It’s 1945 and a Russian artillery battery is punching its way into Germany, “shrouded in fire”. Captain of the battery and author of that quote is Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, twice-decorated by his nation in the fight against Nazi Germany—and soon to vanish into the maw of Russia’s prison camps. In his eight years in the gulags and subsequent exile, Solzhenitsyn will have plenty of time to think. In fact, he’ll produce a profound insight into human nature which can help us in our time of growing political violence and as another election approaches.
Last year saw the assassination of US political activist Charlie Kirk while speaking peacefully at a university, shot in the neck by an ideologue who wanted to put a stop to his advocacy. Closer to home, ministers in the current government have been targeted. Protestors at Winston Peters’ home smashed a window, Chris Bishop had his office vandalised, and Matt Doocey had a rock thrown through the rear windscreen of his official vehicle.
There’s several degrees of magnitude separating an assassination and damage to property, though last year’s Destiny Church-linked protest against drag queen story time at Te Atatū library, featuring ugly scenes of disorder and allegations of assault by some protestors, obviously raise the stakes.
We’re also seeing more inflammatory rhetoric, like the claims that good faith debate about biological sex amounts to the “erasure” of trans people, or the charge of “genocide” weaponised in debates about issues like co-governance. We’re told the stakes are existential, and that those who disagree with us aren’t just wrong, they’re immoral, even evil.
This is the temper of our times. Small wonder that a survey in October found that 14 percent of New Zealanders thought that political violence may be justified to “get NZ back on track”, with Te Pati Māori voters (25 percent), ACT voters (20 percent) and younger voters aged 18-39 (21 percent) most likely to agree. Passionate disagreement and political protest are a good thing, but not when they cross the line into violence.
So there’s no reason to be complacent or to think the kind of politically-motivated violence we see overseas could never happen here.
Critical theory sits under the surface of much of this, even if most people aren’t conscious of it. Critical theorists believe society is a power struggle. The group at the top of the social hierarchy obtained their position by exploiting other groups, and maintain their dominance by holding their victims down. Anyone in a position of power is therefore guilty by virtue of their privilege, and everyone falls into the role either of oppressor or victim—coloniser or colonised, male or female, Boomer or Millenial, cis or trans, and so on.
MMP entrenches these divisions, which is why we can expect to see more of this kind of conflict in this election year. Proportional representation encourages us to think more about our differences than what we have in common, and to splinter into smaller and smaller factions. Only someone like you can represent you, or so we’re told, so the contest for the levers of political power increasingly becomes a contest between identity groups.
I’ve painted a grim picture, and it’s time to return to Solzhenitsyn’s insight for some inspiration. As a political prisoner, sentenced for criticising the communist regime, Solzhenitsyn was nearly broken by the beatings, torture and forced labour meted out in the gulags, but the experience enabled him to see an essential truth about humanity.
The communists were self-proclaimed liberators fighting for the common people in their struggle against the tyranny of capitalists and Nazis. But the supposedly benevolent Soviet authorities showed themselves to be intolerant and oppressive. And so Solzhenitsyn wrote, “Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts.”
The comforting fiction that “we” are righteous and “they” are evil is just that—a fiction. No category of people is wholly pure and no category is irremediably bad. People who disagree with us may be our opponents but they are not our enemies, even when the stakes are high.
This is a lesson in humility and an invitation to intellectual charity when we encounter ideas we don’t like and the people who express them. It’s an opportunity to reflect on our shared humanity. Though the proportions may vary, we’re all a mixture of good and evil, individually and as groups. The views we hold and the ways we conduct ourselves should be correspondingly modest.
That may not get as much attention from the public or juice the algorithms as effectively. But it’s less likely to provoke the hostility, hatred, and even violence that threaten our hold on peaceful democracy.
Rediscovering humility could help us overcome the temper of our times.
This article was first published by The Post on 23 January 2026.
