The Royal Commission investigating abuse in care has heard from Māori who said the Adoption Act was used as a tool of assimilation.
Ngāti Whātua Ōrākei marae Photo: supplied by Ngāti Whātua Ōrākei
One woman, who was identified only as Ms AF, was adopted out by her teen mother at only a few months old in the 1960s.
But she told the Royal Commission it was a process steeped in racism.
"If they wanted to make sure you were adopted and you were born light-skinned, you were classed as white," she said.
"So they changed my birth certificate to 'Caucasian' and changed my birth mother to 'Caucasian' so that I was deemed legally white, and could be adopted more easily."
Ms AF said her birth father's whānau had tried to adopt her through whangai, but the authorities prevented this through the change to her birth certificate.
She said it was a blatant attempt at assimilation.
Instead, she was shipped off to an adoptive family, who were the source of years of torment. Ms AF said the father was hard working, but the mother was a disciplinarian. The extended family were worse.
There was little effort made to vet them, she said.
"There was no process. They got the letter from the priest, they got other letters from leaders in that community, and they were white.
"So they were the perfect family, according to our state."
It was a similar story for Ms AE, who also appeared anonymously before the commission.
She too was adopted out as a child, to a couple who gave little care.
"Basically, I was adopted to work on their farm. I don't believe I was ever considered a child. I can remember trying so very hard to please and meet approval, but that never worked," she said.
The Royal Commission is holding a special hearing into Māori experiences in state- and faith-based care.
So far this week, it's heard of violence at state-run institutions and by foster parents employed by the state.
But today's witnesses were adoptees, and were never checked on by officials.
They were both physically and sexually abused. They said they were both neglected and made to feel worthless.
Ms AE and Ms AF say their abuse occurred because the Adoption Act sought to assimilate.
Whānau were never considered, they said. Instead, they were placed into homes that treated them with cruelty.
She recalled telling her adoptive mother her Māori name that was gifted to her by a kuia, and she responded by asking why she would want to be known by it.
"They're nothing but dirty savages, they're dirty people. She couldn't understand why I would want to be Māori. I'm white enough, why would I want to be that way?"
Eventually, both managed to leave their adoptive parents' houses. But they endured years of trauma from the abuse, which had set them back in life.
Ms AE said the lack of identity is a pain that runs deep.
"Being Māori that's the first thing you get asked. Where are you from? Not being able to answer those questions wholly, I suppose, has always been a particular mamae [pain]."
But she has gone on to big things, has gained academic success and has her own whānau. Through great effort, she managed to track down details of her birth family and her whakapapa.
Ms AF, too, has always sought to prove the world wrong.
Reading through her adoption notes, she discovered an official had written her off as a baby. The notes read "imbecile" and "idiot."
She's got a PhD now. She asked to sing a waiata to the Royal Commission.
And Bette Middler's The Rose rang out through the wharenui at Ōrākei marae.
