Among Friends, a “concern” is not a fixed opinion but a moral unease that asks to be held up to the Light. This is one such concern.
We rarely place military conscription and slavery in the same frame. One feels too extreme, too morally charged, too bound to histories of cruelty and ownership. The other is often spoken of as duty, service, or necessity. Yet I find myself returning to a quiet question: why are we so certain they belong in different moral categories.
Modern understandings of slavery no longer depend on the idea of one person legally owning another. Instead, they focus on the experience of being unable to refuse — being compelled to work under threat of penalty, with little or no control over one’s own direction. When I sit with that definition, and then sit with the idea of conscription beside it, the resemblance is difficult to ignore.
A conscript cannot decline. The penalties for doing so can be severe. The state determines the nature of the service, the risks involved, and the length of time a person must give. Whatever the individual may feel about the conflict itself, their own discernment is set aside. If a private employer demanded such conditions, we would have no hesitation naming it forced labour.
International law quietly acknowledges this tension. Conventions that prohibit forced labour include an explicit exemption for military service. I find myself pausing over that. If conscription were obviously different in kind, why would an exemption be needed at all.
Supporters of conscription often speak of civic duty, of shared responsibility, of the need to defend the community. These are not small things. Many have served with courage and integrity, and nothing here is meant to diminish that. But I still find myself wondering whether the purpose of the coercion changes the nature of the coercion.
Among Friends, we sometimes talk about “holding something up to the Light” — not to condemn it, but to see it more clearly. When I hold conscription up in that way, I struggle to see a clear boundary between it and the forms of compelled labour we now recognise as slavery‑like. The resemblance may not be exact, but it is close enough to trouble the mind.
I offer this not as a conclusion, but as a query. If modern slavery is defined by coercion and the inability to refuse, what allows us to be so certain that conscription stands outside that definition.
I found myself unsettled the other day while reading a series of comments on a blog I follow. The writers were people whose values I usually share — thoughtful, evidence‑minded, wary of dogma — yet their certainty about the harmfulness of all religion struck me with unexpected force. It wasn’t the conclusion that jarred me so much as the confidence with which it was expressed, a confidence that felt strangely out of step with the humility they normally champion. That moment made me stop, mid‑scroll, and ask myself a question I’ve returned to many times over the years: Why does certainty — especially when it comes from people I respect — unsettle me so deeply?
Naming the Real Issue — Certainty, Not Religion
As I sat with that question, it became clear that what unsettled me wasn’t the criticism of religion itself. I’ve lived long enough, and seen enough, to know that religion can cause harm as easily as it can nurture compassion. What jarred me was the certainty — the sense that a single conclusion could be applied to every form of religion, in every context, without remainder. It reminded me how easily any of us, no matter how committed we are to evidence and reason, can slip into treating our perceptions as universal truths.
The more I reflected, the more I realised that the tension I felt had little to do with religion and everything to do with absolutism. I’ve encountered certainty in many guises over the years — religious, political, ideological, even scientific — and it has always made me uneasy. Not because conviction is wrong, but because certainty leaves no room for the complexity of human experience. It flattens the world into a single vantage point and mistakes that vantage point for reality itself.
That, I realised, was the real issue. Not the content of the claims, but the confidence with which they were made. And as I turned that over in my mind, I found myself remembering an unfinished draft I wrote years ago, trying to understand why absolutism — in any form — has always felt like a warning bell to me.
Sitting with that unease, I found myself thinking back to an unfinished draft I wrote years ago, an attempt to trace the roots of my discomfort with absolutism. I never completed it at the time, but the questions it held have stayed with me, quietly shaping the way I move through the world. This seemed like the moment to return to that earlier reflection — not to continue it, but to understand what it was pointing toward. To see, more clearly, how I came to trust complexity over certainty, and why that trust feels so deeply woven into who I am.
When I look back to understand why certainty makes me uneasy, I always return first to my childhood. Long before I had words like “ethics” or “pluralism,” I was shaped by a way of living that treated people as relationships to be honoured rather than problems to be solved. I grew up in a whānau where difference wasn’t something to fear, and where unfamiliarity wasn’t treated as a threat. People were met as people — not as categories, not as abstractions, not as representatives of anything larger than themselves.
My parents didn’t divide the world into right and wrong, good and bad, saved and unsaved. They didn’t punish us when we caused harm. Instead, they explained why an action mattered, how it affected someone else, and what it meant to consider another person’s experience. Looking back, I realise how unusual that was for the 1950s and 60s, when obedience was often valued more than understanding. But in our home, ethics was never about rules. It was about relationships — the living, breathing connections between people, and the responsibility we carry for one another.
One of the quiet gifts of that upbringing was the freedom to sit with the Kaumātua (a Māori elder) who lived next door — an almost blind, almost deaf woman with a moko kauae and a lifetime of stories. Many parents of the time might have kept their children away from someone they didn’t understand. Mine didn’t. They saw a neighbour, not an oddity. Because of that, I heard stories of Waitara and Parihaka years before I encountered the official versions at school. I didn’t know it then, but those conversations planted the idea that truth has more than one vantage point, and that the stories we inherit are never the whole story.
