Arts + Culture – The Conversation

Can One Nation turn its polling hype into seats in parliament? History shows it will struggle

2026-02-04T19:10:52Z

One Nation is no stranger to the headlines, but it’s been a long time since the party has been talked about as a serious political force. Operating on the fringes of Australian political life for years, suddenly Pauline Hanson is in the news every day.

A significant part of this is the party’s well-documented meteoric rise in the polls. It’s prompted speculation about One Nation becoming Australia’s official opposition party, leaving the Liberals and Nationals in the dust.

But while politics is a fast-moving beast, you only need to look back a couple of years to be reminded of the long history of dysfunction that’s plagued the party.

So will this ascendancy amount to a lasting realignment of conservative politics in Australia? Can One Nation overcome its scandal-ridden past to emerge as the dominant force in Australian right-wing politics?

A tale of peaks and troughs

The 1998 Queensland state election remains One Nation’s electoral high point. It was the only time the party polled above 20%. The election saw the party pick up 11 of 89 seats, propelling it to the third largest party in the state parliament.

But One Nation’s stunning rise was over almost as soon as it started. The party was beset with internal disunity, political scandals and poor management. Most of the party’s Queensland parliamentarians abandoned it after demands to democratise the party organisation were ignored.

Hanson lost her seat in parliament soon after, narrowly failing to win the newly-formed Queensland seat of Blair at the 1998 federal election.

One Nation managed to gain the upper house balance of power in the 2001 Western Australian state election. However, Hanson’s resignation from the party in 2002 and conviction for electoral fraud in 2003 (later overturned) helped plunge the party into political irrelevance.

Returning to the party in 2014, and the leadership in 2015, Hanson led One Nation to its second breakthrough on the national stage at the 2016 double dissolution election. Four One Nation senators, including Hanson, were elected from just 4.29% of the first preference vote.

But the party was again wracked by defections and scandal. Rodney Culleton, Fraser Anning, and Brian Burston – all elected on the One Nation ticket – abandoned the party after falling out with Hanson.

One Nation was reduced to two Senate seats until the 2025 federal election, where it picked up a seat in New South Wales and WA, bringing the party back to four senators.

What’s driving this polling surge?

It’s useful to think of One Nation’s rising support as a combination of short-term factors and longer-term trends.

In the short term, dysfunction within the (former) Coalition parties and conservative voters’ dissatisfaction with moderate Liberal leader Sussan Ley have been a boon for One Nation.

As she did after the 2014 Lindt cafe siege, Hanson has connected the 2025 Bondi terror attack to immigration and multiculturalism, criticising the government for allowing “the wrong people” to migrate to Australia.

The party has also benefited from increased salience of immigration and national security, connecting housing and cost-of-living pressures to so-called “mass migration”.

Long-term, the party has been buoyed by the mainstreaming of far-right politics globally, profound shifts in media and communication landscapes, and the decline in support of the major political parties in Australia.

Succeeding in spite of itself

One Nation’s polling surge appears to defy conventional wisdom about the viability of a far-right party in Australia.

Parties like One Nation perform relatively poorly compared with their European counterparts. It’s typically assumed this reflects a lack of supply of effective leadership and strong party organisation, rather than a shortage of demand for a far-right party.

Of course the test for One Nation is translating their current polling boost into electoral success. If they succeed, it will challenge long-held ideas that features of our electoral system, such as compulsory voting, provide a bulwark against more extreme forms of politics.

One of the greatest barriers One Nation has faced to electoral success has been itself. Research has shown the party has a history of serious organisational dysfunction.

One Nation has struggled to properly vet candidates for election. Candidates have resigned or been disendorsed by the party for potential breaches of election law and making sexist and homophobic comments. One candidate made headlines for mowing a swastika into their lawn.

Issues of candidate quality have been exacerbated by the lack of on-the-ground support and campaign co-ordination. Recent claims about booming One Nation membership should be viewed sceptically, unless accompanied by actual membership numbers. But most parties, including Labor and the Liberals, rarely publish such figures.

Likewise, claims the party has branches in all 151 federal electorates require qualification. Though a significant milestone for the party, the existence of a branch doesn’t automatically mean there is an active grassroots body able to knock on doors and hand out how-to-vote cards. One Nation has historically struggled with these things, outside of a handful of seats.

On top of this, while the defections of former Nationals leader Barnaby Joyce and former Liberal Senator Cory Bernardi have kept One Nation in the spotlight, Hanson’s history of falling out bitterly with elected representatives (think Mark Latham) raises questions about whether such partnerships can last.

Crucially, this kind of polling – with One Nation well ahead of the Coalition –should bring greater scrutiny from media and voters alike. The problem One Nation faces as it tries to reposition itself from a party of protest to a potential party of government is that people will rightly expect policy detail and costings.

One Nation’s strength is the politics of identity and grievance, not policy substance.

Proceeding with caution

There are many reasons to treat One Nation’s surge with caution. We should be circumspect about prematurely declaring the death of the Coalition parties or a realignment of Australian conservative politics. Infighting and dysfunction have been constant features of One Nation since its inception. There is little evidence to expect this will change.

Yet the scale of One Nation’s support in the polls and the collapse of the Coalition’s primary vote is uncharted territory. Despite its many challenges, the next federal election may for the first time see a well-funded One Nation pose a serious threat to the Coalition’s dominance of the Australian right. If their polling remains above 20%, it’s entirely possible there will be serious pressure to include Hanson in televised leaders’ debates.

Essential questions remain about One Nation’s electoral viability on polling day. The party’s success will rely on its ability to run a disciplined campaign, endorse quality candidates, and manage intra-party conflicts – all of which the party has previously struggled with.

The first test of whether One Nation can translate polling support into electoral success will come at the upcoming South Australian election, where the party plans to field candidates in every seat.

Kurt Sengul receives funding from The Australian Research Council, NSW Government and the NSW RNA Research & Training Network

Jordan McSwiney receives funding from the Australian Research Council, NSW Government, and NSW RNA Research & Training Network.

Digital ghosts: are AI replicas of the dead an innovative medical tool or an ethical nightmare?

2026-02-04T19:03:06Z

Elise Racine, CC BY-NC-ND

For centuries, work with donated bodies has shaped anatomical knowledge and medical training.

Now, digital technologies and artificial intelligence (AI) are reshaping education and we can imagine a future where AI-generated representations of dead people – chatbots specifically developed as “thanabots” – are used to support students’ learning.

The term thanabot is derived from thanatology, the study of death. Such AI replicas are already used to assist people during bereavement and could be integrated into medical education.

Thanabots based on information and data from a body donor could interact with students during dissections, providing personalised guidance drawn from medical records, linking clinical history to anatomical findings and improving factual learning.

They might even support the learner’s humanistic development through an intensive first encounter with a dead body who comes “alive” through AI.

At this point, thanabots remain hypothetical in educational settings, but the technology exists to make them a reality. At first glance, this looks like an educational breakthrough – a “first patient” brought to virtual life to enhance both anatomical factual learning and the acquisition of skills such as empathy and professionalism in students.

But as we show in our new research, there are many unknown risks associated with the development of such applications that might raise the question of what it actually means to be dead or even “not quite dead”.

The evolution of thanabots

Thanabots, also called deadbots or griefbots, already exist. They are, at present, mostly being used as tools to help comfort the bereaved, though thanabots of famous people are also available.

Technologies such as Project December, which simulates text-based conversations with the dead, and Deep Nostalgia, which animates old photos, show how digital afterlives are increasingly represented and even normalised.

Extending these tools to anatomy education seems a logical step. An educational version of a thanabot could answer student questions, guide dissection and provide contextual clinical narratives. These interactions would likely improve clinical reasoning and potentially help students navigate emotionally challenging encounters with the dead.

Yet significant risks accompany such innovation. AI-generated content is prone to error, and incorrectly interpreted medical records or hallucinations about data could mislead students. Also, emotional engagement with a digitally “resurrected” donor could overwhelm learners, or engender unhealthy parasocial attachments.

The illusion of a human presence risks trivialising the body donor’s physical reality and could compromise the leaners’ authentic encounter with mortality and respect for the deceased.

Cultural norms and individual grief may be disrupted, especially for students already sensitive to exposure to the dead or from backgrounds with strong constraints around postmortem representation.

This includes instances where death and the dead are considered sacred and further engagement with their likeness is considered taboo. In many cultures, the dead should be respectfully left to rest, not “brought back to life”.

Risks of using thanabots in anatomy education

The ethical and legal frameworks covering thanabot use are underdeveloped because specific legislation and guidelines are scant or non-existent. This leaves many ethical and legal questions unanswered.

In a scenario where a thanabot were generated for use in anatomy education, who would own a digital donor? How would consent for AI use be obtained from families or estates, medical records ethically managed or privacy and dignity safeguarded?

Any implementation of thanabots would need to address these questions to ensure that potential educational gains don’t come at the cost of psychological well-being, ethical integrity or societal unease.

Beyond these practical concerns lies a deeper philosophical issue. What does it mean to be dead in an age of AI “resurrection”?

Anatomy education has long been shaped by societal understanding of mortality and the human body. Use of thanabots might alter these boundaries, blurring the line between life and death, providing representations of something “different” that is neither one nor the other.

Thus, even with the best intentions, students could experience emotional dissonance, confusion about mortality or a distorted understanding of what it means to be human if that understanding is tied to an AI proxy rather than a real person.

We are not suggesting that AI cannot play a role in anatomy education. Carefully designed tools that respect donor dignity, support reflection and augment (not replace) human interaction can enrich learning.

But the allure of technological novelty should not override caution.

Before bringing digital “ghosts” into anatomy laboratories, educators must ensure ethical governance and critically examine what these tools truly teach students about life, death and human dignity.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

ICE and Border Patrol in Minnesota − accused of violating 1st, 2nd, 4th and 10th amendment rights − are testing whether the Constitution can survive

2026-02-04T14:19:03Z

ICE officers and federal agents clash with protesters in south Minneapolis after Alex Pretti was fatally shot by federal agents on Jan. 24, 2026. Richard Tsong-Taatarii/The Minnesota Star Tribune

Forcibly entering homes without a judicial warrant. Arresting journalists who reported on protests. Defying dozens of federal orders. Killing U.S. citizens for noncompliance. Asking constitutionally protected observers this chilling question: “Have you not learned?”

This is daily life in Minnesota. Operation Metro Surge, ostensibly an immigration enforcement initiative, has become something more consequential: a constitutional stress test. Can constitutional protections withstand the actions of a federal government seemingly intent on aggressively violating the rule of law?

In Minneapolis, a city still reckoning with its own grim history of policing, the federal operation raises fundamental questions about law enforcement and the limits of executive power.

Legal scholars and civil rights advocates are especially worried about ongoing violations of the First, Second, Fourth and 10th amendments, as are other observers, including historians like us.

Catalog of violations

First Amendment concerns stem from reports that agents from ICE – described by some scholars as a paramilitary force – and the Border Patrol have deployed excessive force as well as advanced surveillance methods on suspects, observers and journalists. When enforcement activity impedes the rights to assemble, document and criticize government action, that chills those rights, and the consequences extend beyond any single demonstration. These rights are not peripheral to democracy. They are central to it.

Second Amendment issues erupted following the fatal shooting of a legally armed Alex Pretti in Minneapolis. Highly placed administration officials claimed Americans could not bring firearms to protests, despite a long-standing interpretation that in most states, including Minnesota, a person who was legally permitted to carry a firearm could bring it to such events. The assertion was in fact contrary to the Trump administration’s support for gun rights.

Thanks to the videos flooding social media, Fourth Amendment concerns are the most familiar. Allegations include entering homes without warrants, stopping, intimidating and seizing legal observers, and detaining suspects by virtue of their appearance or accent. Those are clear violations of the Fourth Amendment’s safeguards against unreasonable searches and seizures, which were adopted to prevent the exercise of arbitrary government power.

Finally, the 10th Amendment lies at the heart of Minnesota’s legal cases against the federal government.

One lawsuit contests the federal government’s refusal to allow the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to investigate the killings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. Another challenges efforts to pressure local governments into assisting federal immigration enforcement. These disputes implicate federalism itself – the constitutional division of authority between states and the federal government that is the foundation of the American system.

The massive and rapid accumulation of these alleged constitutional violations – now working their way through the courts – in a single geographic locale is striking. So are the mass resignations from the state’s U.S. attorney’s office, which is responsible for representing the federal government in these cases.

And so is the deeper historical context.

A retreat from federal constitutional oversight

Starting in 1994, federal intervention became a powerful corrective whenever local police violated constitutional rights.

From Newark to New Orleans, federal oversight was not always welcomed, but it was frequently necessary to enforce equal protection and due process.

Federal oversight has been essential in enforcing civil rights when municipalities would not. Active monitoring of policing in those cities kept officers and administrators accountable and encouraged officers to follow constitutional standards. At its core, what experts call “constitutional policing” requires that government’s use of authority to ensure order be justified, limited and subject to oversight.

In that vein, after the 2020 murder of George Floyd by a Minneapolis policeman, the 2023 U.S. Department of Justice report on policing in Minneapolis identified questionable patterns and practices. Those problems included the “unreasonable” use of deadly force, racial profiling and retaliation against journalists. The Department of Justice’s proposed consent decree – grounded in constitutional policing – offered a way forward.

But in May 2025, the Department of Justice, under the leadership of President Donald Trump’s appointee Pam Bondi, withdrew the recommended agreement.

Seven months later, Operation Metro Surge deployed thousands of federal agents to Minnesota with a markedly different enforcement philosophy.

Indeed, the recent expansion of federal enforcement authority in Minnesota followed a retreat from federal constitutional oversight.

An excerpt from an opinion by Chief U.S. District Judge Patrick J. Schiltz asserts that ICE had violated more judicial orders in January 2026 than ‘some federal agencies have violated in their entire existence.’ courtlistener.com

Taking the handcuffs off

A presidential executive order, signed by Trump in late April 2025 and titled “Strengthening and Unleashing America’s Law Enforcement to Pursue Criminals and Protect Innocent Citizens,” pledged to remove what were described as “handcuffs” on police.

Soon thereafter, the administration deployed the National Guard to Los Angeles amid immigration protests.

Though a federal judge later rejected the legal rationale for that deployment, in August 2025, the president sent National Guard forces to Washington, D.C., purportedly to reduce crime. In September 2025, Trump described American cities as potential “training grounds” for the military to confront what he called the “enemy from within.”

Each episode reflects an increasingly expansive view of executive branch authority.

