Flint & Steel Volume 05 - in the bonds of love we meet by Maxim Institute

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Protest and Patriotism 04 / He Wahi Tapu – A Sacred Place 12 / On Common Ground 15 The Art of Disagreeing Agreeably 20 / A Parliamentary Privilege 22 / Here We Were 28 Reflecting the New Mosaic 35 / In Formation — Reflections on a Career in Teaching 40 Side By Side 45 / The Face of My Neighbour 48

NZD $11.95 INC GST SUMMER 2019

volume 05 - in the bonds of love we meet

CONTENTS CONTENTS Editorial Editorial

0202

Protest and Patriotism / Rowan Light Renewing the Lungs of the Land / Hannah Bartlett He Wahi Tapu – A Sacred Place / Jade Hohaia For the After-Comers / AlexGround Penk with Paul Henderson On Common / Kieran Madden

04 04 12 1510

Thethe ArtTightrope of Disagreeing Agreeably Walking / Athalia Harper

2014

A Parliamentary Privilege / Marama Davidson, Simon O'Connor, Stacey Kirk Plugged In / Milly Du Toit Here We Were / Benjamin Johnson & Fay Carey Recovering / Annette Pereira Reflecting theMau NewRākau Mosaic / Tash McGill

22 18 28 3526

In Formation — Reflections on a CareerThe in Teaching Dr Michael Reid Things We/ Learn / John Fox Side By Side / Lydia O’Donnell Leading by Example / Hannah Bartlett The Face of My Neighbour / Dr John Fox

4032 45 37 48

The Little Town That Could / Dale Williams

Editor Jeremy Vargo Sub Editors Joanne Abernethy Dr John Fox Designer Lewis Hurst Photography Fay Carey Benjamin Johnson Illustration Anieszka Banks Printer Westprint Publisher Maxim Institute editorial@flintandsteelmag.com flintandsteelmag.com e gratefully acknowledge the W generosity of the following people for the contribution of their time and stories: Duncan Greive, Miriyana Alexander, Marama Davidson, Simon O’Connor, Stacey Kirk, Jade Hohaia, Lydia O'Donnell and the members of the Auckland One Step community. ll rights reserved. No part of this A publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without permission from the publishers. opyright © 2018 Maxim Institute C ISSN 2382-1965

axim Institute is a not-for-profit M independent research think tank, based in Auckland.

EDITORIAL Welcome to the fifth volume of Flint & Steel. This annual publication aims to live up to its moniker’s metaphor: we want it to spark thought and creativity. In curating a variety of ideas around a central theme each year, we hope to provide a chance for readers to think deeply about the things that affect all of us.

FLINT & STEEL VOLUME 05 – “IN THE BONDS OF LOVE WE MEET” It’s a phrase most of us have sung with varying degrees of passion, but is the affection it describes a reality in contemporary New Zealand public life? What kind of love is this, that would bind us to people we’ve never met; with whom we may feel we have nothing in common? And in a nation where town hall meetings seem like relics of another time and memberships of clubs, teams, societies, and community groups are falling, where is it possible for us to meet with people who aren’t like us—with or without bonds of love? Riven by personal and political debates that go down to the core of our identities, it is easy to feel that coming together to claim some kind of common “Kiwi” culture is now impossibly complicated. But, it would be ridiculous to claim our divisions are somehow more complicated than any other time in human history. The enduring task of society has always been to find ways to bring disparate peoples together to seek a peaceful unity. Our challenge now is to work out what this looks like in our context. While our public square has become more open to include a broader range of voices and New Zealand stories, massive shifts in technology and culture have changed the way we engage; drawing our focus away from common spaces. Singular platforms like the 6 o’clock news, major newspapers, and network TV entertainment were once able to capture national attention and lead public conversation in a way that’s almost impossible to imagine in an age of individualised streaming content delivered via internet algorithms. The explosion of online platforms allows more opportunities than ever before to tell our own stories and find others who share our experiences and views. At the same time, this audience fragmentation guarantees we have fewer spaces of common attention where we can negotiate what these experiences and stories mean for us as a society. Yet, even in this new context, we can find, and re-strengthen, the bonds of love. The contributors to this magazine have considered how this might be done: in neighbourhoods and families, in fraying institutions like media and politics, through different cultural lenses, and in the kinds of communities and education that form us to listen and love. I hope this collection of stories and articles will open up space for new conversations, not only about the genuine conflicts that separate us, but on the need for the kind of civility, formation, practices, and affections which can continue to bind us together. This kind of love is not a feeling, or even an action: it is the starting point of common citizenship, formed in relationship, nurtured by action, and ends in feeling. Without a thriving, vibrant public square we have no renewed future—divided we will fall. With it, we have the means to seek a connected and flourishing society, in which we can stand together. Those are the stakes. Let the debate begin.

Jeremy Vargo – Editor Editorial

| Protest and Patriotism

PROTEST AND PATRIOTISM ROWAN LIGHT

One of our last truly public rituals, Anzac Day claims a sacred space in New Zealand’s national attention. Historian Rowan Light describes how Anzac commemorations provide an annual platform for New Zealanders to debate contemporary issues of national meaning and significance.

n the centre of Devonport, Auckland, where I grew up, there stands a statue of a soldier of the First World War. Known colloquially as ‘the untidy soldier,’ the handsome bronze is fixed on a stone plinth, his uniform scruffy and bootlaces untied, hat in hand as he surveys the Waitematā Harbour. As a child, a story was told in my family that the statue had originally been intended for a township in Australia. Upon seeing the final design, however, the locals rejected it, on the basis that an Australian soldier would never allow himself to appear in such a state of undress. The pleasure of this story was two-fold: New Zealand soldiers were authentic battlefield heroes who did not care for the ‘spit and polish’ of the parade ground, in contrast to our neighbours across the Tasman who were more concerned with image than the nitty-gritty reality of war. The story, now, seems an unlikely one. The ‘untidy soldier’ was, in fact, the work of Ponsonby sculptor Frank Lynch and commissioned by the Devonport RSA. Cast in London then shipped to Auckland, the statue was installed on April 13, 1923, at a memorial service dedicating it to the “fallen soldier citizens of the borough.” Attendants included the Devonport mayor Thomas Lamont, the Governor-General Earl Jellicoe, and Māori MP Sir Maui Pomare. Pomare delivered a poetic oration, in which he imagined the war as part of the “fusion” of Māori and Pākehā. “This monument may crumble into dust,” he declared, “but the memory of their deeds will endure forever... Their sacrifices ensure for us so abiding a unity that should even dread Armageddon be fought, our house shall stand together, and its pillars shall not fall.” Jellicoe emphasised unity with the British Empire. “We are here,” he said, “to do honour to these illustrious dead of Devonport who responded so willingly to the call of duty. Men and women, Pākehā and Māori, by land or sea or air, gave of their best and gave it willingly in those dark days when war threatened not only the stability of the Empire, but the very existence of civilisation.” The language of duty and sacrifice, on the Monday of Easter Week, was imbued with religious significance. Unveiled on the plinth were the names of the nearly one hundred Devonport

men who died in the war, eulogised in the inscription: “Remembering these, let the living be humble.” Over the past century, Anzac Day has provided a powerful and imaginative story for New Zealanders. This story has shifted over the years but retained central themes, such as sacrifice, integrity, duty, and service on behalf of others. However, Anzac Day’s history has not been an untroubled one. The day has been a cause for protest over time. While the ‘sacredness’ of Anzac Day has been invoked to shut down debate, its annual liturgies of communal observance have also served as a potent platform for public exploration of contemporary controversies. By tracing some of the history of this continuity and change, we can see how Anzac Day has provided a forum and a set of rituals, traditions, and symbols, to affirm our communities and— through a shared past—to negotiate and debate what it means to be a member of New Zealand society.

Commemoration helped secure welfare support for returned soldiers and their families, and shored up the bonds of community and society recovering from the violence of war. The ritual and speeches around the plinth of the ‘untidy soldier’ in 1923 linked the local world of the Devonport borough to a grand story of imperial glory and civilisation. As Pomare showed, this commemoration of war deeds could also be a chance to talk about other stories, such as the encounter of Māori and Pākehā in the building of a New Zealand society. Indeed, the relationship between Māori and Pākehā was a common theme of this civic language after the war. Celebrating a joint sacrifice papered over deeper tensions, including the inequity faced by Māori soldiers upon their return home. Pomare himself had supported the war effort and represented the complex position of Māori political leaders seeking to chart a course Rowan Light |

of building up Māori communities in a world dominated by Pākehā. Moreover, these stories appealed to a sense of self, often in contrast to others—Australians, for example—and shaped how people imagined and communicated their relationships to each other. This cultural memory created connections across generations. The eulogy of the Devonport statue, for example, expressed that remembering the sacrifice of the dead would provide a guide for living. In the period between the world wars, monuments like the ‘untidy soldier’ provided sites to mourn, honour, and remember the war dead. The notion of sacrifice, for families and communities, society and empire, was a common theme of war memorials. Commemoration helped secure welfare support for returned soldiers and their families, and shored up the bonds of community and society recovering from the violence of war. Monuments were the ultimate expression of citizenship and the obligations of citizens to each other. Institutions of civil society like the RSA and leaders like Pomare and Jellicoe linked these soldier-citizens to notions 6

| Protest and Patriotism

of imperial and racial unity that provided a compelling story for much—though not all—of New Zealand society. After the Second World War, Pomare’s “pillars” of unity began to break down or shift in a number of ways. The first and most significant was the inexorable collapse of the British Empire in the 1950s and 1960s, and with it the complex set of political, cultural, and racial ideas which underpinned New Zealand settlement. If New Zealanders were happy to think of themselves as British, what happened to this notion of New Zealand as Britain’s farthest-flung outpost without the unity of empire? Alongside these changes, the experience of the First World War started to disappear through the decline of the ‘war generation’—especially the soldier-citizens who fought in the conflict. Rapid and anxious social change also manifested in New Zealand society over the 1960s and 1970s. ‘Liberalisation’—first expressed in social and cultural terms, in the sexual revolution in the 1960s, and extended in economic terms by the 1980s—shaped how postwar

CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT: Dedication of the Carillon in Wellington, 1932 - Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. Members of the Progressive Youth Movement place a wreath dedicated to the Viet Cong dead at the Anzac Day morning service in Christchurch, 1972 - Photographer unknown, Canta, Macmillan Brown Library, Christchurch, New Zealand. Conflict during Anzac service, Cathedral Square, Christchurch, 1972 - Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

the United States, scuffled with veterans while carrying banners condemning “capitalist wars.” Many activists saw their demonstrations as legitimate attempts at inclusion in Anzac Day; often incorporating the traditional rituals of the laying of wreaths at a cenotaph or memorial and marching in parades. The New Zealand Peace Council decided to organise its own “war victims remembrance ceremony” in Wellington, April 25 1972, which opted to imitate Anzac Day—laying wreaths at the national cenotaph, singing hymns, and speeches on the importance of peace—but specifically avoided conflict with the organisers of the official service by waiting until after the morning service had

The interplay of protest and patriotism opened up public conversation in a way that people would not have otherwise had an opportunity to do so.

