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In 1971, US President Richard Nixon declared drugs “public enemy number one.” What followed was the War on Drugs—a campaign built on a simple idea: that harsh punishment could eliminate drug use.   It didn’t. But the way it framed drug use as something to criminalise continues to influence much of Western drug policy, including Aotearoa’s.   The Misuse of Drugs Act 1975 frames drug use primarily as a criminal issue, rather than a health one. The consequences are severe. Supplying a Class A drug can carry life imprisonment—the same maximum penalty as murder. That equivalence is telling. It shows how the law understands drug offending: as a reprehensible harm to society that must be punished at the highest level.   The Act also reshapes the rules of guilt. If someone is found with a certain quantity of drugs, the law presumes intent to supply. The burden shifts. Instead of the state proving intent, the individual must disprove it. In practice, this sits uneasily with the principle that people are innocent until proven guilty.   Taken together, these features reflect more than just “tough” policy. They reflect a system built on deterrence, punishment, and control. This is what the War on Drugs was all about: reducing drug use and dealing by imposing harsh criminal penalties.   But the question does not end with what the law is. It is important to consider how the law is applied. Who benefits from this law, and who is being systemically disadvantaged from this policy.   Laws do not enforce themselves; people do. Police decide who to stop, who to search, and whether an offence results in a warning or a charge. That discretion matters most in low-level drug offending, where the same conduct can lead to very different outcomes.   Those differences are not random.   Around half of New Zealanders will use cannabis in their lifetime. Yet in 2022, Māori made up 45% of cannabis possession charges and 49% of convictions, while representing only 17% of the population.   That disparity cannot be explained by use alone. Rather, it reflects how this law is enforced.   When discretion is exercised unevenly, certain groups are more likely to be stopped, searched, and charged. That increases the likelihood of conviction. And once that conviction is recorded, its effects extend far beyond a prison sentence.   A drug conviction follows you. It narrows employment opportunities. It restricts access to housing. It makes financial stability harder to achieve. Each consequence may appear limited on its own, but together they accumulate, shaping a person’s long-term position in society.   This is how hierarchy forms: through a pattern of perpetual disadvantage. One group is more likely to be policed, more likely to be punished, and more likely to carry the enduring weight of that punishment.   Over time, those patterns harden. They begin to determine who has access to stability, opportunity, and security—and who does not.   That is what makes the system caste-like. It is not simply unequal treatment in isolated moments. It is the way those moments compound, producing durable social divisions.   This dynamic is more visible in the United States, where drug policy has disproportionately targeted Black communities. There, a conviction often carries the label “felon”—a status that limits access to housing, employment, and in many states the right to vote. It marks a person as permanently lesser in the eyes of the law.   Aotearoa is not identical, but the mechanism is recognisable.   When criminal law disproportionately targets certain groups, and attaches long-term social and economic consequences to that targeting, it does more than punish behaviour. It reshapes social position.   That is when policy becomes social structure.   In that sense, Aotearoa’s drug law cannot be understood as neutral. It operates within a broader history of colonisation—one in which legal systems have repeatedly been used to control, marginalise, and disadvantage Māori. Punitive drug policy does not sit outside that history, but continues it.   But it does not have to be this way.   One of the most enduring legacies of the War on Drugs is the assumption that punishment is the default response—and that anything else is soft, naïve, or radical.   It isn’t.   We have spent more than fifty years testing the punitive model. Drug use has not disappeared. Harm has not been eliminated. Instead, we have seen the opposite: rising overdose deaths, persistent addiction, and widening inequality. The system has not failed because it was not harsh enough. It has failed because punishment was never capable of solving the problem it set out to address.   Other approaches exist—and they work.   In 2001, Portugal decriminalised all drugs, shifting drug use out of the criminal justice system and into the realm of public health. Possession no longer leads to prosecution. Instead, individuals are referred to dissuasion panels made up of health and social service professionals. The response is not prison, but support: counselling, treatment, and community-based interventions (where appropriate).   The results are instructive. Drug-related deaths have fallen. HIV transmission rates have dropped. Levels of substance abuse use have declined. At the same time, the burden on the criminal justice system has eased, allowing resources to be redirected elsewhere.   Portugal did not eliminate drug use. But it did reduce harm, and that is the point. Drug policy is not fixed; it is a set of choices about what we prioritise, who we punish, and what outcomes we are willing to accept. If those choices are producing predictable harm and inequality, they are not neutral. They are decisions of what society is willing to accept.   And decisions can be remade.   More than fifty years on from the declaration of the War on Drugs, the evidence is no longer uncertain. We know what punitive policy produces. We know what alternatives can achieve.   The question is no longer whether change is possible; it is whether we are willing to choose it.