Whether Operation Metro Surge ultimately withstands judicial scrutiny remains to be seen. Numerous lawsuits continue to wind their way through the courts.

But the broader question is already clear: When, in the name of security, the executive branch directly challenges so many Bill of Rights protections at once, how much strain can the American legal system absorb? Will basic constitutional rights survive this moment?

What is unfolding in Minnesota is not simply a local enforcement story. It is a test of whether the Constitution as we know it will survive.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Could Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor be compelled to testify in US Epstein investigation?

2026-02-04T13:51:56Z

The release of more Jeffrey Epstein files has again brought Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor and his friendship with the convicted paedophile sex offender back into the spotlight.

The tranche of files contains emails between the former prince, his wife Sarah Ferguson, and Epstein, including after the latter’s house arrest for soliciting a minor for prostitution. Also included is a photo of Mountbatten-Windsor kneeling over an unidentified woman on the ground.

A second woman, said to be in her 20s at the time, has now come forward with allegations that Epstein sent her to the UK for a sexual encounter with Mountbatten-Windsor. The first, Virginia Giuffre, died by suicide in early 2025.

Mountbatten-Windsor continues to deny any allegations of wrongdoing related to Giuffre and Epstein. He was stripped of all his official titles in October 2025.

The latest developments have prompted calls for the former prince to testify in front of the US Congress as part of their investigation into Epstein’s crimes. Last year, a congressional panel wrote to Mountbatten-Windsor to ask him to submit to questioning. Now, ministers including Keir Starmer have suggested that he should voluntarily testify.

This is unlikely to happen, for several reasons.

The first, and most straightforward reason, is that Mountbatten-Windsor can’t be compelled to testify in the US. Typically, when potential witnesses refuse to appear voluntarily, the US Congress or a court can issue a subpoena for their testimony.

This is essentially a demand that a person come testify even if they don’t want to, and if they don’t then they can be subject to some form of punishment (being held in contempt of Congress or court, and possible civil penalties).

However, under US federal law, subpoena power only extends to US citizens or residents, not foreign nationals.

One possible option might be found in the application of a mutual legal assistance in criminal matters treaty that exists between the UK and the US. It calls for one state to assist the other when the latter state is conducting a domestic criminal investigation or prosecution.

The sort of assistance required can include the taking of testimony or a statement from a witness located in the country assisting with the investigation. Should the witness refuse to testify, they would then face punishment under the law of the country providing assistance.

Under this treaty, the US could request that the UK government compel Mountbatten-Windsor’s testimony so that it might then be shared with Congress. The difficulty with this approach is that the UK is permitted to refuse the request for various reasons, including national security interests or other public policy concerns. Past practice regarding secrecy about the monarchy would suggest that either or both bases for refusal could be exercised in this case.

If he testifies

If Mountbatten-Windsor were to voluntarily testify in the US Congressional investigation, could it spell trouble for the rest of the royals?

He is accused of actions that were allegedly done in his private capacity and not as a representative of the crown, so it’s unlikely they could be attributed back to monarchy. In any case, the king is likely more concerned about embarrassment to the institution of the monarchy than to any tangible negative repercussions.

He would likely object to Mountbatten-Windsor testifying, but those objections would more probably revolve around the monarchy’s traditional desire for privacy and not wanting their dirty laundry aired in public (any more than it already has been).

Theoretically, the king may want to reserve the possibility of his brother testifying as a future bargaining chip, should the UK want some form of concession from the US. However, there is no evidence of that happening.

Whether the former prince himself is more exposed, legally, now that he is no longer a royal is a slightly complicated question. Some state officials are protected from prosecution for crimes by personal immunity (immunity ratione personae).

This essentially means they can’t be prosecuted by a foreign court during the time they hold office (but can be prosecuted after leaving office). This principle is applicable in both the UK and the US as customary international law, which means it is binding due to consistent state practice.

Whether this applies with regard to Mountbatten-Windsor really turns on whether his role as prince made him a government official eligible for this sort of immunity. It is usually reserved for very senior members of government and heads of state, so it is highly unlikely that being a “working royal” would qualify.

He might attempt to claim diplomatic immunity under the Vienna convention on diplomatic relations. It could be argued that he is entitled to immunity, either in his capacity as UK special trade envoy between 2001-11, or as a “working royal” representing the UK while abroad.

However, there is no precedent for finding that a member of the monarchy is the functional equivalent of a diplomat – particularly where they lack power to negotiate and make deals with foreign governments.

Other legal possibilities

The real danger to Mountbatten-Windsor is that if he were to voluntarily travel to the US to testify as a witness, he could accidentally incriminate himself and end up getting arrested. Such a case, however, seems unlikely. Presumably, he would obtain legal advice before testifying, giving him a clear idea of what he should or should not say.

The most immediate legal peril he could face is the possibility of prosecution in the UK. Police have announced that they intend to investigate a woman’s claims that she was trafficked to the UK for the purpose of having sex with Mountbatten-Windsor. Should they find sufficient evidence that a crime took place, Mountbatten-Windsor could find himself in the dock.

Despite that, under UK law he still cannot be compelled to testify. However, refusing to do so could be seen by a judge or jury as a mark against him when considering all of the evidence.

Caleb H. Wheeler does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Firefighters face repeat trauma. We learned how to reduce their risk of PTSD

2026-02-04T02:17:11Z

In their day-to-day work, first responders – including police, firefighters, paramedics and lifesavers – often witness terrible things happening to other people, and may be in danger themselves.

For some people, this can lead to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which usually involves intrusive memories and flashbacks, negative thoughts and emotions, feeling constantly on guard, and avoiding things that remind them of the trauma.

But our research – which tested a mobile app focused on building resilience with firefighters – shows PTSD isn’t inevitable. We found depression, anxiety and PTSD symptoms were less likely when firefighters used a mental health program that was self-led, specifically addressed trauma and focused on teaching practical skills.

First responders’ mental health

First responders report high rates of psychiatric disorders and often have symptoms of depression (such as persistent feelings of sadness), anxiety (such as nervousness or restlessness) and post-traumatic stress (including distressing flashbacks).

Sometimes symptoms aren’t severe enough for a diagnosis.

But left untreated,these “sub-clinical” symptoms can escalate into PTSD, which can severely impact day-to-day life. So targeting symptoms early is important.

However, stigma – as well as concerns about confidentiality and career implications – can prevent first responders from seeking help.

What we already knew about building resilience

For the past decade, we have been testing a program designed to give people exposed to traumatic events the skills to manage their distress and foster their own recovery.

The “Skills for Life Adjustment and Resilience” (SOLAR) program is:

skills-based – it teaches people specific strategies and tools to improve their mental health
trauma-informed, meaning it has been designed for people who have been exposed to trauma, and avoids re-traumatisation
and has a psychosocial focus, focusing on what people can do in their relationships, behaviour and thinking to improve their mental health.

Participants complete modules focused on:

the connection between physical health and mental health
staying socially connected
managing strong emotions
engaging and re-engaging in meaningful activities
coming to terms with traumatic events
managing worry and rumination.

The SOLAR program trains coaches to deliver these modules in their communities. Importantly, these coaches don’t necessarily have specific mental health training, such as Australian Red Cross volunteers, community nurses and case workers.

What our new research did

The evidence shows the SOLAR program is effective at improving wellbeing and reducing depression, post-traumatic stress and anxiety symptoms.

But working with firefighters in New South Wales, they told us they wanted a self-led program they could complete confidentially, independently of their employer, and in their own time – a mobile app. So we wanted to test if the program would still be effective delivered this way.

A total of 163 firefighters took part in our recent randomised control trial, either using the app we co-designed with them, or a mood monitoring app.

A mood monitoring app tracks daily emotions to help understand patterns in how someone is feeling. There is evidence to show it can be useful for some people in reducing symptoms.

But this kind of app doesn’t teach a person practical skills that can be applied to different situations. And it does not specifically address stressful or traumatic experiences. So we wanted to test if taking a skills approach made a significant difference.

The app was self-directed, so firefighters could complete modules in their own time. Spark Digital

What we found

Eight weeks after they started using one of the two apps, we followed up with the firefighters.

The study found those who used the SOLAR app had significantly lower symptoms of depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress, compared to those in the mood monitoring group.

We followed up with participants again three months after their post-treatment assessment.

We found:

depression was much lower in the group who learned practical skills about trauma, compared to those who used the mood monitoring app, and
anxiety and post-traumatic stress symptoms had reduced significantly for both groups since starting their program (but there was no real difference between them).

What does this mean?

Both apps improved mental health.

But the results show using the SOLAR app, which focused on building skills and specifically addressing trauma, reduced mental symptoms more quickly. It was especially useful for tackling depression longer term.

Firefighters also told us they liked the app. This is important – an app is only effective when people use it.

Around half of the firefighters started using it completed all the modules. This is much higher than usual for mental health apps. Typically, only around 3% of those who start using a mental health app complete them.

The more modules a firefighter completed, the more their mental health improved.

The takeaway

It’s common for firefighters and other first responders to struggle with mental health symptoms. Our study demonstrates the importance of intervening early and teaching practical skills for resilience, so that those symptoms don’t develop into a disorder such as PTSD.

A program that is self-led, confidential and evidence-based can help protect the mental health of first responders while they do the work they love, protecting us.

Meaghan O'Donnell (Phoenix Australia) receives funding from government funding bodies such as National Health and Medical Research Council, and Department of Veterans' Affairs, and philanthropic bodies such as Wellcome Trust Fund (UK), Latrobe Health Foundation, and Ramsay Health Foundation. Funding for this study in this Conversation article was from icare, NSW.

Tracey Varker (Phoenix Australia) receives funding from government funding bodies such as Department of Veterans' Affairs, and philanthropic foundations such as Latrobe Health Services Foundation. Funding for the study described in this Conversation article was from icare NSW.

The penis evolved to be noticed – but the artful fig leaf has hidden it for centuries

2026-02-03T23:28:20Z

Wawel Royal Castle National Art Collection, Kraków/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY

A new evolutionary study has found human penises are large compared with other primates: for two reasons. The first is reproduction. The second is that size works as a signal, attracting potential mates and intimidating rivals. In evolutionary terms, the penis is big because it is meant to be noticed.

That finding lands awkwardly in a world that has spent centuries hiding, shrinking, censoring or symbolically neutralising the penis whenever it becomes too visible.

A single object captures this tension between biological display and cultural embarrassment: the fig leaf.

The fig leaf’s story begins, as so many Western stories do, in Genesis. Adam and Eve eat from the tree of knowledge, realise they are naked, and stitch fig leaves together to cover themselves. Nakedness becomes linked with moral awareness, guilt and self-consciousness.

Nudity no longer neutral

Early Christian art absorbed this lesson. In late antique mosaics and medieval manuscripts, Adam and Eve clutch leaves over their groins with a mixture of alarm and regret. Nudity is no longer neutral. It signals sin, punishment, or humiliation. The only bodies shown naked are the damned.

Workshop of Giovanni della Robbia Adam and Eve Walters Front Installation. Wikimedia Commons

Then comes a sharp reversal. Ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, rediscovered in Renaissance Italy, presents the naked male body as strong, balanced, and admirable. Heroes, gods, and athletes are unclothed because they have nothing to hide. Their genitals are visible, proportioned, and unremarkable. This is not erotic display so much as confidence made stone.

Michelangelo’s David sits squarely in this tradition. Carved between 1501 and 1504, he is naked, alert and physically present. His body is not idealised into abstraction. It is specific, human, and unmistakably male. Florentines reportedly threw stones when the statue was first installed. Before long, authorities added a garland of metal fig leaves to protect public sensibilities, which remained in place until around the 16th century.

This was not an isolated decision. Over the next century, the Reformation fractured Christian Europe, giving birth to Protestantism, and the Catholic Church doubled down on moral discipline. Naked bodies in art became political liabilities. The Council of Trent’s decrees on religious imagery reflected concerns that the prominent display of naked bodies in sacred art risked drawing attention to human physicality rather than directing devotion towards God. This led to what later historians have called the “Fig Leaf Campaign”.

Across Rome and beyond, sculpted genitals were chipped away, painted over, draped, or concealed with leaves. Michelangelo’s Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel was altered after his death by Daniele da Volterra, who was hired to cover up visible genitalia with drapery. He earned the nickname “the breeches maker” for his efforts.

Classical statues in the Vatican acquired permanent marble underwear. A literal drawer of removed stone penises is rumoured to have existed. Whether or not that is true, the impulse behind it certainly was.

Strikingly, the fig leaf does not erase the penis. It points to it. The cover announces the presence of something that must not be seen. As several writers note, concealment tends to sharpen attention rather than dull it. The fig leaf becomes a visual alarm bell.

Resisting biology

This brings us back to the present. The new evolutionary research argues human penis size evolved partly because it is visible.

For most of our species’ history, before clothes, the penis was on display during daily life. It became a cue others learned to read quickly and unconsciously. Larger size was associated with attractiveness and with competitive threat.

From that perspective, centuries of fig leaves look less like moral refinement and more like cultural resistance to biology. The body insists on signalling. Society keeps trying to mute the signal.

This fig leaf was designed to cover the plaster cast of Michaelangelo’s David presented to Queen Victoria, around 1857. V&A Museum/Wikimedia, CC BY

Victorian Britain provides a late and almost comic example. When Queen Victoria was presented with a plaster cast of David, in around 1857, a detachable fig leaf was hastily produced and kept on standby for royal visits.

The leaf survives today, displayed separately in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The statue stands naked again, but the object designed to hide him has become a museum piece in its own right.

Even now, museums still debate whether to remove historic coverings. Social media platforms struggle to define what kinds of nudity are acceptable. Statues are boxed up for diplomatic visits. The anxiety persists, even if the fig leaf itself has become unfashionable.

Evolutionary biology suggests the human penis became prominent because it mattered socially – but our cultural history shows centuries of effort devoted to pretending it does not. The fig leaf sits at the centre of this contradiction: a small, awkward object carrying an enormous cultural load.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Is NZ defence and intelligence policy aligning with AUKUS in all but name?

2026-02-03T23:00:43Z

NZ Defence Force

Across the Pacific and the Southern Ocean, New Zealand has been trying to strike a careful balance in its defence and surveillance approach.

While strengthening its security partnerships and expanding military capabilities, the government has so far said it is only assessing joining Pillar II of the AUKUS security pact between Australia, the United States and the United Kingdom.

Pillar I of AUKUS involves Australia acquiring nuclear-powered submarines, while Pillar II focuses on cooperation in advanced military technologies, including cyber systems, artificial intelligence, autonomous platforms, undersea capabilities and space-based surveillance.