generations thought about self and purpose. Public debate around the Vietnam War, to which the New Zealand government dedicated limited troops, was marked by deep divisions. For the first time since the world wars, politicians, military leaders, and the public were deeply divided about New Zealand’s involvement in war. Anzac Day and its mythology of the soldier-citizens became a focal point of this debate. Over the late 1960s, Anzac Day was transformed from a site of unity to a site of protest. The peace movement, drawn from a broad religious, social, and political alliance, protested on Anzac Day against the Vietnam War. Networks of university students in Auckland, Wellington, and Christchurch, and the radical Marxist Progressive Youth Movement (PYM) organised from 1967 to 1975. Over the period 1977-1987, small groups of feminists from rape crisis centres and collectives attended Auckland and Wellington Anzac Day ceremonies to decry rape in wartime. The Women’s Action Group’s protests competed with Māori and Pasifika groups who, taking their cues from the Black Power Movement in

been completed. Student activists argued that participation in the Vietnam War was a betrayal of the Anzacs, offering that the soldiercitizens who faithfully marched on Anzac Day were being degraded by “the folly and cynicism” of political leaders. Public responses to the protests varied. In the lead up to Anzac Day, 1968, editors of The Press commented that a wreath “to the fallen in Vietnam” respectfully laid alongside wreaths commemorating the dead of two world wars “should cause no-one to take offence.” However, “a band of placard-carrying demonstrators asserting a ‘right’ to a place in an Anzac parade would as surely offend any reasonable standards of good manners and good taste and would justify prompt intervention by the police.” The New Zealand Herald Anzac Day editorial in 1971 similarly stated, “It is not out of keeping with the solemnity of the occasion to allow young people to pay tribute to the dead and dying in Indo-China.” However, “even to suggest that Anzac services perpetuate a spirit of militarism,” the editorial added, “manifestly distorts the truth.” Police and RSA differed on how best to respond to the protests. In 1978, a memorial card dedicated to female victims of war was torn from a wreath at the Auckland Cenotaph by a police constable. The wreath had been laid by members of the Women’s Action Group, dressed in black veils, at the mid-morning Anzac Day commemorative service in the Domain. The memorial card read, “we remember all the forgotten women: all those who died Rowan Light |

in battle, those raped and mutilated, our sisters who have had their lives destroyed by the wars of this century.” Commenting that “ceremonies at cenotaphs are increasingly becoming the scene of emotional interaction between activist groups,” the Auckland District Chief of Police warned that “[t]he police have to do their bit to maintain decorum and the right atmosphere.” RSA president John Gardiner, in contrast, said he found nothing offensive in the Women’s Action Group’s message. Others were more interested in disrupting Anzac Day than participating in it. The Progressive Youth Movement rejected many of the non-confrontational tactics and rhetoric of student groups and drew its membership from the radical Left. In 1970, three members of the Christchurch branch approached the Citizens’ War Memorial following the morning ceremony and placed a placard with the inscription “to the victims of Fascism in Vietnam” on top of the official mayoral wreath. After the official parade, the Christchurch mayor and Second World War veteran Ron Guthrey ripped up the wreath while other returned servicemen pushed and shoved PYM members who attempted to place a second placard. After police intervention 8

| Protest and Patriotism

ABOVE: Anzac Day service, Auckland Domain, 1955 - Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

stopped the fight, Guthrey vowed he would do the same thing again, and that “dumb long-haired louts who have nothing to contribute to our society – who damn everything we have ever fought for – must not be allowed to insult our war dead.” A similarly ‘militant’ form of protest developed among Wellington feminists. In 1980, a “squad” of women in their early twenties disrupted the dawn parade and the midmorning laying of wreaths at Wellington’s Cenotaph. Wearing military style black costumes and berets, the protesters chanted during the minute of silence, “Women died, we care, women were raped, we are angry.” The group returned during the wreath laying ceremony with a mock coffin, inscribed “in memory of millions of women raped and killed by soldiers.” The antagonistic display was contrasted with groups of Wellington peace activists who had been holding an allnight vigil as “silent, respectful, but prominent observers.” These protests were from different movements with wildly different aims, yet they all contributed to radically changing

the conversation around Anzac in these decades. In the first place, Anzac Day became less about the soldier-citizens and more about the public. The New Zealand Council of Churches organised a survey, for the first time, asking members of the public, including young activists in PYM, what they thought should be commemorated on Anzac Day. New media such as televised

Societies need common moments of attention that allow the memories, arguments, hurts, and discontent present amongst us to come to the surface and be discussed openly. Anzac Day services heightened the sense of public connection to commemorative practices and also the profane implications of, say, Marxists laying wreaths to the Viet Cong. The perception that this was a generational conflict reiterated the breakdown in the horizons of ‘old New Zealand.’ Paradoxically, this made Anzac Day more important than before when it had been part of a broader mosaic of civic culture and

a subset of religious practice. One New Zealand Herald cartoon depicted public reaction to Anzac Day as self-obsessed and opposed to sacrifice for the common good. The interplay of protest and patriotism opened up public conversation in a way that people would not have otherwise had an opportunity to do so, connecting local communities to emotional debates about national values and citizenship. Protests showed up the divisions of New Zealand society but also emphasised a common space, ritual, and language to negotiate those differences on Anzac Day. These cultural, social, and political debates, amidst the ruins of empire, unmoored the story of New Zealand from its settler and imperial origins and left it adrift in a sea of change. A new generation of historians such as Keith Sinclair and Bill Oliver sought to chart a distinct national story, a “search for national identity,” that could provide a compelling basis of nationhood. The Anzac story became part of this, reinterpreted as a comingof-age moment for the nation. Men such as the soldier-citizens of the Devonport borough were re-interpreted as the originators of a national spirit. Rowan Light |

However, these postwar historians collided with another fracture appearing in the New Zealand story: the ostensible unity of Pākehā and Māori. The image presented in the 1923 Devonport memorial service, of New Zealand’s polite and amiable race relations, was coming undone by a growing Māori voice in society—expressed politically in the Waitangi Tribunal and the changing place of the Treaty in public language. This process broadened the focus of New Zealand history: Pākehā became a chapter in a longer story rather than the central protagonists. Moreover, the Tribunal and successive Treaty settlements in the 1990s placed histories of violence, displacement, land alienation, and cultural degradation at the centre of public record and public history. While historians and the public debated the ‘great New Zealand question’ of finding a common identity and story of the nation, over the 2000s, Helen Clark’s Labour Government invested considerable effort to revitalise New Zealand identity. A key plank of this policy of ‘cultural recovery’ was Anzac commemoration. Clark, as Prime Minister and Minister of Arts, oversaw the renovation and establishment of an unprecedented number of international war memorials from Canberra to London. Policies aimed at national reconciliation included pardons for soldiers executed during the First World War, and culminated in the 2008 Crown apology to Vietnam War veterans and their families who had been denied welfare, in part due to the deep divisions that the war provoked. Clark’s ‘cultural recovery’ agenda was a project of ‘nationbuilding.’ Historians, creative industry, artists, and museum curators together would build “the spirit of New Zealand” through “understanding the forces that shape New Zealanders,” as Clark put it in an interview in 2003. In 2004, as a signal of this change, the Clark Government repatriated the Unknown Warrior. The repatriation was uniquely informed by a new appreciation for New Zealand’s ‘bicultural’ histories and the greater role of the state in Anzac commemoration. This was first and foremost seen in the naming of the Unknown Soldier as “warrior,” a term with historic links to empire and depictions of Māori as a martial race, and in the ritual and design of the tomb itself. Designed by the artist and sculptor Kingsley Baird, the new tomb was classically shaped with Pākehā and Māori iconography, and built into the forecourt steps of the Pukeahu National War Memorial. According to its designer, the tomb “is an expression of the nation’s memory and a cross-cultural language of remembrance [that] combines RIGHT: Anzac Day cartoon, 1986 - Unknown artist, New Zealand Herald. 10 | Protest and Patriotism

Māori and Pākehā ritual, symbolic, and visual elements…to express remembrance specific to New Zealand’s contemporary identity.” Māori leaders were consulted as part of the repatriation process, attending the exhumation of the Unknown Warrior, and performing a pōwhiri as the casket arrived in New Zealand. Māori military experience was given a special voice through representatives of the Māori Battalion Association—reflecting the institutional recruitment of Māori in both world wars. Kaumātua performed a blessing at the

Protests showed up the divisions of New Zealand society but also emphasised a common space, ritual, and language to negotiate those differences. ground-breaking ceremony for the development of the War Memorial site. The repatriation of the Unknown Warrior took account of prepolitical spiritual realities. The funeral took place not in the secular space of the War Memorial, but the Wellington Anglican Cathedral under traditional rites of Christian burial. As in 1923 in the Devonport borough, this commemoration was imbued with a shared religious language of sacrifice and the central theme of the meeting of Māori and Pākehā worlds. The rhetoric and symbolism of national healing was one that clearly resonated with media and public. 100,000 people lined the streets of Wellington to watch the funeral procession of the Unknown Warrior in what remains the largest civic service in New Zealand history. In her address at the memorial service, Clark declared that we are “here today to honour a warrior who has lain for close to 90 years in foreign soil, and who has now been called back to serve his country once more.” The Unknown Warrior, and the war he died in, was a part of New Zealand’s history and “one of the foundations of today’s society.” Like Pomare’s “pillars” in 1923, the body of the Unknown would provide the basis for a renewed, united House of New Zealand. From the standpoint of 2018, we can see continuities and departures from the world of 1923. The community that raised the ‘untidy soldier’ was, in many respects, very different to the one which occupies the place in 2018. The Anzac story is now a postcolonial national story, rather than an imperial one, and the role of the state is vastly expanded in the storytelling, in place of the fraying former associative networks of civil society. Contemporary commemoration is invested with considerable political, emotional, and

financial capital from Government, councils, and endless analysis from news media producers and commentators. All this speaks to the power of the past: the stories, relationships, and meetings of the past energise us and give us direction in the present. Anzac Day remains one of the few occasions that brings us together as a society, and when we pay attention to our values as a public; what we think about ourselves, what we affirm or reject, what fills us with pride or shame.

“Remembering these, let the living be humble.”

This history also serves to remind us that Anzac Day can and should be open for discussion. Anzac in the 1920s helped heal families and communities after war; it also constrained and excluded those not part of the official imperial story. Critiques of Anzac Day in the 1960s and 1970s ranged from the day as an elitist glorification of violence to a tired symbol of patriarchy. Yet it was precisely this

The Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, Wellington - The Ministry of Culture and Heritage.

common repertoire of ideas, words, and spaces that could be reused, co-opted, or omitted to make a point. Anzac is an active remembrance, a living tradition. All of this points to the importance of attending to the meaning and memory of public commemoration. Commentary around Waitangi Day—our other national day—often contrasts the patriotism and unity of Anzac Day and with the ‘divisive politics’ of the Treaty Grounds every February 6. In fact, as we see from the history of Anzac, societies need common moments of attention that allow the memories, arguments, hurts, and discontent present amongst us to come to the surface and be discussed openly. This process can hurt. It’s hard to be confronted with different interpretations of the society we live in, and these discussions require earnest and honest engagement in order to be productive. What’s important is that we have those opportunities—the vital meeting of history and memory in public commemoration—to do so. •

Rowan Light is a lecturer at the University of Canterbury and a historian of Australia and New Zealand, specialising in the Twentieth Century. His doctoral research explores imperial and post-imperial remembrance of the First World War; in particular, the emergence of postwar national commemorations from 1965 to the Anzac Centenary in 2015. Rowan’s history of Anzac Day in Australia and New Zealand will be published in 2019 and his work has been published in Australian Historical Studies, the Melbourne Journal of History, and the New Zealand Journal of History. Rowan Light |

HE WAHI TAPU – A SACRED PLACE JADE HOHAIA

Jade Hohaia (of Waikato, Raukawa, NgāPuhi & Kāi Tahu descent) writes about what it was like for her to experience authentic community in the context of marae life, about learnt tikanga (cultural processes) in that space, and about the courage to step into the unknown to find true reconciliation.

have two very vivid early memories. The first is of being bullied for my physical appearance. Growing up in Rangiora, North Canterbury was an interesting experience for a young girl like me: different from most children in my class and in my neighbourhood, all too aware that the colour of my skin signified the fact I was Māori. The sense of shame that this afforded me was sometimes too overwhelming and my mother would find me huddled in a ball on the floor of the shower trying to rub off and wash away that “dirt-coloured, Coco Pops skin.” Children can be cruel. Adults also. My second earliest memory is of my Grandfather. My mother’s father was a fifth generation mechanical engineer—always tinkering, building, and fixing things. The most extraordinary, out-of-thebox thinker I’ve ever met and very eccentric. Buying sedans and converting them into utes, converting containers into sheds, building

Jade and her grandfather

| He Wahi Tapu – A Sacred Place

garages and inventing machines that nobody else could think of. Once he invented a fruit picking contraption from a retractable fishing rod just so he and I could pick banana passionfruit from high up the trees on one of our many excursions around Banks Peninsula. A fisherman, hunter, builder, engineer, apiarist, property developer, tree planter, tea-cup collector, and business man. That was him, a hard-working, nothing-is-impossible kind of man. How I loved and admired him. But, he was also a bully. In fact, he was the worst of the bullies I had encountered. His views toward Māori people and Māoridom in general were harsh and unforgiving. He would often tell me to “remember that I was more French than Māori.” He would make sure I knew that “to be Māori is to be dumb, lazy, poor and stupid, and you don’t ever want to identify with the likes of that.” Both of these early memories would leave a lasting imprint on my life. My father came from an environment where te reo Māori was the predominant language spoken in the home, but moving from Putaruru down to Christchurch where he met my mother, he found out very quickly how hard it was to navigate the Southern regions as a Māori man. He spent 41 years living in Christchurch not expressing or acknowledging his Māoritanga (Māori side), an attitude he passed on to me and my siblings. At school, I studied Japanese as my second language. All this was to change for me. At the end of high school and during my university years I met many rangatahi Māori who were alive in their Māoritanga. Many of them were very involved in the Māori world - kapahaka, tā moko, Māori sports and representation (like Manu Kōrero Speech Competitions), and through these relationships I was also exposed to the unspoken values that underpinned te ao Māori. One friend taught me about manaakitanga