Mā te huruhuru ka rere te manu Alonso Meija-Ball To some, heritage means nothing beyond the colour of your skin or the spelling of your surname. Not being able to speak the language of your ancestors is forgivable if your family was built on the backs of migrants. There is no standard to uphold if even the people who raised you can’t speak their ‘mother tongue’. I say this primarily thinking of ngā Tāngata Pākehā who are of European descent, whose rangatira hail from Germany or France—they don’t know a lick of the language and that’s acceptable. Although, there can always be exceptions. But for Tāngata Whenua it’s different.  There’s the idea that if you’re Māori, and you can’t speak the ‘reo’, then you’re ‘plastic’. Some sort of ‘other’ . I’ve talked to individuals who degrade themselves when the topic of culture comes up, almost racing before anyone else can beat them to the punch, by cutting off their own poppy heads. It is fair to say, no one should be blamed for the sins of their parents, because parents who chose to educate their children in the tongue of their colonisers haven’t done anything wrong—it’s the result of grandparents and great grandparents being shamed and beaten into silence.  Whina Cooper was responsible for the 1975 Māori Land March and was one of the key figures that helped usher in a new founded strength in kotahitanga Māori, helping underpin movements like the Māori Language revitalisation movement. This started with Kōhanga Reo nearly 50 years ago, which led to te reo Māori being recognised as an official language during 1987.  Some odd 50 years ago is both such a short time and a lifetime ago—I feel as though some people really don’t comprehend that fact. And 50 years is all it took. Some consequences are still trickling down, where Tāngata Whenua are but a stranger to their own language due to a suppression they had no play in.  Yet there’s an idea, a theory proposed by Theodore Newcomb, that says we are drawn to the people we subconsciously believe we will relate to the most. And when proven true, the connections built will be that much closer and more intimate than any mere acquaintance. So when you’re surrounded by strangers, and long for conversation—who do you gravitate towards first? Those who speak the shared reo Pākehā or those who speak the language that reminds you of what you have lost? Or perhaps you don’t choose and remain an ‘other’ . The loss of language shouldn’t be a divisive topic. If anything, it should be a moment meant for reflection. Especially in the current climate, where our understanding of connection has become defined by our identity as the whole person who we are, and not what we’ve lost. I understand that too. Knowing who you are gives a sense of security, a place to stand in an at times unreliable world.  Ahakoa kāore ōku toto Māori. Nō Amerika ki te Raki tōku whaea, ā, nō Amerika ki Te Tonga tōku pāpā. He tāne Pāniora ahau. So when I’m choosing who to talk to, I always hesitate. Be patient with yourself. Understanding your history is important as it still holds relevance. Understand that what has been done is done, and now we merely begin again. Constantly analysing the why will only lead you towards insanity, really. The world, this country, whoever you deem as ‘your’ people, can be far more forgiving than you anticipate.

An office move for the Vice-Chancellor and the rest of Te Hiwa cost the university $411,000—despite an initial budget of just $267,000.  The Vice-Chancellor and the rest of The Hiwa (Victoria University’s senior leadership team) have relocated to a refurbished space in the Robert Stout building, documents released under the Official Information Act (OIA) reveal.  Why? To give each Te Hiwa member their own office. The move, the university says, would improve productivity, privacy, and—somewhat more abstactly—uphold manaakitanga.  “This project will enhance the working environment for Te Hiwa members, by providing individual offices for all members,” reads a university memorandum released under the OIA. “One advantage of this relocation is that it will significantly increase the privacy for each member, enhancing confidentiality.” The budget did not hold. While initially set at just under $270,000, the final cost reached $411,000 after a series of unbudgeted additions.  Furniture alone cost $49,000. A further $95,000 went to IT infrastructure and security.  In a statement, a university spokesperson rejected the idea that the project had gone over budget—framing the additional spending as separate. “There was no overspend in the refurbishment and relocation of Te Hiwa offices. The costs referred to were additional costs including consents, security, loose fittings and furnishing, carpets, painting IT and infrastructure, which were funded through other maintenance budgets and excluded from the business case estimates.”   The spokesperson added that meeting the same requirements in the Hunter Building would have been “considerably more” expensive, citing the need for further construction work. Internally, the university assessed the project as carrying a “medium” reputational risk, with a communications plan prepared in the event of media scrutiny. The move was also framed as contributing to Māori students' wellbeing. “Allowing Te Hiwa to work efficiently and collaboratively together, allows under the Mai I te iho ki te pae framework the top tier of the institution, to deliver, not only better outcomes for Māori at the University, but for the wider university as well,” the memorandum states.  “‘Relevance to Māori’ is standard in business cases, to ensure we continually consider the impacts and outcomes of our actions on our Māori students and staff,” the spokesperson said. Please feel free to writ e Salient l etters (or opinion pieces) if you have other ideas on how to spend $411,000 to enhance Māori wellbeing at Vic. A 2025 briefing by the Tertiary Education Commission described Victoria University as a “high-risk institution” financially, noting that many of the factors influencing their assessment sit outside the university’s control.

