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A Knife in the Dark
By: Micheal Heimlick
Why Stories Like This Matter: A Forward by Melanie Mark-Shadbolt
At Te Tira Whakamātaki, we believe in the power of stories. They carry knowledge, history, and truth. They remind us of what is at stake. And, sometimes, they serve as warnings (just think of the Handmaids Tale).
This is one of those stories.
Micheal’s experience is not an isolated one. His departure is part of a growing pattern - one we’ve all been witnessing since this coalition government took power. Across Aotearoa New Zealand, we are witnessing the rapid erosion of the very things that make this country special: our environment, our communities, and our shared commitment to fairness and justice.
As Māori, we know what it means to fight - for our whenua, for our rights, and for our future. We have seen governments come and go, each leaving their mark. Some have built, while others have dismantled. This government is dismantling at a reckless speed.
Micheal’s story is a wake-up call. It reminds us that when governments prioritise short-term profit over people, real lives are impacted. Families are forced to leave. Expertise is lost. Aotearoa New Zealand becomes a harder place to live and thrive, especially for those who want to do good.
But this story is more than a warning. It’s a mirror and a challenge.
We are being distracted. We are being divided. Controversial policy debates, like the revisiting of Treaty principles, are being weaponised to shift focus while public services are stripped, and the climate crisis is ignored. We are closer than ever to becoming little America, where division and deregulation rule, and the wellbeing of people and the planet is no longer a political priority.
We must open our eyes.
History has shown us that when people stand together, things change. The civil rights movement in the United States, the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa, the hikoi for Māori land rights here in Aotearoa, all remind us that collective resistance works. Change is not only possible - it’s necessary.
We encourage you to read Micheal’s words carefully. Let them fuel the conversations we need to have, the actions we must take, and the choices we make at the ballot box. Let them push you to ask:
What kind of Aotearoa do we want to live in? And what kind of Aotearoa do we want to leave for those who come after us?
The answer begins with us. It begins now.
Coming to Aotearoa NZ
In August of 2022, my wife, daughter, and I moved to Aotearoa New Zealand. Over 899 days (29½ months), we built a life filled with discovery, breathtaking moments, and reinvention. Each day offered new adventures, deep connections with people and places, and memories we thought would last a lifetime. We found friends who became family and celebrated 21,587 hours of joy and memories with them. Every moment (all 1,295,205 minutes in Aotearoa) deepened my gratitude for this extraordinary land.
I had high hopes for this place, perhaps even unrealistic ones. But Aotearoa exceeded them all. Storybook perfect, it felt like my own personal Shire, a place of peace and purpose, nestled in the heart of Middle Earth.
Then, on February 7th 2025, that life was ripped away by a government that prioritises austerity, late-stage capitalism, and the interests of right-wing think tanks. The coalition in power, a three-headed beast of greed, white supremacy, and who has a calculated disregard for humanity, has made it impossible for us to stay.
Let me explain more.
Our first adventure in Aotearoa (Lyttleton Harbour).
The Saskatchewan Context
Before coming to Aotearoa, I had spent 30 years in Saskatchewan, Canada (on Treaty Six Territory and on the homeland of the Métis). Life there was comfortable. We had strong social ties, stable jobs, and a home filled with love. My wife, a paediatric nurse, had a rewarding career. I owned a business. We were both well-paid. We had everything we were supposed to want and then some.
But under 18 years of conservative rule, Saskatchewan had become a place where economic growth was prioritised above all else, often at the expense of the people. The province had the highest crime rate in Canada for 25 consecutive years, a child poverty rate of 10.2%, and 11.1% of the population lived under the poverty line in 2023. Food bank usage had risen 42% in the previous five years of writing this article. The healthcare system was overwhelmed and chronically understaffed. Homelessness was (and still is) widespread, and Saskatchewan had (and still does have) the highest per-capita addiction rate in the country.
The idea that ‘a strong economy takes care of the people’ was crumbling before our eyes.
