ABUSING POWER AND ITS MALCONTENTS: DEMYSTIFYING NEW ZEALAND

          Being an outsider to New Zealand, looking in, I can attest to the positive images portrayed by New Zealanders about New Zealand to the rest of the world: New Zealand is a multicultural society, accentuated by reticent landscapes and inhabited by equally restrained people eager to share space and stories with strangers. I also often hear this self-characterization from people here: Kiwis like to help people. In small strokes, perhaps New Zealanders are helpful, but when it really counts, the well-being of the average everyday Kiwi is stymied by this inexplicable, understated desire to undermine others. Or, at least, that is what I interpret in the conduct of those in authority, after learning from people victimized by abuse of power, who relayed to me their experiences with institutions of power. I have to admit that the stories of Kiwis willing to share their personal challenges with me reveal behavioural patterns of authority that are telling of an underground narrative that belies corruptions in many forms, albeit not readily discernible to the unsuspecting stranger.

            I happened upon a book, Dirty Politics (Hager, Craig Cotton Publishing 2014), which sheds some light on a psychology proudly brandished by the characters the author highlights in the book that got me thinking about some of the underhanded ways in which Kiwis operate using authoritative channels. The author highlights the people, who have inherited power through political party affiliations, using their prestige to influence public opinion, even if their representations are based on lies. The book’s author will have one believe that the culture of New Zealand integrity is gripped by the loose morals of National Party acolytes. He names several individuals with birthrights in or loyalties to the National Party who can easily influence institutional politics – and even people.

            I had initially discarded the contents of this book as unconnected to the deceptions with which I had had to contend at both universities, Massey and Auckland . . . until I read page 60 of the book, in which the author names a member of the University of Auckland Council (whose contract ended in December 2014), who has served as a National Party lawyer. This bit of information got me thinking about how deeply into the operations of these educational institutions the tentacles of the National Party reach. And how much their influence disturbs the system of checks and balances normally guaranteed by laws protecting civil and human rights.

            When I learned of this lawyer’s political connections, I knew my suspicions about the education at the University of Auckland as being more political than educational had merit. This attorney, being schooled in the law, has the authority to advise people – I would even conjecture – incorrectly on the specifics of the law. As today's blog will eventually inform, other authority figures in various circumstances have similarly failed to scrutinize the legality of advice or conduct of professional peers. Because there are impacts on the individual – the victim, if you will - if accountability is not upheld; failing to exercise accountability also signifies violations of human rights standards in New Zealand, as elsewhere.

Words, such as respecting one’s dignity, autonomy, and integrity are included in such doctrines to prevent anyone in authority to have unilateral control over the life of another. Freedoms of choice and from suffering are considered inalienable rights, as is the freedom to pursue a qualification that could potentially open doors is. Under human rights conditions, these freedoms are supported and fostered through law. And so, when anyone in authority is engages in wrongdoing, the systems holds that authority figure accountable. Checks and balances are, understandably, regarded to be integral to human rights.   

Yet, when I think back to the number of times in which deception had influenced my decisions and resulted in financial and time losses to me, I remember feeling no sense of autonomy. Moreover, at no time during the 29 months of studying here, filing informal and then formal complaints with the appropriate authorities, and asking for assistance with changing supervisors so that I could make progress on my doctorate thesis, could I remember when either university had been forced to take responsibility. Take, for instance, the false scholarship letter from Massey University sent to me, which influenced my decision to attend Massey. Only later, after arriving at the school, did I learn that the person who had signed the letter did not exist. There were no offers of an alternative scholarship to replace the alleged offer of a scholarship with a real one. When I complained about the assaults on me by my primary supervisor while at Massey, this concern was treated with humour by those in authority. The other staff, who had accompanied this supervisor to the lounge, had thought the abuse to me was simply funny, revealed through the snickering of some staff in the 3^rd floor lounge, because the personal development of my primary supervisor there was closer to that of a child, so her academic friend had opined.  

And then, the efforts I made to replace my current PhD Committee with two academics, who took their responsibilities more seriously, fell on deaf ears. Despite filing three separate forms requesting a change of supervisors, I received no answer from the Graduate Centre. And when I asked for a more objective review of my academic work, I failed to get that – only more loyalties from the other workers. I wondered if someone in greater power was pulling strings and influencing the people, who had the power to affect my doctoral candidacy. In the end, they did.

In the US, breaching civil and other laws, as well as university statutes carries penalties. The university, for instance, will lose federal funds, including the chance to compete for government-funded grants. Professors acting against the educational interests of students are generally punished by being forced to go on a leave of absence or are terminated. Academics overall do not retain their job if they do not take their responsibilities seriously. Deception, moreover, is not tolerated at any level. The university takes responsibility and the student is generally compensated if complaints are filed. There are examples of cases in the US, where punishments due to regulatory or legislative violations have been carried out.

My alienation from New Zealand, I have since learned, is shared by others, some more rooted to New Zealand than even those who proudly call themselves Kiwi. What happens when accountability and thereby human rights principles are not upheld? Their stories reveal a more accurate truth. There is the story of a Maori man convicted of rape and murder in the absence of DNA evidence directly linking him to the crime. The victim had not this convicted man’s DNA on her body, but that of another. The prosecutor and police knew this about the evidence, but the Maori man was convicted anyway. Because of the refusal to accept the more truthful evidence, public sentiment was that the person whose DNA was found on the murdered victim was a police informant.

This verdict further conveys that anyone can be fingered for a crime and be found guilty even in the absence of physical evidence.

