Perhaps it will become a sacred tradition, still practised a century from now, its origins lost in the mists of time. Halfway through each parliamentary term the nation will swap deputy prime ministers. Two senior politicians – one of them clad in pin-striped robes; no one knows why – will solemnly exchange seats in the House, then emerge onto the tiles to ceremoniously squabble with reporters represented by animatronic robots, the last media company having vanished decades earlier. Historians will explain that the ancients performed this ritual because we believed it would guarantee stable coalitions and a bountiful harvest.
The Celestial Rotation of the Deputyship, elevating David Seymour to high office and unshackling Winston Peters – who did not seem especially shackled to begin with – marks the midpoint of the political year and the halfway mark of this government’s first, and potentially only, term in office. The 18 months since the last election have seen an unusual convergence in the polls. The major parties are roughly equal, both treading water in the low-to-mid 30s. For most of the MMP era either Labour or National sat in the 40s, sometimes even the 50s as Helen Clark, John Key and Jacinda Ardern dominated the politics of their day. Today, our major parties are like elderly boxers collapsed against each other, staggering back and forth across the ring amid a mostly empty stadium, a handful of supporters in the cheap seats half-heartedly cheering them on.
Instead of leadership, Hipkins and Luxon represent generic cutouts of National and Labour leaders: the student-politician-turned-parliamentary staffer who likes growing the bureaucracy and taking on debt; the former corporate executive who celebrates tax cuts and growth. Either could plausibly win the next election, and a coup in either party could trigger a brutal, election-losing civil war. Both seem safe for now, although Winston Peters has pointedly promised not to form a government with Hipkins rather than rule out Labour entirely, in an attempt to provoke just such an internal conflict within the Labour caucus.
My enemy’s enemy
One of the most powerful strategies in modern politics is “affective polarisation”. If you can convince a voter to hate your political opponents they’ll naturally transfer their support to you. The minor parties have embraced this approach and they, too, are converging. In the three most recent polls published by Reid, Verian and Curia, the Greens average 10.9%, New Zealand First 8.2%, Act 8% and Te Pāti Māori 4.5%.
Each party features leaders that have big personalities and distinct brands. Peters’ strong performance as foreign minister and quixotic anti-woke campaign has restored his popularity to the levels he enjoyed in the mid-2010s. Chlöe Swarbrick appears to have regained temporary control of the wildly veering Green Party, a political vehicle with no brakes or steering wheel. David Seymour openly relishes his role as the Antichrist of the progressive left.
There is a vigorous misinformation campaign under way about his Regulatory Standards Bill, with a chorus of academics and activists warning that it represents profound constitutional change, binding future governments to Seymour’s malevolent neoliberal agenda. This is nonsense. If his Treaty Principles Bill had been passed into law then won a majority in the subsequent referendum, a future government would be constitutionally compelled to bring it into force. But generally speaking, Parliament cannot bind its successors. The Regulatory Standards Bill is a normal law, like any other: Chris Hipkins has promised to repeal it within the first 100 days of a Labour-led government.
Symbols of protest
Te Pāti Māori has likewise leaned into its role as the embodied nightmare of middle New Zealand. Its co-leader Rawiri Waititi brought a noose to Parliament, gleefully dangling it at government MPs while they passed the motion to censure Waititi, Debbie Ngarewa-Packer and Hana-Rāwhiti Maipi-Clarke for breaching standing orders with their haka. Waititi explained that his noose represented an ancestor wrongfully imprisoned in Mt Eden who died by hanging. Much of Te Pāti Māori’s messaging employs this deliberate ambiguity and double meaning, combining victimhood with the hint of revolutionary violence. This has made them heroes to progressives: many of Wellington’s leafy suburbs are still decorated with Toitū Te Tiriti billboards; the black and red symbol is displayed in most of the capital’s cafes and boutiques. But the rest of the nation is less infatuated. RNZ’s Reid poll found that a 54.2% majority of voters backed the unusually harsh punishment suspending Te Pāti Māori’s MPs from Parliament, or thought it should be stronger. Worryingly for Labour, nearly a third of their own voters backed the suspension.
During the Cold War, both the United States and the Soviet Union seethed at the way their allies became tails that wagged the dog. Tiny revolutionary groups or despotic governments in Africa, South America or Asia could dictate the foreign policies of the superpowers by provoking conflicts that Washington or Moscow felt ideologically compelled to support.
National and Labour find themselves trapped in the same dynamic. Seymour, Peters and Te Pāti Māori are the grinning radicals setting the agenda, deliberately stirring up conflicts that Hipkins and Luxon are repeatedly dragged into against their better instincts. Both of them must dream of that distant future in which deputy prime ministers and other minor party leaders are mere ceremonial figures, seen and not heard – but neither shows any indication they can break the current cycle of polarisation, or land a knock-out blow against the other.