Yet key documents, including the Defence Capability Plan 2025 and a government procurement process for long-duration aerial surveillance, suggest many of the practical steps Pillar II would involve are already underway.

These far-reaching strategic decisions are being made largely out of public view. And they raise an important question: is New Zealand effectively aligning itself with AUKUS in all but name?

From patrols to permanent surveillance

The Defence Capability Plan is the government’s long-term blueprint for upgrading New Zealand’s military. It proposes a NZ$100–300 million investment in long-range, uncrewed, remotely-piloted aircraft to provide intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance across vast ocean areas.

As part of a broader $14 billion defence overhaul, a further $300–600 million is projected for space-based capabilities. This is aimed at integrating New Zealand within shared satellite networks and increasing operational cooperation with security allies.

In parallel, the Persistent Surveillance (Air) Project tender (which recently closed for submissions) invites industry and academia to help design a system for long-duration surveillance across the southwest Pacific and Southern Ocean, involving aircraft, spacecraft and data-management software.

Taken together, these initiatives signal a shift from periodic surveillance patrols to continuous, networked monitoring. This aligns closely with the concept of “multi-domain maritime awareness” under AUKUS Pillar II.

Mindful of public concern about joining AUKUS and any association with nuclear proliferation or deployment of autonomous weapons systems, successive NZ governments have approached the issue cautiously.

The current government appears to be maintaining this careful line. But the proposed New Zealand Defence Force investments and procurement plans suggest a more substantive shift.

The long-range drones, satellite surveillance, data integration and counter-drone technologies outlined in the Defence Capability Plan closely mirror AUKUS Pillar II priorities.

New Zealand may be avoiding formal alignment for now. But defence officials have already been holding talks with the US, UK and Australia about advanced military technologies and surveillance systems.

The risk of being locked in

These policy shifts undoubtedly have benefits for a small country like New Zealand. High-quality surveillance capabilities boost its strategic value to defence partners and give Wellington a stronger voice in maritime monitoring across the Pacific.

But there are also risks. Research suggests integrating surveillance systems with allied networks can create lasting technical and political dependencies.

In turn, this could narrow New Zealand’s capacity to make independent decisions in the Pacific region, or calibrate its engagement with other regional stakeholders, including China and Pacific Island governments.

Arrangements such as the Indo-Pacific Partnership for Maritime Domain Awareness – involving Australia, India, Japan and the US, known as the “Quad” – allow countries to merge surveillance data and build a “common operating picture” of activity across the region.

The same is true of the Pacific Fusion Centre’s information-sharing network, PacNet #28. The catch is that these surveillance arrangements tend to lock countries in, with one host controlling how data is gathered and filtered.

Embedding NZ in surveillance networks

New Zealanders are broadly supportive of contributing to regional security. But polling suggests they are uneasy about being drawn into distant conflicts or military spending that mainly serve the priorities of larger powers.

Autonomous weapons, AI-assisted targeting and militarised space systems are particularly contentious, raising legal and ethical questions about human control.

Defence officials frequently argue that drones and space-enabled surveillance reduce risks to personnel and enhance humanitarian and disaster-response missions. While this may be true, there remains a need for clearer public discussion about how such technologies are deployed and where limits are being set.

For decades, the New Zealand Defence Force has been valued for its nimbleness and principled diplomacy. But the emerging surveillance approach being shaped through procurement decisions, tenders, space-launch licences and software standards is steadily embedding New Zealand within allied security networks.

The government has assured New Zealanders would be kept informed “at every step” about any future partnership with AUKUS.

Such transparency needs to extend to defence policy and strategy in general, before foreign-designed, militarised surveillance systems become the norm across the region.

Nicola Macaulay does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Olives have been essential to life in Italy for at least 6,000 years – far longer than we thought

2026-02-03T19:09:11Z

How far back does the rich history of Italian olives and oil stretch? My new research, synthesising and reevaluating existing archaeological evidence, suggests olive trees have been exploited for more than 6,000 years. The first Italian olive oil was produced perhaps 4,000 years ago.

The olive was central to ancient life in Italy. Wild and domesticated olives provided edible fruit. By the mid-first millennium BCE into the Roman period, olive oil was used in cooking, medicine, ritual and hygiene.

Table olives are rich in calories, lipids, vitamins and minerals, and high in calcium. Olive wood is dense, and was used in crafting, construction and for fuel. The waste from pressing olives (pomace) was also a remarkably popular domestic and industrial fuel source in antiquity, burning at a higher temperature for longer and with less smoke than charcoal.

Uses of the olive tree and its fruit were diverse.

During the early Roman Empire (around the first century CE) it is possible Rome’s immediate hinterland produced 9.7 million litres of olive oil per year.

Today, Italy remains among the top olive producing regions in the Mediterranean.

A deep history of olive exploitation

Evidence from ancient pollen shows that olive trees were present in Italy during the Pleistocene, more than 11,000 years ago. These were likely wild olives.

In order to think about exploitation and cultivation, it is important to discern human interaction with the plant and its fruit.

Olive tree charcoal, suggestive of human exploitation, has been found in Mesolithic layers from the seventh and sixth millennia BCE (8,000 years ago) in Sicily and Apulia in the south of Italy.

In northern Italy, the Arene Candide cave in Liguria revealed olive charcoal along with quern stones and sickle blades, possibly used for rudimentary olive harvesting and processing. People at this time began to shape the landscape of wild olive trees by using wood for fuel, collecting wild fruit or pruning off branches for fodder.

The Arene Candide cave in Liguria, where olive charcoal and tools were found dating to the sixth millennium BCE. Capricornis crispus/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

An exponential increase in evidence occurs in the Neolithic (6000–3500 BCE), hinting at more intensive use of the olive tree.

But our earliest olive stones, which provide more convincing evidence of olive fruit consumption, are not found in an occupation context until the Middle Neolithic (around 5000–4000 BCE). Much of this early material comes from Calabria, Apulia and Sardinia, with only limited glimpses in central Italy and the Veneto.

Despite accumulating evidence, no conclusive signs yet exist for the Neolithic production of olive oil in Italy.

The earliest olive oil in Italy?

Organic residue analysis has detected plant oils, perhaps from olives, in an Early Bronze Age (2000 BCE) large clay storage jar (pithos) from Castelluccio, Sicily. But there remain challenges in our ability to discern between different types of oils using this technique, and preservation in the Mediterranean is rarely ideal.

Bronze Age ceramic storage jar (pithos) perhaps used to store olive oil, found at Castelluccio, Sicily. Fabrizio Garrisi/Wikimedia Commons

More potential indicators for olive oil have been found in ceramic storage jars from Broglio di Trebisacce, Calabria, and Roca Vecchia, Apulia, in the mid-second millennium BCE.

The Bronze Age also saw olive cultivation expand into marginal lands where the wild olive did not grow, for example at Tufariello, Campania, around 1700 BCE. There was clearly significant interest in the exploitation of olives in Bronze Age Italy, which likely included the production of oil at least on a small scale.

Iron Age developments

Italian regions experienced different trajectories around 1000 BCE. Parts of southern Italy show declines in olive cultivation, perhaps linked to changing economic and cultural events. Sites on the Ionian and Adriatic coast maintain olive charcoal, stones, oil residues and even imprints of olive leaves on ceramics.

Possibly the earliest stone rotary olive millstone in the Mediterranean was discovered at Incoronata, Basilicata, dating to the seventh century BCE.

The invention of rotary mills signalled an important change in processing power and efficiency. Mills crushed olives, separating skin from flesh before they were pressed for oil. Although they are generally thought to originate in the Aegean, where examples from the sixth and fifth centuries BCE exist, the find from Incoronata might instead suggest a central Mediterranean origin.

Reconstructed stone rotary olive mill (trapetum) originally from Boscoreale, now at Pompeii. Heinz-Josef Lücking/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

Recent research demonstrates external cultures, like Phoenicians or Greeks, were not solely responsible for the introduction of olive cultivation or oil production. This follows similar conclusions reached for viticulture and winemaking in Italy.

Cultural exchange through trade and colonisation brought different knowledge, technology and ideas of production around oleiculture and oil production, creating forums for local innovation.

These forces energised already-intensifying cultivation. By around 600–500 BCE, Etruscan communities began to play a key role in the systematic establishment of groves and the use of olives in central Italy.

Roman consolidation and scaling up

The Roman period saw olive cultivation pushed well past its natural bioclimatic limits. Olive trees were grown at higher altitudes, latitudes and in more arid regions.

Production occurred across much of the Italian peninsula, even in subalpine regions and marginal lands.

Archaeological and ancient environmental material illustrate a substantial oil-producing habit and emerging market in Roman Republican and Imperial Italy – perhaps on a larger scale than previously thought.

Some oil production facilities may have had four or more presses. This illustrates exceptional processing scale, such as the elite villa of Vacone in central Italy.

A facility in Apulia, used from the first century BCE onwards, had an oil cellar with perhaps 47 enormous clay jars (dolia), potentially storing 25,000–35,000 litres.

Oil production also occurred at a smaller-scale in urban centres and isolated rural locations. The discovery of a production site at Case Nuove, Tuscany, provides a rare glimpse into modest scale olive processing using rudimentary technologies.

As analytical and scientific techniques improve, the ancient history of olive oil in Italy will continue to evolve, pushing our knowledge further back in time and adding new detail and nuance.

Emlyn Dodd does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

China’s new literary star had 19 jobs before ‘writer’ – including bike courier and bakery apprentice

2026-02-03T19:08:35Z

Wavie/Unsplash

Delivering parcels is just one of the 19 different jobs Hu Anyan cycles through over 20 years, as tracked in his Chinese bestseller I Deliver Parcels in Beijing. He also tries his luck working as a convenience-store clerk, a cleaner and in a bike shop, a warehouse, a vegetable market and even an anime design company – always at the very bottom of the ladder.

Review: I Deliver Parcels in Beijing – Hu Anyan (Allen Lane)

Some jobs last weeks, some days, some barely survive the training shift. Bosses disappear, wages evaporate, contracts turn out to be imaginary and rules are invented on the spot. With a blend of hope and resignation, Hu repeatedly comes to realise the true qualifications for survival in the city are a strong back, a flexible sense of dignity and a high tolerance for absurdity.

Hu Anyan. Penguin

Hu, now aged 47, grew up in Guangzhou, a major city in south China. He has worked in cities big and small, including a brief stint across the border in Vietnam.

They are “places with apparent unlimited potential for development, yet I seemed to have gotten nowhere,” he writes. They promise opportunity, then charge rent on his naivety and optimism. He seems to move through the world with a certain innocence about how it truly works, yet possesses an uncommon capacity for deep, searching reflection.

He writes with dry humour and an eye for the absurd – security guards guarding nothing, managers creating chaos and delivery algorithms ruling lives with godlike indifference. But he also writes like a field researcher issued a hard hat instead of a research grant. His prose has a forensic, documentary precision – wages counted to the cents, shifts timed, fines itemised, and injustices recorded without melodrama.

When he completed his trial as a parcel deliverer, he writes:

an assistant foreman […] told me that although the probationary period wasn’t paid, he would make it up by giving me three extra days of vacation. […] But it wasn’t even a month before the same guy had a dispute with the other foreman and quit. No one mentioned those paid days off ever again.

China’s ‘development didn’t suit me’

This reporting of everyday injustice at work is peppered with occasional philosophical reflections on human nature and the meaning of work. He calmly observes of mean and unhelpful co-workers: “Selflessness may be a noble virtue, but I suppose it isn’t fundamental to being human.”

The real charm is his tone. Even when dealing with exploitation, Hu delivers it with light-footed sarcasm, letting absurdity do the heavy lifting. Writing about heavy workload in the delivery company he works for, he simply comments “capitalists aren’t known for sympathising with workers”.

At times, he reveals his battles with social anxiety, depression and occasional bouts of illness. In one memorable scene, he describes going back and forth between hospitals, community clinics and small medical offices, carefully comparing prices before settling on where to get an IV drip to bring his fever down.

That kind of careful penny-pinching, being unable to justify spending even on one’s own health, feels painfully familiar to anyone trying to survive on very little.

Hu’s story is a personal one about structural inequality and everyday injustice. But he doesn’t sound resentful that China’s economic growth hasn’t benefited him. He just states, matter-of-factly, that China’s “development didn’t suit me”.

His personal account also functions as a practical lesson in the political economy of labour. In that sense, the lesson is not uniquely Chinese. Rather than relying on theories of profit and value, he uses his experience as a courier to show how the gig economy of late capitalism operates globally.

He meticulously calculates how the supposed average monthly pay of 7,000 yuan a month (around A$1,435) he could expect to earn translates in reality. It means working 26 days a month, 11 hours a day – to earn 30 yuan (A$6.16) an hour and 0.5 yuan (ten cents) a minute.

I had to complete a delivery every four minutes in order not to run at a loss. If that becomes unworkable, I would have to consider a change of job.

‘Oddly soothing’

For urban educated readers, both in China and elsewhere, who are crushed by emails, mortgages, childcare and performance anxiety, it can be oddly soothing to read about a life lived under more precarious conditions.

Hu’s calm endurance could work like a psychological release valve – things are hard, yes, but not this hard. The result lets middle-class readers feel ethically awake without feeling accused. This makes the book as reassuring as it is unsettling.

I Deliver Parcels in Beijing is also popular with Hu’s social peers – the urban underclasses and rural migrant workers: it shows that their struggles and small victories are worthy of being recorded and remembered.

A key, albeit implicit, theme circulating the book is unequal access to social mobility. Each of the 19 jobs Hu cycled through may look different on the surface, but rather than climbing a social ladder, he merely shuffles horizontally, stagnating on the same rung: “twelve years have passed, and with the same workload as before, my pay was somehow still lower”.

There is much musing about the meaning of freedom in the book. But freedom, for Hu, is not about the right to vote, but to choose who one wants to be, rather than what society expects one to become.

There’s no cataloguing of human rights abuses – the familiar trope of English-language coverage of China. Nor is the book a sociological exercise by an intellectual, for whom Hu’s world might be an object of study. And it certainly isn’t some diasporic Chinese writer’s rendition of China, often calibrated to the expectations of festival-going, liberal middle-class readers abroad.

Instead, the book speaks from inside the experience it describes, with no apparent desire to translate itself – at least initially – into the moral or political idioms readers might expect. That’s precisely where its quiet power lies.

It doesn’t tell you what to think about China – it shows you a life you would otherwise almost never get to see. The translation, superbly done, helps enhance this objective.