New Zealand is free from accountability – and in some instances I have learned about outright refusal to take responsibility to the extent that they will create new interpretations just to suit their purposes of covering for another entity. My friend calls it double speak – or finding excuses to circumvent responsibility. My friend has been victimized by this double speak witnessed by me. Over the last eight months, we have been in a dispute with an energy company, which refused to accept responsibility for the money laundering it experienced by two of its employees. The white collar crime made the New Zealand Herald, albeit not front page news. (Only rugby news gets that honor). Instead of addressing the crime in isolation of its customers by taking the loss, but investigating ways they could cushion it using the full extent of the law, I deduced that the company tried to compensate for the money lost in the laundering by charging debts to their customers. We questioned the truthfulness of the debt, reviewed his receipts and asked for invoices from the energy company so that we could corroborate their information with ours. We learned that he did not owe any money on the large portion of the debt and are now disputing the amount of the other portion. Not to ask for compensation, mind you, but so that my friend can pay what he truthfully owes rather than pay a fabricated amount. Up to now, the energy company has not responded with the correct amount of his debt despite reassurances that someone will "get back to him."

This same energy company refused to pay him his annual dividend, guaranteed to anyone who is a member of the energy company, although he was sent a letter some months ago telling him to expect one. My friend phoned to enquire after it a few days after the disbursements ended, and he was told by a clerk at this organization that his address had been listed as “vacant”. (But, the letter of dividend notification safely arrived at his house). This latest action indicated that someone was playing games, and possibly punishing my firend for complaining about his outrageous bill.

In another case, a Hungarian immigrant cum Kiwi, who helped me get my pay in February from the onion contractor, told me that he had lost $35,000 on a house deal. How does one lose that kind of money if the paperwork is in place? I didn’t get the impression that this immigrant was innocent about business dealings. Another family from the Middle East also lost a considerable amount of money following the signing of papers to invest in New Zealand. This family owns a resort in the Pacific and is I assume knowledgeable enough about business investments to be able to read the fine print. So, how did they lose money on this investment?

After my experience with these two universities, in which the leadership has demonstrated only the ability to find excuses and a governance in the country that refuses to respond constructively and lawfully to laws that protect individuals from being swindled, I can only guess that those in authority choose not to act.

To get away with swindling, defined by the Oxford English dictionary as the “use of deception to obtain money or possessions from someone,” one would either have to outright lie or reinterpret the terms of, for example, a contract or a written agreement without accountability. In other words, those in higher authority would have to enforce the law when breached, but what happens when violations are merely ignored? When government officials fail to enforce, they participate in the deception. This is called racketeering.  

             Based on the number of stories I have heard from others regarding their doctoral experience and with authorities in New Zealand, and on my experience with the University of Auckland and Massey University, I would classify the failure to uphold the law and protect victims from suffering the financial and emotional consequences of deception as racketeering. This is because the New Zealand system tends to misrepresent itself. The New Zealand legal system misrepresents its commitment to human and civil rights. The universities misrepresents its capabilities ad services. Misrepresentation of services or academic capabilities is reflective of the dishonesty exercised by these universities to attract both domestic and international students. The same has been evidently true with other business dealings, according to the testimonies of others, who have been burned by the Kiwi system. Double speak, indeed.           

THE NORTHLAND DISTRICT

On the weekend of Febuary 14^th, I was invited to a weekend meeting held by my friend’s hapu. We stayed at their marae (extended family) in Hokianga, a tiny rural community in the Northland District. This building, consisting of a large meeting room, which doubles as open sleeping quarters, a dining space conjoined to the spacious kitchen, and male and female bathrooms, overlooks the Tapuwae (Sacred Feet) River. This river runs further inland and spills out into the Hokianga Harbor. Just beyond the water sits the Rawene ferry harbor. A vehicular ferry crosses the short distance between Rawene, a costal fisheries town, and the Kohu Kohu ferry landing. Hokianga Road leads visitors farther east and west. A ten minute drive along the north-eastern route on this road takes ferry riders to Kohu Kohu, an equally small town with an illustrious history of wars, trade, and missionary settlements.   

The ambience of the Kohu Kohu is punctuated with historical artifacts, which give it a feeling of settler quaintness. The first rail carriage is displayed at the edge of the town centre; the first bridge in New Zealand is preserved and the history of how it came to be in Kohu Kohu is written on a board. Where tall high rises would be, there are instead mostly single story, colonial-style and bungalow buildings. A memorial to fallen war heroes, marking the entryway to the town pier, commemorates these communities’ intimate relationship with patriotic losses. Maori history in contrast is more subdued, interwoven quietly into the strands of the more vocal, European fabric. The small town character is further pronounced by the typical sounds of nature; noises associated with traffic and industry are replaced by the rustling of leaves that brush against foliage, the high-pitched squeals of sea birds, and the steady murmurs of insects.

There are many reminders of colonial settlement here. The marae, too, reveals its ties to the past. The walls of the marae are filled with photos of kin, who had served in wars, had built the first, thatched-roof marae, and those who had built the first Catholic Church in Hokianga. This church, its stature dignified by a large cross at the steeple, can be seen clear across the Tapuwae River from various points along Hokianga Road. The marae’s family tree is illustrated through last names. Proof of bloodline is in the faces of extended family members who bore traces of features inherited from their progenitors.  

Traces of this history are mapped on the face of my friend. His nose resembles that of a dark-skinned uncle and his mouth and chin look very much like those of a matrilineal aunt, whose features divulged a strong, European lineage. His face leaves no doubt that he is a part of these souls. He had told me that he was Maori by virtue of his birth mother; he talked occasionally about his family in the North, and explained bits and pieces of Maori culture to me. His words would sometimes be peppered with Maori terminology, informing me that he understood the language better than he had at first let on. Not able to speak or understand the language, I often got lost during revelations about his other culture.

On the day of the meeting, I decided to walk to the local library, a mere 6 kilometers away from the marae. Along the way, however, I ran into a black-and-white “backpackers” sign pointing to a dirt road to the left of me. A sign at the edge of this dirt road identified it as the Tree House Backpackers. Certain there was internet connection there, I turned in and made enquiries. The owner greeted me and offered to sell me internet time and a cup of coffee. As we went through the motions of paying, setting me up with the internet so I could send my curriculum vitae to a research institution in Potsdam, Germany, and serving coffee, I learned that the owner and her husband, both from Australia, sort of came into the Tree House by chance. After letting people traveling to the Northland stay on their property, they decided to convert it into a backpackers’ hostel. They built and expanded over a number of years, adding bungalows and more rooms, to become a full service hostel.       

