Invited into the room, or deciding what happens in it?

Rangatahi tell us that conversations about young people and funding often happen without them: between adults in funding, government agencies, and the youth initiatives and organisations that deliver services. For this piece, we deliberately left5re347 those voices out. Instead, we spoke with three rangatahi who make funding decisions or live with their consequences and asked what they want funders to understand. 

Mya Kairau (Kāi Tahu, Ngāpuhi) was 16 when her rūnaka put her forward for Te Ōhaka Tīwhera (a rangatahi-led fund in Murihiku, supported by Te Rourou, One Aotearoa Foundation and a number of local funders).  

Te Aorangi Murphy-Fell (Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairarapa, Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Apa) is currently the General Manager of Haemata (his whānau's education consultancy) and has been the chair of BayTrust and a trustee for the past five years. 

Dani Wilson (Ngāpuhi, Tuwharetoa) entered care at eight years old. This year, she co-hosted Kōkiri, VOYCE Whakarongo Mai’s first national conference, and is now a National Youth Advocate for the organisation. 

Their experiences are different, but they've all come to the same request: “Don’t make decisions about us without us”. 

Te Aorangi notices the gap from inside the boardroom. “Quite often the decisions philanthropic organisations make are about young people,” he says. “Unless you’ve got young people around the table who can tell you what that experience is like, it’s essentially one group trying to make a decision about another group.” 

He became a trustee partly because of that gap. Young Māori are overrepresented in many of the statistics funders try to change, he says, yet rarely sit where funding decisions are made. 

For Dani, VOYCE’s call to “speak to us first” is as much about timing as inclusion. “It means coming to us before making decisions that affect our lives,” Dani says. “We are the ones living these experiences, so we understand what works, what doesn’t, and what needs to change. You can have meetings and make plans, but if you’re not including the young people those decisions affect, how can you really know what they need?” 

When Mya joined Te Ōhaka Tīwhera, she doubted the panel would hold real authority. “I thought, this is too good to be true,” she says. “There’s a difference between inviting youth into the room and letting them decide what happens in it.” 

But the panel did decide. Its first members were two rangatahi from each of Murihiku’s Papatipu Rūnaka, plus two who whakapapa elsewhere, and it later drew in students from every high school in the area. The group chose a kaupapa-based, high-trust model with no formal reporting requirements, and steered away from one-off events toward lasting projects. Every shortlisted applicant met the panel kanohi ki te kanohi (face to face). Afterwards, the rangatahi would break for lunch, then come back to debate. The adults around them answered any questions they had but left the decisions to the panel. 

Mya says not everything went to plan. “What surprised me most was that the adults around us left space for us to mess up,” she says. “We made mistakes, alright. People don’t really talk about that side of things, but funders need to remember that things aren’t a straight line.” 

She describes her growth by imagining a seed: “You can’t plant a seed and expect it to grow without the conditions.” Each time someone backed her, she crossed another threshold. At 18, she gave her first keynote speech. “I always grew up knowing I had a voice,” she says. “This was somewhere to use it.” 

Mya and Te Aorangi both know what it is like to be the only young Māori in a governance meeting. When Mya recently took on a governance role, other members asked why she was so quiet. The question itself revealed how little they noticed the imbalance in the room. 

Te Aorangi has seen the same pattern. “There’s a natural tendency for a young person to be relatively quiet when you’ve got stronger adult voices around the table,” he says. “The impetus is on those with the stronger, more powerful voices to make sure young people are included.” Welcoming someone in isn't enough if their contributions aren't taken seriously. “As trustees, you’re essentially a bunch of equals.” 

He also names an extra load on Māori trustees who sit alone: the expectation to speak for everything Māori, from tikanga to karakia. He credits BayTrust with strong Māori representation, which spreads that load and allows each trustee to contribute as themselves. 

Dani describes a moment when she felt truly heard. At Te Pai Ora | SSPA’s Whakamanawa, the national social services conference in September, Dani spoke on a panel made up entirely of rangatahi, in front of about 450 social sector kaimahi. When Dani called for more funding for training, the room broke into applause. “You can tell when someone is genuinely listening to you rather than just waiting for their turn to speak,” Dani says. “Being listened to isn’t just about getting a chance to speak. It’s about seeing our voices lead to action and knowing that what we say can make a difference.” 

All three ask funders to start with what young people can do, not what has gone wrong for them. 

“We’re not just numbers, statistics, or another group of young people that need help,” says Dani. “We’re people with our own stories, dreams, goals, and potential. We need more than the basics to survive. We need stability, opportunities, support, connection, and people who believe in us. Funding should be about helping us build the futures we want, not just responding when something goes wrong.” 

Across the three conversations, the requests are practical. Bring rangatahi in at the beginning, “when ideas are being developed, and decisions are being made about where the money goes,” as Dani puts it, and pay them for their time and knowledge. Keep them informed after the first meeting, and be honest “when something can or can’t happen and why.” Leave room for mistakes, and change a deed or a criterion when it blocks what rangatahi have decided. 

Te Aorangi adds advice on recruitment. “If funders are serious about getting more young people on board, target board advertisements to young people,” he says, and advertise where they will see them. “They’re not looking on LinkedIn.” He also points to job descriptions that ask for a young trustee and years of governance experience at once, a combination few young people can offer. 

For us at Philanthropy New Zealand, these conversations come at a perfect time. Our upcoming forum with government focuses on funding rangatahi mahi, and we want to anchor this mindset in the discussion. 

Te Aorangi hopes the sector will one day no longer need articles like this. “You can say something’s in a healthy position when you’re no longer talking about it,” he says. “As soon as we stop talking about getting young people into philanthropy, that’s probably the sign we’re in a good place.” 

Mya asks institutions to stay open to change. “We can’t carry a fixed mindset. Older generations have amazing wisdom; that’s what we learn from. But there are experiences only young people can know.” 

Dani’s message to funders applies to every young person whose life your decisions will touch: “Please don’t make decisions about us without us.”