In nomine Dei, miseratoris, misericordis. Hajji Abdullah Drury Easter, or the Feast of the Resurrection, occupies a central place in the Christian liturgical calendar. This year, it will occur a few weeks after the end of Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting during daylight, and the Muslim festival of Eid al-Fitr. Commemorating the resurrection of Jesus Christ on the third day following his crucifixion in AD 33, Easter is regarded (alongside Christmas) as one of the most significant religious observances in Christianity. Given that Jesus (“Isa” in Arabic) is also a revered prophet in Islam, the question arises: what significance, if any, does Easter hold for New Zealand Muslims? Today the Muslim population, numbering over 60,000, reflects a complex interplay of migration, conversion, and generational development. To the untrained eye, New Zealand Muslims may seem a little aimless. However, this community may be broadly categorized into four sociological groupings.  The first includes immigrants from diverse regions, spanning both recent arrivals and long-established families. The second comprises refugees (African, Asian, and European) whose resettlement is shaped by displacement and humanitarian policy. Third are converts, predominantly from Anglo-European and Polynesian backgrounds, drawn to Islam through spiritual conviction or marital ties. Fourth are New Zealand-born descendants of these groups, including children of mixed heritage, who embody evolving, hybrid identities.  This layered demographic challenges reductive narratives of religious minorities and invites a more nuanced understanding of belonging, citizenship, and cultural negotiation. As these communities continue to grow and adapt, they contribute to the redefinition of New Zealand’s pluralistic landscape, raising critical questions about national identity, civic inclusion, and the future of religious diversity. While Easter itself is not observed within Islamic tradition, the figure of Jesus is deeply respected. Numerous Muslims bear his name, and the Quran affirms his status as both a nabi  (prophet) and a rasul  (messenger) of God, specifically sent to guide the Children of Israel. He is described as Kalimatullah  (“God’s Word”) and referred to as al-Masih  (“the Messiah”) eleven times. The phrase Isa ibn Maryam  (“Jesus, son of Mary”) appears thirty-three times throughout the Islamic scripture, underscoring his theological prominence. However, the Islamic conception of Jesus diverges significantly from Christian doctrine, particularly regarding his death and resurrection. The Quran explicitly denies the crucifixion, asserting instead that Jesus was neither killed nor crucified, but that it merely appeared so to his contemporaries. This theological distinction serves as a critical demarcation between Islamic and Christian understandings of Jesus. Most Muslims believe that Jesus was miraculously raised to heaven by God and remains alive, awaiting a future return during the eschatological “final days” to defeat the Dajjal  (antichrist).  The identity of the substitute—who was crucified in Jesus’ place—has been the subject of considerable speculation among Muslim historians. While some posit a willing volunteer, others suggest divine retribution upon an adversary, with Judas Iscariot frequently cited in popular folklore. It is worth noting that interpretive diversity exists within the Muslim world. The Ahmadiyya community, a Muslim minority sect originating in South Asia, maintains that Jesus was indeed crucified but survived, later migrating to Kashmir under the name Yuz Asaf. According to this narrative, he lived out his days in India and established a local lineage – an account that remains controversial and is rejected by mainstream Islamic scholarship as cognitive dissonance. Despite doctrinal differences, Christianity and Islam share historical and theological intersections. Both traditions affirm the prophetic mission of Jesus, his miraculous birth, and his ethical teachings.  In this light, Easter (though not commemorated by Muslims) can serve as a reflective moment for interfaith dialogue. It highlights the shared reverence for Jesus and invites deeper understanding of the theological nuances that distinguish the two faiths. I read a lot of history books and my own thoughts here turn to the popular song “ Aiwa Saida ” that New Zealand soldiers sang whilst in North Africa during World War Two. The lyrics—replete with references to an Arab musician named Ali Yusuf—hint at the close relationship that once existed between different peoples fighting fascism together.  So then, the Islamic perspective on Jesus is increasingly relevant in public discourse in this country as religious pluralism becomes more pronounced. A concerted effort to foster mutual respect and theological literacy has become essential. Ultimately, while Muslims do not celebrate Easter, the occasion offers an opportunity to acknowledge the profound commonalities between Christianity and Islam, and also the differences. Both traditions, despite their serious doctrinal divergences, affirm a vision of Jesus that continues to inspire billions across the globe. As the Quran teaches Muslims: “The closest in affection to Muslims are those who say: ‘We are Christians’” (5: 82). Hajji Abdullah Drury is a Hamilton Muslim and author of the book A History of Christchurch Muslims – Integration and Harmony  (2024).

Bram Casey i don’t know anything / i get so cold / i’m not universally recognisable just yet but more than ordinary can i put your jacket on / all my friends are so much older than me so much more aware / internal so much further inside themselves if i burned down a house in the suburbs would you look at me like the glowing sky after the party / if i started crying when the sun came up / would you kiss my neck on your mother’s doorstep / would you / i’m always so confused do you actually like me? you said you did but only because i said it first / the other day lily said she saw a dead black swan wash up on freyberg beach if i had a house / and it was full of people / would you make them all get the fuck out / so i could watch the sky slice itself into soft wet silver pieces / massage my temples and sit with my feet tucked under my ass as the morning explodes Bram Casey is a 19-year-old Theatre student at Te Herenga Waka, and originally hails from Ōtepoti, Dunedin. He really loves Ella. Like, SO much. He is of Irish, Norwegian, and Ngāti Maniapoto descent. You can read his work in bad apple, The Free Body Problem, and an issue or two of Salient from 2025.

Victoria Cantalapiedra Mateo ‘ Mientras uno está vivo, uno debe amar lo más que pueda. ’ ("While one is alive, one must love as much as one can") (“BAILE INoLVIDABLE”) Bad bunny’s parting words echoed across Sydney’s Engie Stadium as 90,000 fans gathered across two sold-out nights for his long-awaited Australian debut. Tickets vanished almost instantly, setting audience records and marking the first time a Latin artist has sold out a stadium in Australia.  Crowds of all ages and nationalities — from those who had been loyal since his trap beginnings in 2016, to those who had been enticed by his Super Bowl performance at the start of the month — boarded buses, planes, and trains to see Spotify’s Global Top Artist. Sydney marked just the fifth stop on the originally 23-date Debi Tirar Más Fotos World Tour — his first-ever world tour — which has since expanded to more than 45 shows across four continents.  De Puerto Rico, para el mundo entero. (From Puerto Rico, to the entire world ) “Benito, hijo de Benito, le decían "Tito"El mayor de seis trabajando desde chamaquitoGuiando camiones como el pa y el abueloAunque su sueño siempre fue ser ingeniero”   (“LA MuDANZA”) ("Benito, son of Benito, he was known as Tito, The oldest of 6 working since he was a child Guiding trucks like his father and grandfather before himAlthough he had always dreamt of becoming an engineer.") In “LA MuDANZA”, Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio (aka Bad Bunny) traces his family’s working-class roots in Puerto Rico, honouring their sacrifices that shaped his upbringing in the country that raised him. His homeland has long been central to his music, but it reaches its peak in his latest Grammy winning album DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS , the first ever Spanish-language record to win Album of the Year.  