The numbers are alarming. The stories behind them are heartbreaking. New Zealand’s latest labour market data paints the bleakest picture in more than a decade. National unemployment has climbed to 5.6 percent, the highest level in 11 years.

For Māori, the reality is far worse.

The Māori unemployment rate now sits at 10.8 percent, almost double the national average. For Māori rangatahi, unemployment has climbed beyond 20 percent, meaning more than one in every five young Māori wanting work cannot find it.

Even those figures fail to tell the full story. More than a quarter of all underutilised workers in New Zealand are Māori, highlighting a labour market where many who do have jobs still cannot secure enough hours to survive. For this Radio Waatea special investigation, we spoke to dozens of whānau from Northland to Southland.

Different ages. Different regions. Different industries. Yet almost every conversation ended the same way. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

The unemployment crisis no one wants to talk about

For years, Māori unemployment has been viewed largely through the lens of rangatahi. Youth unemployment rightly attracts concern because it shapes an entire lifetime. Miss out on your first opportunity and it becomes harder to build a career. Harder to buy a home. Harder to build wealth. Harder to provide for future generations. But something else is happening.The latest downturn is hurting another generation just as severely. Workers in their forties and fifties. Parents. Grandparents. People who believed decades of experience would protect them. Instead, many have discovered that redundancy doesn’t discriminate.

When jobs disappear, experience offers no guarantees. Matthew Tukaki has spent weeks travelling the country talking to Māori communities about the economy.

He says unemployment is no longer an isolated issue. It has become a whānau crisis. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m talking to people in Northland, Waikato, the East Coast or South Auckland,” Tukaki says.

“The conversations are almost identical. Families are frightened. Parents are worried about feeding their kids. Young people can’t find work. Older workers can’t get back into it. The pressure is everywhere.”

Marama: “I honestly don’t know what to do anymore.”

Marama isn’t her real name. She agreed to speak to Radio Waatea on the condition her identity remain protected. At 47, she thought the hardest years of raising a family were behind her.

Instead, they have become the toughest. She lost her long-term job in the primary sector in November 2025 during restructuring. Nine months later she remains unemployed.

She is now raising two teenage children and her mokopuna, who is under ten. Her weekly benefit leaves her with just over $500 after tax. More than two-thirds disappears immediately on rent. Then come the power bill. Internet. School costs. Petrol—although she barely buys any now.

“There isn’t enough money left to actually live.”

Food has become the hardest expense to manage. Every week she stretches supermarket shopping as far as possible before relying on local foodbanks.

“There are weeks where I don’t eat properly because I’d rather the kids did.”

The family car hasn’t moved in months. Registration. Insurance. Petrol. Repairs. All now impossible luxuries. She tried selling it. No one wanted to buy it.

“It just sits there reminding me I can’t even afford to drive anymore.”

Since losing her job she has submitted dozens upon dozens of applications. Many receive no acknowledgement. Some generate automated rejection emails. Only two interviews have followed.

“I honestly don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t do more than I’m doing.”

“I’m applying every day. I ring people. I follow things up. But after a while you start wondering whether anyone even sees your application.”

She pauses.

“The hardest part isn’t even the money anymore.”

“It’s looking at your kids and pretending everything will be alright when you honestly don’t know if it will.”

Marama says losing work has also meant losing part of herself.

“You stop feeling useful.”

“You’ve worked your whole life, paid your taxes, done everything people tell you you’re supposed to do.”

“Then suddenly you’re made to feel like you’re disposable.

“Caleb: “In the end I had no options left.”

If Marama represents one end of the unemployment crisis, Caleb represents the other. At 24, he has spent years trying to build a future. He has completed multiple industry training courses.Forklift licences. Health and safety certificates. Construction tickets. He is now finishing the final component of his trade qualification. There is only one problem. Nobody will take him on. He has spent months applying for apprenticeships. Like Marama, responses are rare. Interviews even rarer. Meanwhile life continues. He pays child support. Has no house. No savings. No assets. Only growing debt. Eventually he made a decision he never thought he would. He borrowed money through a personal finance company. Not for a car. Not for furniture. Not even to pay bills. To buy a one-way ticket to Australia.

“I didn’t want to leave.”

“But in the end I had no options left.”

He leaves next month.

“The hardest thing is knowing my daughter stays here.”

Asked whether many of his classmates are doing the same, Caleb doesn’t hesitate.

“About half my class.”

“They’re all going because they can’t get apprenticeships or decent work.”

“We didn’t spend years training just to end up unemployed.”

Australia has become more than an employment destination.

It has become a symbol of opportunity many young Māori believe no longer exists at home.

The sentence that stayed with us

Across weeks of interviews, Radio Waatea heard frustration. Exhaustion. Fear. But one sentence captured the mood better than any statistic.

One unemployed worker told us:

“The grass might not be greener on the other side—but at least it’s grass.”

It wasn’t said with bitterness. It was said with resignation.

When one person loses work, everyone pays

For many New Zealanders unemployment is viewed as an individual experience. For Māori it rarely is. One redundancy affects grandparents. Children. Cousins. Mokopuna. Whānau absorb one another’s burdens. Someone moves back home. Someone else buys groceries. Another relative covers school uniforms. That resilience has always been one of Māori communities’ greatest strengths. But resilience is not limitless. Many whānau told Radio Waatea they are helping several unemployed family members simultaneously. Some grandparents have returned to work after retirement to support children and grandchildren. Others have exhausted savings built over decades.

The politics of unemployment

With the general election fast approaching, employment has become one of the defining political issues. Recent polling suggests public confidence is shifting. An Ipsos Issues Monitor found 34 percent of respondents now trust Labour most to manage the economy, compared with 30 percent for National. Labour now leads National across 16 of the 20 issues measured in the survey, reflecting growing public concern about inflation, unemployment and the cost of living. The Government rejects suggestions its economic programme has failed. Ministers argue difficult decisions were necessary to reduce inflation and restore long-term economic stability. They point to improving business confidence, infrastructure investment and regulatory reform as laying foundations for future growth. Opposition parties disagree. They argue rising unemployment reflects choices made through public sector cuts, cancelled infrastructure projects and reduced regional investment. For voters, however, the debate often feels disconnected from everyday life. Economic theory doesn’t pay rent. Political slogans don’t buy groceries.

The cost no spreadsheet measures

Official statistics tell us unemployment sits at 5.6 percent nationally. They tell us Māori unemployment is 10.8 percent. They tell us youth unemployment exceeds 20 percent. What they cannot measure is what unemployment sounds like. It sounds like a mother whispering she skips meals so her mokopuna can eat. It sounds like a young father taking out debt simply to leave his own country. It sounds like unanswered job applications. Empty petrol tanks. Foodbank queues. Cancelled birthdays. Sleepless nights. For economists, unemployment is an indicator. For politicians, it is a policy challenge. For whānau, it is something much more personal.It is the difference between hope and despair. Between staying and leaving. Between believing tomorrow will be better—or fearing it won’t. As election day approaches, Māori voters are telling Radio Waatea one message louder than any campaign slogan. Jobs matter. Because without meaningful work, every other promise becomes harder to keep.

And unless the numbers begin moving in the right direction soon, New Zealand may lose more than workers.

It may lose another generation.