Month: June 2026

Every election we are told the same story. Democracy is under threat. The stakes have never been higher. This election is the most important of our lifetime. We are urged to enrol, urged to participate, urged to have our say. Politicians, journalists, lobby groups and activists all repeat the message until it becomes background noise. Yet despite this relentless campaign, huge numbers of people continue to stay away from the ballot box.

According to figures drawn from the 2023 General Election, around 1.19 million eligible New Zealanders did not vote. Roughly 829,000 enrolled voters stayed home, while hundreds of thousands of eligible people were not enrolled at all. Together they amounted to one of the largest political groupings in the country. If non-voters were a political party, they would dwarf every party currently represented in Parliament.

Predictably, politicians interpret this as a problem to be solved. They see a vast reservoir of untapped support waiting to be mobilised. Every party imagines that if only the disengaged could be persuaded to participate, they would vote the “right” way. The left imagines that non-voters are frustrated workers waiting to be radicalised into electoral politics. The right imagines that they are ordinary people alienated by political correctness and bureaucracy. Both sides believe the solution is greater participation in the existing system.

What if they are wrong? What if the refusal to vote is not a failure of democracy but a judgement upon it? The political class treats abstention as evidence of apathy. This explanation is convenient because it absolves politicians of responsibility. If people do not vote because they are lazy, ignorant or indifferent, then there is nothing fundamentally wrong with the institutions themselves. The fault lies with the public. Yet the evidence points in another direction. Many people who do not vote are far from disengaged. They complain about housing, wages, healthcare, rents, policing, war, environmental destruction and inequality. They have strong opinions. They simply do not believe that casting a ballot every three years will meaningfully alter any of these conditions. It is difficult to argue with their conclusion.

Election campaigns create the illusion of choice while narrowing the range of possible outcomes. Voters are invited to choose which group of professional politicians will administer capitalism. They are not invited to decide whether capitalism itself should continue. They may choose between competing managers of the state, but they cannot vote away the state’s monopoly on power. They may vote for different tax rates, different spending priorities or different personalities, but they cannot vote to abolish wage labour, landlords, prisons, borders or the structures that generate exploitation in the first place. The ballot paper offers options. It does not offer freedom.

This becomes clearer when we look at the history of political promises. Governments campaign as agents of change and govern as custodians of the existing order. Labour promised transformation and delivered record house prices. National promised prosperity and delivered austerity. Coalition governments are assembled, broken apart and reassembled while the fundamentals remain untouched. Wealth continues to accumulate at the top. Rent continues to rise. Work consumes more of our lives. The machinery of government continues regardless of who occupies the ministerial offices.

Many people recognise this. They may not describe it in anarchist terms, but they understand it instinctively. They have watched governments come and go while their own circumstances remain largely unchanged. They have learned that election rhetoric bears little relationship to political reality. When they refuse to vote, they are often expressing not indifference but disbelief.

The defenders of electoral politics respond that non-participation only strengthens the powerful. If you do not vote, they say, someone else will decide for you. This argument assumes that voting constitutes genuine power. It confuses the ability to choose rulers with the ability to rule ourselves. Anarchists reject this confusion. The question has never been who governs. The question is why anyone should govern at all.

Representative democracy rests on a strange proposition. Millions of people are told that they possess political power, yet that power can only be exercised by transferring it to somebody else. Every few years citizens are invited to surrender their authority to professional politicians, who then act in their name until the next election. This arrangement is presented as self-government. In reality it is government by others. The act of voting does not challenge hierarchy. It legitimises it.

This is why abstention has a long history within revolutionary movements. From the anarchists of nineteenth-century Europe to contemporary anti-authoritarian movements around the world, many radicals have viewed elections not as vehicles of liberation but as mechanisms of incorporation. Voting channels discontent into institutions designed to contain it. Instead of organising workplaces, building communities of resistance or creating alternatives to state authority, people are encouraged to place their hopes in politicians. The result is passivity. Political action becomes something performed on our behalf rather than something we undertake ourselves.

None of this means that all non-voters are conscious anarchists. Far from it. The million-plus New Zealanders who did not vote in 2023 hold a wide variety of beliefs. Some will be socialists. Some will be conservatives. Some will be politically confused. Some will be simply busy. Yet taken together they reveal an important truth. A growing section of society has withdrawn its consent from the electoral spectacle. That withdrawal deserves closer examination.

