Who remembers the Citizens for Rowling campaign? It was a concerted attempt by the Great and the Good to derail National Party leader Robert Muldoon’s election campaign in 1975.
The campaign’s backers didn’t like Muldoon’s combative, divisive brand of politics and argued that Labour’s gentlemanly Bill Rowling, who had assumed the prime ministership after Norman Kirk’s death in 1974, offered a far more desirable style of leadership.
Citizens for Rowling generated enormous publicity, circulating a nationwide petition and taking out ads in all the major papers, but the campaign was an ignominious failure. National won the election in a landslide, securing 55 seats to Labour’s 32.
For Muldoon, Citizens for Rowling was political gold. It played to his strength as a political counter-puncher and a man of the people, enabling him to portray Rowling’s backers as elitist and condescending.
So who were Citizens for Rowling? The driving force behind the campaign was the Canadian-born former TV current affairs interviewer David Exel, who enlisted the support of a bevy of high-profile names – among them, Everest conqueror Sir Ed Hillary, Anglican bishop Paul Reeves (later to become governor-general under a Labour government), academic and peace campaigner John Hinchcliff, civil libertarian and educationist Walter Scott, lawyer John Jeffries, businessman Sir Jack Harris and future Labour prime minister Geoffrey Palmer.
It’s that last name that particularly resonates 50 years later. Palmer, who was then an idealistic young law professor at Victoria University, is the only survivor of the leading Citizens for Rowling signatories. And sadly, he appears to have learned little or nothing during the intervening decades.
I’m forced to that conclusion because according to the NZ Herald today, Palmer is the leading signatory to an open letter opposing ACT’s Regulatory Standards Bill.
If you closed your eyes and concentrated hard, you shouldn’t have too much trouble guessing the names of at least some of the others. In fact they are almost comically predictable.
There’s Dame Anne Salmond, Professor Emeritus Jane Kelsey, Professor Emeritus Jonathan Boston (they do love their titles in academia), climate change bore Jim Salinger, old-school socialist Geoff Bertram, former CTU economist Bill Rosenberg and geeky law academic and activist Max Harris. The usual suspects, in other words - a select roll-call of the Left-leaning brahmin academic caste.
The parallels with Citizens for Rowling are unmistakable and their efforts are likely to be just as ineffectual, because New Zealand society, for all that it has changed, still has a deep egalitarian streak that is stubbornly resistant to guidance from self-appointed elites.
To put it simply, many New Zealanders resent being told what to think. That was the lesson of 1975 and I don’t think much has changed.
There is more than just a faint whiff of patronising intellectual superiority in the posturing of Palmer and his fellow signatories. In their lofty eyries, they appear to labour under the naïve delusion that their open letter may help turn the tide against David Seymour’s Bill.
I don’t think it will – not because their objections don’t have any substance, necessarily, but because the people most likely to be influenced by the letter are those who belong to that steadily shrinking portion of the population that still habitually reads the Listener and listens to RNZ, both of which can be relied on to reinforce their world view. Such people are programmed to suspect the worst of Seymour anyway and will earnestly nod their heads in agreement with Palmer’s open letter.
Of course the signatories are simply exercising rights available to everyone in a liberal democracy. But they are doing so in the obvious belief that their names, and hence their opinions, carry a lot more weight than those of the average citizen. In other words they are pontificating from a position of entrenched privilege, though I’m sure they don’t see it that way. (It’s worth noting here that this type of elitist posturing invariably emanates from the Left – a curious fact, given that the Left has always presumed to speak for the disadvantaged.)
To return to Citizens for Rowling: I disliked Muldoon intensely, but the campaign against him got my back up nonetheless. Citizens for Rowling gave the clear impression they didn’t trust their fellow New Zealanders to figure things out for themselves; that we needed guidance from mountaineering heroes, lawyers and high-ranking clerics.
I voted for Labour in the subsequent election, but I greatly resented this elite group’s attempt to use their public status to influence the outcome, and the election result suggested that lots of other New Zealanders probably did too. I predict this latest ill-conceived initiative will misfire for much the same reason.
Friday, July 4, 2025
Monday, June 30, 2025
Harlan County USA: still compelling after nearly 50 years
Last night I watched, for the second time, a documentary film called Harlan County USA. Made in 1973-74 but not released until 1976, it deservedly won an Academy Award for best documentary.
Harlan County USA is a cinematic record of the Brookside coal miners’ strike in south-eastern Kentucky, historically one of the most deprived and poverty-stricken corners of America.
The film, which is available on YouTube and runs for 103 minutes, is remarkable for a number of reasons. The first is that it was made by a small independent crew from New York led by producer-director Barbara Kopple. That an absolute outsider – a big-city, university-educated Northerner – was able to win the confidence of the miners in this isolated, insular, oppressed Appalachian community, and be granted access to the intimate detail of their lives, was extraordinary in itself.
More striking still is that the film has no narration, only a few brief excerpts from interviews, and a loose, almost anarchic structure. A couple of explanatory captions at the start lay the groundwork and set you on your way, but after that you’re on your own. Viewers have to construct their own narrative from what they see unfolding on screen and from the dialogue of the participants.
This isn’t always easy, because the southern accents are not easy to understand and people constantly talk across each other, just as in real life. This is classic cinema verite – capturing things as they are, with no filmmaker interference beyond the camera’s presence.
Harlan County USA is a cinematic record of the Brookside coal miners’ strike in south-eastern Kentucky, historically one of the most deprived and poverty-stricken corners of America.
The film, which is available on YouTube and runs for 103 minutes, is remarkable for a number of reasons. The first is that it was made by a small independent crew from New York led by producer-director Barbara Kopple. That an absolute outsider – a big-city, university-educated Northerner – was able to win the confidence of the miners in this isolated, insular, oppressed Appalachian community, and be granted access to the intimate detail of their lives, was extraordinary in itself.
More striking still is that the film has no narration, only a few brief excerpts from interviews, and a loose, almost anarchic structure. A couple of explanatory captions at the start lay the groundwork and set you on your way, but after that you’re on your own. Viewers have to construct their own narrative from what they see unfolding on screen and from the dialogue of the participants.
