Unlearning Patriarchy Through the Hāngī
Words by Micah Geiringer (he/him), Ngati Kahungunu ki Wairoa
I won't be the first to admit that at Christmas dinners and family reunions, I often find myself relaxing with my uncles and cousins whilst the women in my family are in the kitchen. It's a familiar pattern: The tāne have a beer, and the wāhine peel the potatoes. This division of labour isn’t unique to just my family, nor is it inherent — it’s a Eurocentric structure that has woven itself into many cultures, shaping expectations of who belongs where.
Not for the hāngī though.
From the moment the preparation begins, it's all hands-on deck. Aunties are in the kitchen with the tamariki cutting up pumpkins and kumara. Cousins are out the back digging the hole. And uncles are unloading the firewood and rocks.
Everyone has a role, and if you don’t have one, you’ll be given a sponge and dish gloves.
This communal approach sharply contrasts that of Eurocentric cultures, where cooking tends to be solely a woman’s job, passed down as a duty from mother to daughter. The kitchen sees men only when it's time to carve the meat. This tradition carries with it an underlying idea of subservience. Of women tending to men and children through the provision of food.
For many Pākehā feminists, the battle has been about breaking into spaces traditionally occupied by men — whether in the workforce or at the head of the dinner table.
But for wāhine Māori, there has always been a different story: One of reclaiming roles, restoring balance, and reviving traditions that were disrupted by colonialism.
The whakatauki (Māori proverb) illustrates this point beautifully: “Mā te wahine, mā te whenua, ka ngaro te tangata - by women and land do men perish.” The extent to which wāhine are valued in te ao Māori, means that the world could not exist without women.
In colonised countries such as Aotearoa New Zealand, a passive rejection of the role put on women is simply not enough. Household labour (as the word suggests) is hard work, and as such any social movement to address its inequalities means getting your hands dirty.
This is what makes the hāngī so powerful — it is truly communal.
There is something deeply grounding about the process. The work is shared, the knowledge passed down, and the food is cooked with patience and care. It is an act of togetherness that reinforces relationships and responsibilities, rather than dividing them along outdated gender lines. There is no expectation that one group will bear the brunt of the labour while another relaxes. Those who try slip away during the preparation process are given a stern glare and dishwashing duties.
In many ways, the hāngī serves as a model for how labour should be shared. It is about collaboration, not obligation. The experience of working together, of seeing tamariki learn from kaumātua, of watching men and women alike contribute their effort, is a reminder that food has always been a unifying force.
Food can be an equaliser, or it can reinforce bigoted power structures depending on how it is shared, how it is made, and who has access to it. The hāngī is not the only communally prepared meal in Aotearoa, but it serves as a beautiful reminder of our whakapapa as a country and of the value of connectedness.
Over the Easter break of 2024, my extended whānau and I reunited at our marae. A hāngī was prepared as the rain clouds gathered, and both inside and outside the whare, many hands were at work. Dishes were done being by men, meat was being carved by women, and I found myself uncovering a special talent of mine... potato peeling.
No one was left out of the process, and no one was left out of the reward.
When the food was finally unearthed, everyone was equal. Bound together by whakapapa, by whanaungatanga, and by the simple, enduring joy of sharing a meal prepared by many hands.