Elsa Cabrera, executive director, Centro de Conservación Cetacea

In March 2024, while the world’s headlines were consumed by global geopolitical instability, something extraordinary occurred that went virtually unnoticed. It happened in the Cook Islands, during a ceremony that brought together the peoples of Te Moana Nui a Kiwa, the vast Pacific Ocean. There, Indigenous leaders from Aotearoa (New Zealand), Hawai’i, Tonga, Tahiti, the Cook Islands, and Rapa Nui (Easter Island) signed the Declaration for the Ocean, or He Whakaputanga Moana.

The Rapa Nui elders, alongside other Polynesian leaders, added their signatures—next to that of the Māori King, Tuheitia Paki—to a document affirming something their ancestors never forgot: like humans, whales, or tohorā, possess inherent rights. For the peoples of Polynesia, the ocean, or moana, is a living ancestor, a repository of knowledge passed down through generations, where the tohorā once guided their forebears across the vast expanse of the sea.

While so-called world leaders debated plans to impose a “new world order,” the highest representatives of these Indigenous peoples, drawing on a wisdom far more profound, focused on ensuring their descendants, or mokopuna, would inherit oceans teeming with life. They understood that the strength of the whales’ song is a measure of the ocean’s health, upon which the well-being of all humanity depends.

Two years later, this declaration has inspired a bill recently introduced in New Zealand’s parliament by Green MP Teanau Tuiono. It seeks to enshrine in New Zealand law the recognition of cetaceans as legal entities with rights.

The Tohorā Oranga Bill: A Lifeline for Endangered Species

“The songs of our ancestors, the Tohorā, which have resonated for generations in our waters, are growing weaker.” The Māori King’s words in 2024 were a poignant diagnosis of the reality whales face in the 21st century. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, six of the world’s 13 whale species are endangered. Ship strikes, noise pollution, entanglement in fishing gear, and the climate crisis are just some of the contemporary threats jeopardizing their long-term recovery and conservation.

Meanwhile, nations like Japan, Norway, and Iceland continue to hunt them without justification. They also exert considerable effort to weaken, or even overturn, the global moratorium on commercial whaling—the only effective measure the International Whaling Commission has adopted since its inception in 1947 to fulfill its mandate of conserving whale populations for future generations.

The Tohorā Oranga (or Whale Welfare) Bill demonstrates that another path is possible. Unlike other legislative proposals, this bill conceals no corporate economic interests nor seeks to greenwash commercial ventures. On the contrary, it stands as proof that there are still people who, when they look at the ocean, see their ancestors. When they hear the whales’ song, they understand it is part of a conversation that began millennia ago. They value living in harmony with the moana, recognizing that we own nothing, but are part of everything.

As the Western world continues to debate whether human rights should apply to all equally or only to a privileged few, this bill, led by the Māori community, reminds us that these rights must not only be respected regardless of race or origin but must also be extended beyond the human realm.

A Current of Hope Amidst Global Chaos

We live in dark times. Wars perpetuated by corrupt leadership and the inaction of cowards in power could very well be leading us to the end of an era. In this context, news like the proposal of a bill seeking to grant rights to whales has once again gone unnoticed. Perhaps because it doesn’t fuel the polarization that drives the algorithms controlling social media and their followers.

But that is precisely why it is important. Because while the powerful debate how to carve up the planet’s riches at any cost, there are people who choose to work to protect it. Introducing the bill, MP Tuiono stated that it “represents a transformation in how we protect our marine species and the moana generally, to create a law that protects whales, legally recognizing their mana.” This word signifies spiritual power, authority, and prestige—qualities shared by the chiefs who signed the 2024 Declaration for the Ocean and their ancestors, including the whales. Recognizing the mana of whales means accepting that their existence does not depend on their usefulness to human interests. They deserve respect, consideration, and rights.

Faced with the severe and escalating crises of our time, a bill to grant rights to whales might seem like a utopia, or even a folly, to some. But it is precisely how we treat the most vulnerable—whether human or not—that defines who we are as a society. In this context, the bill reminds us that other ways of relating exist, that we can look upon a whale, or any other species or fellow being, and recognize it as an equal, a relative, and an ancestor. The Tohorā Oranga Bill represents a lifeline—not only for whales but for our own, long-lost humanity.