Indigenous-led community research in a changing climate: impacts of Cyclone Gabrielle on the health and wellbeing of Māori in Te Tairāwhiti, Aotearoa New Zealand

Disaster studies researchers have long examined the health impacts of floods, including risk of death and injury, disease, for example gastroenteritis, and water quality issues (Alderman et al., 2012). Beyond physical health, researchers also reveal mental wellbeing impacts on flood-affected communities. Floods are ‘a deeply traumatic experience for those affected’ (Walker-Springett et al., 2017, p. 66), with higher occurrences of mental health issues - such as anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder - in communities that experienced flooding (Ahern et al., 2005; Alderman et al., 2012; Carroll et al., 2009; Fernandez et al., 2015; Stanke et al., 2012). While much literature focuses on those most severely affected by floods - particularly those whose homes are flooded or experience traumatic evacuation - others reveal more widespread impacts on community mental wellbeing. For example, in their research on flooded communities in the UK, Tapsell et al. (2002) reveal how people who experienced flooding speak about regularly checking river levels and report anxiety whenever it rains. Others documented how flooding changes residents’ sense of place, and place attachments, in relation to home and community. Places of safety, comfort, connection and joy can be disrupted and damaged, becoming places of fear, sadness and loss (Carroll et al., 2009; Sims et al., 2009; Tapsell & Tunstall, 2008).

Scholarship has also focused on impacts of flooding on Indigenous peoples, the effects of settler colonialism on risk, vulnerability and environmental injustices, and Indigenous Knowledge systems in flood risk reduction and local adaptation strategies (Danladi et al., 2018; Mavhura et al., 2013; Parsons & Fisher, 2022). From empirical research with Indigenous communities in Bangladesh (Barua & Rahman, 2019), Canada (Khalafzai et al., 2021), Ghana (Cudjoe & Alorvor, 2021), Namibia (Hooli, 2016), Nigeria (Fabiyi & Oloukoi, 2013), Vietnam (Sinh et al., 2009) and Zimbabwe (Mavhura et al., 2013), scholars have called for greater recognition and value for Indigenous Knowledge in flooding prevention, coping and adaptation. Some research has focused on health impacts, revealing how flooding exacerbates pre-existing community health and wellbeing inequities – long produced through systems of oppression, including colonisation, capitalism and patriarchy, and extractive land use.

In Aotearoa New Zealand, a growing body of literature has focused on the ways Māori understand and respond to flooding. For example, in their study examining community efforts to provide support for those affected by flooding in the Southern Rangitīkei area of New Zealand, McLachlan and Waitoki’s (2022) Kaupapa Māori case study included interviews with 10 Indigenous community leaders and 22 health and social service community practitioners. One of their findings was how Indigenous values informed responses to the traumatic flooding event. Māori cultural values of family and extended family wellbeing were evident during financial hardship, caused by loss of the primary income due to industry closure, or families not receiving income during strike actions, including protesting for better working conditions. They explain how Māori community leaders formed committees to ‘identify families experiencing financial hardship, to coordinate food parcels, and to raise funds to pay the mortgage, rent and power. The shared cultural values held by community members ensured that responses were fast, and targeted’ (p. 20). They identified the ways ‘tribal infrastructures being used as shelters, kitchens, and coordination hubs for psycho-social responses’ revealed the ‘ability of local tribes to respond more quickly than civil defence or other aid organisations’ (p. 21; Hudson & Hughes, 2007). Collective action during and following flooding events ‘relied on Indigenous leadership models of rangatiratanga (chieftain-ship), responsible caring (manaakitanga) and holistic concepts of wellbeing’ (p. 21). Similarly, in research with a small Māori community in Northland, Proctor (2013/2014) found ‘Aroha [love] and whanaungatanga [relationships] were the underlying values demonstrated through their actions’ during and following severe flooding events.

