104. Although the impacts described in the previous chapter may be common across all survivors and all settings, every survivor’s experience is unique. This chapter explores how some survivors were disproportionately and uniquely impacted because they were from a certain group or because they were placed in specific settings.

Ngā pāpātanga kino ki ētahi rōpū purapura ora
Survivor groups were impacted negatively

Ngā purapura ora Māori
Māori survivors

105. Tamariki, rangatahi and pakeke Māori belong to a collective – their whānau, hapū and iwi.[139] However, the care system itself undermines whānau, hapū, and iwi structures.[140] When tamariki, rangatahi and pakeke Māori were placed in care, whānau, hapū, and iwi were deprived of one of their most critical roles – to exercise tino rangatiratanga over kāinga (home) by caring for and nurturing the next generation.[141]

106. To understand the impacts of abuse and neglect in care on Māori, the Inquiry first considered the nature of the care system. The Waitangi Tribunal found that Oranga Tamariki (and its predecessors) are “fundamentally Pākehā in their philosophies, values and constructs”[142] and that “within this framework, Māori are unable to exercise their tino rangatiratanga and therefore unable to ... raise their tamariki according to their traditions and worldview.”[143] The Crown has acknowledged that structural racism is a feature of the care and protection system that has adverse effects for tamariki Māori, whānau Maori, hapū and iwi.[144]

107. For Māori, the cumulative impacts of abuse and neglect are rooted in the historical and contextual effects of colonisation[145], urbanisation and institutional racism.[146] These cumulative impacts occur on a collective and individual level, as well as across generations.[147]

108. The removal of tamariki, rangatahi and pakeke Māori from their whānau, hapū and iwi is a transgression against whakapapa and mana motuhake. The physical removal of whānau members from their communities increased the risk to and vulnerability of their whakapapa.

109. The concept of collective protection in te ao Māori is encapsulated in the following whakataukī:

“Whare tū ki te wā, he kai nā te ahi; whare tū ki roto ki te pā tūwatawata, he tohu nō te Rangatira” – A house that stands in open country is susceptible to loss by fire, while one that stands within a fenced pā is a mark of a distinguished person.”

110. Many whānau who attempted to keep their tamariki, rangatahi and pakeke Māori faced bureaucracy, child welfare officers or social workers, medical professionals, religious influence or legal processes that were difficult to navigate and rife with institutional racism.[148] For Māori, the impacts of abuse and neglect in care were never on the individual survivor alone. The impacts were felt by their immediate and wider whānau, hapū, and iwi too.

111. Removal from their whānau and the sense of disconnection from te ao Māori often resulted in whakamā. Whakamā, a reo Māori term that has no exact English equivalent, includes aspects of shame, self-abasement, feeling inferior, inadequate and with self-doubt, shyness, excessive modesty and withdrawal. Ms CH (Ngāi Tūhoe and Ngāti Raukawa) told the Inquiry of the whakamā she felt from being raised in care without knowledge of her cultural identity:

“Growing up, it seemed I was the only Māori in my class who did not know what tribe I came from. I felt confused, stupid and useless. It was like I didn’t exist. I didn’t feel “Māori,” and I certainly didn’t feel ‘complete’.”[149]

112. Te Ara Takatū, a name shared by a Kaupapa, a report, and a self-selected group of Māori survivors, advocates and academics that became an advisory group to the Inquiry, refer to cultural alienation as an act of violence. The report says that: “This violence does not end when the time in care ends. Many ngā mōrehu (survivors) Māori have been unable to reconnect or rebuild relationships with whānau members or reconnect with their cultural identity. In this way, many whānau remain torn apart.”[150]

113. During the Inquiry’s engagement with iwi leaders in 2021, the Inquiry was told iwi leaders also felt whakamā about the abuse and neglect that had occurred in care: “That we didn’t know it was happening and that we didn’t step in and do anything.”[151]

114. Māori survivor, Glenda Maihi, who was 6 years old when she was taken into care, told the Inquiry how this isolated her from her whānau and impacted her identity and sense of connection to her whakapapa:

“I grew up a lost soul. One of the worst effects of being in state care has been the loss of my identity, loss of my whānau, and loss of my whakapapa. Due to our [siblings’] separation from each other, our whānau relationships as adults have been fractured. The effect of having no connection with my siblings made me feel alone. Growing up feeling like I had no one was very hard. There was no work by Social Welfare to retain my whakapapa or my cultural identity. I wanted to learn about my cultural identity, but I did not know where to go to.”[152]

115. Many Māori survivors spoke of being removed from their whānau and settings where te reo, tikanga and matauranga were a way of life and being placed where Māori knowledge, especially te reo, was actively discouraged.[153] For some survivors, the racism they experienced while in care was internalised and affected how they viewed their own Māori identity. Ms NN, who experienced significant institutional and societal racism as a child, said: “I do not associate with being Māori, and I have issues with it to this day. I never got the chance to be Māori, that was taken away from me.”[154]

116. Institutions and practices contributed to a disconnection from te ao Māori. State care settings were largely secular and were not equipped to consider or give effect to tikanga Māori concepts such as wairuatanga (spirituality), atawhaitanga, tauwhirotanga and kaitiakitanga, manaakitanga and whakapapa when caring for tamariki Māori. Likewise, faith-based settings often held their own Western religious beliefs as superior to tikanga Māori.[155] As a result, Māori survivors often had very limited understanding of atauranga Māori and wairuatanga.

117. Māori survivor Ms AF (Ngāti Tahinga, Ngāti Ira) said her adoption, which legally severed her from her whakapapa, was a tool of institutional violence and as a result, her children and mokopuna “have lost their connections and their rights to their whenua because of this fraudulent adoption.”[156] By not recording whakapapa or, where it was recorded, not passing that information on to survivors, the State and faith-based care systems were grossly negligent of the importance of whakapapa to Māori.

Te pāpātanga tuku iho ki ngā whānau Māori
Intergenerational impacts for Māori whānau

118. Te Ara Takatū, commented further on the impacts of disconnection from whakapapa:

“The mamae [hurt] of the cultural disconnection and other forms of violence experienced by ngā mōrehu Māori has travelled through generations. It has ripple effects not only for ngā mōrehu but their whānau, including their tamariki, hapū, iwi, hapori and the broader community.

It is felt at the collective level. The collective nature of this brutalisation is rarely recognised. Ngā mōrehu described being unable to heal because, for example, their siblings, who are also survivors, remain in pain.”[157]

119. Many iwi and hapū said that the act of taking and removing tamariki Māori from the collective also meant the disconnection of the survivors’ uri as well (tamariki, mokopuna, and subsequent generations). This inability to reconnect was seen as a compounding harm on top of the abuse and neglect that the survivor had experienced in care.

120. During an iwi engagement hui with Ngāti Toa,[158] the Inquiry was told of the experience of Aunty A and her sibling. Aunty A has about 200 uri (descendants) who actively participate in important roles within their iwi. However, Aunty A’s sibling was placed into care as a child and passed away in care. For Ngāti Toa, they experienced not only the loss of Aunty A’s sibling but also all of Aunty A’s sibling’s potential uri that would have been able to thrive and participate with their hapū and iwi.

121. Marae have lost generations of whānau who would have been participating with their hapū, their iwi, sitting on their taumata or on the paepae.[159] This cultural harm has meant a disruption of the collective ability to live as Māori and to participate and contribute to Māori life. It has resulted in the loss of community members to pass on cultural mātauranga, practices, tikanga and reo. At the Inquiry’s Tō muri te pō roa, tērā a Pokopoko Whiti-te-rā (Māori Experiences) hearing, Māori survivor Gary Williams (Ngāti Porou), who was placed in disability institutional care as a 13 year old because his local school was not accessible and left care in his 40s, said: “I would be on the pae today, but I’m not, I’m here.”[160]

122. Disconnection from te ao Māori was often compounded for survivors who were tāngata Turi Māori, tāngata kāpō Māori, tāngata whaikaha Māori, whānau hauā Māori or tāngata whaiora Māori.  Tāngata Turi Māori were removed from whānau and placed in schools specifically set up for Deaf children. Many tāngata turi Māori survivors felt isolated and distressed and thought it was their parents sending them away. This thought impacted the rest of their lives and their trust in others. There were intergenerational impacts.  Some tāngata Turi Māori survivors told the Inquiry they were unable to pass on their Māori culture to their tamariki because it was never taught to them in school.[161] Also, most tāngata Turi Māori placed in deaf schools or in mainstream education could not learn te reo Māori because there were no signs for kupu Māori and a lack of trilingual interpreters.

123. Even if survivors have since had the opportunity to reconnect with their culture, whakapapa and identity, the trauma associated with their cultural disconnection can make cultural restoration even more challenging. When cultural dislocation has occurred for any reason, it can be extremely hard to reconnect with the culture and knowledge, and the community and holders of that knowledge. Survivors can be left feeling whakamā about what they don’t know or what they believe they should know. Some survivors, when they tried to disclose the abuse or neglect in care they experienced to their whānau, hapū, iwi or hapori (community), experienced instances where whanau / hapū / iwi members did not believe, know about, or understand the nature, extent and impact of abuse and neglect that occurred in care. The survivor’s sense of whakamā or fear of rejection could alienate them from their whānau, hapū, iwi or hapori, which may have otherwise been a source of healing. Survivors of abuse in care must navigate these complexities and those associated with the trauma and abuse they experienced.

