Abstract
What can we do to change your mind?
The ANZSOC Distinguished Criminologist Lecture delivered by Tā Kim Workman, on 1st December 2025 at the Queensland University of Technology
Korihi te manu,
Takiri mai te ata,
Ka Ao, Ka Ao, Ka Awatea,
Tihei Mauri Ora,
E whiti te ra ki waho, e whiti te ra ki roto. Ko te mihi tuatahi ki ngā iwi taketake o Ahitereira, me ngā mana whenua o tēnei wāhi, arā, o te iwi Yagara. Kei te whakamihi ki o koutou kaumātua. Nō rātou te wairua. Nā rātou ngā tikanga. Nō reira ka tika me rere ana ngā mihi ki a koutou.
E Ahorangi Higginson me ngā mema o te Komiti Whakahaere, ka nui taku mihi ki a koutou. Nā koutou tēnei taonga I tuku ki ahau. Nōku te hōnore nui rawa atu ki te whiwhi I tēnei tohu whakamanahau. Nō reira tēnā koutou.
E ngā tāngata e huihui mai nei. E ngā kai mātauranga taihara, ngā tāngata hāpori, ngā tauira. E mauria mai ana ahau ngā mihi nō te karu o te ika a Maui. Ka tū ahau I mua I a koutou katoa, me te aha, he tū whakapāpaku tēnei. No reira, tēnā koutou, tēna koutou, tēna tātou katoa.
I acknowledge the First Nations people, the Turrbal and Yugara, who exercise spiritual authority over the land. I thank Associate Professor Higginson and the Management Committee for this Award. I acknowledge you all, as you sit patiently, to see what I have to say.
The letter from ANZSOC advised that the Award was made in recognition of a lifetime contribution to criminology. I was also invited to speak. Trying to fit 64 years of engagement with the criminal justice system into a 5000-word presentation, was a bit like trying to fit one's entire wardrobe into an overnight travel bag. In the end I gave up trying and bought a suitcase. You’re going to have to listen longer than usual. I decided to focus on three questions:
Why did the attitudes and ideas about criminal justice prevalent in 1958 persist to the present? What was the impact of responses to those attitudes and ideas? Was it possible to change those attitudes and ideas?
A media commentator recently suggested that I had chosen this vocation because of a burning desire to spread the seeds of justice across Aotearoa. Nothing could be further from the truth. In 1957, I was of serious concern to my parents and the local Police Officer. I had sat School Certificate twice, and got lower marks the second year than the first. I had acquired a liking for alcohol, got hooked on jazz and was headed for a life of dissolution. Without my knowledge or consent, they applied on my behalf to be accepted as a Police Cadet. The application was initially declined, but when a successful applicant failed to turn up, I was recruited as an off-course substitute, arriving at the Police Training School 10 days late.
I graduated from the Police Training School in September 1959, knowing what was expected. My job was to fight crime, and the most obvious measure of that was a high arrest and conviction rate. A “lock em up” culture had evolved in the Police. Police sergeants ramped up Constables to make arrests, and we competed with each other to see how many arrests we could make over an eight-hour shift. Cars of young people would be routinely stopped, pedestrians stopped, questioned and searched. Any protest or resistance led to trumped up charges – obstructing the police, obscene language, or resisting arrest.
The urban world was rapidly changing. In 1945, 26% of Māori were living in urban areas; by 1966 that had increased to 62% – it was the most rapid urbanisation of an Indigenous population anywhere in the world (Pool, 2013). 1 If hassling young people on the street was standard practice, then it was increasingly the case for young Māori, new to the urban environment. They were more likely to be stopped than Pākehā (Migaloo).
Between 1954 and 1958, reported Māori youth offending rose by 50% (Hunn, 1961). One of the factors that caused this increase related not to how Māori behaved in this strange urban world but how they were treated by non-Māori. Māori urban migrants were perceived and treated as a potentially dangerous underclass.