In another contribution to this literature, Parsons and Fisher (2022) draw on archival sources and oral histories of Māori and Pākehā (European) individuals living in a single catchment – the Waipā River – to trace how Pākehā actions to remove native vegetation, drain wetlands, introduce exotic biota and re-engineer waterways contributed to increasing the incidence of floods. The authors found that while Pākehā narrated floods as disaster events, Māori ‘viewed colonisation as the true disaster, with floods and fires merely products of settlers’ mistreatment of the environment’ (p. 1). This article highlights how colonial flood control efforts further alienated Māori from their rohe (ancestral lands and waters) and led to the destruction of their taonga (treasured lands, forests, wetlands and sacred sites protected under Te Tiriti o Waitangi). For Māori of the Waipā catchment, ‘flood risk management regimes were far more destructive - socially, economically and spiritually - than flood events’ (Parsons and Fisher, 2022, p. 1). As our analysis similarly reveals, it is impossible to understand health and wellbeing impacts of Cyclone Gabrielle on Māori without contextualising within histories of colonisation and capitalism, Māori understandings of health and wellbeing as relational, spiritual and holistic (hauora) (Kenney & Phibbs, 2021; Rout et al., 2024), and Indigenous ways of knowing whenua (land), awa (rivers), moana (ocean), and connections to people and places of past, present and future.

This local study is part of a larger project in collaboration with academic partners in Auckland and community researchers in Hawkes Bay (Laking et al., 2024; Thorpe et al., 2025). Herein, we focus on research processes and insights specific to Tairāwhiti. With ethical approval from the University of Auckland Health Research Ethics Committee (approval AH26632) and locality approval from Te Whatu Ora Tairāwhiti and Ngāti Porou Oranga, this study set out to understand how extreme weather events had impacted community health and wellbeing. The qualitative study included focus groups and individual interviews between October and December 2023. Participants were selected using purposive sampling with the aim of capturing a diversity of experiences. They were approached using email, telephone or personal community connection. Sampling involved collaborative mapping, where all research team members contributed to identifying key participants and ensuring diverse representation, as shown in Figures 1 and 2. We worked with our project kaumātua (respected Māori elder) to help direct and prioritise who to include as participants, and to support new connections.

Our total sample included 77 participants from across the district, including East Coast (Makorori, Ūawa, Tokomaru Bay, Ruatōrea), Gisborne City and Gisborne Western Rural (Te Karaka, Whātātūtū, Ormond, Matawai). The sample included 53 women, 23 men and 1 non-binary participant, and represented community cultural diversity with 40 Māori, 24 Pākehā, 11 Pacific and 2 recent immigrants. Participants ranged in age from 16 to 85 years and represented diverse social and cultural backgrounds, including NZ European or Pākehā, Māori, Pacific peoples and recent immigrants; volunteers; farmers; forestry and horticultural workers, among them Recognised Seasonal Employees (RSE); health sector workers such as nurses, doctors and pharmacists; educators including teachers and principals; local governance such as Council workers and leaders; first responders including Police, Civil Defence and social services, non-profit organisations and religious groups. In this article, we focus on findings specific to the 40 Māori participants, particularly the impacts on individual and communal health and wellbeing of Cyclone Gabrielle and repeated adverse weather events.

Interviews and focus groups were conducted in locations of convenience to participants, including work settings, Marae, homes, Police station, schools and community organisations. Interviews and focus groups followed the same semi-structured guide, with discussions ranging from 30 to 90 min. Participants were offered a $50 voucher as koha (gift) in acknowledgement of their time and for sharing their experiences. The focus groups and interviews were recorded and professionally transcribed.

The team included four local wāhine with many iwi affiliations, all of whom are also Ngāti Porou wāhine - Barbara, McClutchie, Maxwell, and Raroa - with academic guidance and support from a senior Pākehā woman researcher who had grown up in and was living in the community - Thorpe. The wider research leadership team included two tāne Māori - Caddie, Ngāti Pūkenga, Waitaha-ā-Hei, Ngāi Te Rangi, Ngāti Hauā; and Laking, Te Whakatōhea - who gained funding for and supported local research processes throughout. At the community level, our Kaupapa (principles and ideas that act as a foundation for action) was shaped by the values and relationships of the women doing the focus groups, coding and analysis. Knowledge sharing and building local researcher capacity were integral to the kaupapa of the entire project, including designing the sampling strategy, collecting data, coding the transcripts, contributing to the analysis and presenting to the community. At all stages, the local team was central to the process, with their knowledge and relationships critical to project success. Throughout the project, we worked together to find respectful and appropriate ways to do research in, with and for our communities.

