Lately, in that strange murmur that passes for political news in Aotearoa New Zealand, there’s been talk—suggestions, really—that submissions to Parliament’s Select Committees are being churned out by bots. Not all of them, of course. Just enough to make headlines, raise eyebrows, and trigger the familiar nods of knowing cynicism. You know the tone: democracy has gone digital, and now the bots are coming for it too.

It would be easy to dismiss as a glitch, a harmless rumour. But the way it has been casually floated without any hard evidence, feels off. Not just careless, but dangerous. Because it does not just cast doubt on a few wayward lines of code; it casts doubt on everyone who takes the time to write in, to say their piece, to speak up. And that is a problem.

Making a submission to a Select Committee is not exactly glamorous. There is no red carpet, no retweets. Just you, your keyboard or pen, and a faint hope that someone in the halls of power might read what you have written and think, fair enough. But it is one of the few ways a citizen, a whānau, a neighbourhood group can tap Parliament on the shoulder and say: Hey. We are here. We care. This matters.

So when someone hints that these words might be coming from bots or worse, from some nameless, faceless machine designed to game the system, they are not just talking tech. They are waving away real voices. Mostly quiet ones. Often brown, elderly, regional, migrant, precarious. The kinds of voices that do not show up on polling day but show up in submissions; long-winded, typo-ridden, sometimes passionate, sometimes pleading.

And yet, instead of asking why these voices are showing up in such numbers, the talk turns to suspicion. Who sent them? Are they real? Shouldn’t we require a RealMe login next time? Maybe even biometric verification? It’s a slippery slope when your first instinct is to doubt the people instead of listening to them.

Look, if there is genuine evidence based on data, not just hunches then fine. Let us see it. Kiwis are big on that: put up or shut up. But vague mutterings about bots, dressed up as concern for “integrity,” serve only one purpose: to shrink the space where public input is welcome. And that is where the real risk lies-not in automation, but in alienation.

Sure, technology can help. A secure, identity-verified platform like RealMe could play a role, provided it does not become a barrier for those without easy access to broadband or bureaucratic know-how. But let’s not forget: for many people be it older adults or rural communities or the digitally shy, paper still feels like power. That matters.

Meanwhile, we are ignoring the more urgent questions. Why are so many people writing in about certain Bills? Why is there this hum of discontent rising from parts of the country that rarely make the 6 o’clock news? Could it be that people are worried about housing, health, the environment, identity? Could it be that they have had enough of being talked about and not to?

There is a Māori word—taonga. It means treasure. And that’s what this process is, or should be: a taonga of democracy. Not perfect, not always pretty, but precious all the same. Something to protect, not politicise.

So let us not trivialise public voice under the guise of digital hygiene. Let us make it easier, not harder, for people to be heard. Let us assume good intent until proven otherwise. And above all, let’s remember that civic life is not a show. It is a conversation. One that should remain open, messy, human.

Even if the handwriting is bad. Even if the grammar is off. Even if the submission is sent by someone who has never spoken to an MP in their life.

Because that, in the end, is democracy. And it is worth more than a headline.