Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian

A place to share my thoughts and reflections

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  • Beyond Fear: Why Australia Must Embrace a Truly Open Door for Its Pasifika Family

    The Vuvale or family, is a concept that runs deep in the Pasifika. “At the heart of this Union is the concept of Vuvale—built on trust, loyalty, respect, understanding, and responsibility,” Fijian officials have declared, articulating a vision that Australia has eagerly signed onto in multiple security and economic agreements. Yet for all the talk of family, when it comes to the practical act of welcoming Pasifika peoples through its borders, Australia remains guarded, suspicious, and restrictive. Every Pasifika national must still obtain a visa to enter Australia—a regime that Pasifika leaders have repeatedly condemned as unfair and disrespectful.

    Visiting Australian Foreign Minister Penny Wong talks about a Vuvale Union but her nation does not even allow free visa access to Australia. What kind of Vuvale is that? In our Pasifika culture, Vuvale means my house is your house. You don’t make your family stand at the gate filling out twenty pages of paperwork just to come in for a cup of tea. The core question deserves honest airing: What has Australia truly got to be afraid of? A real Vuvale looks after its own first; a genuine partnership erases barriers, not just in strategic treaties but in human movement.

    The Myth of the “Swamping” Tide

    Australia’s reluctance to embrace visa-free travel for the Pasifika is rooted in a fundamental misunderstanding: the overwhelming belief that Pasifika migration is going to “swamp” Australian shores. Yet the data tells an entirely different story. Australians vastly overestimate the share of Pasifika-born immigrants in the country, believing it to be around 9.4 percent when the actual figure is merely 2.3 percent. That means for every ten immigrants Australians imagine are coming from the Pasifika, fewer than three actually are. In raw numbers, the Pasifika diaspora in Australia numbered approximately 337,000 as of 2021—a significant community, undoubtedly, but not a demographic flood.

    Consider the broader context: the entire estimated population of the Pasifika Islands in 2025 was 14.3 million people. Spread across dozens of countries and territories, this is not a population base that threatens to overwhelm a continent of 26 million. Other than Papua New Guinea, the Pasifika’s demographic weight is modest at best. Those who cite migration fears overlook a simple truth: Pasifika peoples value their home islands. Migration is not abandonment; it is circulation.

    Learning from China and Singapore

    While Australia hesitates, nations with far less historical connection to the Pasifika are leading the way. China formalised a mutual visa-free agreement with Samoa in April 2025, allowing Samoan citizens to enter China without a visa for stays of up to 30 days. Similarly, Singapore consistently ranks as a global leader in passport freedom, holding the world’s most powerful passport with visa-free access to 195 destinations. If nations that share neither geography nor deep cultural kinship with the Pasifika can open their doors, what excuse remains for Australia? The argument that visa-free access is impossible or reckless, collapses when examined against these real-world policies already in operation.

    The Economic Imperative

    Beyond symbolism lies hard economic benefit. Fiji’s former Deputy Prime Minister Biman Prasad explicitly argued that visa-free travel across the Pasifika would yield “economic benefits for Australia and consolidate its position as the Pasifika’s major security partner.” He is not alone. The Lowy Institute reached the same conclusion, describing visa-free access for all Pasifika Islanders to Australia as a “practical next step” in the relationship. Pasifika leaders have stressed that “visa-free access within our region is going to be essential, particularly to the larger markets in Aotearoa and Australia” if the region is serious about economic growth. Facilitating business travel, medical access, family visits, and educational exchanges would unlock significant economic activity that the current visa bureaucracy actively suppresses.

    The Vuvale in Practice: A Deadbolt on the Door

    In the Pasifika context, Vuvale isn’t just a buzzword for a press release. It is about shared responsibility, open doors, and genuine family ties. To use the word while keeping the door locked via strict immigration policies is a total contradiction of the very culture Australia claims to be embracing.

    As a fellow ITaukei commentator asked recently, “How can Canberra and Wellington claim they’re “part of the Pasifika village” when they’re the only houses with a deadbolt on the door?

    The security argument against visa-free travel, at its core, is not about actual misconduct but about fear itself. As one critic has aptly observed, Australia’s harsh visa restrictions reflect “FEAR of mass mobility, not misconduct” disguised as border security. Yet deepening security cooperation is precisely why visa-free access makes sense. Australia is actively negotiating a sweeping Vuvale Union security pact with Fiji, aimed at countering external influence and stabilising the region. These agreements share a stated goal: to build “a peaceful, stable and prosperous Pasifika”. How can such a partnership be considered genuine when one partner treats the other’s citizens as potential threats requiring bureaucratic scrutiny before every visit? Trust and suspicion cannot coexist in a true Vuvale. Strengthening cooperation on transnational crime, as the Vuvale Union explicitly seeks to do, is entirely compatible with freedom of movement for legitimate travellers.

    Rejecting Double Standards

    Australia currently operates the Pasifika Engagement Visa (PEV), offering permanent residency to up to 3,000 Pasifika nationals annually through a ballot system. It has also committed $440 million to expanding the PALM labour mobility scheme. These programs demonstrate that Australia can manage mobility, and that it recognises the value of Pasifika workers and residents. But treating migration as a bureaucratic lottery, a temporary labour arrangement, or a climate-displacement provision—as seen in the Tuvalu Falepili Mobility Pathway—frames Pasifika movement as a problem to be managed rather than a relationship to be honoured.

    The double standard is glaring. Tourists from wealthy nations walk through immigration with casual ease. Meanwhile, a Pasifika elder seeking to visit their child in Brisbane, a Fijian business owner pursuing new markets, or a Samoan family hoping to attend a wedding face forms, fees, delays, and the implicit message: you are not quite welcome here.