124. The Inquiry heard from tāngata whaikaha Māori, whānau hauā Māori who had been placed into care institutions. As a result, they had been segregated from their whānau, hapū and iwi. They had to live in institutions where they were denigrated and there was a deficit paradigm of disability. Some felt that the 'western' deficit paradigm of disability had been introduced into and polluted te ao Māori and the way tāngata whaikaha Māori had been largely excluded from hapū and iwi life.

125. Societal and institutional racism was present in all facets of the care system. For example, institutional racism within the education system meant that officials had low expectations of tamariki and rangatahi Māori, which led to a focus on ‘practical education’ in State care institutions and subsequent educational underachievement of Māori in care.[162]

126. Māori survivors who returned to their whānau after care carried trauma that was then transferred to their whānau, and to their wider community. This is especially evident where multiple generations of a whānau entered into care and suffered abuse and neglect.[163] Māori survivor Mr HC (Ngāti Porou, Te Arawa), who was 12 years old when first taken into care, said: “two of my children are locked up – one is in residential care in Palmerston North, the other is in jail. I can see some of my bad habits in them, which they saw in me before I turned my life around.”[164]

127. Māori survivor Mereani Harris explained how her own trauma, and the trauma of her siblings who also were abused in care, has impacted on her whānau:

“When we aged out of State care, we were dumped back to our parents without any supports. One by one, we came home, but we were all dealing with our different trauma and abuse. It feels like we had to get on with our lives and simply forget about what happened to us.

“Our children have all suffered because of our upbringing. We never received love, so we never knew how to love, not properly anyway. We were all abused, so all we knew was to abuse our own children. Our children carry the burden of our time in care, and I hurt deeply because of this.”[165]

128. The impact of intergenerational trauma caused by abuse and neglect in care is directly connected to other social problems.[166] This includes declining health, higher incarceration rates, family harm, unemployment, homelessness, mental distress, substance harm and fewer educational opportunities for Māori.[167]

Ngā purapura ora Turi
Deaf survivors

129. Deaf survivors including tāngata Turi Māori who were placed in care by their parents on advice from medical professionals, teachers, child welfare officers or social workers, spoke of the traumatic and far-reaching consequences of being separated from whānau. Survivor Ms MK, who attended Van Asch College in Ōtautahi Christchurch in the mid-1960s to early 1970s, shared the impact that separation from her siblings had on her:

“I wasn’t in touch with any of my siblings or dad for most of my life. No one in the system thought it was important that we stay in contact. I only re-established contact [with my siblings] at my 60th birthday ... I keep in contact with them now, and they are both doing well. I’m glad I’m in contact with them, but I’m sad about all the years we lost.”[168]

130. Deaf survivor Jarrod Burrell directly linked the oralism he experienced at deaf schooling institutions throughout the 1980s to his difficulties achieving academically later in life.[169] Educational neglect and a lack of signing skills are a significant barrier to finding meaningful employment[170] or working in high-earning environments for Deaf survivors.[171]

131. Although oralism was the norm for teaching the Deaf at the time and was later found to be misguided, banning Deaf children from using Sign Language deprived them of a fundamental right to communicate in a manner of their choosing. It also denied them a core component of Deaf culture. Consequently, many Deaf children never became fluent in Sign or spoken language, meaning they were unable to participate in activities that require a foundation of language.[172] Their inability to access language meant some Deaf survivors found it difficult, and at times impossible, to communicate with their hearing families and peers, leaving them socially and emotionally isolated.

132. Deaf survivor Mr LQ said that because of the abuse he experienced at Glen Eden Primary School in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland in the 1970s, he was afraid throughout the remainder of his education and could not focus on his schoolwork throughout intermediate and high school.[173] Deaf survivor Mr JT shared that the neglect and abuse he suffered at Kelston School for the Deaf in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland during the 1970s and 1980s caused his behaviour to worsen at school. He was expelled and did not get School Certificate. His lack of education and ability to use language made studying for employment impossible. He told the Inquiry he had enrolled in courses and failed because of poor literacy.[174]

133. Being taught to communicate orally in schools and being punished for using Sign Language had other negative impacts on Deaf survivors’ lives and on the Deaf community at large, these are discussed in Chapter 4.[175]

Ngā purapura ora whaikaha me ngā purapura ora i rongo i te wairangitanga

Disabled survivors and survivors who experienced mental distress

134. In the 1950s, segregation of disabled people including tāngata whaikaha Māori and whānau hauā Māori from communities and broader society meant disabled children and adults were removed from their homes and often denied access to education or connection to their families. This changed the trajectory of thousands of lives. Institutions were part of a system that ensured disabled people were not part of society and led to a lifelong struggle for survivors to ‘find their place’.[176]

135. Celtic New Zealander Kylee Maloney, who attended Homai School for the Blind in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, said that being separated from her family robbed them of the opportunity to learn and grow with one another and as a result, their relationships became strained and distant.[177] Māori survivor Matthew Whiting, who is physically disabled, told the Inquiry:

“The placement in Pukeora [Hospital] and the abuse I experienced there … had a huge impact on family relationships … I thought it was my mum and dad sending me away. This has had a huge impact on the rest of my life. This sense of distrust has been with me for a long time.” [178]

136. Many disabled survivors and survivors who experienced mental distress were not treated as having human value and were unable to exercise their personhood. For those disability and mental health survivors who did develop a sense of personhood and community, it was and is a huge achievement and was key to learning to live more interdependently with family and communities providing support as required.[179]

137. State and faith-based institutions generally denied tāngata whaikaha Māori, whānau hauā Māori and tāngata whaiora Māori the ability to express themselves as Māori and become or develop their cultural competency. Many lost their identity as Māori. Many lost their connection to their whānau. Māori survivor Joshy Fitzgerald, who went into a social welfare residence (Hamilton Boys' Home) at 14 years old and spent time in a psychiatric institution (Tokanui Psychiatric Hospital located south of Te Awamutu), expressed that he wished he had more opportunity to learn te reo. He told the Inquiry, “[te reo Māori] would at least give me a feeling of belonging. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.”[180] A 2018 Government Inquiry into Mental Health and Addiction considered that Māori were overrepresented in psychiatric units and were more likely to be committed and subjected to greater use of compulsory treatment, seclusion and restraint.[181]

138. Tāngata whaikaha Māori and whānau hauā were also impacted through care institutions not having in place appropriate disability specific equipment, meaning those with mobility needs weren't catered for appropriately. Lifelong effects that could result from not having reasonable accommodations include scoliosis and pulmonary complications, contractures or pressure injuries.

139. Separation and kainga (family) impacted disabled Pacific survivors’ ability to also keep connected with their ethnic and faith-based communities and maintain their cultural identity.

140. At the Inquiry’s State Institutional Response Hearing, Geraldine Woods, then Acting Chief Executive of Whaikaha, said:

“Between 1950 and 1999, Health and Disability care settings failed to consistently and meaningfully support the cultural needs of tāngata whaikaha Māori. I acknowledge that this caused tāngata whaikaha Māori to be disconnected from their culture, identity, language and communities. These impacts are ongoing and have impacted whānau, hapū and iwi.

Between 1950 and 1999, Health and Disability care settings failed to consistently ensure that Pacific disabled people had adequate access to their culture, identity, language and communities. This contributed to isolation and cultural disconnection. I acknowledge that the impacts are ongoing and have impacted individuals as well as the wider aiga.”[182]

141. Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors in disability and psychiatric institutions were sometimes physically and sexually abused and neglected because of their gender orientation or sexuality. As well as the lifelong impacts shared by many other survivors, they experienced gender dysphoria[183] and intimacy avoidance (also known as a fear of intimacy that is essentially a fear or relationship anxiety about having an extremely close physical or emotional connection with another person).[184] Some disabled survivors, or Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors, who experienced mental distress and have intimacy issues as a result of abuse and neglect in care, have tended to struggle with emotional closeness and connecting on a deeper level.[185]

142. Due to ongoing neglect, children and adults died while they were in disability and mental health institutions. The brother of Mr EY (Te Ati Awa, Rangitane and Ngāi Tahu) died while under the care of Tokanui Psychiatric Hospital located south of Te Awamutu. Māori survivor Mr EY remembers visiting his brother and witnessing the physical neglect he was experiencing. Jimmy was 14 years old when he died of bronchopneumonia. Mr EY said: “I have bouts of depression whenever I think about my brother. I am struggling and hurting. In my heart, I know he suffered a lonely and painful death at Tokanui [Psychiatric Hospital].”[186]

143. From 1988, large disability institutions started closing down without infrastructure in place to support the transition of disabled people into the community. No aspect of institutional care had prepared survivors for this and adjusting to community life was challenging. Survivor Sunny Webster, who was placed in a psychiatric institution, explained that she lacked the basic skills necessary for everyday life and had to teach herself “how to live from scratch.”[187]

144. On leaving a disability institution, survivor Sir Robert Martin described a huge gap between him and everyone else in the community, which made him feel like “he wasn’t even a citizen”.[188] Sir Robert told the Inquiry "I had to live and to survive all over again. And this is very hard to do... There was a massive gap between me and everyone else in my community".[189] Another survivor, Toni Jarvis, said he cannot understand how the State expected him to “go to Cherry Farm and then at a later stage manage to fit back into the community”.[190]

145. The deinstitutionalisation process was not equitable for survivors. Those unable to return to their families were placed into supported group homes or other supported accommodation. While some survivors have found a place within their communities, many survivors still cannot choose where they live, who they live with or who cares for them and do not have any authority or autonomy over the day to day running or activities of their home. The lack of culturally appropriate support also remains an issue. By the end of the Inquiry period, survivors remained susceptible to abuse and neglect in State care residences / institutions and a care system that was and is still not designed to support them having personal agency over their own lives.