Another layer settled the day my mother — a woman barely 150 centimetres tall — stood up to a group of racegoers who were mocking two men dressed in matching pleated miniskirts. At the time, I didn’t think about their sexual orientation; it simply didn’t occur to me. What I saw were two men dressed in a way that was unconventional for the era, and, to my young eyes, rather stylish. What my mother saw, I suspect, was something more immediate: a crowd beginning to feed on its own delight in taunting difference, a mood that could so easily tip from mockery into menace.
It took tremendous courage for her to step forward in that moment. The crowd was large, loud, and moving as crowds sometimes do — toward a kind of collective unkindness that no single person would have embraced on their own. My mother broke that feedback loop with a few firm words, reminding everyone present of what it means to be decent. The effect was instant. The jeering stopped. A kind of collective shame settled over the group, as if people suddenly recognised themselves and didn’t much like what they saw.
What stayed with me was not the incident itself, but the silence that followed. My mother never lectured me about what had happened. She didn’t turn it into a lesson about tolerance or bravery. She simply acted from a place of instinctive respect, and then carried on with her day. From that, I learned something that has shaped me ever since: dignity is something you extend to others, not something you wait to have validated.
These early experiences formed the bedrock of my ethics. They taught me that strength can be quiet, relational, and grounded in empathy rather than certainty. They taught me that truth is rarely singular. And they taught me that the world is far more complex — and far more beautiful — than any rigid framework can capture.
Learning That Truth Has More Than One Vantage Point
If my parents taught me that ethics is relational, the world around me taught me that truth itself has more than one vantage point. Some of the most formative lessons came not from school or church, but from the quiet hours I spent with the Kaumātua next door. I didn’t grasp the significance of those conversations at the time. I was simply a child listening to stories — stories of Waitara, of Parihaka, of people whose experiences were absent from the official narratives I would later encounter in the classroom.
But something in me recognised, even then, that these stories were not “alternatives” to the truth. They were truths in their own right, shaped by a different history, a different memory, a different relationship to land and power. They revealed that the world looks different depending on where you stand, and that no single account can ever capture the whole of it.
Those early encounters planted a seed that has stayed with me throughout my life: the understanding that perspective is not a flaw in human perception but an inherent part of it. We do not see the world as it is; we see it through the lenses of our culture, our history, our experiences, and our place in the story. That realisation didn’t make me distrust truth — it made me wary of anyone who claimed to possess all of it.
It was in those moments, long before I had the language for it, that I began to understand why certainty feels so brittle to me. Not because conviction is wrong, but because certainty leaves no room for the truths that lie outside our own line of sight. The Kaumātua’s stories taught me that truth is not a single beam of light but a landscape — one that can only be glimpsed from many angles, none of them complete on their own.
In Part Two, I turn from these childhood experiences to the ways they continued to shape my adult life — in how I understood myself, how I navigated relationships, and how I learned to make sense of the world’s complexity.
I used to drive past a particular paddock on my way into town. It grew some kind of grain — wheat, maize, something ordinary enough that I barely noticed it most days. After harvest, the field was left as stubble, a pale, brittle carpet across the soil. A few days later, the grass around the edges was ploughed back, leaving a ring of bare earth. Nothing unusual. Just farming.
One morning, I saw workers applying some kind of accelerant around the perimeter. I assumed it was simply part of preparing the soil — a way to return nutrients through ash, the way farmers have done for generations. But when I returned later that day, the paddock was burning. Not a dramatic blaze, but a slow, creeping fire that ate its way inward from the edges.
For a moment, the smoke lifted just enough for me to see into the centre. What I saw has stayed with me ever since. Rabbits and hares darting frantically. Rats and mice trapped in the shrinking circle of flame. A pair of pūkeko running in confused loops. Even a couple of hedgehogs, unable to outrun the fire, huddled against the heat.
It was horrific. Not intentional cruelty — just the collateral damage of a farming practice most of us never see. But in that moment, watching those animals die in fear and pain, something in me shifted. I realised that the stories we tell ourselves about ethical eating — whether omnivore, vegetarian, or vegan — often leave out the lives that don’t fit neatly into our chosen frameworks.
Only later did another detail surface in my memory. Months before the burn‑off, a sign had stood at the paddock’s edge declaring the crop “vegan friendly.” That detail didn’t make the suffering I witnessed any worse — but it did sharpen something for me. It reminded me how easily ethical labels can obscure the deeper ecological realities behind our food.
It also made me realise how tempting it is for any of us to believe we’ve found the ethical answer. When we’re certain we’re right, we stop asking uncomfortable questions. We stop looking closely at the systems we participate in. We stop noticing the lives that fall outside our chosen moral spotlight.
I’ve seen this pattern elsewhere too. Consider the thoughtful vegetarian who critiques meat‑eaters harshly, yet never once discusses the ethics of the eggs that go into their morning omelette or the cakes they bake. Perhaps they buy free‑range eggs. Perhaps they don’t. But the absence of the question itself is telling. Ethical certainty narrows our field of vision. It makes us confident in our conclusions and inattentive to the complexities beneath them.
That paddock — and the creatures trapped within it — taught me something important. Ethics are not fixed. They are not pure. They are not a badge we earn once and wear forever. They are provisional commitments — ways of living that must be continually examined, questioned, and reshaped as we learn more about the world we inhabit.
Whenever someone is absolutely confident they have the answer, I suspect they’ve stopped asking the right questions.
