Introduction: A Constitution That Exempts Its Author
Just last month, Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka told a PINA summit that the proposed 2026 Constitution would disallow him from standing in the next election. He is 78 years old, has already served two non-consecutive terms as PM, and the CRC recommended a retirement age of 75 and a strict two-term limit for the office he holds. Under those proposals, Rabuka would be doubly disqualified—by age and by term count.
Yet the Constitution (Amendment) Bill 2026, tabled by Rabuka’s own government, omits both limits for the PM. Under section 112, the only eligibility requirement is that the PM must be a member of the House of Representatives. The provisions “do not prescribe a maximum age or restrict the number of terms a person may serve.”
This is the central paradox of our constitutional moment. A PM who acknowledges that age and term limits would rule him out has tabled a Bill that ensures they will not. The question is not whether Fiji needs age limits—the CRC and ordinary citizens have already answered that. The question is whether our political class will ever bind itself to the same standards it sets for others.
The CRC’s Proposals: A Mandate for Renewal
The CRC did not invent the age question. It inherited it from a public weary of a political architecture dominated by the elderly. It recommended that the PM serve no more than two four-year terms and retire at 75. These were not arbitrary numbers. They emerged from nationwide consultations in which citizens explicitly linked political leadership to the demographic realities of a nation whose median age is 28.
The CRC’s proposals are “laudable elements” that provided democratic and accountability safeguards. Their removal from the Bill is a “significant downgrade.” The CRC did its work. Our political class simply refused to accept their findings.
Rabuka’s Personal Stake: The Incumbent as Beneficiary
The omission of PM limits is not abstract. It is personal. Rabuka turned 78 this year. He has already served twice as PM. He has publicly stated that he personally believes a two-term limit is “a good provision.” He has acknowledged that the CRC’s proposals would rule him out. Yet the Bill he tabled ensures he can seek another term.
Rabuka has invoked the 2013 Constitution’s anti-discrimination clause on grounds of “health, age and other factors” to argue that age caps may be unconstitutional. This is legally defensible. But it sits awkwardly alongside his stated personal support for term limits—and his own admission that the CRC proposals would bar him. A PM who says one thing and legislates another has made the age question not just a matter of policy, but of credibility.
A Wider Pattern: The Opposition Is Not Immune
The gerontocracy problem transcends party lines. Former Prime Minister Mahendra Chaudhry, now in his eighties, continues to lead the Fiji Labour Party—a party founded on the principles of workers’ rights and generational renewal. Chaudhry first became Prime Minister in 1999, more than a quarter-century ago. His continued leadership illustrates that the culture of indefinite incumbency, is not confined to the governing coalition. It is a structural feature of our politics that that is perpetuated.
This matters because it undermines the comforting narrative that age limits are a partisan issue—a tool for the opposition to constrain the government. In reality, the political class as a whole has demonstrated a reluctance to relinquish power. The FLP, which once represented the dispossessed, now mirrors the same gerontocratic tendencies it once opposed. If the opposition cannot renew itself, how can it credibly demand renewal from the government?
The Missing Conversation: Term Limits for MPs
While the CRC addressed the PM’s tenure, it remained silent on term limits for ordinary MPs. This is a critical omission. If the goal is genuine generational renewal, capping the PM alone is insufficient. A political culture that allows indefinite incumbency at the backbench level perpetuates the same culture of waiting that frustrates young aspirants.
Consider the practical reality: a politician can serve as an MP for decades, accumulating wealth, seniority and patronage without ever facing the prospect of forced retirement. This entrenches incumbency advantage and makes it nearly impossible for new entrants to compete. A three-term limit for MPs—whether consecutive or lifetime—would create regular openings, ensuring that Parliament remains responsive to the demographic realities of our nation.
This proposal is not without precedent. The National Youth Council has called for four dedicated youth seats and 30 per cent youth representation within party structures. But reserved seats are a palliative. Term limits for MPs would be a structural remedy, ensuring that power circulates rather than accumulates. It is a conversation we must have, even if the CRC chose not to initiate it.
Public Opinion: A Citizenry Ahead of Its Leaders
The public has been clear. The National Youth Council’s Ms Laisani Sapo, called for retirement age rules for politicians similar to those for civil servants, who retire at 60. “There should be fairness in public office as well since ordinary civil servants work until 60 before they have to retire,” she said.
Navua resident Nimesh Sharma told the CRC that while most workers retire around 60, politicians continue contesting elections into their 60s and beyond. He proposed a maximum age limit of 65 for elected office.
These are not radical demands. And they have been consistently ignored by a political class that prefers to discuss limits in principle while refusing to enact them in practice.
The Counterarguments: Age as a Blunt Instrument
The case against age limits is not without merit. An analyst argued that “leadership should not be judged by age alone,” noting that experienced politicians understand campaigning and strategy developed over years. A retirement age of 75 is arbitrary—it would bar a sharp, healthy 84-year-old while potentially permitting a declining 74-year-old.
Unity Fiji leader Savenaca Narube, who is in his early 70s, opposes term limits entirely, saying “I do not see any reason why a term for a PM… to be limited at all.”
These are legitimate concerns. But they miss the structural point. The problem is not that individual older politicians are unfit. The problem is that indefinite incumbency creates a culture of waiting—a culture in which younger politicians are told to serve their time, to angle for favour, to wait for old men to step aside. Age limits are not a judgment on individual capacity. They are a structural mechanism for forced renewal.
The Deeper Problem: Rules Without Enforcement
The most important lesson of our constitutional moment is not that age limits are desirable. It is that written rules mean little if our political class refuses to be bound by them. The CRC recommended limits. The public supports limits. The PM says he personally supports limits. But the Bill omits limits.
This is not a failure of constitutional design. It is a failure of political will. You can write any rule into a constitution. But if the people who hold power are the same people the rule would constrain, the rule will not be enacted—or if enacted, will not be enforced.
The ultimate test of any age limit proposal is not whether it can be written into law. It is whether it can be enforced against the interests of those who currently hold power. Until our political class demonstrates a genuine willingness to bind itself to the same standards it sets for others, proposals like these will remain aspirational rather than transformative.
Conclusion: The Question Beneath the Question
Our age question is not really about age. It is about power—who holds it, who inherits it, and who is told to wait. The CRC’s proposals and the Bill’s omissions have made this explicit. A PM who would be disqualified by his own Commission’s recommendations has ensured that those recommendations will not apply to him. An opposition leader in his eighties continues to head the party of workers. The pattern is systemic.
The deeper question is not whether Fiji should have age limits. It is whether our political architecture can ever be reformed from within by those who benefit from its inequities. Reform comes from pressure—from influential institutions, youth movements, civil society and from the public.
The age question is a symptom. The disease is a political culture that treats power as a possession rather than a trust. Until that changes, no constitutional provision—however elegantly drafted—will make Fiji’s leadership reflect the youth of its people. The conversation must expand beyond the Prime Minister’s office to encompass every seat in Parliament. Only then can we claim to have addressed the question of generational renewal with the seriousness it demands.
