Taylor to Ardern: Not the first letter, by far the most difficult
Dear Jacinda,
This is not the first open letter I have written to you. You may recall there were many during the covid pandemic. This, however, is by far the most difficult.
I recently appeared before the Royal Commission charged with looking into the handling of the covid pandemic in 2021-22. It was an opportunity to revisit all the correspondence I shared with you, and government ministers, at the time. I also re-read the many emails and letters I had received from people who found themselves locked on the wrong side of 'Be Kind', cast adrift from the 'Waka' we were all meant to be on board.
The Commission will deliver its report, undoubtedly with the benefit of a lot more evidence than I shared, and that's as it should be.
But, as I passed through Auckland airport this week on my way to Europe, your memoir A Different Kind of Power was front and centre.
The twenty-two-hour flight seemed the perfect time to address the personal dilemma I am faced with, every time I see the cover of that memoir.
In March 2019, when you stood before the world following the Christchurch Mosque attacks, wearing a headscarf and offering the words "They are us," I believed I was witnessing something extraordinary. A leader who not only spoke with compassion, but who seemed to embody it. The world noticed too.
In Dubai, your image, projected onto the world's tallest building, went viral. It sent a remarkable message to the world. Here was a woman, a working mum, a world leader, our Prime Minister, being honoured in a way few other world leaders had ever been. It was here that the 'Jacinda' brand was born. 'They are us.'
Just three words, but the world took note.
I was travelling a lot at the time, covid still lay in wait in a place called Wuhan. I had never been prouder to claim I was a kiwi. Where once the questions were about the All Blacks, Lord of the Rings, or how many sheep we had, now all anyone wanted to know about was our Jacinda. You had become a symbol of enlightened leadership and, I confess, I basked unashamedly in the glow of that recognition.
You were us.
My belief, my pride, held strong through the early months of the covid pandemic. Your calm demeanour, the repeated calls to "Be Kind" reassured a nation facing the unknown. When you told us we were "a team of five million," and that 'He Waka Eke Noa', we were all in this together, I trusted you. I believed you.
And that's how we went into our first lockdown, one of the strictest in the world and, at the time, arguably one of the most effective. For a short period of time we reconnected, not just with each other but with the world around us. The sound of early morning traffic replaced by the sound of tui and bell birds. Strolling down streets, greeting neighbours, a simple act we had forgotten how to do. Now we took the time to notice each other, respectfully distanced of course.
We came out of that first lockdown the envy of the world. As pictures of the America's Cup in Auckland were beamed to almost a billion people globally, I was inundated with messages from international colleagues asking if they could have 'Jacinda' come take care of them.
My response was always one of pride. 'Nah mate – she's ours.!'
But as time passed, the reality began to fray around the edges. The PR slogans 'be kind' and 'we're all in this together', felt increasingly hollow as divisions deepened and the promises faded into spin.
My first open letter to you was an urgent plea. We had done incredibly well, but now was the time to move the focus from saving lives to saving lives and livelihoods. It was not a matter of if, but when, the coronavirus would break through our seriously flawed MIQ blockade. We had the skills, we had the knowledge, we had the opportunity to really lead the world when that happened.
People put politics aside and tried to help. Offering real solutions, safe, proven ways to save both lives and livelihoods. Business-led initiatives, technology-enabled tracking, controlled pilot programs. These were not abstract ideas. They were tested, they were ready, and they were offered in good faith. But they were dismissed. Not because they didn't work, but because they didn't fit the narrative.
That was the moment I realised, this wasn't leadership anymore. It was brand management.
The turning point came for me on the day you featured on the cover of the New Zealand Woman's Weekly, in designer clothes, smiling, styled, and celebrated. On that same day I received a heart-wrenching email from a father who had yet to meet his 7-month-old son. He had been brought to New Zealand to contribute his much-needed technical expertise in challenging times for Aotearoa, but the border closed behind him, stranding his pregnant wife overseas. In the same week I had another message from a son trying to leave MIQ to be with his dying father. He had tested clear three times. The system still said no.
And these weren't isolated stories. They were everywhere, if you took the time to listen. People reaching out for someone, anyone, to hear their call. Someone to be kind. These were New Zealanders, or people who had made this country their home, asking only for the chance to be with their families. To do what any of us would hope to do in a time of crisis. Their pain was real, and avoidable.
