One of the wiser governance people I’ve had the privilege of working with once told me that, as a professional director, you should always try to be a cleanskin. By this she meant that people should never be quite sure which way you vote.
Another of my governance mentors, once described as the godfather of Canterbury governance, was particularly proud that nobody had any idea about his political leanings. I’m fairly sure I could have guessed, but I understood the point.
I am, of course, spectacularly bad at this. Those closest to me have, on occasion, suggested that I should shut up rather than open my mouth. This reminds me of a quote inexplicably taped to the toilet door when I was growing up: “‘Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” A philosophy I have spent a lifetime enthusiastically ignoring.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about political leanings as we enjoy the increasingly gentle and measured run-up to the general election in November. My social media feeds are now essentially a political personality test in which everyone gets the same result: furiously certain.
No one appears to be a moderate anymore. There is no longer any apparent space between “I disagree with this policy” and “this person is a malevolent idiot who should probably be removed from society”. The recent National Party ruckus was a particularly good example. I have no political opinion on it that I’m prepared to share publicly – see, I do occasionally learn – but watching the reaction was fascinating.
On one side, Chris Luxon was apparently the spawn of Satan, the worst thing to happen to New Zealand since the invention of the cold southerly, and someone who should probably be exiled to an island. Any Island. On the other, Luxon appeared to be the second coming of Christ, sent down to Earth to save us from the horrors of the left. Which is quite a burden to place on a bloke who, at least according to his CV, was previously just running an airline.
The reality, of course, is considerably less exciting. Chris Luxon is a politician. Like every other politician, he has strengths, weaknesses, good ideas, bad ideas and the occasional idea that makes you wonder whether anyone in the room had actually eaten lunch. The same applies to the other Chris, and indeed to everyone else in Parliament.
But this seems increasingly difficult for us to accept. The thing that worries me isn’t disagreement. Disagreement is healthy. It is, rather conveniently, one of the main reasons we invented democracy. It’s the certainty: the absolute, unshakeable conviction that the person on the other side of an argument isn’t merely wrong, but is stupid, evil, corrupt, malicious or some combination of the four.
I see it from people I know to be thoughtful, generous and intelligent in every other part of their lives. Put them in front of a political post, however, and suddenly they write like they’ve spent the afternoon being coached by a particularly excitable algorithm. And the media isn’t exactly helping.
Our attention economy has discovered that nuance is terrible for engagement. “There are reasonable arguments on both sides” gets approximately three likes and a pitying comment from your mother. “This is the most outrageous thing I have ever seen” gets 14,000 views before lunch.
So we feed the machine. We find the most inflammatory two seconds of a clip, remove the context, identify the villain, gather our tribe, and then congratulate ourselves for having defeated democracy by lunchtime.
And there is a cost. When every politician becomes a caricature, every voter becomes a stereotype, and every opposing argument becomes evidence of moral failure, it becomes almost impossible to have a useful conversation about anything.
Because underneath all the noise, I suspect most people actually want remarkably similar things: decent housing, functioning public services, a productive economy, safe communities and a country that works reasonably well. We simply disagree – sometimes profoundly – about how to get there.
That disagreement is the interesting bit. It’s the bit worth having.
Maybe that’s hopelessly naive. Maybe the election campaign will descend into the usual tribal punch-on, with everyone explaining at great length why everyone else is an idiot. But perhaps there is still something to be said for the old governance idea of being a cleanskin.
Not pretending you don’t have opinions. Not becoming some beige, politically neutral porridge. Just remembering that being completely certain you’re right is not necessarily evidence that you are.
I’m going to try that approach myself. No promises, obviously. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.