    Walking the Talk: No More Propaganda

    Talk is indeed cheap. This is a cynical use of our culture by Canberra bureaucrats and politicians to score propaganda points. Australia has positioned itself as the Pasifika’s partner of choice, investing heavily in security agreements and development aid. But true partnership is measured not in dollars signed in treaty rooms but in everyday dignity afforded to real people. China and Singapore have moved; their commitments are operational. If Australia continues to demand visas from its Pasifika family while competitors open their doors, the Vuvale becomes not a relationship of mutual respect but a structure of managed dependence.

    Migration is not a threat to be contained; it is a bridge to be built. Pasifika peoples are not a demographic wave to be feared; they are neighbours, fellow citizens of the Blue Pasifika Continent. The evidence is clear: the fear is overblown, the economic case is compelling, and the moral obligation is undeniable.

    Australia must walk the talk. Grant visa-free travel to the Pasifika. Anything less is not family-not vuvale

  • The Quiet Parasite: On Family, Complicity, and the Weight of Knowing

    In my village, no man is an island. Cakacaka vakoro is collective and everyone takes part; be it the village cleanup or re-doing the pathway that we call the tua. We in the Pasifika live in a web of relationships—family, village, ancestors, to the land and sea that sustain us. To place oneself above the collective is not just selfish. It is a spiritual sickness—a blindness to the ties that hold us together.

    And yet.

    We see it in our diaspora communities. By diaspora in the context of this post, it means those that have moved from their villages to urban communities in Fiji as well. We see it in the quiet hoarding of remittances while a cousin goes hungry. We see it in the environmental meetings where we fight to stop our mangroves giving way to a ghastly development. We know the right words: community, reciprocity. But when the price is real, many of us lean toward ourselves. The parasite has a Samoan name, a Tongan name, a Fijian name. It whispers in our own tongue.

    Now make it personal. I know—not suspect, but know—that a relative, is dealing drugs or trafficking stolen goods. What do I do? Do I speak openly to the police? Do I confront them in private, under the kau ni idia? Or do I remain silent, preserving the family name and my own peace?

    Confucius, from across the great ocean of China, speaks to my Pasifika heart. When a ruler boasted that in his state, sons testified against fathers who stole sheep, Confucius replied: “In my village, uprightness means father conceals son, and son conceals father. That is where uprightness lies.” This resonates deeply with us. Family unity is the first stone of the vuvale. To expose one’s own blood to the harsh sun of the law feels like breaking the backbone of the village.

    But Confucius did not end there. He taught remonstration—the duty to correct a family member who errs, gently and with respect. The Classic of Filial Piety says: “When a parent does wrong, the child should remonstrate with a respectful expression and a soft voice.” This is exactly the Pasifika way. We do not shout at our elders across the yaqona gathering. We sit, we listen, we speak softly, we give them the chance to restore their mana by choosing the right path.

    So my first duty is clear: a private confrontation. Not an accusation, but a talanoa—a deep, unhurried conversation. You are wrong, sibling. The drugs you sell will reach someone’s child. The stolen goods will raise the prices at the village shop. Our grandmother is watching from the spirit world. Stop.

    This is the Confucian-Pasifika first move: exhaust the private path before considering the public one. The value here is actions fitting the relationship. A righteous person does not abandon kin, but also does not abandon the moral order that gives kinship its meaning. My relative, by dealing drugs, has already abandoned their proper role. To protect them without remonstration is not loyalty. It is complicity dressed in respect.

    What if they refuse? What if the drugs keep flowing, the thefts continue? Now the sacred space-between is polluted. In Pasifika thought, when someone brings shame or harm to the collective, the chief or the family may step in. We have traditional mechanisms for correction before the police are called. But those mechanisms assume a functioning village. In our modern, fragmented diaspora, often the only authorities are the state.

    Mencius, the Confucian sage, taught that a ruler who oppresses the people ceases to be a true ruler. By extension, a relative who harms the community, especially the vulnerable—children who become addicted, mothers who cannot afford higher prices—has begun to forfeit the name of “relative.” The Confucian principle of zheng ming, demands that a person who acts like a predator cannot claim the protection due to a relative.

    This is where I must be honest with myself. Silence, after remonstration has failed, is no longer neutrality. In Pasifika custom, if you know a canoe has a leak and you say nothing, and the canoe sinks with your family aboard, your hands are not clean. The parasite does not need to paddle. It needs only to sit quietly.

    But reporting to the police is not a clean solution either. Our communities have deep, painful histories with policing. To call the authorities on one’s own relative can feel like handing our brother to an entity that has a lot to answer for, in the war against drugs. This is the tragic weight called a moral remainder—but in our terms, it is the the ceremonial apology that no amount of words can fully repay.

    The perfect person uses the heart like a mirror—refusing nothing, holding nothing.” This is not detachment. It is clarity without clinging. Perhaps the most Pasifika response is neither heroic exposure nor guilty silence, but a third way: persistent, gentle turning. I confront, and if they refuse, I confront again. I bring elders into the private circle. I threaten—not with police, but with the weight of the family, with the removal of my own presence, with the shame of being spoken of in the village meeting. I will not let you destroy our name. I will not sit at the same table while you poison the neighborhood.

    And if even that fails? Then, with a heavy heart, I may have to speak to the authorities. But I will do so openly, with my relative present, in a talanoa that includes a lawyer and a pastor. I will not hide behind an anonymous tip. I will go with them to the police station. I will visit them in prison. I will contribute to their children’s school fees. I will not abandon the relationship even as I call it to account. That is the Pasifika way: punishment without excommunication, justice without forgetting who we are to each other.

