Every Inch a King
The Māori King Movement and the life of the permanent things
The death of Tūheitia Pōtatau Te Wherowhero VII and the ascension of his daughter, Nga wai hono i te Po, illustrate the persistence of monarchies, both official and claimed, in our modern world.
Across the globe, there remain those who claim, in some form or another, to be the rightful heirs to long-lost thrones. Louis XX in Spain continues to assert his Bourbon-Legitimist claim to France. Most monarchists recognise Jean, Count of Paris, head of the House of Orléans, as the legitimate successor as Jean IV. A smaller number of diehards believe Jean-Christophe, Prince Napoléon, has the strongest claim to the throne as Napoleon VII.
The House of Savoy, once Italy’s royal family, was deposed in a 1946 referendum, widely regarded as manipulated by communists. The male heirs of the family were banished from Italy under a law that prohibited their return unless they renounced all claims to the throne. Vittorio Emanuele, the current heir, formally renounced his claim to facilitate the lifting of this ban in 2002.
Franz, Duke of Bavaria, is descended from the Stuarts and is therefore regarded by some as the true king of England, Scotland, and Ireland. While he does not actively pursue this claim, he has never exactly renounced it either. In his memoirs, Franz himself refers to his Jacobite claim as a "charming historical curiosity," reflecting indifference without fully closing the door on the legacy.
Around the world, claimants to defunct thrones have varying degrees of ongoing relevance. In South Africa, the Zulu kings still hold considerable social and cultural influence, even without political power. In Hawaii, the descendants of the House of Kamehameha focus on preserving their heritage, with their royal legacy rooted in cultural and historical significance rather than any claim to authority. Jin Yuzhang, the rightful heir to China’s Qing dynasty, lives and works as a humble civil servant, occasionally giving interviews about the former imperial family.
The Māori King Movement, or Kīngitanga, is hardly unique in this regard, though it is unique to us.
Established in 1858, it was born from the desire to unify the Māori people in the face of increasing land alienation to European settlers. The movement sought to create a Māori monarch who could stand on equal footing with Queen Victoria to negotiate with the Crown and protect Māori land.
Pōtatau Te Wherowhero, the first Māori King, was not a figurehead. The movement even established an alternative government with its own flag, council, and newspaper. It controlled territory.
Of course, the Kīngitanga never truly became the monarchy of all Māori. Influential iwi such as Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Porou, and Tuhoe never went along with the idea. The movement produced a "Māori King," rather than a "King of the Māori," which is an important distinction many in the media tend to overlook.
The British Crown did not appreciate the challenge to its authority, quite naturally. The colonial government invaded Waikato in 1863, leading to a series of battles that resulted in the eventual defeat of Kīngitanga forces. The movement’s territorial ambitions were curtailed, and the Māori King and his supporters retreated into what we still call the King Country.
It was a strategic retreat, both militarily and symbolically. Tāwhiao, the second Māori King, led his people through twenty years of exile in the King Country, a period he likened to the Israelites’ wandering in the wilderness. During this time, the movement became less about territorial control and more about cultural survival.
As the Kīngitanga evolved, it became clear that its strength lay not in its ability to wield power but in its ability to endure. By the time Mahuta Tāwhiao, the third Māori King, took the throne in 1894, the Kīngitanga had entered a new phase. Mahuta briefly served in the New Zealand Legislative Council, attempting to work within the political system to secure compensation for the land lost during the wars.
Under Koroki Mahuta and later his daughter, Te Atairangikaahu, the Māori King Movement became a symbol of Māori resilience. Te Atairangikaahu’s reign, which spanned forty years, saw the Kīngitanga grow into a respected institution, not just for Waikato-Tainui but for all New Zealanders.
She was succeeded in 2006 by her son, Tūheitia Paki, whose reign continued until his sad death at the end of last month.
There has been no shortage of those on the right arguing that the Māori King Movement is, at best, an anachronism and something to which the media should pay less attention. They have argued that the media’s coverage of the King’s death is overblown – and it is true that local media tends to inflate the significance of such events. But to dismiss the Kīngitanga as an irrelevant institution is to misunderstand its importance.
Monarchies, whether in New Zealand, Africa, or Europe, serve a purpose beyond government. They are symbols of continuity, embodiments of tradition and identity. They are bridges to history – even when they have been deposed.
Traditions do not outlive their practical value merely because they have become symbolic. When we hold onto them, we create and pass on living repositories of collective memory. They remind us that popular opinion exists at a whim and insulate us against the arrogance of believing that the world belongs solely to the living.
A decline of ritual and ceremony almost always goes hand in hand with a deeper erosion of civilisation itself. Unwinding structures that reflect life beyond the material creates a collective forgetfulness of the fact that societies are built slowly and can be undone in short order.
The reckless hands of those who believe themselves unbound by the past are always hard at work. I am not sure why conservatives, who are meant to see the past as the foundation upon which all else stands, should be among them. The Kīngitanga is part of our past, and to lose it would be to risk becoming even more unmoored in the directionless currents of the present.
Jin Yuzhang, the rightful heir to China’s Qing dynasty, lives and works as a humble civil servant, occasionally giving interviews about the former imperial family - thanks that's interesting.
And as monarchs' descendants go, this guy is pretty cool: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdinand_Habsburg_(racing_driver)
I have a book written about the formation of the King movement. The Maori King, by John Gorst, first published in 1864. A lot of content was that of Wiremu Tamihana. That book says, whilst it is true that the formation involved land issues, there were a number of other drivers. The Treaty of Waitangi, dramatically reduced the power of the chiefs, over their own people. they no longer could control the lower people, the released slaves and others. so they begged England to set up proper law and order. There was rampant promiscuity, and drunkenness, and the chiefs were, rightly, very concerned about this. There was crime from armed bands along the Waikato river, threatening both maori and settlers. The British made token attempts at setting up Maori constables as a type of police force, but for the most part, these new police just took the money and did very little, with one exception. Britain was not prepared to sufficiently fund a proper police force, something that could be seen as an obvious breach of the Treaty. So in desperation the idea of a king system was discussed, with the British example to go from.