By Ukes Baha | 19 April 2025
The public is led to believe that journalists are free thinkers — brave individuals chasing stories, confronting power, and seeking truth. But in reality, most so-called journalists in New Zealand are employees. They are bound by contract, answering to their boss, following editorial instructions and internal guidelines, in accordance with their employer’s benefit and often an unstated political or commercial agenda.
They don’t choose freely. They don’t speak freely. And they don’t publish what they want. The subjects are chosen for them. Their words are reviewed, filtered, and approved. In some newsrooms, headlines are rewritten by marketing teams. In others, staff are explicitly warned to avoid certain topics and phrases — not because they’re false, but because they threaten funding, partnerships, or political alignment.
This isn’t journalism. It’s agenda management. Brand protection. Content control. Public relations dressed up as news. The sleek sets, polished scripts, and calm delivery all disguise one simple fact: every word has passed through a chain of command. And the moment a journalist steps outside the line, they risk demotion, isolation — or being quietly let go.
That’s why all the voices sound the same. That’s why reporters across channels ask the same questions. It’s not shared truth — it’s shared policy. Manufactured uniformity, not independent inquiry.
Ask any New Zealander whose story has been distorted, ignored, or rewritten by mainstream media. Ask anyone who’s tried to correct the record — and hit a wall of silence. The media doesn’t serve the public. It serves its paymasters. And its reporters are not free. They are agents of a private system that only permits a story if it fits the frame.
“The reporter is not your advocate. They are their employer’s mouthpiece.”
— APIAPE
Until this illusion is broken, the public will keep misplacing its trust. Believing that the messenger is neutral, when in fact, the messenger is managed.
The greatest illusion in media is that it simply “reports what’s happening.” But no outlet shows the full picture. No newsroom covers every event. Media doesn’t show the world — it selects parts of it. And what gets selected is never neutral.
Mainstream newsrooms in Aotearoa operate under strict editorial priorities. Entire topics are sidelined, ignored, or framed in ways that protect existing power. Whether it’s Māori rights, Treaty obligations, public health failures, or poverty — the choice to feature, distort, or exclude is deliberate.
When thousands oppose harmful legislation, it might get a passing mention — buried behind sport, celebrity fluff, or international distraction. But when a minister makes an inflammatory statement, it depends who they are. If they’ve been greenlighted, it becomes headline material for days. This isn’t journalism. It’s narrative shaping.
Most media consumers only see what they’re shown. But what they’re not shown matters even more. The voices never interviewed. The reports never aired. The context never given. Silence is not passive — it’s an active editorial decision. And in that silence, the system protects itself.
Ask: Who decides what’s a “debate” and what’s “settled”? Who gets described as a “concerned citizen” and who gets labelled a “radical”? Why are some crimes dissected and others disappeared? The answers lie not in truth, but in framing — and framing is everything.
“What they leave out tells you who they serve.”
— APIAPE
News is not neutral. It is filtered reality, and the filter is political. Until the public recognises this, media will continue to manufacture permission — not understanding.
Watch the evening news, and you’d think you’re watching something official — like a public institution. Broadcasters speak with authority. Logos resemble government seals. Presenters use polished language and studio sets designed to mimic public trust. But behind the curtain, every major media outlet in New Zealand is a private company.
These are not public service institutions. They are corporations with owners, shareholders, and private interests. Their survival depends on advertising revenue, sponsorship deals, audience metrics, and political alignment. And yet, they market themselves as neutral conduits of public information.
This sleight of hand works — until you deal with them directly. Anyone who has tried to get an urgent story covered, challenge a false report, or request airtime knows the truth: they owe the public nothing. They can ignore, delay, spin, or refuse. They are not required to be fair. They are not required to be accurate. They are not required to respond.
The public image of New Zealand’s media is one of responsibility, balance, and care. But the legal and operational structure tells another story. These are branded platforms, answerable only to their boards, bound by commercial logic, and insulated from democratic accountability. They are designed to look like public trust — while running on private control.
“Just because it feels official doesn’t mean it is public.”
— APIAPE
Until people understand the media as a business — not a public service — they will continue to mistake image for integrity. And that confusion keeps the gate shut.
Before university, my brother took me to check out new warehouse units in Albany. The area looked tidy and full of promise — clean driveways, new signage, landscaped fronts. I felt a breeze on my face as we walked around. An hour later, I got a headache. My eyes were irritated and red, and a discharge began. I’d wash them, place my palm over them — more would come. It kept building up. Something was wrong.
A respected elder in our community was stunned by what I described. He recognised it instantly: that area was a red zone — toxic because of the sewage ponds. No one should have been allowed near it, let alone building or selling property there. The ponds were infamous. Gas used to blow across the valley, and at that time, it hadn’t been properly contained. He couldn’t believe the area had been opened to the public. He urged us to report it immediately — and said I should show them my condition while the symptoms were visible.
