Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian

A place to share my thoughts and reflections

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  • The Unraveling of a Superpower, in Real Time

    We are witnessing the degradation of a superpower — not through economic collapse or military defeat, but through the deliberate recklessness of its own leader, abetted by a political class that looks away and a billionaire class that profits from the chaos.

    The United States, once the architect of the postwar global order, now governs less like a responsible hegemon and more like a capricious mob boss: demanding tribute, threatening allies, and lashing out at friends and adversaries with equal contempt.

    Donald Trump’s second term has stripped away the last vestiges of statecraft. Strategic calculation has devolved to impulsive provocation; diplomatic nuance has been crushed by instinctive belligerence. The world is left with a disquieting question: is this still the power that once upheld the rule of law, or has it become precisely what that law was designed to contain?

    Consider the tariffs. In his first term, Trump called trade wars “good and easy to win.” In his second, he has escalated them into an indiscriminate economic blitzkrieg against nearly every trading partner — including longstanding allies in Europe, Asia, the Americas and the Pasifika. These are not instruments of statecraft; they are expressions of raw, uninformed nationalism. Even his own advisors privately call them insane.

    They punish American consumers, fracture global supply chains, and erode the very trust that sustains the dollar’s reserve status. Yet the billionaire class applauds. In the wreckage they find fresh arbitrage, new loopholes, and distressed assets to acquire — profiting from the very instability they publicly decry.

    Then there is Iran. The war — launched on dubious pretexts, prosecuted without congressional authorization and justified through ever-shifting narratives — has become the quagmire strategists warned of for decades. But the most chilling revelation is not the war itself; it is the president’s overnight threat to bomb Oman, a Gulf ally that had the temerity to mediate between Tehran and Washington.

    “If Oman gets in the way, we’ll bomb the s— out of them.”

    This is not statecraft; it is hostage diplomacy. The message to every friendly nation is unmistakable: neutrality is treason, mediation is treachery, and even your best efforts to prevent conflict will be met with American ordnance. The United States is no longer a peacemaker; it is an arsonist threatening to incinerate the fire brigade.

    And as if to underscore the portrait of a disoriented giant, Trump has instructed the Pentagon to significantly scale back major military exercises with South Korea—without prior coordination with Seoul, without defined objectives, and without discernible strategic rationale.

    South Korea, a treaty ally that hosts nearly 28,000 American troops, is reduced to a prop in a theatre of dominance. It sends mixed signals to Pyongyang, unsettles regional partners, and transforms a solemn alliance into a transactional gesture. Allies are no longer partners; they are props.

    Taken together, these actions compose a disturbing portrait: a leader who wields tariffs as weapons, war as a hobby, allies as obstacles, and military power as a personal cudgel.

    But this degradation would not be possible without enablers. The political class — Republicans who dutifully fall in line, Democrats who offer only tepid resistance — has abdicated its constitutional duty to check executive overreach. The billionaires who orbit the president, from tech moguls to hedge fund managers, see in his chaos an opportunity to dismantle regulations, lower taxes, and acquire weakened rivals. They are not victims of this decay; they are its primary beneficiaries.

    America’s soft power — the influence derived from example, from values, from reliability — is evaporating. When the president threatens to bomb a mediator, the world learns that American commitments are worthless. When tariffs are imposed on friends, the world learns that American markets are untrustworthy. When exercises are curtailed on a whim, the world learns that American alliances are negotiable.

    The tragedy is that this decay is entirely self-inflicted. No foreign adversary has defeated the United States; it is hollowing itself out from within.

    History will record this period as a long, slow surrender — to narcissism, to shortsightedness, to the delusion that power is an end in itself. And as the world looks on, it is already making other arrangements: diversifying reserve currencies, forging new partnerships, hedging against a superpower that has become a liability. As China rises, that hedging accelerates.

    The degradation is undeniable. The question is whether the American people — and the institutions they once trusted — can awaken before the superpower becomes a cautionary tale for the ages. Because once the world ceases to believe in American leadership, no bomb, no tariff, and no military parade will ever bring that faith back.

  • The Bipolar Nation: Israel’s Manic Reality and Depressive Spin

    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.

  • The Art of Losing: Sun Tzu’s Warning for a Region at War

    Imagine the ancient strategist, scroll in hand, peering over a map of the modern Levant and West Asia. Sun Tzu would not be impressed by satellite imagery or precision-guided munitions. He would be horrified by the calendar. In his view, time is the deadliest weapon—and it is the one currently being wielded against every major player in this conflict.