    What does this make me? Not an accessory—that is a colonial legal term. In my grandmother’s tongue, I am a person standing, holding two stones: respect for kin and justice for the community. When they grind against each other, the dust is grief. The Confucian sage and the Pasifika elder both say the same thing: first, speak privately, with love. Second, if love is refused, speak publicly, but never without tears. And third, always remain family—even in the prison visiting room.

    The parasite whispers that the fare is someone else’s to pay. But in our islands, the fare is always shared. The dalo is planted for the village, not for one mouth. The canoe carries everyone, or it sinks. I will not be acquitted by any ancient text, any kava ceremony, any apology. Only accountable—to my relative, to the strangers my silence or speech will touch, and to the ancestors who watch from the reef’s edge, waiting to see if the root of virtue is strong enough to bend without breaking.

  • Digital Unleashing – Is Open Season on Government Good for Fiji’s Democracy?

    Since the December 2022 election, Fiji has experienced a quiet revolution. After sixteen years of tight controls on public expression under the previous regime, the floodgates have opened. Social media—Facebook, TikTok, Instagram—has become our new town square. Fijians are now naming ministers, leaking documents, and live-streaming accusations of police corruption without the immediate fear of a night in the cell.

    For a nation that remembers bloggers being arrested and newspapers facing closure, this feels like a renaissance. But a difficult question follows: Is this raw, unfiltered expression appropriate for a Pasifika nation emerging from autocracy? Or are we simply trading one set of problems for another?

    How social media changed the game

    Before 2022, criticism of government was often whispered in kitchens or coded in sermons. Now it is broadcast to thousands. Citizens post videos directly accusing ComPol and the Director of CID of being paid off by drug cartels. They share screenshots of leaked messages, name senior officers, and dissect controversial issues in real time. For many, this transparency is exhilarating—a long-overdue accountability mechanism.

    We have witnessed genuine benefits: real-time fact-checking of official claims, citizen journalists exposing local neglect that mainstream media hesitates to touch, and organised online pressure that forces government to respond. Trust in authority is no longer automatic; it is earned and withdrawn in comment sections and share counts.

    The Pasifika dilemma: respect versus recklessness

    Yet a deep tension runs beneath this digital energy. Pasifika cultures value relationships, respect and constructive dialogue. Traditional leadership was not challenged publicly; dissent was channelled through elders, clans, or quiet forums. Social media flips this entirely. Anonymous accounts launch personal attacks. Elders are ridiculed. Rumours spread faster than any correction.

    Is this “speaking our minds” or “speaking out of turn”? The answer is not simple. After years of autocracy, a period of catharsis may be necessary—even messy. You cannot teach a generation to fear speaking and then expect polished civility overnight. However, others rightly worry that the absence of vanua-based accountability (respect for family, chiefs, church) means we are importing a Western-style shouting match that erodes our social fabric. Worse, false accusations can destroy real lives in a small island nation where relationships and reputation are everything.

    The double-edged sword of digital freedom

    The same platforms that expose government wrongdoing can also be used to divide the police, discredit individuals or destabilise a fragile democracy for personal or political gain. We have already seen edited videos designed to malign opponents and coordinated attacks on institutions. The Alex Forwood case—whatever one believes of her claims—illustrates the dilemma: a single person with a social media account can force a national investigation while also spreading unverified information. Is she a whistleblower or a destabilising agent? In the old Fiji, the state would have decided for us. Now we must decide for ourselves, without reliable tools.

    So, is this appropriate?

    I believe yes—but with Pasifika guardrails. A Pasifika democracy should never return to autocratic silence. However, it must cultivate digital talanoa: an online culture that values evidence, respect, and the right to reply. That requires several practical steps.

    First, strong fact-checking initiatives led by community-trusted voices—not government censors, but independent groups with cultural authority. Second, media literacy taught not only in schools but also in community halls and church gatherings. Third, platform accountability that curbs deliberate harm (doxxing, incitement, defamation) without sliding into political censorship. Fourth, the restoration of face-to-face forums, where hard conversations happen with dignity, and where social media heat can be cooled by direct human presence.

    Our ancestors navigated the Pasifika without destroying each other. We can learn to post without destroying the soul of our nation.

    Final thought

    Social media has given Fiji a voice. Now we must learn to use it as a tool for construction, not demolition. A democracy where everyone shouts and no one listens is not a democracy—it is a crowd. And we are better than a crowd. We are a vanua.

    Let us speak, but let us also listen. Let us challenge power, but let us not abandon respect. That is the true Pasifika way.

  • Beyond the Burger: Confronting Fast Food and Health Literacy in Fiji

    A golden anniversary came with a golden arch. This past Monday, McDonald’s Fiji marked three decades of operation—training thousands, partnering with local suppliers like Rooster Poultry, and celebrating the “backbone” of its business: its people. Yet as we applaud this corporate milestone, a less celebratory statistic stalks Fiji. Non‑communicable diseases (NCDs)—diabetes, heart disease, hypertension, stroke—are our leading killers. To ignore the link between the rise of fast food chains and NCDs, is something that can no longer be ignored.

    Years ago, while residing in New York City, I tasted McDonald’s meals in midtown, in upstate New York state to stops along the I‑95 highway. And I observed. Mostly Black folks. Mostly families. Mostly obese. Not scientific—just my personal observation. But the image stuck. When I finally returned home, I saw how popular “Maccas” had become. I took my own grandchildren to various outlets, not once but on occasions. And I observed again. Not obesity this time—at least not yet. But then I started reading in the media about the slow creep of NCDs: the tiredness, the weight gain, the family members lost to diabetic complications.