(service to others); not just the hospitality part—like serving manuhiri a cup of tea or ensuring they have food to eat—but also the belief that every person has mana and that every action I take can either build up or destroy someone’s mana or dignity. The more I embraced and discovered my Māori identity, the more I became the person that I felt I was meant to be. I found the teachings were wholesome, the things I was discovering about what it meant to be Māori were beautiful—so unlike what I had been led to believe by my Grandfather. I was learning about humility, putting others first, respect, doing things with excellence, the power and importance of prayer. As a result, I was seeing the beauty in nature and I felt my vision for life changed from a narrow lens to a wider, more holistic view of what life is all about. Last summer I found myself standing out by the waharoa on the freshly cut, sweet-smelling grass in front of Ngā Hau E Whā Marae in Cambridge. I was standing next to a small contingent of people who were about to step foot on the marae for the first time, all waiting for Whaea Virginia Heta (Ngāti Haua) to start the karanga on the

who would enter into the process of pōwhiri come in the context of their own community, bringing their loved ones with them, their own aspirations, ideas and intentions to contribute positively to the kaupapa (the reason for gathering). I told him about the karanga, that it is the first voice to be heard calling on the marae. A woman’s voice, signifying new birth, beginning the weaving together of new relationship. Two voices—call and response—their combined sounds a sign of the coming together of people in a spiritual and physical sense. I walked everyone step by step through every part of the pōwhiri process, including the korero

One friend taught me about manaakitanga... the belief that every person has mana and that every action I take can either build up or destroy someone’s mana or dignity.

tangata whenua (marae side) which would initiate the start of the pōwhiri. It was my job to answer, to bring them on to the marae as the Kaikaranga (caller for the manuhiri, the visitors). I was nervous. I have done the karanga several times, but this time was different. I was about to bring my Grandfather onto a marae for the first time in his 78 years on earth. I would be the conduit bringing together two very different worlds—two worlds I thought would never, ever come into contact. I was excited and anxious. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to set the scene. I wanted to de-mystify the unknown, knowing that many first-timers to a marae are scared about what to do, what not to do, what to wear and what certain parts of the ceremony mean and represent. I started explaining to my Grandfather what the pōwhiri was about. I talked about what the word pōwhiri meant. That it literally refers to an opportunity for us to unravel the darkness, for us to peel away the plaited layers of unknowingness to come face to face with one another—to be seen, to be known, to therefore to be one in community, common unity. The realm of the pōwhiri, as I was taught, was also a process that could be used to assess someone’s true motives. It would allow for the host side (tangata whenua) to know if the party arriving came as friends or foe. This was usually determined at the time the rau (leaf) would be placed upon the ground when the Kaiwero (Challenger) would come out with his taiaha in hand. But for most occasions these days, those Jade Hohaia |

from each side, where heated discussions, conflicting ideas, and the sharing of vision has free rein. I’ve seen no better example of freedom of speech: saying what needs to be said, but in the context of manaakitanga with great respect and love. Love for those living, those past, and those yet to be born. The korero process differs from tribe to tribe. But usually the host side speaks first, then listens, and has the right to finish. Waiata (songs) would flow from each side to whakamana (strengthen and show support) the talk. Finally, I shared about the hongi: the embrace, face to face, noses pressed together in a physical meeting, the sharing of breath, the ultimate acknowledgement of the Te Kaihanga o Ngā Mea Kātoa (the Creator of all things). An action that brings us together, acknowledges our humanity, the breath we both share that keeps us alive, that reminds us that we are one in the same.

Indeed, this was a sacred place and sacred moment in time. I shared all of this and then I thanked them all for having the courage to step into our world and then I turned to call… “Karanga mai, karanga mai ra, kua tae mai matou ki tēnei marae, ki tēnei wahi tapu…” I said it. In my karanga. I acknowledged that we had come to this sacred place. But it was more than a sacred place that had meaning because of the physical location, it became a sacred place to me in my head and heart because I never thought this moment was possible. I was escorting—voluntarily—onto the marae a man who for most of my life verbalised his hatred towards people of my shared ethnicity. I felt his humility, I felt his willingness to go there, and I sensed his change of heart. In between the walk from the waharoa to the marae, I glanced over in his direction and I could see the tears rolling down his cheek and I felt them roll down mine also. Indeed, this was a sacred place and sacred moment in time. He came into the marae and was fully present and engaged in the proceedings, and then he stood to hongi the men and women of the marae and they received him warmly as I knew they would. Descendants of the great ancestor, Wiremu Tamihana—a great

Māori leader and man of faith—receiving my grandfather with great aroha and hospitality. He was received by and into the community that calls Ngā Hau e Whā [the Four Winds of the Four Corners of the World] marae home and he experienced a sense of belonging and acceptance that kept the tears falling. After his time at the marae I walked with him: “Pops, did you enjoy your first experience on the marae?” He turned to me and said, “Yes, I did. You know, I’ve never been in a place where so many people are smiling and happy, it really is a special place.” He experienced what I experienced many years ago when I first stepped onto my marae and started the journey of discovering the fullness of my identity and language. He was welcomed, no matter his difference or lack of knowledge. He saw that contrary to what he had told me, being Māori wasn’t actually about deficit, poverty, or any of the things we so often see in public representations of our people. Through manaakitanga, through my people’s unique act of welcome and invitation, I was able to share with him the truth that I had found in the sacred space of the marae—a sacred korero that spoke to me and still speaks today, saying “you matter, you belong and you are home.” •

Jade lives in Te Awamutu with her husband Zacchaeus and their two children. She is currently the Communications Manager for Waikato-Tainui and also the Co-Founder of Tātou Ethnic Communications company in partnership with Sir Michael Jones. Jade is on the National Board for New Zealand Prison Fellowship and she is currently involved in the national TV and social media campaign called The HOPE Project. Jade’s grandfather still lives in Rangiora in the same house he built when he was 19. He is supposed to be retired, but he says he “doesn’t have time for that carry on.” He is still eccentric, still developing several properties and planting trees, but some things have changed. Now he has more Māori friends and attends a Salvation Army fellowship, serving others and getting involved in his community.

14 | He Wahi Tapu – A Sacred Place

ON COMMON GROUND KIERAN MADDEN

“The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.” ― Jane Addams

Kieran Madden |

“I

could have hit him, I could have hurt him…but something in me said, you know what? He just needs love.” These were the words of Aaron Courtney, an AfricanAmerican football coach from Gainesville, Florida. Courtney hadn’t planned on protesting at an event by white supremacist Richard Spencer at the University of Florida, his first public appearance since leading a violent torch-burning rally at Charlottesville. But he felt compelled to turn up by a deep sense of obligation for his nation and a desire to break down the barriers that wall people off from each other. Courtney explained his presence by saying, “this is what we’re trying to avoid...it’s people like him who are increasing the distance between people.” In the arena, Spencer was hopelessly drowned out by chants and heckles. Meanwhile, Randy Furniss, with hands in his pockets and swastikas on his t-shirt, walked back through the protesters, having missed out on a ticket. “Go home, Nazi scum!” they roared at him, spitting and hurling insults. The frenzy climaxed in Furniss being punched by a man in a hoodie. Blood began dripping from his mouth. By this stage Courtney had been protesting for hours and was about to leave, until Furniss, roughed-up by the crowd, crossed his path. Wanting desperately to engage and understand, Courtney took the opportunity in a surprising way. “Why do you hate me?” he entreated passionately. “What is it about me? Is it my skin colour? My history? My dreadlocks?” He pulled Furniss close, embraced him and pleaded again: “Why do you hate me?” Furniss remained motionless, eyes vacant and lips still bleeding. But eventually he reciprocated, timidly wrapping his arms around Courtney in an embrace as unlikely as it was powerful, and simply answered: “I don’t know.” Courtney believed him. A black man and a white supremacist hugging. An amazing story of shared humanity overcoming one of the bitterest divides in a nation. “One hug can really change the world,” Courtney concluded. We’d all like to believe in the power of a hug, in the potential of love to close the distance between people, to renew society and repair our fractures. But do we dare hope that it is true? Can love, a concept we often use so casually and cheaply, really possess the

power to redeem the way we relate to our neighbours and our fellow citizens? WE ARE not often confronted with actual Nazis and New Zealand is not America, but even as a tiny island nation in the bottom of the South Pacific, we are not immune from the corruption of public discourse that has been sweeping Western democracies, a corruption that reveals a stark absence of love. These trends are discussed so often that we can almost be desensitised to their harm. They describe a kind of blockading in and around our public square, segregating that shared space where we come together as inhabitants of the same nation to debate questions of meaning and purpose and ultimately to forge our national identity and our future.

The goal is not to reach consensus or to stifle debate with politeness, but instead to elevate disagreement and allow it to be expressed openly and productively towards the common good. Take, for example, Don Brash’s experience at Massey University. Invited to speak to a student group about his time in politics, Brash was “de-platformed” in August 2018 ostensibly because of security concerns, but it was later revealed the Vice Chancellor sought advice on how she could ban him due to his apparently offensive views on race-related issues. Refusing to listen to each other puts the healthy conflict that we need to move forward at risk. When we aren’t walling off the public square, we have little trust in others to genuinely engage well inside it. In a recent survey, the Institute for Governance and Policy Studies found that only around half of New Zealanders trusted their fellow citizens to “make informed choices about the future of the country.” A similar proportion had little or no trust in politicians and media to do the right thing. A discourse based on distrust affords no space for love. In many ways, the problems we’re experiencing and the lack of love that we see in our public square represents a failure of liberal democracy. That means it’s worth looking back to the origins of liberalism, starting with the crisis that birthed it. THE FOUNDATIONS of our liberal democracy were constructed in the shadow of a blood-soaked century of religious wars following the Reformation, where European conflict over the dominant Christian worldview—which formerly held medieval society together—was tearing it apart from the inside. This was a time when subjects were required to follow the monarch’s religion, like it or not. Freedom to dissent wasn’t permitted. Millions lost their lives. With a strong desire to avoid that kind of conflict again, to avoid a “war of all against all,” political thinkers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke conceived of a new, liberal political society as

16 | On Common Ground

response to injustices suffered by specific groups, or a valid way to pursue particular aims that are unique to a group. But in order to hold our ever-narrowing identities in healthy tension in a vibrant, cohesive society, we need to preserve and build upon the common ground we do have. We need something that binds us together, especially to those we haven’t chosen to share space with but who, just like us, call this land home.

autonomous individuals coming together to agree on a “social contract,” exchanging some of their freedom for order. Government would depend on the consent of the governed, and a neutral, pluralistic public square would allow individuals to come together and rationally discuss ways to co-exist, respecting each other’s differences while securing the conditions to pursue their own conceptions of the good life. THIS LIBERAL consensus provided unprecedented peace and prosperity for centuries, and with the fall of the Berlin Wall, it was famously described as the “end of history” by political theorist Francis Fukuyama: the final evolution of political society. And yet, just a few decades later, Fukuyama is now arguing that liberal democracies are in peril, “fracturing into segments based on ever-narrower identities, threatening the possibility of deliberation and collective action by society as a whole…a road that only leads to state breakdown.” The problem lies at the heart of liberalism. According to sociologist Christian Smith, the cornerstone idea is that rightsbearing, autonomous individuals ought “to make everything new, to leave behind the past, to be unbound by any tradition, to enjoy maximum choice …to live however one desires.” In short, we are bound only to what we choose. But while this protects us against top-down oppression, this idea has slowly disintegrated our commitment to unchosen bonds of belonging, like political society and the nation itself. This has led to the rise of what is now called identity politics, where people enter the public square not as members of a shared nation seeking to deliberate about a shared future, but primarily as members of tightly-defined communities competing with members of other communities for recognition of their conflicting rights. Of course, this phenomenon can be exaggerated—we all belong to varying groups and communities as well as our country, and it’s possible to hold those multiple, sometimes conflicting, identities in healthy tension. At times, identity politics is also a necessary

CONTRARY TO the liberal vision, conservative philosopher Roger Scruton claims that society’s “binding principle is not a contract, but something more akin to love.” Love is a staple of songs, sermons, and sonnets, but it’s also been making a comeback in New Zealand political life. The Oxfordeducated author, Max Harris, made waves when he published The New Zealand Project and called for our country to embrace a “politics of love.” Similarly, economist Shamubeel Eaqub has argued that “tax is love,” and the Green Party co-leader, James Shaw, appeared to heed Harris’ call when he said his party stood for “the politics of love and inclusion” in a speech during the 2017 election. Terms like love have a lot of rhetorical firepower, so when they start to appear in our public conversations it’s important to stop and ask what they mean. So, let’s look at Harris’ definition of love as “a deep warmth directed towards another.” Harris hopes to infuse and inspire our national politics with values, including the “key value” of love, reinvigorating a sterile public square in the process. But while his intention is laudable, the concept of love he offers isn’t up to the task. Paradoxically, it asks too much and too little of us.