Recognising that many in the community continued to be emotionally, financially and physically impacted by repeated weather events, we adopted what has been called a ‘trauma-informed approach’, with an ethic of care in all interactions with participants (Edelman, 2023; Rosenberg et al., 2022). We find that Māori cultural practices naturally align with academic trauma-informed approaches. Te Ao Māori (the Māori world) brings its own methodologies, grounded in tikanga (Māori practices and principles), that reflect these same principles. Sensitivity, respect and care for safety are embedded in how we engage with whānau and communities. Although the four wāhine Māori community researchers had not conducted academic research prior to this project, they navigated the process confidently, weaving together tikanga, their extensive experience working across community-based kaupapa, and academic support and guidance.

Our methods were place-based and responsive to and relational with communities. Some members of our communities were hesitant, sceptical or resistant to participate in the project for a range of reasons. For some, it was the association with an academic institution that raised concerns, for others the research topic was too emotionally sensitive given that it was only six months or so after Cyclone Gabrielle, and many were still grieving, recovering socially and financially, and with some continuing to work through fraught relations within communities, or with Council and insurance companies. A great deal of effort was involved in carefully navigating stressed and stretched communities, and ensuring our sampling process was not causing any additional stress to potential participants.

All five of the wāhine researchers conducted interviews with members of their respective whānau, including parents, siblings and grandparents, and community members with whom we have close social and cultural relationships. We adhered to tikanga (Māori cultural protocols and practices) in all interactions. For example, karakia (cultural prayer) were offered at the beginning and end of all interviews and focus groups, and kai (food) was shared. At times, when participants became emotional, we paused recordings and offered comfort for example, tissues, a cup of tea. As all interviewers were local wahine, we believe our gender and close connections encouraged participants to be vulnerable and to speak openly about their experiences. While our research was not primarily therapeutic, many participants described the experience as such. We most often conducted focus groups in pairs, one of us maintaining the dialogue, the other collecting paperwork and providing food and comfort as needed. We found this collaborative approach to focus groups particularly effective for mentoring and supporting each other and ensuring the research team could be responsive to emotional reactions from all in a group interview setting. At times we felt the weight of kōrero shared with us, so it was important we supported each other to process the emotions that can arise when doing research in, with and for your own community that experienced traumatic events.

Rather than collecting data and sending it away for analysis, we negotiated to conduct analysis of transcripts – as taonga – locally. It was important to us that transcripts were managed with respect and that the voices of our community participants were always contextualised within place-based and local knowledge. We broadly followed Braun and Clarke’s (2022) thematic analysis, with our local team collaboratively developing a three-part coding framework that aligned broadly with key threads of the overall project aims (Community Voice; Health Systems; Non-Health Related Systems). Training was provided for the community research team on how to code transcripts and curate the coding framework. Figure 3 shows research team members at a coding workshop; the initial workshop was followed by bi-weekly drop-in sessions. In most cases, the interviewer also led the coding of their transcript(s). In this way, the cultural and emotional context of the kōrero could best be respected and understood. Final synthesis of codes and analysis was conducted by the local academic lead, with input from the local project manager and wider research team.

We presented our findings back to the community via three local hui. Each of these events provided us with valuable opportunities for the community to share their feedback. As well as contributing to the wider project report for the Ministry of Health (Laking et al., 2024), we created a local resource specifically to share our findings with the community (Thorpe et al., 2024). Working with a local Māori designer, the local report became a taonga filled with the stories of residents, and place-based research insights. It is being used widely across community organisations. All participants received a digital report copy, with key stakeholders - including Iwi health providers, Marae leads - receiving a hard copy.

