The Hopa whānau are a large family of siblings from Taitoko Levin who all went into care. The siblings went into care after their mother left, while the youngest was taken into care when aged 12. The whānau recall a home environment of violence and alcoholism, and neighbours called Social Welfare with concerns.

The Hopa whānau were in a range of care including foster homes, health camps and psychiatric institutions. They are now scattered between Taitoko Levin, Te Papaioea Palmerston North and Sydney.

Ethnicity Māori / Muaūpoko
Age when entered care Between 4 years old and 12 years old

“We’d been given the label ‘that family’”

Maryjane Hopa

Year of birth: 1962 

We weren’t the first whānau to be placed into State care, and we won’t be the last. But we were, to my knowledge, one of the first big Māori whānau in the 1970s from Levin to be placed in care.

We were only kids, and yet we had been given the label ‘that family’.  

We were taken to an office in Levin and were left inside a room. The door kept opening, and they’d take out one person at a time, and we’d grab for each other and scream and cry. I watched from a window and saw my family being dragged into cars by aunties. My sister Heather was crying and holding her hands out for me. That was the last time I’d see her for many years.  

I was the last one left in the room. I was told nobody wanted me, that I was trouble. I got my files in 2021 and read that I was defiant, not co-operating, rebellious, acting out. Wouldn’t you be that person if your family had been ripped away?  

I should have been given the chance to live with my real family. That never happened. The department never asked me what I wanted – they told me. I wasn’t given choices.  

I’m the eldest sister and I took on the role of mum at age 12. I learned very quickly to protect and care for myself. If anyone came at me, especially in my house, I’d grab a knife.  

When I was 14 years old, I tried to contact Sonny and Stephanie and I had to get permission from Social Welfare to see them. It was like we were strangers. We were brothers and sisters but almost strangers. We didn’t know one another. It was weird, and it still is.  

I shut the doors on the events that happened. For years, I put up walls and erased memories. Who takes ownership for what happened to me and my siblings? The way the State handled us as a whānau was about control. We had no rights and no dignity. Self-respect was stripped from us. It’s a part of my life that will never be repaired.  

Until recently, I hadn’t shared my past with my siblings, as they have their own skeletons to address. It wasn’t until our baby sister Stephanie brought us together to tell our story. We needed to tell our own individual stories so that we could start the healing process, but as a whānau we needed to do it together so that we could hear one another.  

We went into it as a whānau and we’re going to stick together as a whānau.  

Alec Hopa

Year of birth: 1963

I’m the second eldest in our family. The abuse started before we went into care, as my father was heavily involved with alcohol. Being the second eldest I saw a lot of things – I saw violence, I saw hunger, I saw my mum getting beaten. But in saying that, I loved my dad. He was a totally different person without the alcohol. It wasn’t until later in life that I got to understand his upbringing and what he went through too – it’s a hereditary thing, especially with Māori families back in the day.

I was about 7, maybe 8 years old, when Mum left. She grabbed the two youngest ones and just took off. The other kids were still at the house, and I had to take care of them. I got them dressed, fed and off to school, just carried on as normal. I did it for about six or seven weeks – I was stealing food, raiding trees – then one day I got into trouble, I couldn’t do it anymore, and they came and took us away.  

I went to foster homes, don’t know how many, and Holdsworth. It was pretty hard, very strict. I’d been through numerous homes, and I just couldn’t settle, couldn’t focus.  There were 90 boys, and some of them were big boys, they were like young men, and they were hard, very hard. They were mean. I was only a little guy at the time, but I learned pretty quick what to do, when to look, who to watch - it's only street smart. 

After Holdsworth, I went to school when I was 13 and got into a bit of trouble, so I left when I was 14. I started working for a Chinese family, ploughing, then I went to work with my cousin. At 18, I went to Wellington and worked in the rail yards for five years. But I left there to go back home; my dad was sick. Even though my dad did some things, he had a heart of gold. 

My story, I just wanted to get it out there, but I couldn’t talk to my family about it. I don’t want to put the burden on them. I don’t want it on my daughter, on my moko. I want them to learn to live their life to the fullest.  

Christine Hopa

Year of birth: 1964

When Social Welfare stepped in to take us, we had no warning of it, nothing. I was sent to live with one of the aunties, where I was raped by an extended family member. He also raped my sister.  