Being a Māori in the Police was equally challenging. In 1958, there were 2600 sworn Police officers, 26 of whom were Māori. I started to take Pākehā colleagues home to events at our marae (meeting house). The hospitality, the abundance of food and the absence of alcohol, was not what they expected. Our elders would fuss over them constantly. My female cousins – ever on the lookout for a suitable husband – sometimes made their stay rather special.
Systemic bias, however, was ingrained. In that same year, Commissioner Les Spencer publicly declared that Chinese, “Hindus” (Indians) and Pacific Islanders were unsuited to policing and would not be recruited (Butterworth & Butterworth, 2008). Apart from Māori, policing should only be done by the “White races”.
Three years later, the 1961 Hunn Report (Hunn, 1961) confirmed that Māori were more likely to be imprisoned, sent to Borstal or placed on probation. They were less likely to have court cases dismissed than non-Māori, and more likely to be committed to the Supreme Court for trial. Most Māori came to Court with no idea how to plead or defend themselves. About 80% of Māori were not represented by counsel, compared to 60% of Europeans, and about 80–85% of Māori pleaded guilty compared to 60% of Europeans (Butterworth & Butterworth, 2008).
Aotearoa was historically, a punitive society. As reported by John Pratt (2006, p. 542): In 1933, the Howard League stated that ‘on a general population basis, New Zealand should have had in the year 1931–2, compared with Queensland less than 450 daily prisoners; compared with South Australia less than 1000; and compared with New South Wales and Victoria, less than 1200; while the number that she actually did have was over 1600’ (quoted in Burdon, 1965, p. 311). The Department of Justice (1954, p. 3) noted that ‘in relation to population, we have 50% more people in our prisons daily than they have in England and Wales’.
In 1972, as a Police Youth Aid officer, I began visiting Kohitere, Levin an institution for boys aged 14–15. There were 110 boys in residence. On my first visit, the impact of what we were doing hit me. I was met with a sea of brown faces; of the 110 boys in the institution, 90% were Māori. The place was a hellhole. Research since confirms that these children and young people endured physical, sexual and psychological violence, as well as secure cells, knock-out sedatives and electro-convulsive therapy (Stanley, 2016).
My first response was one of anger. Anger and disbelief. Anger that the state could allow such conditions. Conditions so inhumane they were almost guaranteed to turn vulnerable children and youth into scarred, distrusting and sometimes dangerous adults. Anger that senior public servants and policy advisers could have allowed these conditions to continue for so long, knowing that they were parties to the creation of criminals. Anger that no one understood that the offenders of today were almost always the victims of yesterday. That the moment they were old enough to be held accountable for a criminal act, their history of victimisation and neglect became of no account. It was almost as though the state, having neglected the welfare and needs of children in the first 12 years of their life, was able – once the child inevitably progressed to committing a criminal act – to breathe a collective sigh of relief, reclassify the child as a young offender, and quickly transfer any corporate accountability away from themselves by re-designating it as personal responsibility and laying it on an “accountable” individual.
It was a career defining moment. Until then, I had believed that what was happening was mostly attributable to personal racism and/or ignorance. I realised that systemic bias existed across the criminal justice system. The lack of Māori and Pacific police officers and social workers, the lack of networks with Indigenous communities, restrictive diversion processes, resistance to anything other than Pākehā values and beliefs. Research has since established that in 1972, 9% of all Māori males aged between 17 and 19 years spent time in prison (Cook, 2023).
Forty seven years later, in October 2019, I gave evidence at a public hearing of the Royal Commission of Inquiry into Abuse in Care. When I walked into the anteroom, I was greeted and hugged by two survivors. I had met both of them at Kohitere in 1972, and again 18 years later, when I was head of prisons. I stayed to hear their evidence, and my thoughts turned to how their lives might have turned out, had we done things differently.
From 1996 onwards, the Police proactively developed a strategy to increase responsive to Māori (O’Reilly, 2014). But the outcomes for Māori have not greatly changed. It is time to face an inconvenient truth. Improved Māori-Police relationships and culturally appropriate programmes and services in whatever guise, may make a positive contribution to the Police culture, but they do not, on their own, address the underlying presence of personal racism and systemic bias.
