaffolding on which to catch the idea, to enable its ongoing existence (Jones & Jenkins, 2008). Indigenisation-living the 'tātou'-requires non-Māori to pay constant and careful responsive attention to the invisible barriers to a genuinely shared discussion.
It is worth pointing out that 'tātou' does not mean 'we' are the same. Some have wrongly assumed that the words supposedly uttered by the Crown representative Hobson at the signing of te Tiriti o Waitangi in 1840, "he iwi tahi tātou" means 'we are one people'. As Ngāpuhi rangatira Wahōroi Shortland and others have stated, 'I am referring to what Hobson said. They were not his own words but he was encouraged to say them. And the words that he spoke were, "he iwi tahi tātou". He did not say, "he iwi kōtahi tatou" ['we are one people']… it meant, "Together we [peoples] are one nation"' (cited in Hemi, 2020, para. 4ff.). Shortland's statement has relevance to the question: who is the university? Is the 'tātou' something that is diverse, relational, and engaged, where Māori staff and students can say 'tātou' about the university with a full heart?

Māori Leadership
If Māori are to be included in the university, it is assumed that 'we must know more about you in order to help you be included'. In crude practical terms, this 'need to know about you' means Māori individuals often find themselves acting as an informal Māori Things Help Desk. Māori staff, often the most junior members of the faculty, are asked to help colleagues with te reo, provide 'input' or 'a Māori perspective' at a meeting, hold a seminar on engaging with Māori, give a Māori example, advise how to access Māori clients or communities, provide a name for a building or unit, be belatedly added in to research proposals, organise a pōwhiri or whakatau, recite a karakia, suggest a good Māori contact. They are expected to act as consultants, to be a representative of all Māori. In other (outdated) words, they are to be 'native informants '. 3 Three assumptions confront the modern native informant. One is that s/he will teach me-who-does-not-know. The questioner thinks: I want to know, and by confessing to this desire, I am being 'good' and worthy of your attention. By giving me attention, you, my native informant, will in effect love me, and redeem me from my innocent ignorance (Jones & Jenkins, 2008). Second, it is assumed that the Māori person wants to share the knowledge they have, can do it now, and won't mind not being paid or promoted for doing this work. Third, it is assumed that a Māori person knows everything about te ao Māori-its people, its politics, its knowledge, its gender norms, its history, its language, its aims, and its desires. Te ao Māori is assumed to be a single rather than infinitely diverse category, just as is 'the western world'.
Māori individuals do not necessarily know any of these things, or want to provide that information, or want to support your demand. S/he is probably already over busy, and her priorities are not yours; he may not want (or be able) to give you attention and tend to your needs. Some Māori report feeling 'unsafe' in a committee or class or meeting environment when they express a viewpoint or are asked for a 'Māori perspective'. They report that their contributions are regularly either ignored or criticised. Or-if they are a good informant-they end up with more responsibilities for some initiative related to Pākehā desires to help, or to know more about, Māori. It is no surprise that Māori colleagues point out that this is approach to Māori leadership is unsustainable, not to mention exploitative.
The reminder that Māori colleagues should not be willy-nilly regarded as mobile Help Desks can create anxiety for non-Māori. They feel they are in a bind: on the one hand, they must consult in order to include, and on the other hand they must not 'bother' people. This is why indigenising universities pay close attention to institutional structures. Consider the difference between (1) a Māori expert in, say, some aspect of te reo, or tikanga, or te taiao, or history, or administration, who has been employed at a reasonable level of seniority and remuneration to provide advice or teaching or research on these matters, and (2) a Māori part-time teaching fellow, or tutor, who may or may not comfortably use Māori language in her everyday work life, and has been employed to help Māori students succeed in their studies. Why might the latter person be an available source of information about any aspect of Māori life?
In an indigenising university, Māori are not simply experts available to fill in gaps or reduce the ignorance of others; Māori expertise is normalised, recognised, and rewarded for its own sake at all levels of the organisation. Individuals who are appointed as Māori experts, or who speak as Māori are recognised as respected leaders and appointed to high status academic and profession staff categories. An indigenising university has a formal Māori workforce development strategy that recognises the time, work, and expertise that Māori staff members are called upon to provide all the time: whether the event, the opening, the whakatau, the pōwhiri, the karakia, or the waiata. It has sufficient Māori staff to provide well-resourced learning partnerships and input to courses and resources.

