The Jevon McSkimming affair has been a distraction from some truly worrying developments in the criminal justice sector, writes Denis O’Reilly. Pictured: Police minister Mark Mitchell, PM Christopher Luxon, and justice minister Paul Goldsmith. (Photo: RNZ / Marika Khabazi)

The Jevon McSkimming affair is but a distraction from some truly worrying developments at the other end of the criminal justice sector — the soaring prison muster (and its soaring costs) and the meth crisis, writes Denis O’Reilly.

Auē! What a dispiriting time we’ve been through recently.

The increasing volume of nasty online tropes, seeking to denigrate Māori people and cause division in Aotearoa, has become an unpleasant daily reality. It’s not helped by the kaupapa-destructive, internecine sniping among leaders within the Māori political project, as the current government continues to push through Tiriti-diminishing legislation.

It’s said that the head of the fish, te upoko o te ika, goes rotten first. Upoko o Te Ika. For the historically unaware, that’s the Māori geographic name for Port Nicholson, Põneke, Wellington.

In Wellington, the smell of rotting fish is pervasive, clinging, and, as if in a Shakespearean tragedy, when it lingers, political leaders can’t say “Out, damned spot!” fast enough.

My favourite political commentator, Janet Wilson, uses the word “defenestrating”. It’s a fancy French-derived term that means throwing someone out the window, and it’s an appropriate word for the reputations being hurled out of the windows of the Police National Headquarters at 180 Molesworth Street, Wellington (which is also known to frontline police men and women nationwide as “bullshit castle”).

The Jevon McSkimming affair has clearly been tragic for the victim at the centre of this scandal, and there is no denying the consequential impact on the lives and reputations of the leadership of the New Zealand Police, and the erosion of trust in our fundamental institutions.

But it is yet another distraction, a smokescreen, from some truly worrying developments at the other end of the criminal justice sector.

For instance, our prison population has soared to 11,000 inmates. The muster is disproportionately Māori (53.4 percent) and trending upward. Prime Minister Christopher Luxon has declared the increase in the prison muster to be a “good thing”, characterising it as the price of “restoring law and order”. Luxon accepts that it comes at an unfathomable financial cost, which, he said, “will be what the cost will be”.

The beneficiaries of the criminal justice industrial complex will be salivating at the thought. It’s the only non-capped budget in town. We are approaching a cost of $200,000 per inmate per year. That doesn’t factor in the peripheral and downstream social costs, the impact on whānau, children in particular, nor the opportunity cost of an imprisoned potential workforce.

In New Zealand, recidivism rates are high. Around 70 percent of people released from prison are reconvicted within two years. And of those who manage to stay out of prison for two years after their release, 49 percent are eventually imprisoned again.

This seems to be madness. It’s a broken system. Mr Luxon’s predecessor, Bill English, once described our prison system as “a moral and fiscal failure”. Luxon knows this, but he is attempting to satisfy his voter base — and of base instincts they may well be.

A point of confluence in these policies is Paul Goldsmith, who is both the Minister of Justice and the Minister for Treaty of Waitangi Negotiations.

I was gobsmacked when Goldsmith fronted the government’s recently announced “Action Plan to Combat Methamphetamine”. I had expected the New Zealand First MP Casey Costello to be the lead. Yes, I know Costello is aligned with Hobson’s Pledge and all that, and I struggle to get my head around her views on tobacco legislation and smoking cessation products. But she’s the first minister I’ve encountered since the late Jim Anderton who seems to have a grip on the nation’s methamphetamine crisis.

And it’s meth that keeps me up at night, worrying about the effects that this insidious substance wreaks on our tamariki.

I don’t know what happened in the machinations of the coalition government that led to Costello being bumped aside from what seemed to be her leadership of the meth response, but it seems that the Nats want themselves front and centre in this tough-on-crime space.

Costello, perhaps drawing on her experience in the police service, is well informed and has street credibility, whereas I don’t believe Goldsmith has a clue about the realities of methamphetamine addiction. I heard him on RNZ’s Morning Report, sounding pompous, talking about a hard-hitting nationwide media campaign to deliver consistent messages and to raise public awareness about meth-related harm.

Is there anybody in Aotearoa who doesn’t already know? In any case, why pursue a nationwide media campaign when the user population is a small and highly segmented target market?

We have an estimated 1 percent of the New Zealand population using meth, and double that rate among Māori. I believe that we have a narrow but deep set of users. In some areas, there is intergenerational use. Males are more likely to use.

That said, it’s the females, the mums, that concern me most. I’m increasingly being brought into situations where Oranga Tamariki is contemplating uplifting children from meth-using mums and where wider whānau are scrambling to provide safe care solutions. It’s heartbreaking.

Anecdotal evidence suggests there’s a growing cohort of younger users. Goldsmith seems to suggest that a stern talking-to will deter first-time users. This conjures up the ghost of Nancy Reagan, the “Just Say No” campaign, and other counterproductive responses that have been tried in the past.

Goldsmith says that his primary justice target is to reduce the number of victims of crime. He wants to disrupt the international supply of meth, sharpen enforcement, and reduce demand. These are worthy objectives.

But he joins most politicians in being deaf to the NZ Drug Foundation’s advice that Aotearoa New Zealand’s current drug laws are outdated, and don’t serve their intended purpose. Instead of protecting health, they entrench stigma, expose people to unsafe illicit markets, and perpetuate deep inequities, particularly for Māori.

I think we’re going to have to get through this problem at a community level. There’s no silver bullet, no easy answer.

Christmas is upon us. At this time of the year, family pressures tend to worsen. If you encounter family breakdown and breakup over the so-called “festive season”, anticipate that, a bit like in civic emergencies, you’ll have to get through on your own to start with.

Where meth is involved, the primary instinct is to blame and demonise the user-parents. Avoid that response. Start with the wellbeing of the mokopuna and do your best to apply those old tīpuna-derived values of aroha, whakapono, and rangimarie.

Talk with the mums and dads. No judgments. Focus on the welfare of the youngsters. Utilise the useful conceptual shelter provided by Te Whare Tapa Whā to guide your kōrero.

Keep the kids safe, as humble as your resources may be. When emotions rise, remember that the Christ child was cared for in a manger, a crib among farm stock, while political turmoil raged all around.

Peace will settle. Keep to the whānau-focused kaupapa, say your karakia, and all will be okay. Mauri ora.    

Denis O’Reilly is a writer, social activist and consultant. He lives at Waiohiki in Hawke’s Bay, where he chairs the Waiohiki Community Charitable Trust.

E-Tangata, 2025