Then, I was sent to Marycrest, a Catholic girls’ school, where the nuns sexually abused me. From there, I went to Margaret Street and then to Miramar Girls. Nothing was going right for me back then – it was just getting worse and worse. Nobody was listening to my cry for help. I wanted help; I wanted all this stuff to go away. I tried to tell Social Welfare what was happening, but they didn’t want to listen. They didn’t care – so long as they got rid of me to a girls’ home, their problem went away, even if I was being sexually abused. Their problem went away, but my problem didn’t. It just kept happening, and it still remains with me. 

My attitude got worse, and they shipped me to Kingslea. From one ugly place straight into the next one. At Kingslea, I pushed to go to my aunty’s house, and eventually, I got there. There, I was loved – I wasn’t abused.  

I reckon we could have all had a better life. Me and my brothers and sisters, we’ve been robbed of our childhoods and we’ll never get them back. They’re gone forever.  

My brother, Sonny, he’ll never be ready to talk because there’s just too much pain. But he’s got Stephanie, he’ll be right. We respect our brother because he’s not ready. That’s kei te pai with us. We’ve got his back.  

What really hurt me was losing contact with my siblings. I only knew where some of them were, not all of them. Later, when I did cross paths with them, it was without the system knowing. Dad used to come and see us, and that was kept secret from the department, thank goodness, otherwise, they would have stopped him having access to us.  

It broke our father when we were all taken from him. He always believed we’d come home, and the funny thing was, we eventually did, one by one. They painted my father like a monster, but he was no monster to us. He didn’t sexually abuse us – it was the other lot who did all that damage to us.  

Heather Hopa

Year of birth: 1968

I remember our neighbours feeding us quite a lot. I think this is how it all came about, our neighbours’ concern. I remember the ugly things, you know? Like, reaching out for my sisters because we were all getting separated, and just screaming and crying.

We all lost contact with each other – I didn’t see my sister Denise at all. Even Stephanie and Sonny, who lived just down the road, I didn’t see them as kids growing up.  

Denise ended up in Lake Alice, and she’s been everywhere – not through her own doing. She’s just been passed around the system.  

Dad got worse when we were all ripped away from him – one minute we were there and the next we were all gone. He pretty much told the system to get fucked. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Social Welfare. He was broken – we were all broken, growing up without our dad and mum.  

I ended up living with whānau from my dad’s side for a few years. It wasn’t a good time. At nine years old I was getting raped. I tried to talk but I was just made to shut up because I was a nuisance or naughty or something. I got too much for my aunty and uncle, and they went to Social Welfare and I was shipped off.  

For years, I thought it was my fault. I blamed myself for bloody years because I was just taken away, no explanation, you know.  

I went to Miramar Girls’ Home – the social worker said I was naughty. That was no better. Getting touched by the staff was shit. You just had no control because they had the authority. I ran away and for a while, I was living in a Chevy with my mates. The police found me at the wharf in a container, sniffing glue and stuff. I was doing anything I could not to go back to Miramar. I certainly didn’t feel safe and secure in the girls’ home.  

It actually made the Evening Post newspaper, and my brother Alec saw it in the paper and showed Mum and said “I’ve found your daughter”.  

All the runaways go into lock-up. You can’t get out of it, doesn’t matter how hard you try. The only way is to behave and listen, to get out of there faster, then do the same thing – run away again.  

I went to stay with my sister Maryjane, and we were both happy with that. We got on, and I felt really safe and happy. I didn’t worry that someone was going to hurt me or touch me. She was just so loving and warm. Through all my years I was in care, that was my happiest time because I felt so safe.  

Social Welfare didn’t look after me – they didn’t look after any of us really. How can you not be allowed to see your siblings? It’s just as well I knew who they all were – their faces and names. And I’m not being silly. We didn’t really get to know one another until we made our way back to Levin – so as adults, it took us bloody years. We lost our mana, we lost everything. It feels like everything Māori was stripped away from us.  

Stephanie Hopa

Year of birth: 1970 

Sonny and I were taken to the Ōtaki Health Camp. We couldn’t understand why because nobody ever told us anything, where we’re going or why we’re going there, and it was terrifying. We got there and we were separated, and we didn’t see each other until church on Sunday.

My little brother Sonny, he wasn’t a communicator, still isn’t. At school, they’d have to pull me out of my classroom to go see him because he wouldn’t communicate with anyone. He’d whisper things to me and I’d have to talk to the teachers. That went on for years.  