This isn’t always easy, because the southern accents are not easy to understand and people constantly talk across each other, just as in real life. This is classic cinema verite – capturing things as they are, with no filmmaker interference beyond the camera’s presence.
Having said that, the film maker leaves no doubt as to whose side she’s on. The camera is always on the miners’ side of the picket line, giving a striker’s-eye view of the strike-breakers (gun thugs, the strikers call them) and their uniformed enablers from the police and sheriff’s office.
What gradually emerges is a compelling and sympathetic picture of an impoverished but proud community that refuses to bow down to far more powerful forces.
Harlan County USA reinforces some of the darkest stereotypes about the American South. A brooding air of menace hangs over the thickly wooded valley where the action unfolds. It’s not hard to imagine that a decade earlier, the sinister-looking convoys of pickup trucks and battered Detroit V8 sedans that force their way through the picket lines might have carried Ku Klux Klan vigilantes hunting for civil rights activists. (The participants in the Brookside strike, incidentally, are almost all white.)
This being America, we meet some scarily repugnant figures who could have stepped straight from the pages of a novel. One is the leader of the local strike-breakers, who wears an expression of pure unadulterated hate and fingers a semi-concealed pistol as if nothing would give him greater pleasure than to use it.
Then there’s the almost charismatically grotesque Tony Boyle, president of the United Mine Workers of America. In a sub-plot to the main narrative, Boyle is challenged for his job by a union faction that thinks he’s too friendly with the mine companies. His main rival is subsequently found shot dead in his home, along with his wife and daughter. Boyle is convicted of conspiracy to murder and spends the rest of his life in prison, where he died in 1985. (Kopple originally set out to make a documentary about the attempt to unseat Boyle but got sidetracked when she stumbled across the Brookside strike.)
Some things are implied in the film rather than overt. The director resists any temptation to sensationalise, dramatise or even spell out what’s happening on screen, leaving it to the viewer to figure out what’s going on. And sometimes things occur with such shocking suddenness – as when we learn a young miner has been fatally shot – that you ask yourself: did that really just happen? (The footage of his funeral, where his mother collapses from grief, is a hard watch.)
Two other features of Harlan County USA are worth mentioning. One is the musical soundtrack, which draws heavily on the “high, lonesome” bluegrass sound characteristic of that part of Appalachia. The songs of Hazel Dickens, in particular, grew out of the privations and injustices of life in a company-run mining town. Titles such as Black Lung and Cold Blooded Murder speak for themselves. The union anthem Which Side Are You On? is here too and has particular resonance because it was written during a miners’ strike in Harlan County 40 years earlier.
Even more noteworthy is that some of the most formidable and articulate characters on the miners’ side are their wives. When some of the men show signs of wavering (the strike went on for more than a year), it’s the women who stand firm.
In the end, the violent death of the young miner helps bring the union and the mine owners together. A contract is signed and the men go back to work. But there’s no sense of elation and as the postscript updates run over the closing credits, you’re left wondering how much, if anything, has really changed.
What gradually emerges is a compelling and sympathetic picture of an impoverished but proud community that refuses to bow down to far more powerful forces.
Harlan County USA reinforces some of the darkest stereotypes about the American South. A brooding air of menace hangs over the thickly wooded valley where the action unfolds. It’s not hard to imagine that a decade earlier, the sinister-looking convoys of pickup trucks and battered Detroit V8 sedans that force their way through the picket lines might have carried Ku Klux Klan vigilantes hunting for civil rights activists. (The participants in the Brookside strike, incidentally, are almost all white.)
This being America, we meet some scarily repugnant figures who could have stepped straight from the pages of a novel. One is the leader of the local strike-breakers, who wears an expression of pure unadulterated hate and fingers a semi-concealed pistol as if nothing would give him greater pleasure than to use it.
Then there’s the almost charismatically grotesque Tony Boyle, president of the United Mine Workers of America. In a sub-plot to the main narrative, Boyle is challenged for his job by a union faction that thinks he’s too friendly with the mine companies. His main rival is subsequently found shot dead in his home, along with his wife and daughter. Boyle is convicted of conspiracy to murder and spends the rest of his life in prison, where he died in 1985. (Kopple originally set out to make a documentary about the attempt to unseat Boyle but got sidetracked when she stumbled across the Brookside strike.)
Some things are implied in the film rather than overt. The director resists any temptation to sensationalise, dramatise or even spell out what’s happening on screen, leaving it to the viewer to figure out what’s going on. And sometimes things occur with such shocking suddenness – as when we learn a young miner has been fatally shot – that you ask yourself: did that really just happen? (The footage of his funeral, where his mother collapses from grief, is a hard watch.)
Two other features of Harlan County USA are worth mentioning. One is the musical soundtrack, which draws heavily on the “high, lonesome” bluegrass sound characteristic of that part of Appalachia. The songs of Hazel Dickens, in particular, grew out of the privations and injustices of life in a company-run mining town. Titles such as Black Lung and Cold Blooded Murder speak for themselves. The union anthem Which Side Are You On? is here too and has particular resonance because it was written during a miners’ strike in Harlan County 40 years earlier.
Even more noteworthy is that some of the most formidable and articulate characters on the miners’ side are their wives. When some of the men show signs of wavering (the strike went on for more than a year), it’s the women who stand firm.
In the end, the violent death of the young miner helps bring the union and the mine owners together. A contract is signed and the men go back to work. But there’s no sense of elation and as the postscript updates run over the closing credits, you’re left wondering how much, if anything, has really changed.
Wednesday, May 21, 2025
Bob Jones, Sitiveni Rabuka and me
The Newsroom website this morning has a long, affectionate tribute to Bob Jones, written by Tom Scott. One great character writing about another. It’s very entertaining. How could it not be?
It also served as a reminder of an era when Wellington was a far livelier and more stimulating place than it is now – a city full of rumbustious, larger-than-life individualists who lived life at 100 miles an hour and didn't bother with seat belts, metaphorically speaking.
I can’t claim to have known Jones well, but our orbits overlapped from time to time. I only once went to his big house on the hills overlooking the Hutt Valley, but I drank with him in his office on several occasions and lunched with him a couple of times. All a long time ago, I should add, and always at his invitation.
I also recall quite a few phone conversations. It was always him ringing me, never the other way around, and it was usually at a time when I had more important things to get on with, like getting a paper out. Jones loved to talk.