At the same time, climate change was becoming more visible, and more urgent. Saskatchewan had the second-highest greenhouse gas emissions in Canada, yet the provincial government barely acknowledged climate change. Funding for environmental initiatives was negligible meanwhile, billions of dollars were being funneled into mining and oil. In 2022, mining companies received billions in public support, despite raking in $19.4 billion in sales.
I felt increasingly alienated in a place that no longer reflected my values and I wanted something better. I sought a place where people prioritised community wellbeing, valued the environment, and acted on climate change.
Us hiking near Franz Josef Glacier.
Resistance and Resignation
As the cracks in Saskatchewan’s economic-first philosophy widened further. Anyone who wasn’t already wealthy was suffering. Around this time, my wife and I were thinking seriously about starting a family. Like any parents, we wanted the best possible future for our children. I had just finished my degree and started working in the social sector, where the damage of placing profit before people was especially clear. My dissatisfaction with life in Saskatchewan grew deeper by the day.
At the same time, my anxiety about climate change skyrocketed. I worried constantly about what life would be like in a place where the weather was becoming more extreme - intense heat, longer droughts, violent storms, larger fires. But I’m not someone who sits still with anxiety. I act. I started looking for ways to ease that worry, to make life better for those around me.
What I found was disheartening. No one wanted to talk about climate change. The issue was so far off people’s radar that it was almost taboo. Disinformation had a stranglehold on the public discourse, making it easier for the rich to get richer while any kind of sustainable thinking was dismissed or mocked.
I felt disillusioned with a place that had once shaped me. I remember thinking: How can I be the one of the only ones who cares this much? Why do so few seem to see what’s happening?
There were pockets of resistance, but they were few and far between. The Saskatchewan government’s 2022–23 budget barely mentioned climate change, allocating just $1 million to its climate change strategy. At the same time oil and gas companies were enjoying continued tax dollar support – receiving a conservative estimate of $20 billion in subsidies from the Federal Government alone (how much subsidies fossil fuel industry gets is hard to determine for lots of reasons, but in 2020, estimates ranged from $4.5 billion to $18 billion, including financing to support pipelines ($8 billion) and remediation. Average subsidies are estimated at around $14 billion annually (Saskatchewan contributed $2.5 billion alone in 2020/21, with Canada providing more public financing for fossil fuels than any other G20 country)
The message was clear: short-term profits mattered more than long-term survival.
Fridays for Future Protest I attended in Saskatoon in 2021.
Surrounded by apathy, I felt hopeless. My new daughter and wife were my grounding forces, but I couldn’t spend every moment with them. The rest of the time, I was immersed in a society that made it impossible to care about the environment without also feeling crushed by it.
I grew angry. Then sad. Then numb. Even the joy I found at home started to fade. I struggled to be present with my wife and child. I couldn’t stop doomscrolling, couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal, that the government, and even my community, had turned its back on the people and the land – they had no motivation, care or will to do the right thing.
Then came the pandemic, and with it, even more clarity. Disinformation was everywhere. Governments and individuals alike revealed how deeply they prioritised profit over health and wellbeing. My wife, like nurses around the world, went from being celebrated to vilified for advocating vaccines, wearing masks, simply showing up to work – a familiar story across the world. The shift broke something in me. I couldn’t believe how easily people were manipulated and divided, or how quickly they turned on each other.
That was the final straw. I needed to change; I needed to act.
I knew I couldn’t tell my daughter, years from now, that I saw all of this happening and did nothing. I had to fight - for the environment, for truth, for community – but I couldn’t stay in Saskatchewan and do it.
It was around then that I started paying serious attention to a small island in the South Pacific.
Waterfall hunting in mid-Canterbury.
Finding Our Place: The Draw to Aotearoa
We first visited Aotearoa in 2019, and I immediately fell in love. That trip fulfilled my childhood (and adulthood) dream of walking through Middle Earth. But beyond the landscapes and Tolkienism, something deeper clicked - it felt like home the moment we arrived.