But we were no longer all in the waka together. Thousands had been cast adrift. Fathers kept from the birth of their children. Dying loved ones left without final goodbyes. Families cruelly separated by a system that, even when shown better ways to operate, refused to budge.
The brand that was so carefully nurtured at those 1pm 'single source of truth' press conferences, reinforced internationally by features like your Vogue cover story, had matured into a global product, ready for sale.
Reports say you received over a million dollars in advance for your memoir, A Different Kind of Power . It's a striking figure, especially for someone who once made child poverty her personal mission. You didn't just speak about it, you took on the portfolio yourself, armed with the unprecedented power of a parliamentary majority and the goodwill of a nation ready for change. You had the platform. You had the mandate. And yet today, child poverty remains largely unchanged. The Capital Gains Tax was another moment you could have seized with that majority. But the brand shifted and, somewhere along the way, so too had the ideals that once gave me hope.
Children are still suffering from poverty, guns remain in the hands of those who used them to cause the most harm. The Christchurch Call has failed to limit on-line violence and hate, and Brian Tamaki and his Destiny Church still feel free to march in Aotearoa spewing their anti-immigrant vitriol.
'They are us' has disappeared down the same dark hole as 'be kind', 'the team of 5 million' and 'he wake eke noa – we are all in the waka together.'
Now only brand Jacinda remains, and you are back on the cover of those lifestyle magazines, interviews on radio and tv, and there - that image that has weighed on me over the past few weeks. The cover of A Different Kind of Power .
'He waka mō Ko tahi'. The journey is complete. The waka is now the waka for one.
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Otago Daily Times
8 hours ago
- Otago Daily Times
No longer a waka for everyone
Former prime minister Dame Jacinda Ardern was once celebrated around the world, but now only brand Jacinda remains, writes Sir Ian Taylor. Dear Jacinda, This is not the first open letter I have written to you. You may recall there were many during the Covid pandemic. This, however, is by far the most difficult. I recently appeared before the royal commission charged with looking into the handling of the Covid pandemic in 2021-22. It was an opportunity to revisit all the correspondence I shared with you, and government ministers, at the time. I also re-read the many emails and letters I had received from people who found themselves locked on the wrong side of "be kind", cast adrift from the "waka" we were all meant to be on board. The commission will deliver its report, undoubtedly with the benefit of a lot more evidence than I shared, and that's as it should be. But, as I passed through Auckland Airport this week on my way to Europe, your memoir A Different Kind of Power was front and centre. The 22-hour flight seemed the perfect time to address the personal dilemma I am faced with, every time I see the cover of that memoir. In March 2019, when you stood before the world following the Christchurch mosque attacks, wearing a headscarf and offering the words "They are us", I believed I was witnessing something extraordinary. A leader who not only spoke with compassion, but who seemed to embody it. The world noticed, too. In Dubai, your image, projected on to the world's tallest building, went viral. It sent a remarkable message to the world. Here was a woman, a working mum, a world leader, our prime minister, being honoured in a way few other world leaders had ever been. It was here that the "Jacinda" brand was born. "They are us." Just three words, but the world took note. I was travelling a lot at the time. Covid still lay in wait in a place called Wuhan. I had never been prouder to claim I was a Kiwi. Where once the questions were about the All Blacks, The Lord of the Rings or how many sheep we had, now all anyone wanted to know about was our Jacinda. You had become a symbol of enlightened leadership and, I confess, I basked unashamedly in the glow of that recognition. You were us. My belief, my pride, held strong through the early months of the Covid pandemic. Your calm demeanour, the repeated calls to "be kind" reassured a nation facing the unknown. When you told us we were "a team of five million", and that "he waka eke noa — we are all in the waka together", I trusted you. I believed you. And that's how we went into our first lockdown, one of the strictest in the world and, at the time, arguably one of the most effective. For a short period of time we reconnected, not just with each other but with the world around us. The