I was a features writer for Critic in 2016. I wrote about all manner of topics: one week I traced the strange and unsettling history of beauty practices, the next I unpacked the guilty pleasures of schadenfreude. I threw myself into investigating the chaotic world of roller derby — quite literally — I broke my wrist 10 minutes into my first session on the rink.
But Critic gave just as much back to me. I was at the time studying creative nonfiction under the tutelage of Prof Paul Tankard; Critic gave me the opportunity to experiment with the form. As a features writer, I tried to blend research with narrative flair, I sharpened my persuasive techniques, I began to understand writing not just as expression, but as craft.
Readers of the Otago Daily Times will need no introduction to Critic Te Ārohi — it’s been cluttering the same Dunedin coffee tables, lecture halls and flat floors for decades. The official magazine of the Otago University Students’ Association (OUSA), Critic was founded in 1925 and holds the distinction of being New Zealand’s longest-running student newspaper. I may be biased, but in my honest opinion, Critic is brilliant. It’s funny, provocative and insightful, with a dedicated record of breaking important stories, such as an expose in 2019 on the culture of misogyny in Knox College that normalised sexual misconduct against female students, or its 2023 series on hazing in Dunedin’s student communities.
Critic has long been recognised as one of New Zealand’s leading student publications, consistently dominating the Aotearoa Student Press Association awards with multiple ‘‘Best Publication’’ titles and a sweep of major category wins. Judges have repeatedly praised it as an ‘‘outstanding’’ magazine distinguished by its originality, high-quality journalism, and a clear, compelling editorial voice.
Obviously it gets things wrong at times — in 2005, Critic published a satirical ‘‘how-to’’ guide on drug rape, and in 2010, the magazine again faced criticism for an article which portrayed homeless individuals in a particularly insensitive manner.
My own editor, Hugh Baird, penned a rather short-sighted editorial in 2016 defending the gender pay gap in sports — an argument for which he was, quite deservedly, taken to task. But it would be difficult to name any publication that has not, at times, misjudged its editorial boundaries. Critic’s editors have never hesitated to acknowledge their missteps, and the publication has demonstrably evolved in response to its past controversies. It continues to be unapologetically sharp, observant and perceptive.
Recently however, owner and publisher OUSA made the inexplicable decision to shrink Critic. As of two weeks ago, the magazine now alternates between 36-page and 16-page issues, down from its original 48-page weekly model. Justifying its decision as a response to rising printing costs across the organisation, OUSA has ensured that Critic’s budget has effectively stagnated rather than increased, forcing the publication to absorb these pressures through reduced output.
And yet OUSA’s overall spending has grown in other areas — administration, marketing, and events, for instance. I’m not ignorant of the pressures student associations face with constrained budgets and competing priorities.
But it’s clear to me that OUSA has woefully underestimated the value of Critic Te Ārohi to the student population; indeed, to the city as a whole.
Student journalism is fundamental to the health of any university community. Critic is a particularly salient example of this; in the very first editorial, Critic was envisioned as a publication where ‘‘criticism may be brought into the open’’, where ‘‘no word or deed’’ would ‘‘go unquestioned within the four walls of Otago University.’’
From its origin therefore Critic was conceived of as a mechanism for accountability, scrutinising both university decision-making and the student association that funds it. Over the past century Critic has helped to sustain student democracy; it has provided a forum for debate, satire, and dissent in an environment that purports to teach those very values.
To shrink Critic is to diminish a long-standing institution of accountability and expression.
There is also something uniquely special about reading journalism rooted in one’s own university community. I left Dunedin in 2017, but I still find myself returning to Critic online or thumbing through copies when I visit the city, chuckling at whatever the latest low-level scandal is erupting on campus and reminiscing about my time as a scarfie.
To quote former Critic editor Joel MacManus: ‘‘It helps freshers navigate the strange ecosystem of North Dunedin. It engages people in student politics, investigates campus controversies and celebrates the idiosyncrasies that give Otago its identity. One of the reasons Otago University developed such a strong student culture is because Critic fostered it.’’
Critic has helped to shape campus identity for over a century; it is part of the historical archive of the university itself. Students typically graduate every three or four years — the composition of life on campus is constantly changing, but Critic provides continuity. It is a record of past debates, previous policy decisions, patterns of governance, and student activism at the University of Otago.
It is so much more than a weekly paper.
Many of Aotearoa’s finest journalists, writers, academics, and public figures started in student media. Countless writers before me cut their teeth at Critic Te Ārohi. Student media provides burgeoning writers the first opportunity to publish, investigate, and develop editorial judgement. Shrinking Critic not only restricts students’ access to diverse stories and opinions, but also limits opportunities for young artists, writers, and editors to express themselves and gain real-world experience.
As Joel says: ‘‘A smaller Critic means less content. Fewer investigations, features, and entertaining columns. Readership will decline. It will have less appeal for new writers. Its quality, influence and impact will gradually wane until it falls into irrelevancy.’’
You see, this is how student journalism wastes away — death by a thousand careful, ‘‘justifiable’’ cuts. One week it’s a 48-page institution, the next it’s Critic Lite*, until it’s a monthly pamphlet with barely a hint of long-form journalism. Each budget cut is truly modest, each saving wholly defensible, until the sum total is a publication so thin it might as well not exist.
And so, I urge OUSA to reconsider its funding decisions and restore Critic to its former glory. Student journalism matters. Critic Te Ārohi has survived protests, scandals and generations of student editors. What a tragedy it would be if what finally diminished Critic wasn’t controversy or irrelevance, but a budgeting decision.
- Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
