There is a specific kōrero from T.W. Ratana that has been weighing heavy on my heart lately. It’s a prophecy that sounds simple on the surface, but when you look closer, it’s a forensic warning about the survival of our iwi. Ratana warned his people against bartering away their future for things that don’t last. He spoke of a time when the land—our very life force—would be traded for "flour, sugar, potatoes," or in other versions, "flour, sugar, tea, and tobacco".

This wasn't just about what was in the pantry; it was about the "Leaky Bucket" economy we’ve been trapped in for too long. Ratana saw a future where we would give up our means of production (the land) for cheap, consumable goods that leave us empty in the end. It’s a warning about trading our long-term sovereignty for short-term "benefits" that ultimately keep us dependent.

Here is a whakaaro that has been sitting on my heart lately, especially as we look at the challenges facing our beautiful Northland. This wisdom came from my pōtiki who was 11 at the time. It’s a simple rule of thumb for life, a hierarchy of needs that we often get twisted: 1. Be safe. 2. Have fun. 3. Do what you’re here to do. In that precise order. The wero (challenge) we face in our modern world, particularly under the pressure of what we might call the "Babylonian" operating system, is that we frequently swap numbers two and three. We put the "grind" before the joy, and in doing so, we damage the very spirit—the wairua—that fuels our purpose.

The first step is non-negotiable: Be safe. In our research, we talk about the "Economic Pā". Historically, the Pā was a place of defence and storage, ensuring the survival of the hapū. You cannot thrive if you are constantly in a state of survival mode or high entropy (disorder). We need "Ontological Security"—a safety of mind, body, and spirit. Whether it is financial security through institutions like Te Au Rawa Mutual or simply the safety of a warm, dry home, this foundation allows us to lower our guard and breathe. Without safety, the "wave function" of our potential cannot collapse into a reality of abundance.

Have you ever looked at the state of the world—the climate crisis, the social inequality, the fact that a lettuce recently outlasted a British Prime Minister—and thought, "Man, this is properly forked"?

Well, over my Christmas holiday (when I should have been eating ham and ignoring my emails), I went down a research rabbit hole so deep I nearly bumped into Alice. And I found out something terrifying: we actually are forked. But not in the way you think. It’s not just our politics or our economics that are broken. It’s our words.

We are trying to run a complex, living, breathing planet using a linguistic operating system designed for a steam engine.

Have you ever wondered why we struggle to solve 21st-century problems like climate change, social inequality, and ecological collapse using the tools of our current economic system? My recent research with The Quantum Whakapapa Project suggests the problem isn’t just in our policies, our technologies, or our politicians—it is in our words.

Over my Christmas holidays, I've been conducting a forensic investigation into the "source code" of our reality (Research Reports #228 and #229). My investigation explores the critical intersection of language and ontology. Put simply, ontology is the study of the nature of reality—it asks what things actually are and how they relate to one another. If your ontology is flawed (e.g., you believe the world is made of dead, separate objects), your economy will be destructive. If your ontology is accurate (e.g., you understand the world is a web of living, entangled connections), your economy can be regenerative.

Long before the "Leaky Bucket" economy hit our shores in the North, the blueprint for extraction was drawn on a tiny island in the Atlantic called Madeira. In the 15th century, Portuguese settlers looked at a sub-tropical paradise and didn't see an ancestor; they saw a commodity. They named it "Madeira"—literally meaning "wood"—and then they proceeded to burn and fell every tree in sight to fuel the world’s first great sugar boom.

This was the birth of "Babylonian" capitalism. It wasn't just about trade; it was about the "boom-bust-quit" cycle. Using slave labour and "free" natural wealth, they achieved unimaginable productivity. But it was thermodynamically unsound. It took 60kg of wood to refine just 1kg of sugar. Within decades, the forests were gone, the soil was exhausted, and the "embodied energy" of the island had been exported to the banks of Europe. When the Mauri of the island was depleted, the capital simply "quit" and moved to Brazil and the Caribbean, leaving behind a high-entropy residue of social and ecological disorder.

We often talk about "the system" as if it’s a faceless machine, but our tūpuna and the prophets who walked this land before us had a much sharper name for it: Babylon. As Bob Marley famously sang, we need to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery, because while they can’t stop the time, they certainly try to steal our energy. Today, we stand at a crossroads in Taitokerau where we have to choose: do we stay in the "Leaky Bucket" of Babylon, or do we finally build Zion?

In the traditions of the Ringatū and Ratana movements—much like the Rastafarian faith—these names aren't just religious labels; they are descriptions of opposing economic and spiritual operating systems. Babylon represents the "Newtonian Error," the idea that we are all separate, isolated particles just trying to grab what we can. In modern Northland, Babylon looks like the log trade: we export 61% of our raw timber—our "embodied energy"—to the other side of the world, receiving fiat currency that we immediately spend on imported goods. It’s a state of high Entropy (disorder) that leaves our roads broken and our whānau struggling while the "order" is realised offshore.

The afternoon sun is baking the volcanic stones and warming the kiwifruit orchards here in Maungatapere. Looking out over the land, I’m reminded of what Reverend Māori Marsden called the "Woven Universe"—a reality where everything is a process of interconnected threads rather than a collection of separate things. If we are to transition Te Tai Tokerau from the extractive "Babylon" to the regenerative "Zion," we must understand how every person living here—tāngata whenua, tāngata Tiriti, and our new immigrant whānau—fits into that fabric.