The more I’ve reflected on these experiences — the burning paddock, the unexamined ethics of everyday foods, the way certainty narrows our moral field — the more I’ve realised that what I’m seeking isn’t purity. It’s coherence. I want an ethical framework that acknowledges the complexity of the world rather than pretending it can be simplified into a single rule or dietary identity.
For me, regenerative farming offers that coherence. It treats the land not as a production unit but as a living ecosystem — a web of relationships between soil, plants, animals, water, microbes, and humans. It recognises that life and death are not opposites but partners in the ongoing renewal of the land. It accepts that harm cannot be eliminated, only shaped with care and awareness.
This way of thinking aligns closely with ecosystem thinking, where the focus is not on individual components but on the health of the whole. A regenerative farm is not a factory. It is a micro‑ecosystem — a place where plants and animals co‑create fertility, where soil is nourished rather than depleted, where biodiversity increases rather than collapses, and where humans participate as part of the system rather than standing above it.
It also resonates deeply with Māori relational ethics, which have profoundly influenced how I understand my place in the world. Concepts like whakapapa, mauri, and kaitiakitanga offer a way of seeing that feels both ancient and urgently relevant.
Whakapapa reminds me that all beings — humans, animals, plants, rivers, mountains — are kin, connected through layers of relationship.
Mauri teaches that every entity has its own vitality, integrity, and right to flourish.
Kaitiakitanga frames humans not as owners of the land but as guardians, responsible for maintaining balance and reciprocity.
Regenerative farming fits naturally within this worldview. It seeks to enhance the mauri of the land. It honours the whakapapa of all beings involved. It positions humans as kaitiaki — caretakers who work with natural processes rather than against them.
This is why regenerative farming feels ethically coherent to me. It doesn’t deny that animals die. It doesn’t pretend that harm can be avoided. Instead, it asks us to consider how harm is shaped, how relationships are honoured, and how ecosystems can be restored rather than depleted.
It offers a way of eating that is not about purity but about right relationship — with the land, with the animals, with the plants, and with the ecosystems that sustain us.
Regenerative Farming in Practice
Regenerative farming is best understood not as a single technique but as a philosophy of land stewardship. It begins with the recognition that soil is a living community — a complex web of microbes, fungi, insects, plants, and animals whose relationships determine the health of the land. Instead of treating soil as an inert medium to be mined for nutrients, regenerative farmers work to restore and enhance its vitality, allowing the land to become more fertile, more resilient, and more biodiverse over time. This approach stands in contrast to industrial agriculture, which tends to exhaust soil through monoculture, heavy tilling, and synthetic inputs.
In practice, regenerative farming uses a suite of complementary methods that mimic natural ecosystems. Holistic grazing moves livestock frequently across small paddocks, allowing grasses to recover and encouraging deep root growth. Cover cropping ensures that soil is never left bare, protecting it from erosion and feeding the microbial life beneath the surface. No‑till or low‑till cultivation preserves soil structure and reduces carbon loss. Multi‑species pastures replace single‑crop fields with diverse plant communities that support pollinators, birds, and beneficial insects. Each of these practices reinforces the others, creating a self‑renewing cycle of fertility.
Animals play a central role in regenerative systems. Rather than being confined or separated from plant production, they are integrated into the farm’s ecology. Their grazing stimulates plant regrowth, their manure feeds the soil, and their movement helps cycle nutrients. In this context, animals are not production units but ecological partners, contributing to the health of the land in ways machinery and synthetic fertilisers cannot replicate. Their lives — and eventually their deaths — are part of a cycle that maintains the mauri of the farm as a whole.
Regenerative farming also aligns naturally with Māori relational ethics, which emphasise whakapapa, mauri, and kaitiakitanga. A regenerative farm is not just a place where food is grown; it is a living entity with its own integrity and whakapapa. The goal is not to maximise yield but to maintain balance — to enhance the mauri of soil, water, plants, animals, and people alike. This worldview recognises that humans are part of the ecosystem, not outside it, and that ethical food production requires reciprocity rather than domination.
In broad strokes, regenerative farming offers a way of producing food that is ecologically restorative, ethically coherent, and grounded in relationship rather than extraction. It accepts that harm cannot be eliminated — plants are eaten, animals die, ecosystems shift — but it seeks to shape that harm in ways that honour the land and all its inhabitants. For me, this approach feels far more aligned with the complexity of the world than any attempt at dietary purity. It offers a path where humans can participate in ecosystems as caretakers, not conquerors.
The Limits of Regenerative Farming and the Larger Ecological Context
As appealing as regenerative farming is to me ethically, it’s important to acknowledge its limits. It cannot match the output volume per hectare of industrial agriculture. Regenerative systems prioritise soil health, biodiversity, and ecological balance — not maximum yield. They work with natural processes rather than overriding them, and that means production is inherently slower and less intensive.
This is not a flaw in regenerative farming. It’s a reflection of ecological reality. The truth is that even industrial farming — with all its machinery, fertilisers, pesticides, and monocultures — may not be sustainable in the long term. The current scale and intensity of human activity is pushing Earth’s systems toward thresholds they cannot easily recover from. Soil degradation, water scarcity, loss of biodiversity, and climate instability are not abstract concerns. They are symptoms of a civilisation that has grown beyond the planet’s regenerative capacity.