A neutral, pluralistic public square would allow individuals to come together and rationally discuss ways to co-exist, respecting each other’s differences while securing the conditions to pursue their own conceptions of the good life. Think of the idea of “warmth” at the heart of this idea of the politics of love. This describes a certain type of love, but it’s typically the kind of affectionate love we have for people we know well—our spouses, children, family, and friends. In an ideal world warmth would be enough to sustain our politics, but it’s hard to have warmth for people we’ve never met, who may be little more than abstract ideas or categories to us. It’s hard to believe that Aaron Courtney would have felt warmth towards Randy Furniss, let alone white supremacists as a group. Asking us to show warmth in those situations asks too much; it asks for a kind of love that just doesn’t fit. When the warmth just isn’t there, what might fit is something a little cooler. We can draw some inspiration from the political philosopher Jeremy Waldron, who advocates for the “chilly virtue” of civility to redeem a fractured and polarised public square. This is a formal commitment, which requires that we tolerate each others’ opinions in debate, and treat each other as humans first, opponents Kieran Madden |

In an ideal world warmth would be enough to sustain our politics, but it’s hard to have warmth for people we’ve never met.

second, but never as enemies. The goal is not to reach consensus or to stifle debate with politeness, but instead to elevate disagreement and allow it to be expressed openly and productively towards the common good. Now civility is not love, but the kind of love that we need in our politics is a lot like this: a chosen commitment to will the good of others regardless of who they are and regardless of how warm we might feel towards them. We choose to love, not who to love. The ancient Greeks called it agape love, and it was described memorably by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr: Agape is disinterested love. It is a love in which the individual seeks not his own good, but the good of his neighbor. Agape does not begin by discriminating between worthy and unworthy people, or any qualities people possess. It begins by loving others for their sakes. It is an entirely “neighbor-regarding concern for others,” which discovers the neighbor in every man it meets. Therefore, agape makes no distinction between friends and enemy; it is directed toward both. It is a binding love, the kind that recognises that we do not choose our obligations to one another, only the way we respond to those obligations. Dr. King’s famous dream for America wasn’t just about bringing oppressors to justice, it was about this kind of love uniting and healing a divided nation. The sense of obligation that drove Aaron Courtney to attend the protest is a good example of just this kind of disinterested commitment to all people. His cool choice led to a warm embrace. By now, it might be becoming clear why a politics of love that depends on warmth also asks too little of us. Politics is often cool, rather than warm, because our public square is filled with people who think differently to us, people we haven’t chosen to share space

with. If we only have to act in love when we are warm towards each other, the isolating distances between us will continue to grow. In fact, this kind of love requires consciously chosen sacrifice. It is a virtue not just a value, one that requires something from each of us; one that we grow into. But as the story of Aaron Courtney and Randy Furniss illustrates, it is also the kind of love that may just turn out to be truly transformative. Their story should give us hope, especially as it didn’t end with a hug. Seeing Furniss in trouble, another protester, Julius Long, fended off the chaotic demonstrators and escorted Furniss to safety. They proceeded to walk and converse for the next hour, getting to know one another’s stories, hopes, and fears, discovering that they shared more than they expected. Following their encounter, Long and Furniss plan to set up panel discussions with the university, and perhaps even co-author a book on their exceptional encounter. “If we sit down and we can talk about our concerns and our issues,” said Long, “the things we like and dislike about our communities, that builds dialogue…what we did was, we were able to break the barriers and to communicate and to have understanding.” “What he did, he rised up and above what anyone else was doing.” Furniss responded about Long. “He set a high bar of standard because he understood what I was going through.” Aaron Courtney did not need to rise beyond formal civility to meet the higher standard that redemptive love demands, by hugging Randy Furniss that day. Love cannot be enforced, laid down as law in such a way that would compel our hearts to be open to those who might mock or antagonise us—instead it is a deep commitment we must all make to one another for our shared future. A public square imbued with this kind of love, in all its messiness, imperfection, and glory, is a place where our differences can be beautifully woven together rather than viciously tearing us apart. It is up to each of us to choose how we engage. Let it be with love. •

By day, Kieran is the Research Manager at Maxim Institute, where his research focusses on tackling poverty and restoring the social fabric of Aotearoa New Zealand. By night, he and his lovely wife Juanita settle (and re-settle) their cherished and bright-eyed baby daughter. In the rare spaces between work and family, Kieran loves hosting friends for dinner, clumsily playing the cello, and cycling through the beautiful Waitākeres.

18 | On Common Ground

Kieran Madden | 19

THE ART OF DISAGREEING AGREEABLY When engaging with someone you disagree with, own the fact that it could get awkward. New Zealanders are good at taking a conflict-averse, “she’ll be right” approach, but being honest and choosing to talk through our differences is necessary for cultivating a civil society worthy of the name. It will probably be a little uncomfortable, but the following ideas are here to help us lean in and navigate disagreements with love and generosity.

Widen your circles It’s comfortable to hang out with those who think like us, like the same things as us, and affirm what we have to say. But we must get out of the comfort zone and befriend people who have different perspectives and experiences of life as this creates greater capacity for empathy and understanding when we encounter disagreement. If the only thing we disagree about is what to watch on Netflix, we’re in danger of becoming narrow-minded and set in our ways.

Look for genuine community Surround yourself with people who are also up for refining the art of disagreement and respectfully pursuing truth, people who you can have a solid argument with and still be mates at the end. Find a community who are not so much like-minded, but “like-hearted,” as scholar Alan Jacobs puts it, people who will embrace you rather than shun you for thinking differently.

Choose your engagements Just because someone is wrong on the internet doesn’t mean we need to respond with a blazing keyboard of righteous fury. Without personal connection or an opportunity for ongoing discussion, it’s unlikely we will be able engage well, let alone change hearts and minds. Don’t feed the trolls. 20 | The Art of Disagreeing Agreeably

Set the scene Environment has a huge effect on our mode of engagement. Arguments in front of a room full of people or an online audience of commenters are more likely to encourage performative point scoring. Moving to a one-on-one conversation over coffee or via direct message will make discussions more relational and focused.

Make it personal The common ground is there, we just rarely look down to realise we’re both standing on it. Before cracking into what you disagree on with gusto, spend some time exploring what you might share, you might be surprised how much you have in common. People usually come to disagreements caring deeply about solving a problem, improving their community, or seeking truth but often just have different ways of getting there.

Know thyself If we truly think someone’s perspective is fundamentally flawed, chances are, they think the same about ours. We need to genuinely question and continuously refine our fundamental assumptions of how we see the world. “Learn to be suspicious of yourself,” says Jonathan Rauch, “just feeling certain you’re right doesn’t make you right—in fact it very likely makes you wrong.” Try not to be offended when you’re asked to defend your views; you probably expect them to do the same.

Listen Be slow to speak. Instead of impatiently waiting for the other person to finally stop talking so you can regale them with your wisdom, offer them the gift of your full attention (perhaps put down your phone too). When we find ourselves bursting to break in with an emotional response, it’s a good time to take a deep breath, listen, and respond with something a little more thoughtful.

Ask good questions It’s tempting to frame up an uncharitable caricature of the worst excesses of the other person’s argument to help them to see how ridiculous it is. For a more fruitful conversation, consider the strongest version of their argument (even if they don’t articulate it), ask questions that tease out the details of their points, or repeat what they said in your own words to check if you’re really picking up what they’re putting down.

Seek to understand not to win It’s easy to imagine our disagreements as a kind of winner-takesall ideological war or blood sport with outright winners and losers. When we dig our heels in this way our primal fight-or-flight mode kicks in and we lose the vital capacity to understand and learn. Regardless of the outcome of a discussion, if both people genuinely come closer to the truth and to one another that’s a win. If we “win” an argument by dehumanising the other person, we’ve lost more than we think.

Be humble Ever reflect on your views five or ten years ago and think, “wow, I had a lot to learn?” Our understanding of the world is constantly growing and shifting, and while it’s hard to admit, we can be wrong. Remember that our brains also conspire against deeper engagement, preferring automatic emotional responses to slower rational ones. This means we must be open to the hard work of changing our minds—a sign of great courage.

Pursue empathy We all have our own stories, and hearing others’ helps us break down the “us and them” mentality we are increasingly prone to today. Before dismissing someone else’s views as out-of-hand, ask them why they think what they think and just how they arrived at that perspective, and ask yourself what you would do or think in their situation. You will not only learn something about their ideas, you’ll learn about the person too.

Know when to call it Sometimes we get to a point where the discussion begins to lose steam, where we feel we have fully engaged with each other’s perspective but the fundamental and passionate disagreement remains. That can be demoralising, frustrating, or even hurtful, but just as winning isn’t our goal, consensus isn’t either. If we have truly listened to one another, there is nothing wrong with calling it and agreeing to disagree—in civility and with love. • |

A PARLIAMENTARY PRIVILEGE AS TOLD TO JEREMY VARGO

While many of us are happy to steer clear of raucous debates and controversy, the inhabitants of Parliament have made a career of talking about the big issues facing us all. Two MPs and a political journalist talk about their contribution to New Zealandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s public debate.

22 | A Parliamentary Privilege

MARAMA DAVIDSON GREEN PARTY CO-LEADER

What is the part that you have to play in public discussion about the issues that are shaping New Zealand? I’ve discovered that I have lived experiences which ordinary people can really relate to but aren’t shared by a lot of the people who usually make it to this kind of position of power and influence. So, I’m discovering how important my voice is for a person with the privilege of a public platform, with access to media and places of debate. For example, recently I have been in the media because apparently it’s quite interesting that the co-leader of a political party has experienced sexual abuse and systemic police racism. In sharing these experiences, I think it’s led people to admit, “Well, she has a valid voice in these debates, because she knows these issues intimately.” Sadly, in Parliament—as MPs—mostly we are not representative of the diverse experiences of New Zealanders. So, the voice that I add is one that is less “held hostage” by the privileged positions that many politicians have come from, and are still in.

Do you get to generate debate on issues you care about or is your role largely responsive to what’s already being discussed? The reality of the job is that a lot of it is responsive by its very nature—a hell of a lot, but I feel I have a responsibility to also frame debate on certain issues and get ahead of just responding and offering knee jerk reactions. I’ve been able to generate debate by the virtue of having a Twitter account sometimes, and amazingly a lot of the media I have generated has simply come from me sharing lived experiences on social media. So, it’s both. I’ve found that you have to pick your priority one, two or three issues, and you have to keep sustained discussion on them, and that is difficult, because, especially in the media things can easily be talked out overnight.

Where do you see positive forms of public discussion happening in New Zealand society? On the marae. Because from the start when you come onto the marae, your whakapapa is acknowledged—before anything else is said we acknowledge your people and where you’ve come from— and that knowing of each other is the foundation upon which any debate is held. Schools, kohanga, and pre-schools are also playing an incredible role in nurturing our next generation of citizens with the information that we want our citizens to be grounded with. I see teachers grabbing the story of Parihaka and the land wars out of their own initiative, because they realise not only how much the children love it, but how important it is for a cohesive and unified society to share a basic understanding of our history. Also, our community places of gathering; I’ve also seen sports teams and rugby teams get together to take a stand on domestic violence, and alcohol, and tobacco. Jeremy Vargo | 23

Our social spaces are incredible places where people gather for a common cause, and I think we could make better use of those places.

What experiences have been important in shaping your ideas and the way you engage in politics? I think what sums it all up is that I was raised with a strong sense of injustice. I was born to two young teenage Māori parents who were a proactive part of the tino rangatiratanga movement for social justice. I saw how they experienced on-going systemic and blatant racism, whether it was from cops or landlords or hospitals. We experienced injustice when seeking healthcare, seeking education or seeking justice, that was ordinary for me and helped me to form my own analysis that not all is equal. My dad in particular; if something was up, he could not stay silent, and I noticed the same thing myself—you are bound to speak up when something’s wrong.

How can we do public debate better? All too often public debate focuses on the things we don’t agree on, and a really good debate allows us to find the common ground and use it as a starting point. You cannot have a successful debate on issues when the participants don’t feel that there is a shared recognition of equal dignity and humanity, something that comes from a proper understanding of whose positions and voices have been privileged and oppressed in the past. Often some good facilitation on tricky issues makes all the difference, someone who can keep the discussion focused and on track, and can make sure all the participants feel like they are having a fair and valid contribution, whether it’s on television, radio, on a marae, community halls, or around the table with your mates.

