Symbolic Burden and the Cost of Expectation
We ask a lot of our leaders—especially those who represent more than just policy. We expect them to carry history, absorb protest, model resilience, and never falter under scrutiny. But what does it mean to be born into duty? To inherit a system you didn’t build, and be held accountable for its every flaw?
This piece isn’t about absolution. It’s about recognition. About the weight of expectation. The cost of symbolism. And the quiet strength of those who keep showing up—even when the world is watching.
Some don’t just hold the line.
They live it.
They don’t rehearse their values. They model them.
No hashtags. No headlines. No handshakes.
Just the steady, unglamorous work of showing up—again and again.
While others narrate the journey, they carry the weight.
While others brand the role, they fulfill it.
No spectacle. No collapse. Just the standard, held.
Misalignment, Colonisation, and Civic Tension
Colonisation is often framed as a wound—especially in Māori discourse, where the term signals land loss, cultural erasure, and systemic harm. But history rarely fits cleanly into grievance grids.
The introduction of colonial governance wasn’t just a one-sided imposition—it was a collision of worldviews. Māori, grounded in tikanga and collective authority, often misunderstood the intent and implications of British civic systems. Likewise, colonial officials misread Māori leadership and land tenure, embedding structural misalignment that continues to shape civic tension today.
Before we go further, let’s settle our differences. Not by erasing pain, but by refusing drift. By recognising what was built, what was broken, and what must be repaired—together.
Women couldn’t vote. Māori women couldn’t speak on the marae. Leadership was male-coded, and civic voice was gatekept. The suffrage movement didn’t emerge from marae protest—it came from women outside those structures, refusing silence and demanding inclusion. Colonisation didn’t just overwrite Indigenous systems—it also imported patriarchal ones.
And yet, most people acted in good faith. They built what they believed was right. Sometimes they were wrong. Sometimes harm was done. But to frame colonisation solely as a malicious act is to miss the civic context—the belief systems, the constraints, the inherited logics of the time.
Let’s talk about the women who held this country together—not just Māori women, not just Pākehā women, but all those who stepped into the breach when war emptied the streets of men. They ran farms, factories, hospitals. They raised children while rationing flour. They kept the lights on—literally and metaphorically.
Let’s talk about the woman Prime Minister who was shunned at Waitangi. Not because she failed to lead, but because she dared to speak—because she was a woman, and her voice disrupted the choreography of male-coded protocol.
Legacy, Loss, and Refusal to Collapse
Let’s talk about the young Queen who had eggs thrown at her—who didn’t inherit the crown by birthright, but stepped into it after her uncle refused to relinquish love for duty. She became Queen through circumstance, not ambition. And in that role, she was under constant threat—not just here in Aotearoa, but across the world. She was sovereign of 32 independent countries and symbolically led a Commonwealth of 56 nations, representing over 2.5 billion people. Every public appearance carried risk. Every gesture was scrutinised. She was the face of empire, of continuity, of a system many resented—and yet she showed up.
And she had already survived a war. As a teenager during WWII, Princess Elizabeth stayed in Britain while Buckingham Palace was bombed. She refused evacuation overseas. At 18, she joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service, trained as a mechanic and driver, and became the first female royal to serve in the armed forces. She didn’t just wear the uniform—she earned it. She lived through rationing, air raids, and public service long before she wore the crown.
She didn’t arrive in Aotearoa as a conqueror. She arrived by sea, aboard the royal yacht SS Gothic, after weeks of travel—just six months after her coronation. She didn’t take a five-minute drive down the road. She crossed oceans. She made time. She honoured the visit. And she did so likely without being fully advised of the deep-set hurt she was walking into—a hurt that predated her, but landed on her shoulders.
She didn’t build the system. She was part of it. Bound by it. Expected to represent it, uphold it, and carry its weight—without the freedom to walk away. And after being egged, maybe she thought she should have. But she didn’t. She kept showing up. Even after taking the knocks. Again and again. Across continents. Across decades. Because that’s what duty looked like—for her.
And when the knocks turned personal—when grief arrived not as a headline but as a husband lost—she showed up again. No entourage. No exemption. Just one woman, masked and alone, in a near-empty chapel, while the world watched. She didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch. Grief wasn’t shielded by protocol—it was held in silence, in posture, in presence.
That image—one pew, one moment—said more about leadership than any speech. She didn’t ask for sympathy. She modeled duty. She showed what it means to carry legacy, loss, and expectation without spectacle.
In that stillness, she held the line.
She was one of very few women leaders of her generation—and arguably the most powerful woman on the planet. Post-war, post-rationing, post-reconstruction, she carried the symbolic weight of 2.5 billion lives. And yes, she found love. She had a family. She had a career. And like most families, they had their issues—but theirs were splashed across newspapers. Yes, she had privilege. Yes, she had help. But she also paid the cost. And I personally believe she did the best she could in her time. And that’s all we can expect of anyone—including ourselves.
Civic Repair and Shared Responsibility
Let’s understand and support each other better. Not just in moments of crisis, but in the everyday mechanics of civic life. Let’s recognise that grief lands differently. That leadership looks different. That contribution takes many forms. Some will speak. Some will build. Some will hold space. Some will challenge. Some will recalibrate. And all of it matters.
This isn’t about absolution. It’s about recognition. That symbolic leadership carries cost. That protest and grief, while valid, often land on those who are both representative and human. And that civic repair requires more than confrontation—it requires understanding, recalibration, and shared responsibility.
Let’s talk about domestic violence—not as a statistic, but as a civic failure. A failure to protect, to intervene, to redesign systems that keep children safe and survivors supported. And let’s talk about how we move forward—not by assigning blame, but by threading repair.
Let’s talk about how we respect diversity and culture—not just Māori culture, but every thread of heritage, belief, and identity that makes this country whole. Let’s talk about how we protect our children—not just from harm, but from inherited silence, from civic drift, from systems that fail to serve them.
Let’s talk about a better future. Let’s learn from each other. No more egg throwing. No more silencing. More discussions. More Understanding. More clarity. More backbone.
And let’s be honest—some of us will sit and talk it through. Others will pick up parts and run with them. Some will prototype. Some will hold space. Some will document. Some will build. We all have a part to play. And if we work to our strengths, honour our differences, and refuse to flatten each other’s contributions, then we can make things better. Together.
Most of all, let’s stop pointing fingers and start building a future that works. There will still be mistakes—we’re human, not perfect. But failure only happens when we give up trying. Let’s make it better—together.
Remembrance as Promise
At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, we will remember them—those who walked before us, who gave their today for our tomorrow. They fought not just for peace, but for the possibility of a better world. We owe it to them—not just to remember, but to build. To stop circling old arguments and start shaping the future they hoped for. Remembrance is not passive. It’s a promise.
Kia Kaha.
Let's make Aoetearoa NZ the star of our story.