For too long, the "Babylonian" operating system has relied on the "Newtonian Error". This is the bad explanation that views the universe as a clockwork mechanism made of separate, isolated parts. In our community, this manifests as the "Rational Individual," an atomised agent seeking to maximise their own utility at the expense of the collective Mauri. But modern physics and ancient Mātauranga agree: separation is an illusion.

In the Quantum Whakapapa Nexus, we recognise Whanaungatanga as literal Quantum Entanglement. When tāngata Tiriti or immigrants move to the North, they are not just "units of labour" or "consumers"; they become entangled with the life force of this whenua. Their skills, their capital, and their presence become part of the local energetic field.

We need to have a hard kōrero about the numbers. The recent reports confirm what we have known in our bones for generations: the forensic economic loss to Ngāpuhi—the actual value of the land and resources stripped from our tūpuna—exceeds $20 billion. That is the debt.

But the political reality? The Crown is offering a settlement likely between $500 million and $800 million. They call this a "realistic range" because of the "Fiscal Envelope" and the relativity clauses with Tainui and Ngāi Tahu. If the Crown pays us what we are owed, it bankrupts the country. So, they offer us cents on the dollar.

This creates a fracture in our iwi. On one side, we have the "Blockers"—hapū in the Hokianga and Whangarei who say, "Keep your money, we never ceded sovereignty". They are standing on the Wai 1040 finding that our rangatira never gave away their authority. On the other side, we have the "Advancers"—hapū in the Bay of Islands and Whangaroa who say, "We need the resources now to feed our people". They are moving ahead to secure assets like Kororipo Pā and leverage the mandate.

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Sitting around the table on a rainy Taitokerau afternoon, the Northland Edition Monopoly board spread out, and the tension rising as one person starts hoarding the hotels on Semenoff Stadium while the rest of the whānau slowly goes broke. We were taught that this is just "how the game works"—that for one person to win, everyone else has to lose. But what if I told you that the game we were given is a stolen explanation? What if I told you the original version had a second set of rules—one designed to prove that we can all prosper together?

More Than Just a Warrior

Growing up in Te Tai Tokerau, you hear the names of the great rangatira passed down like heirlooms. But history has a funny way of flattening a man. For my 4-greats grandfather, Pomare I of Ngāti Manu, the history books often get stuck on the image of the "formidable warrior"—all muskets, mana, and battlefield prowess.

But if you sit on the porch long enough and look past the colonial ink, you see a different story. Pomare I wasn't just a fighter; he was a master of Strategic Entanglement. He was the original disrupter who transformed the Bay of Islands into a global trade powerhouse. He was an architect of reality who understood that to keep his people's Rangatiratanga, he had to master the new world's tools without letting them overwrite his internal "source code".

Three Threads, One Kākahu: The Harmony Of Physics, Faith, And Whakapapa

I’ve spent a lot of time on the porches of Taitokerau, listening to the old people talk about the "good old days" while watching the logging trucks carry our whenua away. It’s a heavy sight. You see those logs—61% of our timber exported raw—and you’re watching the sunlight, the rain, and the very nutrients of our soil leave the harbor. It’s what we call the "Leaky Bucket" economy. It often feels like we are caught between three different worlds that don't speak the same language: the Whare Wānanga, the science lab, and the Bible. But here in the North, we are realising they aren't competing; they are three threads of the same Kākahu.

I was standing on the side of the road near Maungatapere the other day, watching another line of trucks hauling raw logs toward the port. It’s a sight we’re all used to in Te Tai Tokerau. But if you look at those trucks through the lens of physics, you aren't just seeing timber. You’re seeing a massive export of embodied energy.

For decades, our home has been treated like a "Leaky Bucket." We send away the best of our whenua—the sunlight, the rain, and the soil nutrients that grew those trees over thirty years—and in return, we get a few low-wage jobs and some fiat currency that usually leaves the region the moment we spend it on petrol or power.

Ever felt like you’re standing in that grey space between the dark and the dawn, not quite sure where the path is leading? That’s Te Whaiao—the shimmering transition where potential starts to take form. In the tradition of the Whare Wānanga, this is the bridge between Te Pō, the realm of becoming, and Te Ao Mārama, the world of light.

This Christmas, as the Pōhutukawa blossoms paint our Tai Tokerau coastline red, I’ve been reflecting on the ancient "Word" (Logos) from scripture. It’s wild how these frequencies vibrate at the exact same level as quantum physics. In science, we talk about Entanglement—the fact that once two particles connect, they are forever linked across the universe. In our Māori world, we call this Whanaungatanga. Whether it’s the breath of the Creator or the quantum field, the message is the same: you are never truly solo.

Stop chasing a "bottom line" that doesn't exist; your bank account is literally breathing the same air as the mangroves in the Hokianga, and science finally has the receipts to prove it.

Tēnā koutou, e te iwi. Pull up a chair here on the porch. I’ve been sitting with two books lately—one is David Deutsch’s The Beginning of Infinity, and the other is a 19th-century Te Reo Māori translation of the Gospels. At first glance, you’d think they’re worlds apart. One talks about quantum multiverses and the reach of explanations, while the other talks about the Logos—Te Kupu—the Word that brought life. But when you look closer, especially through a Ngāpuhi lens, they are telling the exact same story: nothing exists in isolation.