'My angel in high-vis'

This story was first published on E-Tangata.

To Joyce, my angel in hi-vis.

Thirty-seven years have passed since you pulled over on that stretch of State Highway 1 just outside Hamilton, and I’m still trying to find the words to thank you properly.

Not just for the ride, not just for the three months you gave me sanctuary in your home, but for something far more precious — you gave me back my voice when the world was determined to silence it.

I need to tell you this story again, Joyce, because it’s not just my story anymore. It’s become something bigger, something that speaks to the heart of what it means to be Māori in this country, to be whānau, to be human.

Ko Murdoch Ngahau ahau.

I te taha o tōku pāpā nō Te Kaha, Te Whānau-ā-Apanui.

I te taha o tōku māmā nō Te Teko, Ngāti Awa.

Putauaki te maunga. Rangitaiki te awa. Mātaatua te waka. Kokohinau te marae. Ngāti Mahuta te hapū.

These are my roots, my whakapapa, the threads that connect me to this whenua.

But at 11 years old, standing on that roadside with my thumb out, I felt severed from all of it. Like a young kākā that had fallen from its nest, wings not yet strong enough to fly, calling out into the wind with no one to hear.

That morning, when I decided to run away from my aunty’s place in Te Kauwhata, I wasn’t running toward something. I was running from the weight of not belonging anywhere.

The kind of displacement that settles in your bones when you’re a kid bouncing between whānau, when the adults around you are doing their best but sometimes their best isn’t enough. I was carrying trauma I didn’t even have words for yet, abandonment that felt like a constant companion, and a deep, aching mistrust of the world that no 11-year-old should have to carry.

Think about the audacity of what I was attempting, Joyce. A kid, barely tall enough to see over the bonnet of most cars, standing on one of the busiest highways in the country, trying to hitchhike 375 kilometres. The courage that took — or maybe it was desperation disguised as courage. The mana of a child who had already learned that survival meant taking impossible risks, that sometimes the only way forward is to leap into the unknown and trust that someone, somewhere, will catch you.

That’s what you did, Joyce. You caught me.

I remember the sound of your van. A big yellow Bedford that looked like it belonged to the A-Team. I remember thinking this was either my salvation or my doom, but by then I was too tired to care either way.

When you stepped out in your Māori Wardens uniform, something shifted inside me. Here was a woman who looked like she belonged to something bigger than herself, who wore her service like a korowai, who radiated an authority that came not from power but from aroha.

“Kia ora, young man. Where are you going?”

Four words that changed everything. Not “What are you doing?” or “Where are your parents?” but “Where are you going?”

As if my journey mattered. As if I had agency in my own life. As if I was a person worth asking.

When you told me I wasn’t getting in that van to continue my journey to Patea, I felt that familiar sinking feeling — another adult making decisions about my life without consulting me. But then you explained about the Māori Wardens convention in Ōtorohanga, and suddenly I wasn’t being rejected, I was being invited. Invited into a whakapapa of service I didn’t even know existed.

Those three months in your home taught me what manaakitanga actually looks like in practice. Not just the concept we learned about in kura, but the daily acts of aroha that transform lives. The way you made space at your table for whoever needed feeding. The way you stood up to social welfare when they came to collect me, and insisted that my voice mattered in deciding my own fate. The way you taught me that being Māori wasn’t just about whakapapa. It was about responsibility, looking after one another, ensuring that no one gets left behind.

You were writing the playbook for Whānau Ora decades before it became government policy, Joyce. You understood that healing happens in relationship, that belonging isn’t just about bloodlines but about being seen, valued, and given the space to grow into who you’re meant to be.

I often think about the statistical likelihood of you stopping that day. How many cars drove past an 11-year-old on the side of the road? How many people saw a “problem” instead of a person? How many decided it wasn’t their responsibility? The fact that you — a Māori warden heading to a convention, already carrying the weight of community service — chose to stop, chose to complicate your journey, chose to see me as worthy of care, still takes my breath away.

That moment when you stood between me and the social welfare officer, when you insisted they ask me where I wanted to go — that was the moment I learned that my voice had value. That was the moment I understood that being Māori meant more than just surviving the systems designed to diminish us. It meant standing up, speaking out, and ensuring that the most vulnerable among us are heard.

You taught me that aroha ki te tangata isn’t just a nice phrase — it’s a practice that requires courage, conviction, and the willingness to step into other people’s chaos with your heart wide open. You showed me that being a Māori warden isn’t about wearing a uniform or having authority. It’s about being a kaitiaki for your people, a guardian of mana, a bridge between the broken and the whole.

Now, as you navigate the challenges of dementia, as I saw your daughter Gloria caring for you with the same devotion you showed to countless others, I’m reminded that the aroha you planted in people’s lives continues to grow long after the planting is done. The rangatahi you sheltered, the families you supported, the systems you challenged. We are all part of your legacy, Joyce. We are all seeds you scattered with your generous heart.

I want you to know that every time I stand up for someone who can’t stand up for themselves, every time I insist that voices be heard, every time I choose to see the person rather than the problem, I’m channelling the mana you gave me that day on State Highway 1.

You didn’t just save me from the roadside, Joyce. You saved me from becoming someone who had learned to be silent, someone who had accepted that their voice didn’t matter.

The boy who climbed into your van that day was broken, displaced, carrying wounds he couldn’t name. The man writing this letter is someone who found his purpose in service, who learned that healing happens in community, who understands that our greatest strength as Māori people lies not in our ability to survive but in our commitment to ensuring others thrive.

That transformation didn’t happen overnight, Joyce. It took years for me to understand the gift you gave me. But every day since, I’ve been living proof that one act of aroha ki te tangata can change everything. That one person choosing to stop, to see, to care, can alter the trajectory of a life, can turn a story of abandonment into one of belonging.

Mauri ora, Joyce Williams. Thank you for stopping. Thank you for seeing. Thank you for showing me that love in action looks like a Māori warden in a yellow van, willing to complicate her own journey to ensure a lost child finds his way home.

With all my aroha and eternal gratitude,

Murdoch.

Murdoch, along with Dr Amber Hammill, has written and produced Hi Viz Manaaki: Māori Wardens, a podcast for RNZ which launches on Wednesday, July 23. It will be broadcast on RNZ National on Sundays at 7am from August 31, with new episodes every week.

Murdoch Ngahau (Te Whānau-ā-Apanui, Ngāti Awa) has worked in kaupapa Māori, community projects, and commercial media for over 20 years. He is the communications director at Te Kōhao Health, while also involved in iwi, media, and tikanga Māori projects as well as mentoring.