Dear Curious Minds,
It’s Friday which means it’s newsletter day. How did you spend Waitangi Day? In Part 1, I explored why marginalised groups sometimes invest in the very structures that undermine them. This sequel deepens that discussion by reflecting on personal experiences as a migrant, integrating key tenets of te ao Māori, and drawing on behavioural science theories while tackling a particularly thorny add-on: the historical (and ongoing) pressure for oppressed communities to be ‘nice,’ ‘peaceful,’ and ‘non-violent’ in their demands for justice, even as the oppression itself has been anything but polite. Thank you for being here, I appreciate you.
Every year, without fail, Waitangi Day sparks a familiar script in mainstream discourse.
An (unwelcome) leader speaks.
The mic is metaphorically (or literally) snatched away.
Public outrage erupts, not at the historical injustices being raised, but at the “tone” of the conversation.
It’s predictable. It’s exhausting. And it reveals something deeply uncomfortable about power: people only defend “free speech” when the voices speaking aren’t challenging their own status.
So let’s get to the real question: Why do so many of us feel uncomfortable when the ‘mic’ gets taken away, when Māori voices demand space on their own terms?
And before you answer, let’s put this into context. Māori haven’t just had the mic taken away. The mic has been burnt down, drowned, legislated against, and systematically erased for generations. There is a lot social psychology has got to say about why we demand niceness over justice.
When the Mic Is Never Yours to Begin With
As a Korean migrant, I’ve grown hypervigilance for the spaces I walk into. Whether it's a boardroom, a public forum, or even casual conversations about governance, the script is clear: there are expectations on how I should behave:
Speak well. Don’t be too critical. Be informed, but not confrontational. And, uber-importantly, remember that the dominant group is always doing its best, so criticism must be constructive and palatable.
This is the unspoken social contract for many migrants, particularly those of us racialised as model minorities. We are given access to certain spaces on loan, provided we don’t challenge the hand that feeds us. We are encouraged to “use our voice,” but only in a way that doesn’t make others uncomfortable. Be yourself, but as long as you aren’t making white structures that are graciously permitting you here uncomfortable.
So what happens when Māori, tangata whenua, speak unapologetically on their own whenua?
Suddenly, that contract is torn up. The room shifts. “Civility” is demanded. People say things like:
“This isn’t the right place for that conversation.”
“We need to come together, not divide.”
“Why do they have to make everything about race?”
The implicit message? Māori can have the mic, but only if they don’t disrupt the frequency.
The “Play Nice” Script: Where Did It Come From?
Throughout history, those in power have been rather fond of dispensing paternalistic advice to those they’re oppressing. “Protest peacefully,” they say, “We’re more likely to hear you.”
The irony is about as subtle as a rugby scrum. When you step back and see the full context—land theft, systemic racism, suppression of language and culture—it’s like someone cutting off your water supply, then inviting you to their garden party and asking you to mind the lawn.
A prime Aotearoa New Zealand example is the dynamic around Waitangi Day commemorations and protests at Parliament or significant landmarks. Public discourse often reduces these events to a neat expectation of “peaceful dialogue,” overlooking that historically, Māori activism has had to push hard against systemic barriers.
Meanwhile, the broader social commentary judges any passionate or heated expression as “unruly” or “inappropriate,” despite the layers of injustice that triggered it. While chanting, hakas, and more robust demonstrations are occasionally labelled “aggressive,” the underlying violence of forced land confiscations or cultural assimilation rarely gets the same moral judgement. Talk about a lopsided scoreboard.
Personal Reflections: When My Own Seat Felt Too Hot
I recall a time when I was discussing post-Korean war cultural division and fostering “inclusion and harmony”. I’ll admit it. I felt this twinge of discomfort when the conversation turned confrontational, particularly when a white male without any roots in Korea bluntly argued Korean should be eternally grateful for the freedom granted by Americans. My immediate, knee-jerk reaction was to think, ‘We don’t have to be so heated.’ Then I had to mentally slap myself (figuratively) and ask: “Isn’t the more significant ‘heat’ the war-at-any-cost mindset, daily microaggressions, the systemic hierarchical narrative, and the decades of colonial marginalisation? Why should we expect courtesy to remain bulletproof under this bs?”