I must say that I was impressed by the cleanliness of the hostel and the hospitality of the owner. Although I wasn’t a paying guest there, she accommodated my needs, very much like my hosts at the marae. The hostel is surrounded by nature, as the sleeping and eating quarters are nested in the back of the road towards the mountains. I perused through the tourist materials as I waited for my coffee to steep in the press, and discovered that the owners sponsor nature walks amongst the kiwi birds that as I learned over this weekend are plentiful in this area. Most importantly, this cul de sac of a hostel is extremely quiet. On this particular later morning, the fruit trees growing in the property and wildlife kept me company. The only sounds indicating the presence of humans are the muffled conversations of a couple in the parking lot and the distant shuffling of footsteps in the main room below where I sat with my book and brew.

The beautiful setting of the hostel rivals that of this area. Apart from the occasional car on the road, tranquility characterizes the ambience of Kohu Kohu and Hokianga. The landscape is dominated by green hills, coastal waters, swampy river banks, and lush foliage. Losses of Kuari forests, while devastating to the balance of the ecosystem, failed to destroy the beauty of this cresecent-shaped community in the lower northland. Even the Lonely Planet seems to know nothing about it. The pages devoted to the Northland District acknowledges Whangare, Keith Urban’s hometown, the Coromandel Region, the Kauri Forest Coastline, Waitangi, and Thames. Not surprisingly, the Lonely Planet devotes most of the pages written about this district to European settlements. There are no words on the changing demographics of this region; it could be that compared to the Auckland districts, the migration patterns of this region is somewhat inert and doesn't inspire analysis from some visitors.

Something else I found remarkable about this area was the food. Though much of what is produced here can be bought anywhere in New Zealand, the flavors of the lamb from a lamb farm not far from the marae of my friend’s cousin and the kumera, which I bought from the local pub, tasted sweeter and more wholesome than any other I had tasted in my time in New Zealand. The cousin had fed us on the evening of our arrival, treating us to a fare of roasted lamb and root vegetables roasted in his oven in a very simple way. On our final hours, we were treated to mussels and sea urchin harvested from the coast. The flavor of the urchin lingered on my tongue, attesting to the freshness of these newly harvested water bounties. The sweetness of the sea urchins was especially delightful since the ones I have tasted in Japan were a little bitter. Besides being sweet, these also had the texture of durian flesh. Mmmmmmm.

At the end of this weekend, my friend’s hapu took a boat ride along the Tapuwae. This ride exposed the channels, which jut out onto the mainland, and gives a different scenic view. One of the elders told stories about the times when, in his childhood, they collected mussels buried in the sandbanks of the River and fished for mullet, which still inhabit the river. No doubt these fish find sanctuary in the tangled roots of the mangroves that are planted like permanent fixtures all along the length of the river’s edges.

It was a learning weekend for me, one that allowed me to understand a little more about European-Maori relations and to catch a deeper glimpse into the beginnings of this relationship. Upon reading more about the Northland District in the Lonely Planet, I learned that this district bore the marks of the first European settlements and the painful concessions made by the Maori in the Waitangi Treaty. Land contestations continue today. 

           

The marae

A view of the Tapuwae River from Hokianga Road

Sunrise at the Marae

The Tapuwae while on the boat ride

Another view of the Tapuwae at the edge of Hokianga Road

Scenic view from the hill next to the Catholic Church

Coastal view on the drive to Rawene Ferry landing

Catholic Church built by Rob's kin

On the same route along Kauri Coastline

The vehicular ferry running between Hokianga and Rawene

Kohu Kohu

Arc commemorating fallen war heroes

Maori wood carvings on display near Kohu Kohu centre

Rob's carving

View of tin coastal settlement from Kohu Kohu town

THE SCRAMBLE FOR JOBS

I listened to the sound of the wind gaily whistling above me. I could see its shadow circling high above my head, forming elongated halos against the clear blue sky. Not a grey cloud in sight to threaten rain. Across the endless rows of red onions, I watched black-hooded goats nibbling on un-mowed grass, braying to no one in particular in between mouthfuls of green blade. The goats and I were separated by distance and a wooden fence. The gaps between each post were covered with chicken wiring, allowing me to take in the gentle scenery of rolling hills and wildlife.

The smell of the onions lingered in the air. Unlike the late summer scent of strawberries at the previous farm by the airport, a sweetness inviting me to work faster and to keep going, the onion aroma was somewhat nauseating and made me want to stop every time I progressed an inch towards completing the row.  

With this job, I was on my hands and knees most days, overworking my bones just to finish so I could get paid. Although this job brought me outdoors, I was not satisfied picking onions. The pay at thirty five cents a meter was low; even after clipping for eight hours, the average hourly wage was less than the minimum. Against the law in New Zealand, I think, but those responsible don’t seem to be held accountable.

The attitude of the contractor made the job even more unbearable. It was difficult pinning down exactly where I would be clipping next, which made it difficult to predict what would happen in the next few weeks. Since I am still in the middle of my appeal at the University of Auckland, but this time was awaiting responses from three entities external to the university responsible for ensuring policies are followed, I needed to work in order to be able to pay my room and board.

It was also hard getting a time-frame from the contractor about the length of the onion season. When I asked, she didn’t answer, which is not an unusual response from her. Silence was usually the go-to answer even if she had one. This lack of information made it difficult to prepare for my next step: will I need to find another short-term job or will the onion season last long enough to keep me employed until the end of the March, when my student visa expires?