Some of the most impacted communities, including Te Karaka and the East Coast, were predominantly Māori. Those in the most affected communities experienced high levels of stress, grief and trauma during and after emergencies and evacuations:

I vividly remember just seeing water, just mud everywhere. And people walking around like zombies . . . I think there was just a period we were going through, like waiting for someone to turn up. Because we were just in a state of mourning, you know, like what the heck’s just happened to us? It was like you know, i hoki ki te pō, engari ka toru rā whā rā pea ka puta ki te ao mārama mā tātou anō, tātou e hiki! [we returned to the darkness, however it took three to four days and we were back in the light again, we ensured we looked after ourselves]. (wahine, western rural)

A strong theme across the community was chronic mental health effects of repeated extreme weather events, with rain continuing to cause distress, often referred to as ‘rain anxiety’:

We’ve got lots of whānau who experience panic attacks and anxiety every time there’s a sniff of rain. (wahine Māori, East Coast)

When it rains, I stay awake all night because I am close to the river . . . if the river meets this one tree that’s by my house, that’s a getaway . . . just get in your car and drive to the closest place you can go to. (wahine Māori, East Coast)

Some people . . . when they know a big storm’s coming, they’re already packing themselves and heading into town. It’s affecting them mentally. It’s affecting them. They’re scared. (tāne Māori, rural)

Such effects were felt across whānau, with some parents speaking of efforts to support their tamariki (children) during this time:

My kids are scared of the rain. They don’t like the sound of it. So I ended up moving them all into my room, we just put mattresses on the floor, we all slept together. They’re also scared of the dark and the power going out . . . it freaks them right out. As soon as it pours, she blocks her ears. Or she’s finding headphones and turning whatever she’s watching up. She has anxiety . . . we just awhi her and say it’s going to be alright, it will stop soon. (wahine Māori, city)

Reflecting on the widespread emotional impacts on her community, one kuia recalled: ‘I saw confusion. I saw pouritanga [deep sadness], I saw mamae [hurt / pain], I saw rawakore [impoverished], I saw panipani [great loss] . . . I saw all of those happening’ (Marae leader).

Māori participants also spoke of the power of cultural practices (karakia, pūrākau [storytelling], waiata [song]) to support their own and whānau healing from stress and anxiety following flooding and repeated adverse weather events:

I was not good, because it was seeing the impact on how it was for your own community whānau. I think it hit me quite a bit later on. I fell into depression. . . . It just built up over time. I’m still in healing therapy and all that sort of stuff, for the last probably 6-7 months now, since Gabrielle. I’m just trying to get my wairua [spirit] and my tinana [body] and everything back on place so I can start focusing. (tāne Māori, volunteer lead, western rural)

You know what you do . . . when you come from great leaders, as in your whakapapa [genealogy] who are great leaders, obviously that’s filtered down to you. I always go back to karakia. It’s karakia. So important and it helps. It helps us with our days. (tāne Māori, rural)

The strength was always there. In the background, it was always a strong community. I think this sort of shocked everybody, put everyone on the backstep. There was lots of confusions, a lot of upsets, a lot of things going on. But they all started gathering around at afternoons at the main school. Being able to sit and share kai with each other and talk. That kōrero . . . was what the community needed to do . . . bring the humour out and start having a bit of a laugh together. But at the same time, still aware in the back of their minds that it wasn’t safe at all . . . it was terrible. (tāne Māori, rural)

We realized very quickly . . . day three, that it was becoming overwhelming . . . taku tirohanga ki te tangata (my observation of the people). . . . Just when people walk in the door . . . and then you see the te taumahatanga e pēhi nei ngā tāngata (the heaviness on people). So, they would say ‘come and have a coffee’ . . . just talk to them. People would have a big fat tangi (cry), but it was okay, no-one was looking at them. (wahine Māori, Marae leader)

Although whānau often found ways to grieve and support one another during these times, some expressed a need for additional mental health support. As a kaumātua explained:

A major issue is the people who are most traumatised . . . sometimes don’t know how to access the support that’s available. You wanna try working with ACC or some of these other government agencies. Many of our Māori people have great difficulty dealing with those agencies. I think we need more kaitiaki support for our people.