I contacted the North Shore Times. I told them exactly what had happened, and that my symptoms were visible now — this was the time to report it. The journalist confirmed they'd already heard something similar and said she’d come soon to see me. But she never came. They delayed until my symptoms faded, and later, they never followed up at all.
That’s when I realised: the cover-up was already in motion. My illness didn’t fit the narrative. Albany was the “next big thing.” They couldn’t afford alarm. Not while properties were being sold and infrastructure was being promoted. What mattered wasn’t public safety — it was public image.
That day, I saw the real media in New Zealand — not public, not neutral, not accountable. Their silence wasn’t passive. It was staged. First, they acknowledged the issue, showed interest, and played the part of concern — just enough to appear legitimate. Then came the delay, until the evidence faded. Then the excuses, to preserve their image. And finally, silence — while the media ran cheerful ads promoting the development. What should’ve been exposed was buried. Not because it wasn’t serious — but because it was too serious to admit.
“They didn’t just cover the story — they covered it up.”
— APIAPE
This was not a mistake. It was alignment. Developers, officials, media — each playing their part. If you’ve lived through it, you know. If you haven’t, you’re still being sold the brochure.
Newsrooms claim independence. But in practice, they survive on funding — and that funding comes with invisible strings. Advertising dollars, commercial partnerships, government campaigns, corporate events, and branded content all play a quiet, powerful role in what can be said — and what must never be.
Want a story on housing injustice? Be careful — major advertisers include banks, real estate platforms, and mortgage brokers. Want to question vaccine rollout strategies or post-injury support? Better soften the language — pharma companies and government departments fund entire media initiatives. Want to expose environmental damage? Check who’s sponsoring the weather segment.
This isn't a conspiracy — it's a business model. And in that model, content is curated to avoid upsetting revenue. Entire segments exist to promote partners: “powered by,” “brought to you by,” “in collaboration with.” These sponsors don’t just appear beside the news. They shape it.
Reporters learn fast where the limits are. A story that might provoke a key sponsor becomes a “maybe next week.” A critical exposé gets reworded, reframed, or quietly dropped. Editors justify it as pragmatism. But what it really means is this: the public only sees the truth when it doesn’t threaten the money.
“Freedom of the press only exists for those who can afford to lose advertisers.”
— APIAPE
When journalism becomes dependent on sponsorship, silence becomes policy. The louder the brand, the quieter the dissent.
The stories you see on your screen aren’t just selected by journalists — they’re filtered through a hierarchy of ownership and influence. Behind every news brand is a boardroom, a portfolio, and a power structure. These are not independent watchdogs — they are subsidiaries of commercial empires.
NZME owns the New Zealand Herald, Newstalk ZB, and a raft of regional newspapers and radio stations. It is a publicly listed company, governed by shareholder returns. Stuff, once owned by Fairfax Media, is now run by a small group of private investors — who control editorial direction and financial strategy. TVNZ appears public, but operates as a state-owned enterprise, commercially funded, and driven by ratings. MediaWorks (which runs Today FM, The Edge, The Rock) has passed through hands including US equity firms and New Zealand billionaires.
Ownership means influence. Board members have political histories, economic interests, and connections to industries that benefit from selective coverage. Sometimes it's overt — like a corporate director also sitting on a climate lobby. Sometimes it’s cultural — a shared understanding of what’s “acceptable” or “respectable” to report. Either way, the boundaries are not journalistic. They are structural.
That’s why you'll rarely see deep investigations into supermarket cartels, fossil fuel subsidies, or trade deals like the UAE CEPA. That’s why dissenting Māori voices, climate activists, and system critics are either excluded or diluted. And that’s why stories that threaten political alliances or shareholder interests tend to vanish before they reach your feed.
“The news isn’t just shaped by who writes it — but by who owns the right to say it.”
— APIAPE
If the public doesn’t know who owns the headlines, they’ll keep mistaking propaganda for principle — and brand storytelling for journalism.
Turn on the TV, scroll a news app, or flick through a paper — and you’ll notice something strange. All the voices sound the same. The same questions, the same framing, the same hesitation to say what needs to be said. It’s not because everyone agrees. It’s because the boundaries of disagreement are tightly controlled.
Mainstream media in Aotearoa sells the idea of “balance” — but what it delivers is conformity. The public is shown two sides of a narrow frame: party A vs party B, left vs right, economy vs environment. But rarely do we hear from the communities most affected, the activists on the ground, or the experts who speak outside the script. They are filtered out — or tokenised.
“Balance” is often just repetition. Two politicians debate a law, but no one asks: who wrote it? Who benefits? What’s been left out? Media platforms reprint government statements as “news,” host pre-approved talking heads, and then claim neutrality by saying, “we showed both sides.” But both sides serve the same system.
