If you’ve been reading about the Kaupapa ive been involved in over the last few years youll know of the stance I took on the unmarked graves in Tokanui. Tokanui, located in the Waikato region of Aotearoa New Zealand near Te Awamutu, carries a deep and complex Māori history. It is a place steeped in whakapapa, conflict, and resilience, and forms part of the ancestral lands of several iwi, including Ngāti Raukawa, Ngāti Maniapoto, and Waikato-Tainui. The rohe (tribal area) of Tokanui sits within the broader Waikato and King Country region, an area of great significance to the Tainui waka confederation. For generations, hapū associated with Ngāti Raukawa ki te Tonga, Ngāti Paretekawa, Ngāti Apakura, and Ngāti Hauā have maintained ahi kā (occupation rights) in and around Tokanui. A major historical development in the area was the establishment of the Tokanui Psychiatric Hospital, which opened in 1912. It was built on confiscated land and became one of New Zealand’s largest psychiatric institutions. The hospital would go on to play a controversial role in the lives of many Māori. Today, local iwi-particularly Waikato-Tainui and Ngāti Maniapoto-continue efforts to reclaim and protect the mana of their tūpuna and whenua. As part of Treaty settlement processes and post-settlement governance arrangements, iwi have engaged with the government around land transfers, the future of the Tokanui Hospital site, and the identification and protection of wāhi tapu (sacred places).
Cultural redress has included acknowledgement of past injustices, including the institutional abuse of Māori within Tokanui Hospital and the theft of land during raupatu. Although the hospital has long since closed, its presence still casts a shadow over the area. At the same time, the resurgence of Māori identity and whenua reclamation is breathing new life into Tokanui. Local marae and hapū continue to lead efforts to restore mātauranga, reconnect tamariki with their whakapapa, and ensure the stories of Tokanui are not forgotten.
From the mid-20th century through to its closure in the 1990s, Tokanui Hospital institutionalised a disproportionate number of Māori patients-many placed there through the justice and welfare systems rather than for medical reasons. The hospital became symbolic of the systemic racism Māori faced in the health and mental health sectors.
Whānau were often left in the dark about the fate of their loved ones. Some patients died there and were buried in unmarked graves on the hospital grounds-many of which are now the focus of restoration and remembrance efforts by iwi, whānau, and the Crown.
The name “Tokanui” is thought to refer to a prominent stone or peak, sometimes interpreted as “the great post” or “the great support,” symbolising strength or connection to the land. This whenua was traditionally rich in resources, with access to fertile soils, waterways, and rongoā (medicinal plants), supporting thriving settlements before European arrival.
Unmarked graves lie scattered across the whenua of Aotearoa New Zealand-silent, often forgotten reminders of a painful past. From colonial-era institutions and war-time camps to church-run schools and state care facilities, these burial sites speak to stories of neglect, marginalisation, and the erasure of lives that were deemed less worthy of remembrance.
In recent years, calls to uncover and acknowledge unmarked graves have grown louder, particularly as Māori, Pasifika, and other communities seek justice and healing for historic injustices. While similar movements overseas, such as the discovery of children’s graves at Canadian residential schools, have shocked the world, Aotearoa is undergoing its own reckoning.
The Royal Commission of Inquiry into Abuse in Care has brought renewed attention to the issue of unmarked graves, especially within state and faith-based institutions. Evidence has revealed that children and adults who died while in care-many of them Māori-were often buried without markers, ceremonies, or proper records. Some were placed in mass graves, while others were laid to rest in locations that have since been redeveloped or forgotten.
Cemeteries near former mental hospitals, children’s homes, borstals, and work camps have yielded clues to these missing histories. In many cases, institutional death records exist, but no corresponding burial sites can be found.
For Māori, the erasure of burial information strikes particularly deep. Tangihanga, urupā, and whakapapa are central to Māori identity and collective memory. To have tīpuna or tamariki buried without acknowledgment is not only a cultural violation but a form of historical trauma that persists across generations.
Many of these graves are connected to the state’s legacy of institutional care. Children removed from whānau under the guise of welfare, discipline, or health were often placed in harsh environments-some abused, neglected, or denied medical attention. Those who died were often buried on site, with little to no contact with their whānau, and no records shared.
Similarly, patients in psychiatric hospitals such as Lake Alice, Seacliff, and Kingseat were sometimes buried in institutional cemeteries, some marked only with numbers or small plaques-if anything at all. The same holds for patients at tuberculosis sanatoriums and adults in poorhouses during the early 20th century.
There are growing efforts to uncover and honour these graves. Researchers, historians, iwi, and advocacy groups have been combing through archives, oral histories, and maps to locate burial sites. Some regional councils have committed to identifying unmarked graves in their cemeteries, while iwi have begun working with the Crown to protect known urupā and repatriate remains.
Technology such as ground-penetrating radar is increasingly being used to detect burial sites, particularly in areas where land has been built over or altered.
The government, under pressure from survivors and whānau, has also signalled interest in creating a national memorial and providing funding for grave identification. However, many argue that these measures must go further-by resourcing Māori-led investigations and embedding the work within a framework of truth, reconciliation, and accountability.
For Māori, the identification of unmarked graves is not just a forensic or bureaucratic exercise-it is a matter of wairua, whakapapa, and justice. Each lost grave represents a story denied: a life unloved by the system, but never forgotten by whānau.
The restoration of these stories-through karakia, kōrero, and commemoration-is an act of manaakitanga and tino rangatiratanga. It affirms the dignity of those who died voiceless and the resilience of those who remember.
Aotearoa cannot build a truly just future without confronting the ghosts of its past. The unmarked graves scattered across this land are not simply historical curiosities-they are open wounds. To honour those buried in silence, we must first listen, uncover the truth, and commit to remembrance. Only then can the country begin to heal.
