MAORI IN CRISIS: DOPE A SYMPTOM

Cannabis use on its own is not destroying Maori - social and spiritual
poverty is. That's the unanimous message from Maori social, health,
and youth workers who argue cannabis abuse is just one indicator of a
much more profound problem.

The telephone conversation had been promising. I wanted to explore the
effect cannabis use was having on Maori - youth in particular - and he
was keen to offer some personal insight. Besides, he had said, I was
Maori too - almost whanau, in fact, so it's sweet.

He turns up to the interview stoned. The joint wasn't to calm
pre-interview nerves, he tells me. It was to help him think more
clearly. And he'd been doing a lot of it since our phone discussion.

He is a young, unemployed Maori with a rural upbringing that included
regular use of marijuana by family members and friends.

He drifted into the city to look for work, but a limited education and
low employment drive means prospects are thin on the ground.

He runs a "tinny house", buying bulk weed from the growers and selling
tinnies (a foil-packed package that yields about three cannabis
joints) to a mainly Maori clientele. There isn't any real money in it,
but selling an ounce a week gives him enough to feed his own habit,
otherwise unaffordable on the dole.

Resigned to the idea that the interview was to be a useless exercise,
he neverthe-less launches into an enthusiastic offering of his
perspective of the cannabis decriminalisation debate.

"Never really thought about the fact I was dealing. I suppose I am a
dealer. That's freaky! I see it as giving people something they want.
I don't make any money on selling, but by the time I've paid the
grower there's just enough left over for me, for the week.

"It's quite a social thing, too. You get to know the people, they
become sort of whanau. It's all quite relaxed really.

"There are no real hassles, not like at home where things can get
pretty ugly over dope, with all the thieving and threats that go on.
That's another reason I got out of there."

I sit up and take notice. What does he mean?

"It's big business, eh? Everyone gets really territorial about their
patches and some bad shit goes down when stuff gets stolen."

He refuses to elaborate, other than to say some keep a knife or maybe
a gun handy.

Moving to the city has not opened job prospects so he has resorted to
doing what he knows best - without the ugliness he has left behind.

"I wish I had a job, eh? But no-one wants to hire a Maori with no
qualifications. At least this gives me something to do and I make
enough to keep some weed for myself. I buy an ounce for two to three
hundred dollars and sell just enough to break even."

He's grateful for having a grower who's a decent sort - no hassles, no
drama.

He doesn't consider himself an addict and gasps in horror at the
suggestion.

"I don't reckon I'm an addict. It's been around me my whole life and
I've been smoking since I was a kid. But, I could do without it. The
funny thing is, as long as I've got the bag of dope I don't
necessarily have to smoke it. When I haven't got that bag I get on a
real downer. As soon as I've got it again, I'm right - and I don't
even need to smoke it."

I let that twisted psychology pass.

He goes on to say that if he didn't smoke dope he'd probably drink a
lot more - and that's worse, he says, a lot worse.

And therein lies the real problem among Maori.

Talk to Maori social, health, and youth workers and they all point to
an aggregation of problems facing Maori youth. Cannabis will not be
the catalyst for Maori genocide, they argue. Why ban just cannabis?
What about alcohol, tobacco, and gambling?

They are unanimous in their belief that cannabis use on its own is not
destroying Maori. Social and spiritual poverty is.

Statistics reveal a disturbing incidence of addiction among Maori, who
are represented disproportionately in cigarette smoking, alcohol and
substance abuse, gambling, and obesity. Consequently, health, crime,
and employment casualties are alarming.

It is a grim picture but the notion of a genetic predisposition to
substance abuse, for which there seems to be growing acceptance, is
rejected by health workers.

Outspoken urban Maori advocate John Tamihere also rejects it. The
cannabis debate is irrelevant, he argues. He is more concerned with
focusing on why Maori are over-represented in a range of poor
outcomes. Maori are predisposed to addiction, he says, but this is a
reflection of woeful inter-generational economic and social status.
The cycle needs to be broken and to achieve that a significant shift
in attitude by Maori is required.

"We're addicted to a range of things," Mr Tamihere says. "We've got
this huge pool of people that are driven by benefits-dependency.
Before we can beat substance abuse, and before we can beat dole
addiction, there has to be a shift in attitude among Maori."

His solution is the establishment of a Maori middle class. He enthuses
about his "family plan" - injecting cash and resources into early
childcare development and education, putting young mothers on a
co-operative health scheme, and budgeting the dole. The results, he
says, won't be seen for at least another generation: an educated
middle class.

He introduced a version of the family plan while director of the
Waipareira Trust, an organisation overseeing the interests of urban
Maori in west Auckland. It was received enthusiastically but came to
an inglorious end when Inland Revenue stepped in.

Mr Tamihere still smarts from that experience but is adamant that the
scheme would work.

He is dismissive of resources and cash injected into rehabilitation.
"It's too late - it's a waste of money." Concentrate, instead, on
early intervention and education.

He is cynical of those who "feed off" the failures of his people -
Maori included.

"There are too many people feasting off our failures and doing bloody
well out of it. They're well intended, but let's peel away the
bullshit. Without us half of Hanmer (Queen Mary Hospital's drug and
alcohol rehabilitation programme) would have to close. Half the legal
aid lawyers would be without jobs."

And Maori need to stop being in denial. "We have to stop blaming
others for imperialism and colonialism. It's time to move on. We have
a grievance process through the Waitangi Tribunal."

Pukekawa Harris, counsellor and kaumatua attached to the Maori unit at
Queen Mary shares those sentiments. "We need to work on our men.
Somewhere along the track they lost their wairua (spirit) that made us
the warriors we were."