Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian

In the grand narrative of global diplomacy, Lord Palmerston’s 1848 address to the British House of Commons remains the ultimate cold shower. “We have no eternal allies, and we have no perpetual enemies,” he declared. “Our interests are eternal and perpetual.”

It is the foundational scripture of Realpolitik. It is the moment statecraft stopped pretending to be about chivalry and admitted it was about survival. Yet, in the corridors of power in Suva, Honiara and Apia, this warning is often drowned out by the clinking of champagne glasses at diplomatic receptions. We mistake the warmth of an ambassador’s handshake for the warmth of a friend. We mistake the word “vuvale” (family) for an actual blood bond.

We are making a category error: viewing a corporate merger as if it were a partnership of friends.

Palmerston’s brilliance—and the nuance we so often ignore—was not that he advocated for betrayal. He advocated for predictability. Britain’s interests were clear: maintain the balance of power in Europe. Because those interests were clear, their actions were predictable. When Britain switched sides, it wasn’t a personal insult; it was a strategic necessity. Their “friends” knew the rules of the game.

This brings us to the Pasifika. We sit atop a vast ocean of strategic chokepoints, fisheries, and deep-sea minerals. Consequently, the world has come calling. Australia, China, the United States, the European Union, Japan, Indonesia, and New Zealand all bring gifts. They offer aid, infrastructure, security guarantees and diplomatic access.

It is flattering. It is seductive. And it is dangerous.

The danger lies in the belief that these nations are our “personal friends.” We see a High Commissioner who knows our children’s names, who attends our fundraisers, who speaks a few words of iTaukei or Fiji-Hindi and we think, “This one is different. This one cares.”

They do not care. They care about their interests. They are simply very good at their jobs.

Here is where the metaphor of the Mafia becomes unavoidable. In The Godfather Part II, Hyman Roth looks at Michael Corleone and says, “This is the business we’ve chosen.”

It is the purest distillation of power dynamics. In the Mafia, there are no friendships. There are only “arrangements.” A capo doesn’t hug you because he loves you; he hugs you to check if you are wearing a wire. A Don doesn’t share his bread because he wants you to eat; he shares it to create a debt.

When a superpower smiles at a Pasifika Island nation, it is not out of familial love. It is out of business. It is the business of influence.

We in Fiji, see the word vuvale used frequently by Australia to describe its relationship with Fiji. It is a beautiful word, loaded with the cultural weight of reciprocity, loyalty, and kinship. But when applied to geopolitics, it is a metaphor at best, and manipulation at worst. Australia’s “permanent interest” is a Pasifika that is free from hostile Chinese military presence. That is their right. It is their sovereign imperative.

Our “permanent interest” is the survival of our sovereignty, the health of our ocean, and the prosperity of our people.

These interests overlap, but they are not identical. When they diverge, the “family” will look after itself. If Australia or the US or China perceives that their security is under threat, they will not ask our permission to act. They will act. Because for them, it is not personal. It is strictly business.

The warning for Pasifika politicians, civil servants and our local elite is this: Stop confusing hospitality with alliance. When you are at a reception and a diplomat is being charming, they are not lying. They are just working. They are advancing their “eternal and perpetual” interests.

If Fiji or any Pasifika state finds itself in the crosshairs of a great power conflict, we will not be “family.” We will be a chessboard. The powerful donors who smile at us today have the capacity to enforce their will with crushing force tomorrow if their vital interests are at stake. That is not paranoia; it is the historical record.

The lesson we must learn is not to be bitter or isolationist. We need partners. But we must be sober.

We must adopt the mindset of the “Godfather” when looking at the “Partner.” We must ask:

1. What do they want? (Interest)
2. What are they willing to pay to get it? (Leverage)
3. What happens to us if they don’t get it? (Risk)

If we govern with the assumption that we are dealing with sentimental friends, we will be exploited. If we govern with the assumption that we are dealing with rational, self-interested states, we can negotiate with power.

It is all business. Nothing personal. The sooner our politicians and civil servants understand that the “family” is only family until the rent is due, the better equipped we will be to protect our own home.

There are moments in public life when a single sentence exposes more than a thousand-page report ever could. We witnessed one such moment this week, when Deputy Prime Minister and Minister for Tourism Viliame Gavoka stood in Parliament and, while defending Fiji Airways’ decision to slash catering costs, dropped a remark that should offend every Fijian who has ever paid good money for a plane ticket.

According to reports, Gavoka said most complaints about Fiji Airways’ food came from local travellers—and that tourists generally accepted the changes as part of the current operating environment for international airlines.

Let us pause and let that sink in.

The message is unmistakable: If the tourists aren’t complaining, why should we care what Fijians think? If our visitors—who spend at most a week or two here before departing—are satisfied with a dry bun and a cold sandwich, then surely we, who live here, who pay taxes here, who fly these routes year after year, should just quietly accept our lot.