The luxury of being noticed

Like worker-poet Zheng Xiaoqiong and worker-photographer Zhan Youbing, Hu the worker-writer becomes a self-appointed “surrogate ethnographer”, patiently recording rules, rhythms, hierarchies, and survival strategies from the inside. He produces not theory, but something more valuable: reality, rendered with authenticity and credibility.

“I often sat in Jingtong Roosevelt Plaza after finishing my deliveries and watched the passers-by and the salespeople in stores, and the different delivery drivers back and forth,” he writes. “Mostly I supposed they were numb, thinking nothing at all, mechanically going about their days like I once did.”

Social researchers outside China dream of accessing the trove of evidence-based, granular, situated knowledge this book contains – but they rarely do.

Hu is one of the millions of internal labour migrants in China who struggle to survive at the bottom of the social ladder – and a rare case of a worker who became a recognised writer. He has published two books since this one.

His rise was not the result of structural change, but exceptional literary talent and sharp intellectual acuity. Meanwhile, the great majority of China’s urban underclasses and rural migrant workers remain locked in the kind of precarious, exhausting existence Hu describes – without the chance to turn their experiences into art, and without the luxury of being noticed at all.

Wanning Sun does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Trump wants Ukraine to give up the Donbas in return for security guarantees. It could be fatal for Kyiv

2026-02-03T17:31:55Z

There is a major sticking point often overlooked in the ceasefire negotiations between Ukraine and Russia currently being held in Abu Dhabi. This relates to the fact that, as part of any agreement, Kyiv is being asked to give up the entire Donbas region in eastern Ukraine.

If it does so, it will also be giving up the strategic positions that have prevented major advances by the Russian military for many months now. This is the significant line of defensive fortifications across the Donbas, known as the “Donbas line”. It’s Ukraine’s equivalent to the Maginot line of forts which were France’s main line of defence against Germany before the second world war.

The “Anchorage formula” agreed by the US president, Donald Trump, and Russia president, Vladimir Putin, in Alaska late last year calls for Ukrainian forces to abandon the areas of western Donbas they currently hold. Washington is now talking up the idea of establishing a “free economic zone” or “de-militarised zone” which would cover the whole of the Donbas, including those portions currently occupied by Russian forces.

This would mean Ukraine abandoning the Donbas line. The system integrates at least seven distinct defensive layers that any attacking force must penetrate sequentially to achieve effect.

These include minefields, anti-tank ditches, anti-tank obstacles (“dragons’ teeth”), bunkers, trench lines and anti-drone defences. Such obstacles can either physically halt assaulting Russian forces or “canalise” them into swampy or otherwise impassible ground or into pre-arranged kill zones, wherein fires (mortar and artillery) can be used to destroy Russian formations.

One of the most critical lines runs through the embattled town of Pokrovsk, which has been under constant Russian assault since early 2025. Lose Pokrovsk and the Ukrainians will then more than likely also lose the important city of Donetsk. Thus Pokrovsk has been referred to as the “gateway to Donetsk”.

The Donbas line took years to build and to perfect. It is very sophisticated. It would be a massive strategic blow for the Ukrainians if they were forced to give it up and pull back.

In essence, the Russian demand that Ukrainian forces vacate the western Donbas can also be seen as a demand that they likewise give up, in the shape of this Donbas line, their one true means of protecting not only the western Donbas but also, arguably, the whole of the rest of Ukraine.

Who can be trusted?

If Kyiv were to accede to Russian demands and abandon the Donbas line, then this would only help bring about a lasting peace if, of course, trust could be placed in the Russians to keep their side of the bargain. They would need to cease all their assaults across Ukraine and themselves “de-militarise” the area of the eastern Donbas they currently control.

But Putin has a history of reneging on deals. Anything agreed now by Kyiv in Abu Dhabi is likely, as respected Washington-based thinktank the Institute for the Study of War points out, to suffer the same fate. This seems to certainly be the view of many on the Ukrainian side.

As Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, himself recently put it, “I don’t trust Putin”. He has good reason for doubting the Russian president’s bona fides. Russia was a signatory to the 1994 Budapest Memorandum alongside the US, UK and France by which those powers provided assurances for Ukraine’s sovereignty and territorial integrity in exchange for Kyiv giving up its arsenal of nuclear weapons.

This didn’t stop Russia invading. Nor did the two Minsk accords in 2014 and 2015 which aimed to stop the fighting between Russian-backed separatists and the Ukrainian military in the Donbas region.

In the event of any peace deal being struck between Moscow and Kyiv, Ukraine’s western allies have offered what they are calling “robust security guarantees”. These would be provided by a “coalition of the willing” made up of more than 30 countries, mainly from within Europe.

What’s on the table

In terms of what these promises might actually mean, there is a proposal for a three-tier mechanism. A Russian breach of the ceasefire would initially trigger a diplomatic warning, as well as allowing Ukraine to respond militarily.

The second tier would be provided by the coalition of the willing, primarily the UK and France, which plan to send troops to Ukraine as part of the deal, but also many EU members plus Norway, Iceland and Turkey.

The third tier would be a military response from the US. But it’s been reported that the US has made its participation in any security guarantees contingent on the agreement of a ceasefire deal which gives Russia control of the “entire Donbas region in eastern Ukraine”.

A further issue here is that Moscow is unlikely to agree to the presence of any Nato troops as official security guarantors. Moscow has said as much, insisting that any foreign troops in Ukraine would be a “legitimate target”.

Would western governments forces really commit their troops into a situation where they might become targets – leading perhaps to a wider war?

The whole idea of Ukraine abandoning its Donbas line is fraught with difficulties. For this is not just a question of Ukraine trading land for peace. It is more fundamentally a question of trading land and significant defensive lines for the promise of peace.

The original version of the Maginot line did not save France in 1940. It was bypassed by German forces moving through Belgium to outflank the Maginot fortifications. The danger for Ukraine is that its own Maginot line could itself be bypassed if it accedes to Russian demands at the negotiating table in Abu Dhabi.

Can Zelensky really give up the Donbas line that is protecting his entire country and can he really rely on security guarantees from western states that may yet prove equivocal? As one Ukrainian official told Reuters recently, to give up remaining positions in the Donbas region would be “suicide”.

Diabetes care in NZ: thousands of patient records reveal who’s being left behind

2026-02-03T17:27:59Z

Getty Images

For the tens of thousands of New Zealanders who live with type 2 diabetes, managing the chronic condition can start to feel like keeping score.

A patient is given a list of numbers by their doctor. Blood sugar, blood pressure and cholesterol levels are tracked closely, with targets designed to reduce the risk of complications such as heart attacks, kidney failure, blindness and early death.

In theory, those targets apply equally to everyone. In practice, they are far harder to reach for some New Zealanders than others.

Using health records from more than 57,000 adults with type 2 diabetes, our newly published study found Māori and Pacific people are much less likely than New Zealand Europeans to meet key clinical targets, even when they are seeing a doctor regularly.

The same pattern holds for people living in more deprived neighbourhoods and for many rural patients.

Consider HbA1c (glycated haemoglobin) tests. These measure average blood sugar levels over the past three months. A lower result is better. But fewer than half of all people in the study hit the recommended targets for HbA1c.

Among Māori, just 43% met the targets. Among Pacific people, the rate was lower still, at 36%. By contrast, around one in two Asian and New Zealand European patients were at target. We also found the proportion of people not meeting targets also rises dramatically relative to social deprivation.

These disparities can come with dire consequences. Over time, high blood sugar damages blood vessels and nerves, driving up the risk of amputations.

Māori and Pacific people face these complications earlier and more often than other New Zealanders, often due to being diagnosed much earlier in life. The same pattern shows up for blood pressure and cholesterol, key predictors of strokes and heart attacks.

Clear targets, unequal outcomes

At first glance, they can look like the result of individual choices. A common refrain is that people are simply not trying hard enough. But that explanation doesn’t hold up. It assumes a level playing field, which does not exist.

Most health targets are set as if everyone has easy access to care: a regular doctor, reliable transport and enough income to support healthier choices. But managing diabetes demands more than willpower. It involves regular appointments, blood tests, adjusting medications and building long-term relationships with clinicians.

That may be easy to write into a guideline, but it is much harder if a patient lives far away, can’t get time off work or is juggling transport, childcare and tight budgets.

For patients in rural areas, a routine appointment can mean taking half a day off work and spending hours on the road, along with the cost of fuel. Specialist services are often even further away. With ongoing workforce shortages, continuity of care can be difficult to maintain.

Many patients end up seeing a different doctor or nurse each visit, which makes it hard to build any kind of relationship with the person managing their care. For Māori and Pacific patients, this lack of continuity can compound care that already feels rushed or culturally unsafe.

When people do not feel heard, it becomes harder to stay engaged. Missed appointments are often labelled as “disengagement”, when they are more accurately a reasonable response to a system that does not fit people’s lives.

Newer diabetes medicines that protect the heart and kidneys are now available, but access is not always straightforward. Although these drugs are funded in New Zealand, tight eligibility rules and follow-up requirements mean many people who qualify never receive them.

Others stop taking them because of side effects, cost, or uncertainty about how the medicines are meant to help.

Cost matters, too. Even in a publicly funded system, people still face co-payments for GP visits, prescriptions and transport. For families already stretched by housing and food costs, diabetes care must compete with everything else.

Accordingly, people living in more deprived areas face greater challenges keeping glucose at optimal levels, regardless of motivation.

What the targets are really telling us

Over time, these small frictions accumulate. Blood sugar creeps up, blood pressure stays high, and targets are missed. The system records a “failure”, but that failure is not evenly distributed.

Clinical targets developed under ideal conditions are not neutral when applied universally. They remain useful, but only if there is honesty about what they capture. In practice, they often reflect how well the health system is working.

More equitable diabetes care would look different: seeing patients closer to home, longer appointments and support that includes whānau as well as individuals. It would mean removing cost barriers, ensuring continuity and investing in rural and kaupapa Māori services alongside urban hospitals.

Read this way, diabetes targets become indicators of system performance. Right now, they show where care is accessible and effective – and where inequity persists. Ignoring these signals risks embedding inequity for another generation.

Lynne Chepulis receives funding from the Health Research Council of New Zealand

Sara Mustafa does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Not an artefact, but an ancestor: why a German university is returning a Māori taonga

2026-02-03T13:17:31Z

Restitution debates – the question of whether a cultural object should be returned from a museum or other collection to a person or community – often begin with a deceptively simple question: who owns an object?

In colonial contexts, this question rarely has a clear answer. Histories of acquisition are often incomplete, disputed and overwhelmingly recorded from European perspectives. Legal documentation, where it exists at all, usually reflects unequal power relations rather than mutual consent. As a result, many restitution claims cannot be resolved through law alone.

This raises a fundamental question: should the spiritual, social and ancestral significance of an object for its community of origin outweigh unresolved legal arguments about possession?

The case of the Hinematioro pou, which is now being returned from the University of Tübingen to the Māori community Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti on the east coast of New Zealand’s north island, illustrates a restitution process grounded in cultural values. It shows what happens when decisions are guided primarily by spiritual meaning and relational responsibility, rather than by legal uncertainty surrounding colonial acquisition.

A pou is a carved wooden pillar that acts as a marker for tribal boundaries, stories or ancestors. The Hinematioro pou is an early carved panel depicting a standing ancestral figure.

For the Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti, the pou is neither a historical artefact nor a work of art in the western sense. It is the material presence of an ancestor, Hinematioro, who was an ariki (high-ranking leader). The pou is part of a living social order, not a testimony to a distant past.

Within Māori cultural logic, such an object is a taonga: a treasure that carries not only material, but also spiritual, social and genealogical value. Taonga possess mana and mauri – agency and life force – and require ritual relationships as well as responsibility.

This meaning became clear when the pou returned in 2019, for the first time in over 250 years, to Ūawa (Tolaga Bay). It was met with a formal pōwhiri (welcome ceremony) with singing, speeches, tears and embraces – as if a long-absent relative had come home.

Witnessing this special moment made us and many others who were part of the event understand that the question of the pou’s future location is not a museological one for the community, but an existential one. It is not about possession, but about relationship.

How the taonga came to Germany

It is not possible to conclusively reconstruct how the taonga came to Europe. What is certain is that, in October 1769, it was taken from Ūawa to Europe aboard the HMS Endeavour during James Cook’s first Pacific voyage.

The panel is widely regarded as one of the earliest surviving carved pou associated with Māori chiefly genealogies to have entered European collections. This occurred within a colonial context of profound power asymmetries.

The Watering Place in Tolaga Bay, Ōpoutama, Cooks Cove sketch by James Cook 1769. British Museum, London

It is also not possible to establish how the pou was transferred. A range of possibilities exists, including gifting, coerced handover, exchange or theft. European sources provide no clear evidence, and perspectives from the source community are not sufficiently recognised in Europe. Therefore, a lack of documented violence cannot be taken as evidence of a voluntary transfer.

The object’s later path to Tübingen can only be partially traced. It may have circulated through several 19th-century scientific and collecting networks connected to the Cook expedition.

What is certain is that, in 1937, the pou entered the Ethnological Collection of the University of Tübingen through Emma von Luschan (1864–1941, wife to the anthropologist, explorer, archaeologist and ethnographer, Felix von Luschan) when their collection was curated by the anthropologist and ethnologist Augustin Krämer.

A turning point came in the 1990s, when the panel was identified using a drawing from the Cook expedition held at the British Library. What proved decisive, however, was the establishment of direct relationships with the Hauiti Iwi (tribe or people).

In the following years, close cooperation developed between the University of Tübingen and the Hauiti Iwi. In 2019 the pou was loaned back to the Māori. A jointly curated exhibition Te Pou o Hinematioro (2025–26) at Hohentübingen Castle back in Germany followed – an expressions of a partnership in which trust could grow. The restitution of the pou is therefore not the outcome of conflict, but the result of a long-term relationship that deepened during the exhibition process.

From a legal perspective, the university was not obliged to return the object. Under German civil law, the pou is considered university property, and no binding restitution framework exists for colonial contexts.

Nevertheless, political approaches to colonial collection material in Germany have shifted in recent years. Recent national guidelines encourage transparency, provenance research, dialogue with source communities and restitution as a possible outcome. This reflects a shift away from narrow legal ownership toward acknowledging colonial power imbalances in collection histories.

Decisions about restitution are primarily political and institutional in nature. These decisions raise questions of responsibility: what obligations do present-day collections have towards the circumstances in which their holdings were acquired, and what role do institutions wish to play in global debates on heritage, memory and justice? Universities, with their extensive collections and deep involvement in colonial knowledge production, are particularly affected by these issues.