This is why regenerative farming cannot be treated as a simple antidote to the burgeoning human population. Even if every farm on Earth adopted regenerative practices tomorrow, we would still face the deeper question: How many humans can the planet support without collapsing the ecosystems that sustain us? Industrial farming has allowed us to feed billions, but at the cost of degrading the very systems that make food production possible. Regenerative farming shows us a healthier way to live with the land, but it also reveals the uncomfortable truth that sustainability requires more than better farming methods. It requires rethinking our assumptions about growth, consumption, and what it means to flourish as a species.
Most of the environmental harm caused by industrial agriculture is hidden from everyday life. We don’t see the soil erosion, the dead zones in rivers, the loss of insect life, or the displacement of wildlife. We don’t see the long‑term consequences of treating land as a machine rather than a living system. Regenerative farming brings these realities into focus. It reminds us that food production is not just a technical problem to be solved but a relationship to be tended — one that requires humility, restraint, and a willingness to live within ecological limits.
Toward an Ethic of Coherence and Relationship
All of these reflections — the burning paddock, the hidden suffering in everyday farming practices, the unexamined ethics behind familiar foods, the limits of both industrial and regenerative systems — have led me to a simple but important realisation: ethical living is not about purity. It is about coherence.
Purity demands certainty. It asks us to draw hard lines, to divide the world into right and wrong, to believe that one dietary choice or one moral stance can absolve us of complicity. But the world is not built that way. Ecosystems are messy, interdependent, and full of unintended consequences. Every choice we make — whether we eat plants, animals, or both — touches the lives of other beings. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make us more ethical. It just makes us less aware.
Coherence, on the other hand, asks us to stay in relationship with the world. It asks us to pay attention to the ecosystems we depend on, to the animals whose lives intersect with ours, to the soil that feeds us, and to the land that holds us. It asks us to acknowledge that harm cannot be eliminated, only shaped with care. It invites us to live with humility, curiosity, and a willingness to revise our beliefs as we learn more.
This is why regenerative farming resonates with me. Not because it is perfect, or because it can feed an ever‑growing population, or because it offers a simple solution to complex problems. It resonates because it treats the land as a living entity, not a machine. It recognises that plants, animals, microbes, and humans are part of a shared whakapapa. It aligns with Māori relational ethics, where the goal is not domination but kaitiakitanga — guardianship, reciprocity, and balance.
Regenerative farming is not the answer. It is one part of a broader shift we need to make — a shift toward living within ecological limits, rethinking our assumptions about growth, and acknowledging that the Earth cannot sustain our current scale of extraction. But it offers a model of how humans might participate in ecosystems without overwhelming them. It offers a way of eating that honours the mauri of the land and the lives of the creatures within it.
Ultimately, what I am seeking — in food ethics, in culture, in spirituality, in my own neurodiverse way of moving through the world — is ethical coherence. A way of living that recognises complexity rather than denying it. A way of making choices that honour relationship rather than ideology. A way of being human that accepts our place in the web of life without pretending we can stand outside it.
If there is one thing I have learned, it is this: whenever we become absolutely certain that we have the answer, we have almost certainly stopped asking the right questions. And the world — the real, living, breathing world — deserves better from us than that.
When I speak of religion, I do not mean superstition, nor do I mean the rigid adherence to dogma that many assume defines faith. I find myself drawn to Sir Lloyd Geering’s description of religion as a “total mode of living.” This definition shifts the focus away from supernatural claims and toward the way we inhabit the world — the values we embody, the practices we sustain, and the relationships we nurture. Religion, in this sense, is not a matter of assent to doctrines but of living into ideals that make life more just, compassionate, and meaningful.
This broader view stands in sharp contrast to the belief‑centered definitions that dominate public debate. For many Christian fundamentalists, religion is primarily about affirming the existence of God and obeying scripture. For many atheists critical of religion, it is precisely this definition they reject, condemning it as irrational or oppressive. Though they reach opposite conclusions, both camps converge on a narrow framing: religion as belief in supernatural claims and submission to authority. Their arguments mirror one another, locked in a binary that leaves little room for the richness of lived practice.
Quaker spirituality offers a different witness. In the Religious Society of Friends, the “Kingdom of God” is not a distant realm but a present reality — something to be enacted through human responsibility, discernment, and care. Silence, community, and ethical commitment take precedence over creeds. Here religion is not about imposing belief but about striving together toward ideals that make the world more hospitable. It is a way of living that honors integrity, compassion, and truth, without demanding uniformity of thought.
Jesus himself chose parables rather than precise definitions, which suggests that certainty was never the goal. The Kingdom of God is better understood as a way of living that grows, nourishes, surprises, and welcomes — not a concept to be nailed down. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, the Kingdom is revealed in compassion across boundaries, where mercy overrides prejudice and care is offered to the stranger. In the parable of the Prodigal Son, it is revealed in forgiveness and reconciliation, where love triumphs over resentment and relationships are restored. In the parables of the mustard seed and the yeast, the Kingdom is revealed in growth and transformation from the smallest beginnings, hidden forces that reshape the whole. These stories remind us that religion is not about dogma, but about how we live together in mercy, grace, and hope.
