Farid Ahmed’s name became very widely known when his wife, Husna, was killed in the Christchurch mosque attacks in March 2019 and he forgave the killer. In Episode 18 of these podcasts we spoke about his upbringing in Sylhet, Bangladesh; witnessing his father’s role as something akin to a village magistrate; and of what became, for Farid, a kind of practical education in disagreement, conflict, and the pathways through this.

Here he speaks further about his sometimes stubborn understandings of justice and principle, even from a very young age.

Intersectionality means pulling together, working from the different strands of who we are. And for Tyla Harrison-Hunt working like this is a strength, not a burden. He offers the example of high performing teams where amazing collective leadership is a powerful element in their success. In the best collective leaderships each one knows their role and does it well.

The lessons seem clear: bring in everyone, take in their perspectives and every strength in those ideas in order to come to a desired outcome. Yet our political systems operate with short cycles, often just three-year periods. The changes tend to be see-saw like. So we see a continual cycle in which money and time are wasted, and a distrust in the political system develops. Intersectionality must be for the benefit of others.

Before becoming a Christchurch City Councillor, Tyla worked as a sports coach across 127 schools. About 12 of those were of very high and complex needs. He’s seen great gaps in wealth and what’s on offer in different places, yet the beauty of working with young people as they grow up; with those who are having it hard. At a basketball practice on a frosty morning in one Christchurch school a young boy stood before him barefoot. He and his brother share one pair of shoes and today it’s his brother’s turn. How do you work to change these things? Working across the city he could employ a “Robin Hood model,” finding that wealthier parents  in private schools were “extremely charitable” in sharing what they had. It was, he said, “eye opening to see how beautiful the city could be.” The challenge is in making the change a lasting one.

In Tyla’s case the intersectionality he works from includes the Māori frameworks he grew up with: to always welcome somebody else and to go above and beyond for them. “A pathway to enable me to provide assistance to those who needed it most.” He learned service leadership and that “leaders eat last.” And, too, the complementary value systems he learned as a Muslim – of consensus and discussion.  Together, they offer “the cultural and spiritual frameworks that are so important when systems fail.”

In the March 2019 Christchurch terrorist attack, Farid Ahmed’s wife, Husna, was killed. He and his daughter then spoke together about the path they should take. It would be one, not of anger and retribution, but of forgiveness. He said, “ I do not want to have a heart like a volcano.” That forgiveness at such a brutal, calculated act has prompted a range of responses: wide-spread respect felt globally but also, and, from others, a difficulty in understanding, and even a kind of discomfort.

In this conversation we talk about his upbringing in Sylhet, north-east Bangladesh; about hard work, the coming of the monsoon rains and the regeneration of the land; about his father’s prominent position in the community as a kind of magistrate and more; and how, from an early age, Farid would listen in and absorb the deliberations of elders.  

Our hope is to follow this story and take the conversation further.

When the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra (NZSO) were exploring how they, as the nation’s orchestra, could respond to the events of the 2019 Christchurch terror attacks and bring people together, they turned to the composer John Psathas. 

In 2024 that NZSO initiative resulted in three performances of their “Beyond Words” concert. The premiere would be in the Christchurch Town Hall five years on from those attacks – in a sense offering welcome to the migrant experience and seeking to draw something good and whole from that tragedy.

He was ready to be involved but only if they could get “clear compass points.” His sense was that this would be measured by the question, “how would whoever was in the Christchurch Town Hall on that opening night receive this?” For John Psathas, “there were so many ways to get this wrong and just one possible way to get it right.”

As the child of Greek migrants to New Zealand, he had seen early just how music could trigger intense emotions and a complex of feelings: joy, catharsis, longing, loss. When his family moved to Napier, he worked in their restaurant at a young age. Late at night, too animated to sleep, his musical education began, listening through headphones to a wide range of sounds – drawn always “to music that was positively charged.” 

He places great importance on the quality of the human relationships that we have and the question: “will we get some fulfilment from being together.” 

“What I write is a hope to change things for the better. It’s a desire to show that we care for others.”

His compositions have often come from, and through, profound relationships. And vulnerability. Perhaps nowhere more so than in “Ahlan wa Sahlan,” composed for the NZSO as part of “Beyond Words.” In this podcast John Psathas talks about music and his life and “the most significant, powerful, certainly life-changing journey that I’ve been on; the most vulnerable I’ve been.”

The corner dairy is a familiar part of our landscape. The lives lived inside unknown to those just passing. Raesha Ismail was nine years old when her family bought the dairy on Springs Road, Christchurch. For a child it was a space full of treats that offered a joyful time. There, her parents modelled the meaning of very hard work and responsibility that saw Raesha and two of her brothers through university. Seven days a week and just two half-days off each year, with family life integrated into the shop, in a place that was part of the social fabric. 