It shouldn’t be understated how much the Lord of the Rings trilogy influenced my connection to Aotearoa. But it wasn’t just the setting that called to me, it was the people, the culture, and, at the time, the politics. Here was a society that seemed to value what I valued: the environment and community.
Of course, Aotearoa is still a colonial country, one that continues to inflict injustices on Māori every day. I wasn’t blind to that. But even with that understanding, it felt like a place where we might be able to live in better alignment with our values.
From a distance, Aotearoa’s international reputation for environmental leadership was impressive. The country had recently banned all oil and gas exploration, something few others had the courage or principles to do. The Labour government appeared committed to protecting its people during COVID-19, and it was obvious from the outside just how many lives were being saved by those decisions.
When I brought these observations up with people in Canada, I often heard, “The grass isn’t always greener.” But I couldn’t see how that could be true.
And then, there was the healthcare system. Aotearoa was crying out for nurses, and that eased many of my fears about moving across the world. The government’s decision to add nurses to the ‘straight-to-residence’ immigration green list in December 2022 solidified our belief that this move was possible - maybe even needed. If my wife could find a job, we could build a new life.
Then came a connection I still consider one of the most fortunate of my life. A now close friend and colleague, who had moved from Aotearoa to Saskatchewan (Simon Lambert), connected me with the Māori environmental organisation Te Tira Whakamātaki. I began doing contract work with them, and we hit it off immediately.
Led by the incredible Melanie Mark-Shadbolt, the team welcomed me into their kaupapa. One opportunity led to another, and eventually, a space was created for me to work in person. I had been given the opportunity of a lifetime, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
Before we knew it, we bought plane tickets, packed up our lives, including the dogs, and prepared to move. A move that would take one of our families only grandchild (the second for the other family) 13,131 kilometres across the Pacific Ocean to the other side of the world. A move that would change everything.
Packing up all of our stuff a few days before moving.
A New Beginning
Even before we left Canada, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. I finally had a sense of professional purpose and excitement. At the time, my only true refuge was in being a father and a partner – as I said my wife and daughter kept me grounded and gave me reason to keep going. I owe my wife and daughter everything for that. Without them, I am not sure how deep down the path of disillusionment I would have gotten.
But I wanted more for them too. I wanted this move as much for them as I did for myself. I believed it would bring us closer, build precious memories, and help us grow. And I’m happy to say: it did.
We arrived in Aotearoa in August 2022 with three suitcases and a dream - to live in a place where we could simply be ourselves. We’d arrived ready for the 100% Pure New Zealand experience, because honestly, we’d bought into the carefully crafted brand.
From the moment we landed, I felt joy flooding back into my body. Even with the stress of moving, I found myself noticing beauty again: the stars, the moon phases, the rhythm of the sea, and the scent of unfamiliar plants. That child-like wonder returned, and with it, a renewed appreciation for life.
Watching my daughter thrive was the best part. Hearing her recognise native bird calls, learn to whisper around kiwis, hike up hills, and giggle at cheeky kea. In those moments, I felt like I was giving her something I wasn’t sure I could have given her in Saskatchewan. I felt proud. And also, at times, guilty for taking her and my partner so far from their families.
But we were embraced, by this land, by our Māori colleagues, and by the work itself. Te Tira Whakamātaki gave me a space to express my values and fight for the environment in a way that was both fulfilling and healing.
I found my own Shire. Like many hobbits, I was happy to live simply, admiring the small beauties of the world (though, like Frodo and Sam, I did plenty of adventuring too).
I became more active than I’d ever been. I began learning te reo Māori. I was healthier, mentally and physically, than I had been in years. And even though we started with few social ties, I felt like I truly belonged.
That’s a rare feeling, and one I’ll never take for granted.