I remember reading years ago about a court case he was involved in. He was often caught up in litigation of one sort or another and I think this one involved a property purchase that had turned sour in a big way.
At one point Jones was in the witness box being questioned by counsel for the other side. He was challenged for supposedly not knowing about some detail that was in contention and replied to the effect that he was far too busy to be on top of every little thing relating to his property investments.
I remember thinking, “Yeah, right”. During the period under consideration by the court, he was often on the phone to me, at some length and never about anything important. In other words he gave the impression of having plenty of time on his hands. I suspect the truth was that the finicky minutiae of business bored him. Media and political gossip was far more interesting.
Jones had a love-hate relationship with journalists. He was endlessly, acerbically critical of them, but enjoyed their company – or at least those he respected, or saw as being potentially useful to know. I think he phoned them when he was bored or felt like an argument.
“Useful to know” ... I think that was central to Jones’ personality. He liked to cultivate people he perceived as being influential. These included politicians (especially politicians), sporting names, columnists and editors. They appeared to fall in and out of favour at Jones’ whim, and in line with their perceived importance at any given time.
Political compatibility wasn’t a requirement. He was as close to some left-wing politicians as he was to those on the right. He befriended leftie journalists too, such as the Stuff columnist Virginia Fallon, who wrote a generous tribute to him after his death. He would phone her and bait her, she recalled, but she couldn’t help liking him, despite Jones embodying many of the things she raged against.
Jones was also a name-dropper. He liked to remind you of all the important people he was in touch with. I found it odd that someone so famous seemed to find it necessary to do this, but he was not the only prominent person I’ve known with this quirk.
He could sometimes be seriously unpleasant to deal with – a bully, not to put too fine a point on it. Someone close to Jones once explained to me that his famous displays of irascibility were attributable to Addison’s disease, a hormone disorder for which he took medication. His staff recognised the warning signs and would keep their distance when his mood changed.
The flip side was that when he turned on the charm, he was affable, amusing and hard not to like. He was also extremely generous toward worthy causes and not the least bit interested in grandstanding about it or earning public applause.
I saw Jones’ less appealing side when he contributed columns to two papers I was involved with (first the Dominion, later the Evening Post). Jones was a columnist for various papers at different times and it always ended badly. Either Jones would spit the dummy or editors would decide that publishing his column wasn’t worth the hassle of constantly arguing with him.
He regarded his words as sacrosanct; so impeccably crafted that no ignorant and impertinent sub-editor had any right to touch them. Even a minor change to bring his punctuation into line with the paper’s house style – the sort of intervention all other columnists accepted without a murmur – would cause him to erupt with rage.
The truth is, he wasn’t quite the writer he thought he was. At his best he was witty, perceptive, outrageously provocative and totally original in the way he saw things. He was a contrarian through and through, but his syntax – the way he constructed his sentences – was highly idiosyncratic and often clumsily tortuous.
He also bristled at any restraints placed on him for legal reasons. Several times he offered to indemnify the paper against any legal action that might result from his columns. If he was prepared to pick up the costs of court proceedings and pay any resulting damages, he reasoned, what possible problem could there be? He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) see that giving him a free hand would hopelessly compromise the editor’s autonomy and independence.
His offer of indemnity illustrated what I believe was a crucial point about Jones. He could afford to take risks that other people could never contemplate. His wealth made him bullet-proof.
As it happened, he was the cause of the only big defamation case in my journalism career that directly involved me as a named party. In essence it arose from a column Jones wrote for the Dominion claiming that Colonel Sitiveni Rabuka, the leader of the coup that deposed the legitimate Fijian government in 1987, had repeatedly failed his School Certificate examinations while at Wellington College.
It was classic Bob Jones mischief – mischief was one of the defining qualities of his public life – but it obviously stung Rabuka. He sued for defamation (as I recall, the amount claimed was $1 million) and as editor of the Dom at the time, I was named as second respondent.
The proceedings dragged on for years and descended into pure farce. The case turned on whether the Fijian High Court had jurisdiction, which in turn hinged on whether the offending edition of the paper was available in Fiji. When it turned out that the only copy they could find was in the library at the New Zealand High Commission in Suva, Rabuka’s lawyers sent someone to sit in the library all day and see whether anyone looked at it. Four people did – so if Rabuka was defamed at all, it was only to those four visitors to the High Commission library. With its languid tropical setting, it was the stuff of comic novels.
I think the case eventually fizzled out for lack of interest. Certainly no one ever clapped a hand on my shoulder, and Jones' disparaging reference to Rabuka's scholastic record appears to have done no lasting harm. When I last checked, he was Major-General the Honourable Sitiveni Rabuka, CF, OBE, MSD, prime minister of Fiji.
It also served as a reminder of an era when Wellington was a far livelier and more stimulating place than it is now – a city full of rumbustious, larger-than-life individualists who lived life at 100 miles an hour and didn't bother with seat belts, metaphorically speaking.
I can’t claim to have known Jones well, but our orbits overlapped from time to time. I only once went to his big house on the hills overlooking the Hutt Valley, but I drank with him in his office on several occasions and lunched with him a couple of times. All a long time ago, I should add, and always at his invitation.
I also recall quite a few phone conversations. It was always him ringing me, never the other way around, and it was usually at a time when I had more important things to get on with, like getting a paper out. Jones loved to talk.
I remember reading years ago about a court case he was involved in. He was often caught up in litigation of one sort or another and I think this one involved a property purchase that had turned sour in a big way.
At one point Jones was in the witness box being questioned by counsel for the other side. He was challenged for supposedly not knowing about some detail that was in contention and replied to the effect that he was far too busy to be on top of every little thing relating to his property investments.
I remember thinking, “Yeah, right”. During the period under consideration by the court, he was often on the phone to me, at some length and never about anything important. In other words he gave the impression of having plenty of time on his hands. I suspect the truth was that the finicky minutiae of business bored him. Media and political gossip was far more interesting.
Jones had a love-hate relationship with journalists. He was endlessly, acerbically critical of them, but enjoyed their company – or at least those he respected, or saw as being potentially useful to know. I think he phoned them when he was bored or felt like an argument.