Over time she’d experience those micro-aggressions and familiar stereotypes that some individuals seem unable to live without, and her early coping mechanisms included a kind of reactive, even self-mocking humour. Gender constructs might have limited others but Raesha found her own voice and, importantly, her own sense of identity, through determination and a sense of social justice.

The death of her cricket-loving brother, Junaid, in the March 2019 mosque attacks called on all the strength and balance of her family and the support of those around them from the reputation they had earned.

Her work now in culturally responsive, solution-focussed counselling means listening with intent and offering hope to others, especially for those with addictions and those experiencing shame. She quotes the line that “the opposite of addiction is connection” – connection to self and connections to those around us. Connection, belonging, identity are powerful elements in this korero.

Over almost forty-five years of working in journalism – first in radio, then television – John Sellwood’s experiences taught him many lessons. From one, very early, “live cross” in Wellington the need to listen, double-check, then triple-check were all brought home to him. If things can go wrong, they will. 

There is that possibility in story-telling that empathy may be a negative, almost a selfish act. He recalls putting himself in a place where he should not have been. As a journalist ‘you are not the story . . . stories were gifted to me; they were never mine.’

In all stories the ‘what’ of what happened is easy, but ‘you have to wait for the why.’ It may come much later. The human stories that interest him ‘take time and trust, and a connection to the individual to come to something that’s worthwhile’ – for them, for the journalist, and for an audience that’s listening.

The treasure he sees now is the ‘democratisation’ of the story: that it does not have to be mediated by another. And in the many stories waiting to be told by those at the edges of society; people who've often tried hard and failed. It’s here that he questions our notions of what exceptionalism means and questions where our judgements may separate us from so many.

To belong somewhere it seems helpful to have a kind of a map – of its people, their names, and the organisations that are prominent parts of that landscape. In Canterbury, Crusaders rugby is one such prominent name. Known for their many successes, for the coaches and the culture they’ve built, and the players who’ve come to be part of that story.

Here, their CEO, Colin Mansbridge, talks about his joining the Crusaders from a rural banking background, but also of the team’s connection with the city, especially after the 2010/2011 earthquakes when all of their games had to be away from home. He speaks of their quiet work for good causes and, too, the struggle over their name after the 2019 mosque attacks. That’s when my own interactions with Colin began. The historical associations of “crusading” were material for passionate defenders and critics alike, and a fertile ground for provocative media stories. Serving then as the media spokesperson for Masjid An-Nur my concerns were for a wounded and vulnerable community being dragged into “no-win” spaces. We met and talked, and we keep in touch.

Arriving in New Zealand at the age of 15 knowing virtually no English meant that Hassan Hassan could only watch soccer and not join in. When the chance came for him to play, the words from his coach to “push up on the wing” were little more than sounds. More importantly, that lack of English blocked the way to the education that hadn’t been possible in Somalia, where his family had moved and moved again to find a safer place. 

But two years of intense application at Hagley College, here in Christchurch, and a determined focus on speaking and writing the language opened the doors. That continuing focus has led him to a B.Sc. degree in Geography and Chemistry. And now, eleven years on from his arrival in this country, he finalises his M.Sc.thesis, which explores positive youth development in the context of urban planning. Along with a part-time role as a youth support worker, Hassan’s clear aim is to carry forward what he has learned to give back to the wider society.

Pukehina in the Bay of Plenty is tiny. Growing up there, Maka Mohi knew where to fish and where to hunt. But the narratives he heard were that elsewhere was amazing; the Māori world wasn’t amazing. A misstep in high school meant leaving so, at 17, "thinking I was 24," he left for big city Brisbane. But big cities have temptations.

The challenge: to find his way back. His father had told him his full name wasn’t just a name. "It’s a  title!" And he felt he hadn’t carried that title high enough. So, to learn who he was and to come to realise he’d been "raised amazing" – surrounded by love, and whanau. And his father’s words: "You’ll always have home."

At a time when the NZ government is discussing firearms legislation we consider the great harm from weapons in the wrong hands. Temel Ataçocuğu suffered major bullet injuries in the Christchurch mosque attacks. Almost six years on, he speaks about the drastic changes in his life, and on how his traumas can be triggered.

He talks, too, about his Walk for Peace and about how he decided to make this walk, retracing the 360kms journey of the 2019 killer from Dunedin to Christchurch.

Along the way he raised money for three children's charities and found great support, including the tearful support of an older Māori man whose whakapapa (his lineage) traces back to Parihaka – a place whose own story of non-violent resistance resonated with what Temel was trying to do. And he speaks about the sense of safety he feels with his family in Türkiye; and of a quiet longing to be on a small fishing boat in the Mediterranean.