Prisons
In 1989, I was appointed as Assistant Secretary, Penal Institutions in the Department of Justice. The facilities in many institutions were run-down, inadequate or non-existent, and too little was done for prisoners in the way of constructive activity. A ministerial report, “Te Ara Hou” (The New Way) was released shortly after my appointment. It found that the traditional prison system was largely failing to rehabilitate or deter offenders, because of an “irreconcilable conflict” between the two fundamental objectives of prison – secure containment and reform. It recommended establishing separate Habilitation Centres to focus on rehabilitation. The Department of Justice was not in favour, and the idea was eventually abandoned.
We came up with an alternative – “He Ara Hou” (A New Way). We engaged prisoners in constructive activity – whether it was literacy and numeracy, educational advancement, employment skills, cultural activity or programmes addressing criminogenic needs. We took advantage of the existing prisons structure, which mostly comprised 60 bed units. The Unit Manager was made directly responsible for the unit budget. Gardening, arts, music, carving and creative writing, were encouraged. Each unit was expected to function as a whānau (or family) unit.
Most units had their own kitchen, and the prisoners prepared meals under supervision. Some units were allocated a weekly food budget. In the initial stages it was a challenge. One unit manager ran out of money, with three more days left in the week. He was sent a booklet on the virtues of fasting.
Prisoners were expected to help organise sporting events, and whānau days in which all their families gathered as one, to take part in social activities. As confidence grew, staff introduced initiatives of their own. In the Harmony Unit at Auckland Prison, incoming prisoners signed a good behaviour contract. One Unit Manager caused a mini crisis when he persuaded a local paint wholesaler to donate enough paint to decorate his unit – the job was completed with the help of prisoners, before bureaucracy intervened. Despite the difficulties, prison staff came on board with support, ideas and commitment. By 1991, prison managers had developed their own initiatives. Prisoner councils were formed, and some prisons were desegregated. Volunteers became part of the prison community.
Prisoners were traditionally regarded as a liability within prisons; rather than as a potential asset. He Ara Hou challenged that thinking; engaging prisoners in the formation of policy and processes at a local and national level. The staff response was predictable. About 5–10% were actively opposed to the change; about 15% were enthusiastic and provided critical leadership in embracing “a new way”; and the rest were passively accepting. In 1993, an incident occurred at the newly established Mangaroa Prison which changed my life. A prisoner stabbed an officer with a chisel. Three prisoners saw him do it, and failed to alert the prison staff. The offender was transferred to another prison – standard practice to ensure a prisoner's safety. The witnesses, however, all Mongrel Mob members, remained at Mangaroa. I contacted the prison, concerned, but was assured they would be safe. Over the next few days, I became increasingly worried.
Four days later I instructed a Prison Inspector to visit the prison and check them out. He phoned with bad news. They had been held for three days naked in an outside exercise yard and repeatedly beaten by prison officers. Injuries included extensive bruising and a fractured skull. I had a problem. Mongrel Mob members did not make statements to the police. Instead, they waited for an opportunity to exact retribution. Nor was I convinced that the local police would do a thorough investigation.
We took a different approach. I contacted a former Mob leader who had significant mana 2 in the gang and visited, and persuaded them to make statements. With the Secretary's consent, I hired a private investigator to conduct an inquiry. Nineteen officers were initially suspended and 12 were eventually dismissed. When the dismissal became news, I expected support from colleagues. I was mistaken; the phone did not ring with its usual regularity, and my normally busy office was bereft of visitors. I was on the outer. In Parliament, two opposition MPs called for my resignation.
That evening, the phone rang. It was a Mongrel Mob leader who I will call Rakau. The conversation went something like this:
“Kimi, Rakau here.” “Kia ora.” “You’re in the newspapers.” “Yes.” “Those fullahs Braybrooke and Laws want you to resign.” “Yes.” “You’re in deep shit.” “Yes.” “Do you want me to take a contract out on them?” “Rakau, you know we’re trying to reduce violence, not promote it.”