I whakanohoa ngā tamariki Turi me ngā tamariki whaikaha ki ngā whare taurima whaiora
Deaf and disabled children were placed into disability and mental health institutions

146. Deaf and disabled survivors were put into disability and mental health institutions at a young age, some from birth, and their families were actively discouraged by medical professionals, child welfare officers or social workers from making contact while they were at the institutions. Families thought they were following the best advice from the professionals who encouraged their child’s removal from the home.

147. Contrary to what families believed, opportunities to learn and practise life skills and communication skills were often lost within institutions due to neglect. Many family members spoke of their disabled family member “regressing” while in care. Some children who were sent to care were able to do some of their own personal care but left institutions decades later without those skills.[191]

148. A research project on the closure of Templeton Centre near Ōtautahi Christchurch in 1999 showed how the neglect of survivors by staff at the Centre also significantly impacted the whānau of survivors. Parents who participated in the research described the decision to place their child at the Templeton Centre as the hardest and most painful decision of their lives. One parent said, “that would have been one of the most traumatic times in my life. It was sort of like the realisation that you’d failed”.[192]

149. Family members also felt sadness and guilt from seeing the impact abuse and neglect had on their loved ones.[193] Margaret Priest, whose disabled sister, Irene, has been in care since she was 6 years old, described Irene’s time in care as having impacts on other people in her life. Margaret told the Inquiry she feels sorry for her own children and husband because so much of her energy has gone towards relentlessly advocating for Irene’s rights and needs with less time and energy for her nuclear whānau. [194]

Ngā purapura ora Pasifika
Pacific survivors

Kena na isamu ni dawa

He / she has been struck by the arrow used to bring down lychee fruits from the tree. Someone has suffered from someone else’s actions – (Fijian proverb)

150. Abuse and neglect in care could ultimately impact a person’s ability to fakatupuolamoui, to live vigorously and abundantly, a Niuean concept explained in Part 1 of this report. Niuean survivor Jason Fenton explains:

“My inner child has been seriously mentally and emotionally affected due to the poor behaviour and abuse of others while I was in their care. This affected my lifestyle through my teenage years, right up to my adulthood. I believe if I wasn’t put into foster care, who knows where I would be today.”[195]

151. As kainga (family) and community are central to Pacific worldviews,[196] impacts of abuse and neglect in care must consider the groups Pacific survivors belong to and were separated from.

152. From various Pacific perspectives, such as one's ability to fakatupuolamoui, an individual’s identity is deeply rooted in their lineage, kainga, communities and church. An individual cannot be separated from their kainga or community, even if they feel distanced or disconnected from them. Understanding the impacts of abuse and neglect on individual survivors requires an understanding of the relational and sacred aspects of the vā (the ‘space between’) that holds people together. The severity of breaching the vā includes trauma, shame, disconnection and the ability to fakatupuolamoui.[197]

153. Time in care often resulted in Pacific survivors being disconnected from their kainga, communities and cultures, limiting their knowledge of their cultural values and practices and affecting their sense of identity and belonging.

154. Some Pacific survivors spoke of how they had no communication with their kainga while in care, with no explanation why.[198] Some survivors spoke of resenting their kainga for putting them in care.[199] The Inquiry heard that decisions about placements were often made without considering extended kainga or the benefit remaining with relatives could have for Pacific fanau (children).[200]

155. Disconnection from culture was not only a result of being removed from kainga but was exacerbated by cultural abuse, neglect and oppression experienced by many Pacific survivors in care. This includes what Pacific survivors shared about not knowing, or being misled, about their ethnic background, which was often a direct impact of ethnicity recording practices that ignored and / or mislabelled Pacific identities. Survivors who were ethnically misidentified, particularly during their formative years, experienced despair and profound confusion about their identity later in life.

156. Many felt that the disconnection with culture and a sense of cultural identity were amongst the worst impacts of their time in care.[201] Pacific survivors lost the ability to practice, or the opportunity to learn, their languages and “core Pacific values”.[202] This disconnection was not only felt by the individual survivor but collectively and intergenerationally as well, as many survivors spoke about how they were unable to teach their children about their culture.[203]

157. Disconnection from culture and communities for both individuals and collectives is an impact of abuse and neglect in care. This was acknowledged in the Inquiry’s State Institutional Response Hearing when Oranga Tamariki Chief Executive Chappie Te Kani said, “the care and protection system between 1950 and 1999 failed to consistently ensure that all Pacific fanau in care had adequate access to their culture, identity, language and communities and in doing so contributed to isolation and cultural disconnection for these individuals. These impacts are ongoing and have also impacted not just those individuals, but their wider aiga as well”.[204]

158. For some Pacific survivors, abuse in care, primarily in faith-based settings, led to being disconnected from their church, their faith, or from a sense of spirituality. Samoan and Māori survivor Rūpene Amato said becoming distant from the Church, as a result of the abuse he suffered from a Catholic priest at a Catholic primary school, was one “of the major impacts on my life”, especially as religion was an important part of his family.[205]

159. Other Pacific survivors spoke about how the placement into care separated them from their faith. Samoan survivor Fa’afete Taito talked about the disconnect from his kainga, ethnic identity and faith from being at Ōwairaka Boys' Home in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, a State care institution. He explained that being taken from his mother had profound and lifelong impacts on him:

“My mother was everything to me in terms of being Samoan, being Christian, being my family ... Prior to going into care, Christianity was also a big part of who I was. I lost my faith once I went into care. Being Samoan and being Christian were most of what I knew previously. I came out of care being tough and violent. That was my new identity.”[206]

160. As explained in Part 4 of this report, while not all Pacific survivors consider themselves to be religious or go to church regularly, the church is still seen as an “anchor for stability and belonging” for many Pacific communities. For many, faith is entwined with identity. Loss of faith and religion not only impacted survivors’ spiritual wellbeing and faith but impacted all aspects of their identity and their connections to kainga, tapuakiga and talitonuga.

161. Dr Tamasailau Suaali’i-Sauni explains that for Pacific survivors and their kainga “shame is a big thing, it’s a big thing in any culture, but it’s a big thing in Pacific cultures where hierarchies of respect make it difficult for those who are not in positions of power to express themselves”.[207]

162. Survivor Te Pare Meihana talked about the shame she felt when she realised she was not actually Māori or from Whangara, the place where she was raised with her extended whānau. Finding out she was actually of Cook Islands descent made her feel ashamed, and her sense of identity was completely shattered. She was placed in multiple care settings from a young age and shared that her ethnicity was changed from Cook Island Māori to Māori at 3 years old. Ms Meihana said:

“This caused me to feel like I’ve had this life that wasn’t mine to have ... I don’t feel like I’m from the Cook Islands at all, and I feel ashamed about that.”[208]

163. She shared that the physical abuse she suffered in care was almost secondary to the personal trauma that comes from not knowing who you are.[209] This highlights the profound impact that shame can have on a survivor’s sense of identity and belonging.

164. The racism and physical abuse by peers[210] experienced by Tokelauan scholarship students, who were brought to Aotearoa New Zealand and placed in Sedgley Boys’ home (Anglican), was compounded by the failure to adequately prepare the students. While students were in the top of their class in Tokelau, language difficulties meant they were placed in lower ability classes in Aotearoa New Zealand.[211] Parents sent their children to be educated expecting they would return to Tokelau with qualifications and skills to serve their communities. However, the students often failed exams. Feeling shame for embarrassing their families, most students stayed in Aotearoa New Zealand.[212]

165. One Tokelauan scholarship survivor shared how, because of his experiences, he has no trust in the formal education system and has chosen to home school his children.[213] Given the lack of pastoral and cultural support, and the racism and physical abuse suffered, there was a significant loss of potential to the Tokelauan community.