We were well into this honeymoon phase when my wife applied for her New Zealand nursing licence. A process we had always planned for. Unfortunately, it took 11 months to complete (June 2023 to May 2024) and cost us nearly $4,800 CAD. The process involved submitting documents to a US-based company, criminal record checks, transcript reviews, and more.
It took far longer than expected, but we were prepared. We knew moving across the world wouldn’t be cheap. Because sometimes, that’s the cost of happiness.
Seeking out Kea on our weekend adventures.
The Scouring of the Shire
Fast forward to October 14th, 2023 - the New Zealand general election, and the point at which everything started to change for us.
We knew a government swing was likely, and after reviewing party platforms, it was clear that cuts were coming. Times were going to get tougher. Still, the National Party proudly and repeatedly campaigned on the promise that there would be no cuts to frontline health workers. That commitment, echoed even by the outgoing Health New Zealand Commissioner Lester Levy, gave us some reassurance.
This country was crying out for nurses, right?
At the time, we were naïve enough to believe that the job market for nurses would hold up, regardless of who took power. We were wrong.
I’m writing this a year after that election. Since then, $1.4 billion has been slashed from the health system in the name of “efficiency,” with no end in sight. Despite assurances that frontline services would remain untouched, the result has been devastating. It's now nearly impossible to get a healthcare job. My wife, who obtained her New Zealand nursing licence in May 2024, hasn’t received a single interview - not one - despite having nearly a decade of specialised experience in paediatrics in the Canadian health system.
She’s not alone. We’ve heard the same from many others. Public sector positions are frozen, and the private sector is so overwhelmed with applicants that hiring seems random. For internationally trained nurses, it’s even worse.
One example stands out: my partner applied for what seemed like the perfect job in a paediatric ward in Christchurch. With her experience, she seemed like an obvious fit. But less than 24 hours after she applied, the listing disappeared, and her application was rejected without explanation. Around that time, leaks from inside the system revealed that managers were being told not to fill any new positions without multiple layers of approval.
In another case, she applied for a small, part-time contract job in Sefton, just 12–15 hours a week. After the listing closed, she received an email stating that 43 people had applied. She didn’t get an interview.
How are employers supposed to choose from that many (likely qualified) candidates? It’s not a job market, it’s a lottery.
We were told this country needed us, especially her. But the truth is, it doesn’t. And because of that, we are being forced to leave.
If we don’t return to Canada, my partner will lose her ability to practice. She needs to work 450 hours every three years to maintain her registration. To do that from Aotearoa, she would need to travel back to Saskatchewan annually for at least three months. That’s not sustainable, not with the cost, the distance, or the toll on our family.
Saskatchewan has welcomed her back, despite still being under conservative rule. But this wasn’t the life we planned for.
Climbing mountains in Fjordland National Park.
A Conspiracy Unmasked
Let me be clear: this isn’t a sob story. I’m not asking for sympathy.
This is a love letter, and a warning to the people of Aotearoa New Zealand.
Whenever I’ve shared this story, people are shocked. “But I thought we were desperate for nurses?” they say. And that’s exactly the point, people don’t realise just how deep the cuts have gone. They’re understandably focused on feeding their families and paying bills. But soon, the impacts will become impossible to ignore.
Try reducing emergency room wait times, a major National Party promise, without adequate staff or resources. It won’t work. And people will notice.
This is just one example of how this government is systematically undermining the public good. Māori have been hit again and again. So too have the environment and the sciences. There’s so much happening, so fast, that it’s difficult to keep track – and we are only halfway through this election cycle. And that’s by design.
This government is deploying a deliberate strategy of distraction by pushing controversial debates, like revisiting Treaty principles, to divert attention while quietly pushing through policies that serve only the uber-rich and the well-connected. It’s a calculated move to erode protections and gut systems of care by distracting the public.
Māori have seen this playbook before. They’ve been fighting since 1840, inch by inch, to reclaim what was taken. And they continue to fight. But the rest of the country needs to wake up, and fast.