Real diversity of thought — radical dissent, Indigenous knowledge, systemic critique — is not welcome in this model. It risks being framed as fringe, activist, or “biased.” Yet the real bias is structural: toward status quo, safety, and power.
“When all your options are pre-selected, you're not choosing — you're being managed.”
— APIAPE
The myth of balance is how media keeps control while pretending to offer choice. And the more the public buys it, the more it becomes a cage.
When mainstream media touches on Te Tiriti o Waitangi, it often pretends to “explore both sides.” But what it’s really doing is blurring the truth. Instead of defending a foundational agreement — or explaining its context — the media too often falls back on tokenism, confusion, and false neutrality.
When ACT or NZ First launch attacks on Treaty “principles,” media outlets don’t investigate — they host debates. When politicians misuse Te Tiriti to push racist laws, journalists don’t challenge them — they invite a counter-comment, as if legal sovereignty is just an opinion. This isn’t balance. It’s betrayal.
In many newsrooms, te reo Māori is sprinkled for style, while Te Tiriti is misrepresented or ignored. Reporters pronounce “Aotearoa” with care, then publish headlines questioning co-governance without ever explaining what it is. The most informed voices — Māori jurists, Treaty educators, constitutional experts — are often left out altogether.
This failure isn’t accidental. It protects the status quo. It keeps Pākehā audiences comfortable, reinforces colonial narratives, and gives platforms to politicians who see Treaty rights as negotiable. By failing to take a position based on history and law, the media ends up taking a position based on fear and convenience.
“When the Treaty is treated like an opinion, justice becomes optional.”
— APIAPE
Real journalism doesn’t hide behind neutrality when mana is under attack. It clarifies. It confronts. It educates. Until that happens, the media remains complicit in every Treaty distortion it refuses to challenge.
If the media feels tame, predictable, and risk-averse — that’s by design. New Zealand’s journalism pipeline doesn’t just filter stories; it filters people. From university to internship to studio, the system rewards obedience, not curiosity. It trains graduates to uphold the brand, not question the structure.
Journalism schools emphasise “balance,” “tone,” and “professionalism” — but rarely teach media history, political economy, or how to recognise corporate capture. Students are shaped into presenters, not investigators. They learn what not to ask before they ever learn how to dig.
The hiring process finishes the job. Editors don’t seek radical voices or people with lived experience of injustice. They want safe hands, familiar backgrounds, and people who can “fit in” to a newsroom culture already defined by senior management. Over time, the outliers drop out. The obedient stay and rise.
This is why so many reporters recycle government press releases, echo elite concerns, and avoid stories that could “make waves.” It’s not just fear — it’s training. By the time they’re on your screen, most have already internalised the boundaries. They no longer need to be told what not to say.
“The newsroom doesn’t break you. It selects you already broken in.”
— APIAPE
A free press can’t exist when its workforce is pre-shaped for conformity. To tell the truth, you need people who weren’t raised to protect it.
In moments of crisis, the lines blur. What used to be journalism starts to sound like official government communication. Phrases like “the official advice,” “trusted sources,” and “staying on message” begin to dominate newsrooms. Critical questions vanish. The media becomes a mouthpiece — not for the people, but for the state.
During COVID-19, entire editorial segments were handed over to government health campaigns. Reporters became amplifiers. Daily briefings replaced investigations. Dissenting experts — even qualified ones — were excluded, smeared, or ignored. The media called it “responsible coverage.” What it really was: national branding.
This pattern didn’t end with the pandemic. Whether it’s crime policy, foreign trade, or Treaty issues, media increasingly echoes ministerial language: “law and order,” “partnership debate,” “economic growth.” The messaging sounds coordinated — because it is. Entire campaigns are pre-written, then handed down through talking points, releases, and press packages.
A healthy democracy requires tension between power and press. But in Aotearoa, that tension is eroding. Instead of interrogating power, many media outlets shield it. Instead of standing outside the beehive, they step inside — and help deliver the lines.
“A journalist can’t challenge the system while borrowing its script.”
— APIAPE
When media becomes a ministry, journalism dies. And the public is left with PR — dressed up as public interest.
The public imagines that newsrooms are open — that anyone with a real story, a strong voice, or lived experience can get heard. But that’s not how it works. In reality, the media gate is tightly shut. Only those who fit the script are let in. Everyone else is either ignored, reframed, or quietly erased.
Try submitting a correction to a false article. Try pitching a counter-story that challenges a corporate narrative or a government agenda. Try getting airtime as an Indigenous expert, a survivor, a dissenter, or a grassroots leader. You’ll hit a wall of silence — or worse, distortion.
