Why Nothing Changes—and How It Could

New Zealand risks permanent stagnation by clinging to grievance narratives instead of delivering measurable progress for Māori and clarity for all citizens.

The country walks on eggshells. Not because of some catastrophic war, nor because of natural disaster, but because it has become afraid to speak plainly. It is afraid to be honest, lest honesty be mistaken for cruelty. And it is afraid to be analytical, lest analysis be confused with betrayal. Nowhere is this more evident than in our collective response to the Māori grievance industry—an ever-expanding machinery of historical redress, cultural reclamation, and symbolic restitution, which, paradoxically, has left too many Māori no better off than before, and many non-Māori psychologically paralysed, confused, and apologetic for simply existing.

This is not an easy truth to state. It is easier, perhaps, to stay quiet, to play along, to give another name to the next consultation, the next hui, the next advisory group or framework with yet another embedded phraseology of oppression and aspirations to “close the gap.” Yet the gap remains. And, if anything, the most damning indictment of the current approach is precisely that: despite three decades of settlements, targeted funding, cultural elevation, and governmental handwringing, the real distance between many Māori communities and the rest of the country has barely shifted. Where it has, it often owes more to the tenacity of individuals than to any systemic strategy.

Erich Fromm wrote that modern man runs from freedom—not out of cowardice, but because true freedom demands responsibility. That insight, drawn from the psychological wreckage of post-war Europe, applies with alarming clarity to modern New Zealand. We, too, have chosen not to take responsibility for asking the hard questions. We have deferred that burden to bureaucracies, consultants, and the theatre of public reconciliation. But we have not, as a society, stopped to ask: are we helping Māori in ways that actually produce outcomes? Are the endless grievance rituals genuinely transformative, or are they simply the psychological palliative we administer to avoid doing the real work?

Grievance, for many, has become identity. The past, once a place to learn from, has become a prison cell we decorate and inhabit. Māori elites, cloaked in ancestral narratives and armed with law firms and academic scaffolding, have learned to speak the language of permanent entitlement. This is not to deny real historical injustice. Of course there was land theft, dislocation, institutional racism. But the grievance industry has calcified into a structure that rewards perpetual victimhood and punishes any deviation from it. Success stories among Māori—doctors, engineers, entrepreneurs—are not held up as models to follow, but as exceptions to be suspicious of. The dominant narrative is that colonisation broke the Māori soul—and nothing short of national deference, for generations to come, will suffice to heal it.

This is not only a Māori tragedy. It is a national one. Because the mirror held up to Māori is cracked and distorted, the reflection received by non-Māori is equally fractured. Many ordinary New Zealanders—farmers, small business owners, teachers—have long since lost confidence in their right to participate in public discourse. They see that something is not right. They feel the imbalance. But they do not know how to name it, and they are afraid to try. Judith Herman, in her work on trauma, noted that a society unable to listen to its own people will find itself haunted by speechless terror. That is where we are now: terrified, but without a language to express what we know to be true.

Into this void of rational analysis walks confusion. Non-Māori, particularly Pākehā liberals and bureaucrats, have defaulted to symbolism in the absence of substance. They learn a few te reo phrases, attend pōwhiri with lowered eyes, and perform the rituals of cultural contrition. In the name of inclusion, they silence doubt. In the name of respect, they abandon rigour. Edward Said warned us decades ago that guilt, unaccompanied by critical thought, is a colonial reflex masquerading as progress. It does not elevate the oppressed; it merely reanimates the hierarchy under new branding.

James Baldwin wrote that nothing can be changed until it is faced. But New Zealand has become a place where we no longer face things. We perform them. We go through the motions. A new strategy is launched, a new vision is declared, a new target is named—and when the measurable results fail to arrive, we simply redefine success in emotive terms. No other sector of public policy would tolerate such ambiguity. If a hospital fails to reduce mortality, we do not praise its commitment to diversity. If a school fails to lift literacy, we do not say it tried its best. Yet when it comes to Māori development, these are precisely the standards we accept.

And this is where the true cruelty lies—not in the criticism of these systems, but in the refusal to measure them properly. If we truly believed Māori deserved better, we would treat Māori development with the same seriousness we apply to public health or infrastructure. We would insist on KPIs that mean something: income levels, school attendance, tertiary completion, entrepreneurship rates, property ownership. We would publish those numbers without excuse or euphemism. And we would hold accountable those who preside over billions of dollars in funding and governance. Not because Māori are lesser—but because they are equal. Because we do not infantilise those we respect.

Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson taught us about the deep pull of cognitive dissonance. When people have committed to a narrative—especially a morally righteous one—they will twist logic, reinterpret facts, and even deny obvious truths to maintain their self-image. That is what we now see in both camps. Māori leaders committed to a grievance model cannot afford to declare its obsolescence without collapsing their own legitimacy. And non-Māori enablers, having built careers around reconciliation performance, cannot afford to admit that it has largely failed.

There is, however, another group—unheard and unnamed—who sit outside this loop of mutual dependence. These are the ordinary Māori and non-Māori who want things to work. Who are tired of symbolism, who want their kids to succeed, who work hard, keep their heads down, and hope that something—anything—will change. But they are not organised. They have no political vehicle. They are the grassroots of a nation slowly retreating from its own potential.

Miroslav Volf warned that memory must not become a weapon, but a bridge. In New Zealand, memory has become a moat. The grievance industry operates on the principle that the past must be re-experienced, not reconciled. Every year, a new commemoration. A new ceremony. A new monument. These things are not wrong in themselves. But without a corresponding effort to build the future, they become relics of inertia. One cannot walk forward while staring permanently at the rear-view mirror.

What, then, is the path out?

First, we must remember Viktor Frankl’s dictum: suffering must have meaning. The suffering of the past can only be dignified if it leads to flourishing now. That means redirecting our national energy away from cultural theatre and toward measurable outcomes. A Māori child who learns to code or master a trade or build a business honours their ancestors more than a thousand empty acknowledgements. Likewise, a non-Māori who learns to speak honestly, without guilt or malice, honours the democratic principle of shared citizenship.

Second, we must foster a culture of dual accountability. Māori leaders must be accountable not just to tradition, but to outcomes. Non-Māori institutions must be accountable not just to optics, but to impact. And the public must be empowered to demand clarity. No more hiding behind language. No more euphemism. We should know, by this point, where things are working and where they are not.

Third, we must resist the seduction of cynicism. It is tempting, in the face of so much hypocrisy and inertia, to withdraw—to say, “Let them sort it out,” or worse, “Nothing will change.” But that is not the Frommian way. Erich Fromm believed that love—true, adult love—was the only force that could overcome alienation. And love requires courage. It requires telling the truth, risking the discomfort, and staying in the room.

There is still time. New Zealand is not yet lost. The bridges are damaged but not destroyed. The people are frustrated but not beyond hope. But we must change course. We must stop mistaking performance for progress, and emotion for evidence. We must grow up, together.

And practically at the doorstep of the 22nd century, the society must reclaim itself—with reason.