The album plays like an extended love letter to Puerto Rico, blending traditional genres like plena, bomba, and salsa with his signature reggaeton and trap. Across its 17 tracks, Bad Bunny sings, raps, and dances alongside national musicians, who all come together to pay tribute to their long-suffering homeland and celebrate its culture and history.   While many listeners may not be familiar with Puerto Rico’s place as an “unincorporated territory” of the United States, they know Bad Bunny—the 31-year-old global star whose name stems from a childhood photo of him dressed, and visibly unimpressed, in a bunny costume. What began as a memorable username on SoundCloud and Twitter (now X) quickly became a brand. In 2016, his breakout single “Diles” secured him a deal with Hear This Music, launching a career that would redefine Latin music’s global presence. Since then, Bad Bunny has released seven solo albums and one collaborative project with Colombian artist J Balvin. A total of 113 of his singles have entered the Billboard Hot 100, with 29 songs superpassing one billion streams on Spotify. Following his Super Bowl performance, his Spotify streams surged by around 470% in the U.S. This boost also benefitted other Spanish-language artists, including featured halftime performer Ricky Martin (+145%), and even prompted improvements to lyric translation features on the platform.   This wasn’t always the case. I can vividly remember laughing at the boys in my Year 10 class who proudly proclaimed themselves “Los Conejos”  (The Bunnies; the collective term for followers of Bad Bunny) and hopped into lessons quoting his early trap lyrics. A “trap house” is slang for a ramshackle residence where drugs are illegally bought and sold, a term that originated in Atlanta, Georgia. These environments inspire trap music, a subgenre of Southern hip-hop that often centers on themes of violence and sexuality. In Spanish, these themes remain largely the same, and the songs are frequently labelled vulgar or crass.  I’ll admit that I didn’t see his appeal at first. That changed in 2020, when I was a fresher at university and one of the girls I really wanted to be friends with wouldn’t stop talking about him. Naturally, I did what anyone would do and immediately started listening to his music, just so I’d have something to talk about with her. Somewhere between our Bad Bunny-fuelled “study” sessions and our official flat going-out playlist, I began to understand the hype. Around this time, Latin music was steadily gaining global traction. It arguably began with Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee’s “Despacito” in 2017, which later featured Justin Bieber as its streams skyrocketed internationally. Bad Bunny, meanwhile, was transitioning from the “King of Latin Trap” into the reggaeton scene. Reggaeton itself originated in Panama during the construction of the Panama Canal, when migrant workers from the West Indies adapted their musical traditions into “reggae en Español.”   (Reggae in Spanish) This sound fused with Jamaican dancehall, Puerto Rican underground music, and U.S.hip-hop to create what we now know as reggaeton. Its signature “dem bow” (Twerking) beat and suggestive lyrics also gave rise to “perreo”, a sexually charged dance style that emerged in San Juan’s infamous nightclub The Noise.  Today, reggaeton has softened considerably from its misogynistic and homophobic roots, as more and more women have center stage. Artists like Karol G, Shakira, and Natti Natasha have shifted the narrative from male objectification to female empowerment. “Perrear”  (The act of dancing perreo) is no longer an expectation, but a skilled expression of sexual autonomy. Bad Bunny himself has consistently shown his support for women, feminism, and the queer and trans community. Despite operating within a typically hypermasculine music industry, he challenges gender norms by wearing make-up, nail polish, skirts and dresses — most notably during his 2020 Tonight Show Performance, where he wore a skirt to honour the trans woman Alexa Negrón Luciano who was murdered in Puerto Rico. In the music video for “Yo Perreo Sola” (I Twerk Alone) , which promotes consent and a women’s right to dance without harassment, he appears in full drag as part of his ongoing advocacy for gender inclusivity.  At the end of the day, Bad Bunny’s music brings people together. I was lucky enough to experience this cross-cultural phenomenon first-hand in Sydney, dancing alongside thousands of others who had been moved by his songs, whether they understood the language or not. Aside from a few English-language collaborations, Benito performs almost exclusively in his native tongue —specifically Puerto Rican Spanish, which has historically been looked down upon by other Spanish speakers. Unlike many Latin artists who switch to English to reach wider audiences, Bad Bunny has never released a fully English-language song. Some of his most powerful and politically charged tracks, such as “LO QUE LE PASÓ A HAWAii,” addresses issues like gentrification and cultural erasure. He draws parallels between the forced displacement of Native Hawaiians under U.S. colonisation and his fears for Puerto Rico’s future. Across the Americas, many listeners will recognise these anxieties, and hearing the artist both celebrate and mourn his homeland is bound to strike a chord.  We may also have reached a point where anyone willing to publicly denounce global injustices while spreading joy is quickly exalted. Is that such a bad thing? You don’t need to understand the words to be captivated by Bad Bunny’s enthusiasm or feel the rhythms of his music. As Benito and his band tour the world, he carries his message of love and unity —delivered entirely in Spanish—to millions of fans.  In the final song of his show, “DtMF,” he reminded us to embrace the people we love and live in the moment—because once they’re gone and moved on, you’ll only be left wishing you had taken more photos. A picture does speak a thousand words after all — no matter the language.  “Debí tirar más f-Gente, los quiero con cojone, los amoGracias por estar aquí, de verdadPara mí es bien importante que estén aquíCada uno de ustedes significa mucho para míAsí que vamo pa la foto, vengan p'acáMétase to el mundo, to el corillo, vamoZumba”  (DtMF) (Debí Tirar Más Fotos – I should’ve take more pictures, I should’ve taken more f-, People I love you so much, I adore you, thank you for being here, truly it’s so important for me that you all are here each and every one of you means so much to me so come on let’s take a picture, come over here. Everybody get in, the whole crew come on Zumba."