Your very identity as a country, and as a global leader, is under threat. We came to Aotearoa because of your reputation: a country that valued its people and its environment, a place that seemed to care. But with every regressive policy, that reputation crumbles. And the world is watching.
People like us, who believed in your promise, are being driven away.
Aotearoa New Zealand is being driven toward a future of short-term profit (under the guise of economic progress and efficiency) and American-style (divisive) politics. I’ve lived that reality. I’ve seen how it ends. It’s not great. The masses will suffer. Families like mine will leave, not because we gave up, but because you’ve made it impossible to stay.
I’m angry about our situation, but I’m even angrier for you.
We fled conservative rule, Trump-style politics, and disinformation only to have it follow us and embed itself in the Beehive. I feel like the choice to stay and fight back against this, which is what I desperately want to do, has been ripped away from me. I can no longer stand beside my friends and colleagues and fight for the causes that gave my life new purpose. And I’m pissed that the system is working as it was designed.
From day one, we contributed. We paid taxes. We were a big part of the community. We were planning to grow our family here. My job supported Māori-led environmental work, something I believed helped shape the very soul of this nation. We did everything right. We even secured our residency. But because one of us can’t get a job in a gutted health system, we’re being forced to abandon it all.
New Zealand will miss out on a lifetime of our skills, our taxes, and our service to this country.
But hey, at least there’s a bit of extra spending money in everyone’s pocket, right?
Short-term gain. Long-term pain.
Visiting the Shire in early 2023.
The Tales That Really Matter
For us, the dream is over. We have to leave our personal paradise, our Shire, just so we can financially survive as a family. Yes, we’re looking forward to being near loved ones again, but I can’t help feeling deeply disappointed and frustrated.
I know we’re not the only ones in this position. And I know that many of you reading this don’t have the option to simply leave. That’s why I’m sharing this story, not to dwell in anger, but to encourage others to speak out and ensure we don’t forget what’s happened when we next go to the polls.
As I write this, my daughter is running around the house acting out her latest obsession - Frozen. I’ve heard “Let It Go” at least 40 times today. And I can already hear some of you wanting to tell me to just let it go. Go home. Be happy. Move on.
But I can’t just let it go. That’s not who I am. If anything, I’m angrier than I’ve ever been and that anger is fueling a stubborn kind of hope and determination to fight for every inch. My family was driven out of the Ukraine by the Soviet Union (and Nazi Germany on the other side) shortly before the Second World War and came to Canada seeking a better life. The only difference is that they were able to make a good life where they landed. We were forced to return to the place we came from. Cycles repeat (though we are fortunate to be in a position where we are not persecuted for who we are) - it's time to break that cycle.
I came to Aotearoa because I believed it would be easier to live according to my values. I came to grow as a person. More importantly, I came to be there for the people who believed in me - my family and Te Tira Whakamātaki. All of that happened. But now I’m being forced to leave, not because of failure or lack of effort, but because of money and political decisions made without care for people like us.
This coalition government has put Aotearoa on the same path I watched Saskatchewan walk for years. One where money comes first, and people come second. It’s a path I already fled once. And now I’m being forced back into it.
My dream has collapsed. And my hope is flickering. Because I know the fight ahead - back in Canada - will be even harder.
(Nerd alert) But I take strength from Samwise Gamgee’s reminder about the tales that really mattered. The ones full of darkness and danger, where folk had every reason to turn back, but didn’t. Because they were holding on to hope. Hope that there is still some good in the world, and that it’s worth fighting for (gives me tingles, every time).
Please don’t let this government’s actions go unaccounted for. Don’t let it go. If you take anything from my story, let it be this:
Make your voice heard. Stand up for your children, your neighbours, and for the soul of this country.
Make this a one-term government.
Send a message to anyone who wants to dismantle the Aotearoa you love: Never again.
Send them back to the shadows where they belong.
My story is just one among many. Now it's your turn. Speak up. Show up. Vote. Because the next chapter of this country’s story is being written - and it needs all of us.
Taking a break, enjoying everything.