What does free speech mean to you? I’ve worked at the Human Rights Commission. I know that our legal threshold for free speech is high. You’d basically have to stand up with a microphone and say something like, “We should all kill Muslims,” before you will be legally shut down for hate speech. So, people should use their speech to respond to speech they consider to be hateful, and we have to, because legally there are really no other avenues, so we use other means to express our thoughts on what they are saying. I think that unfortunately “free speech” has become a vehicle for bigotry and racism. If you really truly do believe in free speech then we have to unravel whose speech is privileged, and then we need to make amends. For example, a person with power and resource can organise a nationwide leaflet drop to the whole country about immigration, and people who are incredibly marginalised have a very minimal chance of getting a fair response in public debate as they don’t have similar access to that sort of resource and platform. That’s not free speech, that’s a privileging of one part of the debate. Media can play a role in informing debate, and they sometimes do. I’ve seen some incredibly good investigative pieces and articles that really seek a balance and a wide range of voices on an issue— not just the extremists at either end. I think that would be incredible to see more of that. 24 | A Parliamentary Privilege

SIMON O’CONNOR NATIONAL PARTY, MP FOR TĀMAKI

What is the part that you have to play in public discussion about the issues that are shaping New Zealand? In some ways, my role as an elected MP is to distil all the various thoughts of my constituents, into something that’s relatively concise, and presentable into the Parliamentary debate and discussions. So, ultimately for the 120 MPs in Parliament, it’s our job to represent people, their views, and their passions.

How do you represent people when they disagree with you? Paradoxically, I have found in my time, that being upfront and open about my decisions—especially on the really controversial issues—will gain a person’s respect. They may vehemently disagree with me—we’ll debate and argue, and that’s good—but they are grateful, for want of a better word, that I’ve honoured their position by listening and being really clear about my own reasoning. The other thing is, I get elected to be that representative, and I’m not simply automaton of 60,000 collated voices. I’m not a polling robot. I, Simon, have my own thoughts and philosophies and rationales, and I’m allowed to exercise those, and importantly, then I have to justify my decisions back to the electorate. Fundamentally, I’ve often said to my constituents that if I don’t follow my conscience—which is well informed by their views—then I can’t comfortably stand on two feet and answer for what I’ve done.

Do you get to generate debate on issues you care about or is your role largely responsive to what’s already being discussed? I think a lot of MPs come in to Parliament wanting to be generative, and there is an element of that—we can set the debate from time to time. But more often than not, I think we are quite

“I think we’re very poorly served in this country when it comes to diverse constructive discussions, and I think it’s a growing concern. It might be done relatively well around family dinner tables, but I think as we move further out into civil society, there are warning signs.” responsive, spending around 80 percent of our time responding to people’s issues—especially for electorate MPs. That’s one of the reasons why MPs freak out a bit when we get these unusually big moral issues popping up. On those kinds of issues we get tens of thousands of people writing in demanding to be seen. It’s all important dialogue, but it’s so disproportionate when you consider everything else that we’ve got to be thinking about and working on at the same time.

chasing the money rather than standing up for their core beliefs, and sadly, we don’t really have enough think-tanks in New Zealand to generate the sort of discussion we might see in Australia, or the United Kingdom. Oh, and I should add that the media are hopeless at actual discussion. I won’t say that it’s too far to the left, or to the right, but it’s not well balanced with a good range of quality opinion.

Where do you think public debate is done well in New Zealand?

The experience that’s probably had the most profound effect on me was my time as a chaplain at the old Mt Eden prison, because it made me understand people in a different way than I had. Before that, I could pick up a paper and read about horrendous crimes and condemn the people who had committed them, dismiss them as nasty people who can be written off. All of sudden, as a chaplain I was spending time with these men, hearing their stories, understanding their background and their suffering. It doesn’t take away from what they had done to victims, but I found that very confronting. One of the things that we can very easily do in life is distance ourselves from people; we talk about them as the “other.” There’s a great Jewish philosopher called Martin Buber, who talks about the way we see other people as either “I and thou,” or “I and other.” I realised that in getting the chance to see their humanness as a reflection of my humanness I had begun to see these men as “thou,”

I think we’re very poorly served in this country when it comes to diverse constructive discussions, and I think it’s a growing concern. It might be done relatively well around family dinner tables, but I think as we move further out into civil society, there are warning signs. In the parliamentary context, we have an MMP environment, which is very highly structured along party lines, so, the role and voice of the individual representative and their ideas and conscience is somewhat reduced. From what I can see, our universities have become fairly singular in their approach, losing their appetite for tolerant, open discussion, and alternative opinions are closed down. I think a lot of the churches are very distracted by what they see as the social issues of the day rather than discussing consistent ideas, and articulating the philosophies behind them. Meanwhile, the NGOs are too busy

What experiences have been important in shaping your ideas and the way you engage in politics?

Jeremy Vargo | 25

instead of “the other.” That realisation has made me conscious that the decisions I make as a politician will always affect real human beings, with real backstories, real struggles. That I’m considering laws that will apply to people, like me—not just concepts, not just statistics.

How do you maintain relationship with someone when you passionately disagree about important things? With great difficulty I suppose! I’m fortunate to be surrounded by many people who disagree with me, a lot of the time, and it’s wonderful. When you’re in relationship with someone I think it’s important to keep that relationship first and foremost, and that’s regardless of what they think, or how they disagree with you. But there is a pragmatic side to that. There are certain topics with my mum that I might only bring up once a year, if I just sort of want to stir the pot, or vice versa, but we don’t spend all our time focused on our points of disagreement. In so many relationships, the point of disagreement becomes the singular focus; the constant grind. Differences do have to be acknowledged—you engage with them from time to time, because it helps challenge them and helps challenge you. You never know, either party might evolve, but you don’t constantly focus on it, because actually there’s a whole lot more in play. I personally love to be challenged, it’s what helps you grow. I think too often, especially on social media, we’re largely just surrounded by people who agree with us. No wonder no-one grows or develops in their thinking, but in my real life, I’m surrounded by lots of family and friends—right through to my wife—who disagree with me on a number of issues. Every time you’re challenged, argued with, or critiqued it’s a moment for change, or to look at the potential for change.

What does free speech mean to you? Free speech is ultimately about the free interchange of ideas, and the ability for people to speak, to share what they think, and—this is the important part—give a “why.” If you have a view, and you can’t explain it, that is where limits start to kick in. You need to be able to give an answer for why you hold the belief that you do. So often when you come across extreme speakers on the left or the right, they’re just spouting stuff, and because of the extreme stupidity of their respective positions they’re self-limiting because they can’t justify themselves and by and large people will stop listening. However, sometimes people can reach that further extreme, when they are deliberately and consistently inciting people to violence, or really stereotyping groups to violent ends, and that’s actually where governments do need to step in.

26 | A Parliamentary Privilege

STACEY KIRK

SENIOR POLITICAL REPORTER FOR FAIRFAX, CHAIR OF THE PARLIAMENTARY PRESS GALLERY What is the role of Parliamentary Press Gallery journalists in public discussion about the issues that are shaping New Zealand? Our role in facilitating public debate is probably more important now than it has ever been. There’s so much misinformation out there, and it is having an effect on the kinds of governments that have been elected across the world. Our role is to report things accurately, and we’re all under fire a bit—the media as well as politicians—in terms of public trust in what we’re doing. So, we have to get it right first time, and we have to call out politicians at the first hurdle where we can. In the press gallery, we have to provide an accurate record of what’s going on in Parliament, but of course reporting has to involve analysis of some of the manoeuvring and the machinations around this place—people’s agendas that might not be so obvious. Political reporting has to be incredibly nuanced, because there’s so much nuance and agenda behind everything that politicians do. That’s where the analysis of political reporting, and opinion, is every bit as important as the news.

How do you balance reporting on the “gamesmanship” of politics vs reporting on the policies of different political parties and what effect they could have on New Zealand? I think they’re both just as important as each other. The reporting on the political jockeying and the gamesmanship can go too far, but it’s important, because it’s the personalities, the politicking, and the behind-the-scenes gamesmanship that gets certain bills and legislation to the point where they can have an effect on the lives of New Zealanders.

Where do you draw the line between neutral reporting of what’s going on and giving your opinion as an observer of what goes on in Parliament? I know a lot of journalists like to say, “Yes, I’m straight down the middle, I’m impartial.” But, no human being is completely impartial, and particularly in a place like this, where you live and breathe the politics every day, you get to become really knowledgeable on certain issues, so it’s almost impossible not to form a view. I think it’s incredibly important to know where your biases lie, because that’s the only way you can mitigate them in your reporting. I think there’s definitely a place for opinion in politics, because it is important to, in some respects, guide debate, and let people disagree with you. Hopefully it’s part of providing a responsible jumping off point for broader discussion—there should always be balance to the conversation. I think if you were writing on an issue, you just talk to all of the people involved, and you represent their views in what you write—and that doesn’t necessarily mean giving each argument the exact same amount of space. I’ve been called a left-wing stooge and a right-wing

shill, sometimes for the same piece, so you never really know exactly where anyone’s going to take issue with what you write. All I can do is make sure that I allow for the fact that I could be wrong on this issue, and other people aren’t necessarily wrong if they have a different opinion.

How do you think the news media could be a more effective facilitator of quality public debate? Well, I think if we knew the answer to that, the media might be in a better position than it is now, but I do reject wholeheartedly the notion that the quality content isn’t there. It might not be in newspapers, it might not be in the 6pm news, because those are very limited spaces; you simply can’t go very in-depth on anything in those spaces. But on the webpages of Stuff, the NZ Herald, and on all of the web agencies really, we’re spoilt. If you care to look there’s never been a better time to write an in-depth story and present it in a way that captures and engages people, and I know Stuff and the NZ Herald are both investing heavily in that.

As a journalist trying to create transparency around political debate, how do you view the role of the political PR machine? I heard recently that for every journalist in New Zealand there are something like 35 communications professionals, and their sole job is to frame the story we’re trying to tell. So, yeah, it’s not just the media vs politicians, this job can feel like it’s the media vs the politicians and their armies. So, there’s always going to be someone who’s not happy with something you’ve written, and on a personal level that can get quite trying and wear you down. That’s where I think it can get dangerous in the long term for public debate, because as much as you don’t like to admit it, as a journalist sometimes you think, “Oh, he’s just going to be so annoyed about this…do I even want the hassle on this particular fight?” But you can’t fall into the trap of thinking that, because that’s exactly what the PR teams are paid to try and make you think. • Jeremy Vargo | 27

Ngāti Whātua occupation of Bastion Point, 1978 – Robin Morrison, Auckland War Memorial Museum Tāmaki Paenga Hira. PH-1992-5-RM-N10-1 28 | Here We Were

HERE WE WERE FAY CAREY AND BENJAMIN JOHNSON

Throughout history the places we have used to gather, speak, and make ourselves heard have not always been actual public squares. At times â&#x20AC;&#x153;the public squareâ&#x20AC;? has been a street, a beach, a civic building, a contested plot of land, a community hall. These images illustrate just a few of the moments in our history where ordinary spaces have been electrified with purpose by groups of passionate New Zealanders. Even as we encounter the mundane reality of these ordinary spaces after the noise has diminished, we hold to the knowledge that we live in a society where the everyday has been shaped by the passionate debates of those who have gone before us.

Fay Carey and Benjamin Johnson | 29

Massey's Cossacks turning on to Adelaide Rd, Wellington, during the 1913 Waterfront Strike â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

30 | Here We Were

700 carpenters march down Queen Street to protest their unemployment dispute with the Master Buildersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Association, 1949 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

Fay Carey and Benjamin Johnson |

Demonstration against the proposed SIS Amendment Act, 1977 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

32 | Here We Were

Fay Carey and Benjamin Johnson | 33

Anti-apartheid demonstrator Daniel Morgan-Lynch, 1981 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Peter Avery, Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. 34 | Here We Were

REFLECTING THE NEW MOSAIC TASH MCGILL

While we expect news media to perform their societal function as the â&#x20AC;&#x153;fourth estate,â&#x20AC;? the arrival of the internet has upended the business model that used to keep newsrooms humming. With audience attention splintered across more channels and content than ever before, do our media outlets still have the necessary influence to speak truth and create public discussion?