sound of early morning traffic replaced by the sound of tui and bellbirds. Strolling down streets, greeting neighbours, a simple act we had forgotten how to do. Now we took the time to notice each other, respectfully distanced, of course. We came out of that first lockdown the envy of the world. As pictures of the America's Cup in Auckland were beamed to almost a billion people globally, I was inundated with messages from international colleagues asking if they could have Jacinda come take care of them. My response was always one of pride: "Nah mate — she's ours!" But as time passed, the reality began to fray around the edges. The PR slogans "be kind" and "we're all in this together", felt increasingly hollow as divisions deepened and the promises faded into spin. My first open letter to you was an urgent plea. We had done incredibly well, but now was the time to move the focus from saving lives to saving lives and livelihoods. It was not a matter of if, but when, coronavirus would break through our seriously flawed MIQ blockade. We had the skills, we had the knowledge, we had the opportunity to really lead the world when that happened. People put politics aside and tried to help. Offering real solutions, safe, proven ways to save both lives and livelihoods. Business-led initiatives, technology-enabled tracking, controlled pilot programmes. These were not abstract ideas. They were tested, they were ready, and they were offered in good faith. But they were dismissed. Not because they didn't work, but because they didn't fit the narrative. That was the moment I realised, this wasn't leadership any more. It was brand management. The turning point came for me on the day you featured on the cover of the New Zealand Woman's Weekly, in designer clothes, smiling, styled and celebrated. On that same day, I received a heart-wrenching email from a father who had yet to meet his 7-month-old son. He had been brought to New Zealand to contribute his much-needed technical expertise in challenging times for Aotearoa, but the border closed behind him, stranding his pregnant wife overseas. In the same week, I had another message from a son trying to leave MIQ to be with his dying father. He had tested clear three times. The system still said no. And these weren't isolated stories. They were everywhere, if you took the time to listen. People reaching out for someone, anyone, to hear their call. Someone to be kind. These were New Zealanders, or people who had made this country their home, asking only for the chance to be with their families. To do what any of us would hope to do in a time of crisis. Their pain was real, and avoidable. But we were no longer all in the waka together. Thousands had been cast adrift. Fathers kept from the birth of their children. Dying loved ones left without final goodbyes. Families cruelly separated by a system that, even when shown better ways to operate, refused to budge. The brand that was so carefully nurtured at those 1pm "single source of truth" press conferences, reinforced internationally by features like your Vogue cover story, had matured into a global product, ready for sale. Reports say you received over a million dollars in advance for your memoir, A Different Kind of Power . It's a striking figure, especially for someone who once made child poverty her personal mission. You didn't just speak about it, you took on the portfolio yourself, armed with the unprecedented power of a parliamentary majority and the goodwill of a nation ready for change. You had the platform. You had the mandate. And yet today, child poverty remains largely unchanged. The capital gains tax was another moment you could have seized with that majority. But the brand shifted and, somewhere along the way, so too had the ideals that once gave me hope. Children are still suffering from poverty; guns remain in the hands of those who used them to cause the most harm. The Christchurch Call has failed to limit online violence and hate, and Brian Tamaki and his Destiny Church still feel free to march in Aotearoa spewing their anti-immigrant vitriol. "They are us" has disappeared down the same dark hole as "be kind", "the team of five million" and "he waka eke noa — we are all in the waka together". Now, only brand Jacinda remains, and you are back on the cover of those lifestyle magazines, interviews on radio and TV, and there — that image that has weighed on me over the past few weeks. The cover of A Different Kind of Power . "He waka mō ko tahi". The journey is complete. The waka is now the waka for one. ■Dunedin businessman Sir Ian Taylor is the founder and managing director of Animation Research. He was named the 2019 New Zealand Innovator of the Year and in 2020 was named the Deloitte Top 200 Visionary Leader. He was knighted in 2021.