Political commentators frequently describe low turnout as a crisis of democracy. From an anarchist perspective, it may be a crisis of legitimacy. The state requires more than police, courts and prisons. It requires belief. People must accept that the system represents them. They must believe that participation grants them influence. They must trust that governments derive authority from popular consent. When increasing numbers refuse to participate, that story becomes harder to sustain.

A parliament elected by a shrinking proportion of the population remains legally valid, but its moral authority begins to look questionable. The problem for the political class is not merely that people are staying home. The problem is that people are losing faith in the institutions themselves. This is why governments and political organisations devote enormous resources to increasing voter participation. They need people to believe. They need citizens to see elections as meaningful acts of empowerment. The moment large numbers begin to question that assumption, the ideological foundations of representative government start to crack.

The answer, however, is not cynicism. There is a difference between passive disengagement and active abstention. Passive disengagement says, “Nothing can be done.” Active abstention says, “Something can be done, but not through this.” Anarchists advocate the second position. Refusing to vote is not enough. Staying home on election day while leaving existing power structures untouched achieves little. Abstention only becomes politically significant when connected to collective action outside parliamentary channels. The real question is not whether we vote. The real question is how we organise.

History provides plenty of answers. Workers have won gains through strikes rather than elections. Communities have defended themselves through mutual aid rather than legislation. Social movements have forced change through direct action rather than lobbying. Every meaningful improvement in ordinary people’s lives has depended on pressure from below. Politicians may eventually sign documents and pass laws, but they generally do so after being compelled by organised movements.

Power concedes nothing voluntarily. The obsession with elections obscures this reality. Every three years political energy is funnelled into campaigns, candidates and polling. People are encouraged to view politics as a spectator sport. They become audiences rather than participants. The election cycle consumes attention that could otherwise be devoted to building enduring forms of collective power.

Imagine if even a fraction of the energy spent on electoral campaigning were redirected elsewhere. Imagine neighbourhood assemblies capable of solving local problems without waiting for councils. Imagine tenant unions capable of confronting landlords directly. Imagine workplaces organised enough to challenge employers through collective action. Imagine networks of mutual aid that reduce dependence on state bureaucracy. These are not fantasies. They exist already, albeit on a limited scale. The challenge is expanding them.

This points toward a different understanding of democracy. Not democracy as periodic voting. Not democracy as parliamentary representation. Democracy as direct participation in the decisions that affect our lives. Democracy as collective self-management. Democracy without politicians. The tragedy of modern electoral politics is that it has narrowed our political imagination. We are encouraged to believe that democracy begins and ends at the ballot box. The result is a population that feels powerless because it has been taught to locate power in institutions beyond its control.

The million-plus New Zealanders who did not vote in 2023 should not be viewed as a problem requiring correction. They are evidence that many people already sense something is wrong. The task is not to shepherd them back into the voting booth. The task is to transform scepticism into organisation.

Abstention is often portrayed as silence. In reality it can be a statement. It can express the belief that liberation will not arrive through Parliament, that politicians cannot solve problems rooted in the structures they administer, and that genuine social change requires ordinary people to act for themselves. The largest political force in New Zealand may not be National, Labour, ACT, the Greens or New Zealand First. It may be the millions who no longer believe that any of them speak on their behalf. The political establishment sees this as a reservoir of votes waiting to be captured. Anarchists should see it as something else – a sign that faith in representative politics is weakening.

The question is what comes next. If non-voting remains an individual act of withdrawal, it will change little. If it becomes part of a broader project of self-organisation, mutual aid, workplace struggle and direct action, it points beyond the limits of parliamentary politics altogether. The goal is not a better set of rulers. The goal is a society in which rulers are unnecessary. For those who seek such a society, the choice is clear. Do not vote. Do not place your hopes in parties, candidates or parliamentary majorities. Organise where you live. Organise where you work. Build relationships of solidarity. Create forms of power that do not depend upon the state.

The future will not be delivered through a ballot box. It will be built by our own hands.

Every New Year and every King’s Birthday the same ritual unfolds. Newspapers publish lists of names. Politicians offer congratulations. Television presenters speak of service and achievement. Photographs appear of smiling recipients standing beside representatives of the Crown. For a few days the country is invited to celebrate the latest round of honours bestowed in the King’s name. Most people barely notice. Some see it as harmless recognition for good work. Others regard it as a quaint tradition left over from another age. Yet beneath the polite language and ceremonial pageantry sits a question that deserves far more attention than it receives -why should anybody accept honours from a king at all?

