The Green Party MP Tamatha Paul has recently attracted attention – and some criticism – for her impassioned speech in Parliament, in which she delivered a trifecta of accusations: that English is a “bastardisation” of other languages; that the Welsh example of state-backed bilingualism was admirable; and that te reo

Certainly, the expansion of English into other languages is widespread and growing. In the Balkans, for example, although the British never colonised the territory, nor had any noticeable cultural presence there, Serbo-Croatian has experienced traces of Anglicisation, albeit on a very slight scale. Words such as “vikendica”, for example, which refers to a country cottage people visit, has as its root “weekend”. And there is a growing list of English words being used in the language in this way.

Colonisation has made te reo Māori particularly susceptible to such forces of linguistic hybridity, with loan words now a significant feature of the language. Debate over words such as “kawanatanga” (with its root of “governor”) is just one instance of how this topic needs to be treated with care, and how its implications radiate out beyond mere word choice.

The example of Welsh

Paul is also correct that in Wales, official signs (on roads and government buildings, for example) place Welsh above English.

However, in terms of language revitalisation, this was not necessarily the best example to cite. In 1990, Welsh was made a compulsory subject in Wales for students from the age of 5 to 14. In 1999, this compulsion was extended to students up to the age of 16. And in 2011, bilingualism in road signs and some government documents was mandated.

However, between 2001 and 2011, there was a decline both in the absolute number of Welsh speakers and their proportion in the population of Wales as a whole. Like practically all countries where this challenge exists, Wales has yet to discover the alchemic formula to revive fully an indigenous second language.

Te Reo was systematically beaten out of Māori children

There are several recorded accounts of children being beaten for speaking te reo Māori in school during the 19th century and into the early decades of the 20th century. Evidence presented to the Waitangi Tribunal testifies to this. However, there are two possible areas of concern with Paul’s framing of the statement.

Firstly, these episodes were not “systematic”, but sporadic. There was never any state policy to punish people for the language they spoke (perhaps because the state had more effective means of marginalising te reo Māori).

And secondly, there is no evidence anywhere internationally of a language being lost because children were prohibited from speaking it at school. As an example, my Dutch and Croatian friends never spoke their languages at school, but have remained fluent in them.

The greater problem te reo Māori faced from the mid-19th century was the implementation of numerous government measures to discourage its use, coupled with the growing demographic dominance by English speakers in the country from the 1860s, which militated against the prospects of the language maintaining an equal footing with this linguistic newcomer. Such was the language ecosystem that had evolved by the early 20th century that social, political, economic, educational and practically all other areas of opportunity required English to be the language of communication.

Therein lies the core of the challenge in revitalising te reo Māori.

Paul’s concerns over the present state of the language are justified and her anxiety is heartfelt. Whether her rhetorical force advances the cause, though, will be in the ear of the beholder. But politics aside, she has done the country a favour by pushing this issue to the forefront of public attention.

Paul Moon is Professor of History at the Faculty of Māori Development at the Auckland University of Technology, where he has taught since 1993. He has worked on several Waitangi Tribunal claims.

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