I paused for about five seconds before replying – it seemed like an attractive idea.
He burst out laughing. “Only bullshitting, e hoa!”
He then started talking about how my actions meant a great deal to the gangs. Those in prison just wanted to get on with their lag – learn the skills, take up the opportunities on offer, and leave in a better state than when they went in. We talked for some time, and he thanked me for drawing ‘a line in the sand’. It had a considerable impact on me. It was the first supportive word I had received, and it meant a great deal.
I resigned from the Prison Service at the end of 1993. There were three key performance indicators at the time; escape rates, suicide rates and the incidence of prison violence. The rate of prison escapes declined steadily between 1989 and 1993. In 1989, the suicide rate was 0.16% of the total muster (eight suicides). By 1993, it dropped to 0.01% (one suicide). According to criminologists Greg Newbold and Graeme Eskridge, in the first year alone, there was a 75% reduction in misconduct reports and escapes. In 1992, there was a total of 40 assaults by prisoners on staff, most of which were minor and didn't involve injury. The number of prisoners completing educational coursework had increased by a third (Newbold & Eskridge, 1994).
In 2004, criminologist Alison Liebling (one of my criminological heroes) established that moral practices were strongly correlated with positive outcomes (Liebling & Arnold, 2004). Since then, the literature has established that prison social climate has an influence on prisoner wellbeing and behaviour (Wortley, 2002) and correlates with incidents of violence and disorder within prison. A more positive social climate is associated with lower behavioural disturbance, higher levels of motivation, engagement with treatment and therapeutic alliance (Long et al., 2011), greater service user satisfaction, more positive therapeutic relationships with staff (Bressington et al., 2011), lower rates of violence (Friis & Helldin, 1994) and more positive treatment outcomes (Long et al., 2011).
In 1994, after my resignation, the department abandoned He Ara Hou and established a strict regime emphasising security and control. There was a dramatic reduction of escapes. Suicides increased from one in 1993, to 10 in 1994.
I found the experience both uplifting and debilitating. Prior to my resignation, I had been diagnosed with severe clinical depression. Recovery took three years. I emerged more or less intact, and with two major insights. The first was to abandon ambition – when you’re overly ambitious you tend not to speak the truth. Instead you say what you think people want to hear. The second, was to rejoice in failure. If your idea has any value, others will carry it forward.
The impact of neoliberalism
The Department of Corrections was established in 1995, and its chief executive, Mark Byers, had ushered in a drive to increase efficiency by minimising cost and maximising security. Corrections were looking for competent service providers that could meet the demands of the market economy.
In 2003, and in my then role as National Director of Prison Fellowship, the department accepted a proposal to establish a faith-based prison unit at Rimutaka Prison. While there was very little research available at the time about the effectiveness of faith-based units, later research confirmed my suspicion that the connection between involvement in conventional religious activity and offending was not that well supported empirically. A stronger influence on subsequent behaviour is the social attachments that people form within a church and similar social structures. In other words, those individuals with strong pro-social attachments are less likely to commit crime. Within that construct, there was an opportunity to try out new ideas.
There was no problem identifying suitable and staff and volunteers to the unit to teach skills; literacy, numeracy, budgeting and other skills prisoners needed to survive on release. There was a strong emphasis on creative and recreational activity; arts, carving, music, creative writing.
The 60 prisoners were divided into four groups of 15 prisoners each, known as Living Unit Groups (LUGs). Each LUG gathered for study, and met four nights a week with a facilitator to discuss their day and issues of a personal nature. It served as a surrogate whānau where members could experience the love, concern, trust and commitment they might not have known in their biological families. They learned to accept responsibility for their choices and actions, and to support those who were going through difficult times. Potential troublemakers were usually outed by other prisoners, and there was positive peer pressure to behave in accordance with the unit's values.