166. For many Pacific survivors, abuse in care led to a range of impacts that affected the pathway of their lives. For some, it led to alcohol and substance abuse.[214] Cook Island Māori survivor Tani Evan Kata Tekoronga, told the Inquiry that most of the kids he knew in care “are either dead or doing life as junkies”.[215] For many Pacific survivors, abuse in care led to involvement in gangs, criminal activity, and prison. Samoan survivor Mr CE, who was placed in a boys’ home at 11 years old, said:

“Going to prison after being in care was a natural next step for me. To me, that was normal given the environments I was in while I was in care.”[216]

167. Many Pacific survivors identified a direct connection between abuse and neglect in care and becoming a member of gangs, getting involved in criminal activity and going to prison. Cook Island survivor Mr UU said, “all of the abuse I experienced in different homes drove me more and more into a life of crime. I was angry at those who hurt me. I was hurt, angry and sad when I saw others being abused.”[217] We also heard that for some Pacific survivors, the criminal activity leading to prison was a result of not having received the skills, education, support or opportunities to do anything else while in care. Samoan survivor Leota Scanlon told the Inquiry, “I turned to crime to feed me and my sister. I would rob houses so that I could get food for us ... The robberies and thefts caught the attention of police”.[218]

168. Many Pacific survivors who became members of gangs or have been, or continue to be in prison, also identified that their education had been neglected in care and impacted on their employment opportunities. This meant many Pacific survivors were in low paying jobs or unemployed, which played into low societal views and expectations of Pacific Peoples, and this exacerbated negative stereotypes.

169. Some Pacific survivors felt they did not belong anywhere. Some said this was because of the disconnect with kainga, kaitasi and culture. Some Pacific survivors told the Inquiry they did not belong anywhere because the racism they endured in care intensified their struggles with belonging and identity, as well as self-worth, purpose and the ability to fakatupuolamoui. Samoan survivor David Williams (aka John Williams) said going into a family group home meant he lost everything:

“I had no identity, I had no belonging, I had no respect, you lose your culture, and you lose your identity. You don’t think of yourself as an Islander or a Māori, because you start to believe what they are saying about you … the staff made it clear that Islanders didn’t belong to this world … That’s why I wandered up and down New Zealand quite a bit because there was no sense of belonging or family or culture. They lose your culture for you”.[219]

Ngā purapura ora Takatāpui, Uenuku, MVPFAFF+ anō hoki
Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors

170. Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors experienced many impacts from the abuse and neglect they were subjected to, including experiencing mental distress, post-traumatic stress disorder, suicidality, poor physical health, becoming involved in relationships that became violent, interactions with the criminal justice system, addictions and substance abuse. There were other impacts they experienced specifically related to their sexual orientation or gender identity.

171. Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors told the Inquiry that they were targeted and experienced abuse and neglect in either or both faith-based and psychiatric settings due to their sexual orientation.

172. Several Takatāpui, Rainbow and MVPFAFF+ survivors told the Inquiry about hiding their sexuality for fear of discrimination. They also indicated that this fear, combined with societal prejudice and discrimination they faced for being part of the Rainbow community, could have ongoing impacts on their emotional wellbeing.

173. Survivor Craig Watson said he kept his sexuality secret for a very long time. His feelings of shame and guilt led him to deny his sexuality and his attraction to other men:

“I just continued to suppress my attraction to the same sex, deal with that on an internal way … it was a dirty secret, something dirty. And I just became a liar, a really good liar, I just would do all these things that made me look straight and masculine.”[220]

174. The lack of support for sexuality within care settings impacted Rainbow survivors. Survivor Denise Caltaux said:

“I have been coerced into abusive situations and relationships many times over the years. I would have loved to have a healthy, loving relationship, and had I received some education on sex and sexual orientation, I may have been able to navigate some of these situations better.”[221]

175. Gender identity discrimination is new to many Pacific Peoples and Māori, and its development has been influenced by religion and colonisation.[222] At the Inquiry’s Pacific MVPFAFF+ talanoa, survivors shared the cultural acceptance of fa’afafine within Samoan culture.[223]

176. In her doctoral thesis, Part of the Whānau: The Emergence of Takatāpui Identity – He Whāriki Takatāpui, Dr Elizabeth Kerekere notes that Takatāpui were always an integral part of Māori society pre-colonisation:[224]

“As Māori, we claim our identity through whakapapa over countless generations of ancestors. Whakapapa places us within a whānau, hapū and iwi, which in turn connects us to marae and specific tribal areas on Papatūānuku, our earth mother. Because of this, whakapapa is central to takatāpui identity and spiritual connection to tupuna takatāpui. It is clear that fluid sexual intimacy and gender expression existed among Māori in pre-colonial and post-contact times and has continued ever since.”[225]

177. However, religion and colonisation undermined traditional understandings of Takatāpui, undermining Takatāpui as an integral part of Māori society, which contributed to Takatāpui in care settings being susceptible to abuse and neglect in care.[226]

178. Mr UB, a Rainbow MVPFAFF+ survivor and expert witness, told the Inquiry that, as a Māori and Tongan fakaleiti, he survived two instances of conversion practice – one that was initiated by the church and the other that was initiated by his school.[227] In the first instance, Mr UB was made to attend a counselling session where “a discussion was had about the incompatibility between being gay and the beliefs of the church”.[228] As a result, he began to withdraw from the church. Reflecting on his experiences, Mr UB shared that they taught him that:

“Christianity is unwilling to entertain the idea that Rainbow people are worthy recipients of gods [sic] love” and that this “undermines the idea that Christianity is in any way sincere.”[229]

179. Rainbow survivors of faith-based care told the Inquiry that homophobia and traditional gender expectations within the church affected their feelings of self-worth.

Ngā pāpātanga o ētahi whakaritenga
Impacts of certain settings

180. Part 4 of this report discusses how certain types of abuse and neglect were more closely associated with certain care settings. This is also relevant to the impacts of the abuse and neglect – some impacts are more closely associated with certain care settings.

Ngā kāinga taurima tamariki me ngā kāinga whānau
Foster care and family homes

181. Associate Professor Dr Teuila Percival told the Inquiry:

“Children in foster care face a challenging journey through childhood ... Exposure to poverty, maltreatment and the foster care experience itself can present multiple threats to children’s healthy development, including physical health, attachment disorders, compromised brain functioning, social skills development and mental health difficulties.”[230]

182. Family homes started as an alternative to foster care but developed into a transitional place of care where survivors were placed while waiting for vacancies in foster homes, residences or other care placements. For a description of family homes and foster care, see Part 2 of this report. Many survivors of care have shared that because of how they were treated while in care and being moved multiple times, they struggle intensely with feeling worthless, unwanted and unloved.[231] Survivor Mr EC, who went into care at 5 years old after his whāngai father died, said:

“I was always unwanted as a little kid, and now I always think I am unwanted by other people or my partners.”[232]

183. Foster care and family homes were supposed to provide a loving family environment for children who were removed from the care of their own families. However, many survivors who went through both State and faith-based foster care and family homes shared that they were subject to degrading and dehumanising treatment at the hands of their caregivers. These settings enabled perpetrators of abuse to have easy access to children and the privacy needed to abuse those foster children whenever and however they liked.

184. Māori survivor Ms AG, who was placed in foster care at 4 years old, said: “The worst part of my placement there was sexual abuse I suffered from the husband. He would get me alone when his wife would take their daughters shopping.”[233]

185. Many survivors of abuse in foster care and family homes spoke of differential treatment, where they were treated differently from the biological children of caregivers. Many of these survivors said that, as a result, they felt rejected, unloved, worthless, had low self-esteem and were angry.[234] Survivor Ms AJ, who was placed in foster care at 2 years old, said:

“I think the main lesson care taught me was that I was unimportant. I still struggle with feelings of this today.”[235]

186. Some survivors who were in long-term foster placements shared how they were disconnected from family because their foster parents did not allow regular, or any, access. Survivor Alana Smyth, who went into foster care at 4 months’ old, shared how her foster mother would often make excuses when her biological mother called to invite them to visit. Despite there being some visits, she did not know that the lady she was visiting was her biological mother until she was 7 years old. Further, she was unable to establish a real connection with her biological mother until she was 18 years old, when she was able to visit her mother on her own accord, without her foster mother present.[236]

187. Babies, children, young people and adults placed or removed from whānau into a care setting is a major disruption to their lives. For many survivors, it involved a severing of ties from their whānau. For much of the Inquiry period, foster care was the State’s preferred form of care,[237] and the families who fostered children were predominantly Pākehā.[238] Consequently, due to the over-representation of tamariki Māori in care and the limited numbers of available foster homes, many Māori survivors were placed in Pākehā foster homes and lost connection to their whānau, culture and their te reo Māori.

188. Pacific fanau in foster care also experienced disconnection and shared the intergenerational impacts of being disconnected from their culture and family.[239]

189. Often, survivors of foster care did not remain with the same foster family for very long. Survivors were moved between foster homes, family homes and social welfare residences multiple times.

