A Different Kind of Power: A Memoir

“In the next photo, Dad’s soaked, clearly still recovering after the shock of one of his many plunges. Around him, people are laughing. My mother is not in the frame, but I know she was right there, just out of view of the camera, smiling at Dad, with a dry towel and spare set of clothes.”

The photograph that Ardern describes in this quote (of her father volunteering for the dunk tank at a community event) is among the other significant photos in an insert later in the book. The detailed description ensures that the image is familiar and recognizable to readers, contextualizing it and ensuring its effectiveness as a record and representation of this period in Ardern’s life. This scene represents her parents’ respective characters and roles in the family and community. Her father willingly puts himself in uncomfortable situations to do his work effectively and compassionately, building bonds with the people around him and integrating into the community. Her mother stands on the sidelines, offering care and unwavering support.

“I thought about fairness, and the way circumstances can push a community into difficulty—and the way the people in that community still managed to hang on to their mana, their dignity. I thought about my parents—about my dad, doing his best to help more than he hurt, and about my mum, doing her best too. And I knew: The answer was Murupara.

I became political because I lived in Murupara.”

Ardern summarizes the significance of her early childhood experiences in the development of her personal and political philosophies, tying the early chapters of the book to her later career path. Her use of the te reo Māori word mana reveals how important the Māori culture is to Ardern, to the people of the town, and in the wider New Zealand society.

“My mind started reeling, searching for an answer to her question. If there is a God, how could he? […]

I had always been taught that everything that happened was a part of God’s plan. If there was a question you couldn’t answer with your faith, then you just weren’t meant to understand it. And that simple view had sufficed. Until now.

I still believe in you, God, I remember thinking. But I do not understand this.

I will never understand this.”

Ardern repeats the rhetorical question that Fiona’s mother posed, showing her own uncertainty and lack of answers. Her early spiritual doubts and her use of the negative present tense, “I will never understand this,” here foreshadow her later decision to leave the church. She addresses God directly, laying culpability for Theo’s death by suicide on God, and showing how a personal relationship with God does not necessarily result in satisfaction or comfort in the face of grief. The jarring, short sentences and sense of rupture with the past indicated by the use of past perfect tense in “had always” and “had sufficed” reflect the magnitude of the tragedy and its impact on Ardern’s faith.

“I love election day. I love seeing the culmination of so many people’s hard work. I love seeing the people who come to work for the Electoral Commission this one time every three years, who take the role of supporting people to vote seriously. I love seeing the election monitors sitting there with their rosettes on from all the different parties, volunteering their time just to make sure that everything’s running smoothly.

I love knowing that people of all ages, from all over New Zealand, and from all walks of life will be doing one thing, all within a few hours of one another.”

Anaphora—the repetition of the opening part of a phrase (in this case, “I love”) across multiple sentences—emphasizes Ardern’s positive feelings toward election day. She opens with a broad statement, “I love election day,” and then elaborates by listing individual aspects of election day that she appreciates. The specific details paint a vivid picture of election day, while Ardern’s focus on the collective effort of everyone involved conveys a sense of community and unity.

“At the time, I didn’t stop to wonder what would happen if there was ever a platform big enough to unite individually distressed callers. A place where everyone who believed in a ‘list’ could come together and reinforce their beliefs with one another. Or, heaven forbid, if someone came along and manipulated those people, played on their distress for their own gain. I just thought of the one person on the other end of the phone whom I couldn’t help and felt incredibly sad.”

Ardern comments on her first experience of conspiracy theorists with the wisdom of hindsight, alluding to future developments through the lens of her past ignorance. This creates an ominous mood and a sense of dramatic irony for readers who are aware of current events involving the large-scale mobilization of conspiracy theorists in the online sphere. Conspiracy theories in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic feature prominently in Chapter 28, so this quote is an example of foreshadowing. It also hints at the theme of Social Issues That Threaten Collective Well-Being.

“Perhaps I finally had a reason to be there, beneath a blazing sun. Perhaps I was there to listen. To watch. Observe. I didn’t know why. I wouldn’t know for a long time. I just had a sense: The world had changed, and it was important to pay attention.”

Ardern uses repetition of the word “perhaps” and synonyms “to watch” and “observe” to give her words greater impact in this quote. She also uses short sentences to similar effect, showing how her observations and developing understanding of the situation culminated in a resolution and outlook that persisted throughout the duration of her stay.

“But maybe it’s not like that for everyone. Maybe the decision unfolds in such tiny increments it never quite feels like a decision at all. Maybe you even say no at first. Maybe you say no more than once. You can say no as many times as you want. Sometimes it happens anyway. At least that’s how it happened for me.”

