by Rebecca Thomas
Is anything ever truly neutral?
This question has been on my mind this week, particularly as I drove through the bumpy Northland roads toward my school in Te Tai Tokerau; just 3km from the Waitangi Treaty Grounds. Here, the weight of place is inescapable.
Te Tiriti o Waitangi isn’t a distant historical artefact; it’s a living, breathing part of the community. Yet, as an immigrant to Aotearoa, being asked to “remain neutral” about events like Hīkoi mō te Tiriti poses a unique challenge. For me, neutrality isn’t just about withholding opinion—it’s about grappling with my identity, understanding the weight of history, and embracing the responsibility to stand with tangata whenua and fight for what is morally right. I need to be Tangata Tiriti.
As I stepped into class, I opened with a question: “What’s been happening in the media this week?” Our focus recently has been on perspective and bias, using examples like The Guardian’s Little Pigs advert and Canon’s Decoy campaign. But today’s lesson needed to be topical.
With Toitū Te Tiriti making headlines and educators like me being reminded to maintain neutrality, I decided to explore this concept with my Year 7 and 8 students.
“Why do you think teachers are being asked to stay neutral about these events?” I asked with an air of playfulness but sincerity.
Their responses were sharp and thoughtful:
“Teachers could persuade children with their own opinions.”
“It’s not fair to encourage others to do something they might not believe in.”
“It might upset students with different views.”
I beamed at their insight and scribbled their ideas on the board.
Then I turned the conversation: “If I told you I’d seen images of the hīkoi in my news feed this morning, do you think those images were neutral? Can a photograph ever be neutral?”
We analysed images from the hīkoi, stripping away captions and headlines. We used the very ones from my news feed that morning.
I asked them to interpret what the photographers and reporters might have been 'saying' through their shots. Out of the hundreds of shots avaialable to them that day, why did they choose that one to support the narrative they shared? What was so special about the context, colour, placement and angle of that image?
Their responses showed an acute awareness of how stories are framed—and by whom. I don't think Seymour needs to be worried about the educators in the front of the classroom, these quick thinking young adults, exposed to a digital world from an early age, can quickly join their own dots about the visual world around them.
The Privilege and Challenge of Place
Teaching in Te Tai Tokerau, so close to where Te Tiriti was signed, carries a deep weight—it’s powerful, humbling, and sometimes challenging.
Here, Te Tiriti isn’t just a historical document or a set of principles; it holds different meanings for Māori and Pākehā and is intricately tied to the lives of the tamariki, their whānau, and their tūrangawaewae. Asking educators in this place to stay neutral feels like asking us to ignore the living, breathing connection to this whenua and its people. Worse, it risks erasing the very identity and stories that define the community we teach in.
As an immigrant, I carry an added layer of complexity. I came to Aotearoa seeking to belong, to contribute, and to learn. But when politicians like David Seymour accuse educators of "indoctrination," I can’t help but feel caught between my role as a facilitator of learning and the expectation to remain impartial on issues that deeply affect the communities I serve. Is remaining neutral in the face of injustice the right thing to do, or is it simply another form of complicity?
Let’s talk about Seymour. His recent remarks weren’t just “inflammatory,” as one principal rightly called them—they were a dangerous distortion of reality. Accusing schools of "pushing children into protest activity" and “abandoning political neutrality” wasn’t just deceptive; it was an attack on the integrity of educators and the mana of our tamariki.
Whilst his strange version of events are pure fiction— the consequences of his narrative are all too real.
What Seymour doesn’t seem to see more of is the deeply rooted connection between schools, whānau, and Te Tiriti. When he implies that encouraging students to think critically about their place in Aotearoa amounts to indoctrination, he underestimates the mana of our communities—and the intelligence of our tamariki.
Beyond Neutrality
“There’s no such thing as neutral education,” Paulo Freire wrote. “Education either functions as an instrument to bring about conformity or freedom.”
Freire’s words resonate deeply here in Te Tai Tokerau.
Neutrality, in this context, could mean silence. And silence can be its own form of bias—an endorsement of the status quo.
This week’s kōrero with my students reminded me that the goal of education isn’t to indoctrinate but to empower. By exploring bias and perspective, by engaging critically with current events, and by honouring the significance of place, we equip our tamariki to think for themselves and stand tall in their identity.
In Te Tai Tokerau, neutrality isn’t just impossible—it’s a disservice to the community and the legacy of Te Tiriti. Education here is about more than books and exams; it’s about tūrangawaewae, mana, and justice.
And if that makes some politicians uncomfortable, well, maybe they’re the ones who need a lesson in neutrality.
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