Where legal histories are inconclusive – as they often are in colonial contexts – restitution cannot be decided by ownership alone. For source communities to be genuine partners, their social, spiritual and ancestral relationships with heritage must be recognised. Otherwise, restitution debates risk perpetuating the very hierarchies it aims to dismantle.

Polls are snapshots, not predictions: how to read them critically this election year

2026-02-03T01:00:05Z

With nine months to go, how much can opinion polls tell us about the general election on November 7? Short answer: not much.

Based solely on polls, no one could have predicted the past three elections this early in the year they were held. Trends shifted over the subsequent months, and events (especially COVID in 2020) intervened to shake things up.

Each poll is a snapshot of past public opinion – and it’s out of focus, due to statistically inevitable sampling error. A sample of 1,000 people won’t exactly resemble the whole eligible population, and the percentage of “undecided” voters often goes unreported.

Researchers have an incentive to produce results that are as accurate as possible, but statistical variance happens. Each poll is an estimate. And a small variation between two polls by one or two percentage points is “noise”, not “signal”.

We get a picture of how party preferences have shifted by looking at trends across a number of polls. But past trends aren’t a sound guide to future trends.

What are recent polls telling us?

The Research Association New Zealand’s Political Polling Code requires that projections of the numbers of seats for each party “should state that polls do not predict – they measure a point in time”.

I’d add that no one can “measure” opinions in the precise ways we measure distances and times. An opinion isn’t an object in space.

So, what can we say recent polls indicate, rather than measure?

They seem to show that if an election had been held recently, National would have won fewer party votes than in the 2023 election. Labour may have done better than National, but been let down by potential coalition partners the Greens and Te Pāti Māori.

It’s unclear whether or not that hypothetical election could have led to a change of government. Polls held in the weeks immediately before elections are normally pretty close to the election results. But voter turnout can upset that.

A representative sample of eligible people in a survey may not demographically match the population that actually casts their votes.

Unexpectedly high turnout in 2020, for instance, meant polls in the month before the election underestimated Labour and overestimated National.

All the same, political observers can use polls as indicators of where things have been heading. As I write, none of the parties, except NZ First, would be pleased with their recent polling, on average.

NZ First has had results of 9% or more, improving on its previous election result of 6.1%. Labour’s gradual rise over 2025 appeared to be at the expense of the two smaller left-wing parties, however.

Do polls influence election results?

Opinion polls can have self-fulfilling or “bandwagon” effects on people’s voting behaviour. But there’s no A-causes-B theory that allows us to predict whether, or by how much, that will happen. The effects could go in different directions for different people.

If polls show one candidate is way ahead, it may motivate me to vote for that person (to join the bandwagon). Or I might vote for another candidate (to support the underdog). Or I might not vote at all (as it’s a forgone conclusion).

In a Mixed Member Proportional (MMP) election, a party that’s been polling below the 5% threshold and isn’t likely to win an electorate seat may get caught in a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Reluctant to “waste” their votes on that party, people may choose another – making it even harder for that party.

People also ask: who will work with whom in government? They may reason that a vote for one party means effectively voting to help put another party into government as well – which may or may not seem desirable.

Because of the potential for polls to lead public opinion rather than follow it, New Zealand bans the publication of polls on election day itself but not during the two-week advance-voting period.

But blackout periods are common in Europe and Latin America, and may be for as long as two weeks, as in Italy.

There’s also a risk that an unscrupulous actor could publish a false poll result in an effort to shift choices or suppress turnout, and that’s one reason why the research industry has a (self-regulated) code of conduct.

Past trends or future outcomes?

In a free society, however, the state shouldn’t prohibit research firms from doing surveys, or media from reporting the results.

Polls can be informative for voters, and a useful part of the democratic process. They also give the parties feedback about their performance (or perceived performance) between elections.

But they can be unhelpful when framed by media in sensationalist or biased ways.

People should be left to make up their minds about which candidate or party best represents them, rather than view an election as a contest narrated in terms of who’s up and who’s down.

In the end, we should read the polls and the media critically, and not take things on trust. It always pays to check, for example, who’s done the survey, who’s sponsored it and what the methodology was.

Above all, remember that opinion polls only indicate past trends; they don’t predict future outcomes.

Grant Duncan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

As Australia’s online harm crackdown reshapes the debate, NZ must find its own path

2026-02-02T19:06:32Z

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Around the world, lawmakers are grappling with how to better protect young people from online harms such as cyberbullying, sexual exploitation and AI-generated “deepfake” images.

Recent reforms overseas – notably Australia’s landmark move to restrict young people’s access to social media – have sharpened debate about how far governments should go.

Despite past and current efforts – including a government inquiry shortly due to report its final findings – New Zealand arguably lags other developed countries in tackling a problem that is growing more serious and complex by the year.

In 2026, the question facing the government is whether to cautiously follow overseas models, or to use this moment to develop a response better suited to its own legal, social and cultural context.

What is online harm?

Online harm can take many forms, including exposure to illegal material, AI-driven racial bias, and the non-consensual sharing of intimate images. As Netsafe highlights, online abuse and harassment can unfold across social media, messaging apps, email and text, and often involves repeated or sustained behaviour.

New Zealand’s legislative response has developed gradually over the past decade. A major step was the Harmful Digital Communications Act 2015, which introduced civil and criminal penalties for serious online abuse and established Netsafe as the approved agency for complaints and dispute resolution.

Since then, governments have attempted broader reform. In 2018, the Department of Internal Affairs launched a wide-ranging regulatory review, followed in 2021 by the Safer Online Services and Media Platforms review, which aimed to modernise online safety protections and oversight.

However, that process stalled and in May 2024 the review was terminated by Internal Affairs Minister Brooke van Velden. A year later, the government launched a new inquiry into “the harm young New Zealanders encounter online”.

In the meantime, New Zealand’s fragmented and increasingly outdated regulatory framework is struggling to keep pace with fast-evolving digital risks.

What can NZ learn from other countries?

Many submissions to the government’s latest inquiry urged New Zealand to learn from overseas experience, while others noted that not all of those solutions would work at home.

InternetNZ argued that as a small and relatively late mover, New Zealand can “piggyback” on reforms in larger markets, so long as it ensured they reflect the country’s “unique local context, both socially and practically”. The Inclusive Aotearoa Collective – Tāhono similarly stressed the need to protect sovereignty.

Others argued New Zealand should draw on its reputation for innovation and develop its own culturally appropriate approaches.

Amokura Panoho of Pou Tangata Online Safety, for instance, called for updating the Harmful Digital Communications Act to address emerging AI harms such as deepfakes, and creating new Māori-led reporting pathways tailored for young Māori to seek help. Advocates argue this could allow New Zealand to anticipate future risks rather than chase them.

Australia’s move to ban social media for under-16s has loomed large over the inquiry. While France and the United Kingdom are considering similar bans, there are concerns blanket age restrictions can be blunt instruments and that young people often find ways around age-verification systems.

This international focus was reinforced in the inquiry’s interim report, which drew heavily on models from Australia, the UK, Ireland and the European Union. But submitters also pointed to other lessons, including the UK’s Internet Watch Foundation, South Korea’s online safety framework and California’s youth privacy laws.

A further complication is that many international reforms remain largely untested. Australia’s Online Safety Act is still being rolled out in phases, while the EU’s Digital Services Act only entered full force in early 2024. As a result, evidence about their effectiveness remains limited.

The case for a national regulator

One of the clearest options emerging from the inquiry is the creation of a national online safety regulator: a model already adopted in several comparable countries, including Australia, the UK and Ireland.

In the UK, communications regulator Ofcom oversees the Online Safety Act 2023, while Australia’s eSafety Commissioner was granted expanded powers under the Online Safety Act 2021.

A 2021 Department of Internal Affairs report concluded that a central regulator in New Zealand could streamline oversight, provide a single point of contact and improve enforcement. The inquiry’s interim report reached a similar conclusion, pointing to the benefits of coordinated regulation and proactive “safety by design” rules.

But reform has been slowed by political caution, particularly around concerns about freedom of expression. The government’s preference for light-touch regulation has left gaps – notably in addressing emerging harms such as sexualised deepfakes – prompting ACT MP Laura McClure’s member’s bill aimed at closing some of those loopholes.

The inquiry’s final report, and the government’s response to it, offer a rare opportunity to reset direction. The challenge will be to move beyond piecemeal reform and design a system capable of keeping pace with rapid technological change, while placing the voices of young people and Māori at its centre.

Claire Henry receives funding from the Australian Research Council as a DECRA Fellow. She previously received a research grant from InternetNZ (2018) for an unrelated project on "Preventing child sexual offending online through effective digital media."

Michael S. Daubs was commissioned by the Department of Internal Affairs to co-author the 2021 report with Peter Thompson.

From statement sleeves to the codpiece: 5 fashions which should come back from Tudor England

2026-02-02T19:06:05Z

Portrait of Elizabeth I of England, 1588. Woburn Abbey/Wikimedia Commons

There are few dynasties in history as well-known as the Tudors. From Henry VIII’s six wives to Elizabeth I’s defeat of the Spanish Armada, the Tudors continue to capture imaginations.

While sex, power and public execution provide endless entertainment, if you ask me, the enduring popularity of the Tudors is down to one factor – their magnificent fashion.

Dress was serious business in Tudor England. Clothing was its own language with each textile, colour and style carrying a different meaning. This allowed people to display their identity, status, and even send political messages.

From the Elizabethan Ruff to Henry VIII’s codpiece, here are five Tudor fashions which should make a comeback.

1. The linen shift

Sounds like a boring place to start, but the linen shift was a staple in every Tudor wardrobe.

Linen was inexpensive, breathable and could be laundered daily. Contrary to popular belief, the Tudors were obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene. Linen absorbs sweat, bodily fluids and was believed to protect the skin from diseases such as the plague. Wearing and changing your linen shift daily was the best way to stay clean and protected from infection.

The collar on this linen shift, from around 1540, was larger so it could be seen under the outer garments. ©Victoria and Albert Museum, London, CC BY-NC

A fashionable trend of the Tudor period saw the collar on the linen shift become larger so it could be seen under the outer garments. A clean collar demonstrated that you could afford to change your shift and therefore had good hygiene.

You know what they say, cleanliness is close to godliness.

2. The ruff

If there is a single item of clothing that is most redolent of the Tudors, it’s the ruff.

The ruff was a pleated collar made from linen or lace and given its iconic stiff shape with starch. During the reign of Elizabeth I, large lace ruffs became an elaborate status symbol because they were difficult to set and impractical to wear which meant you had to have a lot of servants helping you.

Large, impractical ruffs – like the one in this 1615 portrait of a woman, possibly Elizabeth Pope – were a status symbol in Tudor England. Yale Center for British Art

For Elizabeth I, the ruff was a significant source of power. The queen’s opulent ruffs commanded deference and situated her as the ultimate object in any room. In Elizabeth’s court, people came to her, not the other way around.

Dior gave the ruff a modern twist in their 2025 Fall–Winter collection, so it looks like they are already making a comeback.

3. Statement sleeves

In the Tudor period, sleeves were a separate garment that were attached while getting dressed in the morning. This allowed the wearer to pair them with different outfits and play around with fabrics, colours and styles.

The most popular style was the trumpet sleeve. This sleeve was narrow at the top of the arm and dramatically expanded in a cone shape over the elbow. A second sleeve would then appear underneath at the forearm.

This painting of Elizabeth I before her accession is dated between 1546 and 1547. The sleeves give the outfit a dramatic and voluminous appearance. Royal Collection/Wikimedia Commons

This gave any outfit a dramatic and voluminous appearance with layers of luxurious textiles. See how this beautiful design looked on a young Elizabeth I.

A modern take on statement sleeves would be a great way to spice up any outfit.

4. Decorative techniques

Tudor tailors used a range of decorative techniques when making clothes. Paning, pinking and cutwork were just some of the more elaborate modes of garment construction but the most common was slashing.

Slashing involved cutting small slits into outer garments of velvet to reveal an inner layer of white silk. The layering and contrast of different colours not only created a striking and vibrant image but showed off your ownership of expensive textiles.

In this portrait of Henry VIII from between 1540–1547, you can see slashing on his doublet and sleeves. Walker Art Gallery/Wikimedia Commons

You can see slashing on Henry VIII’s doublet (jacket) and sleeves in his famous portrait.

In 1991, this technique inspired Vivienne Westwood to produce the collection Cut and Slash, so it definitely has a place in the modern era.

5. The codpiece

Ok, this one is a bit of fun… but for Henry VIII the codpiece was no laughing matter. Starting out as a small triangular piece of material, by the early 16th century the codpiece had evolved into a padded, stiff and bejewelled item symbolic of virility and fertility.

Toxic masculinity was all the rage during the Tudor period, and Henry VIII was under immense pressure to maintain absolute control through his superior machismo.

As the king aged, his vigour waned and his failure to produce a male heir sent him into a crisis of masculinity. The display and exaggeration of his manhood through the codpiece was Henry’s only means of reasserting his masculine identity and fecundity.

Henry’s 1540 tournament armour gives a clear indication of just how exaggerated the codpiece became.

One thing is for sure, fashion in Tudor England was not a flippant pursuit. If the ever-enduring legacy of the Tudors can teach us anything, it’s that we should always dress to impress.

Grace Waye-Harris does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

NZ’s $2.5 billion shoddy building bill: how to fix the ‘build now, fix later’ culture

2026-02-02T00:43:38Z

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New Zealand’s residential construction industry contributes roughly NZ$26 billion annually to the economy and employs around 70,000 workers. Yet despite its significance and scale, the sector’s productivity levels have flatlined since the mid-1980s.

In housing construction, “productivity” isn’t a simple measure of output per worker; it refers to the industry’s ability to deliver the right quantity of high-quality homes without significant delays or flaws.

If a builder spends ten hours rectifying avoidable mistakes, for instance, their productivity for the day is effectively zero. And this has become all too common within the sector.

A 2014 study by the Building Research Association of New Zealand (BRANZ) confirms 92% of new houses surveyed had compliance defects.

Subsequent analysis carried out for BRANZ by the New Zealand Institute for Economic Research estimated the annual cost of defective building to the overall economy:

The results show that economy-wide effects of an increase in productivity would see New Zealand’s GDP rise by $2.5 billion, as the industry’s overall costs of production decrease.

That means nearly 10% of the sector’s total value is lost to systemic quality failure. Based on the average construction cost of an Auckland house, that loss represents around 5,000 missing homes every year.