Tash McGill | 35

n November 2016, 30 editors and senior journalists from all over New Zealand wrote a letter to the Commerce Commission regarding the proposed merger between NZME and Fairfax. They told the Commission that this unprecedented collaborative message from across multiple media outlets “should be seen as a reflection of the deep concern we have that your decision to reject the merger will inevitably spell the end of our ability to maintain quality national and local journalism at scale for New Zealanders.” Translation: some of the most senior figures in the New Zealand media were signaling that maintaining the local newspapers and quality journalism at the current scale we enjoy is not going to be possible. The stakes are higher than job cuts for journalists and possible closures of local newspapers. The public relies on a healthy and stable media to provide accountability and transparency on the actions of the people in positions of trust and authority over all aspects of our lives. Knowledge is power—without an active and secure fourth estate, we are all disadvantaged in our ability to live and participate in a free, democratic society. In addition to this important non-partisan political role, the media also informs our sense of national identity by bringing our geographically diverse stories to the public eye. These stories inform our view of ourselves and our society. It is through journalism that we understand the national impact of domestic violence, binge drinking, environmental issues and suicide. It would be another five months of financial instability and uncertainty before the Commerce Commission would finally release their decision. In rejecting the proposed deal, Chairman Mark Berry stated, “this merger would concentrate media ownership and influence to an unprecedented extent for a well-established modern liberal democracy.” On the one hand, the Commission argues that democracy requires competition between media, and acted to prevent the concentration of too much media power in one place. On the other, stopping the merger has already led to job cuts and the shuttering of regional newspaper titles, leaving less time for the remaining journalists to investigate and understand all of the issues they have to report. By June 2018, 28 Fairfax titles were either closed, sold, or under review. NZME also felt the pinch, with year to June profit falling by 53% as they invested quickly in new growth markets and revenue

opportunities, while still losing revenue from their traditional news business. What has changed? Why has it become so financially impossible for the media industry to survive and thrive in a competitive environment? In the past, the lucrative secondary functions of printed classifieds, advertising, public and family notices provided the financial revenue to support the primary function of journalism. Essentially, the newsroom and the business of news remained in a pseudo-separation from the financial bottom line. Newspaper owners were able to allow editorial freedom as long as the quality and exclusivity of the content brought in enough readers to attract advertising and classified dollars. This financial model has now all but completely collapsed. As platforms like TradeMe emerged, readers had new bespoke and accessible ways to buy and sell goods. Digital advertising on websites and in mobile applications now provide measurable and often cheaper methods of advertising. The modern consumer has almost unlimited browsing options on multiple devices and the ability to self-select a news, entertainment, and content experience separate from any over-arching editorial influence. Modern media outlets now have to create news content that can compete for audience engagement against Netflix, Lightbox, Amazon, Facebook, YouTube, Instagram and every other online content producer and advertising platform. The first attempts to move advertising from print to digital didn’t work well—disruptive user experiences full of pop-ups, banners and homepage takeovers were often cheaper than print but now advertisers could detect where customer engagement was lacking. Ad-blocker technology cheapens the value of these advertising channels even more. This has led to an incursion of more tabloid and entertainment content into publication spaces on homepages and mastheads traditionally reserved for “hard news.” Media bosses have long argued that their outputs simply mirror the tastes and interests of society, and with our browsing and viewing histories now available, they have more empirical data to prove it than ever before. Producers and programmers are delivering more of what our online behaviour suggests we will consume, because consumption is what attracts advertising revenue. Media outlets must create revenue

“People still seem to fundamentally believe that private or for-profit news agencies will simply provide good journalism from the goodness of their hearts. News is a privilege and not a right.” – Duncan Greive, creator and managing editor, The Spinoff

36 | Reflecting the New Mosaic

streams in order to keep the doors open but how they do that has changed drastically in the last 20 years. In the words of Duncan Greive, creator and managing editor of online media outlet The Spinoff: “People still seem to fundamentally believe that private or for-profit news agencies will simply provide good journalism from the goodness of their hearts. News is a privilege and not a right.” The option to ‘pay-to-play’ with publishers like The Spinoff for advertorial and partnership content is increasingly common. This model relies on partners and sponsors working with editorial teams to produce content that is engaging and meaningful for the consumer and the sponsor, but the model is not without some criticism. That skepticism falls largely on the subject of ‘fake news’ and the question: “if a sponsored story looks like news and reads like news, is it actually news?” Duncan defends the approach saying, “It’s hard not to resent the expectations placed on private news providers at times. Our business is more complex than it’s ever been - all while the revenue is drastically diminished and a large class of lay experts feel completely comfortable critiquing the practice.” Greive believes he has found a happy median between consumption and distribution that relies on transparency, and journalists understanding the sophistication of their audiences. “Our

business model is partnership and sponsorship and we make it clear when our content is funded in that way. When our journalists are not writing for a partner, they are writing whatever they want. We give them implicit license because they know what makes good content and we know what our audience is interested in.” Legacy news titles have also flirted with sponsored content, but not to the extent of The Spinoff. Instead Fairfax has continued to invest in their digital platforms; Stuff.co.nz and Neighbourly.co.nz to build audience engagement while the NZ Herald have signaled a future move to a subscription model. “It puts a line in the sand to say that our work is important and has a value—of course it does mean that we need to be producing top quality content that our audiences value,” says Miriyana Alexander, Premium Content Editor for the NZ Herald. “I think that increasingly there is an understanding that it costs money to do good journalism, and readers are willing to put their hands in their pockets to support publishers whose content they value.” That’s the pay-for-consumption model, where consumers pay for what they want, just like a monthly subscription fee to Netflix. Internationally, subscription and membership models have proven to work and in some cases, reader revenue has overtaken commercial revenue. In 2017, The New York Times boasted 46% growth in digital Tash McGill | 37

only subscriptions, which includes content like crosswords, recipes, cooking and fitness programmes. These digital experiences haven’t necessarily eliminated advertising but they have streamlined and improved the user experience. There are significant concerns that public interest journalism might be the loser while newsrooms continue to experiment with the business model driven by consumer engagement. The pressing issue for the state of New Zealand’s public square isn’t one of media monopoly but financial survival in a global digital marketplace. So far, the cost has been a nationalisation of our news media with the loss of some specialist and local coverage. Regardless of the Commerce Commission’s intention, New Zealand is facing an inevitable media monopoly by means of a ‘survival of the fittest’ war of attrition between our largest media companies. A national conversation about important issues does matter, not only for the sake of democracy but in cultivating a sense of national identity, an understanding of our history and our future; a reflection of who we are and who we will be. The accessibility and diversity of content available across a broad variety of channels has led to a tactical scrambling to put content where consumers might see it. The diversification of channels means there is no longer a single reliable media avenue that can reach the majority of New Zealanders at one time and place. The singular reflection of society 38 | Reflecting the New Mosaic

previously provided by our traditional news media has splintered into a diverse mosaic. If we don’t find new ways of curating and maintaining that mosaic, key issues of importance might go unheard and unseen. Unique perspectives could disappear from the national conversation while divisions between parts of society—rural and urban, young and old, rich and poor, left and right—could widen without a national forum of conversation to bring us together. The capability to consume only what matters to us, increases the ability of the individual to live in society without participating in the whole. Pushing the conversation into the places where New Zealanders are consuming news and content is now a crucial responsibility of media distribution. If the New Zealand media are to foster broader public conversations, there are challenges beyond revenue to address, like distribution and access. More than 100,000 New Zealand children live without access to broadband internet, something the UN now considers a basic human right. Look at those populations geographically and you’ll discover communities that are disproportionately rural, poor and Māori, with access to fewer regional and local media sources. Greive is right, access to the news and participation in the public conversation is an area of increasing disparity where the risk is significant loss of diversity. Where the public conversation depends on consumer self-selection, too many

“I think that increasingly there is an understanding that it costs money to do good journalism, and readers are willing to put their hands in their pockets to support publishers whose content they value.” - Miriyana Alexander, Premium Content Editor for NZ Herald

New Zealanders don’t necessarily have equal representation or access. In competing for that consumer attention, Miriyana Alexander addresses the challenge facing journalists. “At a simple level that has made it necessary for journalists and editors to think of the best ways to tell the stories—500 words and a picture just will not cut it anymore, and obviously hasn’t for some time. Now our storytelling devices include infographics, video, social media explainers, podcasts and docos across multiple platforms,” says Alexander. Traditional outlets and new media outlets alike are paying to distribute these new content types through platforms like Facebook and Twitter, trying to reach consumers where they are. The connecting power of these social platforms have had a large impact on the way people discover news stories and how different issues gain traction in the public square. “Many people get their news on Facebook, where a large dump of information comes in one stream—some from reputable publishers, but others that could have been created by bad actors looking to weaponise social media. We have seen this happen in the US election, Brexit and other European elections, so people are confused, and there is a danger that turns them off the news,” says Alexander. A modern journalist’s job description may have changed somewhat, but Alexander is philosophical and optimistic about the media’s ability to maintain a non-partisan conversation for the public good. “It is both a possibility and a reality. We are doing this all the time at the Herald, and that won’t change. Journalists will always tell the stories that matter. But it is important to constantly evaluate what we do: is it adding value for our audience? And if it isn’t, we shouldn’t do it. When resources are finite, we need to focus on doing what matters.” “We are utterly committed to investigative journalism. In my view, the Herald has the best investigative unit in the country and the

work they do, supplemented by a strong news team, really matters and makes a difference. We won’t stop doing that work. I think New Zealand is very well served by the amount of resource that various publishers and broadcasters invest in this sphere; we all know how important it is,” says Alexander. How much quality journalism can New Zealand sustain in a globally competitive marketplace where our media industry is battling the monolithic agencies of Facebook, Google, Amazon, The New York Times and The Guardian? Arguably, there are too many major media outlets for a country of 4.4 million people—the population of a mid-sized city in many countries. The question isn’t the quality but quantity of journalism. It is only a matter of time before local competition between outlets diminishes the resources available for journalism and its distribution to public platforms. The future of New Zealand media can only be found in this new mosaic, creating content that speaks to the diverse interests and concerns of society and delivering it across the network of channels and platforms that make up the new media landscape. In order to encompass the full breadth of this scattered picture, a recalibration of the industry is still necessary and inevitable. Recalibration will mean a re-sizing and re-prioritisation of the industry, one way or another, primarily through consolidation at a national level. As with any downsizing in business, it would be preferable to do sooner and by design, rather than at the mercy of the market. A reduction of large media outlets would allow for greater diversification into specialist and local content production, where the financial cuts have hit hardest. Reducing local competition, investing in our information infrastructure to allow access for all New Zealanders, and recognising the global media monoliths as our true challengers will allow for greater focus on developing a media model that will work for the age in which we live, telling important stories that reach and reflect the full mosaic of New Zealand society. •

Tash McGill is a transformation strategist, writer and broadcaster with a broad background in the media industry. Having worked in digital strategy, print and radio, advertising and public relations across her career, her interest in the transformation of the news media sector is both personal and professional. Tash works with clients like Tourism New Zealand, World Vision USA, World Vision NZ, NZTE and others in New Zealand and the US to achieve transformation and effective storytelling. Tash McGill | 39

IN FORMATION — REFLECTIONS ON A CAREER IN TEACHING DR MICHAEL REID

“Is there any point in public debate in a society where hardly anyone has been taught how to think, while millions have been taught what to think?” - Peter Hitchens

40 | In Formation — Reflections on a Career in Teaching

have been a primary and secondary teacher for 32 years. This is a tremendous privilege. Teaching is not simply baby-sitting, or a mechanical transfer of skills. To help form minds, awake curiosity, help human beings to grow; that is an exercise in formation — to make deeper, happier, and wiser people, mature beings with souls, virtues, courage, kindness, and fortitude. That is much deeper than preparing young people for the job market, “the modern world”, or to mouth correct opinions. It takes passion. It takes wisdom. And it takes humility. Across my career formation has occurred at times, perhaps not often; or at least not as often as I would have liked. And at other times, I have failed. The reasons are many; some my own fault in just not being skilful or sensitive enough to reach my students, and at other times, pressures of curriculum delivery and a lack of time have precluded such thinking. Even so I still desire to see formation occur: to teach students to think for themselves, to take action to engage with the world and each other, to love knowledge and stand tall in the world as citizens of good character. Without this moral dimension, education can imprison people, rendering them ignorant, stunting character, and cutting-off the seeds of citizenship. Teaching which leads to formation requires practitioners who understand learning and how it occurs and the teaching methods that support it. Concepts are discovered, grappled with, understood, and then applied. Teaching for formation requires challenge (so high expectations are established), explanation (so new knowledge and skills are acquired), modelling (so knowledge and skills are shown how to be applied), questioning (to provoke hard and challenging thinking), and application (to test and apply knowledge and skills in various situations). Above all perhaps, formation requires hard thinking. Accompanying the process is a moral understanding that there are good and bad ideas, arguments, and choices, and that reason alone, personal choice, or what may benefit an individual, are not necessarily unassailable means for discerning the good from the bad, especially when we understand what it means to be human in relationship with others. Even deeply-held existing beliefs, while important, should still be open to justification and challenge. Challenging one’s own beliefs by passionate dialogue with others is an exercise in sharpening, and truth seeking. That’s why current debates on free speech and so-called “hate speech” are so vital. Our belief in free speech comes from modern philosophers like Jeremy Bentham and J. S. Mill (among many others), while “hate speech” is very much from a post-modern milieu that views social order in terms of factionalised groups antagonistic to each other; in other words, drawing on neo-Marxism and critical social theory. Education for formation should not shy away from explaining or debating these types or any other issues, but obvious skill is needed to structure such any classroom engagement in age-appropriate ways. So what might this look like for say, a Year 12 class? Firstly, classical ideas of freedom and why it matters to human flourishing would be explored and the texts may include extracts from a wide range of thinkers including (but not confined to) The Scriptures (Old and New