    And let me be clear: this is voicing concerns about the rising fast‑food chains and outlets that have multiplied across our islands, selling the same calorie‑dense, nutrient‑poor meals.

    A thoughtful commentator recently pushed back. He asked: “Is Fiji’s obesity rate really ‘a consequence’ of McDonald’s as you assert? Was May 1996 really the major inflection point?” He pointed to Tonga—no McDonald’s, yet obesity rates are as high as ours. And to China, where McDonald’s is ubiquitous, yet obesity rates are a fraction of Fiji’s. He then defended the chain for its consistency: a black Americano tastes the same in York in the UK, Hong Kong, and even in Suva. That reliability, he argued, is a virtue.

    He has a point. But I believe he misses the larger one.

    The core business model of fast food is not about coffee or consistency. It is the mass production of what our nutritionists call “ultra‑processed foods”—items engineered to be high in salt, sugar, and unhealthy fats, yet low in fibre and essential nutrients. That “hot and spicy chicken meal” which Rooster Poultry proudly supplies, is emblematic. Whether you eat it in Nadi, Nukuʻalofa, or Changzhou, the metabolic damage is similar. So why the difference in outcomes? Because diet is a package: a Fijian who eats McDonald’s instead of ika vakalolo and dalo-ni-Samoa, will fare very differently from a Chinese person who eats McDonald’s occasionally as a treat amid a daily diet of vegetables, tea, and stir‑fried dishes. The problem is not one chain; it is the entire food environment. And in Fiji, that environment has shifted dramatically in three decades—away from fresh, local foods and toward cheap, convenient, ultra‑processed calories.

    The commentator is right that Tonga has high obesity without McDonald’s. That does not exonerate McDonald’s or fellow fast food chains; it merely shows that fast food is one driver among many. But when you add McDonald’s to an already vulnerable Pasifika population—genetically prone to insulin resistance, culturally shifting away from traditional staples—you pour fuel on a fire. China’s lower obesity rate reflects a different dietary baseline and far higher rates of physical activity in daily life. It is not a get‑out‑of‑jail‑free card for the golden arches.

    Then another thoughtful voice said: “My children eat it occasionally. They’re fit and healthy. The difference isn’t the food—it’s the choices around it, and the knowledge behind those choices. What we really need to talk about is health literacy.”

    That stopped me cold. Because she is right. A burger once a month will not kill you. A burger three times a week, washed down with sugary soda and followed by no exercise, very well might. The real crisis is not any single menu item. It is that too many Fijians do not fully understand what ultra‑processed food does to their bodies over time—or, even if they understand, they lack the resources and support to make different choices.

    She went further, and this is where the conversation must deepen. “As Fijians, we carry a cultural framework that sometimes locates illness in the unseen, in the spiritual, in forces outside ourselves. And when that’s your belief, seeking a doctor can feel almost beside the point. That’s a deep worldview. You can’t lecture people out of it. We also reach for herbal medicine, which isn’t wrong, but often without knowing what it can and can’t treat. So we use it for things that need clinical attention, and by the time we arrive at a hospital, it’s too late. And there is the fear—the very real fear of hospitals and doctors that so many of us carry. Once that fear is reinforced in childhood, it becomes natural to avoid doctors entirely until you’re knocking on death’s door.”

    How many NCD deaths in Fiji follow exactly that path? A family notices weight gain and fatigue. They try herbal remedies. Bobo. They pray. They wait. They fear the diagnosis. And by the time they walk into a health centre, the diabetes has already stolen a kidney or a foot. The fast food was a contributor, but the delay in seeking care was the finishing blow.

    So who breaks that cycle?

    The commentator answered plainly: “I think it’s the mother. She’s usually the one who notices symptoms, books appointments, decides what’s serious. She is the family’s first health system. If she’s empowered, if she’s confident in medical spaces and in her own body, that confidence spreads. It infects the whole household. It shapes how her children see doctors for the rest of their lives. Invest in her health literacy, and you don’t just help one person. You change a generation.”

    That is a powerful truth. We can argue about fast food regulation until our voices give out, but unless we also invest in grassroots health literacy—especially for mothers—we will keep burying our people.

    My point remains simpler and starker. Fast food is fast food, and it is now killing Fijians in numbers we can no longer ignore. Those who have lost relatives, watched cousins lose toes, or stood by children or grandchildren as they reach for a $9.95 burger combo instead of a fresh $15 ika vakalolo—have a responsibility to speak up. Not to ban fast food outlets overnight. But to demand that as they plan to “grow bigger and better,” they decouple their growth from the growth of our NCD wards. Health and nutrition experts who deal with these challenges will tell you that.

    That means genuine reformulation to slash sodium and saturated fats. Transparent calorie labelling. And a direct partnership with the Ministry of Health to fund community nutrition and exercise programmes. McDonald’s has proven it can train Fijians in customer service. Now can it retrain itself in public health ethics? And as the leader among fast food outlets, can it bring other chains along for a walk on the path to a healthier Fiji?

    But alongside corporate responsibility, we need a home‑grown revolution in health literacy. Let us equip our mothers with the knowledge to read a nutrition label, to recognise early symptoms of diabetes, to overcome the fear of the white coat. Let us integrate nutrition and NCD prevention into school curricula, community workshops, and church gatherings. Let us celebrate traditional foods—dalo, tavioka, fresh fish—as life‑giving heritage.

    The 30th anniversary of McDonald’s Fiji is indeed a milestone. But let us not mistake corporate longevity for societal health. A nation that cannot afford to lose its people to preventable disease cannot afford to celebrate an industry that accelerates those deaths.