Our approach differed from usual correctional practice in three ways. Firstly, we flooded the unit with volunteers. Secondly, we emphasised the importance of “giving back” – prisoners eligible for work release were formed into work groups and went into the community daily, chopping firewood, mowing lawns, painting buildings. Thirdly, restorative justice was not a considered intervention, it became a way of life.
On one occasion, food brought into the prison by volunteers for an event went missing. Enquiries revealed that two prison officers were responsible. Confronted by the group, the officers owned up, and were asked to replace what they’d taken. They came back with food for the event, and all was forgiven.
The changing criminal justice system
The restructuring of the public sector in the 1980s and 1990s had facilitated the political formation of a more conservative political regime. There had been growing opposition to policies that appear to benefit the “undeserving poor”, increased cynicism about welfare, and growing support for more aggressive controls for an underclass, who were perceived to be disorderly, drug-prone, violent and dangerous. There was more emphasis on responding to public clamour than reliance upon the expertise of criminal justice professionals and empirical research.
Garland (2001) argued that the politics and policies of welfarism were overtaken by a combination of free-market liberalism and social conservatism. Neo-liberalism maximised economic freedom, promoted anti-union legislation, deregulation, privatisation, and the reduction of welfare benefits, the concurrent resurgence of neo-conservatism promoted tighter controls on social order. Crime was no longer an indicator of deprivation and need; its primary function was to signal ill-discipline and inadequate controls. By 2005, the prison system was in trouble. From the 1990s, Aotearoa New Zealand and similar western nations had experienced a steady decline in the crime rate. Despite that, the imprisonment rate continued to rise. The Ministry of Justice reported that the prison muster had grown by 10% between 2004 and 2005.
Public criminology
In 2006, Prison Fellowship ran a Conference called “Beyond Retribution”, aimed at giving prison volunteers and the public a broader understanding of criminal and social justice issues. We debated current criminal justice policy and its effectiveness in reducing the prison population, explored alternatives to existing practices and policies, and identified ways of meeting the needs of victims and their families. We invited parliamentarians, judges, gang members, ex-prisoners, academics, crime victims and prison volunteers.
Regardless of political or ideological persuasion, all 180 people who came seemed to be of one mind – that criminal justice and penal reform was necessary. There was a healthy scepticism about the value of imprisonment, and an acceptance that the nation needed alternatives. We offered a stellar line-up of presenters, and by the end of the first day the venue was humming with animated discussion.
At the time, there was very little informed public debate. The news media was dominated by the Sensible Sentencing Trust and its “tough on crime” agenda. Criminologists and criminal justice experts were notable by their absence. We needed to do more. In 2007, with the support of Prison Fellowship, we agreed to launch a project called “Rethinking Crime and Punishment”. It was conceived as an independent policy think tank on justice and social harm issues. I resigned from Prison Fellowship shortly afterwards, to focus on this new challenge.
I set about trying to understand how attitudes toward crime and punishment were formed, and whether it was possible to change them. In summary, it seemed to boil down to three things. First, that the starting point was moral intuition – the spontaneous perceptions that all humans have about other people and the things they do. Moral intuitions arise long before moral reasoning has a chance to get started, and these intuitions tend to drive out later reasoning. Second, we accept information that confirms our identity and values, and reject ideas that are in conflict (Haidt, 2007). Third, our values are shaped by our social environment. When politics change what is normal and acceptable, our values change along with our circumstances (Crompton, 2002).
There was a time in Aotearoa New Zealand history, when we believed that anyone who needed health treatment should receive it without payment, when tertiary education should be free, when it was normal to care for those who were less fortunate than ourselves, and wrong and abnormal to neglect them. Values had steadily changed with more people believing that the State has less responsibility to support the poor and weak, especially if they are seen as being primarily responsible for their own situation. Privatisation, the market economy, austerity for the poor and acceptance of inequality all served to shift the values baseline, alter the social cues we receive and generate a culture of insecurity and uncertainty.
