The haka is often framed internationally as a fierce pre-match spectacle, but for Māori women and girls in Aotearoa New Zealand it is something far more intimate and enduring: a language of the body that carries whakapapa (genealogy, ancestral lineage), mana (authority, dignity, spiritual power), and mauri (life force, vital essence). When wāhine Māori (Māori women) and kōtiro Māori (Māori girls) perform haka, they are not borrowing from a male tradition; they are standing inside a living cultural continuum where women have always spoken, challenged, mourned, welcomed and protected their people through movement, voice and presence. In an age of viral clips and global sports branding, the haka performed by Māori women has become both a reclaiming of space and a declaration of survival.
Historically, haka was never a single thing. It is a broad category of posture dances used for many purposes: tangihanga (funeral rites and mourning ceremonies), pōwhiri (formal welcoming ceremonies), celebrations, protests, expressions of love, satire and resistance. Women were not marginal participants. Traditional narratives describe women composing haka, leading performances, and embodying the emotional and spiritual centre of communal events. Female expression within haka often emphasised pūkana (a wide-eyed facial expression with a lifted or thrust chin) and wiri (the trembling or vibrating of the hands), movements associated with alertness, vitality and the shimmering presence of Tānerore (a minor atua, or deity, personifying heat haze and the dance of summer air). These gestures are not decorative; they communicate awareness, intensity and a deep spiritual connection.
In contemporary kapa haka (Māori performing arts), women’s haka performance continues to evolve. Some haka are mixed-gender, some foreground women, and others deliberately challenge older gendered expectations. While men’s haka are often interpreted through lenses of physical aggression and martial strength, women’s haka are frequently misread as softer or purely emotional. Many Māori performers reject this binary. Haka performed by wāhine Māori can be confrontational, political and uncompromising, particularly when responding to injustice, land alienation, gender-based violence or racism. The power lies not in mimicking male styles, but in asserting a distinct female authority grounded in genealogy and collective memory.
For Māori girls, learning haka is often an early lesson in belonging. Through kapa haka groups at school and in the community, Māori girls absorb te reo Māori (the Māori language), tikanga (customs, correct cultural practices) and histories that were systematically suppressed during colonisation. Performing haka becomes a way to occupy space confidently, to use the voice loudly, and to meet the world with an unflinching gaze. For girls growing up amid disproportionate rates of poverty, state intervention and violence, this matters deeply. Haka offers a framework for self-worth that is collective rather than individualistic: you are strong because your people stand behind you.
The prominence of women in elite kapa haka competitions, particularly those showcased at Te Matatini, reinforces this visibility. Female leaders, composers and performers shape on-stage narratives that speak directly to contemporary Māori realities—urban life, motherhood, queerness, climate anxiety, grief and pride. Here, haka functions as both cultural performance and social commentary, reminding audiences that Māori women are not symbols of tradition frozen in time, but active agents redefining what that tradition means in the present.
This cultural strength exists alongside persistent inequality. Māori women experience lower life expectancy than non-Māori women, are overrepresented among survivors of family and sexual violence, and face overlapping gender and ethnic pay gaps. These realities sit uneasily beside the global celebration of Māori culture. Haka does not erase structural injustice, but it provides a language through which injustice can be named, resisted and transformed. When women perform haka at protests, in courtrooms, at graduations or on marae (communal meeting grounds), they are asserting tino rangatiratanga (self-determination, sovereignty) over their bodies and stories.
For Māori women and girls, performing haka is ultimately an act of continuity. It binds ancestors to descendants, memory to defiance, grief to resolve. It is a reminder that strength does not wear a single face, and that feminine power in Māori worlds has never required permission. In New Zealand, as debates over culture, identity and equality continue, the haka performed by wāhine Māori stands as a living testament: we are here, we remember, and we will not be silent.
I’ll confess something: I’m trying to learn. Slowly. Respectfully. With my mouth mostly shut and my eyes very open. The haka, especially as performed by Māori women, has been giving me lessons I didn’t know I needed. Not about choreography, obviously—I would look ridiculous—but about presence. About what it means to occupy space with your whole body and say, without saying sorry, “I am here.”
I grew up, like many women, learning the opposite. Smile. Soften your face. Don’t look angry. Anger is unattractive, anger is dangerous, anger is unfeminine. If you must be furious, do it quietly. Preferably in a bathroom stall. Watching Māori women perform haka blew that script to pieces. The eyes wide open, the chin lifted, the stare that does not flinch or retreat. This is not rage for entertainment. This is anger with ancestry. Anger with purpose. Anger that knows exactly where it comes from and why it deserves to exist.
And honestly? Given the state of the (male) world right now, a few good, angry facial expressions might be very useful. We are harassed on the streets, talked over in meetings, blamed for violence committed against us, legislated over, commented on, grabbed, followed, judged. Constantly told to calm down while the planet burns and our rights are chipped away. If more of us learned how to fix our gaze, ground our feet, and let our faces speak before our mouths are interrupted, things might feel… different.
What strikes me about Māori women’s haka is that it is never just individual. This is not girlboss feminism or “lean in” empowerment nonsense. The power comes from standing with others, from genealogy, from knowing you are backed by generations who survived worse and still found ways to sing, shout and move. There is something deeply comforting in that. You don’t have to invent your strength from scratch. You inherit it. You rehearse it. You pass it on.
I am not Māori. This is not mine to appropriate or perform. But I can learn from the lesson. I can unlearn the reflex to soften myself for male comfort. I can stop apologising for taking up emotional and physical space. I can let my face show what my body already knows: that fear is not the only survival strategy available to women.
So no, I won’t be sticking my tongue out or stamping my feet anytime soon. But I might practise the stare. The unblinking, unashamed look that says: I see you. I know what you’re doing. And I am no longer playing nice.