  • When Good Relations Are Worse Than Bad: The Trump–Netanyahu Trap

    There’s a dark joke quietly circulating among geo political observers: with two men like Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu, you can’t decide whether good relations or bad relations are more dangerous. After reading Julian Borger’s masterful pice of the Iran war fiasco (https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/may/09/tensions-emerge-bejamin-netanyahu-donald-trump-alliance), I have reached an uneasy conclusion. Good relations are worse. Bad relations are just the hangover.

    Let me explain why.

    Borger’s piece is a devastating portrait of what happens when two transactional strongmen—both masters of populist grift, both allergic to institutional constraint—bind their fates together. For decades, Netanyahu played a long game: coax, flatter, and manipulate successive US presidents into attacking Iran. Trump, a man who views every relationship as a zero-sum extraction, was the perfect mark. Their “good relations” produced the worst foreign policy disaster since the Iraq War: a 37-day air campaign that failed to collapse the Iranian regime, closed the Strait of Hormuz, triggered a global energy crisis, and left America looking like a paper tiger.

    The tragedy is that neither man will admit defeat. Instead, they’re now trapped in an oscillating nightmare—sometimes coordinating almost daily, sometimes publicly rebuking each other, but never truly disentangled. And that oscillation, I’d argue, is the real poison.

    The case for “good relations” being worse

    Consider what their alignment enabled. Netanyahu fed Trump the fantasy that Iran was “an overripe fruit ready to drop.” He dangled Venezuela’s lightning regime change as proof that war could be “painless, effortless, beautiful.” Trump; already contemptuous of his own intelligence community, bit hard. The result was not just a failed war, but a strategic defeat that will outlast both men’s political careers. Iran now controls the Strait of Hormuz. China and Russia are strengthened. America’s allies are hedging desperately.

    Good relations between a con-man and a grifter don’t cancel each other out—they amplify the worst impulses of both. Netanyahu got his war; Trump got to feel like a strongman. The rest of us got $150-a-barrel oil and a crumbling global order.

    But bad relations aren’t a solution

    When Trump finally realised he’d been sold a lemon, he froze Israel out of ceasefire talks, publicly scolded Netanyahu (“PROHIBITED” in all-caps on social media), and forced a truce that leaves Iranian power intact. On the surface, that seems better. It stopped the bombing.

    Yet Borger’s reporting reveals the flaw. Netanyahu knows Trump’s attention span is measured in weeks, not years. He knows that ceasefire or no, he can “mow the grass” later—resume strikes on Iranian proxies or nuclear sites once the president is distracted by China or the election. Bad relations just drive the coordination underground. The mutual dependence remains. The strategic failure is now baked in.

    What we’re witnessing is not a clean break. It’s a toxic codependency. One day Trump praises “full coordination.” The next he bans Israel from striking Lebanon. Neither posture is coherent. Neither restores deterrence or trust.

    The real lesson: oscillation is the enemy

    Stable good relations build disastrous wars. Stable bad relations at least produce predictable distance—allies adjust, adversaries calibrate. But the Trump–Netanyahu relationship offers neither. It lurches from embrace to estrangement and back, leaving US allies in the Gulf, European partners, and even the Israeli security establishment unsure whether Washington is leading, following, or fleeing.

    That uncertainty is more corrosive than any single defeat. It tells the world that American power now depends on the mood swings of two aging populists who have, in Borger’s memorable phrase, “screwed each other pretty badly.”

    So here is my answer to the question. Good relations are worse because they start catastrophic wars. Bad relations are merely the aftermath. But the truly dangerous state is the one we occupy now: neither together nor apart, just conjoined in failure, unable to admit it, and all too capable of lurching into another disaster when one of them needs a distraction.

    The only way out is to stop treating this as a personality problem. It’s a structural one. The United States cannot afford to build its Middle East policy on the back of a prime minister who manipulates US politics for personal survival, nor on a president who mistakes grift for strategy. Until that changes, it doesn’t matter whether Trump and Netanyahu are smiling or snarling at each other. The rest of us will pay the price either way.

  • The Conversations We Avoided, The Monsters We Created

    We were raised on the well-meaning but ultimately cowardly advice to avoid talking about politics, religion, and sex. This was not wisdom; it was intellectual disarmament. By silencing the conversations that matter most, we failed to build the muscles of civil discourse, leaving us unable to navigate disagreement with grace, to understand the faith of our neighbors, or to articulate the sacred boundaries of our own bodies with confidence.

    This vacuum of understanding has now been filled by its most toxic counterpart: the performative, often destructive, culture of social media, particularly embodied by a certain breed of Fijian TikTok ‘influencer’ we should all abhor.

    These digital performers are the grotesque product of our silence. Having never been taught how to have a difficult conversation, they instead master the art of the provocative spectacle. They trade in the currency of shame, scandal, and sensationalism because we never learned the value of substance. They reduce complex human beings to simplified caricatures and complex issues to inflammatory dares because we never cultivated a appetite for nuance.

    When we avoid teaching our youth how to debate politics thoughtfully, they learn to substitute reason with rabid partisan trolling. When we avoid deep, theological discussions about faith, they exchange a mature spirituality for the hollow theater of religious performance, using scripture as a weapon rather than a guide for compassion. And when we fail to have honest, consent-based conversations about sex and touch, we create a environment where these topics are not explored with respect, but are exploited for clicks through sexualized dares and risky behavior, further blurring the lines of what is acceptable.

    These influencers are not the cause of our societal dysfunction; they are a symptom. They are the harvest of a culture that prized polite silence over honest, messy, and necessary dialogue. Our silence did not create peace; it created a void, and nature abhors a vacuum. Into that void rushed the loudest, crudest, and most attention-seeking voices.