The Rethinking project aimed to:
Provide the public with better information about crime and justice issues; Promote evidence-based policies; Rebut policies or draft legislation unsupported by research; Encourage criminologists, academics, criminal justice professionals to actively engage in public conversations; Provide a “replacement discourse” – an alternative discussion that focuses on relevant goals such as securing community safety.
We began a weekly blog, held regular public panel discussions, formed a speaker's bureau and issued media releases. We appeared before Select Committees whenever relevant legislation was introduced. We presented evidence to demonstrate what the unintended consequences might be and proposed alternative approaches.
By 2010, we had made very little impact, and I wondered whether we should continue. I shared that view with a senior member of the judiciary. Within a week I received a number of phone calls and emails from people of significance, urging us to persist. I was pleased that we did. In 2011, the then Deputy Prime Minister referred to prisons as a “fiscal and moral failure”. The Otago Daily Times (2011) reported: Opening a Families Commissions 50 Key Thinkers forum on May 11, Mr English referred to prisons as a ‘moral and fiscal failure’. In so doing he burst the hot-air cloud of rhetoric and emotion that so often envelops discussions of crime and punishment in this country - and which runs contrary to what much evidence and research reveals about it.
JustSpeak has been through some difficult times, but it has stayed the course. In the last two months it held a function at Parliament, launching the Aotearoa chapter of Global Freedom Scholars Aotearoa – a transnational network advocating for an increase in support for prisoners to access higher education (Global Freedom Scholars Network, n.d.). It also released a report that explored the sentencing of wāhine Māori in the criminal courts of Aotearoa New Zealand (Keepa et al., 2025).
JustSpeak was not a sub-committee of Rethinking Crime and Punishment – it was a social movement. We had been gifted with a bunch with a bunch of young warriors who were able to do all the things that were beyond me, and more. They were articulate, feisty and respectful. They understood how to advocate, and write solid policy.
I found increasing satisfaction from writing, and in 2014 I transitioned from advocacy, to reading, writing, study and reflection. There was one issue however, that continued to niggle – the treatment of Māori in the criminal justice system. In 2019, the public became concerned at the behaviour of the Police Armed Response Teams set up to attend armed incidents, following the Mosque killings. They were out of control, wearing para military regalia, armed to the hilt, and randomly stopping and terrifying youth and children, mostly Māori. In March 2020, Julia Whaipooti, an advisor to JustSpeak, and I lodged a claim with the Waitangi Tribunal. 3
On the same day, I visited the incoming Commissioner Andrew Coster, explaining what we had done, and why. I persuaded Andrew to appear with me on national TV, where we discussed the concept of “policing by consent”. That was the start of a continuing conversation with Andy about the problematic Police relationship with Māori and Pasifika communities. Armed Response Teams were subsequently abandoned, but our conversations continued.
Within the next few months, the “Black Lives Matter” movement and the George Floyd killing impacted on Aotearoa. Internationally, there was a crisis of confidence in Policing. In late 2020, the Commissioner decided to establish a three-year research project to research fairness and equity within the Police, and invited me to chair an independent panel to oversee and monitor the project. I accepted the position, and together we selected a panel of 15 members.
It was then I realised the enormity of the task. We could not find any equivalent overseas research that had been successful. We had to find a way of doing the research in a way that would both involve and empower all parties; panel members, the community, researchers and frontline police. We negotiated an agreement with the Police that secured our independence. We had unfettered access to Police data and information, were able to commission our own research and monitor the ongoing research. Any unresolved dispute was referred to the Commissioner for his decision. We spent the first two months developing a tikanga Māori framework that would guide our work.
After four months, it became clear that the research team selected by the Police was not suited for the task. The Panel was invited to recruit new researchers. Two months later, the four new research teams met with the Police Executive, who were blown away. Shortly after, the Panel was asked to manage the research.
We did research not about the Police but with the Police. The Police established an Operational Advisory Group of 30 frontline officers from across Aotearoa led by a Police Superintendent. Panel members and the frontline Police met regularly; their perspective was critical to the research. Within two hours of our first meeting, Police officers themselves identified situations where bias existed.
