Today I write as one who remembers, not as an agitator, nor as one reopening wounds for sport, but as a witness to a season that reshaped trust, fractured relationships, and revealed how fragile freedom can become when fear is handed the microphone. Today’s words are not born of outrage, but of remembrance.

Lest we forget what was said, what was done, and how it was lived on the ground. Many remember the pressure, the fear, and the consequences that followed policies framed as choice, yet enforced through loss of livelihood and exclusion from everyday life.

We were told there was choice. For many, that choice arrived dressed as consequence. Work, education, movement, dignity, and community were quietly tethered to compliance. What was spoken from podiums often sounded very different when it landed in kitchens, workplaces, and weary hearts.

I remember the language that was used, calm and clinical, insisting on choice, while lives were quietly cornered by consequences.

I remember the pressure, and how quickly neighbours became suspects.

I remember the trauma of those excluded from family gatherings, churches, and society itself, based on what many experienced as medical apartheid.

I remember the silence that followed when questions were asked, how questions were treated as threats, and how conscience was dismissed as inconvenience.

I remember the heaviness in the air, the unspoken fear of saying the wrong thing, the cost of standing still when the current demanded compliance.

When leaders such as Jacinda Adern and Chris Hipkins spoke of freedom, many were already counting the cost of keeping their convictions, their health concerns, or their right to pause and discern.  Memory refuses to soften what was lived.

What grieves me most is not only what was done, but what still refuses to be named. In spite of the growing body of international data, testimonies, and unresolved questions around harm and long-term effects, the New Zealand Ministry of Health continues to repeat the same refrain, safe and effective, with little public reckoning for those who were injured, marginalised, or coerced. To many, this feels less like reassurance and more like messaging that refuses to engage honestly with reality.

The narrative has scarcely shifted. The words safe and effective continue to be repeated, even as trust has fractured and wounds remain unattended.

Trust, once broken, cannot be commanded. It must be earned again, slowly, truthfully, and with courage. It is rebuilt through humility, listening, and repentance where needed. Trust cannot survive denial. It grows when leaders are willing to look back honestly, to listen without defensiveness, and to acknowledge harm without minimising it.

History shows that when power goes unchecked, it rarely hesitates to repeat itself. Even now, despite widespread public debate, unanswered questions, and the lived experiences of many who feel harmed or dismissed, health authorities continue to present these interventions as unquestionably “safe and effective”.

When institutions prioritise narrative over nuance, people stop listening. When questions are met with propaganda rather than humility, confidence collapses. Authority then wonders why trust has eroded, while refusing to examine the trail of unanswered pain left behind.

When concerns are labelled as disinformation instead of being engaged with thoughtfully, confidence in the medical establishment erodes further. Surprise follows when people withdraw their trust, yet the warning signs were present all along.

Trust is not rebuilt through slogans. It is restored through transparency, humility, and a willingness to listen to voices that do not fit the approved narrative. That insistence, repeated without space for honest dialogue or accountability, feels less like reassurance and more like propaganda to those who paid a personal cost.

I sense, with sadness, that given the same conditions, little would change. This is why memory matters. Forgetting makes repetition easy. Remembering becomes an act of resistance, and sometimes an act of love, for future generations who deserve better stewardship than fear-driven policy and carefully managed narratives.

I hold to this promise not with vengeance in my heart, but with hope. Truth has a way of rising, even when buried beneath polished statements and institutional certainty. Accountability is not cruelty. It is care for the future.

So I write this here, in my journal, as a marker in time. Not to harden my heart, but to keep it awake. Not to cling to anger, but to anchor myself in truth. Silence is no longer an option, and memory is not a weakness. It is a witness.

Lest we forget.

Lest we forget, because forgetting makes repetition easy.

Lest we forget, because memory protects the vulnerable.

Lest we forget, because my conscience demands it.

Lest we forget. Memory matters, and accountability is long overdue.

May we become a people who learn, who listen, and who choose courage over comfort when history tests us again.

💡Reflection Prompts:

Take a quiet moment and consider:

• Where did I feel pressured to silence my conscience, and what did that cost me internally? 🤔

• What experiences or questions have I buried because they felt unsafe to voice at the time?🤔

• In what ways has distrust taken root in my heart, and where might God be inviting honest lament rather than suppression? 🤔

• How can remembrance become a form of wise discernment rather than bitterness?🤔

• Where have I been tempted to forget in order to feel safe, and where is God inviting me to remember with courage?🤔

Write freely, without editing yourself. Let truth surface gently, trusting that God already knows what you carry.

🙌Prayer

Father God,

You are the God of truth, light, and remembrance. Nothing is hidden from You, and nothing we have endured has been unseen. I bring before You the memories that still ache, the questions that remain unanswered, and the trust that has been fractured along the way.

Search my heart and keep it tender. Guard me from hardness, cynicism, and despair, yet do not allow me to forget what must be remembered. Teach me how to hold truth with humility, courage, and grace.

Where harm has been done, I ask for justice shaped by Your righteousness. Where fear ruled decisions, I ask for repentance and wisdom. Where silence has lingered, raise up voices anchored in love and truth.

Help me to remember rightly, to speak wisely, and to entrust the outcomes to You.

I place this history, and my own heart within it, into Your faithful hands.

In Jesus Name, Amen.