190. A cycle of abuse and neglect caused certain behaviours to become normalised because they were experienced so often in care. Some survivors went on to accept abuse by others in their adult life,[240] and others went on to inflict similar abuse. Māori survivor Gina Sammons shared how abuse had an ongoing impact on how she and her sister viewed themselves and what they expect from family relationships:

"Both [my sister] and I have been in abusive relationships as adults that have also affected our kids. When I was a really young mum, I used to hit my kids too. When I got a bit older, I realised that one day I might really hurt them and had to stop. I don't hit my kids anymore, but I still struggle to control anger and the desire to be violent, because that was how I was shown things should be dealt with.”[241]

Ngā kāinga me ngā pūnaha taurima
Residential and institutional care settings

191. As discussed in Part 4 of this report, certain types of abuse and neglect were more prevalent in State and faith-based residential and institutional care settings, including being subject to abusive and dehumanising treatment upon arrival, extensive use of isolation and solitary confinement,[242] established violent hierarchical structures such as kingpin hierarchies and extensive peer-on-peer abuse. For many survivors, being placed into residential and institutional care is what introduced them to gangs.

192. In mental health and disability institutions, survivors were subjected to pervasive neglect, institutionalisation, regimented routines and abusive forms of control and restraint, including through medication.

193. These settings are grouped together as survivors who were abused and neglected in these settings experienced similar forms of abuse, particularly in relation to solitary confinement (seclusion), isolation, pervasive neglect, and regimented routines.

Te arotake manioro i ngā wāhine me ngā kōtiro
Invasive examinations of women and girls

194. Survivors placed in social welfare care settings experienced invasive practices, including forced strip searches and vaginal examinations, as soon as they arrived at institutions.

195. Some women explained how traumatising these examinations were due to the sexual abuse suffered before care. Despite being a child and their examination indicating they were not a virgin, staff did not inquire into why this might be the case. Survivor Gwyneth Beard, who was sexually abused as a young child and was 12 years old when placed in a girls’ home, said of the examinations:

“I can remember the comment they made was 'she's sexually active' or 'she's not a virgin'. That really buggered with my mind that these adults were blaming me for sexual abuse I had experienced.”[243]

196. Survivor Raewyn Davies was made to have the vaginal examination despite telling staff she was pregnant and had her own gynaecologist:

“I didn't want to have one [an examination], and I protested about this ... the staff made me get examined by a visiting male doctor. He was very rough and used clamps. He said something like, "Open up, Sunshine", before he did the examination. It was painful and humiliating."[244]

197. Some survivors were also sexually assaulted by doctors during these examinations.[245] The impact of these examinations on survivors was immediate and lifelong on their self-worth and personal autonomy, and in terms of managing their future physical wellbeing. Gwyneth Beard told the Inquiry:

“I have struggled to go for smear tests because of the medical examinations I experienced in care. I’ve had cancer scares.

Those examinations told me that adults had rights to my body, no matter who they were. That is wrong. It is so wrong to get that idea in your head as a child because then, as a woman, your value for yourself is lost.”[246]

198. Shortly after arriving at Bollard Girls’ Home in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, survivor Tracy Peters received an internal examination while being held down and tied to the bed. She described that the impact of being abused was her lifelong inability to trust medical professionals:

“Because I can’t trust medical professionals, I struggle with several kinds of doctor’s appointments. I’ve never been able [to] get any kind of feminine check-up, and I can’t cope with getting mammograms. I had a hysterectomy at 33 and had to be sedated completely, even for the ultrasound. When I was having trouble with my appendix, I couldn’t handle a female doctor doing an external examination on my stomach, so my appendix eventually ruptured, and I almost died.”[247]

199. The Inquiry heard of one very specific impact of similar examinations that occurred at Glenelg Health Camp in Ōtautahi Christchurch, where a doctor routinely interrogated and conducted vaginal examinations on girls. The doctor was allegedly trying to establish if they had been sexually abused at home. She reported her results to NZ Police who continued the investigations. Trevor Gibling, the father of a survivor, told the Inquiry that children as young as 7 years old were pressured or manipulated into identifying their fathers or other close male relatives as individuals sexually abusing them. Although NZ Police looked into the allegation made by the Glenelg doctor, found no evidence or admission, and thus did not lay charges,[248] families were torn apart. The Inquiry was told that these young girls were ultimately removed from their family homes and put into foster care.[249]

200. Trevor Gibling told the Inquiry his daughter was only allowed to return to the family home if he moved out and agreed not to return. Trevor was unable to see his daughter as she grew up, and the family never reunited, leaving family members forever estranged.[250]

Te whakanoho wehe (te whakataratahi)
Solitary confinement (seclusion)

201. The Inquiry received evidence that solitary confinement (also referred to as seclusion) was used routinely and sometimes as punishment across care settings.[251] It was particularly prevalent in social welfare institutions, and disability and mental health institutions, including psychiatric and psychopaedic hospitals and health camps. Research demonstrates that solitary confinement can have lasting physiological impacts on survivors’ intellect and behaviours, social and emotional regulation, mental and physical health, memory, and brain structure and function.[252] This impact is especially likely when solitary confinement (seclusion) is experienced frequently, for longer durations, and at a younger age when the brain is still developing.

202. In 2022, expert witness Sharon Shalev said that children who have suffered harrowing life events, including abuse and neglect and experience solitary confinement “can retrigger trauma and exacerbate symptoms.”[253]

203. The harmful immediate and long-term impacts of solitary confinement are considerable. Survivors who experienced solitary confinement and seclusion told us how the impacts included fear of small and locked rooms, claustrophobia, intense feelings of loss of dignity, extreme physical responses to stressful situations and behavioural ticks.[254] Survivor Ms MV said, “the physical pain of sexual abuse did not compare to being in a room by myself, day in and day out, it’s very soul destroying.”[255]

204. Survivor Harry Tutahi spoke of the immediate impact of a lack of stimulation: “I started banging my head repeatedly against the concrete walls to cope.”[256]

205. As collectivist cultures, Māori and Pacific cultures prioritise interconnectedness and relationships with and between people. This is important as an energy force and as a sense of belonging. Many Māori survivors described the loneliness of solitary confinement and the impact it had on their mind, as it drained the life force from them.[257] Many Pacific survivors also described such impacts.

206. Survivor Craig Dick, who attended Roxburgh Health Camp in Ōtākou Otago, spoke of the lifelong impact that experiencing solitary confinement has caused him:

“Since I was locked in the cupboard at Roxburgh Health Camp, I have experienced ongoing issues with feeling claustrophobic. This has had a significant impact on my mental health when I was placed in prison cells as an adult.”[258]

Ngā raupapa pou kīngi
Kingpin hierarchies

207. The immediate impact of kingpin hierarchies within residential care settings was that many children worked their way through the hierarchy for their own safety. Victims of peer-on-peer abuse often felt compelled to continue the same kingpin hierarchy on new children who entered the residence. The long-term impact is that this culture of violence became normalised for survivors within residential care settings, some of whom would continue to use violence and abuse throughout their lives.[259]

208. Many survivors told the Inquiry how there was a clear pathway from care settings to becoming members of gangs.[260] The Inquiry particularly observed this with survivors who were abused in social welfare institutions.

Te whakawehe me te whakamohoaotanga
Separation and isolation

209. Social isolation and separation had detrimental impacts on children, young people and adults at risk. Institutionalisation separated many survivors from their whānau, hapū, iwi, culture and wider communities for decades and, in some cases, for life. Institutions were normalised and recommended to families of disabled children for many years by medical professionals, child welfare officers or social workers and community leaders. [261]

210. This separation had traumatic and far-reaching consequences for survivors. Survivors describe feelings of sadness being away from their family from such a young age.[262]

211. There were problems beyond sadness, which survivors linked to separation from their families. Pākehā survivor Rob Shannon, who spent time in psychiatric institutions, talked about his medical notes which described symptoms of depression, dissociation, anxiety, Oedipal conflict [JW11] and childhood behavioural disorders while he was in care. Mr HZ commented that these medical notes did not take adequate account of various factors, including the impact of being removed from his family:[263]

“The effects of the abuse I suffered and witnessed were compounded by my isolation from my family and the protection and support they may have been able to provide me.”[264]

212. Mr HZ’s psychologist described his complex trauma and similarly noted that it is not possible to separate his experience of sexual abuse from other medical interventions and the separation from his family.[265]

213. The Inquiry heard from the foster parents of a man with suspected Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder who was removed from his birth mother at 3 years old. A psychologist observed him and found it was likely he suffered from Reactive Attachment Disorder.[266]

Te horapatanga o te whakahapa
Pervasive neglect

214. Survivors placed into social welfare residences and disability and mental health settings often experienced emotional and educational neglect. In many instances, particularly in social welfare residences, they were made to do manual labour instead of receiving an education, despite the law (although changing over the Inquiry period) usually stating that all children and young people between the ages of 6 and 16 must attend school. The lack of attendance at school to gain an education, and the emphasis for some survivors to engage in manual labour, greatly impacted the life opportunities available to them after they left care and throughout their lives.

215. The Inquiry heard that disabled children, young people and adults experienced educational neglect while in psychopaedic institutions. Unique to psychopaedic institutions was the premise that disabled children, young people and adults would receive an education and / or occupational training. However, very few survivors got to attend school or training. Mr EI, who was placed at the Kimberley Centre in Taitoko Levin, said, “from memory, there were only about 10 of us at the school, out of the whole institution.”[267]

216. Mr EI did get to go to occupational workshops: “There were also work courses on site. I would go to a work class where we would make up boxes for things like stockings and handkerchiefs. We would make wire coat hangers and coloured blocks.”[268] Survivors were not paid for the work they did as it was characterised as training. The training was not considered as meaningful work and did not lead to employment.