Ardern uses the second-person “you” in this quote to transform her personal journey into a hypothetically universal experience that connects her directly to readers. The use of short sentences reflects the “tiny increments” by which she advanced into a political career. She uses anaphora (repetition of the word “maybe” at the beginning of multiple sentences) as well as repetition of the word “no” to reflect her repeated refusals. The passive constructions “it happens” and “it happened” show Ardern’s perceived lack of agency in the process.

“While the debating chamber might be stately, it can also feel like a fighting ring. First, there’s its tiered seating and horseshoe configuration: government MPs on one side, and opposition on the other, members of the public looking down from the viewing area above, like spectators at the gladiatorial games. And that’s exactly how it can feel during the blood sport of question time.”

Metaphorical comparisons describe the experience of participating in the debating chamber as akin to a “blood sport,” emphasizing both the violence of the MPs’ rhetoric and Ardern’s vulnerability. The similes “like a fighting ring” and “like spectators at the gladiatorial game” convey the aggressive and combative nature of debates. This subverts expectations that politics would be a civilized and dignified profession, matching the “stately” chamber, showing how out of place and uncomfortable Ardern was with political culture.

“I leaned over the Perspex bassinet and looked at Isabella’s tiny pixie ears. They looked just like my sister’s. Unlike Louise’s, her eyes were dark, as was the hair that covered her delicate head. I felt instantly connected to this little human. As if somehow she were a part of me. […]

I studied Isabella’s small face and fine features, and I wondered: Would this be the only child I would ever have a chance to feel that way about?”

Ardern provides a detailed physical description of her new niece, conveying her wonder and awe at the new addition to her family. Words like “tiny,” “small,” and “delicate” emphasize the child’s fragility and Ardern’s protective, tender instincts. The comparison between Isabella’s features and those of Louise shows the immediate “connection” between Ardern and her niece, which is reinforced by Ardern’s emotive and figurative sense that the baby was “a part of [her].” Ardern’s plaintive rhetorical question at the end of this quote reflects her uncertainty about her own future, as well as her yearning to experience motherhood firsthand. This bittersweet mood invites readers to share in Ardern’s personal experiences and become invested in her private struggles.

“It’s like the band I managed at university has come back to haunt me,’ he said. […]

‘What band was that?’ I asked.

He rubbed his forehead, placed his glasses back on his nose, and began to laugh.

‘The band was called Too Many Daves.’”

In recounting Grant’s humorous response, Ardern lightens the mood of an otherwise depressing moment of defeat. This dialogue provides insight into the close relationship between Grant and Ardern, while highlighting the resilience of Grant’s character. She reveals that Grant is likable and witty, responding to setbacks with wry, endearing humor.

“[A] persistent refrain began to pop up about me. It came from commentators mostly, intentional barbs in articles or opinion pieces. What has she done? They said I had made ‘no important contribution in [my] portfolio work’ and that ‘pretty faces get you only so far.’ I was called vapid, vacant, even ‘pretty bloody stupid.’ The criticism was so common that sometimes I found the words echoing in my own head. What had I done?”

Ardern’s use of direct quotes here provides unfiltered and unvarnished insight into the harshness of the criticism leveled against her. The injustice of these comments is evident because the insults follow many chapters detailing Ardern’s work and examples proving her intelligence and diligence. The repetition of the rhetorical question from the critics’ perspective (“What has she done?”), followed by Ardern’s own perspective (“What had I done?”), shows her vulnerability, the imposter syndrome that she struggled with throughout her life, and the fact that she internalized the criticism. In addition, it invites readers to recall and evaluate the contributions that Ardern had been making.

“When you became leader, you finished your Instagram post with three words: LET’S DO THIS.’

Let’s do this. I liked it. The slogan stood on its own, but could also help highlight specific positions:

Better health care. Let’s do this.

Free education. Let’s do this.

More homes. Let’s do this.

Clean rivers. Let’s do this.”

The fact that Ardern’s campaign slogan was sourced from her social media shows her significant personal contribution to all aspects of the campaign. The phrase “let’s do this” is short and punchy, a simple declarative statement in monosyllabic words with the implied first-person collective pronoun “us” (in “let’s,” “let us”), creating a sense of togetherness and community. The slogan’s repetition in conjunction with simple campaign goals is effective and memorable. This quote illustrates the effectiveness of Ardern’s campaign, lending credibility to her leadership and justifying her explosive popularity and meteoric rise in the polls.