By then end of 2024, we had published three major reports and 10 case studies which demonstrated systemic bias across the Police in a range of areas, for example, data collection, police training, de-escalation, who “deserves” fair and equitable treatment, and disability awareness. We also identified examples of Police innovation and positive policing. The research covered Māori, Pacific, Rainbow and disabled communities.
Those who know, described the research as world leading. For me, it was the highlight of a very long career, and a sign that I could now, at the age of 85, safely retire. The research is now in the hands of the Police Executive, and its key recommendations wait to be actioned. We may not get what we want, but that in no way detracts from its mana. It is not an inert piece of academic interest, headed for antiquity. Its truth speaks out now, and will continue to speak out for generations to come. It may gain more initial prominence internationally than it does domestically, but eventually its truth will speak to the nation.
In closing, there are a couple of things I want to say. I recall that in Loader and Sparks book on Public Criminology, a senior British criminologist had this to say; Where is the oppositional criminology? Where are the researchers who are actually challenging government policy on the basis of evidence and research? Where is that kind of criminology in this country? I don't see that debate. (quoted in Loader & Sparks, 2013, p. 12)
The tendency of public commentators has been to refute political positioning, rather than promote viable alternatives. That, I think, is where criminologists come in to their own. Are we doing enough, in the words of Loader and Sparks, to understand the changing economic, social and cultural conditions that impact upon the way in which crime is publicly understood, spoken about and acted upon in western societies, and with the interplay between the governance of crime, competing political ideas and ideologies, and the imperatives and dynamics of electoral politics? (Loader & Sparks, 2013, p. 2)
Last week, writer and social activist Denis O’Reilly commented on the state of the criminal justice system in Aotearoa: … our prison population has soared to 11,000 inmates. The muster is disproportionately Māori (53.4 percent) and trending upward. Prime Minister Christopher Luxon has declared the increase in the prison muster to be a ‘good thing’, characterising it as the price of ‘restoring law and order’. Luxon accepts that it comes at an unfathomable financial cost, which, he said, ‘will be what the cost will be’……… We are approaching a cost of $200,000 per inmate per year. In New Zealand, recidivism rates are high. Around 70 percent of people released from prison are reconvicted within two years. And of those who manage to stay out of prison for two years after their release, 49 percent are eventually imprisoned again. (O’Reilly, 2025)
Throughout this paper, I have given examples of systemic bias. Internationally, the Criminal Justice system denies its existence. Baroness Casey's review of the Metropolitan Police in 2023, described a Police culture that is more comfortable focusing on individual wrongdoers or procedural failings than on systemic issues or bias (Casey, 2023). Last Thursday, the Auckland University of Technology released a report, showing that Māori faced harsher sentences than Pākehā for similar drink-driving offences – with lasting consequences (Plum et al., 2025). It cited the Understanding Policing Delivery finding that when all other factors are held constant, Māori were 11% more likely to be prosecuted than Pākeha. We need to continue to speak truth to power.
Let me close with a word to you all. You all have the capacity to lead – and if you choose to do so – there is a further cost to pay. The price of vision, and determination to pursue a vision, includes humiliation, loneliness and abuse. The reward is that if you persist for long enough, you have the potential to transform. You may never see a justice system that restores. But from your own mountain top, situated in your own ivory tower, you will have pointed the way for others. Imagine the collective impact if each of us here today, sought to change the way our community conceives justice. Consider the possibility of a “tipping point” – a time when the academic community influences the nation, and the way it does justice. Imagine a nation that measures itself by how it treats the least, the lost and the lonely, a land in which strength is defined not simply by the capacity to engage in political and civil conflict, but by a determination to forge peace – a land in which all might come together in a spirit of unity. This different, better place beckons us. We will find it not across distant hills or within some hidden valley, but within our own hearts.
Tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou katoa.
Footnotes
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.