217. The Inquiry heard from survivors who described disability and mental health institutions as lonely and emotively barren places. Many of the survivors have come away from these institutions with some, if not many, negative impacts.

Te whakanahanaha hātepe, te whakahaere me te herehere
Regimented routines and control

218. A feature of disability and mental health institutional settings and social welfare residences is routinely prioritising the facilities’ routines over an individual’s needs, this was an innate part of institutionalisation in many settings.

219. Like many in residential institutions, the experience for disabled and mental health residents was dehumanising. There are a number of impacts that are unique to these survivors. Many survivors of these institutions don’t like locked doors[269] or the sound of heavy keys.[270]

220. There are many more who have been unable to break away from these routines. Some choose to live a lifestyle of routine and order outside of institutions. Survivors may continue to live in smaller community-based residences, where staff still control much of their daily lives.

221. Research shows that placing people into institutional care – where they experience strict routines and restricted autonomy – has many detrimental impacts on many aspects of their lives. For children, being placed into regimented institutional care impacts their intellectual, behavioural, social and developmental development, including their attachments.[271] Adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities and who have previously experienced institutional care experience several worse quality of life and social outcomes than their counterparts who have never experienced institutional care, including more loneliness and being significantly less likely to have close family relationships.[272]

Te whakatau rongoā me te herehere pūmatū
Medicalisation and chemical restraint

222. Medication was used in these institutions, particularly in disability and mental health institutions, to control, subdue or ‘manage’ people’s behaviours. This is commonly referred to as chemical restraint. Survivor Joan Bellingham shared, “they gave me drugs to quieten me down”.[273] Mr NA said: “I was like a bloody zombie”.[274]

223. Experts in this area have told the Inquiry that this use of medication for behavioural control can be attributed to a lack of staff, training or highly institutionalised practice, which is an international problem[275] and is part of a ‘medical model’ of delivery of care.[276] However, other experts have cautioned against judgement, noting that clinicians at the time did not have the benefit of present day research.[277]

224. Fijian survivor Ms LS shared the intergenerational impacts of medication received in psychiatric care on her and her family:

“When Dad got home after the six months, I could not believe the state he was in. He was shockingly different, zombie-like, from the benzodiazepines, neuroleptics and shock treatment. When he was released from Carrington, things like the household atmosphere started to improve. But he wasn’t the same Dad. I was empty, hollow and blitzed to witness Dad like this. It was a pain I can rarely describe.[278]

“Dad was said to have overdosed on his psychiatric medications much later, when I was 24. Looking back, I always felt that the humiliation, the loneliness, the side effects of medication, the lack of freedom, support and compassion, and dismissal of his concerns drove him to take his life.”[279]

225. Fijian survivor Ms LS then went on to receive psychiatric care herself and said being on Haloperidol gave her awful, drug-induced nightmares and that she also experienced dyskinesia.[280] She further shared:

“Another side effect of the medication is that it is damaging to the dopamine and serotonin pathways in the brain, meaning I don’t feel happy. Feeling naturally happy is unusual for me, and it’s not because I’m not doing things that make me happy. I don’t know if I will recover it eventually, but I’m hoping it will come back.”[281]

226. All survivors were prescribed medications while in an institution, and many are still using similar regimes. Many survivors experience negative impacts of long-term use of these medications. Survivor Alison Pascoe (Pākehā, deceased), who was sent to Kingseat Hospital in Karaka when she was 12 years old, said: “I suffer the effects of Tardive Dyskinesia and permanent brain and nerve damage from prolonged heavy medication.”[282] David Newman told the Inquiry about the effects of medication and abuse on his younger brother, Murray, who was in institutional care for more than 30 years:

“Although his quality of life has improved immeasurably, the combination of a long-term detrimental medication regime and the physical abuse that he suffered while in care has amounted to irreversible damage that has contributed to his unpredictable and aggressive behaviours.”[283]

227. Survivors sometimes find it hard to trust doctors. Doctors didn’t listen to survivors when they were in care and sometimes don’t tend to listen to them now. Some survivors feel powerless and still have very little control over their lives. Pākehā survivor Alison Pascoe said she was still being denied medical care because she had been in psychiatric institutions:

“I feel people like me are still not believed and that our rights are still being abused and neglected. Doctors are still ignoring people like me.”[284]

228. Chemical restraint was also used in combination with solitary confinement (seclusion). Survivors remember this as a double form of punishment and that its impact was felt acutely. Some survivors talked of escaping from solitary confinement (seclusion) but always being returned, restrained and medicated. Caroline Arrell, a previous staff member of the Kimberley Training Centre in Taitoko Levin and Tokanui Psychiatric Hospital located south of Te Awamutu recalled: “I witnessed the use of seclusion, time out and the use of medical prn [meaning medication as required] in attempts to calm people down.”[285] Many survivors now find it hard to be alone or in locked spaces. Survivor Ms SD, who was placed in Sunnyside Hospital in Ōtautahi Christchurch with post-natal depression at 18 years old, said:

“I find when I’m often home by myself sometimes I just get the feeling that I’m trapped, and that’s when I’ve really got to go out and do something just to get out of the house.”[286]

229. Survivor Mr NA, who was placed in the Kimberley Centre at 3 years old, later placed in Lake Alice, and has spent most of his life in care institutions, said:

“I still get scared today. I get scared when I talk about my experiences. I have dreams about Lake Alice and what happened to me there.”[287]

Whai muri mai i te putanga i ngā pūnaha tokoora
After exiting social welfare institutions

230. Survivors who exited social welfare institutions experienced specific impacts. The Inquiry heard survivors had little support, resources, or life skills upon exiting, which created compounding impacts. Samoan survivor Mr TY told the Inquiry:

“As soon as I turned 17, I was put on the Northerner train and sent to Auckland. I had to find my way to this youth hostel in Ellerslie. I was by myself. I said goodbye, and then I was on my own.”[288]

231. Samoan survivor David Williams (aka John Williams) was raised by his grandparents. He was physically and sexually abused by extended family and placed in several boys’ homes, including Ōwairaka Boys’ Home in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, Hokio Beach School and Kohitere Boys’ Training Centre in Taitoko Levin. He recalled being discharged at 15 years old:

“I remember this because they dropped me off at the railway station and said, ‘see you later’. There was no plan for accommodation, jobs or my safety. That's how I ended up on the streets.”[289]

232. The Inquiry also heard that Pacific fanau and tagata talavou were sent, or were threatened with being sent, back to the Pacific Islands. Tokelauan survivor Mr SE, who spent time in several care settings as a ward of the State, was sent back to Tokelau after negotiations took place with his extended family there. On the same day he returned to Tokelau, he was discharged from the guardianship of the Department of Social Welfare following the recommendation of a social worker whose report stated:

“In my opinion, the return of this boy [to the Tokelau Islands] would save a considerable cost to the Department whereas in comparison, if he remained in New Zealand, the Department would be continually financing him for at least the next three years.”[290]

233. Mr SE said he did not believe that any inquiries were made about what life would be like for him in the Tokelau Islands before he was returned and sent back there. “All that was confirmed was who would look after me. The records say that my mother did not want me to go.”[291] On his return to Tokelau, Mr SE subsequently suffered physical abuse by extended family members and family friends and sexual abuse by an elder in his community.[292]

234. Other Pacific survivors also faced racist threats from the State to be sent back to the Pacific Islands,[293] or like Mr SE, were actually sent back to the Pacific Islands, facilitated by the State.[294] These shifts were characterised by insufficient oversight and monitoring and seemed to be for the benefit of the State first and foremost, rather than the young person’s wellbeing.[295]

Ngā pūnaha taurima ā-whakapono
Faith-based care settings

235. The extensive and interconnected impacts of abuse in faith-based institutions have distinct elements due to the culture, attitudes and beliefs within these organisations. The power held by those in religious ministry meant that care in faith-based settings provided opportunities for spiritual abuse and manipulation. Spiritual abuse intersected with and enabled physical, sexual or emotional abuse. It intensified the impacts of that abuse by giving it a spiritual dimension, for example, feeling guilty or ‘sinful’ after sexual abuse. Expert witness Dr Thomas Doyle told the Inquiry:

“The spiritual trauma suffered by victims of clerics is real. Some refer to it as “soul murder” and if one speaks to enough victims this label is tragically apparent. The priest has been an icon of the transcendent ... Two psychologists who have been extensively involved in working with Catholic victims have agreed that sexual violation by a priest has a profoundly traumatic effect precisely because of the spiritual dimension.”[296]

236. Some survivors spoke about being triggered when encountering situations they associated with their religious abusers. Māori survivor Gypsy Wright (Ngāti Kahu) told the Inquiry:

