It's hard to write about this. While I'm happy to share (overshare) my own stories and I frequently do, horny, heartbroken, haggard, whatever, it feels presumptuous to write about other people's pain. Not to mention once when I wrote about suicide, I got myself into public trouble. (Sample email responses: You are a filthy human maggot/tacky goblin).
So, a disclaimer. This isn't my story to tell. I am not Maori. I have not experienced the death of a close family member by suicide.
But I was moved to read that new claims before the Waitangi Tribunal will argue colonisation is partly responsible for the high suicide rate among Maori ("The taniwha is with us today", Saturday December 9). The tone of the Herald news story was admirably non-histrionic; no pearl-clutching and no talkback-baiting "PC gone mad". This is an encouraging sign, I think.
The story merely noted the austere facts; the suicide rate for Maori last year was 21.7 deaths per 100,000 people, compared with 14.6 per 100,000 for people of European descent. In the demographic of girls aged 10-14, all who took their own lives were Maori. So although I acknowledge there are many people better qualified to write about this, I also have something to say. Only a few years ago I would have struggled to understand how colonisation could be responsible for modern day suicide statistics. Since then, I have been on a rambling journey of education and consciousness-raising: university, therapy, personal collapse, arguing with Don Brash. (I tried).
I've changed. But I still remember what stubborn resistance I used to have to acknowledging that the social problems we are grappling with now could be linked to the shame and trauma passed down through generations. We all know Faulkner's famous quote: "The past is never dead. It's not even past." So why is this so hard to accept? Maybe I was just an arsehole. But I think there are also other reasons.