Kōrero with a Creative: Zi Ruiha
Image credit: Zi Ruiha
Can you share a bit about yourself?
I grew up on farms between Kapiti and Horowhenua, so always close to the whenua. I have Pākehā and Māori (Ngāti Toa, Ngāti Raukawa) whakapapa.
I studied criminology at Te Herenga Waka University and have worked in the public sector since then, except recently for health reasons. It’s been a weird little journey. Criminology was an eye-opening subject for me.
I am kiri mā, so there is a privilege that goes with that. I didn’t experience the racism that some of my uncles and cousins did with the police. From my criminology studies, I started to put together the connections in our society between education, health, police and prison.
You’re a writer and poet. What other creative hobbies do you enjoy?
When I was younger, I was into painting. I’d like to get back into it. I’ve co-directed short films and wrote screenplays. To accompany my poetry, I’ve been creating visualisers: short film clips that match the vibe and further represent the ideas. I did this with a poem published earlier in the year and created a short film that captured the hot and sweaty but also girly feel of the piece.
I also want to do this for my poem, ‘Recipe for Colonisation,’ published in this magazine. If I think about it, I can visualise shots of cooking interwoven with footage of some of the protests we’ve had in Aotearoa over the last year.
Are there particular themes you like to write about?
I resonate with the idea of emotional art; sad and angry art. Art that is political and often created by people with marginalised identities such as Māori, disabled and LGBTQIA+. Themes of social justice, which I read a lot about, that’s where a lot of my art goes. It feels powerful to me and also therapeutic at times.
Tell me about your poem published in Awa Wahine Magazine, ‘Recipe for Colonisation’.
It’s an angry poem; that’s what my friends who read it said to me before I sent it off. They said, ‘I can feel your rage’. It wasn’t a poem I could write quickly; ironically, it had to cook and simmer for a few months. It started with a few lines and kept cooking as I continued to think about it.
In the last year, I’ve been making more of an effort to engage with Palestinian art, and there’s this narrative documentary called Foragers by Jumana Manna from 2022 about Palestinian foragers. I think it’s amazing how much art has been made that shows the history of colonisation in that area when a lot of people think the colonisation and genocide of the Palestinian people recently started.
The Palestinian people have been foraging for centuries and have formed strong connections with the local native herbs and plants. Then, Israeli laws were introduced that strongly prohibited their foraging practices, although they were legal for Israelis. Some Palestinian foragers have served prison sentences and paid large fines.
It reminded me of the similarities in how we experience colonisation through our relationships with nature. For us, sharing kai with people and foraging is important; in the past, we’ve had legislation and societal stigma restricting rongoa Māori. It’s a weird and significant form of colonisation, using legislation as a tool to colonise people and stop them from doing something, in these cases, preventing tangata whenua and other Indigenous peoples from their connections with nature and other people.
My friend is studying law, and she enrolled in an Indigenous law paper. In it, they learnt about the bison ecocide in the late 19th century in America. Laws were brought in to incentivise the Settler Europeans to kill the bison as part of the attempt to starve Indigenous communities to the point of death and take Indigenous land. So many bison were slaughtered that they didn’t even eat them.
In contrast, Indigenous communities use all parts of the animal as a form of respect to the animal. There are so many connections to these relationships and so many different experiences of colonisation to be angry about. The poem kept cooking until it got to where it was.
What is your creative process?
I’m a really bad procrastinator. I’ve started writing a novel, and it's taken nine months to get to 13,000 words. Write it down; sometimes, you can add it to your other writings. I try to write down my thoughts as much as I can.
I use the Notes app on my phone. It’s terrible, such a mess. I have a grocery list with my writing notes above and below—a couple of lines for a poem. I make notes on my phone and computer and sometimes get my physical notebook out when trying to plan something out more. It’s a weird mix of what I have on hand.
Do you have a place you like to write?
Sometimes I like to write at my desk, but I often write in bed. I’ll also write in my notebook on the floor; I enjoy that.
Where are you headed next? What are your goals and dreams?
I’m trying to get over my procrastination and find a balance. I’ve started a novel that I would like to finish, and it’d be cool if I made progress over the next few months. I’m a mood writer, meaning I must be in the ‘right mood’ to write. I have a few short story ideas and themes that I want to type up that have been in my head for quite a while. But the novel is my big one. I don’t have a title yet; the word file is ‘Untitled.’
Who or what are you inspired by creatively?
Social justice kaupapa, Papatūānuku, and nature inspire me creatively. I try to bring bits of those three threads into all my work. I think there are a lot of really amazing creatives out there, especially now. I don’t even look at classic literature anymore. Which would surprise teen me, with an English teacher who thought it was okay to say the ‘n-word’ when it’s in a book and that classics are synonymous with worth.
We have a cool new canon of writers and creators coming through. More and more voices are getting out there. One such voice is Percival Everitt. His novel James is a retelling of the story of Jim/James, the runaway slave in Huckleberry Finn. Percival also wrote the novel Erasure, based on American Fiction on Prime. I finished it recently; it starts an interesting conversation about decolonising the canon of writings about black people. If we can or can’t decolonise the ‘literary canon’ or if we have to create a new one.
The Netflix show Kaos came out recently. Māori actor Cliff Curtis has been cast as Poseidon. This makes sense to me with the cultural connection to Tangaroa and the ocean itself. But wouldn’t it also be sick if we had a Netflix adaptation with our atua? We all share Disney’s Moana, but Greek mythology has had 50 million adaptations. I’d love to see more with Indigenous stories—like your book Hine and the Tohunga Portal.
I’ve recently read a couple of books by Stephen Graham Jones, a Blackfeet author who centres Indigenous stories and characters in horror. I thought ‘The Only Good Indians’ was really powerful in looking at the intergenerational trauma of colonisation and he has a unique voice. Very unconventional and his narratives feel more oratory than ‘traditional literary’.
I also have to mention ‘Space Invaders’ by Nona Fernández, a Chilean writer. It’s an emotional, haunting novella with a really experimental form. It doesn’t have much to do with the game but is about a group of friends during Pinochet’s regime. It was so beautiful that I reread each chapter before moving onto the next. I think about it and recommend it often.
Another book I’ve recently read and loved was Big Fat Brown Bitch by Tusiata Avia. Big Fat Brown Bitch is the epitome of powerful, angry art—flowers off to her.