The Waitangi Tribunal’s mandate has expanded so dramatically that by 2021 the Treaty or its principles appeared in over 35 acts. It even ruled that the Government’s Covid-19 vaccine rollout breached Treaty principles. Almost any policy affecting Māori outcomes can now be reframed as a Treaty violation. The institution’s continued existence depends on the continuation of grievance.
The Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) has no statutory power, yet behaves as if it does. When a complainant objected to Matthew Horncastle’s political billboard – “a private citizen stating a political opinion on a structure he owns” – the ASA contacted him as though he were subject to its rules.
Horncastle refused, correctly noting he was not a member and that political speech is not advertising. The ASA ultimately conceded it had no jurisdiction. But the damage was done: a private citizen received a formal letter demanding justification for his political views. As Horncastle put it: “A stranger disliked what I think, and here we are.” The process itself becomes punishment – a soft form of censorship.
The New Zealand Media Council is voluntary, but its influence is real. While intended to uphold accuracy and fairness, it increasingly processes complaints about opinions rather than facts. Many decisions boil down to readers objecting to viewpoints they dislike.
This creates a culture of anticipatory self-censorship. Editors avoid publishing material that might trigger organised complaints. The result is a media environment marked by caution rather than courage.
The Broadcasting Standards Authority (BSA) is the most troubling example because it wields coercive power. In 2025, Richard Fanselow complained after broadcaster Sean Plunket called tikanga Māori “mumbo jumbo”. When Plunket dismissed the complaint – “We aren’t subject to the Broadcasting Standards Authority” – Fanselow escalated to the BSA.
Despite acknowledging its code was “developed in another era”, the BSA ruled it had jurisdiction over an internet-only broadcaster. Legal experts called the decision an overreach; Winston Peters described the BSA’s behaviour as “bordering on fascist”.
The core issue is not whether Plunket was polite. It is whether a state authority should adjudicate over ideological offence. In a liberal democracy, the answer is no.
Beyond public‑facing bodies, professional regulators have become tools for ideological enforcement. Their “open standing” rules allow anyone – including complete strangers – to file complaints.
The case of lawyer Stephen Franks is emblematic. Franks sent legally robust letters to doctors about puberty blockers. None of the recipients complained to the Law Society. Instead, six ideological bystanders did. A Standards Committee found him guilty of misconduct; the decision was later overturned. But months of stress, cost and reputational damage had already been inflicted.
In 2024, the Law Society received 1231 complaints; only 28 reached the tribunal. The rest were meritless – yet each consumed resources and chilled advocacy.
The Medical Council has expanded “unfitness to practise” to include ideological non‑compliance. Its cultural safety framework requires doctors to “challenge racism” and engage in “advocacy for systemic change”. A doctor can now face investigation for a personal social‑media post that offends someone, even if their clinical practice is impeccable.
The Nursing Council’s draft 2026 Code of Conduct goes further, requiring nurses to maintain an “appropriate standard of behaviour in their personal lives” and avoid statements that are “offensive, abusive, inflammatory or ill‑informed”.
These undefined terms allow ideological complainants to weaponise the process. Nurses are even described as “active Tiriti partners as Crown agents” – a political role they do not hold.
The Real Estate Authority invites complaints about “conduct outside of real estate work that would be regarded as disgraceful”. More than 90% of complaints result in no finding, yet each imposes cost and anxiety. The standard is so vague that any controversial opinion can trigger a complaint.
Matthew Horncastle (inset) and the billboard that sparked a complaint to the Advertising Standards Authority.
The cost: a chilled society
Legally enforceable complaints mechanisms do not merely punish specific conduct; they chill entire categories of speech. A broadcaster who fears a BSA ruling avoids cultural commentary altogether. A lawyer avoids robust advocacy. A doctor censors personal opinions. A nurse hesitates before posting online. A real estate agent keeps quiet about politics.
The result is a society where disagreement is treated as harm, and complaint is treated as remedy.
The common thread – from Fanselow’s complaint to Horncastle’s billboard to the bystanders targeting Franks – is the belief that offence is injury. Hughes called this “victim culture”, where hurt becomes the currency of public life.
Survey data confirms the trend: 67% of New Zealanders report moderate to high grievance, and high‑grievance individuals show dramatically lower trust in institutions. Yet material conditions have not worsened; inequality actually decreased between 2007 and 2023. New Zealanders are not more oppressed – they are more fluent in the language of oppression.
Accountability mechanisms should exist, but their scope must be narrowed.
Statutory bodies like the BSA must not adjudicate ideological offence. The Waitangi Tribunal must operate within defined limits. Voluntary bodies like the ASA and the Media Council must decline complaints about political speech. Professional regulators must restrict standing to those directly affected and address only issues surrounding core competence. Codes of conduct must not police lawful private opinions.
Above all, New Zealand must relearn a basic democratic truth: being offended is not harm and disagreement is not injustice.
As Horncastle put it: “I am a free person in a free country … That is how freedom of expression works.”
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