It was equally hard getting the contractor to give an honest measurement of the onion rows. The measurements she gave while the rows were being clipped were different from those when the rows were completed. After the second time, it was obvious she changed the measurements, feigning ignorance about where in the block I had clipped, in order to pinch me of some dollars. In the most recent interaction we had, she even claimed that I hadn’t returned the clippers she had lent me and was, therefore, withholding $50.00 until the clippers were returned. After informing her that I had returned the clippers to the husband of the family she knew, she declared in her shouting voice, “I don’t know that family!” I retorted, “Yes you do. Their children are students at the school where you teach and you had spoken to the wife of this husband on the day they gave me a ride to the Papakura rail station.” Funny enough, when he asked for those clippers to be returned to him, he used the same reasoning as the contractor – that they belonged to him, that they cost him $36.00 each. 

These employment issues merely added to the weight of the burdens forced onto me by the politics of the University of Auckland and the bureaucracy of the New Zealand government. I was forced to enter the labor market during the appeal process with the university leadership at the University of Auckland, in which I pointed out the failure of the university to objectively evaluate my academic work. I was not prepared to begin searching for jobs, and certainly not prepared to work in low-skilled employment, since my intention in coming to New Zealand was to be trained as a career academic. I had planned to study full-time, intended to devote all my time to designing my doctorate research, preparing for my fieldwork, and then completing the writing of my thesis before the doctoral examination. This thesis would have given me entry into a career in which I could influence my field, so one can imagine how important this training was to me.

When I entered the appeal process at the University of Auckland, I was forced to be a competitor in the low-skilled labor market just so I could have a place to live and to eat. I decided to look for farm jobs because most were seasonal and picking and packing did not require a lot of training. I wanted to be in and out so that I could file the paperwork to resume my studies and leave for my fieldwork. Since I have been in this situation, I learned that the Kiwi job market is much tighter and constrained than policymakers would have one believe. This was the case even in the farm industry; finding farm work has not been as easy here as it was for me when I did the Harvest Trail in Australia many moons ago. In New Zealand, there aren’t that many farm jobs and most are not advertised. Moreover, many of the jobs I approached tended to protect certain ethnic groups, whereas my experience in Australia demonstrated little barriers. As long as I wanted to work and was willing to learn how to grade fruit or to spot the fruits the farmer wanted picked, I got the job. The reality I was seeing here was far different from the reality portrayed by the New Zealand Herald and the Ministry of Economic Development, both of which tend to put the job market in a more positive light.

In New Zealand, with respect to the first job to which I had applied, I was not called for several weeks. On the application, I pointed out I had farm work experience and was consequently familiar with the nature of the work and its physical demands. Only after I had spoken with a law firm through the services offered by the Mangere Community Law Centre about another matter, whereby an attorney at this firm had asked me whether or not I had been looking for work, and if so, where, did I get a call from someone who I presumed to be one of the owners of this farm. With the second job, on the onion fields, I had to call the number listed in the ad several times before the contractor relented and allowed me to start. The barriers remained, however, as the owner failed to show up at the agreed upon meeting spot at the Mobil gas station in Mercer, forcing my co-clipping, co-worker and I to look for the farm.    

Unfortunately, the headaches with this onion contractor didn’t end at the completion of the block. After repeated attempts of texting and calling her in order to find out when to pick up my wages (although with onion pickers belonging to her ethnic group, she offered to drive to their house, to districts as far away from her house in Pukekawa as Mangere, which is where I live) and where, she eventually informed me in a very loud and terse voice that I will have to go to her house (more than an hour away) to pick it up instead of meeting at a place that we both could easily reach – say, a place like Pukekohe rail station.

This woman’s ugly disposition did not end there. On the day she relented to pay me, I was driven to her house by my companion and his friend. What I thought would be a peaceful exchange turned out to be a verbal onslaught of accusations from the onion contractor and justifications for her actions. She accused the driver of swearing at her husband (he did not) and seemed to accuse me of wrongdoing, but I couldn’t pin down what this was. I wanted to get paid for the work I had done, at times in the sweltering dry heat, and once in a drizzle. The only thing she had demonstrated with her actions is that she is a pathological liar and a cheater: she lied about my not returning the clippers just so she could pinch my wages, about not knowing the husband who claimed he was the owner of the clippers so she could justify pinching my wages, and the length of the rows I had clipped so she could pinch my wages. All of this from a contractor of a large, agribusiness, who simply just had to do her job, professionally.

The disposition and the conduct of this onion contractor are reminiscent of those of the academic staff and leadership at the University of Auckland. She, as they had, treated the time and energy I expended into the required work as if they were insignificant and of no consequence. The proof, though, is in the results of my efforts, and the proof of the consequences are in the money I will owe after having invested a sizable amount of federal loan funds into my education and the inability to live here to continue my appeal if I am not paid.

With respect to the latter and in light of the latest development in regards to the work privileges of my student visa, I am convinced that authorities may be creating problems for me on purpose. In recent days, even though my student visa clearly states that I can work at any Occupation for any employer, I was asked by a potential employer (speaking for a low-skilled, seasonal job opportunity) to obtain written confirmation from Immigration New Zealand that I still have work privileges. I pointed out that my student visa clearly states that I do, but what was in question for this potential employer was whether or not I still had work privileges following the university’s withdrawal of me from my doctorate program. So, I made the trip to the Immigration NZ Auckland branch and requested this written confirmation. I was pretty confident that I would have no trouble getting this, as an employee of the Palmerston North branch where the student visas are processed informed me in July 2014 that my work privileges are valid until the expiration date of my student visa. I suspected that the immigration clerk at the Auckland branch already knew this, but wanted to create problems for me. In the time I have lived in New Zealand, I noticed that creating problems for foreigners is a sport for some and shows a lack of consideration for the scope of responsibilities with which an individual might have to contend on a daily basis.

