Director of Māori Battalion Film Says He Didn’t Perceive Worthy to Tell His Hero’s Story – New Film Brings Kiwi History to Life

When I first read about Tearepa Kahi’s hesitation to direct the new Māori Battalion film, it struck me not just as a filmmaker’s doubt, but as a reflection of how communities everywhere grapple with honoring complex legacies. Kahi, the writer and director of Sgt. Haane, almost walked away from telling the story of Lance Sergeant Haane Manahi DCM—a 28th Māori Battalion hero whose Victoria Cross recommendation was inexplicably denied after his extraordinary actions at Takrouna, Tunisia in 1943. That tension between worthiness and responsibility echoes far beyond New Zealand’s shores, resonating in places where local histories are often overlooked or contested. Here in Austin, Texas, where I’ve spent years documenting how communities preserve their stories, that same question—who gets to tell our history, and do we feel worthy of the task?—is playing out in real time at the George Washington Carver Museum, the Texas State History Museum, and within the Huston-Tillotson University archives.

The film’s core revelation—that Manahi’s bravery was witnessed not just by Allied generals but by Tunisian civilians whose descendants still recall the events—mirrors how Austin’s own historical narratives are being reexamined. Just as Kahi found validation in Nizar Chhoubi’s detailed account of his grandfather’s rescue by Manahi’s unit at Takrouna, local historians here are uncovering overlooked connections between Austin’s East Side communities and broader national movements. The Carver Museum, for instance, has recently partnered with the University of Texas at Austin’s Dolph Briscoe Center for American History to digitize oral histories from Black Austinites who served in World War II, many of whom, like Manahi, faced discrimination despite their service. These efforts aren’t just about correcting records; they’re about restoring a sense of worthiness to stories that institutions once deemed too marginal to preserve.

What makes Sgt. Haane particularly relevant to Austin’s current cultural moment is its blend of dramatic reenactment and intergenerational dialogue—a methodology gaining traction in local preservation projects. At Huston-Tillotson University, the John Q. Taylor King Center for Archives and Innovation is applying similar techniques to document the evolution of East 12th Street’s business corridor, combining dramatized readings of historical documents with interviews from third-generation shop owners. This approach acknowledges that historical truth isn’t always in official archives; sometimes, it lives in the vivid, precise memories passed down through families—like Chhoubi’s recollection of his grandparents hiding in a Tunisian water cistern for 26 days, a detail that convinced Kahi he was “the real deal.” In Austin, we’re seeing how such intimate, verified personal accounts can anchor broader historical narratives in undeniable humanity.

The film also highlights a critical tension: how official recognition often lags behind grassroots acknowledgment. Manahi received the Distinguished Conduct Medal but was denied the Victoria Cross despite backing from three generals and a field marshal—a historical injustice the film seeks to correct. Austin has its own parallels, particularly in how the city has historically recognized (or failed to recognize) contributions from its Latino and African American communities. The Texas State History Museum’s recent exhibit on Tejano veterans of World War II, developed in collaboration with the American G.I. Forum of Texas, represents a deliberate effort to address such gaps. Like the filmmakers who consulted Māori elders and descendants, these curators prioritized community verification over institutional convenience, understanding that legitimacy in historical storytelling comes not from medals or mandates, but from trusted relationships with those who carry the memory.

Given my background in community-driven historical preservation, if this trend of reexamining overlooked legacies impacts you in Austin, here are the three types of local professionals you need to know:

• Community Archive Specialists: Look for professionals affiliated with institutions like the Austin History Center or Huston-Tillotson University’s archives who demonstrate deep familiarity with specific neighborhood histories (e.g., Clarksville, Rosewood, or East Austin). They should prioritize oral history methodologies and have proven experience collaborating with resident advisory boards—not just extracting stories, but co-creating preservation plans with clear community benefit agreements.
• Public History Consultants: Seek those with experience working across municipal entities like the Parks and Recreation Department or the Equity Office, particularly on projects involving historical marker placements or museum exhibits. The best consultants will show fluency in both academic historiography and grassroots engagement, able to navigate tensions between institutional protocols and community narratives whereas citing specific local examples of successful reconciliation projects.
• Cultural Documentary Producers: Focus on creators who have completed projects verified by local cultural districts (such as the African American Cultural Heritage District or the Latino Cultural District) and who employ transparent community review processes. Their work should demonstrate how they’ve handled sensitive historical topics—prioritizing descendant consultation, offering clear credit and compensation frameworks, and allowing communities editorial input on how their stories are framed.

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