    The path forward is not to scold them, but to out-compete them. We must consciously build a culture that values difficult conversations. We must teach our children—and ourselves—how to listen, how to question with respect, how to hold a conviction without dehumanizing the opposition, and how to use our platforms not for self-aggrandizement, but for genuine connection and understanding.

    We tried silence. It gave us a digital screaming match. It is time to find our voice.

  • The Entangling Alliances: Why Fiji Must Not Tie Its Security to Any Single Mast

    The news from Port Moresby should echo across the Viti Levu not as a model to emulate, but as a cautionary tale. Papua New Guinea’s approval of a new defense treaty with Australia, is the latest move in the Pasifika’s Great Game, a strategic gambit where larger powers vie for influence, using smaller nations as pieces on their geopolitical board. For Fiji, a nation that has painstakingly carved out a role as a regional leader and a master of “multi-alignment,” this path is a dangerous anachronism. To tie our security—and thus, our sovereignty—to any single power would be to betray our hard-won independence and our unique potential as a unifier in a divided region.

    The seductive allure of a security guarantee is understandable. It promises protection, resources, and a place at the table of a powerful friend. But this is a fool’s bargain. As we have learned through our own history and our deft navigation of international relations, security is not a gift to be received; it is a condition to be built. And true, lasting security cannot be imported from Canberra, Washington, or Beijing. It is homegrown, cultivated in the fertile soil of economic resilience, social cohesion, and climate stability.

    The Deft Art of Multi-Alignment vs. The Blunt Tool of Alliance

    Fiji’s strategic genuinity: engaging with all, but being beholden to none. We work with China on infrastructure, with Australia and Aotearoa on policing and military training, and with a multitude of partners on development. This is not indecision; it is supreme strategic agency. It allows us to extract benefits while retaining the ultimate power—the power to say “no,” to set our own terms, and to pivot based on our national interest, not the interests of a patron.

    An exclusive security treaty shatters this delicate balance. It effectively makes us a client state, aligning our national destiny with the strategic objectives of another. When that power enters a conflict or a period of heightened tension—as is inevitable in today’s world—we are no longer a neutral voice for peace. We become a forward base, a target, or at best, a compliant ally expected to fall in line. We trade our role as a sovereign player for that of a supporting actor in someone else’s drama.

    Our Real Battlefield is Not the Sea, But the Soil

    The greatest threats to Fijian security do not sail warships or fly fighter jets. They rise with the seas, blow in with intensifying cyclones, and fester in the persistent inequalities of our communities. Our national security is inextricably linked to human security.

    · Poverty is a national security issue. A population struggling to meet basic needs is vulnerable to exploitation, political instability, and crime.

    · Climate change is the single greatest existential threat. It erodes our coastlines, destroys our crops, salinates our water, and displaces our people. No defense pact with a foreign military can fortify a village against a king tide.

    · Economic vulnerability makes us susceptible to debt-traps and predatory investment, which can be just as corrosive to our sovereignty as any military threat.

    These are the battles that demand our full attention and resources. A defense treaty would inevitably skew our priorities, diverting political focus, financial capital, and institutional energy towards military posturing and away from the foundational work of poverty alleviation, climate adaptation, and sustainable development.

    A Call for Principled, Inclusive Partnership

    This is not a call for isolationism. It is a call for a more profound and principled form of engagement. Fiji’s foreign policy should be a magnet, drawing the world to our shared challenges, not a chain tethering us to one power’s agenda.

    We must lead the charge in reframing the conversation. Let us invite Australia, Aotearoa, the US, China, India, and the EU to a different kind of partnership—not a “security alliance” against a common enemy, but a “prosperity and resilience coalition” for a common future. Let the agenda be:

    1. Co-investment in Climate-Resilient Infrastructure.

    2. Collaborative Projects for Poverty Alleviation and Sustainable Agriculture.

    3. Strengthening Regional Institutions like the Pasifika Islands Forum to be the primary arbiters of Pasifika security.

    In this vision, Fiji is not a prize to be won in a geopolitical contest, but the architect of a new Pasifika century. We become the hub that connects disparate powers around a common, constructive purpose.

    The world is dividing into new blocs, and the pressure to choose a side will only intensify. Fiji’s greatest strength lies in its refusal to be rushed. Our security does not lie in hitching our drua to a foreign warship, but in ensuring our own vessel is seaworthy, our navigators and crew skilled, and our course set firmly towards the horizon of our own choosing—a future where everyone is lifted together, not where anyone is tied down alone.

  • The Pharisee in the Pulpit: How Fijian Christianity Lost Sight of the Mirror

    The Pharisee in the Pulpit: How Fijian Christianity Lost Sight of the Mirror

    In many of our churches across Fiji, a peculiar faith is preached. It is a faith more concerned with the geography of Jerusalem than the geography of the human heart. It speaks more of a chosen people in a distant land than the divine spark in the person sitting next to you. Unknowingly, it has become more aligned with the Christianity of the Pharisees—whom Jesus condemned—than with the Christianity of Jesus Christ himself.

    The central tenet of this modern Pharisaism is external validation. Where the historical Pharisees clung to strict adherence to Mosaic law as a sign of holiness, some expressions of Fijian Christianity; influenced by colonial and political Zionism, display a fervent focus on a physical Israel, future prophecies, and outward rituals. This faith is built on a foundation of otherness: the holy land is there, not here; salvation history happened then, not now; God’s chosen are them, not us.

    This is a profound departure from the radical, unsettling message of Christ. It rebuilds the very walls of separation that His ministry sought to dismantle. The apostle Peter experienced a revelation that shattered this paradigm: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him” (Acts 10:34-35). The early church concluded that the covenant was for all of humanity through faith. There are no exclusively ‘chosen people’; we are all God’s people.

