PART 3:  Ko te aroha te kaupapa: The Māori face of homelessness and hope

 In Part 1 of our special on ‘Kāinga Kore’, Claudette compares two worldviews: that of Beehive policy to street-level living. In Part 2, she tries to make sense of where kāinga kore whānau fit into the government’s economic growth plan. In Part 3, Dale Husband talks to Julie King, Lani Hunt, and Aaron Hendry; Selfless servants of the streets, kaitiaki of our kainga kore whānau, turning compassion into action, where policy has turned its back.

They’re out there rain, hail or shine. Wrapped in damp blankets, tucked into doorways, parked up at freedom camping sites. A kuia in a car. A rangatahi curled into a hoodie on a wet bench. An 18-year-old who hasn’t eaten in two days. Their names aren’t in the headlines, but their faces are the story of this whenua.

Radio Waatea’s, Dale Husband spoke with the people who walk alongside our Kāinga kore whānau – those who know their names, know their pain, and refuse to look away. People like Love Soup’s Julie King in Rotorua, Lani Hunt in Taranaki, and Aaron Hendry of Kickback in Tāmaki Makaurau. They aren’t policymakers. They are pou. Holding it all together – just barely – in places where the system has vanished.

“Julie,” Dale asks gently, “why do you do this? Why take in people who others cross the street to avoid?”

Her answer is simple: “Because I know what it is to lose hope. And because nobody deserves to die on cold concrete.”

Julie has been there herself – rough sleeping at 18, grieving, unseen. Now she builds shelter from campervans and caravans, from community donations and manaaki. Five people sleep safely in her tiny village, tended by volunteers. Others remain outside, in the shadows, waiting.

“We’ve got a woman out there in a wheelchair. Alone. No roof. No bed. And nowhere to take her. I think about her every day.”

Julie is not alone. In Taranaki, Lani Hunt calls the people he feeds whānau whēnako – stolen whānau.

“I found a nanny sleeping in a carpark,” he tells Dale. “A kuia. That broke me. I thought, how did we get here? Why are our Marae locked? Why are our houses empty? Why is this normal now?”

Lani knows what it’s like to live that life. Twenty years ago, he was one of them – sleeping rough, trying to survive. Now, in the bitter cold of New Plymouth’s early mornings, he loads up kai, blankets, socks, and rolls out to the parks and street corners to find them.
“They’re not all addicts. Some are working. Sending their kids to school. Living in cars, turning up to mahi every day like nothing’s wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. Not here. Not in winter. Not ever.”

Dale asks: “What do you want from your community, Lani?”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Open the doors. If our marae opened their doors tomorrow, we could fix this. Not just as Māori – as people.”

In Tāmaki Makaurau, Aaron Hendry works with tamariki and rangatahi who arrive at his door soaked from sleeping in the rain. His team has run out of safe places to send them. The lodges and hostels have shut their doors. Too young, too vulnerable. Too hard.

“We’ve had to beg landlords to take them in,” he tells Dale. “Find anyone willing to open a door. Because without that door, these kids have nowhere. I’m talking about 11-year-olds. 13-year-olds. Alone.”

“Do you think youth should be prioritised?” Dale asks him.

“They have to be. If we don’t, we’re sending them to harm. Physical harm. Mental harm. Lifelong harm. You talk to any adult who’s been homeless for years – most of them will tell you it started when they were young.”

There’s pain in Aaron’s voice. But there’s pride too.

“Some landlords, once they understand what these kids are facing, they come through. They say, ‘yep, I’ve got a room. Let’s make it work.’ That’s the wairua we need. That’s whanaungatanga.”

For Julie, that human connection is everything.

“Even just a good night’s sleep changes everything. We’ve seen it. They wake up different. Calmer. Brighter. Ready to help. They cook. They clean. They show up.”

She’s seen the worst. But she chooses to believe in the best

“One of our street whānau lost his child to suicide. Then his partner. He wandered the streets for years. He’s with us now. Coherent. Volunteering. Healing. All he needed was someone to see him.”

Dale asks her: “How do you keep going?”

Julie takes a breath. “Because if we don’t, who will? These are our people. They’re not problems. They’re just whānau who’ve had a rough go. We don’t give up on our own.”

From the streets of Tāmaki to the forests of Rotorua to the carparks of Ngāmotu, one truth is clear: Māori aren’t waiting for solutions. They’re building them. With soup pots, campervans, donated socks, and unrelenting aroha.

Lani says it best: “We walked all the way to Parliament to defend Te Tiriti. And on the way, we passed dozens of homeless whānau. If we can march for our rights, we can stand up for our people too.”

Aaron agrees. “This isn’t just about shelter. It’s about aroha. It’s about recognising that housing is a right. And that nobody – not one of our babies, not one of our kaumatua – should ever be left in the cold.”

Julie smiles when she talks about her dream: a country where everyone adopts one street.

“One street. That’s all it takes. Walk it. Feed it. Smile at it. Know who sleeps where and why. And never let them feel forgotten.”

No one is disposable. No one is unworthy. And no one should die for want of a warm bed. These are not headlines. These are our whānau. And they are waiting – not for handouts, but for a government that honours their humanity.

We have generated this image as we do not want to identify young people living on the streets 

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