For anarchists, the answer seems obvious. We oppose monarchy because we oppose hereditary power. We oppose the idea that some people are born into positions of authority over others. We reject the notion that one family should occupy a privileged place within society simply because of bloodline. The British monarchy represents one of the oldest surviving examples of inherited status in the world. Accepting honours from the Crown therefore means accepting recognition from an institution whose existence rests upon principles fundamentally opposed to equality. The issue, however, goes deeper than opposition to monarchy alone. The honours system is not simply about medals, titles and certificates. It performs a political function. It helps maintain respect for existing structures of power. It encourages people to seek validation from those structures. It reinforces the idea that achievement acquires greater significance when recognised from above.

Human beings have always sought recognition. There is nothing strange about that. People want their efforts appreciated. They want their sacrifices acknowledged. They want to know that what they have done matters. The question is who provides that recognition and what values are expressed through it.

When a community thanks a person for years of service, that recognition comes from below. It emerges from relationships between equals. When workers celebrate a fellow worker, or neighbours honour someone who has contributed to collective life, the recognition belongs to the people directly affected. State honours operate differently. They flow downward. They originate from institutions that stand above society. Their value depends entirely upon the prestige attached to those institutions. The recipient is expected to feel honoured because the recognition comes from the Crown.

This is why honours have always been attractive to ruling classes. They provide a means of distributing status without distributing power. They allow elites to reward loyalty while presenting the reward as public gratitude. They create a hierarchy of prestige that sits alongside economic and political hierarchies. The language surrounding honours often obscures this reality. We are told that recipients are recognised for their service. Service to whom? Service according to whose standards? These questions rarely receive serious attention.

The honours system reflects the priorities of the state because it is administered by the state. Decisions are shaped by political institutions, official committees and social networks. People whose work aligns comfortably with existing structures are more likely to receive recognition than those who challenge those structures. History offers many examples. Trade union militants, anti-colonial activists, revolutionary organisers and other opponents of established power have rarely been showered with honours while they are actively engaged in struggle. Governments tend to reward those who contribute to social stability as defined by governments themselves.

This does not mean every recipient consciously supports the status quo. Many are decent people who have devoted years to helping others. Some have spent their lives caring for vulnerable people, building community organisations or advancing worthwhile causes. Their contributions may be genuine and substantial. The problem lies not primarily with individual recipients but with the institution conferring the award.

Good people can become symbols for bad systems. The state understands this perfectly well. By honouring respected figures, it borrows some of their moral credibility. Their achievements become attached to the prestige of the Crown. The relationship works in both directions. The recipient receives recognition. The institution gains legitimacy.

In Aotearoa New Zealand this dynamic carries a particular historical weight. The Crown is not an abstract constitutional arrangement floating above history. It is a living institution deeply connected to colonisation. The authority exercised by the British Crown provided the framework through which land was seized, resistance was crushed and Māori communities were subjected to generations of dispossession.

The New Zealand state often presents itself as separate from these events, as though colonial violence belongs to a distant past disconnected from present institutions. Yet the Crown remains central to the constitutional order established through colonisation. Governments act in the name of the Crown. Courts derive authority from the Crown. Public servants serve the Crown. Against this backdrop, accepting honours from the monarch acquires a different significance. The award cannot be separated from the institution granting it. The medal may appear small. The ceremony may seem harmless. Yet the symbolism remains.

For Māori activists who have spent decades resisting Crown power, this contradiction has often been impossible to ignore. Some have declined honours on precisely these grounds. They recognised that acceptance would conflict with the principles they had spent their lives defending. Others have accepted, arguing that the honour reflects recognition for their communities rather than allegiance to the monarchy. The debate reveals genuine tensions. It is not always straightforward.

Anarchists should approach such decisions with humility rather than moral grandstanding. People make choices for complex reasons. Some recipients see acceptance as an opportunity to draw attention to causes they care about. Others view the award as recognition shared with wider communities. Condemnation alone rarely produces useful political discussion. At the same time, political honesty requires us to examine what honours actually represent.

Imagine a society organised around equality and mutual aid. Imagine a society in which people collectively control the conditions of their lives. In such a society, would anybody require validation from a hereditary monarch living on the opposite side of the world? Would social contribution become more meaningful because a king approved of it? The question sounds absurd because it is absurd.

The prestige attached to honours depends upon social conditioning. From childhood we are taught that kings, queens, governors-general and other figures of authority possess special importance. Ceremonies reinforce this lesson. Flags, uniforms, titles and rituals reinforce it again. Over time many people come to regard these symbols as natural. Yet there is nothing natural about them.

