Even on a quiet Tuesday Te Tiriti turns up in my errands. I return smiles to the South Asian clerk at Woolworths, nod to the Chinese girl at my neighbourhood fruit shop, sign for the medical supplies delivered to my dad by an Indian courier, stretch under the needles of my Korean acupuncturist at the physio. Migrants are the daily roster of Auckland, stitched into each other’s routines. Yet, the guest script still trails migrants like me.
Feb 3, 2026
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4 min read