“Jacinda,’ the woman said. ‘I just wanted to tell you that there are a lot of people in Morrinsville who are praying for you.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s so kind.’

She took my two hands in hers, pressed them tight. ‘They’re not voting for you,’ she clarified, ‘but they are praying for you.’”

The lines “[t]hey’re not voting for you” and “they are praying for you” are examples of antithesis and symploce: The interlocutor repeats the opening and closing words in both phrases, but with contrasting actions: “praying” versus “not voting.” This blunt juxtaposition creates a comical effect and shows how people extend kindness even when political affiliations don’t align. The incursion of political discussion into the private sphere of the funeral reflects Ardern’s difficulty separating her personal and professional life. Thus, Ardern lightens the otherwise somber mood of this passage through humor and redirects the topic of the narrative back onto her political challenges.

“New Zealand’s reputation abroad is a source of tremendous pride for the country. When people talk about us on the world stage, they use phrases like ‘punching above our weight’—an attempt to capture that while we’re small in numbers, we have never shied away from being forthright on issues. Two days after Hitler invaded Poland, we were among the first four countries to declare war on Germany. Since then, we had opposed nuclear testing, apartheid, and the Iraq War. We were the first country in the world in which women had the right to vote. We had spoken out on behalf of human rights, labour laws, and the benefits of fair trade.”

Ardern lists examples of New Zealand’s historical actions and milestones as evidence of the country’s significance on the international stage. Her use of the inclusive first-person pronoun “we” shows the collective responsibility and pride of the country’s citizens for the actions of the government. This passage contextualizes Ardern’s leadership within the nation’s history of the nation, emphasizing the prestige of her position and the weight of the corresponding responsibilities. Ardern’s pride in her nation is evident as she highlights humanitarian decisions and acts, which reflect her own political ideals.

“It was a formal affair, completely devoid of small talk. At the conclusion of the meeting, we stood side by side in front of our flags, arms outstretched for the usual leader photo. That was when he leaned in and whispered to me, ‘I am sorry about Paddles.’ He was referring to the ginger-haired cat Clarke and I had adopted from a shelter that was hit by a car and killed outside our home a few days after I became prime minister. It was a rare personal moment in a flurry of formality that genuinely moved me.”

Ardern juxtaposes the “personal moment” shared between herself and the Japanese leader Shinzo Abe with the professionalism and “formality” of the event as a whole. The interaction is a touching moment of pathos that humanizes both leaders, setting the stage for Ardern’s criticism (in Chapter 29) of the public’s tendency to forget that politicians are human first. The interaction has a bittersweet tone, given that Abe himself was assassinated before the publication of A Different Kind of Power.

“Not long after I’d made my announcement, I was at an event, speaking with a woman who’d had a long and impressive career in the corporate sector. While we were talking, I’d forgotten some small fact. It was something minor—a word, or a name, perhaps—and I’d laughed off my memory lapse. ‘Baby brain,’ I said.

She hadn’t laughed. ‘You cannot say that.’ Her eyes were serious, her voice earnest and firm. ‘You absolutely cannot say that.’ She was warning me: If you give your opponents any opening whatsoever, they will use your pregnancy to say that you—or any woman—shouldn’t be given a position of authority. I knew this, but suddenly I was reminded how easy such a lapse could be.”

This quote highlights the sexism that Ardern faced as a woman in a position of political power. She was held to an unfair standard by “opponents” who used any flaw in her as an excuse to discriminate against all expectant mothers, as well as by those who supported her but were aware of the potential fallout of any failings on her part. The warning was both an act of solidarity between women (cautioning Ardern to protect her from the fallout of repeating such a gaffe) and a reinforcement of the unjust expectations and scrutiny placed on her. The repetition of the imperative phrase “you cannot say that” emphasizes the importance of this interaction.

“On Friday, 15 March, 2019, I woke up thinking about hydrogen.”

This apparent non-sequitur is both jarring and ominous to readers familiar with the Christchurch shootings. Ardern opens with the precise date of the attacks, which is notorious due to their publicity and impact, creating drama and building tension. Her obliviousness to the impending crisis is evident through her preoccupation with the completely unrelated matter of “hydrogen,” emphasizing how unanticipated and unprecedented the attack was. Establishing a background of normalcy throws the sudden attack into sharp contrast, adding to the shock and impact of Ardern’s account.

“Even now, when I see this picture, when I think of the moments before the camera recorded this image, I do not see myself. I see a good and gentle soul who’d been broken by horror and somehow still managed to lead with his heart. The image was a lesson in leadership, that’s true. But it was Imam Lareef, not me, who gave it.”