While we found ‘rain anxiety’ to be widespread across the community, Māori participants spoke of grief over damage and destruction to natural environments, highlighting the importance of whenua to Hauora (holistic understandings of health and wellbeing):

You could see how high it had gone and then just how much it had affected the houses, the papakāinga (housing on ancestral Māori land), not just houses. These are homes that have been passed down through generations where people’s whenua [placentas] are buried. (wahine Māori, Kaitī)

Our research findings align with those of Parsons and Fisher (2022), who revealed the trauma carried by Māori of the Waipā catchment who witnessed the destruction of their taonga forests, wetlands and sacred sites:

The land is not the same as what it used to be when I was young. I could just go diving and I could go get a crayfish . . . Now I just see logs jammed in there, pinecones. (tāne Māori, East Coast)

Our rivers are full of silt. The oxygen that feeds our species in the awa is not there for them anymore. It’s covered, it’s smothered. The numbers are down. The eels are getting ugly, the colours are changing. No swimming holes for whānau anymore. (tāne Māori, rural)

Similarly, we heard how the destruction of, and damage to, marae and urupā continues to cause distress and sadness for whānau:

You think about all the urupā that were affected . . . that emotionally hurts us when we can’t go and visit our tīpuna anymore. Or we don’t know where they are anymore. That’s probably one of the big grievances . . . knowing that a lot of urupā, or graveyards, had been swallowed up by the cyclone. (wahine Māori, Kaitī)

Others spoke of the sadness of seeing culturally significant objects, such as waka, damaged and destroyed by the floods:

I saw broken wakas, I saw them just stuck in mud. . . . Waka tend to be named after our ancestors . . . they are very, very important to us. We love them as if they’re part of a whānau . . . so this was huge. (wahine Māori, Kaitī)

We also heard of how damage to roading was limiting access to places of cultural significance to Māori which also impacts their health and wellbeing:

Because of the roading, I haven’t even been home in so long. I’m someone who tries to get home at least like two or three times a year. We go to our marae, we do a working bee, we clean our whare [house], we look after our urupā [burial grounds]. We go and care for our whenua and we care about it so deeply, it is part of us. . . . ’Cause that’s our whenua [land] . . . I’m one of many who can’t get home, and it just hurts, like it actually just breaks your heart. It’s so painful, it’s like grieving a place that you can’t go to. And I think that’s been like the biggest impact I have seen with my little community, it’s just not being able to go home and put your feet on the land and get ngā hau o Tāwhirimātea (Return to your mountain to be cleansed by the winds of Tāwhirimātea / Māori god who controls the winds). (wahine Māori, city)

As highlighted, the health impacts of extreme weather events on Māori cannot be understood simply as ‘individual’ physical health, but require more relational, holistic approaches to hauora as connected to people and places of significance (Johnson et al., 2024; Masters-Awatere et al., 2023; Reweti et al., 2023). ‘Whenua is a determinant of health in Aotearoa’ (Moewaka Barnes & McCreanor, 2019) and in a context of climate change, where the land, rivers and oceans are being destroyed by extreme weather and problematic land use, Māori health and wellbeing are significantly harmed. As one wahine from the East Coast articulated, ‘If I am the whenua and the whenua is I, then how are we treating that?’

