Zoran Rakovic
Zoran Rakovic is a structural engineer with nearly 30 years of experience, who has helped design and strengthen buildings across New Zealand.
John Tamihere’s recent declaration that “no MP is above the party” sounds, at first, like the kind of firm leadership expected in a disciplined political movement. But scratch beneath the surface, and you’ll find something much darker: not the humble claim that we are all servants of collective purpose, but a naked confession that the very machinery of democracy has been hijacked. That the MP is no longer a representative of the people, but a functionary of the party. A meat puppet in a suit. A card-carrying serf in a carefully branded fiefdom.
Tamihere doesn’t hide it. In fact, he leans into it. He invokes loyalty, discipline, unity. He treats dissent as betrayal. He demands resignation from those who challenge internal leadership. And in doing so, he reveals the core structure of modern parliamentary life: representation is not vertical (people → MP → parliament) but horizontal and closed (party → MP → spin room). Voters are useful only up to the moment they vote. After that, they are relegated to spectatorship, while internal factions battle for dominance, enforce silence, and issue carefully rehearsed talking points. It’s less representative democracy and more political puppetry. Parliament becomes a theatre. The whip holds the strings.
This is not just a problem of Te Pāti Māori. It is a structural malaise infecting the very idea of representation. When Tamihere asserts that no MP is above the party, he is not stating a fact. He is issuing an instruction: suppress yourself. Submit to the caucus. Silence your conscience. Pretend you agree. And if you do not – if, god forbid, you remember that you were elected by actual people with actual voices – prepare to be expelled, erased, and excommunicated.
This structure produces, in Marxist terms, an “objective ideology”: a way of organizing political life that is taken for granted even when it contradicts our lived experience. Everyone knows the MP is supposed to represent the electorate. Everyone knows they campaign on local issues. Everyone knows their name appears on the ballot, not the name of some anonymous committee. But once elected, the MP is rapidly initiated into the real game: caucus meetings behind closed doors, enforced loyalty, media scripts and, most of all, the whip. The whip is not just a mechanism. It is the fetish object of parliamentary order. It holds the spectacle together. Without it, the party risks fragmentation, dissent, scandal: the unbearable emergence of democracy.
The logic is self-fulfilling. Parties claim that discipline is necessary to deliver policy, to maintain coherence, to project a united front. But the more they enforce this discipline, the more incoherent they become as representatives of a diverse population. The more united they appear on camera, the more alienated they become from the real people they were supposed to represent. And when this alienation breaks through (as it did with the recent Te Pāti Māori revolt) it is punished with purges, name-calling, and accusations of “entitlement”. The subtext is clear: unity is sacred, even if it is unity against your own constituents.
Tamihere’s pronouncement, then, should not be read as a defence of integrity, but as a political Rorschach test. What you see in it depends on your understanding of representation. If you believe that MPs are merely foot soldiers in a party war, his statement is a necessary affirmation of discipline. But if you believe that MPs are elected to be the voice of the people, to think critically, to sometimes disobey orders and speak uncomfortable truths, then Tamihere’s words are chilling. They are the voice of the jailer, not the liberator.
Let us speak plainly. The idea that parties are the main conduit of representation is a fiction sustained by procedural inertia. MMP was supposed to deliver diversity, pluralism, and greater proportionality. And in some ways, it has. But it has also entrenched the party as the only viable vehicle of political voice. Independents are treated as oddities. Cross-bench voices are dismissed as rogue elements. The electorate MP, once imagined as the true bridge between parliament and the people, has become a brand ambassador for whatever party list they rode in on. Their speeches are curated. Their questions are pre-approved. Their votes are counted before the debate even begins.
There is something obscene in all this. Not obscene in the pornographic sense, but in the psychoanalytic sense: that which should remain hidden but is now exposed. Tamihere says the quiet part out loud. He confirms that MPs are not expected to think, question, or represent. They are expected to obey. It is not just loyalty. It is structural subservience. The MP is not the subject. The party is the subject. The MP is merely a syntactic function of the party’s will.
This has devastating consequences for the relationship between voters and power. It means that your vote is not a mandate, but a license. It licenses someone to enter a building and immediately submit to someone else’s agenda. Your concerns become filtered through party platforms, party strategies, party compromises. And if you complain? If you dare to write to your MP, expecting them to vote a certain way? They will explain, politely, that their hands are tied. That caucus has decided. That the party line must be followed. And somewhere, deep inside, you realize the awful truth: your voice was never welcome in that room.
This is why I argue, again and again, for the return of the independent MP. Not as a nostalgic throwback to some golden age of conscience voting, but as a necessary correction to the current deformity. We need MPs who are not whipped, who are not folded into the mechanical rituals of party survival. We need representatives who can surprise us, challenge us, and represent real local conditions without fear of being erased by the party machine.
Let me be clear: independence does not mean chaos. It does not mean narcissism, or vanity projects, or random voting. It means precisely the opposite. It means a commitment to the people that transcends party interests. It means fidelity to place, to story, to struggle. It means having the courage to say ‘no’ when the party says ‘yes’, and the wisdom to say ‘yes’ when the party says nothing at all.
Of course, the system is rigged against this. Funding, media attention, legislative power: all of it is skewed toward the parties. Even the anti-defection laws (waka-jumping) enforce a kind of psychological imprisonment. Leave the party, and you must leave parliament. It is a form of hostage politics: your conscience versus your seat. Your integrity versus your ability to do anything with it. And so, most MPs stay. They bite their tongues. They defer to the leader. They become shadows of themselves.
This is not politics. This is administration. This is the bureaucratization of representation. The MP becomes a service node, executing the code of the party server. Occasionally, they are allowed to speak, provided they stick to the script. But even their rebellion is choreographed. Even their passion is prefabricated. The party is the great ventriloquist, and the electorate is the dummy on the knee.
John Tamihere is wrong, not because he is undemocratic, but because he is too honest about the democracy we actually have. He tells us what the system requires. And in doing so, he inadvertently exposes the rot. He shows us that real power lies not with the voter, but with the whip. Not with the community, but with the caucus. Not with the MP, but with the machinery.
It is time to break the machinery. Not with violence, not with slogans, but with presence. With independent candidates standing in electorates, refusing to be absorbed. With citizens supporting people, not brands. With voters refusing to believe the lie that a vote for an independent is a wasted vote. A wasted vote is one that empowers someone who will never speak for you again. A wasted vote is one that enters the mouth of the party and never returns.
We must learn to see the parliament not as a zoo of parties but as a potential agora of independent voices. We must imagine a politics where representation is not swallowed by alignment. Where MPs do not fear their own voice. Where speaking out is not a betrayal, but the very essence of democratic service.
Tamihere may think that no MP is above the party. But I say: no party should be above the people. And any system that enshrines party loyalty over representational integrity is not a democracy. It is a simulation of one. A puppet show in which the strings are visible, the puppets know they are puppets, and the audience claps anyway, hoping the script might one day change.
That change begins with us. With you. With the simple, radical idea that parliament belongs not to parties, but to people. And that the only way to make that true is to send people, not brands, into the chamber. People with stories. People with scars. People with spines. People who, when they stand to speak, do not check the party line, but remember the faces of those who sent them.
This article was originally published on Zoran’s Substack.