During these trying moments, I try to focus on the rays of light that have come onto my path from time to time throughout my doctorate life in New Zealand: the people, who had offered me rides when I hitched to and from the onion farm just so I could work for the day and get home safely; those who sought workers through Student Job Search, who dutifully paid me when the job was done; those who kindly responded to my questions when most people who are supposed to be in the know choose to deflect my questions or respond to a question I don’t ask. I’ve lived as a foreigner in a variety of countries; I would say that being a foreigner in New Zealand has been more challenging than most. 

THE BONE CARVER

The faint aroma of cooking meat could be discerned in the kitchen as I walked in there one lazy afternoon to wash my coffee mug. Judging from the dewiness of the scent, I gathered he was boiling something.

I turned off the tap and gently laid my mug upside down in the center of the dish drainer. I lifted the cover off the stainless steel pot and looked inside. An off-white, dirt-smudged, thigh bone – probably from a cow – lay in the shallow water, simmering from the heat of the gas range. Bubbles of air pushed their way to the surface. Resilient pieces of red meat still stubbornly clung to the bone.

“I have to draw out the remaining fat from the bone,” he explained from the kitchen doorway, answering a question I had not posed to him. He had emerged from room, where he liked to copy an assortment of music cds, borrowed from the library, to his cache of media files. The headphones were no longer clipped to his ears.

All the material things he possesses are second hand, retrieved from piles of garbage brought out to the sidewalk before collection day, or bought cheaply from opportunity shops, where he browses more frequently than on occasion. Even the bones he used for carving are second hand, carefully selected and then stored away after the dogs were done gnawing on them.

“After the remaining oils seep out, I have to dry it out for several days. It makes the carving easier.”

He had begun another project in tandem with this latest meat boil, had already drawn the outlines of a symbol on a previous one, the roughly sketched outlines of a figure indicating that the bone on this one was dry, but was also in the middle of a finishing the touches on an amulet, a tiki tiki, for me.

This work in progress was tucked securely in one palm, the fingers of the other, deftly filing and sawing at the figurine, as he spoke to me from the doorway.  

When he and I met in February of this year, it was at a bus stop across from the Mangere East public library, where he had asked me if he could have a taste of the banana sago soup that sat in a plastic container. On that day, deciding I would go to another poetry writing workshop the following afternoon, I had stopped at a Polynesian counter restaurant to sample the grayish liquid and stop the craving for something starchy and not too heavy.  

To me, he looked like an interloper, rough and a little on edge. The body art, which covered the length of his arms and the curly unkempt hair, contained by a single ponytail, made him look tougher.

Months later these outer layers, personality traits that characterized his reticence, peeled off to reveal a hidden, gentler nature. His voice had softened and he easily spoke about music – an obsession – and annoying things that crossed his path.

With obvious mdesty, he occasionally spoke about the carving tips he had acquired here and there, presumably from various, informed sources. One day he showed me an earlier wood carving, over which he had labored, to reveal a latent talent downplayed by low-toned revelations.

I went with him one day to Mitre 10 to buy a new set of filing tools. He thought it fit to treat himself to new ones so that his work could be more masterful. This purchase would replace the decaying set already in his possession.

Using these new tools, he smoothed out the edges of the amulet. He had left the kitchen doorway and now sat on the edge of the stone steps at the front of the house. He drilled and edged like a master carver, releasing bone fragments that blew onto and clung to his shirt. When he finally finished, the tiki tiki was an exact replica of the model that was his inspiration, right down to the firm upper lip that marked the face of a warrior.       

Preparing for carving

A work in progress

Still refining

Almost there . . . 

One more step . . . 

Finished tiki tiki

WEAK INSTITUTIONS AND THE CULPABILITY OF THE US DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION

In late September, after meeting with a senior advocate at Auckland University in late September and making a brief stop at the Human Rights Commission at the bottom of Queen Street, I decided to spend the rest of this sunny, spring afternoon trekking to Ponsonby, a well-to-do neighborhood in the Auckland hills overlooking the harbor. With independent cafes named Clear Water Peak and Bam Bing Ponsonby, and thrift shops selling affordable, expensive looking boutiquey clothing, Ponsonby is New Zealand’s answer to Tribeca in New York City. From my table at the AllPress Café, a fair trade business occupying a sliver of sitting space barely large enough for five customers, I have a clear view of the Sky Tower’s peak in the distance. Here, the main thoroughfare is Ponsonby Road, and despite the noise the busy traffic generates, it is nothing compared to the congestion and bustle of Queen Street and Newmarket.

            As I sip my fair trade coffee, allowing the bitter brew to linger on my palate, I take notice of the difference in my stress level. Compared to this morning, when I anxiously awaited my 11:30 am meeting with the senior advocate, I am now much calmer and happier. Simply by physically removing myself from the university environment and making the transition into another part of the city, my mood changed considerably. I realize that I live in two different worlds in New Zealand. In one world, I can enjoy a fairly normal life, where I go for the occasional run, sightsee landscapes and town settlements, where I learn a little bit about the history of neighborhood places, tick off errands on my various to-do lists, and have random conversations with people.  

The other world is the university, where I have become preoccupied with university politics and the uneasy sense of being confronted with the unknown, a feeling that should not even be there. In university life, there should be the certainty that efforts spent on academic work will reap positive rewards. I have always understood that this nexus between studying and academic success is a normal if not accepted part of university life, but the academic experience in New Zealand is surprisingly antithetical to this knowing. Unlike my previous graduate experiences in Australia and America, in which I could always count on making the grade if I put in the effort and could rely on an honest appraisal of my assignments, in New Zealand the diligence, discipline, and meticulous efforts invested in my academic work means little. Here, I sense that something else underlies the assessment that only the academic staff understand. I can connect this sense to quantitative and qualitative evidence that emerge in the labor demographics of the university and in the comments rendered about my research proposal.

