Ash Davida Jane
All That We Know by Shilo Kino (Moa Press, 2024), 344pp, $40
Shilo Kino’s All That We Know is a complex and insightful novel about significant political issues, written in the style of popular fiction. With simple and unfussy prose, the characters drive the momentum in Kino’s novel. The main character Māreikura is refreshing to encounter—we root for this unapologetically outspoken young wahine. She makes mistakes and learns how to own up to them without undermining or diminishing her own power. In many ways All That We Know is a book about having the difficult conversations—with your family, with your friends, with your classmates and colleagues, and with yourself. From conversations about family history and the trauma that bleeds though generations, to conversations about beliefs and politics, what it comes down to is this: it is hard to talk about the things that hurt us. Kino’s novel shows us over and over again that though this is true, we still have to do it, because that is how we both heal and learn.
This is consistently evident through Māreikura’s friendship with Jordana, who she meets in her te reo Māori class. Māreikura and Jordana often disagree, including on their podcast Wahine Chats, but their friendship remains steadfast because they are able to argue without damaging their respect for each other. When they’re recording the first episode of the podcast, Māreikura asserts that no Pākehā should be given a space to learn te reo, at least not until 50 percent of Māori can speak it fluently. This conversation—about Pākehā taking spaces in te reo classes that could otherwise be for Māori—is a huge point of contention in the novel and reflects a lot of discussion happening in the real world. Jordana disagrees with Māreikura, saying, ‘We have a girl in our class named Sarah who is a really good ally. I think if more Pākehā were humble like her, kind, willing to take a back seat in class and not shout out all the answers, then everyone would have a good experience.’ Jordana offers her opinion, but she also encourages Māreikura to share the anger and frustration she feels at sitting in class next to Pākehā who haven’t experienced the trauma of colonisation and language theft; who don’t feel the shame of not knowing their own language.
Through Māreikura’s relationship with Eru, her other significant friendship in the novel, Kino begins to unpack the complex relationship between colonisation and the church in Aotearoa New Zealand. Eru, a gay Māori man preparing to undertake his mission in Hawai’i—a famously problematic place to visit—challenges all of Māreikura’s principles. But as much as he embodies these challenges, he is also her best friend and the person she has loved since she was a child. Māreikura can see the harm caused to Eru by the church and his own belief system, but it’s important that she also sees where his faith gives him strength. In grappling with this contradiction, Kino manages to lead us to a place of hope—and crucially, it is Māreikura’s ongoing support and love for him that gets us there.
There is a line, of course, where if someone’s political beliefs impinge on your health and safety or the rights of people you care about, it can be impossible to have a positive relationship with them. But in All That We Know we see examples of how speaking out about what you think, and challenging other people’s ideas can lead to a better mutual understanding and a stronger connection. This approach of discussing the hard things with mutual respect and compassion is juxtaposed against a particular kind of online activism that thrives on social media, where the industry and the algorithms measure success as engagement of any kind, good or bad, and where shock factor and clickability are the most important measures. Māreikura experiences the negative impacts of this when she’s invited to appear on the Breakfast Show to talk about Wahine Chats and reclaiming her language. The host puts her on the spot with a question she wasn’t warned about, asking about Oranga Tamariki and how she was uplifted from her mother as a baby. Dropping this question about her childhood trauma is described as the ‘gotcha moment’, the soundbite that will go viral, which is what the industry considers a success. Though she’s outraged, Māreikura turns around and does the same thing to a friend and classmate later in the novel when he appears as a guest on the podcast. She is aggressive in her questioning and pushes him to speak about things he specifically said he didn’t want to be asked about. She justifies it by saying she was speaking her truth and ‘[Y]ou know my kōrero will go viral.’
All That We Know is a sharp critique of this side of activism and the pressure it puts on individuals, especially young individuals, to be a voice for so many. There is no room for conversation or for learning through discussion, and people are encouraged to say the most shocking and controversial things without having time to develop their thinking within their own community first. Māreikura gets caught up in the idea that the more engagement her content receives, the more successful it is. It takes a dramatic intervention to make her pause and reconsider. Part of that lesson is knowing when to sit down and listen. In one of the novel’s standout moments, Kino’s protagonist shows us that doing so doesn’t mean losing or betraying her mana, and that reflecting on and acknowledging her mistakes is a necessary continuation of that difficult conversation.
Stylised on the cover as All That We Own Know, the novel’s title is working hard to help the reader. The title design, like the novel, posits the idea of prioritising knowledge over ownership or understanding something rather than possessing it, as well as the importance of collective responsibility over individual claims. At the turning point in the novel, an open letter written by a group of Māori professors and activists reads, ‘Activism is not riding on the back of mātauranga that is not yours. Activism is not centring yourself.’ The letter asserts that this work is not about the individual or self-gain. Directed at ‘young activists’, it pointedly asks: ‘Does the ahikā at your marae know you?’ The letter’s writers remind us that what matters is knowing and being known by the place you belong and your community—more than any sense of ownership or entitlement. The word ‘own’ also functions here in its second meaning, in the sense of owning up to things, being accountable for your behaviour and looking to do better—all which stems from growing your knowledge and learning from others.
From my position as a Pākehā New Zealander, there are aspects of this novel that are not mine to appraise, or that I am not the right person to speak to. At the same time, All That We Know spoke to me in many places, deepening my thinking as it explored how tangata tiriti should act in this country, as Tiriti partners and descendants of those who colonised the land. As Māreikura says, ‘How can you advocate for change when you are fundamentally part of the problem?’ Like all good novels, All That We Know never presents one right answer to these questions. Though the central character is strong in her opinions and very critical of the actions of the Pākehā characters she meets, she isn’t a mouthpiece for the author. But I think it’s good for Pākehā readers to be challenged by those ideas and to do the work of acknowledging their validity and where they come from. In a world where our elected officials are trying to undermine Te Tiriti o Waitangi and erase te reo Māori, we as a society need to be more comfortable sitting with extreme ideas on the other end of the political spectrum, rather than aiming for the centre and falling short. Kino’s novel shows us how to do this with compassion and nuance, allowing room for ourselves and others to make mistakes.
All That We Know is a fun, fast read that’s narrative-driven and incredibly thought-provoking. With a focus on community and relationships, particularly with friends and family, Kino manages to explore a range of heavy topics and difficult political issues and still ensure readers come out the other end feeling good. Kino’s characters feel like real people, and the protagonist Māreikura in particular will stay with you long after you finish reading. This is a promising second novel from Kino, following her young adult debut The Pōrangi Boy (Huia, 2020), and positions her as an author keenly reflecting the issues of our time.
ASH DAVIDA JANE is a poet, editor and reviewer from Te Whanganui-a-Tara who is currently living in Melbourne.
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