This reveals a form of internalised systemic unfairness. Through cultural norms and socialisation, we are groomed to prefer calm and “logical” discourse, conveniently ignoring that the oppressive structures being criticised were anything but calm and logical in their creation.
It’s like chastising a drowning person for flailing in the water while neglecting the small detail that someone pushed them off the boat.
The “Play Nice” Script and the Migrant Condition
As a Korean migrant in Aotearoa New Zealand, I’ve had my fair share of encounters with the “model minority” myth: the idea that Asians, particularly East Asians, are the “good immigrants.” We work hard, don’t complain too much, and, crucially, don’t disrupt the status quo. It’s a condescending and deeply manipulative narrative designed to wedge us against Māori, Pasifika, and other racialised communities: an insidious way to reinforce white supremacy by rewarding certain groups for “playing nice” while punishing others for refusing to.
But here’s the kicker: Koreans, historically and culturally, are not passive. If you’ve ever witnessed a feminist Korean woman in action (or made the mistake of underestimating one), you’ll know that we do not subscribe to this fake demure stereotype. Korea has a long legacy of fierce resistance, uprisings, and unapologetic activism. From the March 1st Independence Movement against Japanese colonisation to contemporary feminist movements challenging deep-seated misogyny.
And yet, when we migrate to Western societies, we find ourselves boxed into this oxymoronic expectation: Be excellent but unthreatening. Be smart but not too outspoken. Speak perfect English but don’t speak out. Rise to positions of influence, but don’t use that influence to challenge injustice. This “niceness” trap isn’t just an expectation; it’s a social survival strategy we’re subtly taught to adopt. Combine that with the pervasive ‘tall poppy’ cut down in Aotearoa, you get a pretty potent mixture for a migrant child to do their best to spread themselves thin.
In the workplace, in governance, in activism, the pressure to be “diplomatic” manifests in how we navigate systemic power. And yet, diplomacy is often a one-sided game where only the marginalised are expected to swallow their anger, while the powerful get to maintain their status quo unchallenged.
The Contradiction of “Model Minority Niceness” and Korean Resistance
When my Korean-ness meets my feminist, intersectional, sustainability-professional self, I often feel like a glitch in the Matrix. The model minority myth suggests I should just be grateful for the opportunities I have, stay quiet about racial inequities, and maintain my palatable professionalism.
But my cultural instincts rebel.
I grew up in a country where Ajummas (middle-aged Korean women) will throw hands in a market if someone tries to cut the queue. Where student protests can paralyse entire cities. Where women-led resistance against digital sex crimes shook the nation so hard that politicians had no choice but to respond. Koreans have an almost genetic refusal to accept injustice quietly.
And yet, here in Aotearoa, I find myself hesitating. Not because I don’t want to fight, but because I’ve internalised the risk of being labelled "too aggressive," "too emotional," or worse, "difficult to work with." When I push back against systemic inequities, I’m conscious of the perception that I am “ruining the vibe” of civility.
But let’s be honest: who defines civility?
Te Ao Māori Lens: “Nice” vs. “Just”
Mana Motuhake vs. “Don’t Rock the Boat”
Te ao Māori concepts such as mana motuhake (autonomy, self-determination) and tino rangatiratanga (Māori sovereignty) directly challenge colonial structures. Yet, mainstream discourse often frames strong expressions of Māori rights as “divisive” or “radical”. Not because they are inherently aggressive, but because they threaten the comfort of power.
Similarly, migrants are often told to be grateful guests. The unspoken rule? Integrate, but don’t align too strongly with tangata whenua. Be a “good immigrant,” not one who questions why Māori are still fighting for their fundamental rights under Te Tiriti o Waitangi. The system is fine with us climbing the ladder, as long as we don’t ask who built it, or why some people are still forced to start from the bottom.
And yet, resisting injustice is tikanga. Protest isn’t just activism. It is a form of accountability and honouring agreements.
So when migrant communities are pitted against Māori, it’s important to ask: Who benefits from us staying quiet? Because history tells us it’s certainly not us.
