Zarghona Lafraie
When I trained as a nurse here, it took me five years. Not because I lacked determination, but because English was not my first language. I had to read and reread, working twice as hard just to understand, to keep up and find my place in a system that was not built for someone like me.
I still remember my tutors saying to me, ‘you will not make it, You are not good enough.’ Those words do not disappear. They stay —quiet, but heavy. And yet, I kept going. Because when we arrive as refugees, we come with very little – but we carry hope for safety, dignity and for a future where our children can belong.
When I finally completed my studies, I thought I had reached a moment of pride that reflected years of sacrifice. Instead, I was called into the polytechnic and bluntly asked, ‘What are you going to do about your headscarf?’ In that moment, everything shifted. I was no longer a student who had worked tirelessly to succeed. I was no longer seen as a future nurse. I was reduced to something that made me different, something that made others uncomfortable. I had no words. I remember standing up and walking out, feeling a deep heaviness in my chest. A silence that stayed with me long after that moment passed. When we leave our homes as refugees, we leave behind everything familiar. But we carry our identity, culture, beliefs and dignity. When that identity is questioned or treated as a barrier, it cuts deeply.
This is where the principles of the Treaty of Waitangi speak clearly—because in that moment, they were not upheld. Partnership means walking alongside one another with respect and shared understanding. But I did not feel like a partner in my own learning. I felt alone, judged rather than supported.
Participation means being able to fully engage and belong. But how can someone participate when they are made to feel that who they are is a problem? My headscarf—something that is part of my identity and faith—became a point of question rather than acceptance.
Protection means safeguarding dignity, identity, and wellbeing. In that moment, I did not feel protected. I felt exposed. Cultural safety was not present, because no one stopped to consider how that question would impact on me—not just as a student, but as a person.
So, when I am asked, ‘What is cultural safety?’, I think of my experiences. Cultural safety is not just about being polite. It is about recognising power. It is about understanding that words can either build someone up or quietly break them down. It is about seeing the whole person: their journey, their struggles, their strength.
Zarghona Lafraie is originally from Afghanistan and arrived in New Zealand as a refugee with her husband and four children in September 2000. After initially setting up in Christchurch, her family moved to Dunedin where she completed her nursing training at Otago Polytechnic. Zarghona has worked in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for 19 years. She is a member of Worldwide Mosiac, who provide cultural safety workshops once a month.