Recognising the productivity problem, the government last year introduced major reforms aimed at speeding up consent processes and allocating financial liability for defective buildings to those responsible.

But while poor productivity is often blamed on procurement methods, technology or labour, our research suggests better quality management is key to remedying the industry’s “build now, fix later” culture.

Commercial viability before quality control

We surveyed the views of 106 residential construction professionals, including general managers, construction managers, site managers, project managers and subcontractors.

They were asked about the influence of quality management on improving residential construction productivity, and about the effects of government policy. The views expressed suggested a culture prioritising time and cost over quality is a systemic norm at the industry level.

We then traced the industry’s problems back to the major policy shifts that began in the mid-1980s. Before then, building quality was anchored in the prescriptive standards set by the Ministry of Works.

By specifying how to build, the ministry acted as a national governor of technical standards. But by 1988, those standards were viewed as a barrier to efficient market operation, effectively ending the era of the state as master builder.

The New Zealand Building Code subsequently replaced the previous prescriptive system with a performance-based model focused solely on outcomes.

Without strict procedural guidance, the industry moved towards a culture that prioritised speed and commercial viability over rigorous quality management.

A ‘tick-box’ culture

To understand why industry performance stalled, we refer to what’s called the “theory of constraints”, which argues a system is only as strong as its weakest link.

In New Zealand’s residential construction sector, we argue, the weakest link is not just poor quality control but the absence of a quality-focused culture in general.

The 1980s shift to a hands-off, self-regulated model helped foster a “tick-box” culture rather than genuine organisational reform. This has meant that with every step forward, the industry is pulled back by the need to fix previous errors, stalling productivity.

On the building site, this manifested as a disconnect between the “work as imagined” (the manuals and checklists from head office) and the “work as done” by builders and subcontractors.

The worst outcomes are well known. New Zealand is still paying for the nearly $47 billion legacy of the leaky homes crisis, which peaked in the early 2000s. Poor quality, damp and mouldy housing contributes to respiratory illnesses costing $145 million annually in hospitalisations.

While policies such as the healthy homes standards for rental properties now exist, such measures mainly treat the symptoms of a deeper problem.

In Auckland alone, one-third of all projects fail their final inspection. The high volume of remedial work required chokes the entire system’s throughput.

The government must lead

Fixing an annual $2.5 billion problem requires a structural shift. Our research proposes a framework where the state, as the primary funder and driver of major construction, sets the standard the rest of the industry must adopt.

The proposed framework is underpinned by “lean principles” designed to minimise waste and encourage continuous improvement through a “plan-do-check-act” cycle. It uses the ISO 9000 standards New Zealand already has in place for exports.

To help achieve this, we argue the government would need to do two things.

Establish a national construction, productivity and quality commission. This would be a nonpartisan body staffed by industry and academic experts to ensure reform survives beyond three-year election cycles.
Mandate quality management systems that align with existing ISO 9000 standards for all government-funded residential projects.

The aim is to create a trickle-down effect, driving culture change throughout the industry. To win stable government contracts, subcontractors would be forced to up-skill and formalise standards-based oversight of their work.

Improved quality and productivity should not be aspirational. New Zealand has 2.5 billion reasons to create the genuine structural reform required.

The author acknowledges the contributions of Senior Lecturer Funmilayo Ebun Rotimi and Associate Professor Nicola Naismith of AUT to the research described in this article.

Mark Kirby does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

NZ’s finance industry is required by law to treat customers fairly – but how do we define ‘fair’?

2026-01-30T01:17:06Z

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Most of us would agree fairness is a good guiding principle in life. Actually defining and applying it in the law, however, isn’t quite so simple.

Since March last year, New Zealand’s financial sector – including banks, insurers and credit unions – has been governed by the Conduct of Financial Institutions regime.

At its centre sits a principle that “financial institutions must treat consumers fairly”. Under the Financial Markets Conduct Act 2013 (and amendments made in 2022), the regime is administered and enforced by the Financial Markets Authority.

Each financial institution must establish, maintain and publish a fair-conduct program that satisfies a set of statutory minimum requirements.

These prescribe internal systems, controls, monitoring and governance processes intended to demonstrate the institution treats consumers fairly in practice. Breaches can incur a “pecuniary penalty order”.

On its face, this is uncontroversial. Fairness offers moral comfort and signals decency and responsibility. But translating fairness into a legal obligation is not without cost.

It also risks compromising consumer autonomy and informed choice by forcing financial institutions to limit the shape or scope of products and services that might otherwise be attractive.

Subjective regulation

While section 446C of the act provides broad definitions of fair treatment, it leaves significant scope for interpretation by regulators and institutions.

The result is a regulatory model that is essentially subjective and which shapes the design and distribution of financial products before they go to market.

This presents practical challenges for intuitions adapting to a fairness standard that is inherently vague. But it also raises questions about the balance between consumer protection and potential regulatory overreach.

In 2024, the government consulted on whether the statutory minimum requirements for fair conduct programs should be repealed or amended.

This was in response to industry concerns that some fairness requirements were either unnecessary or duplicated other regulations, or they were unduly prescriptive given the actual risks of harm to consumers.

Industry submissions generally acknowledged the high compliance costs associated with the current framework while supporting the broader objective of fair consumer treatment.

In response, the government chose to amend rather than repeal those minimum fairness requirements. In 2025, it introduced a draft amendment bill proposing changes to the statutory requirements for fair conduct programs.

If enacted, this may make the regime less strict. But it would also force institutions that have already invested heavily in compliance under the existing law to review and modify their programs once again.

Unintended consequences

This revisiting of the law reflects the the difficulty of defining fairness as a legally enforceable standard. Fairness is not an objective concept. It’s subjective and evaluative. What’s fair to one person may not be fair to another.

Yet the law now requires that financial institutions effectively prove they are designing and offering products and services in ways that align with the Financial Markets Authority’s evolving understanding of fair treatment.

As a result, even where consumers understand a product’s features and willingly accept its risks, the fairness obligation may still require institutions to reconsider whether the product should be offered at all.

On the surface, prioritising consumer interests over consumer choice might seem reasonable. But it can have unintended consequences.

In 2021, for example, the government amended the Credit Contracts and Consumer Finance Act to impose highly prescriptive affordability checks on all consumer lending.

A 2022 investigation by the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment found the reforms had caused borrowers who should have passed the affordability test were being declined or offered reduced credit.

Fairness and risk

Because the fairness principle is broad and subjective, even if the Financial Markets Authority’s current interpretation is reasonable there is no guarantee future enforcement will be.

Once parliament embeds an open-ended moral concept in law, it hands significant discretion to whoever interprets it next.

Of course fairness matters. But it should be a moral compass for financial institutions and a cultural expectation for financial markets rather than an opaque licence for regulatory paternalism.

It risks turning financial institutions into overseers of consumer behaviour rather than providers of products and services.

It would be more straightforward to enforce existing laws such as the Credit Contracts and Consumer Finance Act and the fair-dealing provisions in the Financial Markets Conduct Act.

The aim should be to target specific misconduct, strengthen consumers’ financial literacy through education, and intervene where there is genuine, demonstrated harm.

The law should preserve the space for consumers to make their own decisions, even when those decisions involve risk. Fairness is a virtue, autonomy is a right. We should be careful not to sacrifice the second in the name of the first.

Benjamin Liu does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Monumental ambitions: the history behind Trump’s triumphal arch

2026-01-28T23:09:10Z

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Donald Trump took time out this week from dramatic events at home and abroad to reveal three new design concepts for his proposed “Independence Arch” in Washington DC.

All three renderings resemble the famous Arc de Triomphe in Paris, although one features gilded livery not unlike Trump’s chosen adornments to the Oval Office in the White House.

Commissioned in preparation for the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, the triumphal arch draws on a long history of celebrating military conquest, from Roman emperors to Napoleon Bonaparte.

As such, it aligns seamlessly with Trump’s foreign policy and his stated mission for the United States to control the western hemisphere – as he has dubbed it, the “Donroe Doctrine”.

But as many have been asking, while the design is a copy of an iconic monument, is a personal tribute necessarily the best way to mark the anniversary of America’s break with absolute rule and the British monarchy?

The ‘Arc de Trump’

When Trump first displayed models of the proposed arch last October, a reporter asked him who it was for. Trump replied “Me. It’s going to be beautiful.”

In a December update, the president said the new arch “will be like the one in Paris, but to be honest with you, it blows it away. It blows it away in every way.”

There was one exception, he noted: “The only thing they have is history […] I always say [it’s] the one thing you can’t compete with, but eventually we’ll have that history too.”

The president clearly believes his arch will be part of creating that history. “It’s the only city in the world that’s of great importance that doesn’t have a triumphal arch,” he said of Washington DC.

Set to be located near Arlington National Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial, the site would put the new structure in a visual conversation with many of the most famous landmarks in the national capital.

This also aligns with other projects that will leave Trump’s mark on the physical fabric of Washington: changes to the White House last year that included paving over the famous Rose Garden, decorating the Oval Office in rococo gold, and demolishing the East Wing for a US$400 million ballroom extension.

The “Arc de Trump” (as it has been branded) is now the “top priority” for Vince Haley, the director of the Domestic Policy Council for the White House.

Triumph and design

The Arc de Triomphe in Paris, located at the top of the Champs-Élysées, was commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1806 to honour the French imperial army following his victory at the Battle of Austerlitz. It was not finished until 1836, under the reign of King Louis Philippe I.

Architects for the project, Jean-François Thérèse Chalgrin and Jean-Arnaud Raymond, drew on classical arches for inspiration, with Rome’s Arch of Titus (circa 85 CE) as the main source. It was built by Emperor Domitian (51–96 CE), a cruel and ostentatious tyrant who was popular with the people but battled with the Senate and limited its power to make laws.

Domitian commissioned the arch to commemorate the deification of his brother Titus, and his military victory crushing the rebellion in Judea.

Given its inspiration, Trump’s proposed arch doesn’t reference any uniquely American design features. But the neoclassical style recalls earlier monuments that also reference antiquity.

The Washington Monument, for example, is built in the form of an Egyptian obelisk. A four-sided pillar, it tapers as it rises and is topped with a pyramid, a tribute to the sun god Ra.

But it also incorporated an element that was meant to symbolise American technological advancement and innovation – a pyramid cap made of aluminium.

When the obelisk was completed in 1884, aluminium was rare because the process for refining it had not been perfected. The top of the monument was the largest piece of cast aluminium on the planet at that time.

‘Truth and sanity’

Trump’s triumphal arch is likely destined to join a long debate about the merits of public monuments and what they represent.

During the Black Lives Matter movement, many statues of historical figures were removed from public display because they were seen as celebrations of racism and imperialism.

Trump has since restored at least one Confederate statue toppled during that time, and his desire to add a new monument to himself should come as little surprise.

During the Jim Crow era of racial segregation and throughout the civil rights movement, there was a sharp spike in the number of monuments erected to Confederate soldiers and generals.

Just as tearing down those statues was a statement, so is the creation of a new memorial to promote Trump’s positive interpretation of the nation’s past. It is also consistent with his administration’s declared mission of “restoring truth and sanity to American history”.

Maybe the more immediate question is whether the Independence Arch can even be built by Independence Day on July 4, a tall order even for this president. As for its reception, history will have to be the judge.

Garritt C. Van Dyk has received funding from the Getty Research Institute.

Do trees prevent landslides? What science says about roots, rainfall and stability

2026-01-28T02:53:31Z

DJ Mills/Getty Images

In the days since last week’s fatal landslides at Mount Maunganui, there has been widespread discussion about what may have caused the slopes above the campground to fail, including the possible role of recent tree removal on Mauao.

In the aftermath of such tragedy, it is natural to search for clear explanations. But landslides typically reflect a complex combination of factors – from geology and long-term slope evolution to weather, climate and land use.

A landscape prone to failure

The Tauranga region is underlain by volcanic materials that are well known for their instability. Over time, volcanic rock weathers into clay-rich soils, including a problematic mineral known as halloysite.

During heavy rainfall, water infiltrates these clay-rich soils, increasing porewater pressure between soil particles. This reduces the soil’s shear strength, making slopes more prone to failure.

Similar processes have driven devastating landslides elsewhere: dozens of people were killed in rainfall-triggered landslides in Indonesia’s West Java region just days ago, on comparable volcanic clay soils.

Recognising this risk, Tauranga City Council commissioned landslide susceptibility mapping following the extreme weather events of 2023. These datasets allow the public to view landslide-prone areas and “relic slips” – ancient landslides that still leave visible imprints on the landscape.

Importantly, they indicate where land has failed in the past – and remains potentially vulnerable during intense rainfall or after land-use changes.

While most of the Tauranga district is comprehensively covered by these mapping tools, there is one notable omission: the area west of Adam’s Avenue, where Mauao and the campground are located. Landslide hazard layers for this zone are absent from public web portals, despite Mauao being particularly landslide-prone.

Historical aerial imagery dating back to 1943 reveals dozens of landslides on Mauao’s slopes. Some of the most significant occurred during Cyclone Wilma in January 2011, when 108mm of rain fell in 24 hours.

A detailed University of Auckland study identified at least 80 landslides from that single storm, including debris avalanches extending up to 120 metres downslope. Some of these failures have partially reactivated since, following later heavy rainfall.

A March 2011 aerial image of Mauao (Mount Maunganui), with some of the larger landslides triggered by heavy rain during Cyclone Wilma in January 2011 outlined in yellow. The white box marks the area in which last week’s landslide occurred. Author provided. CC BY-NC-ND

Trees, slopes and stability

In addition to these historic events, older “paleo-landslides” exist on Mauao, including two on slopes above the campground. It was from this general zone that the January 22 landslide appears to have initiated – and much online discussion has also centred on tree removal within it.

Some media reports have pointed to vegetation clearance during 2022–23, but historical imagery suggests removal in this specific area likely occurred earlier, around 2018–19. More broadly, vegetation cover above the campground has declined gradually since the mid-20th century.

A series of aerial images from 1943 to 2025 show changes in vegetation and landform on the slopes above the campground. White boxes mark key areas, and arrows show the approximate location of the January 2026 landslide. Author provided. CC BY-NC-ND

However, the relationship between vegetation and landsliding on Mauao is not straightforward. During Cyclone Wilma, major landslides occurred across both densely vegetated slopes and grass-covered areas.

Trees typically enhance slope stability in two main ways: their canopy intercepts rainfall, slowing water infiltration, and their roots reinforce soil strength. This is why widespread landsliding associated with forestry harvesting – particularly radiata pine – has long been a serious problem in parts of New Zealand.