“Useful to know” ... I think that was central to Jones’ personality. He liked to cultivate people he perceived as being influential. These included politicians (especially politicians), sporting names, columnists and editors. They appeared to fall in and out of favour at Jones’ whim, and in line with their perceived importance at any given time.
Political compatibility wasn’t a requirement. He was as close to some left-wing politicians as he was to those on the right. He befriended leftie journalists too, such as the Stuff columnist Virginia Fallon, who wrote a generous tribute to him after his death. He would phone her and bait her, she recalled, but she couldn’t help liking him, despite Jones embodying many of the things she raged against.
Jones was also a name-dropper. He liked to remind you of all the important people he was in touch with. I found it odd that someone so famous seemed to find it necessary to do this, but he was not the only prominent person I’ve known with this quirk.
He could sometimes be seriously unpleasant to deal with – a bully, not to put too fine a point on it. Someone close to Jones once explained to me that his famous displays of irascibility were attributable to Addison’s disease, a hormone disorder for which he took medication. His staff recognised the warning signs and would keep their distance when his mood changed.
The flip side was that when he turned on the charm, he was affable, amusing and hard not to like. He was also extremely generous toward worthy causes and not the least bit interested in grandstanding about it or earning public applause.
I saw Jones’ less appealing side when he contributed columns to two papers I was involved with (first the Dominion, later the Evening Post). Jones was a columnist for various papers at different times and it always ended badly. Either Jones would spit the dummy or editors would decide that publishing his column wasn’t worth the hassle of constantly arguing with him.
He regarded his words as sacrosanct; so impeccably crafted that no ignorant and impertinent sub-editor had any right to touch them. Even a minor change to bring his punctuation into line with the paper’s house style – the sort of intervention all other columnists accepted without a murmur – would cause him to erupt with rage.
The truth is, he wasn’t quite the writer he thought he was. At his best he was witty, perceptive, outrageously provocative and totally original in the way he saw things. He was a contrarian through and through, but his syntax – the way he constructed his sentences – was highly idiosyncratic and often clumsily tortuous.
He also bristled at any restraints placed on him for legal reasons. Several times he offered to indemnify the paper against any legal action that might result from his columns. If he was prepared to pick up the costs of court proceedings and pay any resulting damages, he reasoned, what possible problem could there be? He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) see that giving him a free hand would hopelessly compromise the editor’s autonomy and independence.
His offer of indemnity illustrated what I believe was a crucial point about Jones. He could afford to take risks that other people could never contemplate. His wealth made him bullet-proof.
As it happened, he was the cause of the only big defamation case in my journalism career that directly involved me as a named party. In essence it arose from a column Jones wrote for the Dominion claiming that Colonel Sitiveni Rabuka, the leader of the coup that deposed the legitimate Fijian government in 1987, had repeatedly failed his School Certificate examinations while at Wellington College.
It was classic Bob Jones mischief – mischief was one of the defining qualities of his public life – but it obviously stung Rabuka. He sued for defamation (as I recall, the amount claimed was $1 million) and as editor of the Dom at the time, I was named as second respondent.
The proceedings dragged on for years and descended into pure farce. The case turned on whether the Fijian High Court had jurisdiction, which in turn hinged on whether the offending edition of the paper was available in Fiji. When it turned out that the only copy they could find was in the library at the New Zealand High Commission in Suva, Rabuka’s lawyers sent someone to sit in the library all day and see whether anyone looked at it. Four people did – so if Rabuka was defamed at all, it was only to those four visitors to the High Commission library. With its languid tropical setting, it was the stuff of comic novels.
I think the case eventually fizzled out for lack of interest. Certainly no one ever clapped a hand on my shoulder, and Jones' disparaging reference to Rabuka's scholastic record appears to have done no lasting harm. When I last checked, he was Major-General the Honourable Sitiveni Rabuka, CF, OBE, MSD, prime minister of Fiji.
Tuesday, April 29, 2025
Colonisation and the burden of guilt
The book is unusual in other ways too. On one hand it’s the painstakingly researched biography of a brilliant young Catholic priest, a great-uncle of the author, who died tragically young from TB; on the other, it’s a breast-beating mea culpa over the injustices suffered by Taranaki Maori in the 19th century. Unable to make up its mind, it weaves uneasily between the two narratives.
Nonetheless I found The Forgotten Coast interesting because I have a few things in common with the author. Shaw, a professor of politics at Massey University, has deep family roots in Taranaki. His forebears were Irish Catholics and his great grandfather was part of the Armed Constabulary that took part in what is now called the invasion of Parihaka.
Shaw’s family settled on land confiscated from Maori and became prosperous farmers. These things trouble him, and his book involves a lot of anguished self-flagellation. He takes what some Australian scholars would call a “black armband” view of our history, meaning he sees aspects of it as deeply, ineradicably shameful. This obviously weighs on him personally.
Unlike Shaw I’ve never lived in Taranaki, but my maternal family roots are there and I could relate to his family history. My mother’s family were devout Irish Catholics too. Mum grew up in Hawera – my grandfather wrote a history of the town in 1904 – and my family tree on her side is Taranaki to the core. My grandparents and great-grandparents are buried in the Hawera cemetery (and a lovely cemetery it is, to be sure). I visited their graves only a few weeks ago.
I have other points of identification with the author. He recalls that as a pupil at Francis Douglas Memorial College in New Plymouth, he took part in a long-established Catholic secondary schools’ speech and debating contest called the O’Shea Shield. So did I, although a decade earlier, in 1967. (My school, St Patrick’s College, Silverstream, won the shield that year, but no thanks to me. My team lost its debate against an opposition lineup from Sacred Heart Whanganui that included my cousin Damian de Lacy and a confident verbal skirmisher named Ruth Richardson.)
More to the point, however, my great grandfather, like Shaw’s, was part of the colonial forces that he depicts as ruthless enforcers of Maori subjugation. John Flynn, my mother’s grandfather (pictured above in later life), wasn’t at Parihaka, but he was a combatant in the Battle of Te Ngutu o te Manu (the beak of the bird), north of Hawera, in 1868. That was the battle in which the celebrated Prussian adventurer Gustavus Von Tempsky was killed and his men were ignominiously routed by the brilliant guerrilla chief Titokowaru. Twenty soldiers lay dead or dying when the smoke cleared. John Flynn, who served with the Taranaki Rifle Volunteers, was lucky to escape alive; he was shot in the thigh and carried to safety by his comrades during an arduous seven-hour retreat through the dense bush.