The most recent decisions by the university leadership, with respect to my stringent efforts to retain my doctorate standing at the University of Auckland, merely stokes my suspicions that something else is at work here. Since meeting with the Senior Advocate, I have lodged and filed two appeals with the university leadership, including the Office of the Vice Chancellor. In both appeals, I highlighted the errors in the interpretation of policies (including the assertion that doctorate students could not appeal decisions by the Board of Graduate Studies) and the lack of merit in the comments from both my PhD Committee and that reviewing my final research proposal, all of which I argued amounted to a biased judgment of my academic work and of my doctorate candidacy. What I realized, after receiving the response from two leaders of the Graduate School and the Office of the Vice Chancellor was that not only is there a reluctance to follow rules and regulations, there is just as much a tendency to rubber stamp a student out of a doctorate program. These responses reinforced the understanding that the leadership does not exercise the checks and balances embedded in the university by virtue of its mission statement and the New Zealand federal laws that apply to the protection of individuals from unfair treatment. Also to my surprise, from these responses to my appeals from the university leadership, I discovered that they are not aware of the responsibilities and obligations of the University of Auckland to the partnership agreement signed with its education partners. Called the Program Partner Agreement (PPA), this document is a contract made between the US Department of Education and all of its education partners in regards to the administration of the US federal loans (the US federal loan is funded by the US Department of Education). Among other things, this agreement governs areas of academic administration.      

             This moment at the AllPress Café is representative of the intersection of the two worlds that now defines my life in New Zealand. At the same time, I am cognizant of the fact that all this drama riddled with unnecessary stress, time and mind energy spent on reviewing policies and laws, etc. can all be avoided if the US Department of Education bothered to review universities seeking partnership with the US Federal Loan Program beyond statements of academic quality and capabilities. I can only presume that the US DOE does not have the staff power to scrutinize every international university, but my experience with two universities in New Zealand should give them reason to start doing so now. In the two years I have studied in New Zealand, I have discovered that copyright rules and supervising guidelines are not observed and are likely not enforced. Massey University, for instance, has demonstrated a failure to exercise compliance with its policies when one of its doctorate students returned to India empty-handed following the plagiarism of his research. As I had explained in an earlier blog, when this student was about to graduate, someone had published his research exactly as he had written and designed it. Most universities, if not all, in OECD countries require that when hiring students to conduct research, students must not only be guided to pursue their own research topics, but also be given credit for their contribution to a publication. This policy generally complies with the labor laws of the OECD country.  

            In my case, my former supervisor at Massey implied that I did not have copyright ownership over the research I designed. When I answered in the affirmative to her question about whether or not I could take and continue my research with me to the University of Auckland (keep in mind that my studies have been funded entirely with US federal loans), she answered, “no!” What makes her response to this question even funnier is in the way she interpreted the university copyright policy. She was of the opinion that the university would be given copyright ownership through solely commercial interest; she failed to see that commercial interest is indicated by giving a scholarship to the student. The terms of the credit given to the student with respect to the scholarship are then negotiated and succinctly defined. This example is just one of many reoccurring errors in interpreting policies throughout the time I have spent in New Zealand as a doctorate student. The most recent was the assertion that I cannot take my fight to retain my doctorate standing at the University of Auckland any further than the Vice Chancellor. Others have corrected him, including an ombudsman at the Ministry of Education.

The failure to exercise the system of checks and balances normally associated with tertiary institutions implies that the university neither observes nor respects accountability. When this is the case, disciplinary action against academic staff is rarely taken and further implies that the university does not view its academic aspirations very seriously. Moreover, failing to follow the rules of due process or exercise checks and balances when the situation requires it, the university conveys the message that rules matter very little – except perhaps when the enforcement of which fits the university’s agenda.

The virtual absence of jurisprudence in the conduct of academic staff at the University of Auckland triggers feelings of doubt about my future in my program from not knowing what awaits me at the end of this road. This inability to rest comfortably in my academic capacities is an uneasy feeling for a doctorate student and the experience is unlike anything I have experienced in my previous graduate trainings. Rather, it feels more like a game of chicken: I make a move to defend myself after reviewing my rights as they are laid out in the university statutes, to which the university responds by circumventing the issue (i.e. not directly answering my questions) or outright lying about the policy.

And, so, I continue to appeal the decisions to terminate my doctoral candidacy in order to retain my doctorate standing. More than US$50,000, after all, is quite a lot of money to invest for half-baked guidance and supervising. 

At least I can still take photos of street scenes in this quest to enlighten myself about the more intimate parts of Auckland. After this day, I returned to this Ponsonby neighborhood to capture the buoyant, yet languid, pace of what I consider so far to be the hippest part of Auckland City. 

One of Ponsonby's architectural relics

Auckland City Centre on the horizon

Outdoor Cafe

Ponsonby intersection

Neighborhood Park

Further inside a plant store

Ponsonby neighborhood

More retail stores

Trendy sidewalk

PRIVILEGING PAKEHA AND THE SUBJUGATION OF RULES, REGULATIONS, AND STANDARDS

A strong research environment was what I thought defined Massey University. Besides the attractive, interdisciplinary culture of the School of People, Environment and Planning, the CV my primary supervisor there sent to me was top notch: three degrees and a long list of co-authored articles covering about two pages. Even though her background did not include urban planning, my core field, I believed she offered to be my supervisor because she had an interest in my research topic. I had submitted a tentative research proposal along with my doctorate studies application in late 2011. I was understandably impressed by her career achievements, having become the head of the Environment and Resource Conservation Planning Department. This accomplishment was truly impressive as urban planning, even today, has remained a man’s world. But, she – this former supervisor – rose in the ranks, complete with scars from trying to deflect (I assumed) daggers to stop her advancement.

            On the day of our first meeting, one I remember as having been October 2^nd 2012, I began to detect suspicious behavior, which I had first noticed in the initial e-mails we had exchanged prior to my departing the US for New Zealand, in which she kept badgering me about picking me up at the airport. Then, she had even offered to pay for my airplane ticket to Palmerston North from Auckland. I declined at the time because I knew it would be a long flight from the US, and I knew I would be irritable when I landed from lack of sleep. I have difficulty sleeping in airplanes. The stop-over in Los Angeles added to the length of the flight, and I knew that all I would want to do soon after disembarking was to process myself out of the airport, check in the Nomad youth hostel, run my brief business errand, and then sleep. The next morning, I had planned to leave for Palmerston North on the 6 a.m. Naked Bus run. Therefore, I did not want to make small talk with strangers, especially when I knew I would have only half my brain.