Many Marae were damaged, and some were destroyed, during Cyclone Gabrielle. For marae that were not significantly damaged, several became critical resources for communities (tāngata whenua [Indigenous people of the land], tāngata tiriti [people of the treaty/all non-Māori citizens and residents], and tauiwi [foreigner/immigrant]), very well-functioning and well prepared. Our research aligns with findings from Hudson and Hughes (2007) that revealed the important roles of marae and Māori communities in disaster recovery, and Bailey-Winiata and colleagues’ (2022) research that reveals Marae as examples of ‘Mātauranga [Māori knowledge] in action’, including how best to ‘protect and shelter people from hazards and following disasters’ (p. 43). Through our interviews, we consistently heard of marae demonstrating cultural leadership, manaakitanga, hospitality and knowledge during States of Emergency, and offering support across communities, including Pacific. For example, Te Poho o Rāwiri, which serves serving a community of 12,000 with high deprivation and social needs in Kaitī, was praised highly as an innovative and responsive pā where residents could come for support, including information from Police and other agencies, medical, kai, water, showers, psycho-social, and advice from WINZ Work and Income New Zealand:

You wanna get something done in a community you go to the local marae and ask them first. Then you go to the church groups, right, they’re the other ones who, you know you can go and talk to. Then you go to the community spaces, that’s how you get into a community, and that’s how you get to the community. And I think a lot of our big organisations forget that. (wahine, Kaitī)

One thing about marae support in a situation like this, it that it’s no big deal with Māori to respond to that. Because Manaaki hosting is one of the most important facets of being Māori. (kaumātua, Kaitī)

People have a strong connection to the pā, and to the marae in general. You get people volunteering . . . like nurses who will go and help at the pā [fortified village] when they can. The pā is so amazing for that . . . (wahine, Kaitī)

However, such manaakitanga was often at the own expense of Marae (human and financial), exhausting their reserves, including kai, fuel, water, finances, without adequate or established systems for reimbursement:

I feel Marae [are] taken advantage of. Hey, we’ll do it anyway. But given that they are such an important resource, I feel that it should be the responsibility of central government to make sure that those resources are kept up to standard. And are supported, and being able to be provided, you know they’re lifesavers in many cases. And, you know we hear lots of, it’s not just for, as a sanctuary during a weather thing. A marae is a place where Māori can grieve, where Māori can celebrate, where Māori can learn, and Māori can share. (Kaumātua, City)

Our research highlights marae as vital in community support during extreme weather events. Importantly, tikanga-based infrastructure such as Marae cannot be viewed as supplementary or voluntary support, but central to community resilience and thus must be funded as such. It is also important that external organisations respect marae leadership in how they present and what they do in these spaces during and after extreme weather.

With extensive damage to roading, some remote, rural and isolated coastal - predominantly Māori - communities felt vulnerable and exposed. The isolation added significantly to stress of whānau:

It was so stressful cause we couldn’t get out. Yeah and just like the destruction of the land . . . everyone was freaking out . . . we’d been through like all those other [weather events] before, but this one we’d been isolated . . . we were cut off from everybody for ages. (wahine, East Coast)

Transporting medical staff into rural and isolated communities often required creative approaches for example ATV over farmlands when roads damaged; helicopters into remote areas; hiking through bush and over farmland. Prescriptions were a major concern and required coordinated efforts to get medication to isolated and rural communities. Helicopters were critical in getting medical supplies and patients in and out of remote areas, but not everyone who needed it received attention:

Our whānau up the coast needed medicine. Prescriptions. Getting access from the helicopter to the home was a challenge. So the Police leant in and helped out. We got a side-by-side from Honda, it got to places where our four-wheel-drives could never go. We used that side-by-side to get to places and spaces to get medicine in. Getting the basic necessities to whānau, for their health and wellbeing was important. (Pacific male, first responder, city)

Underinvestment in rural health in Tairāwhiti exposed remote and rural communities - predominantly Māori communities - to heightened risk and stress and anxiety, particularly among those with complex or high health needs. Some participants spoke with frustration about emergency, evacuation and health systems that they perceived as failing to meet the needs of isolated, rural and coastal Māori communities. Investment is required to build a more robust and resilient rural health system that can meet the needs of those living in areas that increasingly become disconnected.

