When Act entered Government they made the Treaty Principles Bill a bottom line.
Some thought it was about clarity. Others saw it for what it felt like – an attack on Māori. Even New Zealanders who didn’t necessarily disagree with parts of it knew deep down it was a distraction from the real work: fixing an economy that’s leaving too many behind.
Christopher Luxon and Winston Peters both read the room.
They understood the depth of feeling across Aotearoa. Together, they made it clear: the Treaty Principles Bill would not pass its first reading.
They made it public. It should have been enough to calm the waters.
But it wasn’t. Because the problem was never just about the bill. It was about us – and about how far we’ve drifted from each other.
These days, it’s not just that we belong to different groups – it’s that we’ve stopped listening to anyone outside our own tribe.
And make no mistake, we are all part of tribes. You might call your tribe Labour, National, Act, the Greens. Maybe it’s Māori, Pākehā, Chinese, Indian, Pacific Islander, Muslim, Christian, rural, urban. Maybe it’s something smaller.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that we’ve forgotten how to meet as humans first.
We don’t seem to know how to disagree without thinking the worst of each other. If I share a different view, you hear it as an attack on your character. And so we stop talking honestly. We stay in our corners, surrounded by people who agree with us, becoming more suspicious of those who don’t.
This breakdown is often reinforced by how stories are framed in traditional media, one strong or provocative opinion presented alongside an equally strong reaction from the other side.
While it’s usually done to show both perspectives, it can end up feeling like we’re being set up to pick sides, rather than encouraged to understand one another.
Social media then takes that even further, rewarding outrage, amplifying division, and drowning out the quieter voices calling for connection. And while all that noise rages on, the real work, the work of healing, building and understanding, gets forgotten.
New Zealand has never been so divided.
But the most dangerous thing about this division is that it’s silent.
Most people don’t argue – they just stop talking. They’re too scared. Scared of being called racist, sexist, weak, out-of-touch, privileged.
So the walls between us get higher, and thicker, and colder.
And what’s the cost?
Our children.
No child is born thinking someone is better or worse because of the colour of their skin.
Racism isn’t something they invent; it’s something we hand down. You only have to walk into a preschool and watch how kids play – free, curious, kind – to remember what we’ve forgotten.
I saw it for myself last year when I visited a primary school in West Auckland.
After my talk, I asked: “If you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?”
A little boy put up his hand and said: “Racism.”
I asked him what he meant.
And he said something that broke my heart: “When old people like you talk, you always mention race. Pākehā, Māori, Chinese. But to me,” he said, pointing at his friends, “he’s not Indian. He’s not Chinese. They’re just my friends.”
It’s that simple.
We are the ones complicating it.
We are the ones teaching the next generation to see uniforms instead of human beings.
And the saddest part? It often takes a tragedy for us to remember what really matters.
When your child is in a hospital bed fighting for their life, and my child is in the bed beside them, there are no tribes. No race. No politics. No “them” and “us”.
There’s just two parents holding on to hope.
Two human beings praying for the same thing: that their child will live.
We don’t need to wait for tragedy to open our hearts.
We can do it now.
We can start seeing each other as people first.
We can choose hope over hate. Curiosity over fear. Kindness over tribal loyalty.
United we stand. Divided we fall.
It’s not a slogan. It’s a choice.
One that we need to make now, before we forget how.