            In these quick-response e-mails, there was something controlling about this former supervisor’s insistence. She would not accept my answer of “no, but thank you,” and the only way I could end these frequent offers was to ignore the one’s thereafter. Her persistence made me somewhat uncomfortable, but dismissed it as Kiwi exuberance and generosity.

            My intuition has often signaled red flags about people and situations, but I have not learned to trust it even as I aged and grew more experienced. When the flags pop up, I dampen the warning signs with my commonsense to soothe what most people would categorize as paranoia. This time, those red flags turned out to be legitimate warnings.

            The problems with this former supervisor began almost immediately after I arrived on campus. Her controlling nature, which I later came to understand as reflected in the e-mails she had sent me, manifested in her behavior within the first week of my enrollment at Massey. The control ranged from minor details to the more extreme. The former was exemplified in not coordinating schedules that fit mine as well as hers and her co-supervisors, forcing me to gravitate around her time so that throughout my first year I had to cancel scheduled talks and workshops of interest. The more extreme controlling habits involved asking me to falsely name her as a co-author on my book manuscript, which I had sent off to the publisher in September 2012. When she offered to be the co-author, I declined as she played no part in writing it or supervising me on it. I could see no justifiable reason for crediting her as a co-author. As I had explicitly explained, the two Goddard College readers were duly acknowledged in the book.

            Controlling persons often couple their skillful manipulation of conversation with aggressive behavior. On this warm October day in 2012, five days after my arrival at Massey University, at the instance I refused to name her as co-author, she reached over and swatted me on the side of my temple. It was not a hard slap (that came later), but the message was clear: she did not like to be turned down. Inside, my anxiety was quickly rising. I had anticipated a very positive experience with my doctorate studies, but this terse exchange told me that something ominous might be looming for me. I felt my stomach drop, my enthusiasm wane, and I wondered, “What have I just walked into?”

            This woman’s peculiar behavior did not stop at the head swatting. On this same meeting day, she showed me a row of connected photos that opened up when she pressed a tab on her laptop of an older, white-haired woman wearing revealing teddies. I grimaced inwardly at the poor show of professionalism by this supervisor. “Who is that?” I asked, and she in that chirpy voice I have come to recognize as the tiresome months at Massey trudged on, announced to me that it was the Head of School. I wondered what this meant in the long-term for me. Was she sending me a silent message that she would take unsolicited photos of me, possibly in my sleep, and show it to strangers if I did not do as I was told? Then, I also wondered whether she had a secret about this Head of School, which she held out as a carrot to get what she wants.

            During the seven months I was at Massey, the true self of this former supervisor took different forms. On the surface, she appeared very knowledgeable, but throughout her tutelage I noticed a lack of understanding of the standards of the doctorate thesis. Her suggestion that I include other relevant theories in the literature review chapter did not make sense, as this chapter was supposed to demonstrate the doctorate student’s understanding of the central theory, which in this case is resilience, namely the driving concepts and its relevancy to the context of the research, which again in this case is food systems. This former supervisor wanted me to include food systems theory and planning theory in the literature review. The latter two served as the context and the perspective, respectively, and its comprising theories need not be elaborated in this study. The theory I was to explore as my contribution to resilience theory is resilient food systems, an easy enough correlation for the average academic to understand, but not this woman. This lack of understanding represented disaster for me, as it meant that I could fail my doctorate program if I was forced to comply with her suggestions. Other resources I consulted comforted me, as they also pointed out that the literature review chapter focus on a discussion of only the central theory. However, this woman could not move on until I included food systems and planning theories. In the end, I did as she asked, but only to later remove this inclusion from the literature review chapter. However, I felt drained by this woman’s stonewalling. After moving to Auckland, I confided in someone who declared this former supervisors’ conduct as abusive. This is exactly how it felt to me.  

            I wish I could say that her abusive behavior was limited to the supervising. It was not. Her swats on the head became more frequent and hard, and she would invade my personal space by tampering with my thesis chapters, steal my notes so that I would have to re-read articles and re-take notes on them, and take business documents that did not concern her from my work desk in the doctorate students’ office. This constant need to look over my shoulder, remind myself to log out of my computer, and place my notes in hiding places around my desk eventually began to wear on my mind. As a result, I did not have the mental space to focus as much as I wanted and it showed in my initial drafts. This caused me to re-write and re-draft numerous times, which likewise wore on my mind. I was mentally exhausted all the time.

            There were even hints that she was trying to steal my writing projects. In the first quarter of my enrollment at Massey, I received an e-mail from my acquisitions editor at the small publishing house that published my master’s thesis. This editor asked if I had a co-author to which I answered no and reiterated the names of the two readers at Goddard College who supervised me and were acknowledge in my book. Furthermore, I was solely responsible for not only writing and researching this thesis, but also for converting it into a book manuscript. She was satisfied with my response, but I was furious that this former supervisor had the ghastly audacity to falsely claim credit for a writing project with which she had played no part in producing. She did not entertain the possibility that my over-protectiveness and possessiveness over the ownership of my book might be driven by my low-income status. Because of this poverty, I had to save up for my plane ticket to New Zealand and the first USD $1,000 living allowance until my financial aid was processed. I was able to earn both expenses after working a full-time job and doing small on-line contracts through my small business during the months of March through September 2012. From this small income, I also paid interest on one school loan and made monthly payments on two others.