My other maternal great-grandfather, Charles Quin, later commanded the Normanby Volunteer Rifles in the small Taranaki town of that name, although hostilities had subsided by then and he never fired a shot other than in target practice. So I’m waist-deep in connections with the colonial oppressors whom Shaw condemns. And it gets worse, because my forebears, again like Shaw’s, took up land made available by the government; land presumably taken from Maori, although I’m not sure whether, in Charles Quin’s case, it was acquired fairly or confiscated. I do know that he ended up with substantial holdings near Normanby and Eltham.
There’s little doubt that a great injustice was done in the way land was taken. As Shaw explains, the law was arranged to facilitate easy acquisition of Maori land by white settlers and to restrict what Maori themselves could do with it. Even worse, Maori were sometimes forced to sell land to repay debts imposed by the Crown.
Deplorable? Certainly, and Shaw doesn’t hold back. His assiduously researched, eloquently crafted and sometimes painfully introspective book generally supports the orthodox left-wing academic line that colonialism was a brutal assertion of white supremacy.
I can sympathise up to a point. Every time I drive anywhere in New Zealand I’m aware that this wondrously rich, beautiful and bountiful country was once all Maori. It’s not hard to understand their resentment that they now control only a small portion of it (albeit a steadily expanding one).
I can also share Shaw’s distaste at the way a colonial template has been super-imposed on our history as if Maori didn’t exist. This is evident in all sorts of small ways. Driving through Patea, for example, I can’t help but notice that all the streets have staunchly English names – Norfolk, Cambridge, Dorset, Victoria, Manchester – despite roughly half the population identifying as Maori.
More problematical, however, is the author’s struggle to come to terms with his family’s role in the colonisation process. He writes at one point that he doesn’t bear personal responsibility for what happened in the past, which is obviously true, yet the entire book is shot through with guilt and shame.
Here he and I, for all that we may have in common (Taranaki, Irish Catholicism, ancestors who took up arms against Maori) part company.
I am neither proud nor ashamed of my forebears in the Taranaki Volunteers and the Normanby Rifles. They acted according to the prevailing attitudes and values of their time. To judge them according to 21st century standards is to engage in what is known as presentism: a tendency to interpret past actions and ideas according to our rather smug feelings of moral superiority. Shaw’s ancestors were creatures of their time, just as he is.
In any case, New Zealand history is complex and highly nuanced. The relationship between Maori and Pakeha was rarely straightforward. This was borne out by a recent Newsroom book review in which the historian Ron Crosby pointed out that more Maori fought on the side of the British Crown than against it – something you won’t read in histories that present the conflict as a straightforward one between Maori and the colonial invader, with no inconvenient caveats. In later life even Titokowaru became an advocate of peace between the races.
My own family history offers evidence of the ambivalence in Maori-Pakeha relations. Although John Flynn fought against Titokowaru’s Hauhau warriors, he spoke te reo and was on friendly terms with most Taranaki Maori – a fact attested to by his ability to travel unaccosted through the bush between New Plymouth and Hawera at a time when most Pakeha hesitated to venture beyond the safety of their towns.
Shaw himself refers to a tension between Pakeha who sincerely wanted to do the right thing by Maori and others (such as Native Affairs Minister John Bryce, who ordered the invasion of Parihaka) who had fewer scruples. He reminds us that New Zealand’s first Chief Justice, Sir William Martin, not only opposed confiscation of Maori land but pointed to Ireland as an example of how a “brooding sense of wrong” could leave a malign, long-lasting legacy. (That so many Irish, themselves victims of oppression and dispossession in their country of origin, should themselves become dispossessors of Maori is an irony not lost on the author.)
There are some things I can agree with Shaw on. One is that we need to know more about the totality of our history, not just the bits that shore up our comforting national mythology. He’s right when he says we pay more attention to Gallipoli and El Alamein than to the battles fought on our own soil.
That’s changing, as books such as the recently published Toitu Te Whenua, Lauren Keenan’s journey through the battlefields of the New Zealand Wars, demonstrate. But it’s a painfully slow process. The British, Americans and Australians celebrate their warts-and-all histories far less timorously than we do. How many people, for example, have spent their lives in Lower Hutt without knowing that eight British soldiers were killed in 1868 in a skirmish at Boulcott’s Farm, now the site of a local golf club?
It follows that we shouldn’t forget the past. We should face it squarely and try to remedy historical injustices wherever practicable (as governments have tried to do over the past several decades). But not forgetting is one thing; bearing a personal burden of guilt seems to me to be quite another.
My other maternal great-grandfather, Charles Quin, later commanded the Normanby Volunteer Rifles in the small Taranaki town of that name, although hostilities had subsided by then and he never fired a shot other than in target practice. So I’m waist-deep in connections with the colonial oppressors whom Shaw condemns. And it gets worse, because my forebears, again like Shaw’s, took up land made available by the government; land presumably taken from Maori, although I’m not sure whether, in Charles Quin’s case, it was acquired fairly or confiscated. I do know that he ended up with substantial holdings near Normanby and Eltham.
There’s little doubt that a great injustice was done in the way land was taken. As Shaw explains, the law was arranged to facilitate easy acquisition of Maori land by white settlers and to restrict what Maori themselves could do with it. Even worse, Maori were sometimes forced to sell land to repay debts imposed by the Crown.
Deplorable? Certainly, and Shaw doesn’t hold back. His assiduously researched, eloquently crafted and sometimes painfully introspective book generally supports the orthodox left-wing academic line that colonialism was a brutal assertion of white supremacy.
I can sympathise up to a point. Every time I drive anywhere in New Zealand I’m aware that this wondrously rich, beautiful and bountiful country was once all Maori. It’s not hard to understand their resentment that they now control only a small portion of it (albeit a steadily expanding one).
I can also share Shaw’s distaste at the way a colonial template has been super-imposed on our history as if Maori didn’t exist. This is evident in all sorts of small ways. Driving through Patea, for example, I can’t help but notice that all the streets have staunchly English names – Norfolk, Cambridge, Dorset, Victoria, Manchester – despite roughly half the population identifying as Maori.