Abbi Maidment An anti-woke US influencer brought to New Zealand got a small but appreciative university crowd in Wellington last week. Peter Boghossian was one of two “anti-woke” international speakers hosted at Te Herenga Waka’s Pipita Campus on Friday, 20 March.  Brought to Aotearoa by the Free Speech Union New Zealand and hosted at the university by Generation Screwed (a subsidy of the taxpayers' union), Boghossian and Marian L. Tupy spoke to a group of around 30 people, including students, staff, and members of the public. The aim of the event was to “Challenge pessimism about young people’s future and to create space for rigorous, good-faith debate on the ideas that shape it.”  Marian L. Tupy is both an author and the founder and editor of Human Progress. In his writings and public appearances, Tupy has expressed his belief that overpopulation is a myth and aims to promote optimism about humanity's future.   Peter Boghossian describes himself on his Substack as a philosopher and author who aims to “restore free speech” and “reveal the implications of far-left ideological takeover”.  He has amassed over 700,000 followers across his social media platforms, with some of his most popular YouTube content receiving over 2 million views. His YouTube videos consist of him conducting thought experiments on the streets by asking people to share their opinions on controversial topics such as “Should trans women compete in female sports?" and “Is America racist?” and engaging in debates about these subjects. He has coined the term street epistemology to describe these encounters.    Topics of discussion included the censorship of discourse on subjects such as race, gender, and ideology, the progress of humankind, and avoiding ‘over-correcting’ on issues like climate change.   Attendees showed broad agreement with the pair’s ideological beliefs and shared concerns about a rise in public censorship of viewpoints that are not currently considered “morally fashionable”. Tupy concluded the event by encouraging attendees to remain hopeful about humanity's future, emphasising that all challenges can be overcome through human ingenuity.   Tupy and Boghossian attended another event hosted by the New Zealand Free Speech Union and Generation Screwed on Tuesday, 24 March at the University of Auckland.  It is expected that Boghossian filmed one of his street epistemology videos on Cuba Street while in Wellington.

Part three of a three-part opinion series exploring affordable food options on campus at Te Herenga Waka.   Ah, Kelburn. Te Herenga Waka's largest, busiest, and—depending on who you ask— most culinarily blessed campus.  I’ll admit a certain bias: I’ve never had classes anywhere else. Still, it remains my campus, softened further by the fact that everyone I spoke to here was markedly kinder than the architecture students I encountered last week.   Kelburn boasts the widest spread of food options across the university’s campuses. The question, then, isn’t whether  you can eat—it’s whether what you’re eating is worth the price. Even amid this abundance, certain institutions loom large. The Lab, for instance, continues to hold its ground, locked in what might be described as a cold war of baked goods supremacy. Its cheese scone, once a dependable $5 staple, has crept up by fifty cents this year—an increase students noted with the solemnity usually reserved for rent hikes or whatever Christopher Luxon says next. Still, loyalty persists. One student confessed that on forgotten-lunch days, they simply “grab a cheese scone from The Lab and tough it out.” Not everyone is convinced. For some, the Lab has crossed the invisible threshold from indulgence to excess. In response, students turn to alternatives that balance cost and comfort. Subway’s sub-of-the-day maintains a staunch stronghold, queues swelling predictably between lectures. Yet perhaps the most passionately defended spot is the  Kimchi Noodle Bar. Here, $10 hot meal combos—rice, protein, and salad—offer both sustenance and, crucially, a sense of familiarity.  Denys, the man behind the counter, is spoken of less as an employee and more as a campus figurehead. “The nicest person on campus,” one student insisted. Another, in a much longer tribute, distilled their feelings into a simple refrain: “I love Kimchi Noodle Bar because of Denys.”  Another popular choice was Maki Mono, though it was frequently described as “overpriced”. It seems the strategy here is to play the long game: waiting until post 4 p.m. where the sushi becomes heavily discounted.  One student tells me the $3 discounted sushi rice “is ideal for fried rice in the evening.” A double whammy, perhaps? Elsewhere, enthusiasm becomes more measured. Where’s Charlie surfaces occasionally in conversation, though often accompanied by a caveat about cost. A lecturer described the bánh mì as “nice and healthy, not heavy”—praise that, while genuine, seemed to stop short of full endorsement once price entered the equation. But if you’re looking for a low-cost option, Krishna is the resounding solution. Students told me that a “$6 samosa goes far.” Or, their famous $8 Krishna plates (curry, salad, rice, dessert) “are good bang for your buck.” Krishna also has the added benefit of all of their meals being vegan friendly. They have held the fort at Kelburn for over 20 years now and there seems to be a good reason they are still around. Our editor noted that if you have a little extra to splurge, the $11 lasagna is fantastic and still cheaper than your sushi (and probably holds more nutritional value).  Likewise, Nga Mokopuna, serves $8 student meals every day of the week. A lesser known option, but definitely one of the better ones. When I arrived, they were serving Southern Fried Chicken Burger and Fries. Delish! The only miss? That they don’t have any vegetarian options. But if you’ve got the budget for Krishna, and looking for meat, they’re certainly the best option on campus.  For the best deals, though, I was told to head to Ramsey House. It’s located just down the road from the Murphy Building, and $2 tea and coffee is delivered daily. But the real treat comes on Thursdays and Fridays where $2 toasties and brownies are offered.  Ramsey House is run by Te Herenga Waka’s Chaplaincy. As part of this investigation, I  spoke to one of the chaplains there: Karel Van Helden. He tells me that their “primary focus isn't on being a commercial cafe.” They are interested in creating and fostering a space that makes “people feel really welcome, that people's names get remembered most of the time and that there is room to sit or to be.” Van Helden explained that the service began with 50 odd students but that over the years they now see “four or five hundred people a week.”  The $2 toasties are frequently cited as one of the best deals on offer not just at Kelburn Campus, but at Te Herenga Waka in general. Van Helden explained to me that the cheap toasties aren’t designed to attract customers, but as a way “of recognizing a need.” As the cost of living goes up, Ramsey House maintains a strong grip — and kaupapa — regarding providing affordable meals to students. Still, something I’ve heard resignedly since starting this series is that the best choice on campus is the simplest one: to bring food from home. Last night's leftovers are today's slightly marinated lunch, or something like that.  Well, this author isn’t surprised to learn that Kelburn has the best food on offer (mainly because it’s what I expected to begin with). It’s got a  vast array of options, and options that keep it squarely under budget. Thanks for joining me on this three-part culinary journey. I hope that next time you don’t know what to eat, you’ll feel a little wiser, and will think of me chomping down on a $2 toastie, or an $8 Krishna plate.