But trees can also contribute to slope failure under certain conditions. Large leafy trees can act like sails during extreme winds, transmitting powerful forces into saturated soils.

After the 2023 Auckland Anniversary storm, research showed wind loading likely initiated some landslides on the slopes of Maungakiekie/One Tree Hill, as trees were rocked back and forth until they uprooted, dragging soil downslope.

As well, when trees grow near the tops of steep slopes, their weight – known as “surcharge” – can increase destabilising forces. In some clay soils, this effect may exceed the stabilising benefit of root reinforcement. Tree roots can also promote long-term weathering by growing into fractures in underlying rock.

All of this means vegetation is only one factor among many.

Why simple explanations fall short

Landslides in New Zealand’s hilly terrain typically result from a combination of preconditioning factors, many of which are influenced by human activity.

These can include reshaping slopes to create building platforms, cutting into slope toes for roads or structures, loading slopes with buildings, redirecting stormwater onto vulnerable terrain, and constructing poorly designed retaining walls that trap water within slopes.

While some trees were certainly removed from the broader source area of last week’s landslide, their role in destabilising the slope remains uncertain.

The slope had already experienced multiple historical failures, was underlain by volcanic clays and was subjected to intense rainfall – conditions that together are well known to trigger landsliding.

There is still much we do not yet know about the precise mechanisms that caused last week’s failures on Mauao. That is precisely why independent investigations and technical reviews are so important.

Martin Brook receives funding from the Natural Hazards Commission.

NZ’s sodden January explained: what’s driven this month’s big wet?

2026-01-27T17:35:57Z

Smith Collection/Gado/Getty Images

It has been a month of umbrellas rather than sunscreen across much of New Zealand, with persistent rain, low sunshine and deadly storms dominating headlines and daily life.

For many people, it has felt like midsummer never really arrived. Is it simply bad luck, or is there something more going on?

As with most aspects of our climate and weather, the answer isn’t straightforward. It reflects the interplay between New Zealand’s geography, warmer-than-average ocean temperatures, large-scale regional climate patterns and long-term global warming.

What the data shows – and why it’s been so wet

Climate observations back up what many New Zealanders have been feeling this month. Across northern regions in particular, sunshine hours have been well below average, while rainfall totals have been far above normal.

In central Auckland, a weather station in Albert Park had recorded around 244mm by January 27 – nearly three times the (1981–2010) average for the month. At Mount Maunganui, the month-to-date total had climbed to roughly 385mm, more than four times the norm.

The left map shows the 1991–2020 average for January rainfall across New Zealand. The right shows how much wetter than normal conditions have been this month, particularly across the upper North Island. Earth Sciences New Zealand, CC BY-NC-ND

Similar patterns have been seen in many parts of the upper North Island, with repeated heavy rain events, high humidity and prolonged cloudy spells. The result has often been soggy soils, swollen rivers and increased risks of flooding and landslides.

While each storm that affects New Zealand is different, many of the systems visiting the country this summer share some common features. Several have originated in the tropics, subtropics or the north Tasman Sea before drifting south toward New Zealand. These systems typically carry warm, moisture-laden air – and the potential for intense rainfall.

When these moist air masses interact with cooler air from the south, or encounter New Zealand’s rugged topography, conditions become ripe for heavy rain.

As air is forced upwards over hills and mountain ranges – particularly along the Coromandel Peninsula, Bay of Plenty, East Cape and Gisborne regions – moisture condenses rapidly, producing very high rainfall totals. This is why northern and eastern parts of the country so often bear the brunt of these subtropical events.

The regional patterns loading the dice

One background factor this summer has been the lingering influence of La Niña, part of the El Niño–Southern Oscillation (ENSO) system that dominates climate variability across the Pacific.

During La Niña, atmospheric pressure tends to be lower than normal over Australia and the north Tasman Sea, and higher than normal to the south and east of New Zealand. This effectively flips our usual weather pattern on its head, reducing westerly winds and increasing the frequency of easterly and northeasterly flows.

Those northeasterly winds draw warm, humid air from the subtropics toward New Zealand. Because our temperatures are highly sensitive to wind direction, even small shifts can have large effects.

La Niña also tends to be associated with warmer-than-average sea surface temperatures, which have again been observed around New Zealand. So, when northeasterly winds blow across these warmer waters, they pick up additional heat and moisture, further fuelling heavy rainfall potential.

Another background driver that constantly shapes New Zealand’s weather and climate is the Southern Annular Mode (SAM), which describes the north–south movement of the westerly wind belt that circles Antarctica.

A positive SAM phase, which has dominated much of this summer, tends to bring higher pressures over the South Island and southern New Zealand. This allows storms from the subtropics more room to drift south and linger near the North Island.

Climate change as an intensifier

Overlaying these regional drivers is the broader influence of climate change, which is steadily warming both the atmosphere and the oceans surrounding New Zealand.

As the planet heats, the atmosphere can hold more moisture – about 7% more water vapour for every 1°C of warming. This means that when storms do develop, they have more fuel available, increasing the potential for heavier rainfall and stronger winds.

Climate change does not cause individual weather systems, nor does it directly control large-scale climate patterns like ENSO or the SAM. But it acts as a powerful intensifier.

Event-attribution studies in New Zealand to date have shown climate change can increase the total rainfall from intense storms by around 10–20%.

But for the most intense downpours – when the atmospheric “sponge” is wrung out most vigorously – rainfall intensities can increase by as much as 30%, depending on the frame of time being looked at. These short, extreme bursts of rain are often what cause the greatest damage.

There are still important uncertainties. Scientists are actively researching whether climate change will alter the frequency or strength of La Niña and El Niño events, but so far there is no clear answer. The same is true for long-term trends in the Southern Annular Mode.

What we can say with confidence is that background warming is shifting the risk profile.

As global temperatures continue to rise, the kinds of extremes we’ve experienced this season are likely to become more common. The biggest unanswered question is how quickly we can reduce greenhouse gas emissions to limit how severe these impacts ultimately become.

James Renwick receives funding from MBIE and the Marsden Fund for climate research.

Australia is turning the spotlight on financial abuse in relationships. What can NZ learn?

2026-01-26T23:46:27Z

It’s a problem as old as marriage and money: one spouse, usually the husband, using financial control to dominate the other.

From restricting spending and hiding debts, to forcing someone into legal or financial arrangements they don’t understand, financial abuse has long been a tool of power and coercion within intimate relationships.

While laws that once treated married women as legal minors have been dismantled, financial abuse remains widespread – and largely hidden. Increasingly, it is being recognised not just as a private harm, but as a systemic one, shaped by legal, tax and corporate systems.

The issue has been receiving much attention in Australia, where it has been estimated as many as one in six women are financially abused.

There is no reason to expect the problem is any less severe in New Zealand and the case for closer investigation and policy attention is just as compelling.

As Australia moves to reform its systems, the question for New Zealand is what lessons can – and can’t – be imported.

What is financial abuse?

Broadly, financial abuse can include stealing money or property, failing to repay loans, or coercing someone into handing over assets or selling property for another’s benefit.

Unlike in New Zealand, Australia has a dedicated Tax Ombudsman with statutory powers to investigate whether tax administration benefits the community.

Last year, its office released a report examining how economic abuse plays out within the tax system, following earlier parliamentary inquiries and a national “systems abuse” audit.

The Australian Treasury has also launched a public consultation on tackling financial abuse linked to coerced or fraudulent company directorships.

Together, these initiatives signal growing concern about how legal and financial systems can inadvertently enable abuse, even as the true scale of the problem remains unclear.

One particular issue stands out: fraudulent or coerced directorships, in which people are unknowingly or unwillingly made legally responsible for companies they do not run.

Under Australian law, this can carry severe financial consequences. While the Australian Tax Office is normally treated as an ordinary creditor when a company is liquidated, it also has the power to issue a director penalty notice, which can make company directors personally liable for unpaid tax.

In some cases, this liability takes immediate effect. In others, directors have just 21 days to pay outstanding PAYG (equivalent to PAYE in New Zealand), GST and superannuation debts before enforcement begins.

While these strictly enforced penalty notices act as a strong deterrent to directors who genuinely control companies, they can be highly problematic for innocent people who have been coerced into directorships or appointed without their knowledge.

Consider the example of “Anna”. After she receives a large inheritance, Anna’s husband sets up a company and secretly appoints her as its sole director, without taking on that role himself.

When the business runs into financial trouble and fails to pass on tax deducted from employees’ wages, Anna – who has had no involvement in running the company – becomes personally liable.

Because she is listed as the director, the Australian Tax Office can issue her with a director penalty notice, putting her inheritance and personal assets at immediate risk.

What this means for New Zealand

Different rules apply in New Zealand. Inland Revenue currently has no equivalent power to issue director penalty notices and must generally rely on the liquidation process to recover unpaid tax from insolvent companies.

While the tax department ranks ahead of many creditors, personal liability for directors arises only if a court considers it just: a high threshold.

In practice, it is highly unlikely a court would order compensation from someone who played no role in managing a company and was coerced into becoming, or fraudulently appointed as, a director.

This suggests that the specific weaponisation of company directorships observed in Australia may be far less prevalent in New Zealand. But it does not mean financial abuse is any less common, only that it may operate through different legal and institutional pathways.

Indeed, New Zealand company law arguably treats dishonest directors too leniently, while Australia’s tougher enforcement regime highlights how blunt legal instruments can unintentionally compound harm for abuse victims.

Recent Australian investigations acknowledge this tension, but also reveal how difficult it is to design systems that deter wrongdoing without trapping the innocent.

In New Zealand, we know that financial abuse is common – it is a normal consequence of a power imbalance in an intimate relationship. But we must also understand how it is happening before it can be alleviated. Australian experience doesn’t provide simple answers.

Jonathan Barrett does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

A major overhaul of NZ’s local government is underway – will it really fix what’s broken?

2026-01-25T18:44:24Z

Phil Walter/Getty Images

With a general election looming, the largest shake-up of New Zealand’s local government system in three decades sits on the table.

New Zealanders are being invited to have their say on the draft policy proposal, Simplifying Local Government, which would fundamentally reshape how councils operate.

The government’s case for reform is that the status quo is inefficient, confusing to voters and “tangled in duplication, disagreements and decisions that don’t make sense”.

It argues these problems will only intensify as councils take on new responsibilities, from resource management reform to water services and climate adaptation. Its proposed solution: removing an entire tier of elected local government.

While reform may well be overdue, the proposal raises crucial questions about democratic representation, accountability and how regional decisions should be made.

These issues sit at the heart of the consultation – and they matter as much as the promise of efficiency or lower costs.

How the proposed changes would work

The proposal would abolish regional councils and replace them with combined territorial boards made up of locally elected mayors. Voters would elect only one set of local representatives, rather than both territorial and regional councillors.

The new boards would take on the legal responsibilities of existing regional councils, while much of the regional bureaucracy would remain. Mayors on the boards would not have equal voting power; instead, votes would be weighted by population, with adjustments set by the Local Government Commission.

The proposal also allows – though not as a preferred option – for a Crown Commissioner to be appointed to a territorial boards. Depending on the circumstances, that commissioner could have no vote, a veto, or more than half of the weighted votes, to ensure national interests are taken into account.

The boards’ primary task would be to prepare a regional reorganisation plan within two years of establishment.

These plans would aim to encourage cooperation between councils to reduce costs, improve efficiency and deliver services better aligned with regional needs, while safeguarding local voices. They would also examine whether combined councils or alternative regional entities could deliver services more effectively.

Importantly, the plans would consider how local government works with post-settlement governance entities in relation to Treaty of Waitangi settlements.

They would be guided by a central government review of council functions, assessing whether some responsibilities should be reallocated to other agencies, delivered through different models, or removed where national consistency is required.

Once completed, each plan would be assessed against national priorities, financial viability, service quality, governance and treaty obligations. The outcome could range from retaining the territorial board to modifying or dissolving it, depending on the region.

Where the plan falls short

There is little question that New Zealand’s local government system is no longer serving the needs of communities.

The sector is awash in paperwork, rates have increased, services reduced and it seems unable to deal with a multitude of problems that surfaced during the pandemic.

To this extent, the draft proposal, with its focus on shared efficiencies, reducing the number of local institutions and attempting to reinvigorate local democracy, is welcome. But it comes with significant shortcomings.

First, it does not require a prior assessment of national legislation and policy that shapes – and often constrains – local government functions. Many of the costs and inefficiencies councils face stem from nationally imposed mandates.

Reforming governance structures without examining these obligations risks entrenching, or even worsening, existing problems.

Moreover, the proposal does not consider the Local Government Act 2002, which imposes significant procedural and substantive obligations on councils that could be directly affected by legislative reform and any resulting reorganisation plan.

Second, eliminating regional councils before undertaking a comprehensive review of service delivery may exacerbate existing problems rather than resolve them.

Simply removing elected regional councillors while awaiting a central government review of service delivery is unlikely to resolve pressing local problems or uncover issues not already well known to local officials.

Will voter turnout improve?

The government also presumes, without clear evidence, that regional councillors are a major contributor to local government problems. Even under the plan, local government would still face too many nationally imposed obligations and too little funding to operate effectively.

Instead, the new boards have potential to increase parochial non-regional decision-making and create legitimacy issues due to how votes are allocated.

Nor is there much reason to think that restructuring councils in this way would lead to higher voter turnout in local elections. Given New Zealand voters routinely navigate the complexities of MMP, it is unconvincing to attribute low turnout to voter confusion.

A more plausible explanation lies in the growing centralisation of policy making by successive governments – a trend that won’t change under this proposal.

Lastly, by removing regional constituencies, the proposal effectively eliminates the possibility of Māori constituencies at the regional level. Given the likely outcome of more centralised local government, this change would remove an important mechanism for Māori representation and participation as treaty partners.

Retaining the option of Māori wards and constituencies is crucial to reflecting local aspirations, supporting reconciliation and ensuring meaningful involvement in regional decision making.

With changes of this scale on the table, the consultation now underway deserves careful scrutiny of what might be simplified, but also what could be lost.

Guy C. Charlton does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

The Mount Maunganui tragedy reminds us landslides are NZ’s deadliest natural hazard

2026-01-23T06:18:08Z

Getty Images

The tragic events in the Bay of Plenty this week are a stark reminder that landslides remain the deadliest of the many natural hazards New Zealand faces.

On Thursday morning, a large landslide swept through the Mount Maunganui Beachside Holiday Park at the base of Mauao, triggering a major rescue and recovery operation that will continue through the weekend.