Behavioural Science 101: Why We’re Conditioned to “Be Nice”
1. Social Identity Theory Meets Status Quo Bias
Social Identity Theory (Tajfel & Turner, 1979) shows how people align with their social groups. When migrants hear that “New Zealand is a fair and tolerant society,” we want to believe it. No one wants to admit that we might be part of a rigged system—one where our economic contributions are welcomed but our political voices are not.
Meanwhile, Status Quo Bias (Kahneman et al., 1991) makes us more comfortable with existing power dynamics, even if they are unfair, because change feels riskier than compliance. And for many migrants, staying safe in the system means playing by its rules.
2. Cognitive Dissonance: When “Good Migrants” Start Asking Hard Questions
The moment you realise that your hard work, your assimilation, and your fluency in English don’t protect you from racism, you face cognitive dissonance (Festinger, 1957). And when you start speaking up, the system’s response is clear:
“You’re not Māori. Why are you getting involved in this?”
“You’re lucky to be here. It’s not your fight.”
“New Zealand isn’t racist. You’re just being sensitive.”
These messages aren’t just random comments. They are deliberate nudges to make you doubt your right to resist.
Migrant Reflections: When We Are Given the Mic, But Not the Power
As a Korean, I have never expected the mic to be mine. Migrants know, instinctively, that speaking out comes with risks. We are reminded (through policies, through social attitudes, through unspoken rules) that we are here conditionally.
We are encouraged to succeed within the system, not to critique the system itself.
This is why so many Asian migrants, particularly those socialised under the model minority myth, hesitate when it comes to supporting Māori sovereignty. We have been fed the same narrative of niceness, obedience, and gratitude. We have been told that speaking up could make us less welcome.
But here’s the truth: The same colonial system that asks migrants to be grateful is the same system that asks Māori to be quiet.
Resisting the Niceness Trap: What We Can Do
1. Reject the “Model Minority” Carrot
Next time someone compliments Asian migrants for “working hard” while dismissing Māori and Pasifika struggles, let’s name the game. The real question is: Why are certain groups rewarded for silence, while others are punished for seeking justice?
2. Decolonise Our Own Biases
Migrants (myself included) were often raised in countries where whiteness was aspirational. Our own histories of colonisation make us vulnerable to replicating harmful ideas about who is “deserving” of justice. Let’s unlearn that together.
3. Normalise Anger, Not Just Diplomacy
If an injustice is violent, why should the response be polite? Not every conversation needs to be a well-rehearsed corporate diversity seminar. Some things deserve rage. Let’s stop tone-policing ourselves.
What Do We Do With the Mic?
1. Stop Framing Māori Resistance as “Disruptive”
Māori taking up space on Waitangi Day isn’t a disruption. It’s restoration. The real disruption was colonisation—the theft, the silencing, the legislated erasure. Māori using their voice today isn’t “taking away” from anyone else. It is merely setting the record straight.
2. Check Our Own Reaction to Discomfort
If you feel uneasy when Māori express anger, ask yourself: Why does this emotion feel threatening? Is it because we’ve been conditioned to think of anger as inherently bad, or because we fear what real accountability might look like?
3. Migrants: Recognise Our Place in This Story
We must be honest about our position in this colonial framework. Asian migrants, in particular, are often upheld as “evidence” that success is possible under the system while ignoring that the system itself is built on Māori dispossession.
Instead of falling into the trap of proximity to whiteness, we can use our position to amplify, not erase, the kaupapa Māori movement.
Final Thoughts: Who Has the Mic, and Who Has the Power?
The problem has never been that Māori speak too much. The problem is that they were denied their voice for so long that any assertion of it now feels like an interruption—even though it is merely a return to what should have always been.
This is the legacy of colonialism: those who have held power for centuries mistake the end of unchecked dominance for oppression.
So this Waitangi season, if your first reaction to Māori asserting their voice is discomfort, pause. Ask yourself:
Who has traditionally held the mic in this country?
Why does it feel like a loss when Māori take it back?
And if the mic had been stolen from you for generations, how loud would you be when you finally got it back?
Because if you truly believe in justice, equity, and reconciliation, you won’t fear Māori taking the mic.
You’ll help make sure the batteries never run out again.