Name Tupua Urlich 
Hometown Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland 
Age when entered care 5 years old 
Year of birth 1995
Time in care 2000‒2011 
Type of care facility Foster care 
Ethnicity Croatian, Māori (Ngāti Kahungunu)
Whānau background Tupua has seven siblings, including a younger sister who was born 11 months after him. He is the second generation on his father’s side to go into the care system – his father and father’s siblings all went into care.  
Currently Tupua works with VOYCE Whakarongo mai to advocate voice and connection for young people in care, empowering children’s voices to be heard and listened to, and enabling a pathway to their cultural identity. 

I was five years old when I was torn away from everything I had known. Out of love for us, my mother made a call to my extended whānau in the Hawke’s Bay and they had a hui about our care. I have a very vivid memory of the day the whānau came to collect us. That is my first memory of true trauma. I will never forget that day, seeing my mother collapse to the ground watching us leave. I’ll never forget the pain of not knowing what was going on and where we were going.  

I was separated from my mother and siblings for many years. Being separated from my sister after being separated from my mother was nothing short of punishment, and it continues to have a lasting effect.  

Aged five, I went to live with a caregiver in Flaxmere, via CYFS. I suffered severe physical and mental abuse while I was living with him. One day he gave me a huge beating and I was lying on the ground with a bleeding nose, when he turned to me and said, “Oh by the way, your dad is dead” and slammed the door. I was six years old.  

When I was older, I took him to court for the abuse, but he was acquitted of all charges except one, for kicking me. That taught me that I was on my own. It was clear even then that I was up against the system. The second you open your mouth, the State just seems to push you from pillar to post. After that I didn’t have any stable placements – I’d go to school one day, and next thing you know, I’m going home to a different town or place. I had no voice in that process. I wasn’t valued – it was more like, you go where we say you’re going, and it doesn’t matter whether you understand it or not. 

The abuse, the hopelessness, and the loneliness were terrible. You top that off with absolutely no stability, no direction, and so many things suffered ‒ my education, but most importantly, my mental health. 

I missed school because of the abuse, and nobody checked on me to see if I was doing okay. I wondered where the people who cared about me were.  

I’ve got so many examples of racism, and I haven’t met Māori in the care system who haven’t experienced racism. The fact that there are so many Māori in the care system is a good indication of racism.  

I had to go to lots of psychology and counselling appointments and there wasn’t much room for learning te reo. When you live in a racist system, it makes you view yourself differently. The only time I saw a reference to te ao Māori was the koru patterns in the glass frosting of the meeting rooms in a CYFS building. I deserved more than that.  

CYFS placed me with a caregiver who insisted on calling me Michael. That was driven by her purely religious views, and her understanding of the word ‘Tupua’ as evil and demonic. At school I wouldn’t respond to the name and was grilled by teachers for not listening, but my name is Tupua, not Michael.  

I’m not as close as I’d like to be with my family, and that’s a result of the State alienating me from my whānau. We had no contact with each other for many years. You can’t make up for those years lost.  

We are alienated because the system did not value us as Māori tamariki as belonging to a collective whānau, hapū and iwi. They throw these words around that they don’t understand, and it shows how they treat our young people. Being Māori and raised in a system that is determined to separate you from your culture and knowledge is modern-day colonisation. They want to detach us from our people and our culture, and fall into a system that feeds their privilege, it feeds their position in Aotearoa.  

Our tamariki don’t belong to a Crown entity. Neither did I. Knowing who you are and where you come from, along with values defined by tikanga, are the right foundations for developing strong, healthy, independent, ready young people. It’s like day and night compared to the system we were raised in.   

I am the second generation on my father’s side that has gone into State care – my dad and his siblings all went into care. They’re all gone now – I’m the oldest one left in my whānau, and I’m only 27 years old. The result of abuse and trauma, and what the State does to its people is present even in death. This mahi is important to me as I’m the eldest left in my direct whānau line. You can’t say that this isn’t connected, because it absolutely is. The hardest part is living in a society that denies it is real.  

The Crown has created a system in which we fall through the gaps. They look like the helping hand up, but they’re the ones pushing us down. All care and protection residences should be shut down. These environments are prison-like for children with high needs, and what part of prison is therapeutic? 

Just allow Māori to exercise being Māori, tino rangatiratanga. We don’t need the Crown to give us power – we have always had it, and they need to respect our power.  

Now I work with VOYCE Whakarongo mai to advocate voice and connection for young people in care, empowering children’s voices to be heard and listened to, and enabling a pathway to their cultural identity. 

I was very fortunate that I had some strong mentors come into my life. That’s what makes me passionate about this work. I had people who saw me for who I was, not the way I was acting or behaving, because you’re broken and you struggle to fit in. But a person sees you and is committed enough to bring out those leadership qualities. We have hope, and we have hope because we’re being heard.[121]