Hours earlier, two people were killed when a separate landslide struck a home in the Tauranga suburb of Welcome Bay. As of Friday evening, six people remain missing at Mount Maunganui.

These events occurred at the tail end of a weak La Niña cycle, which typically brings wetter conditions to northern New Zealand. At the same time, unusually warm sea-surface temperatures have been loading the atmosphere with extra moisture, helping to fuel heavier downpours.

In parts of northern New Zealand, more than 200 millimetres of rain fell within 24 hours in the lead-up to last week’s events – well above the typical thresholds known to trigger landslides.

Regions such as the Bay of Plenty, Coromandel, Northland and Tairāwhiti are especially vulnerable to intense rainfall, which weakens surface soils and the highly weathered rock beneath them, allowing shallow landslides to detach and flow downslope.

Most landslides in New Zealand are triggered by heavy rainfall, through a complex interplay of intrinsic factors – such as slope angle, soil and rock strength, and vegetation cover – and extrinsic factors, including rainfall intensity and how wet the ground already is from prior rainfall when a storm arrives.

Much of this risk is invisible, accumulating quietly beneath the surface until a sudden collapse occurs.

This helps explain why landslides have long proved so dangerous. Since written records began in 1843, they have been responsible for more deaths than earthquakes and volcanic eruptions combined.

Much of New Zealand’s steep, geologically young landscape is pockmarked by the evidence of millions of past landslides, most occurring on pasture and remote areas, far from people.

When landscapes tell a story

At Mount Maunganui, the shape of the land itself tells a story. The surrounding hill slopes are riddled with the scars of past landslides, revealing a landscape that has been repeatedly reshaped by slope failure over time.

New high-resolution mapping now allows scientists to see this in unprecedented detail. A 2024 LiDAR-derived digital elevation model, which effectively strips away vegetation to reveal the bare land surface, shows numerous landslide features across the slopes.

Many cluster along the coastal cliffs, but two particularly large ancient landslides can be seen directly above the holiday park.

A high-resolution elevation map of Mauao and surrounding land at Mount Maunganui, drawn from Land Information New Zealand data, showing landslide features. Two ancient landslides, or paleolandslides, above the campground site are labelled L1 and L2. Author provided, CC BY-NC-ND

These older slips left behind prominent head scarps – steep, crescent-shaped breaks in the hillside – indicating where large volumes of material once detached and flowed downslope onto flatter ground below.

Subsurface evidence reinforces this picture. A geotechnical investigation carried out in 2000, near the northern end of the campground’s toilet block, found a 0.7 metre layer of colluvium – loose debris deposited by earlier landslides and erosion – buried beneath the surface.

In other words, the site itself sits atop the remnants of past slope failures.

This image provides two views of the slopes above the campground at Mauao (Mount Maunganui). On the left (A) is a 2023 aerial photo showing the steep hillside and the location of earlier ground testing. On the right (B) is a detailed elevation map revealing two ancient landslides (L1 and L2) hidden in the landscape. The star marks the approximate starting point of the January 22 landslide. Author provided, CC BY-NC-ND

The January 22 landslide appears to have initiated in the narrow zone between the two earlier slips. This is a particularly vulnerable position: when neighbouring landslides occur, the remaining wedge of land between them can lose lateral support, becoming unstable, like a rocky headland jutting out from a cliff face.

Over long timescales, this kind of progressive slope collapse is a normal part of landscape evolution. But when it unfolds in populated areas, it can turn an ancient geological process into a human disaster.

From prediction to prevention

Predicting how far a landslide will travel, and which areas it might inundate, is critically important – but it remains an inexact science.

At its simplest, this can involve rough rules of thumb that estimate how far a landslide is likely to run based on slope height and angle. More sophisticated approaches use advanced computer models, such as Rapid Mass Movement Simulation (RAMMS) which simulate how landslide material might flow across the landscape.

These models were used, for example, to assess landslide risk at Muriwai, Auckland, following Cyclone Gabrielle.

By adjusting inputs such as rainfall intensity and soil properties, scientists can explore a range of possible scenarios, generating estimates of how far future landslides could travel, how deep the debris might be, and which properties could be affected.

The results can then be translated into landslide hazard maps, showing areas of higher and lower risk under different rainfall conditions. These maps are not predictions of exactly what will happen, but they provide crucial guidance for land-use planning, emergency management and public awareness.

New Zealand has made major progress in mapping floodplains, and most councils now provide publicly accessible flood hazard maps that influence building rules and help communities understand their exposure.

In the future, developing similarly detailed and widely available maps for landslide hazards would be a logical – potentially life-saving – next step.

Martin Brook receives funding from the Natural Hazards Commission Toka Tu Ake.

Trump’s Greenland grab is part of a new space race – and the stakes are getting higher

2026-01-22T23:56:54Z

Pituffik Space Base, formerly Thule Air Base, in northern Greenland. Thomas Traasdahl/Ritzau Scanpix/AFP via Getty Images

US President Donald Trump’s position on Greenland has shifted almost daily, from threats to take it by force to assurances he won’t. But one thing remains consistent: his insistence the Arctic island is strategically vital to the United States.

Within hours of the president’s speech at this week’s Davos summit, Reports began circulating that Washington and Copenhagen had quietly discussed giving the US small, remote patches of Greenland for new military sites. Nothing confirmed, everything whispered, but the speed of the speculation said a lot.

What once felt like Trumpian theatre suddenly looked like a real geopolitical move. It was also a hint Arctic power plays are now bleeding into the politics of outer space.

This all happened very quickly. The notion the US might buy Greenland from Denmark (which resurfaced in 2019) was at first treated like a late-night comedy sketch.

But behind the jokes lay a growing unease the Trump administration’s fixation with Greenland was part of a wider geostrategic ambition in the “western hemisphere” – and beyond.

That’s because Greenland sits at the crossroads of two fast-shifting frontiers: a warming Arctic that will change shipping routes, and an increasingly militarised outer space.

As global tensions rise, the island has become a geopolitical pressure gauge, revealing how the old international legal order is beginning to fray.

At the centre of it all is Pituffik Space Base, formerly known as Thule Air Base. Once a Cold War outpost, it’s now a key part of the US military’s Space Force hub, vital for everything from missile detection to climate tracking.

In a world where orbit is the new high ground, that visibility is strategic gold.

Space law in a vacuum

Trump has leaned hard into this logic. He’s repeatedly praised Thule as one of the most important assets for watching what happens above the Earth, and has urged the US to “look at every option” to expand its presence.

Whether by force, payment or negotiation, the core message hasn’t changed: Greenland is central to America’s Arctic and space ambitions.

This is not just about military surveillance. As private companies launch rockets at record pace, Greenland’s geography offers something rare – prime launch conditions.

High latitude sites are ideal for launching payloads into polar- and sun-synchronous orbits. Greenland’s empty expanses and open ocean corridors make it a potential Arctic launch hub. With global launch capacity tightening due to fewer available sites and access problems, the island is suddenly premium real estate.

But American interest in Greenland is rising at the same time as the post-war “rules-based international order” has proved increasingly ineffective at maintaining peace and security.

Space law is especially vulnerable now. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty was built for a world of two superpowers (the US and Soviet Union) and only a few satellites, not private satelliete mega constellations, commercial lunar projects, or asteroid mining.

It also never anticipated that Earth-based sites such as Thule/Pituffik would decide who can monitor or dominate orbit.

As countries scramble for strategic footholds, the treaty’s core principles are being pushed to breaking point. Major powers now treat both the terrestrial and orbital realms less like global commons and more like strategic assets to control and defend.

Greenland as warning sign

Greenland sits squarely on this fault line. If the US were to expand its control over the island, it would command a disproportionate share of global space surveillance capabilities. That imbalance raises uncomfortable questions.

How can space function as a global commons when the tools needed to oversee it are concentrated in so few hands? What happens when geopolitical competition on Earth spills directly into orbit?

And how should international law adapt when terrestrial territory becomes a gateway to extraterrestrial influence? For many observers, the outlook is bleak. They argue the international legal system is not evolving but eroding.

The Arctic Council, the leading intergovernmental forum promoting cooperation in the Arctic, is paralysed by geopolitical tensions. The United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space can’t keep pace with commercial innovation. And new space laws in several countries increasingly prioritise resource rights and strategic advantage over collective governance.

Greenland, in this context, is not just a strategic asset; it’s a warning sign.

For Greenlanders, the stakes are immediate. The island’s strategic value gives them leverage, but also makes them vulnerable. As Arctic ice melts and new shipping routes emerge, Greenland’s geopolitical weight will only grow.

Its people must navigate the ambitions of global powers while pursuing their own political and economic future, including the possibility of independence from Denmark.

What started as a political curiosity now exposes a deeper shift: the Arctic is becoming a front line of space governance, and the laws and treaties designed to manage this vast icy territory and the space above it are struggling to keep up.

The old Thule Air Base is no longer just a northern outpost, it’s a strategic gateway to orbit and a means to exert political and military power from above.

Anna Marie Brennan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Beneath Antarctica’s largest ice shelf, a hidden ocean is revealing its secrets

2026-01-21T22:13:59Z

Stevens/NIWA/K061, CC BY-NC-ND

Beneath Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf lies one of the least measured oceans on Earth – a vast, dark cavity roughly twice the volume of the North Sea.

This hidden ocean matters because it is the ice sheet’s Achilles heel. The ice sheet is the continent’s enormous, kilometres-thick mass of land-based ice, while the ice shelf is the floating platform that fringes it.

If warmer water reaches the underside of the shelf, it can melt the ice that holds back millions of cubic kilometres of Antarctic ice, with consequences for global sea levels.

Yet almost everything we know about this cavity has come from brief snapshots at its edges. Until now, no one had captured a long, continuous record from its central heart. Our newly published study set out to change that.

Inside Antarctica’s least-measured ocean

Ice shelves act as buttresses for Antarctica’s 30 million cubic kilometres of ice, built up over millions of years. The Ross Ice Shelf is the largest, among the coldest and most southerly, and perhaps the most sheltered from a warming ocean.

It spans both West and East Antarctica, where dozens of giant glaciers merge to form a wedge of ice 300 to 700 metres thick that flows northward, melting from below and calving the world’s largest icebergs.

Flying out over the Ross Ice Shelf with the Trans Antarctic Mountains in the distance. Stevens/NIWA/K061, CC BY-NC-ND

When studying the ocean, snapshots are useful, but long time series are far more powerful. They reveal the rhythms of currents, eddies, tides and mixing, and how these interact with a warming climate. Beneath Antarctic ice shelves, where measurements are vanishingly rare, developing such records is essential.

Our study describes a four-year record of ocean processes beneath the middle of the Ross Ice Shelf, where the ice is 320 metres thick and the ocean below it 420 metres deep.

Most expeditions focus on the edges of ice shelves. We needed to understand what happens at their centre: so that is where we went.

Instruments being deployed through the ice shelf borehole – Mike Brewer is monitoring the lowering rate. Stevens/NIWA/K061, CC BY-NC-ND

The work was part of a large, multi-year project that began in 2016 with exploratory missions and ice-drilling trials and ended in 2022 when we finally lost contact with instruments suspended from the underside of the ice.

Once the drilling team reached the ocean – despite bad weather and the technical challenges of working in such a remote, extreme environment – we were able to deploy our instruments. These precision devices reported temperature, currents and salinity via satellite. We expected them to last two years before succumbing to cold or transmission failure. Instead, most continued to operate for more than four years, producing a uniquely long and remote record.

Looking downward in the borehole just before emerging into the ocean cavity. The white specks are sediment particles. Stevens/NIWA/K061, CC BY-NC-ND

The new analysis shows that water properties vary systematically through the year, far from the open ocean and its seasons. The changes in temperature and salinity are subtle, but in a cavity shielded from winds and cold air even small shifts can have large implications.

Our work also reveals how variations in the central cavity align with changes in the Ross Sea Polynya – a wind-swept, ice-free area hundreds of kilometres away where high-salinity water forms. As Antarctic sea ice changes, this connection to the cavity will respond in ways we have not yet fully considered.

Perhaps most intriguingly, the data show persistent layering of water with different properties within the cavity. This unusual structure was detected in the very first measurements collected there in 1978 and remains today. While much remains to be learned, our results indicate the layers act as a barrier, isolating the ice shelf underside from deeper, warmer waters.

What melting ice brings home

Much recent cavity research has treated the ice shelf as a middleman, passing ocean warming through to the ice sheet. Work like ours is revealing a more complex set of relationships between the cavity and other polar systems.

One of those relationships is with sea ice. When sea ice forms around the edges of an ice shelf, some of the cold, salty water produced as a by-product flows into the cavity, moving along the seafloor to its deepest, coldest reaches. Paradoxically, this dense water can still melt the ice it encounters. We know very little about these currents.

Changes to the delicate heat balance in ice-shelf cavities are likely to accelerate sea-level rise. Coastal communities will need to adapt to that reality. What remains less understood are the other pathways through which Antarctic change will play out.

Instruments being lowered down the borehole. Stevens/NIWA/K061, CC BY-NC-ND

Impacts from ice sheets unfold over decades and centuries. On similar timescales, changes around Antarctica will alter ocean properties worldwide, reshaping marine ecosystems and challenging our dependence on them.

In the near term, we can expect shifts in southern weather systems and Southern Ocean ecosystems. Fisheries are closely linked to sea-ice cover, which in turn is tied to ocean temperatures and meltwater.

Weather and regional climate feel even closer to home. A glance at a weather map of the Southern Ocean shows the inherent wobble of systems circling the globe. These patterns influence conditions in New Zealand and southern Australia and they are already changing.

As ice shelves and sea ice continue to evolve, that change will intensify. Ice shelves may seem distant, but through their ties to the atmosphere and ocean we share a common future.

Craig Stevens receives funding from the NZ Ministry for Business, Innovation and Employment and its Strategic Science Investment Fund, and the Antarctica New Zealand Antarctic Science Platform. He is a Council member of the New Zealand Association of Scientists.

Christina Hulbe receives funding from the Ministry for Business, Innovation and Employment, the Antarctica New Zealand Antarctic Science Platform, and the Ōtākou Whakaihi Waka Foundation Trust. They are a member of the Board of the Waitaki Whitestone Unesco Global Geopark.

Yingpu Xiahou receives funding from the Ministry for Business, Innovation and Employment to support her PhD research. She is affiliated with NIWA, and is a postgraduate member of the Antarctic Science Platform team and a SCAR INSTANT team member.