Opposition MP Premila Kumar was right to question whether ordinary Fijians were effectively subsidising lower fares offered to overseas tourists. She highlighted that a return ticket from Nadi to Sydney is not cheap, and that for that kind of money, Fijians deserve more than a sandwich that would embarrass a school canteen.

But the deeper issue is not food. It is respect.

Gavoka’s defence of the airline’s cost-cutting—prioritising flight capacity over catering—is a legitimate operational argument. What is not legitimate is the casual dismissal of local voices. The implication that complaints from Fijians matter less because tourists—predominantly white, predominantly from wealthier nations—are supposedly fine with the status quo reeks of a colonial mindset in reverse. 

It is the same thinking that tells us: Don’t rock the boat. The visitors are happy. Who are you to complain? The colonial mindset that continues to hold us back.

Yet here is the uncomfortable truth Mr. Gavoka and your Government: the money tourists spend is fleeting. A few thousand dollars for a holiday, then they are gone. But Fijians? We spend a lifetime in this economy. We pay taxes. We raise families. We fly these routes for funerals, for weddings, for medical emergencies. Our voice matters—not because we are louder, but because we are permanent.

This is not the first time this government has treated taxpayers as an afterthought. While we are asked to guarantee 6 million go up in smoke on a Commission of Inquiry that produced zero convictions, zero policy wins—only a High Court ruling that slapped it down for procedural illegality. And now, the Solicitor-General has reportedly been instructed to appeal that decision, yet another costly exercise with zero guaranteed returns.

Gavoka may not have intended to insult us taxpayers and voters. But when a leader stands in Parliament and essentially says, “The complaints are mostly from locals, so we’re not too worried,” he is telling us exactly where we rank in his hierarchy of concern.

We are not asking for first-class treatment. We are asking not to be treated as second-class citizens in our own country.

Our political leaders would do well to remember: tourists come and go. But we, the people, are here to stay. And we are watching.

In psychology, bipolarity describes a debilitating oscillation between extreme poles—a manic phase of frenetic, ungrounded activity and a depressive phase of withdrawal and despair. Transposed onto geopolitics, it captures a nation’s inability to reconcile its internal reality with its external projection. For Israel, this bipolarity is not a disorder; it is a carefully orchestrated statecraft, yet one that is morally devastating to those caught in the crossfire.

The “manic” pole is the raw, unvarnished reality of the occupation. It is the frenetic pulse of military operations in Gaza, the daily humiliation of checkpoints in the West Bank, the systematic demolition of Palestinian homes, and the institutionalized disregard for the civic rights of Arab citizens within Israel’s borders—compounded by the relentless bombardment of civilian infrastructure in South Lebanon and South Beirut. This is a state constantly at war, where the violence is impulsive, sustained, and undeniably asymmetrical. It is a policy of domination that operates with a frantic energy, stripping human dignity and international law away, in the name of existential security.

Yet, this manic reality exists alongside a tranquil, pristine “depressive” pole—the polished, victim-centric narrative presented to the world. In boardrooms in Washington and in pulpits across the Pasifika, Israel portrays itself as the sole beacon of democracy in the Levant and West Asia, a “start-up nation” overcoming the trauma of the Holocaust. The language is sanitized: occupation becomes “disputed territories,” military strikes become “precision operations,” and systemic inequality is dismissed as “security necessity.”

The enablers of this psychological split are the United States and a global network of Christian zealots—from the American Bible Belt to the Pasifika. In Pasifika island states, where Christianity is deeply woven into our national fabric, the theological scaffolding of Christian Zionism provides a potent justification for absolute support. For these global Evangelical communities, Israel’s political sovereignty is not a geopolitical question; it is a celestial prophecy. They grant a blanket moral immunity to the manic actions on the ground because they are captivated by the messianic narrative of the “chosen people.” This theological armada effectively renders the suffering of Palestinians irrelevant in the eyes of key global constituencies. The Israeli state, in turn, actively courts these remote nations, knowing that a vote of support from Suva or Apia, is not rooted in careful analysis of the two-state solution, but in an unwavering, scriptural loyalty that forgives all sins.

Yet Pope Leo XIV has cut through this polished theological spin with devastating precision: “It is a greater defeat to bless a war in the name of heaven than to lose the war itself. Do not use God as a shield for political interests.” By wrapping military dominance in prophetic certainty, these global enablers are not merely backing a foreign policy—they are engaging in a profound theological betrayal.

This bipolar strategy is a masterclass in global projection, but it is tearing the nation apart. By maintaining two utterly incompatible poles, Israel avoids the primary moral crisis of our time: how can a state claim to be a Western liberal democracy, while operating a system of profound civil and military inequality? The manic violence demands a response from the world but, the depressive spin sells so effectively to its powerbrokers that the international community continually looks away.

The cost of this polarity is truth. Eventually, cognitive dissonance collapses into fracture. The world is beginning to see through the split screen. You cannot have a Western liberal democracy that operates two systems for two peoples. Pope Leo XIV offers the theological antidote: “The Holy Land is not a trophy to be won, but a cradle to be shared.” And echoing this across the ecumenical divide, the General Secretary of the World Council of Churches, Reverend Dr. Jerry Pillay, has warned: “No theology of ‘chosenness’ can ever justify the collective punishment of a people. To weaponize prophecy for political domination is to desecrate the very Gospel we proclaim.”