“If I ever see a priest, it triggers me, and I want to have a go at them. I can’t help myself. I went to my niece’s wedding last year not knowing that it would be at a Catholic Church. As soon as the priest walked into the church, the smell that I connect to them overpowered me, and I had to go outside. It has deeply affected me and fucked me up, with no doubt. I missed out on seeing my niece get married because I could not handle being there.”[297]

237. Survivors who were abused in faith-based settings such as education, care homes, adoption, foster care and pastoral care experienced abuse that impacted their spiritual, mental and physical health. Abuse also impacted their relationships with loved ones, whanau and community, and their connection to their culture. Survivor Mr OA said:

“The boys’ home stripped me of all my innocence, dignity, my self-belief and self-esteem. Hope was taken from me just like that.”[298]

238. Dr Doyle told the Inquiry that sexual abuse within a spiritual or religious context can severely damage a survivor’s ability to find spiritual security anywhere. He also said that previous spiritual and religious beliefs and the concept of a loving God can be radically altered if not destroyed.[299] This is consistent with findings made by international inquiries.[300] Fijian-European survivor Maurice McGregor spoke about his loss of faith through abuse and neglect in the Catholic St Joseph’s orphanage and school in Takapuna:

“The treatment of some of those nuns, I thought, well, these women are supposed to be close to God, and if that's close to God, then I don't want a bar of God, and kind of turned ... my back on Catholicism, Christianity, you know, any part of spiritual health.”[301]

239. Survivors spoke of not believing in God anymore after being abused by religious leaders. Survivor Carla Mann shared: “Religion has been something I dabbled in for a short time, but I didn’t last very long. I would think that if there was a God, how could he have let these things happen to me”.[302] The abuse or neglect in care experienced by a survivor from a representative of God can result in a loss of trust and confidence in the faith, the faith institution or in everything or everyone.

240. The Inquiry heard from survivors who had been abused by people in ministry that their religious upbringing made them feel a sense of blame or responsibility for the abuse. As some survivors were taught to believe a person in ministry was God-like and incapable of sin, this led the survivor to think that they were themselves a sinner, that the abuse was their fault, or they were complicit in some way.

241. Survivor Jacinda Thompson was sexually and psychologically abused under the guise of pastoral care through grief counselling by her parish priest following the death of her baby son:

“I thought it must all be my fault; [he] was a man of God. I thought that I had hurt everyone; that if I’d dealt with my grief better, none of it would have happened.”[303]

242. Inaction or inappropriate responses by faith-based institutions had devastating impacts on many survivors, with some even finding this lack of response to have more of an impact than the abuse itself. Survivor Ms NI, who was abused by a Presbyterian minister in Napier, told the Inquiry:

“The trauma level of what [he] did to me was not huge compared to the impact of the lack of action. The effects of the lack of action on my self-esteem and self-worth, the relationship with my mother, have been huge. If it had been dealt with then, my life would have been different”[304]

243. The Inquiry heard that when faith-based institutions responded inappropriately to allegations of abuse and neglect or failed to act, the abuse would often continue, either with the same victim or with other victims.

244. Abuse and neglect in faith-based care have had a significant impact on survivors’ education and later employment. Many survivors were abused at school or by school staff, which made their learning environment unsafe. For example, William Wilson, a Samoan and Māori survivor, lived in fear and couldn’t concentrate on school at Wesley College in Pukekohe:

“I used to love to learn things. When I was younger, I remember wanting to be a doctor. I now have no ability to learn properly ... I feel like I never had a chance to be a child and that I lost my youth and future.”[305]

245. Survivors suffered trauma when they left their faiths. Some members of churches are born into them, and life within the church is all they have ever known.[306] Survivors described leaving their church community and also losing their family,[307] friends[308] and job.[309] Some survivors left their respective churches voluntarily, but others told the Inquiry they were excommunicated (forced to leave), shunned or disfellowshipped and blocked from seeing their family.[310]

246. Clem Ready told the Inquiry he and his wife are shunned from the Gloriavale Christian community but remain living on the site in a tiny room with limited access to basic facilities. He said:

“At the age of 67, I am still working full-time in an effort to meet the financial needs of myself and my wife. Having been denied the fruits of our, and our children’s, very considerable labour for 43 and 45 years respectively, Sharon and I have very few assets and have effectively been denied our retirement.”[311]

Ngā kura noho ā-whakapono mō te Māori
Faith-based boarding schools for Māori

247. Survivors at faith-based boarding schools for Māori experienced similar forms of abuse as in other settings, including sexual, physical, emotional and psychological abuse. They also experienced specific forms of cultural abuse and neglect. Therefore, survivors shared many of the same impacts as other survivors of other settings, including:

a. whakamā
b. mental distress, including post-traumatic stress disorder 
c. substance abuse and addictions
d. loss of identity and disconnection from culture, whakapapa, whānau, hapū and iwi
e. loss of trust
f. loneliness
g. undertaking an activity or activities that resulted in imprisonment and grappling with associated prejudice from whānau, hapū, iwi and communities
h. educational and cultural neglect
i. feeling “incarcerated mentally”.

248. Some survivors who experienced abuse at faith-based boarding schools for Māori, died by taking their own lives.[312]

249. A unique impact for survivors of abuse in these schools is their struggle to learn about Māori identity and tikanga and te reo Māori after being abused in an environment held in high regard by society and associated with supporting the development of Māori culture.

250. Kamahl Tupetagi told the Inquiry he was abused at Hāto Pāora College in Aorangi Feilding. He had grown up in a Pākehā world and was physically and psychologically abused by senior students for his lack of Māoritanga. He was punished if he made mistakes during culture practice, sang the wrong words, did not know the words, did the wrong actions, or did not speak Māori properly. Tragically for Kamahl Andrew Teau Fukuoka Tupetagi, his only opportunity to connect with his culture was in the severely abusive environment at Hato Pāora:

“I would have wanted to have much more involvement with my own culture, as I think it would have given me a sense of myself and a sense of belonging … My learning was at Hato Pāora, at a time when I experienced an enormous amount of abuse.”[313]

251. Mr KZ (Tainui, Ngāti Apa) hated himself because of the sexual abuse he suffered at Hato Pāora:[314]

“Hato Pāora was a school focused on being Māori and being Catholic. After what happened to me there, I lost my faith in God. I am trying to reconnect with faith at the moment. Hato Pāora also made me dislike my Māori heritage, and I feel like I lost my connection with my culture.”[315]

252. Other survivors of abuse in this setting say the abuse resulted in them disliking their culture or they no longer identify as Māori.

253. For those survivors in this setting that did positively connect with their Māori identity, some described the impact of abuse in terms of tikanga Māori. Mr LN said:

“While I am not a practising Catholic, I have a strong sense of Christian belief and spirituality. That, together with my Māoritanga, are things that anchor me … I feel like [that teacher] stole my mana. I felt dirty and ashamed, and there was nobody to help me.”[316]

254. Some survivors have told the Inquiry that while these schools promised the best education opportunities for Māori, their experiences while attending them have impacted on their ability to live their full potential. Ms SP, a survivor of Turakina Māori Girls’ College in Tūtaenui Marton, said she could have gone on to fulfil greater potential. However, the trauma of her abuse and constantly being moved around as a State ward ultimately led her to spend time in prison as a young adult.[317]

255. Despite these experiences, some survivors have told us that the courage and resilience of other survivors, and the connection to one another made through sharing their stories, has positively impacted on their lives.

256. The attendees at the Inquiry’s wānanga for survivors of abuse at Hato Pāora and Hato Petera shared similar sentiments, telling the Inquiry that “sharing together helps us to heal and support each other.”[318]

257. Survivor Mr KL, of Muaūpoko, Whanganui and Taranaki iwi, said a group of Hato Pāora survivors returned to Hato Pāora the day following the wānanga. He referred to it as a peacemaking and restorative justice (hohou te rongo) process where there was further wānanga and healing.[319]

Ngā whāngaitanga whakarite ā-whakapono
Faith-based facilitated adoption

258. As is discussed in Part 4 of this report, facilitated adoptions were organised through the cooperation of churches and their unmarried mothers’ homes, State social welfare workers and other medical professionals. The Inquiry heard from survivors about the impact faith-based facilitated adoption has had on their lives. These survivors include mothers who were forced to put their babies up for adoption, often through unmarried mothers’ homes,[320] as well as survivors who felt they were adopted as babies.[321] Survivors describe being constantly pressured to adopt out their babies, often through the application of guilt.[322]

259. The impact of abuse and neglect in the adoption setting is immeasurable and intergenerational. Survivors who were taken from their mothers through an adoption process reported the far-reaching impacts this has had on their lives. Māori survivor Ms AF was adopted into a Catholic family: “There was a violent structure to my adoption. They were complicit in stripping me of my whakapapa, and this violence was felt throughout my life. When I was adopted, it severed my connection to my whānau and whenua.”[323] When she became pregnant at 18 years old, she was sent to a “Catholic Nun’s home for unwed mothers”[324] and forced to adopt her son out;[325] damaging relationships within her biological and adoptive whānau.[326]

260. Survivors who were adopted out for reasons other than faith-based facilitated adoption experienced similar impacts in relation to feeling abandoned, unwanted or unloved.