Otago Daily Times
a day ago
- Otago Daily Times
Taylor to Ardern: Not the first letter, by far the most difficult
OPINION: Sir Ian Taylor has penned a letter to Jacinda Ardern. Dear Jacinda, This is not the first open letter I have written to you. You may recall there were many during the covid pandemic. This, however, is by far the most difficult. I recently appeared before the Royal Commission charged with looking into the handling of the covid pandemic in 2021-22. It was an opportunity to revisit all the correspondence I shared with you, and government ministers, at the time. I also re-read the many emails and letters I had received from people who found themselves locked on the wrong side of 'Be Kind', cast adrift from the 'Waka' we were all meant to be on board. The Commission will deliver its report, undoubtedly with the benefit of a lot more evidence than I shared, and that's as it should be. But, as I passed through Auckland airport this week on my way to Europe, your memoir A Different Kind of Power was front and centre. The twenty-two-hour flight seemed the perfect time to address the personal dilemma I am faced with, every time I see the cover of that memoir. In March 2019, when you stood before the world following the Christchurch Mosque attacks, wearing a headscarf and offering the words "They are us," I believed I was witnessing something extraordinary. A leader who not only spoke with compassion, but who seemed to embody it. The world noticed too. In Dubai, your image, projected onto the world's tallest building, went viral. It sent a remarkable message to the world. Here was a woman, a working mum, a world leader, our Prime Minister, being honoured in a way few other world leaders had ever been. It was here that the 'Jacinda' brand was born. 'They are us.' Just three words, but the world took note. I was travelling a lot at the time, covid still lay in wait in a place called Wuhan. I had never been prouder to claim I was a kiwi. Where once the questions were about the All Blacks, Lord of the Rings, or how many sheep we had, now all anyone wanted to know about was our Jacinda. You had become a symbol of enlightened leadership and, I confess, I basked unashamedly in the glow of that recognition. You were us. My belief, my pride, held strong through the early months of the covid pandemic. Your calm demeanour, the repeated calls to "Be Kind" reassured a nation facing the unknown. When you told us we were "a team of five million," and that 'He Waka Eke Noa', we were all in this together, I trusted you. I believed you. And that's how we went into our first lockdown, one of the strictest in the world and, at the time, arguably one of the most effective. For a short period of time we reconnected, not just with each other but with the world around us. The sound of early morning traffic replaced by the sound of tui and bell birds. Strolling down streets, greeting neighbours, a simple act we had forgotten how to do. Now we took the time to notice each other, respectfully distanced of course. We came out of that first lockdown the envy of the world. As pictures of the America's Cup in Auckland were beamed to almost a billion people globally, I was inundated with messages from international colleagues asking if they could have 'Jacinda' come take care of them. My response was always one of pride. 'Nah mate – she's ours.!' But as time passed, the reality began to fray around the edges. The PR slogans 'be kind' and 'we're all in this together', felt increasingly hollow as divisions deepened and the promises faded into spin. My first open letter to you was an urgent plea. We had done incredibly well, but now was the time to move the focus from saving lives to saving lives and livelihoods. It was not a matter of if, but when, the coronavirus would break through our seriously flawed MIQ blockade. We had the skills, we had the knowledge, we had the opportunity to really lead the world when that happened. People put politics aside and tried to help. Offering real solutions, safe, proven ways to save both lives and livelihoods. Business-led initiatives, technology-enabled tracking, controlled pilot programs. These were not abstract ideas. They were tested, they were ready, and they were offered in good faith. But they were dismissed. Not because they didn't work, but because they didn't fit the narrative. That was the moment I realised, this wasn't leadership anymore. It was brand management. The turning point came for me on the day you featured on the cover of the New Zealand Woman's Weekly, in designer clothes, smiling, styled, and celebrated. On that same day I received a heart-wrenching email from a father who had yet to meet his 7-month-old son. He had been brought to New Zealand to contribute his much-needed technical expertise in challenging times for Aotearoa, but the border closed behind him, stranding his pregnant wife overseas. In the same week I had another message from a son trying to leave MIQ to be with his dying father. He had tested clear three times. The system still said no. And these weren't isolated stories. They were everywhere, if you took the time to listen. People reaching out for someone, anyone, to hear their call. Someone to be kind. These were New Zealanders, or people who had made this country their home, asking only for the chance to be with their families. To do what any of us would hope to do in a time of crisis. Their pain was real, and avoidable. But we were no longer all in the waka together. Thousands had been cast adrift. Fathers kept from the birth of their children. Dying loved ones left without final goodbyes. Families cruelly separated by a system that, even when shown better ways to operate, refused to budge. The brand that was so carefully nurtured at those 1pm 'single source of truth' press conferences, reinforced internationally by features like your Vogue cover story, had matured into a global product, ready for sale. Reports say you received over a million dollars in advance for your memoir, A Different Kind of Power . It's a striking figure, especially for someone who once made child poverty her personal mission. You didn't just speak about it, you took on the portfolio yourself, armed with the unprecedented power of a parliamentary majority and the goodwill of a nation ready for change. You had the platform. You had the mandate. And yet today, child poverty remains largely unchanged. The Capital Gains Tax was another moment you could have seized with that majority. But the brand shifted and, somewhere along the way, so too had the ideals that once gave me hope. Children are still suffering from poverty, guns remain in the hands of those who used them to cause the most harm. The Christchurch Call has failed to limit on-line violence and hate, and Brian Tamaki and his Destiny Church still feel free to march in Aotearoa spewing their anti-immigrant vitriol. 'They are us' has disappeared down the same dark hole as 'be kind', 'the team of 5 million' and 'he wake eke noa – we are all in the waka together.' Now only brand Jacinda remains, and you are back on the cover of those lifestyle magazines, interviews on radio and tv, and there - that image that has weighed on me over the past few weeks. The cover of A Different Kind of Power . 'He waka mō Ko tahi'. The journey is complete. The waka is now the waka for one.