This quote creates a somber mood that inspires pathos and empathy for those whom the Christchurch attack targeted. The Imam’s resilience and humanity in the face of “horror” emphasize the human suffering that the attack caused, encouraging a sympathetic emotional response in readers. Ardern’s reinterpretation of the famous photograph of herself shows humility and redirects the focus of the narrative back onto those targeted in the tragedy. Her admiration for Imam Lareef emphasizes the theme of Vulnerability and Compassion as Leadership Qualities.

“When I’m asked about COVID, people sometimes want to skip to the end. They’ll ask, What did you learn? Or, What would you do differently? Or, if they’re being more direct, What do you regret? And that’s understandable. It was a tough ordeal for everyone, a complete upending of our experience of the world. So I can see why someone would want to cut to the part where it’s all over, where it can be summed up simply, with satisfying hindsight. But I can’t tell you what COVID taught me, or the things I still think about, without first showing you what it’s like on the inside of a pandemic.”

This quote provides meta-commentary on Ardern’s choice to cover the potentially triggering or uncomfortable topic of the pandemic in depth, and from a direct rather than retrospective perspective. She contrasts the book’s treatment of the topic with the focus of previous discussions, highlighting the unique selling point (USP) of her political memoir in providing a hitherto unexplored, firsthand look at the government’s response to the crisis.

“In the final hours, protesters set fire to the Parliament playground—a cheerful place where Wellington toddlers and schoolchildren played most days. Dark smoke plumes billowed through pohutukawa trees and Norfolk Island pines that had stood for more than a hundred years. Gardens that commemorated our suffrage movement with white camellias were trampled. Bricks uprooted from the ground and turned into missiles.”

Ardern describes the destruction wrought by the protestors in detail, creating a vivid sensory impression of the senseless harm they caused to their surroundings. This not only portrays them in an unsympathetic light but also shows the negative impacts of lashing out unproductively. Ardern equates the political institutions they sought to undermine with the trees, flowers, and public infrastructure that they wantonly damaged, forcing readers to acknowledge the long history and positive functions of the political establishment to the community it serves.

“Neve nodded along earnestly, satisfied with that answer, not realizing that her simple question, Why do you have to work so much? had got to the heart of my dilemma, and that of parents everywhere. Our children are the most important thing to us, our greatest priority. But the simplest measure of that love and care was time. I had done everything to demonstrate my love by every other measure: affection, comfort, patience, my endless striving to be present.

But time kept betraying me.”

Ardern quotes her daughter directly, showing the lasting impact of Neve’s inquiry on Ardern’s thoughts and perspective. By continuing to ruminate on her daughter’s incisive question (and the “dilemma” it represents) even after providing an answer, Ardern turns it into a rhetorical question. Neve’s satisfaction with Ardern’s answer juxtaposes her own internal turmoil, showing the difference in perspective between adult and child. Ardern’s guilt is clear, and through the use of the first-person inclusive plural pronouns “our” and “us,” she generalizes her experience to represent a conflict that is universal in nature if not in specifics. Her personification of “time” as an active force, “betraying” her, communicates her feeling of powerlessness. The difficulty of maintaining work-life balance is central to Ardern’s treatment of the theme of Duty and Moral Responsibility in Private Life and Public Office.

“I’m sorry, I imagined asking through the door, would you mind being more specific? It’s just that ‘you ruined the country’ is quite a broad statement given that there are near infinite ways to ruin a nation. Do you mean ruined the economy, or the health system? I’m sure I have any number of retorts, but first I need to know, what exactly do you mean? Instead, I dried my hands and walked out.”

Ardern’s account of this one confrontation is an opportunity to respond en masse to the many similar criticisms that she faced during this period. The imagined speech stemming from her ironic and exaggerated politeness contains humor, but the tone of her questions also voices frustration and exasperation with the vague yet damning nature of the accusations.

“In fact, all of the traits that you believe are your flaws will come to be your strengths. The things you thought would cripple you will in fact make you stronger, make you better. They will give you a different kind of power, and make you a leader that this world, with all its turmoil, might just need.

That is what I would tell her.

And I suppose in sharing my story, that’s what I’m telling you.”

Ardern directly addresses readers, her younger self, and the younger generation of potential politicians represented by the schoolgirl in her previous anecdote. Her repeated use of the first-person pronoun “you” and a direct, confidential tone increases the power and effectiveness of her advice. As she expounds on her ongoing argument about the importance of kindness and summarizes the theme of Vulnerability and Compassion as Leadership Qualities, her encouraging tone and focus on success and the future create a hopeful, optimistic mood.