By Rebecca Thomas
Today I saw the impact of policy changes on my community—and I didn’t like it.
While I’ve been writing about Ministerial, Ministry, and political changes throughout the year, offering a balanced and hopeful perspective, today felt different. Today I saw the beginnings of the impact these changes are having on real people, real educators, and real children—and it wasn’t positive.
I was at the school prize giving, a celebration usually brimming with pride and joy.
The principal delivered an inspiring yet honest account of the year, acknowledging the challenges brought by political shifts while expressing immense gratitude to everyone who makes up the school’s ecosystem. Despite the headwinds, her message was clear: the staff remain stoic and dedicated, united in their mission to nurture and educate.
After her many words of thanks, she turned to honour two wonderful wahine who had provided school dinners five days a week. These women had bonded with staff and students over the year, and their faces beamed as they received flowers and gifts. They spoke warmly of their fondness for the children and the joy of putting their cooking skills to use in service of the school community.
And then came the tears.
The room fell silent as the weight of their departure settled in.
These women weren’t leaving by choice but because of changes to the school lunch policy. A policy that, while framed as equitable and efficient, had stripped them of their purpose, their connection, and their livelihoods. Their pride in providing healthy meals for tamariki, a service that had clearly brought them immense joy and fulfillment, was no longer needed. It was a deeply moving moment that encapsulated the very real human cost of these policies.
Amidst the emotional farewell, the prize giving unfolded with haka, waiata, certificates, and trophies. Members of the Board of Trustees shared updates on resources and infrastructure improvements planned for the year ahead—investments aimed at supporting teachers and equipping them to better serve their students.
The awards themselves celebrated performing arts, citizenship, and personal growth. This was not an elitist “hothousing” prize giving but one of warmth and inclusivity, recognising well-rounded and improved learners. It was a reflection of a school that had worked tirelessly to create a whānau-like environment where every child could stand tall in their identity and feel proud to succeed as Māori.
The principal’s speech didn’t shy away from the challenges ahead.
She touched on the looming spectre of inequitable assessment measures. Using the well-known metaphor of the elephant, monkey, and fish all asked to climb the same tree, she highlighted the absurdity of these one-size-fits-all expectations. Without saying it outright, her message was clear: these impending assessment routines would not serve the children before her. They would not honour their talents, their strengths, or their diverse ways of learning.
This was a school community that, in years past, faced deep disconnection from education. Suspicion towards schools and educators was palpable, and children felt alienated from a system that didn’t reflect their culture or identity. Behaviour and relationships were often fractured. While tikanga was practiced at home, it had no presence within the school. Success as Māori felt out of reach, and a sense of whānau was absent.
Today, that couldn’t be further from the truth. The teachers had worked tirelessly to create a space where tamariki could thrive, standing strong in their identities.
The Year 8s shared fond memories of their time at school, speaking of the educators who had supported them and the community that had embraced them. It was a powerful testament to what can be achieved when a school places culture, identity, and whānau at its heart.
Yet, as I left the whare, my heart felt heavy.
Those kitchen staff, those two incredible wahine, wouldn’t be part of this journey anymore. Their absence would be felt deeply by everyone who had come to rely on their warmth, their service, and their aroha. And the thought of looming assessment regimes—policies that might once again divide children’s talents and strengths into reductive categories—made me sigh.
This is the reality of policy decisions.
This is their impact.
It is not an abstract exercise or a theoretical debate; it is lived and felt by real people in real communities. And if a politician or minister happens to read this, I hope they understand what their choices mean on the ground. These are not changes to raise a glass to in celebration.
These are changes that leave an empty chair in the whare, and a quiet sigh where there should be cheer.