Testaments), the Quran, Plato, Aristotle, Aquinas, Hobbes, Locke, Kant, Voltaire, Marx, Bentham, Mill, Nietzsche, Dewey, the Humanist Manifesto, and so on. The roots of ideas would be on the table, and the teacher encouraging and leading students to engage, and to think, for themselves. I tell students that you can’t “kill” ideas; they endure across time, be they good or bad, helpful or destructive. The skill of the teacher would involve selecting aspects of the texts, often just basic ideas, and grounding them in useful analogies, logical reasoning and application. For example, Hobbes’ famous dictum

Even deeply-held existing beliefs, while important, should still be open to justification and challenge. of the “nasty, brutish and short” life refers to mankind without the restraints of social order, led, in his theory, by the sovereign. Imagine what could be done with that idea in relation to debates on republicanism and the future of the monarchy, to name but two related ideas? As Karl Popper points out, ideas break down under the pressure of new evidence, questing minds, and challenge which tests them, looking for contrary evidence, testing and re-testing, looking for truth. This means that formation is a dynamic process and when it occurs how true it is that “when one teaches, two learn.” Everyone involved should have their critical thinking, sympathies and ability to articulate stretched. Challenging questions emerge: Can any speech ever be entirely free? Doesn’t “hate speech,” even if it could be proved, rely on the very Dr Michael Reid | 41

categories and stereotypes that it seeks to reject? When rights clash, whose rights are most right, and why? While I have a personal preference for classical texts and Modern Greats, almost all sources can be used to good effect in formation if the teacher is skilled in their use and in-step with their learners. So, Homer’s narration of Odysseus' return after Troy might in fact, be juxtaposed alongside Homer Simpson’s mind bubble dilemmas; or the concept of euthanasia in the subterranean world of E. M Forster’s chilling novella ‘The Machine Stops’ could be debated alongside the arguments advanced by David Seymour in his 2017 End of Life Choice Bill. Engaging students interactively, maintaining relevance and interest, and being enthusiastic are all key in building relationship that makes formation possible. Opinions are not enough, they need evidence and a convincing and moral rationale.

I tell students that you can’t “kill” ideas; they endure across time, be they good or bad, helpful or destructive. It is the great joy of a teacher to see young people go on to live fruitful lives and make a positive difference. I think every teacher wants that and my deep desire is to see former students do well in life and learning, and in many cases achieve much more than I have. A particular cohort of students from some years ago remain very special. I still meet with a half-dozen of them a couple of times a year. This formational friendship began in an unlikely manner. I was relieving their Year 11 history class at the time they were reading Morton Ruhe’s book The Wave. This is based on a real-life experiment in a Californian high school in the late 1960s when a teacher (Mr Ross) devised a practical experiment to help students understand how the Nazi holocaust could happen. The classroom became very strict, chants and symbols were introduced and students told they were part of something much greater than

42 | In Formation — Reflections on a Career in Teaching

themselves. Over time, “The Wave” as Mr Ross called it, became exclusive, obsessive and violent, and those refusing to join were bullied and harassed. In short, “The Wave” was exactly what Hitler, Goebbels, Goering and Himmler did among their own people and of course, against Jews. This sparked deep discussions within my own class and this group of students wanted to explore further. How could such persecution arise, and why weren’t there checks and balances in the political system and social order to prevent the spread of Nazism? Many readers will know the answers to these questions but students needed to grapple with the complex issues for themselves. During the remaining years at school we would meet at lunchtimes and “chew the fat” on a veritable cascade of intellectual and ethical issues. When they gave me a medal at the end of Year 13 I was touched and momentarily felt like Mr Keating in Dead Poets Society. They are now all graduates, working, and in some cases married. I am amazed at their erudition and insights. They love talking about matters of substance: policy, philosophy, faith, politics, and of course, about culture, relational and employment matters—anything and everything really. This special relationship will endure, because, well… we like each other and get on. More than that though, we share an understanding of education as formation, which is about who we are, not just what we know; it’s about life-long learning and

serving, not just course completion or graduation. And it is a dynamic process where at best, school is merely a catalyst to get started. Somehow an education worthy of the name must transcend institutional demands and pressures to “pass NCEA” (not that there is anything wrong with this). How can a teacher do that? I have been asking myself this for three decades, and only now, very tentatively, propose an answer.

Firstly, the teacher must love their work and genuinely value the opportunity to work with children and young people. Without that, there is no joy. On a bad day when all of the perfunctory and administrative demands seem overbearing, we have to hang on to that truth; the “call” if you like. It will sustain through tough times. Secondly, the teacher has to love their subject area(s) and be knowledgeable; and thirdly, a teacher has to be teachable and always open to new ideas. Education specialist John Hattie speaks of the “thrill, will, and skill” of teaching and learning and I think this catchphrase pretty well sums-up teaching. If in some way, perhaps osmosis, a student imbibes a teacher’s joy and enthusiasm that may spark their own journey into a particular area of knowledge. This process is never about Orwellian control or the dreadful cynicism in Pink Floyd’s The Wall (1980). We can all recall uncompromising disciplinarians who seemed to energise on their little bit of power in the classroom and who made major mountains out of what should only be minor molehills (for example, uniform infringements). Unfortunately human nature being what it is, we remember these teachers but for the wrong reasons. A worthwhile schooling provides the tools to encourage young people to think for themselves but there has to come a point where the initiative passes from an overseer to being self-motivated. This is what occurred with the special group of students I have described. I hope I have never told young people what to think but how to question and think for themselves. If they can pick up at least some of the requisite skills in my class then I will have done my job. Formation is also deeply relational and interactive. This recalls a story involving the former Prime Minister David Lange. At the time (1989) Mr Lange was also the Minister of Education and on a tour promoting the Tomorrow’s Schools reforms. This larger-than-life man, accompanied by an entourage, came into my Form 1 (Year 7) class when they were reading a School Journal article about life in Papua New Guinea that included a section about eating crocodile meat. One of the students asked Mr Lange if he had eaten crocodile. He said he had, and proceeded to tell a delightful story about it

A worthwhile schooling provides the tools to encourage young people to think for themselves but there has to come a point where the initiative passes from an overseer to being self-motivated. which had us all enthralled. His humour, anecdotes, and insight were unforgettable. Although a lawyer and politician, Mr Lange intuitively understood some essential elements of teaching and learning, namely, that it is relational; stories connect us, they inspire and pass on wisdom across generations. In my experience, many of today’s students, if they are readers, favour somewhat dark and dystopian texts. The Hunger Games and The Handmaid’s Tale for example, are hardly edifying but they Dr Michael Reid | 43

Dr Reid receiving his medal. Dead Poets Society, 1989 - Touchstone Pictures

are instructive. The dystopian genre warns what happens when education becomes subverted for state purposes and individual freedom perishes. The scary thing is that this process can be masked in false promises of enlightenment or liberation, but the end result is no such thing, rather, misery, death, and destruction. These texts have close ties to Orwell and many others that remind us of the premium genuine education places on being able to think for ourselves. This kind of source material presents virtually endless opportunities for a skilled educator committed to formation to evaluate the plot, characters, and values in light of say, Kant’s moral imperative to treat other people “as an end in themselves, rather than as a means to an end.” What would this look like in the world of the text? What if even one influential character challenged the dysfunctional status quo and put this principle into action? Balancing these texts with a judicious use of the likes of Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare shows how important universal themes such as quest, hero, and spiritual virtue pervade literature. Is, for example, the world view of the witches in Macbeth much different to

fashionable ideas of karma or the “attraction” model of The Secret? Does man really produce evil like a bee produces honey, as William Golding once said and Lord of the Flies demonstrates? How can we ever know if we don’t read, engage and reflect upon such texts?

I still desire to see formation occur: to teach students to think for themselves, to take action to engage with the world and each other, to love knowledge and stand tall in the world as citizens of good character.

As an educator I am constantly challenged by these and many other questions. Grappling with them means my own formation continues and I realise more about the human condition, my own inadequacies, but also the joys of journeying with young hearts and minds. •

Michael began teacher training at the former Dunedin Teachers’ College in 1981. He later tutored at Otago University and taught in the primary system before moving into secondary teaching in 1990. He has been a Head of Department, Dean, and Head of School, and also conducted Ministry-funded research into Asperger Syndrome. His doctorate is in history and he continues to study theology at Otago. Michael was a foundation staff member at Maxim Institute in 2001. He currently teaches English at St. Andrew’s College in Christchurch. 44 | In Formation — Reflections on a Career in Teaching

SIDE BY SIDE LYDIA O’DONNELL

“Freedom, I found is not only in the running but in the heart, the mind, the hands.” - Louise Erdich

Lydia O’Donnell | 45

o me, running is simple. In a world where it is almost impossible to escape the digital noise and on-going nonsense, I’ve found that the act of running can give me an open door to my thoughts, allows a deeper understanding of myself, and offers an opportunity to connect with other people who have discovered a common secret: the power of “the run.” I grew up running. Ever since I was 7 or 8, I have been running circles, around tracks, around mountains, around the roads. I was lucky to grow up in an active household with parents who were always encouraging me to partake in physical activity. In contrast to today’s visual values of “fitspo” culture, they taught me that exercise is not about constructing a desireable body with toned legs and a flat stomach, or even about producing personal best times or national titles to feed the competitive ego. It’s about discipline, getting up, getting out on the road or track, and knowing every step you take is a step closer to a rush of adrenaline, a positive outlook, and a clear mind for the day ahead. My parents taught me the positive effects of exercise on our taha tinana (physical health) and taha hinengaro (mental health), as they had seen first hand the impact that depression and anxiety can have on people. These mental illnesses affect one-in-six adults in New Zealand and even now, we can face huge challenges when we try to talk openly about how it affects us. For me, running has been a medicine for my mind, and I have experienced how gathering with other people to participate in running has opened up space for relationship, honesty, and encouragement of mind, body, and soul. Far more than just an individual pursuit, running has always provided ways of connecting with people. Whether it was going for a run with family, belonging to running clubs at school and university, or building friendships through social runs as an adult, my love of ‟the run” has widened my circles far beyond the people I would otherwise have met. It’s a simple concept, going for a run. You get

46 | Side By Side

your shoes on, meet in a place, and start moving, side by side, down a path in the same direction. Over the years I’ve been surprised who I’ve ended up sharing these paths with. Sport and activity is a great leveller—you make friends out on the field and only later do you find out how different you are. In a society where much is made of the things that divide us, a simple pursuit like going for a run is a beautiful way to draw all kinds of people together as one, no matter their background, their race, their size, their colour, or how wealthy or underprivileged they are. I’ve seen “the run” act as an open door to openhearted communities that welcome anyone who is willing to take the first step. In our digital world, “community” is often co-opted as a broad term used to describe people joined to the same virtual eco-system: Instagram followers, YouTube subscribers, gaming tribes. Despite the real connections made possible by these platforms, I still believe that all of us truly need real-life, in-person communities. Communities