Connections Answers: First Connection Te ao Māori terms:  Whare, Rohe, Hapū, Taonga Second Connection Things that can be left behind:  Shell, Trace, Cache, Ghost Third Connection Small thin pieces: Chip, Sliver, Crumb, Shard Fourth Connection Extent/breadth: Range, Scale, Spread, Slope

Hunk Unc: How do you get over someone who was great to you when you were together but awful after you broke up? Would you believe it if I said I’ve had a boatful of variations on this one land in the inbox? I’m going to reply to a few of them over the course of the year, but if one of those was yours, please take this advice as universal—not just a one-off. The thing about breakups—whether it’s a friendship, a romance, a situationship, or even a job or class you really loved—is that once it’s over, it’s easy to slip on the rose-tinted goggles. This is generic advice, sure, but there’s a reason people keep saying it. Let’s break it down a bit. Right now, you’re dealing with a full 180. You’ve gone from romantic dates, connection, conversation, and probably feeling properly seen and valued by this person, to someone who’s giving you none of that. What you’re struggling to get over isn’t necessarily just the relationship itself—it’s also the feeling of being valued by them. The late-night chats, the skinny dipping at Oriental Bay, the little memories. You’re missing all of that too. And now those feelings of closeness and belonging have been replaced by them being awful to you. Of course that’s going to mess with your head a bit. Of course it’s going to hurt. That’s normal. Feel it. Have a cry. Chuck on We Live in Time  if you need a good film to absolutely fold to. Now, this Unc won’t pretend to know why you broke up, and he also won’t pretend it matters all that much here. What he will ask is this: what situations are you still putting yourself in where your ex gets to be awful to you? Hear me out. I’m absolutely not saying you’re at fault for your ex’s behaviour. Not even a little bit. But if you keep finding yourself texting them, asking mutual friends what they’ve said about you, or ending up at parties watching them flirt with someone else, then I’m going to gently suggest you take a breather from those behaviours. Because you can’t control other people. No point trying. What you can control is how much access they still have to you. You can distance yourself. You can mute or block them on social media—which, by the way, is completely fine. It does not have to be a big dramatic thing. You can stop asking after them. You can focus on yourself instead of keeping one eye on what they’re doing. And, honestly, you’ve got a pretty clear out here: no matter how good the relationship was when you were together, them treating you badly now is its own kind of answer. A nasty one, sure, but a useful one. They’re showing you something important. When you’re in a relationship with someone, you’ve got every reason to put your best foot forward. Most people do. But no one can keep up a version of themselves forever if it isn’t genuine. Eventually the mask slips. And from what you’ve written, it sounds like your ex’s mask is slipping now. Take that seriously. Take it at face value. Don’t keep pinning all your thinking on the version of them who was sweet, kind, and lovely while they were still getting something from being with you. Look at what’s in front of you now. They’re being awful. And personally, I wouldn’t keep someone in my life who treats me badly, no matter how lovely they once seemed or how much potential the relationship used to have. So here’s the question I want you to sit with for a bit: do you really want to stay hung up on someone who was only kind to you while they had something to gain? Because that’s what this behaviour suggests. Kind when you were together, awful once you weren’t. That says plenty. And if you’re still tangled up in the same social circles, it might be time to make things a bit easier on yourself. Turn the group chat notifications off for a couple of months. Tell your friends you need a bit of space to move on. And maybe ask yourself: why are mutual friends letting this slide? Is this behaviour happening out in the open, or quietly, where it’s easier for people to ignore? Those questions might not just give you closure about your ex, but about the wider circle around them too. Sometimes a breakup shows you more than one relationship you need to rethink. It can be a good chance to reflect on your friendships as well, and on who actually deserves your energy. At the start of the year I got asked how you know whether a friendship is good and healthy. And what I said then, in many more words, was this: pay attention to whether people are curious about you, whether they ask questions, and how you feel after spending time with them. I want you to do that over the next few weeks. Work out who leaves you feeling steadier, lighter, more like yourself. Those are your people. Put your energy there, not into a shitty ex. This advice probably won’t have you get over them overnight. That’d be nice, but sadly that’s not how any of this works. What I do hope is that it helps you start seeing them more clearly, and maybe stops you romanticising someone who isn’t worth the thought. Surround yourself with good people. Limit the ways your ex can reach you. Stop checking in on what they’re doing. And take their actions at face value. At the end of the day, you deserve to be treated well by everyone in your life. Don’t keep making room for people who won’t do that.