We were shipped off to whānau, and when I was about seven or eight my older cousin started to sexually abuse me. He threatened me, he told me if I ever told anyone, he’d kill my brother Sonny. I kept it secret for years.  

The man who ran the local Social Welfare office labelled me a troublemaker. He said I was attention seeking, just like my older sisters. I didn’t know what that meant until later, and I thought, “Okay, but what does that mean? Really, what does that mean?” My cousin left town and word got around about what he’d done but there was no inquiry. I was just told I was a shit-stirrer, an attention seeker, and if I didn’t behave myself I was going to the girls’ home.  

I wasn’t allowed to communicate with Sonny, even though we went to the same school. Social Welfare said we weren’t allowed to associate with each other – how do you do that when you live in a tiny town like Foxton. But we used to see each other anyway – he’d jump out the window and come to see me. And at school, we spent all our time together.  

When my older siblings started coming back to Levin, I started asking why couldn’t I go and live with my dad. Maryjane, Christine and Alec had all come back, and Heather, and were living with Dad. I wasn’t allowed to and nor was my brother Sonny, and I couldn’t work that one out.  

Having a weekend visit with Dad was such a mission. We had to get special permission from Social Welfare.  

Even though he was a drunk and all the rest of it, he was 10 years sober before he died, and was never given the option to have us back, and I still don’t understand that. I was 16 years old when he died and I was so fucking angry because I didn’t get to spend time with him.  

A few other family members passed away not long after, in the space of two months, and I went off the rails. I couldn’t be fucked after that, I really couldn’t. I was doing well academically, I was netball captain and debating captain, school council secretary. Sonny was captain of the First XV. We had so much potential and it just all went out the window. Sonny could have been an All Black, no shit. Social Welfare never addressed what was going on.  

As soon as I got a chance to get back to my siblings, I did. Sonny came back and was living with Maryjane, and I followed not long after that. Sonny ended up in jail. All we ever wanted was to come home to be with our family. Sonny’s very angry, traumatised by it all. He still won’t communicate.  

I worked on myself so hard to be the person that I am today. There was a time when I was such a waste of space. My kids are my greatest achievement, I’m so proud of them. I’ve done everything I can to keep them safe and give them a better life than what I had.  

We’re all so broken in our whānau. We’re never going to properly heal from this stuff, but we just try to be the best people we can be with what’s left.

Denise Hopa

Year of birth: 1965

Denise has been under a Compulsory Treatment Order and is currently in care in a mental health facility.

I was admitted to Lake Alice. One day, they go, ‘Denise, you’re due for an injection’ and they didn’t say what it was. I got the shock big time. They put the wires in. They shocked me on my head, on my hip, on my leg. I was in a girls’ home, Fearon House, and the owner pulled me into the room and beat me up with a thick stick. What did I do? I hadn’t done anything wrong.  

Sister Stephanie on Denise:

My sister Denise is stuck in a shit system that’s still mistreating her – she’s still being abused. She’s been stuck in there for 40-something years, and we’ve been trying so hard to help her, but there’s nowhere for her to go. We keep being told there’s no funding; no other facilities.  

Denise is bipolar and schizophrenic with an intellectual disability. When we were all separated and tossed all over the place all those years back, she went to Lake Alice, where she had electric shock treatment. She’s done a tour of all the mental institutes in this country, as well as the girls’ homes and foster care.  

We want her to come home or closer to us but there’s no facilities. She’s in a facility now, and when she gets unwell, they ship her back to Ward 21 at Palmerston North Hospital. But that’s for acute cases, and she can only be there for so long, and then they ship her back. When is that going to change? She’s now got physical issues as well because of the long-term medication and the institutionalisation.  

I made enquiries and they said, “She’s telling you stories”. They say she’s making it up. They’re just dismissing it all, pushing it under the carpet. After everything I’ve been through, it pales in comparison to what she’s still going.[345]

Summary

Our experience shows what could happen to whānau Māori when the State intervened in our lives. Our whānau needed support. As brothers and sisters we wanted to stay together.

Instead we were sent by the State down many different paths, including foster homes, residential care, faith-based institutions, and Lake Alice – where we were abused and neglected, and disconnected from one another.  

It has taken time to work through the trauma of our experiences and what happened. We have come together as brothers and sisters. We have tried hard to rebuild our sibling relationships, to rebuild our whānau and to enhance the wairua and mana of our whānau. We have come forward to the Royal Commission to talk about our experiences, with the aim of ensuring no other whānau Māori ever have to go through what we did.

Footnotes