The Trick of Standing Upright

Monarchy or Republic: Which Way, Kiwi Bloke?

Not I, some child born in a marvellous year
Will learn the trick of standing upright here.

(Allen Curnow, The Skeleton of the Great Moa in the Canterbury Museum, Christchurch)

Elizabeth II’s passing left many New Zealanders feeling a depth of affection they probably never thought they had. She was a figure of quiet dignity and stability, a bridge between the old order and the new forged sometime during World War II. And now she is gone.

Already, our favourite long-standing background-noise debate has restarted: Should New Zealand become a republic?

For my part, I’ve never particularly liked nor disliked the Queen. I don’t care one whit for royal gossip and she has never factored into my life. Yet I still felt her death as the loss of something significant.

In political terms, the monarch is a mere figurehead: he (it still feels weird writing that) has no power over how we govern ourselves. Nor does his representative, the Governor-General. The real significance of these positions is in the cultural and historical values they embody.

In our founding document, The Treaty of Waitangi, the chiefs of the tribes of New Zealand agreed to cede governance of their lands (“te Kawanatanga katoa o o ratou wenua”) to the Crown (an abstract entity denoting something like the authority of the state). Once regarded as a “simple nullity”, the Treaty, though a series of arrangements, reforms, judicial decisions, and legislative actions, has now assumed an important place in New Zealand politics; the King is the living embodiment of one half of that agreement.

There is no reason why we couldn’t have the same deal without a King. In his absence, the Prime Minister or a new President or the state itself could simply assume the role of the Crown.

The operative word here is “could”. In reality, changing the head of state is likely to invite a broader debate about the basis of our political system and its shaky, basically uncodified constitution. If that goes up for debate—as it will in any meaningful move towards becoming a Republic—the precarious whole is threatened.

The Treaty only has power insofar as we have chosen to acknowledge a particular understanding of it. Having an uncodified constitution helps us here. It grants us the ability to make small changes and accretions where they make sense, without having to overhaul the entire political system.

An example of this is the Waitangi Tribunal. Tasked with investigating claims and matters relating to the Treaty, the Tribunal’s findings are not, by mere fiat, legally binding. But, over time, as they have been cross-referenced by legislators, the civil service, and judges, the good, practicable parts have been slowly integrated into our society and our political and legal system, with the Tribunal attaining a bipartisan authority in its own right.

Would removing the King and rewriting the Treaty directly into the heart of our political system be any better? It would certainly not undo the crimes and misgivings of the past. Rather than definitively resolving the conflict between Māori and Pākehā, a new Republic which sublates those tensions into basic political operations is just as likely to politicise and inflame the matter.

We are better for understanding the Treaty, not as a legal document, but as a compact; as something which binds us and acts upon us, not in the threat of enforcement, but in quiet moments of self-reflection; we acknowledge its authority, but not necessarily its power; it is one source of meaning—but not the only one.

Monarchy strengthens this compact by linking it to the slightly elevated, mystical notion of “the Crown”. However vaguely defined this institution may be, the Crown is something different from the raw mechanisms of how we govern ourselves. There is a psychological advantage in this: by addressing our colonial wrongs to the Crown—and not the government—we are able to have an historical reckoning and its attendant moral catharsis without ever undermining the basis of our current political cooperation.

Monarchy is also our link to the other territories in the Realm of New Zealand. The King of New Zealand is also the King of Niue, of the Cook Islands, and of Tokelau. In theory, those other three countries are in free association with New Zealand, each with its own degree of self-rule. In practice, they are dependencies, having political and judicial systems entangled with New Zealand’s, an economy dominated by imports, foreign aid, and remittances, and no independent foreign or military policy.

These countries are far too small to exert any influence on New Zealand, much less to go it alone. The Governor-General, then, as the King’s representative across the entire Realm, is a māngai: through her, the member-states of the Realm may have the Prime Minister’s ear directly.

And, every now and then, during some ceremony or other, the Governor-General has the job of directing our collective gaze back over our shared history. She does this in the name of the Crown which brought us together. On such occasions, each country, regardless of their size, is on an equal footing. Our unique relationship is renewed on the basis of respect, friendship, and shared history, not simply raw power or domination.

This is all dreadfully sentimental, but symbolism matters. Adopting the manner and costume of a monarchy—even if only for procedure and ceremony—forces our mind to range over the past. Such traditions attest to our shared belonging and common past, one that is by no means unblemished, but which is nevertheless ours.

Republicans are loathe to admit that symbolism matters. They know best of all it does; on little more than an outraged sense of egalitarianism, they insist we must build some new, authentically Kiwi form of national identity.

More eloquent proposals, like those by Geoffrey Palmer, insist that the matter is really about sorting out New Zealand’s messy constitutional affairs. He demands certainty in areas of the laws currently deemed murky. As part of that, we might redesign our system so we either elect or appoint someone to perform the same functions as the current Governor-General, without any need to pretend to believe in the King’s divine right to rule.

All of that is besides the strict question of Republicanism. Piecewise constitutional reform will continue to happen, regardless of who our head of state happens to be. Certainly, if we could undo all the bad things in our past, or simply design a completely new society from the bottom-up, we would have no need for a King. That’s not the case though. The question at hand is whether we need to get rid of the King to realise our political will. And the answer—for now—is no.