    When asked to name the greatest commandment, Jesus did not say, “Pledge allegiance to a foreign state.” He said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and love your neighbour as yourself.” He insisted the entire law hangs on this. Everything else is commentary. This commandment is universal, directed at every human being, without exception.

    The transformative power of Christ’s teaching is that it demands we stare into the mirror. “The kingdom of God is within you,” He said (Luke 17:21). It is not a remote destination to be visited, but a state of being—cultivated through compassion, humility, and justice, right where we are.

    The colonial introduction of Christianity to Fiji often came with a Pharisee’s handbook. It taught us to externalize God—to see Him as a distant, white patriarch whose favour was earned by rejecting our own world, our Vanua, our ancestors. It was a theology of displacement, convincing us our sacredness was elsewhere, white and that we were secondary in a divine plan. How can this be? In doing so, it committed the error Jesus condemned: prioritizing external abstract ritual over “the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness” (Matthew 23:23).

    The irony is profound: we venerate a man born in Bethlehem, who broke Sabbath laws to heal the sick and ate with sinners, yet we often practice a religion of exclusion, judgment, and meticulous outward observance that reinforces the very barriers He died to tear down.

    True Christianity is not about looking to the Middle East for a sign of salvation; it is about looking into the eyes of your neighbour and seeing Christ. It is the recognition that Na Kalou na Vanua is not heresy but a profound truth—that the divine is immanent, present in this world, even right here in Fiji and within us. When God said, “Let us make mankind in our image,” He was describing a spiritual capacity for love and moral consciousness granted to all. God is a mirror of our highest being. To know God is to know ourselves truly and to choose love.

    The challenge for Fijian Christianity is a choice: Will we continue down the path of the Pharisees, seeking holiness in external lands and rigid doctrines? Or will we embrace the liberating message of Christ himself—that there are no chosen people, only a chosen path: the path of love? The kingdom of God is within, demanding we see the divine in our own reflection and in all we meet.

    Real Christianity is not an escape from the world, but a courageous engagement with it, beginning with the person in the mirror. It asks not, “Do you support the right nation?” but “Have you clothed the naked, fed the hungry, and loved the unlovable?” The answer—the state of our own hearts—is the only Zion that truly matters.

    It is time for Fijian Christianity to have the courage to look squarely at its own reflection.

  • Our Gods Were Never Lost: On the Theft of Sprituality and the Irony of ‘Modern’ Climate Wisdom

    Na Kalou na Vanua. Na Vanua na Kalou. The God is the Land. The Land is God.

    For millennia, across the continents, from the islands of the Pasifika to the plains of Africa and the forests of the Americas, Indigenous peoples lived by this fundamental truth. Our spirituality was not a separate belief but the essence of existence—a deep, reciprocal relationship with the living world. Then came the colonizers.

    They arrived with their ships and their scriptures, their maps and their manifestos. They called our connection to the land ‘animism.’ They labelled our sacred rites ‘savage’ and our deities ‘demons.’ They told us we lived in ‘darkness’ and they were the ‘light.’ This was not a unique experience for Fiji; it was the brutal, standardized playbook of colonialism applied globally. As the African Union Ambassador Arikana Chi Umbori articulated, this was a deliberate “brainwashing” designed to defeat us “where it matters the most, which is the mind.”

    The first step was to sever our spiritual connection to the Earth. After all, a people who believe the land is God will fight to the death to protect it. But a people taught that the land is merely a resource, a property to be owned and exploited, can be more easily dispossessed.

    The ultimate act of contempt followed this spiritual conquest. After demonizing our sacred objects, the colonizers stole them. They took our ancestral carvings, and the sacred artifacts of countless other cultures—the Benin Bronzes, the ikenga statues, the totem poles—and placed them behind glass cases in distant museums. These are not mere art objects; they are “religious, spiritual, sacred” documents of our identity. This global theft was a physical manifestation of the spiritual theft already underway.

    Here lies the profound, gut-wrenching irony of our time. The very worldview that colonizers spent centuries trying to eradicate is now hailed as the essential wisdom the world needs to survive.

    What our ancestors knew as simple, sacred duty—living in balance with nature, seeing the land as a living ancestor—is now rebranded in Western conference halls as “climate adaptation,” “sustainable development,” and “environmental stewardship.” The spiritual intelligence they called primitive, is now the scientific consensus they urge us to adopt.

    This is the height of hypocrisy. The same systems that plundered the world’s resources, fueled by the very disconnect they enforced upon us, now look to the fragments of our surviving traditions for salvation. They have the audacity to lecture the world on human rights and environmental policy, while their museums overflow with the sacred spoils of their conquest and their economies are built on the exploitation they pioneered.

    We must see this clearly: the call to “save the environment” rings hollow when it comes from institutions that have yet to fully acknowledge or redress their role in destroying it—and in destroying the cultures that best knew how to preserve it.

    The call to action, therefore, is not just about reclaiming stolen artifacts. It is about reclaiming our stolen narrative and our rightful place as holders of critical knowledge. It is a call for a profound reckoning.

    We must reject the mental colonization that tells us our ancestral ways are inferior. The principle of veilomani—mutual care and respect—extends beyond our communities to the living world. This is not a quaint tradition; it is a sophisticated ecological philosophy that has ensured our survival for thousands of years.

    The path forward requires the courage to own the whole history. For the West, this means moving beyond empty apologies and returning not just stolen art, but honouring the stolen wisdom embedded in it. It means supporting Indigenous land rights and sovereignty as the most effective climate action there is.