More problematical, however, is the author’s struggle to come to terms with his family’s role in the colonisation process. He writes at one point that he doesn’t bear personal responsibility for what happened in the past, which is obviously true, yet the entire book is shot through with guilt and shame.
Here he and I, for all that we may have in common (Taranaki, Irish Catholicism, ancestors who took up arms against Maori) part company.
I am neither proud nor ashamed of my forebears in the Taranaki Volunteers and the Normanby Rifles. They acted according to the prevailing attitudes and values of their time. To judge them according to 21st century standards is to engage in what is known as presentism: a tendency to interpret past actions and ideas according to our rather smug feelings of moral superiority. Shaw’s ancestors were creatures of their time, just as he is.
In any case, New Zealand history is complex and highly nuanced. The relationship between Maori and Pakeha was rarely straightforward. This was borne out by a recent Newsroom book review in which the historian Ron Crosby pointed out that more Maori fought on the side of the British Crown than against it – something you won’t read in histories that present the conflict as a straightforward one between Maori and the colonial invader, with no inconvenient caveats. In later life even Titokowaru became an advocate of peace between the races.
My own family history offers evidence of the ambivalence in Maori-Pakeha relations. Although John Flynn fought against Titokowaru’s Hauhau warriors, he spoke te reo and was on friendly terms with most Taranaki Maori – a fact attested to by his ability to travel unaccosted through the bush between New Plymouth and Hawera at a time when most Pakeha hesitated to venture beyond the safety of their towns.
Shaw himself refers to a tension between Pakeha who sincerely wanted to do the right thing by Maori and others (such as Native Affairs Minister John Bryce, who ordered the invasion of Parihaka) who had fewer scruples. He reminds us that New Zealand’s first Chief Justice, Sir William Martin, not only opposed confiscation of Maori land but pointed to Ireland as an example of how a “brooding sense of wrong” could leave a malign, long-lasting legacy. (That so many Irish, themselves victims of oppression and dispossession in their country of origin, should themselves become dispossessors of Maori is an irony not lost on the author.)
There are some things I can agree with Shaw on. One is that we need to know more about the totality of our history, not just the bits that shore up our comforting national mythology. He’s right when he says we pay more attention to Gallipoli and El Alamein than to the battles fought on our own soil.
That’s changing, as books such as the recently published Toitu Te Whenua, Lauren Keenan’s journey through the battlefields of the New Zealand Wars, demonstrate. But it’s a painfully slow process. The British, Americans and Australians celebrate their warts-and-all histories far less timorously than we do. How many people, for example, have spent their lives in Lower Hutt without knowing that eight British soldiers were killed in 1868 in a skirmish at Boulcott’s Farm, now the site of a local golf club?
It follows that we shouldn’t forget the past. We should face it squarely and try to remedy historical injustices wherever practicable (as governments have tried to do over the past several decades). But not forgetting is one thing; bearing a personal burden of guilt seems to me to be quite another.
Thursday, April 24, 2025
Featherston Booktown: The book festival where books are optional
My attention was captured yesterday by a Facebook post promoting next month's Featherston Booktown Festival. It advertised a panel discussion entitled “Fixing the Bear Pit: How to Make Parliament a More Humane and Positive Place”.
How this was relevant to a book festival wasn’t clear, especially since the advertised discussion doesn’t appear to be connected with any book. But what particularly struck me was the accompanying photo of brawling parliamentarians (above), which was clearly taken in a foreign country. I guessed somewhere like Serbia, though someone who knows how to trace these things subsequently identified it as being from Ukraine.
Alongside the photo, the description “Bear Pit” seemed apt. The problem with this is that in my lifetime there has never been a scene in the New Zealand parliament that remotely resembles the one depicted. The only punch I can recall being thrown was the one Trevor Mallard aimed at Tau Henare in 2009, and that was outside the debating chamber.
I suppose the use of a picture from an overseas image library misrepresenting an event in Ukraine as having occurred in New Zealand could be passed off, at a stretch, as a legitimate exercise of creative licence (Peter Biggs, the chair of Featherston Booktown, comes from an advertising background, so may well see it that way), or perhaps as a bit of harmless frivolity. But I think it comes perilously close to dishonesty in advertising, because it sets up the false premise that the New Zealand parliament is a place of mayhem when in fact it’s relatively civilised.
Off the top of my head I can think of only three recent instances when parliamentary order was seriously challenged, none of which involved violence. One was the Maori Party MPs’ haka that disrupted proceedings last November and is now the subject of a hearing by the privileges committee. (As an aside, party co-leader Rawiri Waititi contemptuously dismissed parliament’s “silly little privileges committee” and “silly little rules”. But I wonder what his reaction would be if a group of National or ACT MPs wilfully breached protocols on a visit to a marae. I think we know the answer to that question – not that the situation is likely to arise, since Pakeha guests on a marae invariably treat their hosts’ customs and rules with great respect.)
The other examples were Green MP Julie Anne Genter’s in-your-face monstering of National MP Matt Doocey and National MP Tim de Molen’s intimidating behaviour toward Labour’s Shanan Halbert. In both cases the offenders apologised and were censured.
Otherwise parliamentary scraps are merely verbal and generally settled by the errant MP apologising or being temporarily banished from the House. Yet here’s a book festival deceitfully using an image from another country to generate a sense of moral panic over supposed bad behaviour by our elected representatives – and curiously, involving a subject about which there is no book.
Now consider the makeup of the discussion panel. We’re expected to assume that the four participants, all being former MPs, will have a special insight into what goes on in parliament. But two of those former MPs are very former. Rick Barker’s bum hasn’t touched the green leather since 2011 and Marilyn Waring left Parliament in 1984, which makes her positively prehistoric. The other two, Kiri Allan and Ron Mark, have a stronger claim to relevance: Mark was an MP as recently as 2020 and Allan retired from politics in controversial circumstances in 2023.
Of course Waring and Barker are entitled to their opinions on the conduct of parliamentary affairs, but probably no more than the rest of us, given how many years have passed since they sat in the House. Couldn’t Featherston Booktown find anyone with more recent experience of the so-called Bear Pit, if indeed that’s what it is?
