What Kāhui Ako Taught Us: The kōrero our sector deserved from the government

by Rebecca Thomas

We’ve spent more than a decade living alongside Kāhui Ako—arguing over their function, dissecting their structure, and wrestling with their outcomes. Now, as their formal disestablishment looms and $118 million prepares to move elsewhere, the education sector finds itself not so much divided as quietly reflective—considering what was gained, what was missed, and what must not be lost.

What’s harder to understand is how we’ve come to this moment.

Instead of a thoughtful, transparent conversation with the profession, we were met with a leak—news that spread quickly, causing uncertainty and leaving those involved in the mahi to piece together meaning from headlines. For an initiative that received a decade of public investment, professional commitment, and community energy, surely a more restorative, mana-honouring process was deserved.

Disestablishing something of this scale—whether you believe it was working or not—requires an exit strategy. One that holds space for what was built. One that acknowledges the thousands of hours, the trust, and the relationships formed. Most of all, one that prepares teachers, leaders, and students for the removal of the funding and resources that shaped their learning environment.

We can’t undo what’s been leaked. But we can control what happens next.

For some, it feels like a necessary reset. For others, it marks the quiet erosion of something that was only just beginning to grow.

But wherever you stand—whether you believe Kāhui Ako transformed practice or merely tangled it in bureaucracy—what can’t be denied is this: for over 10 years, something happened.

People connected. Teachers shared. Schools opened their doors.

We crossed boundaries in ways we hadn’t before.

To say nothing worked would be to overlook the richness that grew in between the metrics.

In some Kāhui Ako, shared waiata became tradition. In others, it was sports exchanges, whānau hui, co-designed PLD, or simply the ability to call a principal down the road and know they’d pick up. For many of us, it was the first time we truly lived out the idea that these weren’t my kids or your kids—they were our kids.

And now, as the structures begin to fall away, the question is not what worked, but what we choose to carry forward.

Holding to the Kaupapa

For my own Community of Learning, I hold hope.

Hope that the aspirations we formed together—strengthening support for our tamariki, centring iwi education plans, aligning RTLB mahi with local needs—remain guiding lights even as the formal architecture disappears. That the belief in collective care continues, not because it’s funded, but because it’s right.

We may need to be brave and creative now. Roles might need to flex. Leadership might become more distributed. But if we are willing, the thread that held us together can still run strong.

While I don’t yet know when the formal announcement will come, the way the initial ‘leak’ was shared with the sector makes it clear—this change is coming. We are better to front-foot the conversation now than be caught reacting later. Preparing early means the fallout doesn’t have to be abrupt.

Because once new roles are confirmed, responsibilities reallocated, and the machinery begins to shift, it may no longer feel safe—or even possible—for the deeper, more honest conversations to take place. By speaking now, while things are still fluid, we allow ourselves to reflect with integrity, not just compliance.

Whatever you do—don’t wait. Begin the kōrero now.

Talk with your staff, your boards, your local networks. Reflect together. Prepare for what’s coming so that when the hammer drops, the things that once mattered don’t stop mattering. Let those sports events, cross-school PLD, and shared practice conversations continue—not because they’re supposed to be on a report somewhere, but because they built connection.

What Happens Next

When the funding stops and the job titles dissolve, we’ll all face a decision. Let collaboration fade—or prove it was never just about money.

Here are some ways schools might move forward:

• Continue as informal networks: No lead roles, no reports—just committed schools meeting termly to reflect, plan, and share.

• Pool PLD days: Align calendars and host shared learning days. Tap into the wisdom within our own schools.

• Joint leadership hui: Regular gatherings for principals, RTLBs, SENCOs, and middle leaders to map challenges and share strategy.

• Maintain cross-school events: Keep those student sport days, festivals, and cultural exchanges going. They matter.

• Honour iwi voices: Stay aligned to iwi education plans. Continue to centre mana whenua guidance even when the framework disappears.

• Share your own narrative: Don’t let others tell your story. Document your journey. Prove through action that collaboration works.

Every step we take together from here is a conscious decision against isolation and scarcity.

It’s a decision for shared strength.

Kotahi te kōhao o te ngira e kuhuna ai te miro mā, te miro pango, te miro whero.

There is but one eye of the needle through which the white, black, and red threads must pass.

Different people. Different roles. Different histories. But when woven together with care, we become something whole. Something enduring.

Let us be those threads—distinct, but connected. Stronger for our diversity. Woven by intent, not by accident.

Let us not return to competition, or the silos we once knew. Let us continue to stand for each other and for our children, not just our own.

We are stronger together.

And that, above all else, must remain.