In a society where much is made of the things that divide us, a simple pursuit like going for a run is a beautiful way to draw all kinds of people together. where you can see a person’s emotions, sense their vulnerability, speak honestly, and feel a proper connection to one another. As a member of several run clubs in Auckland and the head coach for the Nike+ Run Club in New Zealand, I was involved with many different running and exercise communities. Communities that were filled with fit, fast, and competitive athletes. Communities that could seem intimidating and unwelcoming to those that may not run for fast times, or may have never run at all. There is definitely a place for such communities to encourage athletes to strive to be better but these groups miss the opportunity to talk to those people who don’t see themselves as athletes. That’s why I started a running club called One Step. It started with an Instagram page inviting anyone to come along for a run on Monday morning. From small beginnings, One Step has become an open community designed to raise awareness of depression and anxiety and to spread the positive message of how exercising together—especially running—can help prevent, manage, or minimise the effects of mental illnesses. Everyone is welcome, regardless of how fit or unfit. All that matters is that you are willing to get to the park at 7am, and help yourself. Every Monday morning, we meet, we run, we talk. Little by little we get to know the people who show up over time, trust starts to build, and we create an environment where it’s okay to speak honestly about what’s going on in our hearts and minds. One Monday morning we had a new face at One Step in Auckland. Britt is an incredible woman who raced professionally in Europe as a triathlete and cyclist in Europe until December 2017, when she was diagnosed with terminal bowel cancer. Britt came

to One Step, with understandably severe depression and a huge barrier of anxiety, not knowing who or what to expect. Britt ran with us during months of chemotherapy and during laps of the park, she shared her story and the day-to-day struggles she was facing. Later, she told me that on Monday mornings at One Step, she was able to move past the barrier of being a ‘cancer-patient.’ On Monday mornings, she was just another ‘runner.’ The idea is spreading: One Step is now active across 6 cities— Auckland, Dunedin, Christchurch, Taupō, Melbourne and Boston— and is preparing to kick off in Mt Maunganui and Wellington in the near future. In founding this community, I have made lifelong friends, across all different generations, who have all found value in moving along together. These friends have come from all walks of life, and are spread across the world doing amazing—and very different— things. Without the connection of running, the opportunity to meet these people would have never come about. Earlier this year, I discovered another way that running can contribute to these important conversations about mental health. In June I got the opportunity to join the Movember team that will run the 2018 New York Marathon. Running one of the major world

marathons has always been a dream for me, one I never thought possible. When Movember approached me I could not have been more excited—this opportunity allows me to bring together my passion for running with my desire to encourage people to exercise and talk more openly about mental health. As part of our preparation for New York, the New Zealand Movember team have been hosting a weekly Movember Run Club every Wednesday night, simply putting the invitation out through social media. It’s been amazing to see how this kind of real world activity has converted followers on social media into a group of people engaging in real conversations—coming together, side by side to support one another and support the cause of mental health. Every Monday morning, when many people are dreading the start of a new week, I wake up feeling so fortunate. Driving to the park, getting out of the car and and seeing the smiling faces of the One Step crew, ready to run and encourage one another along the way; it’s the most fulfilling way to start my week. Jogging the laps in the fresh air, getting to know a new face, and hearing stories about the good and the hard stuff of life from the regular One Steppers— it’s what inspires me as an athlete, and as a person. •

Lydia is an athlete and a running coach, leading her Diocesan School for Girls team to become National Champs in 2017. She is a past national title holder across multiple distances and is now focused on running the marathon distance on the global stage. Lydia now runs her own online coaching company and is also the founder of the mental health awareness run club, One Step, which is growing in cities around the world.

Lydia O’Donnell | 47

THE FACE OF MY NEIGHBOUR DR JOHN FOX

We clasp the hands of those that go before us, And the hands of those who come after us. We enter the little circle of each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms And the larger circle of lovers, Whose hands are joined in a dance And the larger circle of all creatures Passing in and out of life Who move also in a dance To a music so subtle and vast that no ear hears it Except in fragments. The Larger Circle, by Wendell Berry

sat on the verandah of a rest home, the other day, with a 95 year old called Edith. When she was 19, the American soldiers arrived in Cornwall Park, and whistled at her. When she was 21, she snuck out of the nurse’s hostel for an illicit ice cream. Her youth and strength went into her husband and her three children, the hospital where she worked, and the bank. Now, it goes into getting up in the morning, and sitting in the sun with the trainee caregiver. She complains loudly that it is hard to make people care. Her family often don’t visit, although they could. Her grandson is playing on his phone, and she scolds me for answering a text while we talk. Typical. Have a biscuit. She sounds an awful lot like querulous elderly from the dawn of time: “Why don’t people do it the old way? The old neighbourhood was safe. We knew each other then.” “I don’t understand the buttons on the video player, or why people voted for that young girl with the teeth,” and “What is ‘Net Flicks,’ John, and why is it ‘on the line?’” Edith’s gentle bewilderment reflects the astonishing pace of change over her lifetime—and she is not the only person feeling dizzy, unsafe, and unsure. In an age of instant information, how do we find wisdom? In an age of duelling narratives, and contrasting visions of reality, and internet leaks, and shadowy corporations, in an age ruled by the distrustful, the lonely and the disconnected, how do we decide what is truly human, and who tells us what it means? How can we live with one another in what our anthem trustingly calls “the bonds of love” when we increasingly encounter each other not as human beings, but as caricatures, members of warring tribes, or bare internet avatars? But, the problem is worse than that. How can we love without trust? In an age in which institutions are failing right and left, how can we retain our sense of ownership in them? And in an age of “fake news” and duelling agendas, how can we agree on reality, let alone the common good? That is a question allied to Edith’s weariness, but separate from it: How do we encourage people to care, for each other, for the institutions and standing places which make up our country, and for the future, when we so often feel atomised, alone, and surrounded by a bunch of genuinely puzzling strangers? It is tempting to blame the decay of social bonds on tribalism, and tribalism on “fake news” and demagoguery and the internet. Conservatives blame social decline, socialists blame underfunding, and there is always that Enlightenment sawhorse, “lack of education,” which seems to be trotted out at every social problem from drink driving to sex-ed, and by people constantly surprised at the fact that, without restraint, human beings are capable of evils great and small: from taking that last, irrational piece of chocolate sponge all the way through to wrecking the planet and tribal war. What then restrains us? What makes us, no, encourages us, to love one another? There is, of course, an argument to be made for institutions, for education, and for government action. But part of the reason our politics seems genuinely stale, and genuinely stuck, is that we have forgotten the most important ingredient in social trust: the human face.

Emmanuel Levinas, a postmodern philosopher with whom I otherwise have a love-hate relationship, speaks of “the epiphany of the face” the moment in which another person stops being a faceless “other” and becomes something intelligible, first, a being of moral worth for which we have responsibility, then a being situated in history, with pains and loves and genuine things to give.

Against a background of common things: common place, common neighbourhood, common good, our differences somehow fade into their proper place.

We’re getting worse, not better, at looking into the face of the others in our lives. Too often now it’s impossible—we encounter people as internet avatars on Twitter, internet comments sections, or through disembodied quotes in a news article, selected specifically for their ability to arouse disgust or anger in the reader. In this age of identity it is tempting, and frighteningly possible, to reduce the fullness of a human life down to a single action, opinion, or caricature. We stride confidently through our newsfeeds, determining and dismissing the validity of someone’s perspective based on their affiliations, identity markers, or an ill-judged remark. It is permissible to hate ideas and rage against ideologies—but an abstract hatred all too quickly applies to our neighbour when we reduce them to a comment, a vote, or a stereotyped belief. Dr John Fox | 49

When we are able to humanise the terrifying person in front of us, to speak to a neighbour and not a thing, we take the first step to social trust, and the first step towards a country which has room for us all. As Levinas puts it, “In front of the face, I always demand more of myself; the more I respond to it, the more the demands grow.” To me, Edith was at first an irascible old lady, prone to loud commentary, not always kind, especially on favourite subjects of complaint, knitting busily a ball of dark coloured yarn that never seemed to shrink. Her main subjects of conversation seemed to be cats and how much she didn’t like everything. Some days she was frankly bitter. I wondered out loud sometimes why her life seemed to have gone downhill from about 1956. She returned often to the subject of the Methodist Church Women’s Picnic that year, what she did, and who spoke to her, and the egg sandwiches with cress she ate. Her combatively Socialist politics. Her hard life. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Thus, we encounter people first—in caricature, and in their terrifying strangeness. Age. Generation. Worldview. Skin colour. Culture. Dress. Identity markers. And it is always going to be easier to see these; easier not to look beneath the obvious. To see the things which are common is always harder. If it hadn’t been for her looking tired, I’d have missed them too. I offered her a lift. And over the next years, I got to know my neighbour. Here’s what my initial caricature of Edith missed. 1956 was the year she met her husband. At the picnic. She misses him still. Egg sandwiches make her sad. She liked to sing La Traviata. Her favourite aria was “Dite alla giovine” which she sang at a concert when young. Then, the Mayor said she was “arresting,” although since her voice hadn’t lasted, she’d always add “now it would get me arrest-ED” and laugh her croaky laugh. This joke soon got old, but somehow I didn’t mind any more. The ball of yarn never got smaller because she knitted for the Red Cross on the sly. She was embarrassed if anyone mentioned it. Her cat loved her. She loved it. She loved one particular walk in the park. And one particular bench where there were oak trees and snowdrops, “but not the whole year!” 50 | The Face of My Neighbour

She didn’t like the internet or cable satellite TV she couldn’t work, or women priests, or doctors who were new, or food that was unfamiliar. Or family that went away. We still disagree on politics. She kisses my cheek and calls me a dirty Tory. I call her a socialist old bat. Neither of us mind much, except during elections, where I threaten not to drive her to the polling booth, and she sings “The Red Flag” at me. We all have rough edges, sorrows, and passionate disagreements. But against a background of common things: common place, common neighbourhood, common good, our differences somehow fade into their proper place, an important part of life, but no longer in the way of the life we live together.

In this age of identity it is tempting, and frighteningly possible, to reduce the fullness of a human life down to a single action, opinion, or caricature.

This kind of contextualising is precisely what we seem less able to do now. Postmodern philosophy (such as Foucault and Wittgenstein) begins by saying we are defined by our relationships (true, in large part), and ends by attacking the very idea of human nature as a fixed constant. Instead, it argues that our nature is constructed: by language, by repeated structures and “rituals of power,” by the economy and by our identity group. The rise of identity politics means that we too often lead with, and emphasise, our differences. Speaking as a former academic, much sociologically inflected education collapses into a parade of critique, or transmitting a list of correct opinions opposing things we (often justly) don’t like. Too often we recite in public the political and cultural opinions which are fashionable, with all too little reflection on why we believe these things, let alone respect for people who have come to different conclusions. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Even assuming these critiques are correct (and too often again we simply do assume without drawing rigorous distinctions), a wrecking ball is not a proper foundation for the common good. And even when we are able to articulate an alternative, we have great difficulty loving abstractions like “equality” or “fairness” without translating them into tribal slogans which essentially mean “fairness for my favoured group.” This fact is responsible for the rise of identity politics in the first place, since it is assuredly true that, even when, for instance, “white” was not a legal category as it was in South Africa or the American South, we too often translated allegedly colour blind concepts like the rule of law in a way that delivered advantage to one group over another. Even good things, like religion or patriotism, too often become tribal weapons. What, then, do we have left? The simple recognition of each other’s dignity, the simple gift of the face. It is true that this dignity, the intrinsic worth of the human being is at its core a religious concept, stemming from all major forms of monotheism. But surely the notion that each person is enduringly valuable is one that we don’t need belief in order to acknowledge. Here, religion and simple biology chime together in a witness to the value of ecological institutions: the trust which causes us to live together, the simple solidarity of the common species which restrains us from hurting one another—or ought to, at least. And, mercifully, there are huge parts of life which have yet to be colonised by political partisanship and ideological rancour—and we must protect these standing places of our commonality with everything we’ve got. For the moment, at least, the simple, human unity of neighbourhood and place offers a foundation for us to think

together about the genuine ecology which forms our country. Add to this sports team and service club, local church and gardening league, gym and hiking club, bowls and walking group, chess and gaming, trade union and political party: all of these expressions of belonging begin to be possible when we look (really look) at our neighbours. It requires looking for the things we can love, the affection which comes from genuine vulnerability, genuine trust, and genuine love of neighbour, not simply conflict or critique of what we find “problematic,” legitimate as they may sometimes be. When we associate together for the common good, we do not elide our disagreements, but we may at least remember the humanity of the people who disagree with us, and harmonise these a very little. The simple truth though, is that this will take effort. In our society of internet and social media enabled convenience, it is far easier to allow habits and algorithms to silo ourselves away from our neighbours, to speak only with those who agree with us, to treat our fellow citizens as internet avatars and caricatures, or as representatives of pure evil, or simple idiocy. Even in real life, it is often easier, more convenient, to discount the people who require hard work, extra kindness, or subtitles to translate their hurt. But, in such a small country, in such a genuinely affectionate country, perhaps we have a real chance to look through the caricatures and show what might be done. Minus the political ghettoes of other, larger countries, and with the genuine cohesion we gain from our feted two degrees of separation, perhaps we might manage to remember the decency and the opportunity offered to us by our neighbours—if, that is, we have the courage to look them in the face. •

Dr. John Fox is a former academic, a Trustee of Elevate, the Christian Disability Trust, and an Anglican deacon in the Diocese of Christchurch. When not complaining about the “Things Wrong With the World,” he can sometimes be found trying to fix them.

Dr John Fox |

52 | Story

“The Bible tells us to love our neighbours, and also to love our enemies; probably because generally they are the same people.” – G K CHESTERTON

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