This is why I resist the temptation to claim that my understanding of religion is the correct one. To be certain that one’s own perspective must be right, and that others must therefore be wrong, is divisive and harmful — irrespective of whether one stands in the camp of belief or disbelief. Religion, like philosophy, is diminished when it becomes a contest of certainties. It flourishes when it is understood as a human project of meaning, ethics, and community, open to many expressions and interpretations.
For me, Geering’s “mode of living” definition makes religion essential. It is not about defending a creed or winning an argument, but about inhabiting the world with care, responsibility, and hope. My perspective is only one among many, but it is the one that sustains me. The parables remind us that the Kingdom is enacted in compassion, forgiveness, and growth. Religion is not about dogma, but about how we live together in mercy and hope. And as the wisdom of Aotearoa reminds us:
He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata. What is the most important thing in the world? It is people, it is people, it is people.
An Autistic Reflection on Ethics and Misunderstanding
The Hug That Wasn’t
When sincerity is punished, what lesson is learned?
I was six or seven, though time has always felt more like weather than chronology — something I move through, not measure. It was art time at school, and I was painting a scene with watercolours. The girl beside me decided my picture needed improvement and added her own detail. I was upset. Not because I disliked her addition, but because it wasn’t hers to add. It was mine. I had made it. And now it wasn’t.
The teacher intervened. After hearing both sides, she asked the girl how she’d feel if I had done the same to her painting. The girl understood, said sorry, and I felt a sense of ethical resolution. She had acknowledged the harm, and I accepted her apology.
But then came the ritual.
The teacher told us to hug — a gesture meant to seal the reconciliation. I refused. Not out of spite, but because hugs were unpleasant, invasive, and emotionally dishonest for me. I said so. I said I didn’t like hugs. But the teacher insisted. She said I was being rude, selfish, and lacking in moral fibre. Eventually, I allowed the hug, rigid and unreciprocated. That wasn’t enough. I was reprimanded again, until I returned the hug — stiff as a board, trying to perform sincerity I didn’t feel.
Later, I found the girl and told her: “I liked your sorry. I just don’t like hugs.” I wanted her to know I hadn’t rejected her apology. I had accepted it — in the way that felt honest to me.
The teacher overheard. She made a comment I still don’t understand, something about being no better than a thief, because I had stolen something from the girl that wasn’t mine. I presume she meant the hug — or perhaps the closure she believed the girl deserved.
But I hadn’t stolen anything. I had given something real: a sincere ethical response, unadorned by performance.
I cared enough to clarify. That was my apology — and my truth.
Ethics as Lip Service
If ethics shift with the audience, are they ethics at all?
I’ve often been told that autistic ethics are rigid, rule-bound, and lacking in nuance. That we struggle with “theory of mind,” fail to consider others’ intentions, and apply moral rules too literally. These traits are framed as deficits — signs of dysfunction, not difference.
But I wonder.
Because when I look around, I see a different kind of ethical inconsistency. I see principles upheld when they’re convenient, and quietly abandoned when they’re not. I see apologies offered for optics, not remorse. I see moral choices shaped by who’s watching — not by what’s right.
Take the donation study. Autistic participants made consistent ethical decisions whether observed or not. Neurotypical participants donated more when they were being watched, and less when they weren’t. The researchers called this autistic “inflexibility.” I call it integrity.
And yet, the language used to describe autistic ethics remains troubling. “Deficit.” “Atypical.” “Dysfunction.” As if caring too much — or caring consistently — is a flaw. As if doing the right thing without an audience is somehow less human.
I’ve read articles that pathologise this kind of moral clarity. One even suggested that autistic people care “unduly” about moral cost. But what is undue about refusing to support a harmful cause, even in private? What is broken about choosing principle over gain?
If anything, I find myself confused by the neurotypical approach. Why is ethical flexibility celebrated when it serves the self? Why is moral consistency dismissed when it doesn’t?
I don’t bend my ethics to fit the room. That’s not rigidity — that’s resolve.
Accidents, Intentions, and the Search for Accountability
If no one meant harm, does that mean no one is responsible?
There’s a story often used to illustrate autistic “misjudgement” in moral reasoning. Two women are on a boat. One decides to swim, but hesitates — she sees jellyfish and isn’t sure if their sting is dangerous. The other reassures her: “I read online that they’re harmless. You’ll be fine.” The first woman dives in, is stung, and dies.
Neurotypical readers often say: “It was an accident. No one is to blame.” Autistic readers tend to say: “She wouldn’t have jumped without that reassurance. Some responsibility lies with the second woman — and with the source of the misinformation.”
This difference is framed as a flaw. As if seeking accountability is a failure to understand intent. But I don’t see it that way. I see it as caring about why harm happened — and how it might be prevented next time.
Another story: Grace hands Mary a sugar dispenser at a chemical plant. It’s labelled ‘Sugar,’ but contains poison. Mary dies. Grace didn’t know. Most people say Grace isn’t to blame. But autistic participants in a study assigned more blame than neurotypicals. The researchers called this “mind blindness.”
But I don’t think most autistic people would blame Grace. We’d ask: Who put poison in a sugar container?Why was the system designed that way?Who failed to check? We don’t ignore intent — we just don’t stop there.
We look for causes. For accountability. For the chain of events that led to harm. Not to punish, but to understand. To fix. To care.
I don’t need someone to mean harm to care that harm occurred.