For neurodivergent students, Vic’s first-week madness is not just admin, but a barrier for learning.  Molly Laurence Courses are hard enough. But the first few weeks back at university are even worse. New classes, new classrooms, resource layouts, tutorial sign-ups, platforms, schedules, announcements. For most people, I imagine it’s overwhelming. For neurodivergent students, it can be something else entirely.  As a second-year law student with dyscalculia and ADHD, for me, the start of the term feels less like orientation and more like I’m being told to fuck off. Dyscalculia is like dyslexia, but with maths. Where dyslexic people generally face additional challenges with reading and writing, dyscalculic people struggle with numbers, maths, and mathematical thinking. Combined with ADHD, it means that the internal secretary most people seem to have—the one that  books appointments, remembers times and places, and handles small logistical tasks—simply doesn’t exist in my head.  In their place is a small child motivated by bright colours and pretty dresses.  As a result of much work, the university has made real progress in accommodating students with disabilities, and I respect that effort. But when it comes to invisible neurological differences, especially in the administrative chaos of the first weeks of term, the system feels profoundly hostile.  Sorting my timetable for one class at the start of the trimester took me two cups of tea, an hour (I think), tears, and two phone calls.  And that’s not unusual.  It’s a nightmarish onion nesting doll of confusion: each layer giving way to stinging tears and a new level of administrative horror. A quiz I can initially only find on my phone asks me ten questions on a seminar I didn’t realize I missed. I find out I’ve missed two seminars that MyAllocator didn’t say were happening. Strangely enough, when no seems to know what what dyscalculia is—even the student magazine simplistically previously categorized ADHD as “including inattentiveness, hyperactivity, and impulsivity” (shout-out for talking about it, but for the record: I have none of those)—it feels isolating.   To be dyscalculic, and neurodivergent more broadly, is to exist in a world set to a default that isn’t yours. It can feel like death by a thousand Canvas notifications—a constant series of small collisions with systems designed for someone else’s brain. A thousand little moments of: Oh wait — this is a thing as well?? See: me spending what I can only assume was an hour (hello, time-blindness) ploughing through a plate of roast potatoes because estimating portion sizes is apparently a skill people have.  See: my default speed being a fast-walk, because I’m usually running late—and yet somehow still arriving at my class an hour early… again.  See: me fiddling with my rings in a lecture, trying to work out if they feel different on my finger. Have I lost weight? My ADHD drugs suppress appetite. Shit—have I forgotten to eat again? Will I need to come off them? I don’t know if I can do this if I come off them. But how did they fit before? I can’t remember. Maybe it’s completely fine. I’m tempted to buy into the productive-ableist script and say: look, I achieve highly in other areas. I actually do fine in law. I was head girl at school. But that argument is bullshit. My “success” is still being measured within an ableist, neuro-normative scale—and that isn’t actually the issue here. The issue is that the system itself is not built for us to navigate, and is actively making it harder to learn. I’m also both entirely sick but also scared of being slapped with the inevitable can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen response. I know law is hard. I can handle the heat. I am  handling it. But with the sheer difficulty of navigating admin in these first few weeks, it feels less like simply entering the kitchen and more like the university has buttered the handles of the doors and is watching, laughing, as I try to get in. Which makes it especially frustrating that, within the courses themselves, I can see genuine progress happening. What benefits one marginalized community benefits us all, and organisations like Rainbow and Pacific Law are—finally—recognising the barriers that exist and trying to address them.  Last week, a lecturer immediately earned the respect of myself and my friends by starting his first class with a greeting in all three of Aotearoa’s official languages—speaking in English, te reo Māori, and signing his introduction in NZSL. He followed it with a warm Pacific greeting, and a hello to LGBTQIA+ students.  HECK yeah! The university is making progress, and I’m genuinely glad to see it. So why are disabled students still being left out in the cold? My dyslexic classmate in high school discovered that, in English at Scholarship level, NCEA stops offering extra compensatory time in exams. The assumption seemed to be that no one with a learning difference would be engaging at that level.  The lack of acknowledgement and support in law school feels similar. Does the administration assume disabled students will have dropped out like flies by now? Or that, as they dole out our extra ten minutes in an exam like porridge in Oliver Twist , our barriers miraculously cease to exist? I don’t believe so. There’s too many disabled people doing incredible mahi in law to think that, and too many people in the teaching system with warmth and common sense. As that badass lecturer demonstrated, this is a structural issue, not a staff one.  So why does it feel like, in law—and especially in the start-of-term organisational phase—there’s such a distinct lack of recognition or support? I feel like the Little Match Girl, shivering outside a window, looking in at the warmth. And, to be fair, I know I could start a Disabled Law Students’ Association—like the Feminist Law Society, or the Asian Law Students’ Association. I could email people, form a group, and probably have quite a lot of support to do so. Vic is woke. I know I’m not the only disabled person here. It would be welcome. I could build community; create a channel to advocate for people like me in the university. We could make change. But  I don’t have time. I don’t have the energy. I am investing most of what I have simply in getting through each week, and any spare change left is spent meal-prepping or reassuring friends I haven’t forgotten they exist. I’m only writing this —which realistically I really shouldn’t be doing, because I have an 8:30 a.m. tomorrow that I need to prepare for—because it’s either than or rage-crying. Maybe that’s why there isn’t a Disabled Law Students’ Association. Maybe everyone like me is too busy just trying to survive. Sometimes, I can’t even say exactly why it’s so hard. How the grey slots of MyAllocator (seriously—you couldn’t even add colour to differentiate them?) blur together to become interchangeable in my mind. How the times slip and writhe in my grasp like eels in mud. Sometimes, though, it’s obvious.  Some classes have study groups, others have tutorials, and others have workshops. Some start in week two, some in week three. The information is scattered somewhere across four different subjects, five different Nuku pages, multiple announcements, emails (which subject is it for again?), and two separate platforms for viewing schedules—both presenting different information and refusing to synchronise.  And for one—couldn’t tell you which—of the topics floating unaffiliated in my brain, all the tutorials are listed in irregular time slots organised by week—but not weeks of the trimester. Weeks of the year since January. Which means there’s now another thing I need to Google. The three principles we are taught in law are that communication must be plain and simple, without ambiguity or jargon, and that it is concise and direct. In a highly ironic seminar on legal communication that has me keyboard-bashing quotes, an example is given of a wordy statute. The lecturer comments: “It looks scary and hard to tackle. If this was my lawyer writing advice to me, they’re fired.” This beautifully expresses what I find hard to articulate. Dense bundles of information make me feel overwhelmed and—while technically navigable—make it harder, and less likely, for me to do so. Maybe they need to practice what they teach? I don’t expect everyone to understand what this feels like. But it would be nice, at least, to hear an acknowledgement that disabled law students exist—and that not all disabilities are visible.  