261. Māori survivors explained that being adopted by Pākehā legally disconnected them from their culture, whānau and whenua and from their knowledge of their whakapapa. This loss of connection continued through subsequent generations.[327]

262. Mr JP told the Inquiry:

“I have not been able to find my whakapapa. I had hoped to let my son know so that he could one day let his children know. But my son is dead now. He committed suicide in prison”.[328]

263. Adoption has not only robbed those who were adopted of their identity, but it has also robbed their children of their identity and future generations.[329]

264. At the Inquiry’s State Institutional Response Hearing, Paula Attrill, General Manager, International Casework and Adoption at Oranga Tamariki acknowledged the impact on survivors:

“[I] wanted to acknowledge the experience of harm that many people who have been subject to an adoption or adoption proceedings have had. They have had to face the additional effects of the adoption legislation and, for some, the horrific impact that's had on their lives.”[330]

265. And, further acknowledging the impact on survivor’s whakapapa and their life story, she said:

“Adopted people who had their whakapapa severed by law, the harm that they experienced at the hands of adoptive parents and also the lifechanging impact of living in the context of closed adoptions and learning later in life that their life story was not, was a fallacy, it wasn't based on the true birth experience.”[331]

266. The harm to birth mothers and ongoing damage that has been caused to wider whānau of those who have been adopted was also acknowledged by Oranga Tamariki:

“I’d particularly like to acknowledge the experience of birth mothers who experienced their babies being forcibly removed or their being coerced into relinquishing them or those birth mothers who felt they had no choice in decisions being made about their babies ... And then the last group I just wanted to acknowledge is wider family, who, even these days, are searching for connections to put together the pieces of whakapapa for relatives who were adopted themselves and the limitations of the legislation in terms of enabling them access to critically important information.”[332]

Ngā whakaritenga whakawhiti me te kaiwhakaū ture
Transitional care and law enforcement

267. Children, young people, adults in care, or survivors experiencing mental distress were abused and neglected in transitional and law enforcement care settings. Young people were placed in adult prisons where they were vulnerable to physical or sexual abuse by adults or older young people and exposed to drugs, alcohol, criminal behaviour, and recruiters for, and members of, gangs.[333]

268. Many survivors who suffered abuse within transitional care or law enforcement care spent a large portion of their childhood and young adulthood in care settings.[334] Survivors of abuse in transitional care settings, and especially those who were placed in adult remand settings while still a youth, told the Inquiry how such experiences led to a deep and enduring distrust of authority, in particular, NZ Police. Survivor Grenville Fahey, who suffered abuse in transitional and law enforcement care at 14 years old, said: “It was our police that led me to where I am now. But for the arrest, I wouldn’t have been in that situation or where I am now”.[335]

269. Survivor Mr RZ, who was 15 years old when he was assaulted by police officers, and then medically and sexually abused at the police station by a health professional who was called to check his injuries, said: “I shouldn’t have been left alone with a [health professional] at that age. There should always be a neutral person who isn’t involved with police or mental health to witness assessments, especially where medications are administered to aid the extraction of information.”[336] People haven’t believed his claims, and he was in the mental health system for years. Taking his own life was a constant thought for him for many years.

270. Survivors, and in particular young survivors, who were questioned by NZ Police, felt pressured to admit to offending they did not commit.[337] The Inquiry is aware of a number of highly publicised instances where NZ Police questioning of neurodiverse individuals caused significant concern, including Teina Pora,[338] Mauha Fawcett[339] and Alan Hall.[340] The Inquiry is also aware of people experiencing mental distress in transitional settings where inappropriate police responses have caused significant harm,[341] including Matthew Innes.[342] Survivors have told the Inquiry of the lifelong impacts of inappropriate NZ Police questioning and feeling pressured to give false admissions of guilt. The impacts include an intense and lifelong distrust of police and authority figures, disenfranchisement from society, loss of income, family, connection, a sense of injustice, and a lifetime spent in and out of the criminal justice system.[343]

271. The Inquiry also received evidence of Māori survivor Ms TJ whose friend had a miscarriage while they were held in police cells for four days. Ms TJ said she was around 14 years old when this happened and explained that her friend “screamed in agony for a day and the police did nothing. She showed me her miscarriage and kept it in her pocket with her ... Watching my friend go through this really scarred me and played on my mind.”[344]

Ngā whakatau mō ngā pāpātanga o te tūkinotanga me te whakahapa ki ētahi rōpū purapura ora i ētahi whakaritenga
Conclusions on impacts of abuse and neglect for particular groups of survivors and in certain settings

272. Different groups of survivors suffered differential and unique impacts of abuse and neglect in care.

273. The impacts of abuse and neglect in care for Māori survivors including tāngata Turi Māori, tāngata kāpō Māori, tāngata whaikaha Māori, whānau hauā Māori and tāngata whaiora Māori involved the deliberate disconnection from te ao Māori. This has resulted in intense whakamā – not knowing their cultural identity, being disconnected from whānau and the loss of te reo Māori, tikanga Māori, and mātauranga Māori (the body of knowledge originating from Māori ancestors including te ao Māori and perspectives). Future generations have missed out on such knowledge being passed down to them. The trauma also transferred from survivors to their tamariki, mokopuna, whānau, hapū, and iwi, reinforcing cycles of abuse and intergenerational trauma as legacies of past, present and future generations. These impacts were further compounded by the ongoing effects of colonisation and urbanisation because of structural racism throughout the care system and society.

274. Deaf, disabled survivors, and survivors who experienced mental distress in care were subjected to extreme abuse and severe neglect, including segregation and isolation. Many survivors, including tāngata turi Māori, tāngata kāpō Māori, whānau hauā Māori, tāngata whaikaha Māori and tangata whaiaora Māori, were denied personhood, autonomy, and independence and were not given the opportunity to learn basic life skills. Not having access to disability specific equipment to provide for mobility or access to habilitation and rehabilitation programmes for disabled survivors while in care has also had detrimental lifelong consequences. Their ability to fit back into whānau life and with their communities, having been in institutions with strict regimented routines, was impacted. These impacts were compounded by discriminatory societal attitudes relating to racism, ableism and disablism, which limited lifelong opportunities.

275. Deaf survivors including tāngata Turi Māori were separated from their whānau, denied their culture, neglected of proper education, and denied the right to communicate in a manner of their choosing. This has resulted in a loss of confidence, difficulty in connecting and communicating with whānau and friends, and has impacted relationships and employment.

276. Abuse and neglect in care caused many Pacific survivors to lose connections to their kainga (family), culture and language. This had significant impacts on their sense of belonging, identity and their life pathway. Many Pacific survivors lost the ability to fakatupuolamoui, the ability to live vigorously and abundantly. The vā (between survivors, their families, communities, abusers, institutions and society) was breached, resulting in trauma that has been carried between generations.

277. Survivors with diverse sexuality or gender identity spoke about how homophobic abuse impacted their self-worth and feelings of safety around their identity.

278. Survivors who were moved multiple times between different care settings suffered significant disruption to their lives, affecting their education and employment opportunities and ability to form and maintain healthy relationships.

279. Certain types of abuse and neglect were more prevalent in State and faith-based residential and institutional care settings and survivors of these settings experienced more intense impacts. These include lifelong mistrust of authorities due to abusive behaviour and staff practices, psychological and emotional impacts from persistent and abusive solitary confinement practices, loss of life opportunities due to educational neglect, and the normalisation of violence in survivors’ lives because of the inescapable cultures of violence and kingpin hierarchies that they were subjected to while in care.

280. Many social welfare institutions had cultures of violence. A long-term impact of this is that violence would sometimes become normalised in survivors' lives, resulting in them using or being more susceptible to violence after care. There was a clear pathway to becoming a gang member and undertaking illegal activity or activities that led to imprisonment for survivors of social welfare residential care.

281. Survivors of disability and mental health institutional care settings experienced long-term isolation, segregation and severe neglect, and were subjected to regular control and restraint. These impacted their relationships, created fear of change or intimacy, and reduced survivors’ abilities to live independently or interdependently. For many, the medical abuse and neglect suffered resulted in long-term physical and mental conditions.

282. Survivors of faith-based care experienced ongoing spiritual trauma because of the nature of the abuse and neglect they suffered as well as the settings where abuse occurred. Survivors often felt a sense of blame or responsibility for their abuse and being neglected. Survivors who reported abuse were significantly negatively impacted by the lack of action from, or inappropriate response of, institutions and sometimes their families. Survivors experienced a loss of faith and a subsequent loss of family, friends, and community, as those who left voluntarily or were excommunicated were often barred from contacting remaining members, including family.

283. Survivors of faith-based schools for Māori often rejected their culture outright after being abused in an environment that was supposed to be grounded in te ao Māori. Some no longer identify as Māori. Abuse and neglect in those settings also impacted their ability to live to their full potential.

284. Survivors who were forced to give up their babies for adoption experienced immeasurable and intergenerational trauma. Survivors who were adopted out through close or forced adoptions spoke about being severed from their whānau, whenua and knowledge of their whakapapa – essentially robbing them of their identity, and an identity they could pass on to future generations.

 

Footnotes