We’re also entitled to question whether the panel will present anything approaching an objective view. Allan and Waring both seem to have been wounded by their political careers and left embittered. That may make for (melo)dramatic war stories, but does it make them good judges of what happens in the House? I predict that both women will present themselves as victims.
Then there’s the question of political balance. Two of the four panellists were Labour MPs, and although Waring sat on the National side during her time in parliament (and won deserved admiration for her courageous defiance of her bullying leader, Robert Muldoon), she has since re-positioned herself firmly on the feminist, anti-establishment left.
Mark will try to bring some balance but it’s not hard to foresee which way the discussion will swing. Parliament will be portrayed as a male-dominated club that reinforces the power of the white patriarchy. Don’t expect the antics of Genter (a female bully) or the Maori Party to be mentioned.
I should stress here that I think Parliament is a flawed institution that in many ways invites ridicule for its childish antics and anachronistic rituals. I don’t see how anyone who watches it live on TV, as I sometimes do, could come to any other conclusion. But we’re not likely to have a fair and balanced discussion if it’s skewed by the experiences of people who bear grudges. I wonder, did the organisers approach anyone from National or ACT, or would that have risked steering the debate in an unwanted direction?
The Parliament-as-Bear-Pit event tells us something important about the nature of book festivals generally. They are essentially ideological exercises, intended to reinforce the prejudices of those attending.
Having been to a few such festivals myself, I would suggest the attendees are typically the ageing, genteel, affluent left – the type of people who drive hybrid or electric cars, have their radios permanently tuned to RNZ (to which they listen wholly uncritically), avidly read the Listener, attend film festivals, classical concerts and yoga classes, and vote Labour or Green. They enjoy the trappings of capitalism but fondly think of themselves as socialists. Many of them are prigs, intolerant of dissenting opinions and highly judgmental.
These people wouldn’t thank you for alarming them with ideas or authors they don’t agree with. Book festival organisers know this and programme their events accordingly, which isn’t hard for them because they’re of the same mind. The book world is an ideological monoculture.
The Featherston Booktown programme bears out my theory. Sure, there are non-political sessions. For instance, you can hear the noted axeman John Campbell in conversation with a Norwegian who wrote a book about firewood. It’s hard to see politics intruding there, although you never know with Campbell. There’s also a Q & A with my friend Simon Burt about his acclaimed, politics-free book Route 52: A Big Lump of Country Unknown (a sitter for inclusion in the programme, given that its subject is more or less local).
Nonetheless there's an unmistakeable ideological thread running through the festival, as is often the case. There’s a session on how the justice system can make use of tikanga Maori (again, unrelated to any book), another called The Way of Waiata (ditto) and a discussion entitled Rogernomics: 40 Years On Through the Lens of a Wairarapa Community, in which Marilyn Waring and Rick Barker, neither of whom comes from the aforementioned region, feature again. (No book about that either, which makes you wonder whether the subject was chosen because it’s never a bad time to rake over the coals of Rogernomics yet again for the book festival crowd and declare how wicked it was, book or no book.) There’s also Invasion! The Waikato War, which at least has the merit of a book on the subject (by the leftist historian Vincent O’Malley). Oh, and I almost forgot Colonisation and De-Colonisation: Facing Them Head On (moderated by the multi-talented John Campbell, who can of course be relied on to take a rigorously impartial approach. In this case the flimsy pretext for the panel discussion is a slim book that came out, er, five years ago.)
Not all the sessions will be drearily predictable and a few of the participants have even been intelligently chosen. The adverse effect of Rogernomics on the Wairarapa is something one of the panellists, former long-serving Masterton mayor Bob Francis, knows plenty about, and at least the organisers in this instance roped in former Labour cabinet minister and key Rogernomics proponent Richard Prebble. So there will be some informed, first-hand input rather than just the usual anguished breast-beating about how heartless and immoral the 1980s economic reforms were, conveniently ignoring that the country was teetering on the brink of financial collapse when the Lange government came to power. I predict Prebble will enjoy himself immensely – in fact, will be greatly energised by the sight of all those pursed lips and disapproving faces in the audience.
(As an aside, I smiled when I saw that the Rogernomics session is sponsored by Murray Cole, owner of the Martinborough Hotel. As one of the entrepreneurs who did extremely well out of economic deregulation in the 1980s and the breaking up of state monopolies, Cole should have been shoulder-tapped for the panel. That would bring a different perspective to bear.)
Overall, the Featherston Booktown programme gives the impression of having been carefully curated to avoid offending the sensibilities of the attendees or challenging sacred leftist shibboleths. A friend of mine, a genuine lover of books, accurately calls it a wokefest. None of this should come as any surprise, given that this same festival cravenly cancelled what was intended to be a light-hearted Harry Potter quiz in 2019 because a handful of trans activists insisted on banning anything to do with J K Rowling. (So much for free speech.)
I’m reminded of an annual Sydney event pompously called the Festival of Dangerous Ideas, which has deservedly been mocked because the supposedly risky ideas promulgated never threaten the cosy leftist consensus. Australia’s intellectual left, like our own, still labours under the fanciful delusion that its ideas are subversive, ignoring the fact that since the 1970s the real radical thinkers – the outsiders who challenged orthodoxy and whom the literary establishment wanted to shut down – have tended to be on the political right. Literary events such as Featherston Booktown serve much the same purpose as the Sydney gabfest and could fairly be called festivals of safe ideas.
Should it bother us that a book festival includes several sessions that appear to have nothing to do with books but rather provide a convenient platform for a roster of perennially disaffected activists? After all, if that’s how festival patrons want to spend a weekend, it’s surely their business.
Problem is, it’s not just their money that pays for it. It’s ours too, because Featherston Booktown is subsidised (heavily, I suspect) by the Ministry for Culture and Heritage and Creative NZ. We may have a nominally centre-right government, but the steady flow of public funds to the entitled leftist literary and arts mafia continues unabated. Some things never change.