The path forward requires a painful integration: a nation must choose one consistent reality. Either it must be a genuine, Western liberal democracy for everyone under its control, or it must drop the moralistic façade and accept the consequences of being a sustained, permanent occupier. The current state of manic brutality, polished by depressive piety, is a disservice to both Israelis and Palestinians—and, as the world’s leading Christian voices now remind us, a dangerous spiritual delusion for the global zealots who enable it.

Today, Parliament will once again roll out the red carpet for Fiji Airways. Under Section 145(1) of the Constitution and Standing Order 131, Minister for Finance Esrom Immanuel will move to guarantee an additional $200 million in borrowings for the national carrier—effective from 1 August 2026 to 30 June 2029.

The terms are eerily familiar: waive the guarantee fee, extend the coverage until full maturity, and ask taxpayers to foot the risk. But before our MPs raise their hands in approval, they owe it to the Fijian people to ask a simple question: What exactly did the last bailout achieve?

A Carbon Copy of 2021—But With a Hotel

Let’s rewind to October 2021. Parliament then—with the now-opposition bench occupying the government seats—was in a similar frenzy, approving increases to government-backed borrowing for an airline crippled by COVID-19. Back then, the local borrowing guarantee was hiked from $191.1 million to $241.1 million. At the time, these changes took the total government guarantee ceiling for Fiji Airways from $455 million to $561.4 million.

The 2021 deal came with the exact same sweeteners: an exemption from guarantee fees and a promise that the guarantees would stick around until the facilities were fully discharged.

Now, five years later, this coalition government—which was the opposition back then—is back with the exact same playbook, asking for another $200 million on top of that already swollen ceiling.

What changed? The pandemic is over. International travel has rebounded spectacularly. Fiji Airways reported record operating revenue of 25 million while simultaneously investing in a $250 million luxury hotel on Denarau.

The ATM Is Running on Empty

Frankly, we are exhausted. We are tired of being treated as the endless ATM of politicians and commercial interests. Just last Friday, we watched over $6 million—by some estimates—go up in smoke on a Commission of Inquiry that produced absolutely nothing. Zero convictions. Zero policy wins. Zero closure. Only a High Court ruling that slapped down the entire process for procedural illegality.

And now, barely a breath later, we are being asked to dig deeper into our already depleted pockets for an airline and a government, that seems to have a bottomless appetite for taxpayer credit.

The message from the people is clear: we have insufficient funds in the bank. Our roads are crumbling. Our hospitals are under-resourced. Our teachers are underpaid. Yet we keep finding millions for inquiries that go nowhere and guarantees for companies that build luxury hotels while crying poverty.

The Inconvenient Question: Where Was the Board?

This brings us to the governance void that no one in power wants to address. The Board of Fiji Airways, has presided over this paradox. It approved a record profit-share for employees—a commendable gesture, but one that seems tone-deaf when the airline is drowning in $678 million of debt. It signed off on the Vatu Talei Resort venture through Richmond Pte Ltd. It greenlit expansion into Dallas-Fort Worth that will now be curtailed from next month.

These are not unavoidable external shocks. These are strategic choices made by a board that seems to treat taxpayer money as a revolving credit line.

When questioned about reviewing these investments, the airline’s response was a deafening silence, citing “confidentiality requirements.” Confidentiality? For a company majority-owned by the Fijian people through the government and the FNPF, that excuse wears thin when you’re asking for another public handout.

The Pattern Is the Problem

The 2021 bailout under the previous government was sold as a temporary lifeline for a pandemic-stricken airline. The 2026 bailout under the coalition government is being sold as a lifeline for fuel costs due to the Gulf crisis. But fuel costs are volatile; they always have been. A competent board plans for volatility. It does not build luxury resorts and then turn to the government with a begging bowl.

If Parliament approves this motion—with the same fee waiver and the same indefinite guarantee terms—it sends a dangerous message: Fiji Airways can do whatever it likes, and we the taxpayers will always pick up the tab.

The Verdict

We are not against Fiji Airways. We understand the strategic importance of a national carrier. But this isn’t a rescue mission. It’s a habit—an expensive, opaque, and deeply troubling one.

If the government insists on guaranteeing this debt, it must impose hard conditions: freeze all non-essential capital investments like the Denarau hotel, table the airline’s audited financials in Parliament, and restructure the board to eliminate conflicts of interest.

Otherwise, today’s debate isn’t about saving a national asset. It’s about writing a blank cheque to an entity that refuses to be accountable. We the Fijian taxpayers deserve far better than a repeat performance of 2021—and far better than being treated as an ATM with no limits, when the reality is our account is already overdrawn.

The Government and the Board of Fiji Airways must understand: we are not a bottomless pit. The ATM has a limit. And we have reached it.