My expectations, unfortunately, are not that high. I just want it to stop being so darn hard. My flatmate—also disabled—sits on my bed helping me sort out a workshop that clashes with a lecture. They tell me not to give up. Fight the system.  This feels like the scene in the movies where the main character disappears and comes back stronger. English students will recognise it in Joseph Campbell’s story arc as the “transformation,” the “reward” after the ordeal stage, the inevitable dawn after the dark night of the soul. It’s Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde  returning to do whatever she does in pink. The knight rising stronger to slay the dragon. Ser Duncan being screamed at to get up! It’s the “freaks” in The Greatest Showman’s  dubious circus defiantly dancing through the streets with no apologies for being me (erm—them). The underdog story is familiar. Triumph against adversity is practically a cultural template. Harship, in these stories, smoothly and inevitably transforms into success.  But my life is not a movie,  it does not follow a three-act structure. Each darkest night is followed by a new dawn, followed by another night. Every day I walk to class past the Beehive breathing in optimism, and walk home past the Beehive breathing out frustration and isolation and fear before collapsing into bed.  There is no one single test to ace, no bleach-blond princelet to maul, no socially shocking beard to flaunt in a celebration of personal truth. I have a disability. It’s invisible. It’s part of my identity. The construction of the university system right now—like a speed-bump at the start of a wheelchair-access ramp—is a barrier to my learning. It will not go away even if I wreathe myself in a hundred “embrace neurodiversity!” stickers and bury myself in a rotting pyre of sunflower lanyards. A legal education is what, in some insubstantial digital realm, I believe my Studylink has been paying for. But the cost I am actually paying—in addition to my university fees—is something I couldn’t tell you.  This past week has seen me raging on the phone to my boyfriend and my parents, slumping down dramatically on my bed next to my flatmate. It’s seen me putting off studying for five hours that I can’t afford because I feel so paralysed at the thought of navigating the timetable system I can’t sit down at my desk.  It’s seen me realise I missed a workshop, and feel physically nauseous at the thought of the process required to locate the information and get into a new one. It’s seen me sniffing as my flatmate tells me that they’re proud of me—that this is tough, and they see how hard I’m trying. My parents call to check in and ask if I’m sure I want to do this. And the thing is, I do. I love what I’m learning. I find it interesting and inspiring. I know I am lucky to be here. And, personal enjoyment aside, I’m not doing this just for myself.  There is so much in this world worth protecting: our environments, our taonga species, our traditional practices, our rights to participate, and our democracy. The world, as it is, has battles we need to fight for it. Like a certain hapless knight still believing in chivalry—or perhaps the rule of law—I have sworn my oath to defend it: our ecosystems, blue and green, and our glorious, glittering multiplicity of diversity.  Our trans kids, our high-risk communities, whatever-the-heck-else Parliament is trying to destroy right now.  I love this world, and I’m determined to fight for it. Law is how I’ll do that. And I will. It’s just—why do I have to battle to do even that?

Te Herenga Waka’s hardship fund has seen a sizeable increase in applications for financial aid over the past year, reflecting mounting pressure on students as living costs climb. In February alone, forty-eight students applied for asisstance —double the twenty-four who sought support in the same month last year.  Kirsty McClure, the acting Deputy Vice-Chancellor for Students, attributes the uptick to rising living expenses. “Student demand for financial support continues to grow, reflecting the real impact of the cost-of-living pressures on our community,” she said. In 2025, the university received 408 applications to the Weekly Hardship Fund. By March of this year, 102 applications had already been submitted. The Hardship Fund, administered by the university’s Student Finance division, is intended as an emergency measure for students facing financial difficulty. Applicants often cite high medical, transport, or course-related costs, as well as changes in employment or living situations, disability, illness, or family issues. Assistance is distributed through weekly hardship payments, equity grants, and winter energy grants, and is funded primarily through the student-paid Hardship Fee, which rose from $30 to $32 at the end of 2024.  Not all applications are approved. In 2025, 24 percent of Weekly Hardship Fund applications were rejected, along with 21 percent of energy grant applications and 36 percent of equity grant requests. As demand increases, there are concerns that rejection rates may rise further in order to prevent overspending. “Our Hardship Fund is limited, and Student Finance carefully manages it across the year to avoid over- or under-spending,” McClure said. ”Higher demand in one area can affect how funding is prioritised.” In 2025, the Hardship Fund received $537,958 in revenue from the Student Hardship Fee, and an additional $84,000 from donations. Of this, $205,783 was allocated to weekly hardship grants, $185,250 to winter energy grants, and $170,150 to equity grants. Remaining funds supported Disability Access Awards, the VUWSA community pantry and menstrual product stock, and food initiatives during Stress-Free Study Week. Financial strain among students has been building for several years. Annual Student Finance reports from 2024 and 2025 both note an increase in students unable to secure employment, leaving many struggling to meet basic living costs. Demand for assistance with the cost of ADHD assessments was also high in both years. The number of students engaging with Student Finance services rose from 5148 in 2024 to 6577 in 2026. The student job market has grown increasingly competitive. In January 2026, Student Job Search listed 4600 jobs but received 38,000 applications—roughly eight applicants per position. As a result, many students are relying on StudyLink loans, which often fall short of covering living expenses. Aspen Jackman, VUWSA’s Welfare Vice President who sits in on Hardship Fund applications as a student representative, described the cases she encounters as  “real intense”, and reflective of “unfortunate circumstances for students to be in.”  “People are having to choose between groceries, rent and transport,” she said. “There have been students pulling out of courses because StudyLink isn’t picking up the phone to pay fees on time.” Jackman also noted increased demand for basic necessities. “The stands are running out very quickly,” she said, referring to menstrual product supplies and the community pantry. “People are going without and relying on these services.” Like McClure, she attributes the surge in need to the broader cost-of-living crisis. “100%,” she said. “There’s a real need for investment — not just in student poverty, but poverty in general.”  As financial pressure on students continues to grow with rising living expenses and decreased employment opportunities, it remains unclear whether existing university and government support systems will be able to keep pace.