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
Little stands to capture the 'Anyone but Whanau' vote
The least surprising news of the day is that Andrew Little has confirmed he will run for the Wellington mayoralty. I imagine the announcement will come as relief even to people not normally disposed to look favourably at a Labour Party stalwart. “Anyone but Whanau” is likely to be the catchcry, and I’m sure Nick Mills was right when he said on his NewstalkZB talkback show this morning that Little has to be the hot favourite – though there’s still a gap in the field for a late contender who combines political nous with the charisma that Little lacks.
The former Labour leader doesn’t strike me as a visionary, and nothing he said in an interview with Andrea Vance in The Post today has changed that view. No one should expect him to magically recapture the vibe that made Wellington New Zealand’s most exciting city in the 1990s and early 2000s.
Footnote: I haven't lived in Wellington for more than 20 years, so have no skin in this game. But I'm still a frequent visitor and grieve for the city that used to be.
The former Labour leader doesn’t strike me as a visionary, and nothing he said in an interview with Andrea Vance in The Post today has changed that view. No one should expect him to magically recapture the vibe that made Wellington New Zealand’s most exciting city in the 1990s and early 2000s.
Perhaps the best Wellington could hope for under a Little mayoralty is that he would be a far more competent and grounded manager than the incumbent. That wouldn’t be hard, I hear the cynics chorus; but it might be a modest first step on the city’s road to recovery.
Footnote: I haven't lived in Wellington for more than 20 years, so have no skin in this game. But I'm still a frequent visitor and grieve for the city that used to be.
Wednesday, April 9, 2025
Andrew Little signals a tilt at the Wellington mayoralty
So former Labour leader Andrew Little is considering a crack at the Wellington mayoralty. He gives the impression he hasn’t yet made up his mind but my guess is that he deliberately put the word out that he’s a potential candidate just to gauge the public reaction – and my guess, again, is that the feedback will be overwhelmingly positive, because Little would stand out in an uninspiring field and certainly presents a very plausible alternative to the incumbent disaster, Tory Whanau.
I note that Wellington NewstalkZB host Nick Mills, who has himself declared an interest in running, gave Little a glowing endorsement on his talkback show this morning. Mills has a big audience and Little will doubtless be encouraged by his approval.
If Little goes ahead, and if he wins, he will join a long and growing list of former central government heavyweights who have made the transition to local politics. Auckland’s former mayors include ex-ministers Christine Fletcher (not a heavyweight, exactly, but she did hold ministerial portfolios), John Banks and Phil Goff. Former minister Fran Wilde served one term as Wellington mayor, later became chair of Greater Wellington Regional Council, and this year will contest the mayoralty of South Wairarapa, where she now lives. In Christchurch, Lianne Dalziel won the mayoralty after stepping down as a minister in 2004 and served three terms in the top job.
I note that Wellington NewstalkZB host Nick Mills, who has himself declared an interest in running, gave Little a glowing endorsement on his talkback show this morning. Mills has a big audience and Little will doubtless be encouraged by his approval.
If Little goes ahead, and if he wins, he will join a long and growing list of former central government heavyweights who have made the transition to local politics. Auckland’s former mayors include ex-ministers Christine Fletcher (not a heavyweight, exactly, but she did hold ministerial portfolios), John Banks and Phil Goff. Former minister Fran Wilde served one term as Wellington mayor, later became chair of Greater Wellington Regional Council, and this year will contest the mayoralty of South Wairarapa, where she now lives. In Christchurch, Lianne Dalziel won the mayoralty after stepping down as a minister in 2004 and served three terms in the top job.
Nelson has had two mayors who were formerly MPs: Philip Woollaston and the incumbent, former National cabinet minister Nick Smith. Other former MPs turned mayors included John Carter (Far North), Harry Duynhoven (New Plymouth), Jill White (Palmerston North), Sandra Goudie (Thames-Coromandel) and more recently Ron Mark (Carterton). There may be others I’ve missed; this doesn’t pretend to be an exhaustive list.
There was occasional traffic in the other direction too. Hamilton mayor Mike Minogue became a National MP (and a constant irritant to party leader Robert Muldoon), as did Mark Blumsky in Wellington. Another former Hamilton mayor, Bruce Beetham, served for six years as the Social Credit MP for Rangitikei, while Georgina Beyer jumped from the mayoralty of Carterton to a seat in Parliament as the MP for Wairarapa. Later came Jono Naylor, ex-mayor of Palmerston North, and Lawrence Yule from Hastings, both of whom served one term as National MPs. Green MP Celia Wade-Brown is another who rode into the House of Representatives on the back of a mayoralty, albeit a wholly undistinguished one.
Cynics hearing the news about Little are likely to nod their heads knowingly and mutter about politicians being addicted to the dopamine hit of politics and being unable to stay away. A mayoralty might have special appeal for such people because it’s seen as conferring individual power and control in a way that a cabinet seat might not. But there’s something to be said for seasoned politicians turning their skills and savvy to local government, especially when a city is in such a stricken plight as Wellington.
There was occasional traffic in the other direction too. Hamilton mayor Mike Minogue became a National MP (and a constant irritant to party leader Robert Muldoon), as did Mark Blumsky in Wellington. Another former Hamilton mayor, Bruce Beetham, served for six years as the Social Credit MP for Rangitikei, while Georgina Beyer jumped from the mayoralty of Carterton to a seat in Parliament as the MP for Wairarapa. Later came Jono Naylor, ex-mayor of Palmerston North, and Lawrence Yule from Hastings, both of whom served one term as National MPs. Green MP Celia Wade-Brown is another who rode into the House of Representatives on the back of a mayoralty, albeit a wholly undistinguished one.
Cynics hearing the news about Little are likely to nod their heads knowingly and mutter about politicians being addicted to the dopamine hit of politics and being unable to stay away. A mayoralty might have special appeal for such people because it’s seen as conferring individual power and control in a way that a cabinet seat might not. But there’s something to be said for seasoned politicians turning their skills and savvy to local government, especially when a city is in such a stricken plight as Wellington.
This post has been amended with additional information since it was first published. Thanks to my research assistant Mark Unsworth.
Correction: Eamon Sloan, a regular follower of this blog, tells me the Andrew Little story was on the Post's front page. The statement in my original post that the Herald broke the news therefore appears to have been wrong. I apologise for the error and have deleted the reference. I partially absolve myself because I could find no mention of the story on the Post's website.
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