For every “expert panel” aired, there are dozens of excluded voices — including Māori legal scholars, community health workers, independent researchers, and people directly harmed by policy. They are not brought in, not because they lack credibility, but because they bring clarity the system doesn’t want.
Sometimes the media does cover real people — but only after reshaping the story. A powerful protest becomes a “clash with police.” A survivor becomes a “victim of unfortunate circumstances.” An activist becomes “controversial.” This isn’t truth-telling — it’s narrative laundering.
“You are free to speak — until your truth threatens the frame.”
— APIAPE
The media gate stays shut unless your voice can be used. And when it can’t be controlled, it gets cut out. That's not journalism. That's management.
Media control isn’t just about what gets said. It’s about *how* it’s said — and what gets left out. Language, sequencing, headlines, and silence all work together to manufacture public consent. To show you how it works, here are just a few recent cases that reveal the pattern.
🟠 The School Lunch Programme:
When the coalition government slashed funding, media repeated phrases like “wasteful spending,” “packed lunches,” and “inefficiency.” What didn’t get airtime? Student testimonies. Teacher support. Nutrition data. Māori and Pasifika perspectives. The public was primed to nod — not question.
🟠 Tim Jago and ACT Party Silence:
Despite a former ACT president being convicted of historical sexual abuse — and despite evidence that David Seymour knew for years — media outlets refused to lead with the story. Survivors had to go to blogs and Reddit. Name suppression did the rest. Consent was managed through delay.
🟠 The Treaty “Debate”:
Media hosts routinely frame attacks on Te Tiriti as “just raising questions.” They platform those dismantling Indigenous rights while silencing or softening the defenders. They turn violation into a “conversation,” and let settler power speak as if it’s neutral.
🟠 COVID-19 Vaccine Injuries:
Any coverage that challenged the rollout strategy — including post-injury silence, under-reporting, or lack of aftercare — was dismissed as conspiracy. Real people with real health concerns were shamed or excluded entirely. Facts became threats.
🟠 Offshore Energy & UAE Trade Deals:
Major legislative overhauls, environmental rollbacks, and corporate trade privileges passed with almost no mainstream scrutiny. Instead, the public was fed party press releases — framed as “innovation” and “partnership.” The real implications? Buried.
“When the public only sees part of the truth — it’s not informed. It’s being managed.”
— APIAPE
These examples aren’t outliers — they’re patterns. And once you start spotting the pattern, you can’t unsee it.
For decades, New Zealand’s media controlled the frame. What was reported became what was real. But that era is ending. With the rise of independent blogs, social platforms, long-form podcasts, and raw citizen footage, more and more people are waking up to a truth that legacy media can no longer suppress.
Trust in mainstream outlets is falling — not because of “misinformation” or “online extremism,” but because people are seeing the cracks for themselves. They witness bias, feel the omission, and compare what’s reported with what they’ve actually lived. And what they find is a gap too wide to ignore.
This isn’t just about content. It’s about control. Legacy media platforms still pretend they’re the voice of reason — yet they smear dissent, silence whistleblowers, and dismiss public concerns with a patronising sneer. That arrogance has consequences. Once trust is lost, it doesn’t come back.
Meanwhile, online communities are doing the job the news won’t: exposing corruption, challenging legislation, archiving what the public was never meant to see. Grassroots platforms are naming names, connecting patterns, and providing context — without needing a sponsor, a press release, or a PR team.
“The media didn’t lose trust. It spent it — silencing the wrong people for too long.”
— APIAPE
The future of truth doesn’t belong to studios. It belongs to the public — if we stay alert, protect our platforms, and never forget what they tried to hide.
If you’ve ever felt like the news doesn’t reflect reality, you’re not alone — and you’re not wrong. This exposé has shown how New Zealand’s mainstream media isn’t a neutral mirror of society. It’s a private system engineered to filter, shape, and frame public understanding in ways that benefit the powerful.
From contract-bound employees posing as journalists, to filtered narratives, corporate funding, silent boardrooms, omitted voices, and coordinated government messaging — the truth is no longer accidental. It’s managed. And what we don’t see is as carefully curated as what we do.
This isn’t a failure of journalism. It’s the outcome of a structure that never existed to tell the whole truth — only to control which truths were safe to tell. Once we recognise this, we can stop being surprised. And we can stop waiting for reform from within.
The media system isn’t broken. It’s successful — for those it was built to serve. But for the rest of us, its credibility is gone. That’s why people are turning to each other. That’s why independent platforms matter. That’s why speaking outside the script is now an act of resistance.
“This isn’t collapse. It’s exposure. The truth isn’t dying — it’s moving.”
— APIAPE
A new media is being born in the cracks of the old. But it only lives if we protect it — and never again forget who tried to own the story.
Every honest article exposes corruption. Transparency and authenticity demand accountability—and turn truth into public action.
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