No infant enters the world believing one family possesses a divine or hereditary right to occupy palaces. No child spontaneously develops reverence for crowns and aristocratic titles. Such attitudes must be cultivated. The honours system contributes to that cultivation. It reproduces respect for hierarchy under the guise of gratitude.

This is one reason republicans often oppose honours linked to the monarchy. Even those who do not identify as anarchists recognise the contradiction between democratic ideals and hereditary institutions. If all citizens are supposed to be equal, why should recognition derive from a royal family? Anarchists take the criticism further. The problem is not simply hereditary power. The problem is authority itself. We oppose systems that place some people above others. We oppose arrangements that encourage deference and obedience. We seek forms of social organisation based upon cooperation among equals.

Honours pull in the opposite direction. They encourage people to look upward for approval. They suggest that achievement becomes complete only after official recognition arrives. Many extraordinary people have rejected this logic. Throughout history radicals, artists, writers and activists have declined honours because they understood the political symbolism involved. Some refused knighthoods. Others rejected state awards entirely. Their decisions reflected a simple conviction – the value of their work did not depend upon endorsement from authority. That position deserves greater respect than it often receives.

Modern capitalism constantly pressures people to seek external validation. Success becomes measured through titles, credentials, rankings and awards. Every sphere of life acquires its hierarchy. People are encouraged to compete for recognition rather than build solidarity. The honours system fits neatly within this broader culture. It transforms social contribution into another form of distinction. Individuals are elevated above their peers. Lists are compiled. Status is distributed. Anarchists should be suspicious whenever institutions encourage people to chase prestige. The world already contains too much hierarchy. We do not need additional systems for sorting human beings into categories of importance.

The nurse who cares for patients through exhausting shifts does not become more valuable because a governor-general places a medal around their neck. The volunteer who supports struggling families does not suddenly acquire greater worth because their name appears on an honours list. The worker organising colleagues against exploitation deserves recognition regardless of whether the state approves. Their contribution exists independently of official acknowledgement. Indeed, some of the most important struggles in history were carried forward by people whom authorities despised. Trade union organisers were imprisoned. Anti-war activists were vilified. Indigenous resistance leaders were criminalised. Women demanding political rights were ridiculed and arrested. Had these people waited for approval from above, many victories would never have occurred.

This should remind us that official recognition is a poor measure of social value. Power often celebrates those who accommodate it and attacks those who challenge it. The judgement of institutions deserves neither automatic trust nor automatic reverence. For anarchists in Aotearoa, opposition to honours should therefore form part of a broader commitment to building alternative cultures of recognition. We should celebrate people because they strengthen collective life. We should honour courage, solidarity and resistance through our own practices. Communities are fully capable of expressing gratitude without monarchs, governors-general or state committees.

Imagine neighbourhood assemblies recognising local organisers. Imagine workers celebrating fellow workers. Imagine communities publicly acknowledging care, generosity and sacrifice without attaching ranks or titles. Such forms of recognition would reflect horizontal relationships rather than vertical ones. They would also carry greater authenticity. Praise from those directly affected by your actions means far more than approval from distant institutions.

Some defenders of honours argue that the system simply rewards excellence. Yet excellence exists everywhere. Every workplace contains people whose labour sustains collective life. Every community contains people who give more than they receive. Most will never receive medals. Their contribution remains invisible because recognition systems inevitably favour some forms of work over others. The result is a distorted picture of social value.

A society obsessed with honours often overlooks the countless acts of cooperation that make everyday life possible. Parents caring for children, neighbours helping neighbours, workers supporting one another through hardship, these activities rarely attract official recognition despite their enormous importance.

Anarchism begins from the opposite perspective. It starts with ordinary people. It recognises that society is built from below. Wealth is produced from below. Communities are sustained from below. Real social power resides there as well. Once we understand this, the spectacle of royal honours begins to look strangely hollow. A king honours people for contributions that were made possible by countless others. The ceremony celebrates individual achievement while obscuring collective effort. It wraps social cooperation in the symbols of hierarchy. We can do better than that.

The struggle against monarchy will not be won through arguments about medals alone. The abolition of honours will not transform society overnight. Yet symbols matter because they express values. They shape expectations. They communicate assumptions about how society should function. Accepting honours from the king reinforces the idea that recognition flows downward from authority. Declining them affirms a different principle. It asserts that dignity does not require royal approval. It reminds us that human worth cannot be bestowed by hereditary institutions.

For those committed to freedom and equality, that is a principle worth defending. The highest honour any person can receive is the respect of their peers and the knowledge that they have contributed to collective liberation. No king can grant that. No king can take it away.