            In light of her cheating behavior, I began to doubt her credentials. So, I verified her doctorate qualification at the thesis repository in the Geography building and then again in the library. I was told that it was not accessible, a strange comment considering she claimed to have earned her PhD in 1997. Her doctorate thesis would not be in high demand. I, subsequently, verified her claimed publications on-line by typing in the title of one publication and then the full name of her co-author. The hard copy was found, but this former supervisor’s name was not on the article. I did the same for two more publications, only to discover that her name was not on those, either. 

            In January and February 2013, I voiced my concerns to the Head of School about this former supervisor’s lack of expertise and conduct. Obviously, if this former supervisor would not or could not exercise self-discipline and human decency, the Head of School would be the best person to help me. I felt the best way to resolve this problem would be to change supervisors. To my chagrin, the Head of School ignored my request by avoiding the problem, all together, but she offered the usual soothing comments by agreeing to speak with her. By ignoring this problem, she also failed to enforce university policies about academic standards, specifically those requiring the primary supervisor to have (1) earned a doctorate degree and (2) have knowledge of the student’s research field. This primary supervisor does not have academic training in urban planning.

            As the months passed, this former supervisor continued to harass me. She stalked me to Pak N’ Save, often slapping my head as she surreptitiously passed me in the food aisles. I recognized her slightly hunched-over, manly gait as she strode past and walked away from me. She has also pulled my debit card out of the slot at the self-checkout machines, preventing me from paying for my food, and causing stress because I did not know if she could make purchases with it.

She also began stalking me to my living quarters. I found her watching me from the window of the Resident Assistant’s room in Walter Dyer Hall one day at dusk as I walked towards my room in Tararua Hall. When she saw me notice her, she pulled the curtain shut. She was also allowed into my room one later afternoon. Because I did not want to deal with her on this day, exhausted, I walked into my bedroom and locked the door, but I could hear her trying to get through the password on my laptop. The fact that she was gaining access into the residential halls told me that someone was facilitating these intrusions.

In February 2013, just before the new term began, I became aware that other people knew about her abusive nature because of yet another run in with this former supervisor in their presence. It happened in the lounge of the Geography building, where many staff and students congregate. There were no words exchanged between us, but when the slap came hard on the right side of my head, emitting a sound loud enough for one observer to exclaim, “ooohh, I heard that,” I chose to ignore the attack. This former supervisor was unmanageable and uncontrollable, and reacting to her was emotionally draining. The snickering from her group of friends sitting on the far side of the lounge informed me that this predominantly white clique supported her actions.

This latest round of attacks was the deciding factor for me. I knew that if the Head of School still failed to assign me a new supervisor, I would need to transfer to another school so that I could finish my doctorate thesis. The discussion with a barrister in town (Palmerson North) solidified my decision. I popped into his office once day on a whim and asked him how I could file a restraining order against this woman. Upon learning that she had conducted herself in a criminal way (assault and stalking), he advised me to think about my priorities and my reason for being in New Zealand. Knowing I was a student, he said it could be costly, presumably because he would have to file the papers with the court system. I also considered the possibility that she might know people in the legal community, who could target me. Since I came to study, not to get caught up in peoples’ petty dramas, I felt the best course of action would be to begin enquiring from the University of Auckland about transfer procedures.

One thing was clear, though. Massey had no interest in holding this former supervisor accountable for her actions. How, after all, does one remain employed after fabricating her publications and claiming credit for doctorate work she had not in fact done? One would think that after my reports of and others’ witnessing her behavior, the university leadership would at the very least honor my request to be supervised by someone more normal and with the appropriate credentials.         

When she learned of my intention to transfer, her attacks escalated even more. She had also begun to make more frequent visits to the doctorate office, where I liked to work after everyone had gone home for the day. One evening, while engrossed in another re-write of my literature review chapter, I heard someone enter the office. Within seconds, in what seemed like swift motions, this person cut a lock of my hair and then, using something cold and metal against my head, the stubs of this lock were pulled out. I could hear the ripping sound from my scalp. I screamed as I felt the raw pain of hair separating from scalp. I turned around and there was this former supervisor standing there, silver pliers resting in her right hand, staring at me. The door across the hallway opened slowly and tentatively, and at that moment she pivoted around and walked briskly out the door and towards the staircase. My blond neighbor emerged. I do not remember what he said. I wanted to call campus security, but did not think it was worth the trouble anymore because there were no witnesses to this attack. My fellow student merely heard my scream, which was possibly muffled. I focused on preparing to transfer. 

When I eventually left Massey for the University of Auckland, I thought I was finally free of her and the problems she had created for me. I thought that once I was out of sight, her obsessive, dysfunctional interest in me would subside. I turned out to be wrong. Two days after moving into my new room in South Auckland, this former supervisor and a male companion, turned up at the front door. I knew it was her because I peered out through the blinds and saw her. When she sighted me, she briskly walked over to the window and called out, “Camille,” as if she was innocently visiting me. I stepped back and allowed the blinds to fold closed. I could not believe it; how could she know where I lived? On that day, Monday the 24^th of June 2013, even I did not know the house number or the street name. Only on June 26^th, when I got lost on the street and could not give the correct house number to the person who had offered to drive me home from Manukau City Centre did I make it a point to learn my new address. I knew then that this former supervisor was working in tandem with my then-landlord/housemate, but unbeknownst to her was this history of abuse.

I was also pretty certain that this former supervisor had recruited one of my current supervisors, perhaps both, to what I now deduced as her campaign to derail my doctorate program. Whatever her reasons were for abusing me in the beginning, I now believed she was out to prevent me from graduating. In May 2013, this former supervisor had disclosed to me that she knew who my other supervisor was, and then the following month (June), she disclosed his first name. At both times, when pressed if I knew, I informed her that I did not think I had yet been assigned a second one. If I was not told by the University of Auckland, how could she have possibly known? The fact that she did meant that universities here share notes and apparently plot together.

Naively, I believed that this move to the University of Auckland would put me in a more mature and research-oriented environment, where I would have peace of mind, the mental space to think, and would be working with two people who would support my academic goals. Naively, I believed this.