As our nation heads toward the upcoming General Elections, the political landscape is already abuzz with promises, posturing, and the perennial clash of visions. In the coming months, we will be asked to choose our navigators. Yet, beyond the fiscal policies and development blueprints, a quieter but more profound question demands our attention: not just what our leaders will do, but how they will carry themselves while doing it.
Regardless of where you fall politically, there is something to be said for leaders who can inspire without insulting, disagree without demeaning, and represent their party with humility and composure. We should expect our politicians to model civility, encourage the next generation, and elevate our national conversation. Politics is temporary, but character—and the example set by those in power—has a lasting impact.
We must refine that expectation, however. Civility is not merely about polite debate; it is also about the fundamental humility with which a leader wields authority. And there is no better litmus test for that humility than how our leaders handle the restoration of justice—specifically, the recent return of Munia Island to the Yavusa Munia.
Let us be unequivocal; as a friend stated in a Facebook post: “The return of Munia is a victory for the landowners, their ancestors, and the generations who never surrendered the belief that what was rightfully theirs would one day be restored. After decades of struggle, this outcome deserves to be celebrated as a long-overdue act of justice, not an act of political generosity.”
The Prime Minister and his Government deserve recognition for facilitating this milestone. However, what is deeply troubling is the narrative that has accompanied it, my friend continued—”where government leaders and officials are seemingly cast as heroes and saviours, while landowners are expected to express endless gratitude for a decision that simply restores what was lost to them in the first place.”
Let us be clear: “The Government did not bestow a gift upon the Yavusa Munia. They did not perform a charitable act. They carried out a fundamental responsibility of governance: to recognise rights, correct historical injustices where possible, and return ownership to its rightful custodians. That is not exceptional leadership; it is the minimum standard the people should expect from those entrusted with public office.”
The return of ancestral lands is a key vision of the Bose Levu Vakaturaga, which has consistently upheld that the restitution of iTaukei lands is a pillar of indigenous rights, customary justice, and traditional governance. The BLV articulates what the Vanua has always known: that land dispossession is a wound requiring healing, not a transaction to be settled with rhetoric. In fulfilling this vision for Munia, the Government has not broken new ground; they have simply caught up with the moral compass laid out by our traditional institutions. To frame this as a political favour is not only disingenuous—it is an insult to the very customary frameworks that have long demanded this justice.
Yet, we are witnessing a disturbing culture in Fiji; where politicians appear to expect praise, adulation, and public reverence merely for doing their jobs. Communities are made to feel indebted when officials fulfill obligations that taxpayers fund them to perform. The restoration of ancestral land should never be framed as a favour from government to landowners. If anything, it is government catching up on a debt owed to the iTaukei, and to the vision of our ancestral chiefly house.
This brings us squarely back to the upcoming Elections. When we evaluate candidates, we must look beyond their rhetoric and ask: Do they view public office as a throne from which favours are dispensed, or as a position of sacred trust? A leader of true character does not demand a standing ovation for correcting an error; they treat it as a quiet duty—consistent with the humility our chiefs have historically embodied.
The most powerful image from Munia, as my friend rightly observed, is not that of politicians standing before cameras, but of a people finally reclaiming a part of their identity after years of perseverance and sacrifice. The real heroes are the forebears who carried the struggle, the elders who kept the dream alive, and the descendants who refused to let their connection to their land be forgotten. They are the ones who modeled true composure—patient, dignified, and unwavering, long before any government press release was drafted.
As we approach the polls, let us reject the notion that landowners—or any Fijian community—should carry politicians on their shoulders in gratitude for receiving what already belonged to them. Public office is not a pedestal for saviour complexes; it is a contract of service. Restoring ancestral land is not an act of benevolence; it is an ancestral and constitutional obligation. Government officials deserve neither sainthood nor hero worship for finally doing what they are duty-bound to do for the iTaukei—and what the Bose Levu Vakaturaga mandated as a matter of honour.
In these upcoming elections, we must raise the bar. We must demand leaders who understand that humility is not performative—it is demonstrated in how they treat those who have been wronged. It is shown in whether they elevate the people or themselves. It is proven when they correct injustice without demanding a parade.
Let us celebrate Munia for the Yavusa. Let us mark the occasion for what it is: a restoration of dignity. But let us also send a resounding message to every candidate this election cycle—your policies matter, but so does your character. We are not looking for saviours. We are looking for servants. Because justice is not a gift from the powerful; it is the rightful inheritance of the people, enshrined in our customs and demanded by our forefathers. And any leader who forgets that has no place leading our beloved Fiji.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 