    For us, it means having that “serious conversation with the image in the mirror.” It means revitalizing our languages and teachings, not as folklore, but as vital frameworks for the future. It means telling our children that Na Kalou na Vanua is not a superstition, but a prophecy—a truth the world is finally, desperately, catching up to.

    Our gods were never lost. They are in the waves, the forests, and the soil. The colonizers taught us to stop seeing them. Now, as the world faces the consequences of that disconnect, they are beginning to look for them. They will find that the answers they seek have always been here, waiting in the land, and in the hearts of the people who never stopped believing it was sacred.

    No justice, no peace. Not just for stolen objects, but for stolen wisdom and a stolen future. It is time for the world to listen to the very voices it once tried to silence.

  • From Coup Maker to Kingmaker: Can Rabuka Cement His Legacy By Stepping Aside?

    As Fiji inches toward the 2026 general elections, our nation stands at a pivotal juncture. The question looming over our political future is not merely about policies or party platforms but about identity: Can a country still haunted by the ghosts of its coups and constitutional crises—embodied in the figures who orchestrated them—truly evolve if it remains chained to the architects of its turbulent past?

    At the heart of this reckoning is Prime Minister Sitiveni Ligamamada Rabuka—a man whose life mirrors Fiji’s jagged political arc. The same hands that orchestrated two coups in 1987 now position him as a reconciler, a bridge-builder in our fractured democracy. Yet to many, especially our youth who make up over 60% of the population, Rabuka embodies a paradox: a figure of division masquerading as a unifier, a relic of the past steering a nation desperate to move forward.

    The TRC: A Reckoning or a Farce?
    Fiji’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) offers a rare chance to confront this paradox. Modeled after South Africa’s post-apartheid process, the TRC’s success hinges not only on Rabuka’s willingness to surrender to transparency but also on the cooperation of Fiji’s entrenched power brokers. At the apex, stands Ratu Naiqama Lalabalavu, the Turaga Tui Cakau, whose influence on Rabuka and traditional Vanua Levu’s chiefly hierarchies (Vanua) looms large.

    Rabuka’s acts of reconciliation—accepting apologies, preaching unity—have been politically shrewd but symbolically shallow. They sidestep the elephant in the room: immunity. The constitutional clauses shielding him and others from prosecution for past coups remain intact, mocking Fiji’s claims to justice. For the TRC to transcend political theater, Rabuka must pair radical accountability with strategic diplomacy.

    Here’s what that courage could look like:

    1. Testify, Don’t Obfuscate: Rabuka must detail his role in the 1987 coups before the TRC—not with vague regret, but with raw honesty about their human toll and democratic vandalism. This would lend credibility to the TRC and signal that no one, not even Chiefs, is above the nation’s truth.
    2. Tear Down the Immunity Shield: As PM, he could lead the charge to scrap coup-related immunity from the constitution. Yes, this risks his own prosecution—but it would dismantle the legal loopholes that incentivize future power grabs.
    3. Resign to Reignite—But Not Without a Plan: After catalyzing these reforms, Rabuka should step down. Yet his exit must be negotiated. To avoid destabilizing the People’s Alliance, he must secure the Tui Cakau’s endorsement of a successor. Only then could he pivot from strongman to statesman, prioritizing Fiji’s future over his foothold in power.

    Why Generational Change Isn’t Optional—But Far From Simple
    Fiji’s demographic reality is impossible to ignore. A youth bulge pulses with energy, digital fluency, and impatience with the cycles of coup and counter-coup. Yet, the political arena remains dominated by figures like Rabuka, whose careers began with guns, not ballots. The PAP’s deputy party leaders and ranks, represent an untapped bridge to this younger electorate. But their rise is eclipsed by Rabuka’s enduring dominance and the “regional kingmakers”, who hold the keys to power.

    The danger of clinging to old-guard leaders is not just ideological; it is existential. Climate change, economic inequality, and technological disruption demand agile, forward-thinking governance. Yet, Fiji’s political transition must also navigate the ambitions of potential PAP successors and their hunger for power.

    2026: Stability or Stagnation?
    Rabuka’s defenders argue that his experience “stabilizes” Fiji’s fragile coalition. But stability without justice is stagnation. The 2026 elections will reveal whether Fiji’s democracy values accountability—or still cowers before the ghosts of its past.

    To win, any successor must reckon with a ‘kingmaker role’, a lesson from Ratu Naiqama’s 2001 CAMV split that left then-PM Laisenia Qarase perpetually indebted. Today, the Tui Cakau’s loyalty to Rabuka is both an asset and a shackle. A smooth transition requires Rabuka to persuade his High Chief to back a reformist successor—someone who can appeal to both traditionalists and the youth.

    Imagine instead: A campaign where parties led by a new generation—unshackled from coup baggage but attuned to regional realities—compete on visions for climate resilience, anti-corruption reforms, and equitable development. Imagine a PAP rejuvenated by fresh leadership, its legacy reshaped not by Rabuka’s past, but by his willingness to broker a future that honors both the Vanua and progress.

    Conclusion: The Redemption Rabuka Still Chases
    History will judge Rabuka not by his ability to cling to power, but by his courage to relinquish it—and to negotiate the terms of his exit. His final act could be the greatest service to Fiji: using his influence to dismantle the systems that once protected him, while ensuring his successor inherits both the mantle of leadership and the support of Fiji’s fractious power blocs.

    The TRC is more than a process; it is a mirror. If Rabuka stares into it unflinchingly—and convinces the Turaga Tui Cakau to peer into it alongside him—he might yet see the statesman he longs to be. If he turns away, history will remember him as the man who could not let go.

    Vinaka vakalevu, Prime Minister. The nation awaits your next move—and the alliances you must forge to make it matter.

    May 13, 2025