The Emotional Core of Autistic Ethics
My emotions don’t follow your categories — but they follow my principles.
When I look back on my emotional life, it’s not love or jealousy or fear that stand out. It’s ethics. It’s the feeling of being misjudged, of seeing harm ignored, of watching principles bent for convenience. My emotions are responses to moral clarity — or to its absence.
And I’ve read other autistic stories that echo this. Emotions expressed not through conventional categories, but through ethical resonance. A kind of principled empathy — not always visible, but deeply felt.
This isn’t emotional flatness. It’s emotional precision.
But even when researchers study autistic ethics, they often miss this. They interpret our consistency as rigidity, our concern as dysfunction, our refusal to compromise as a failure to understand others. They run experiments, collect data, and still conclude that we care too much — or in the wrong way.
I find that bewildering.
Why is caring deeply about harm seen as a flaw? Why is refusing to betray one’s principles considered a deficit? Why is emotional honesty — even when it doesn’t look like yours — treated as something to be corrected?
I don’t experience emotions the way you expect. But I experience them with integrity. And that, I believe, is worth celebrating.
I feel what’s right — even when it’s not recognised as feeling.
Still Confused, Still Caring
I don’t always understand the rules — but I understand what’s right.
I still think about that hug. Not because it hurt me physically, but because my first response was one of deep repulsion — the kind I’ve always felt toward physical contact, even with family. What followed was a realisation that something more had been taken: my boundaries, my autonomy, my right to express sincerity in a way that felt honest. The demand to perform acceptance — to make the apology “genuine” through a ritual that made me feel worse than the original intrusion — felt like a betrayal of something deeper. I wasn’t rejecting the girl’s apology. I was rejecting the idea that sincerity must be enacted to be believed. And perhaps I understood, even then, that if the teacher had misunderstood me, the girl might have too. That’s why I sought her out — to let her know that her spoken “sorry” was enough. More than enough.
That moment stayed with me. Not as trauma, but as a puzzle. A question I keep asking: Why is honesty punished when it doesn’t look like yours?
I’ve grown older, read studies, followed debates, and still I’m confused. Why is moral consistency called rigidity? Why is principled care labelled dysfunction? Why is ethical clarity pathologised — even when it leads to less harm?
I don’t claim to have the answers. But I do know what I feel. And what I feel is this: ethics matter. Not because someone’s watching. Not because it earns praise. But because harm is real, and care is needed, and truth deserves a place at the table.
I’m still confused by the way neurotypical ethics bend and flex. But I’m not confused about my own. I care. I question. I clarify. And I do so with a kind of emotional honesty that may not fit your categories — but fits mine.
I’m still confused. But I’m still caring. And I’m not sorry for either.
Platform Politics and the Civic Cost of Speech: Why the digital megaphone is both a tool and a trap
In theory, democracy thrives on participation. In practice, participation—especially online—can provoke backlash that silences the very voices it claims to empower.
This post began as a reflection on political speech and social media. But as I revisited my own experience, I realised the story is more personal than I’d first admitted. It’s not just about what politicians say online. It’s about what happens when others—those without power—dare to speak at all.
Social media has become the default stage for political theatre. It’s where parties launch campaigns, where MPs spar in real time, and where policies are reduced to hashtags. But it’s also where the boundaries blur—between critique and cruelty, between dissent and defamation.
When elected officials use their platforms to target individuals, the consequences ripple far beyond the screen. The chilling effect is real. People withdraw. Conversations narrow. And democracy suffers—not because of disagreement, but because of intimidation.
I’ve felt that cost. In September and October last year, I was the target of a series of personal attacks—mostly out of public view, but deeply unsettling. They came from across the ideological spectrum: religious fundamentalists, militant atheists, cultural purists, and political extremists. It felt coordinated, though I now suspect it was more a convergence of intolerance than a conspiracy. Still, the effect was real. I stopped blogging for months. Not out of reflection, but out of exhaustion.
While I’ve always had unconditional love and understanding from my whānau, my different way of being—shaped in part by my late discovery of being autistic—has often been met with ostracism, antagonism, and bullying by much of society. The attacks last year tapped into that vulnerability. They weren’t just about my views; they were about my existence.
And yet, I returned. Tentatively. Cautiously optimistic.
The global trend towards intolerance and authoritarianism is hard to ignore. The reality of a second Trump administration—or more accurately, a plutocracy or kleptocracy—is deeply concerning. But here in Aotearoa, recent events have offered a glimmer of hope.
The widespread opposition to certain bills introduced by our right-of-centre government—including the largest demonstration in our nation’s history—suggests that civic engagement is alive and well. People are paying attention. They’re pushing back. And they’re doing so with clarity and conviction.
Perhaps this is a glitch—a temporary regression before a more inclusive future. Perhaps not. But either way, it’s worth noting that even amid the noise, there are signs of resistance. Of people standing up, speaking out, and refusing to let the platform define the tone of our democracy.
Social media has democratised expression—but it has also weaponised it. When politicians use platforms to punch down, and when others are punished simply for participating, the result is a civic landscape shaped more by fear than by dialogue.
In a democracy, speech is sacred. But when fear silences voices, that silence speaks volumes about the health of our public square. And when that silence is broken—not by rage, but by hope—it becomes a kind of faith restored. In the coming weeks, I’ll explore two threads that emerged from this reflection. One post will examine the ethical boundaries of political expression in the digital age. The other will focus on the lived experience of those who bear the brunt of online abuse—and what it means for representation, resilience, and reform.
Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s registry proposal must ring alarm bells for all Americans—not just autistic people. Reports indicate that the plan is to establish a national autism registry by collecting private medical records for research purposes. The stated goal is to study the causes of autism, with Kennedy incorrectly describing autism as a “preventable disease” and expressing intentions to find a “cure.” I am quietly outraged that this proposal is being considered at all.
A proposal fraught with danger. This initiative has already sparked significant backlash, particularly from advocacy groups like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Critics warn that such a registry could lead to misuse, stigmatisation, and breaches of privacy. There are also serious concerns that this approach echoes eugenic practices and could be used to marginalise autistic people rather than empower us.
A worrisome precedent. The UK Spectrum 10K DNA collection controversy offers a poignant parallel. Even voluntary research efforts have faced resistance when they fail to address the legitimate concerns of the communities involved. Imagining a shift from voluntary participation to a compulsory registry is, frankly, terrifying—it only heightens the risks and bypasses the crucial dialogue needed for truly ethical research.
Why all Americans should be alarmed. Autistic Americans are absolutely right to be worried, and so should everyone else. A compulsory registry for autistic people sets a dangerous precedent not only for us but for other minority groups as well. Historically, data collections imposed without full, informed consent have served as instruments of control, not empowerment. Our rallying cry, “Nothing about us without us,” reminds us that autistic individuals must have agency over decisions that affect our lives.
The slippery slope of surveillance. Even if presented as a research tool, such a registry could quickly slide into a system where sensitive data is exploited. There is a real risk that it would reinforce harmful narratives—portraying autism as something to be cured rather than as a naturally diverse way of experiencing the world. What might begin as a seemingly well-intentioned project could later be co-opted to justify exclusionary and coercive measures, echoing past abuses where scientific authority undermined individual rights.
Learning from past initiatives. Voluntary research initiatives like the Spectrum 10K project in the UK have shown that even well-meaning projects demand careful design and genuine input from the communities they affect. The possibility that a registry could become mandatory is particularly alarming because it sidesteps the necessary trust-building and dialogue fundamental to ethical research. It’s ultimately a question of power—deciding, without our direct voices, what is deemed a problem to be fixed rather than an identity to be respected.
A call to reimagine autism research. In my previous articles, I have insisted that research must serve the people it studies rather than imposing external definitions of what is “normal” or “desirable.” I offer a transformative vision that shifts away from reductionist, medicalised views of autism toward an approach that is inclusive, respectful, and empowering. Now, at this critical moment, it’s important to remind researchers and decision-makers of these points:
Humanising Narratives: Researchers must move away from purely medicalised models and recognise that autistic experiences are rich, varied, and constitute a legitimate way of engaging with the world. By adopting social and neurodiversity frameworks, they can focus on understanding the environmental, cultural, and systemic factors that impact our lives. This approach validates our lived experiences and challenges the notion that autism is simply a pathology to be “fixed.” It means recognising the diverse ways in which we communicate, relate, and excel.
Inclusion of Autistic Voices: “Nothing about us without us” is more than a slogan—it demands the active participation of autistic people in every step of the research process. When autistics help design studies, interpret data, and share findings, research gains critical insight and credibility. Such participatory models bridge the long-standing gap between researchers and our community, ensuring that findings reflect lived realities rather than assumptions or stereotypes.
Addressing Quality of Life: Research should prioritise studies that genuinely improve the quality of life for autistic individuals. This includes looking at social support, employment, education, and overall wellbeing. Instead of solely focusing on “curing” or “preventing” autism, researchers need to identify and dismantle the barriers that lead to negative outcomes—acknowledging that the goal isn’t to normalise autistic behaviour against a neurotypical standard but to enhance supportive, community-based systems that respect individual differences.
Challenging Ableism: Language matters. When terms like “cure” or “prevent” are used in reference to autism, they reinforce an ableist framework that sees neurodiversity as inherently flawed. Using language that recognises difference as natural—and even beneficial—helps combat the stigma that many autistic people face every day. This shift in narrative is essential for both a more inclusive research culture and public policy that promotes respect and understanding.
Rethinking Interventions: Interventions must be built around the preferences and consent of autistic individuals. Rather than imposing a one-size-fits-all solution aimed at normalisation, healthcare and educational practices should focus on personalised strategies that emphasise wellbeing, empowerment, and self-determination. True support comes from partnering with autistic people rather than imposing external expectations.
In conclusion. I hope these calls to action convey a vision for research that is collaborative, respectful, and fundamentally human-centred. Studying autism must always begin by recognising the agency, dignity, and expertise of autistic individuals. Not only do these principles safeguard against potential abuses—such as a compulsory registry that could be misused—but they also pave the way for research that genuinely improves lives by embracing our diversity.
Where do you stand? I’m sceptical that there there is any moral or ethical stance that is absolutely true regardless of time, place or circumstance. And yet there are some situations where I feel there is no other possible ethical/moral stance other than the one I hold can ever be acceptable. So I ask myself is this because this is a case of ethical absolutism or is it that my experiences as an autistic person living in a largely secular and liberal society conditions me to be blind to any other perspective. I really don’t know.