Scoop
a day ago
- Scoop
Counterterrorism Watchdog Needed
Press Release – University of Auckland An independent watchdog would shine a light into the shadowy world of security and counterterrorism, says Associate Professor John Ip in a research paper. Since the 2019 Christchurch mosque attacks, New Zealand has introduced several counterterrorism laws, significantly expanding state power. Now, a legal expert says it's time to follow the UK, Australia and Ireland in appointing an independent watchdog to keep that power in check. In his paper, 'The case for an independent reviewer of counterterrorism legislation in New Zealand,' University of Auckland Law Associate Professor, John Ip, says although necessary, counterterrorism legislation often lacks provision for ongoing oversight. Counterterrorism legislation, says Ip, is characterised by a government's need to react to an incident decisively and quickly, leaving little time for public input, legislative deliberation or scrutiny. Once on the books, counterterrorism legislation is rarely repealed and difficult to ratchet back. 'This makes scrutiny and oversight essential, especially given the potential impact on individual rights and freedoms.' Since 2019, New Zealand has introduced counterterrorism legislation including the Terrorism Suppression (Control Orders) Act, the Counter-Terrorism Legislation Act, and the Counter-Terrorism Acts (Designations and Control Orders) Amendment Act. But Ip says this relative flurry of legislation hasn't been matched by any permanent oversight mechanism. 'It's important that any unintended consequences, gaps and shortcomings are brought to light and that the public have confidence that the powers conferred by counterterrorism legislation are being used appropriately.' Ip argues that creating an independent review entity would enhance public understanding, facilitate evidence-based policymaking and augment existing legal and political avenues of scrutiny and oversight. 'Countries around the world quickly react to acts of terrorism, and in this, we see expansion, or at the very least, some consolidation of the power of the state. We see the creation of a stronger national security state. And as this is happening, we should strengthen the oversight and control of those same institutions.' However, the options for oversight currently available, says Ip, have limitations. 'As is typical of national security matters, secrecy shrouds the operation of counterterrorism law. Secrecy around national security creates a problem – those who might provide oversight often don't have access to the whole picture. 'In the courts, legal challenges depend on individuals bringing cases, but secrecy can mean a wrong can't be established because of a lack of publicly available evidence. When they do hear cases, without a comprehensive picture, judges are also likely to be more deferential.' Temporary review bodies such as public inquiries also have limits, says Ip. For example, the terms of reference for the Royal Commission into the 15 March attacks meant that the Commission was not allowed to look into the police's initial response. 'These kinds of inquiries and bodies also stop existing once they deliver their final report. If the government chooses not to act on the recommendations, there's little option in following up or pushing for change later on. 'These limitations, including that more specialised review bodies tend to be either ad hoc or otherwise circumscribed in scope, suggest the need for something different.' In his paper, Ip examines overseas models, including the UK's Independent Reviewer of Terrorism Legislation (IRTL). The IRTL is legally qualified, independent of government, and has access to the same classified information as ministers, enabling impartial, informed oversight. Unlike courts, which look into specific cases, the IRTL has a broad mandate to review counterterrorism legislation as a whole. While the UK model is interesting, Ip says New Zealand might more closely follow the formal statutory approach exemplified by Australia's Independent National Security Legislation Monitor, and to a lesser extent Ireland's Independent Examiner of Security Legislation (IESL). Both are created by legislation with clearly defined powers and responsibilities. 'A permanent independent office, with comprehensive access to information, could review the operation of counterterrorism legislation here and publish reports with findings and recommendations,' says Ip. 'Independent review bodies play a crucial role in shining a light into the shadowy corners of the world of security and counterterrorism.'
