State Abuse Survivor Eugene Ryder On Abuse, Gangs And His King's Service Medal

Thursday, 10 April 2025, 4:52 pm
Article: RNZ

Richard Larsen, Producer - 30' with Guyon Espiner

Eugene Ryder - Ngāti Kahu, Ngāti Awa, Tuwharetoa ki Kawerau, KSM - doesn't seem like the sort of person who'd wind up with a King's Service Medal. And in many ways, he's not.

He was abused in state care from the age of 11, robbed a bank at 16, and grew up in a world of violence and sexual abuse where gangs were the norm. He served prison time before he could legally vote. He says Black Power will always be a part of who he is.

But today, he's also a qualified social worker, a frontline advocate for meth-free communities, and a powerful voice for survivors of state care abuse.

On the latest episode of 30 With Guyon Espiner, he explains that the King's Service Medal - awarded to Ryder for his work with the Royal Commission into Abuse in Care - has not come without inner conflict.

"Yeah, I suppose that's one of the risks that I have, working in the spaces I work in," he says. "Because I am accused of leaving the 'dark side,' and then I'm accused by the light side of still remaining in the dark side. So it's a bit of a thin line that I travel."

In the full, uncut interview, Ryder opens up about his decision to accept the honour - and why he almost didn't.

'Don't think that you'll get a Māori kid and a Māori social worker and some f****** magic is going to happen because of the blood in their veins'

He also takes on one of the most sacred tenets in modern Māori policy: the idea that "by Māori, for Māori" is always best. "No. Not at all," he says. "Sometimes I surprise myself! But more [often] others."

Ryder recalls a moment at a hui in Rotorua, when former Children's Commissioner Andrew Becroft "slammed his hand down" and declared, "it's got to be 'for Māori, by Māori'." Māori around the table applauded Becroft's allyship - apart from Ryder.

"I go 'no, it doesn't.' And they all looked at me like, 'ooh, kupapa [traitor].' And I said, 'bro, I know some really good social workers that aren't Māori, and I know some really shit ones that are'."

His point is simple: the right person for the job isn't always the one who shares your whakapapa. "Don't think that you'll get a Māori kid and a Māori social worker and some fucking magic is going to happen because of the colour of their skin or the blood in their veins," he says. "There's good people that are doing some good work."

'I tattooed my forehead to remind me of that day'

Ryder's opinions don't always make him popular - but they come from lived experience.

He was placed in Wesleydale Boys' Home at 11, picked up for truancy. "My home life wasn't all roses, so I didn't want to be at home. There was abuse happening in my home, and so I kind of figured that being in state care would separate me from that abuse. But I soon learned different."

At Wesleydale, Ryder says sexual abuse was so common it became normalised. "Everyone knew who the abusers were. They were generally the night staff… Didn't get much sleep when I was at Wesleydale."

There was no escape, and no one to believe him. "Every time I cried for help, I was just the little shit. So I stopped crying out for help."

The damage was generational. Ryder's father - also in prison - had a "very dark side," he says. A minister in the church, he was also an abuser.

"He was a high-profile Māori. So that determined for us that we didn't want anything to do with Māori."

Gang life offered a kind of belonging. At 16, Ryder robbed a bank to impress Black Power and get patched. It backfired.

"I got a hiding, actually, for doing that, and I got jail time," he recalls. "Even though I was 16, it took my lawyer two years to prove how old I was at the time… I got four and a half years."

While in prison, he was told his father had died. "I tattooed my forehead to remind me of that day… If I ever have kids, this is where it's going to stop."

'Poverty of spirit'

Stopping that cycle has been his mission ever since. He's worked with rangatahi in schools, helped gang members get clean from meth, and become a visible symbol of hope.

But he's also defiant about the public image of gangs - and how statistics are weaponised.

Justice Minister Paul Goldsmith has pointed out that gang members make up less than a quarter of 1 percent of the population but are linked to nearly 20 percent of serious violent crime. Ryder says that's misleading. "It's not actually gang members - it's people linked with gangs. That could be father, older brother, older cousin…"

He believes in the potential for gangs to become a force for good.

"A lot of the guys… they're pohara, they've got no money. A lot of them have got no jobs, and they've got no access to what they see the rest of the world participating in. So they resort to what they know best. They use the only tool they've got in their tool belt."

Rather than dissuade young people from joining gangs, he offers them more tools. "Eventually that tool isn't part of his toolbox. Because everyone's got the capacity to do good. But there's this thing called poverty of spirit."

That's the work Ryder sees as urgent: showing people what's possible, helping them see themselves in new roles.

"I play sport, I coach, I do Kapa Haka. I look for Eugene Ryder in all the spaces that I'm in… Sometimes what I found in life is that the messenger is more important than the message."

'I don't support trying to reduce crime by changing someone's clothes'

Even his views on state policy buck the expected narrative. He's not worried about the proposed repeal of section 7AA of the Oranga Tamariki Act, which requires consideration of whakapapa.

"If common sense prevails - it doesn't always, but if it does - then there's no need for legislation for people to consider that a baby has to be with their whānau."

But as for the patch ban? "I don't support trying to reduce crime by changing someone's clothes. Don't support that at all."

In the end, Eugene Ryder is a bridge between two worlds that rarely meet. It's a bridge that is often fragile, and it was this realisation that influenced his decision to accept the honour from the Crown - despite the years of abuse he experienced as a ward of the state. "What better honour than the honour of your enemy?"

"I've actually met [King] Charles's mum, you know, and I met one of his kids. So, yeah, it's no biggie in my world, because I don't do what I do for recognition. I do what I do so that some people can do better. And that's really it."

Listen to the full conversation on 30 With Guyon Espiner, streaming now on the RNZ website.

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