Some Māori in coastal communities also expressed frustration in processes in which they were alienated from and losing access to their rohe (Parsons & Fisher, 2022). Some refused to accept Council decisions and remained committed to caring for their whenua:

. . . We don’t want to move. We don’t believe we should move. So we sit amongst where we’re all from and we don’t want to move. And we’re adamant to stay on our farm and work that. The holistic values of why we are Māori and why we are uri ki te whenua [descendants of the land]. Holding our pao [song]. It feels like we’re the last . . . (wahine Māori, East Coast)

Through such experiences, many have become more involved in land and water-use initiatives, including native seed collection, planting waterways, clearing beaches and waterways, and protesting problematic land use, particularly forestry practices.

While not unanimous, many participants shared positive feedback about Māori health provider support for Māori communities during the aftermath of Cyclone Gabrielle and repeated weather events. With community knowledge, trust and relationships, Māori providers went ‘above and beyond’ to support their communities during and after the State of Emergency. Māori providers collaborated with marae and social agencies, sharing essential infrastructure, to provide health needs to the most vulnerable in communities. Māori providers are proactively investing in sustainable and resilient systems, such as generators, solar power, communication systems and health campervans:

. . .there’s so much learning. I mean if we had a cyclone right now we’ve got Starlinks on every clinic. We have a generator at every clinic, we have radios that we’ve purchased. I’m just waiting for the install on full radio comms, you know ’cause you cannot rely on a mobile network, or internet, And we’re still scoping out some solar opportunities. So there’s a few things we’re doing to keep building resilience and the lessons learnt . . . There are lots of learnings. I think it’s constantly in the back of your mind when you’re planning now. (wahine Māori)

Much can be learned from Māori health providers in the innovative and responsive approaches during extreme weather events, and proactive approaches towards a more robust and resilient health infrastructure that meets the health needs of Tairāwhiti communities.

Throughout our research, we heard of Iwi or hapū (tribe or sub-tribe) demonstrating leadership and innovation in community recovery, for example health, housing, kai and social support (Cram, 2021). While many tāne played vital roles in protecting and supporting their communities during evacuations and the prolonged recovery period, we also learned about the often less visible but equally critical leadership from wāhine Māori. We noted numerous examples of wāhine Māori leading community hubs - such as marae and school - and organisations, for example Council, drawing upon their cultural values of manaakitanga, aroha and tautoko (to support) communities in a time of need. Sometimes this came at a cost to their own health and wellbeing; fatigue, exhaustion, loss of income and ‘heaviness’ of carrying the weight of others’ mamae (suffering).

Our research resonates with Australian research that shows the roles of women, often with less public visibility and recognition, contributing to community recovery after floods (Foote et al., 2024). Beyond this, our research reveals intersections of gendered and cultural labour of Indigenous women working in, with and for their communities during and after flooding. While this mahi was led with a deep aroha for their communities, we also heard that some of these courageous wāhine leaders faced heightened public scrutiny, even abuse - from the wider public - for their efforts. In Tairāwhiti, wāhine Māori played a vital role in cyclone recovery, demonstrating leadership and voluntary labour that highlight gendered patterns of adaptation. Our findings here align with recent research by Johnson and colleagues (2024) and Masters-Awatere and collaborators (2023), and we join them in advocating for the recognition of wāhine-led resilience and similarly emphasise the importance of frameworks that address relational and spiritual losses.

Witnessing extreme weather events inspired some rangatahi (youth) to take action, motivating them to support their whānau and communities in preparing for and mitigating the effects of future disasters:

From my perspective it’s just, all I can do is just help all the aunties. Yeah, that’s what I can do ’cause I can just see that they’re hurt aye. All the aunties, you can just see them smiling but they’re hiding stuff, you know. . . . I just want more bros like me just to come and help all the families aye. That’s why I sorta jumped on this contract with . . . just to help out the aunties and that with the smashed houses. . . . all I just wanna do is just give back to the community ’cause everyone helped me around here. ’Cause I was whangai’d (fostered) to all the houses, yeah, and now it’s just giving back. (tāne Māori, rangatahi, East Coast)

Some family members told us of the impacts of such mahi on their rangatahi, and how witnessing the devastation to their communities activated them in new ways, including community recovery initiatives and taiao (environment) work to help recovery of the whenua, awa and moana, the land, rivers and ocean.