How to be Non-Māori in the Indigenising University
In the inclusive university-as has already been said-non-Māori leaders, researchers and academics with good intentions seek to become 'culturally competent': knowledgeable about Māori in order to include them. Requests are made for Māori teaching of, and attention to, non-Māori. Many non-Māori realise that, rather than trying to get a quick answer to a question, they have to do their own work first. Māori colleagues report that some non-Māori are good at learning, through their own research and their personal engagement with Māori over many years, and can become good partners and friends. Some non-Māori work well alongside their Māori colleagues or with their non-Māori colleagues at the interface of the Pākehā and Māori worlds-this is a different sense of 'cultural competence': Pākehā competence at 'being Pākehā' and the relationality that phrase implies.
But there is always the danger that 'a little learning is a dangerous thing'. Some non-Māori learn a bit and start teaching or explaining Māori material beyond the limits of their knowledge or authority, leaving their Māori colleagues with the sense that Māori information has been mis/appropriated. It must be said, as well, that Māori can express inaccurate or contested assumptions about te ao Māori. Resulting tensions require sensitive Māori leadership, and maybe an acceptance that there is no immediate solution.
So how to be a non-Māori in an indigenising university? Accept not knowing. You do not have to know everything; you cannot know everything. Much of the Māori world will remain opaque to you. That is alright. There are some things you can and should know: how to always pronounce Māori words and names correctly and confidently; common Māori terms now integrated into New Zealand daily vernacular; basic rules of tikanga in order to take an active part in a mihi whakatau or a pōwhiri; the difference between te Tiriti o Waitangi and the Treaty of Waitangi; a basic history of colonisation and Land Wars; and the history and contemporary aspirations of local hapū and iwi. These are bottom lines.
An indigenising university requires non-Māori to listen and be alert to Māori thinking without demanding to be taught by Māori, i.e., to 'learn from' rather than 'learn about'. This 'learning from' is not simply learning some facts about history or tikanga or language; it also, crucially, involves learning from the subtle ways that culture is lived in all interactions. Given that relationality, or relationships, are the heart of Māori engagements, the processes (including time, space, humour, persistence, generosity, forgiveness) of engagement are also to be learned from being with Māori. The more such relationship elements are evident in the university culture, the more relevant and effective the university becomes in Aotearoa-New Zealand for all its citizens.
An indigenising shift requires, too, that non-Māori accept that for indigenous people, the ethical and emotional elements of human existence are deeply interwoven with knowing, knowledge producing, and teaching practices. Karakia are uttered at meetings and events to gather and direct the emotional and unseen forces always present in human interaction, including such mundane activities as meetings. Some non-Māori colleagues object strongly to this 'spiritual' aspect of te ao Māori being expressed in the university environment, citing the importance of the secular university.
If we understand secular as 'outside of organised religious belief' then we agree that the university is and should be secular. But Māori as Māori do not speak as, say, Christians or Roman Catholics. Karakia are not about religious dogma though some use Christian imagery; they are about acknowledging all the relevant forces that might influence the outcome of the event or meeting including the forces of emotion, feeling, mood, memory and belief. To those who do not understand a karakia, we suggest: 'just let it wash over you!' To reject the possibility of karakia in the university is to reject the indigenising project which requires a flexible, open, and generous spirit to develop in all of us.
In summary, in an indigenising university, non-Māori have a level of comfort with discomfort. They do not demand to know everything about Māori, or that Māori become fully comprehensible to them. They relax a bit and orient themselves to the relationship, its limitations, and the richness it holds.