According to ethical absolutism, there are objective moral values and principles that are always valid and correct, regardless of time, place, circumstance or people. For example, some people may believe that lying is always wrong, no matter what the situation is. Ethical absolutism is often associated with religious views, as it implies that moral law is grounded in the very being of a deity or deities.
There seems to be one moral principle that humans universally hold to be intuitively valid and correct, and that is the “Golden Rule”: that we should treat others as we would want to be treated. This appears to be true across recorded history regardless of culture or religion, and some might reasonably claim that this is an example of ethical absolutism. But is it?
Personal experience tells me otherwise. I have little doubt that other autistics have had similar experiences. Often when I have treated others as I want to be treated, I find myself in hot water, with responses ranging from annoyance to anger to physical violence. Similarly when others treat me the way they want to be treated I find myself between a rock and a hard place. If I act honestly, I also find myself in hot water with responses no different to those I have just mentioned, and if I hide my true self then I quietly allow myself to be subjected to treatment that ranges from unpleasant to extremely painful. So regardless of whether I apply the Golden Rule, or others apply it to me, I tend to suffer.
So I now apply my own golden rule: treat others how you believe they want to be treated, and if unsure ask. It’s one that I’m beginning to ask others to apply to me, although it’s taken me 70 years to learn how to ask. Of course there are some people who are offended by me asking – whether it’s asking how they would like to be treated or asking them to treat me how I like. But that’s another story for another day.
Getting back on topic: According to ethical relativism, there are no objective moral values or principles, but rather they are relative to some further instance, such as culture, society, individual, or situation. For example, some people may believe that lying is sometimes acceptable, depending on the context and the consequences. Ethical relativism is often associated with tolerance and diversity, as it acknowledges that different groups may have different moral standards.
It appears to me that both ethical absolutism and ethical relativism have some advantages and disadvantages (although I strongly favour relativism), and they raise many questions and challenges. Some of the issues that they deal with are:
How do we determine what is morally right or wrong?
How do we resolve moral conflicts or disagreements?
How do we account for moral diversity and change?
How do we justify our moral judgments and actions?
How do we balance our moral obligations and rights?
I’m not sure that these questions have easy answers, and perhaps they don’t have an answer even after careful reflection and dialogue. Some people may prefer one ethical perspective over another, while some may try to find a middle ground or a compromise. What I can say is that some of my ethical views have changed over time in response to new experiences or information, while others have become more entrenched. How about you?
Lloyd Geering is a New Zealand theologian who has challenged the traditional views of Christianity and religion in general. He has proposed a new interpretation of God, Jesus, and the human self, based on the insights of existentialism, humanism, and postmodernism. He has also called for a new global ethic, which values the diversity and interdependence of all life forms.
Geering’s interpretation of God is that God is not a supernatural being who created and governs the world, but a humanly created concept that expresses the human quest for meaning and value. He argues that God is a symbol of the ultimate concern of humanity, and that different cultures and religions have used different names and images for God. He also suggests that God is evolving along with human culture, and that the modern concept of God is more immanent and cosmic than transcendent and personal
Geering’s interpretation of Jesus is that Jesus was a historical figure who lived in a particular time and place, and who proclaimed a radical message of God’s kingdom as an alternative to the oppressive Roman empire and the corrupt Jewish establishment. He contends that Jesus was not divine or miraculous, but a human prophet who embodied the values of love, justice, and peace. He also maintains that Jesus did not physically rise from the dead, but that the resurrection is a metaphor for the continuing presence and influence of Jesus in the community of his followers
Geering’s interpretation of the human self is that the human self is not a fixed or eternal entity, but a dynamic and relational process that emerges from the interaction of the human body, mind, and environment. He claims that the human self is constantly changing and developing, and that it is shaped by the cultural and historical context in which it lives. He also asserts that the human self is not separate or superior to other forms of life, but part of the interconnected web of life that constitutes the biosphere
Geering’s call for a new global ethic is based on his recognition of the challenges and opportunities that the modern world presents to humanity. He acknowledges that the human species has reached a critical point in its history, where it faces the threats of ecological crisis, nuclear war, and social injustice, but also the possibilities of scientific discovery, technological innovation, and cultural diversity. He urges that humanity needs to develop a new global ethic that respects the dignity and rights of all life forms, and that fosters the values of cooperation, compassion, and creativity. He envisions that humanity can create a new global community that transcends the boundaries of nation, race, and religion, and that celebrates the common humanity and the unique differences of all people
These are some of the main aspects of Lloyd Geering’s proposals, which reflect his non-realist, historical-critical, progressive, and pluralistic approach to Christianity and religion. His proposals have been influential and controversial, and have provoked both admiration and criticism from different quarters. His proposals have also invited further dialogue and debate about the role and relevance of religion in the contemporary world, which, not surprisingly, is the purpose of this essay.
This thoughtful post by a Christian and fellow Kiwi reflect, I believe, the thinking of most reasonable people, not only in Aotearoa New Zealand but throughout much of the world.
The excruciating four year unfolding circus on the US political scene makes the New Zealand political scene seem very tame in comparison. Unfortunately, for good or ill, we are bound to the leading Western powers by historical ties of trade and defence. The mixed blessing of Vietnam and Iraq should still be relatively fresh in […]
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