Who Benefits?
We argue that everyone benefits from an indigenous university. Staff and students become more open to difference and less afraid of it. Social statistics improve as more Māori have access to science and to mātauranga, to systematic evidence-based argument and counter-argument, to higher degrees, and with increased critical confidence in non-Māori and Māori contexts. Indeed, the university is experienced by staff and students as a 'Māori context'; that is, Māori contexts are not simply 'out there' somewhere, but right here. After Ruatara sought writing as a technology for his people two centuries years ago, writing soon became a Māori technology, 1 3 used by Māori in their self-determined interests. The indigenising university can be understood in a similar manner.
In an inclusive university, we know that Māori as a group tend not to benefit as much as others. Paradoxically, an inclusive university can primarily benefit non-Māori, who are upskilled (know more about Māori language and tikanga), feel better about themselves (as not so monocultural and ignorant), can access better data (they manage to get better Māori participation in their research projects). Hence the inclusive university might provide many of its members with a sense of progressive change, while change for Māori has not been significant at all.
Given the indigenising university is oriented towards good relationships (whanaungatanga and manaakitanga) between and among indigenous and nonindigenous peoples, it follows that it benefits all of us, regardless of whakapapa and background.

Orientation to Practice
In an inclusive university, the priority is what to do to include Māori. Committees and groups spend much time writing goals and strategies with aims and outcomes, solutions and endpoints; the orientation is problem-solving. Linear and dualist logics are popular as the problems are defined with apparent clarity, using models, tables and graphs, and statistics. In this paper, we use this tradition in a simplified binary table below. This kind of approach can be worthwhile because it draws distinctions useful for understanding broad positions and arguments. But such simplifications are also unhelpful when they become fixed and discourage complex and contextual thinking.
Indigenising does not entail reaching an end goal. Even with clear aspirations, say for mutually productive relationships framed by Te Tiriti o Waitangi, the emphasis is on process; the usually minute day-to-day interactions that create relationships and connections (and break them). These processes can be extremely simple: smiling and greeting colleagues, making a joke, turning up to support an event, or taking the time to talk. Meetings become moments for relationship-making and remaking. Daily actions can also be more personally and emotionally demanding for Māori and non-Māori: publicly supporting indigenising policies, speaking up in meetings, speaking back to those who misrepresent indigenising initiatives.
In more theoretical language, the focus for indigenising is on the 'how' not just the 'what'. Some people call this 'the journey, not the destination'. We are keen to point out that a focus on process is a reminder that we should not aim to make fast changes or quick wins. Change needs to grow from within. Indigenisation is a steady and stable altered direction of travel, not a sudden lurch on to a new pathway and a new set of demands.
A focus on process requires attention to how everyday interactions can proceed with generosity and patience-for both Māori and non-Māori. For Māori, a tolerance of ambiguity and complexity may demand at times an unsettling sense of complicity with a colonial institution. The irritation already familiar to Māori can intensify as the university turns toward te ao Māori in ways it has not before. Once, the institution's ignorance and ignoring of Māori things caused anger; now, its embrace of Māori things might lead to renewed impatience with colleagues' struggles with Māori language, and ideas. For non-Māori, the task is how well they can stay with a new direction of travel, maintain a warm openness to learning, at the same time embracing-or tolerating-their own uncertainties and anxieties.
For all these expected problems, in an indigenising university, a collective ability to return to relationships, even after setbacks, becomes a measure of strength.

Finally
In April 2021, following her appointment to the position of Ihonuku Pro-Vice Chancellor (Māori) at the University of Auckland, Te Kawehau Hoskins stated publicly that "indigenising the university is about finding ways where Māori knowledge, ways of being, thinking and doing can thrive" (cited in University of Auckland, 2021, para. 6). That thriving is a crucial step towards Durie's (2009) inspirational ideas, quoted at the top of this article, about "the national benefits likely to accrue from knowledge creation at the interface between indigenous knowledge, science, philosophy and commerce" (p. 16).
Our university, the University of Auckland, has been gifted a new name by the tangata whenua, Ngāti Whātua Ōrakei, on whose whenua the university's main city campus stands. The name is Waipapa Taumata Rau. Waipapa is the place, and Taumata Rau refers to the many volcanic peaks of the local area, as well as the many personal peaks of achievement and aspiration held by university members. This gift of a Māori name is at the heart of our tentative and careful indigenising, as we consider who we are, where we are, and what we can be as a collective group bringing benefit to Aotearoa-New Zealand. Positive orientation to problemnecessity, to ambiguity, fluidity, and complexity. Greater tolerance of apparent contradiction

Eight Differences Between Indigenous Inclusion and Indigenisation
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