    Consider the Iranian theater. What began as a gambit for “decapitation”—the coordinated strikes on nuclear infrastructure and the elimination of Supreme Leader Khamenei—was meant to be a thunderbolt. Yet five months later, nearly 30,000 sorties have failed to deliver the knockout blow. Instead, Iran’s missile production has mysteriously rebounded, and the closure of the Hormuz Strait is impacting a global economy already gasping for air. The strategic objective has quietly morphed from “regime change” to the far more modest goal of merely “reopening the strait.” This is the classic pathology of prolonged war: when the price of victory doubles, the definition of victory halves. America and Israel are no longer fighting to win; they are fighting to stop losing worse.

    Then we turn to Gaza, where the quicksand is deepest. On paper, the IDF has accomplished what militaries are supposed to do—tunnels destroyed, commanders eliminated. But insurgencies do not obey paper. Every fallen militant is replaced by a brother or a son, radicalized not by ideology, but by the rubble of his own home. The deeper wound, however, lies outside the battlefield. Israel is bleeding diplomatic capital at a rate that no ally can replenish. Global public opinion has shifted seismically, and the very alliances that guarantee Israel’s long-term survival are fraying. Sun Tzu taught that the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting—not out of mercy, but out of pragmatism. A victory that costs you your international legitimacy and drains your reserves is not a victory; it is a pyrrhic lease on temporary security.

    But it is the latest front—the West Bank—that troubles me most. Opening a second internal front while the IDF is already overstretched is not a military move; it is a strategic confession. The West Bank is not Gaza. It is a densely woven tapestry of civilian life and fragile governance, where people are watching their neighbors in the strip and drawing their own conclusions. By expanding operations there, Israel risks converting passive non-combatants into active fighters, extending the conflict indefinitely. Sun Tzu explicitly warned against besieging walled cities without a clear exit strategy; doing so while simultaneously fighting in Gaza and monitoring a volatile Iran is the strategic equivalent of bleeding out from a dozen small cuts.

    What haunts me about this moment is the collective refusal to admit the arithmetic. No nation—not the United States, not Israel, not Iran—is emerging from this triangle stronger than when it entered. Treasuries are emptier, arsenals are thinner, reputations are tarnished, and the next generation of adversaries is being forged in the very fires meant to destroy the current one.

    Sun Tzu’s greatest lesson was never about how to fight well—it was about knowing when not to. Victory is only valuable if you have a kingdom left to rule when the dust settles. Today, in Gaza, the West Bank, and across the Persian Gulf, everyone is winning the tactical battles. But step back, look at the horizon, and ask honestly: who is winning the war?

    The silence, me thinks, is the answer.

  • Déjà Vu and the Great Fijian ATM

    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.

  • Forwood’s Folly – If You Want an Appeal, Fund It Yourself. Fiji’s Taxpayers Are Clocking Out.

    The High Court has spoken. Justice Dane Tuiquereqre didn’t merely quash a report; he reaffirmed a fundamental pillar of our fragile democracy: natural justice. Yet, from down south, commentator Alexandra Forwood brands this ruling “a whole lot of bullshit” and demands that President Ratu Naiqama Lalabalavu and Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka rush to the Court of Appeal.

    With all due respect, Ms. Forwood—who exactly is going to pay for this next installment of political theatre?

    Let’s be brutally honest. The previous government muddied the separation of powers so thoroughly that we forgot what a clean judiciary looked like. Now, for the first time in years, we have a judicial branch speaking with clarity and independence—striking down an inquiry precisely because it breached the very rules of fairness it was supposed to uphold. To appeal this ruling is to tell our judges: “We don’t like your conclusion, so we’ll keep burning taxpayers’ money until we get the verdict we want.” That isn’t justice; that is authoritarian stubbornness wearing a legal gown.

    We have already torched over $6 million; according to some estimates, on this Commission of Inquiry—and it went absolutely nowhere. The genesis of this saga produced zero convictions, zero policy wins, and zero closure. It produced only a High Court ruling that slapped down the entire process for procedural illegality.

    And now Ms. Forwood wants an encore?

    Taxpayers are in no mood to entertain more wastage. While Suva’s legal elite obsess over who colluded with whom, our maritime provinces are crying out for basics. Imagine what $6 million—let alone the additional millions an appeal would cost—could buy for Kadavu, Lau, Lomaiviti, and Vanua Levu: desalination plants for drought-stricken villages, proper transport vessels for medical staff, upgraded nursing stations, government facilities, or solar grids to cut diesel dependency. Every dollar poured into this political witch hunt is a dollar that isn’t helping ordinary Fijians.

    So here is my challenge to Ms. Forwood and the Government: Set up a GoFundMe.

    If you genuinely believe this appeal is so critical to your cause—because it certainly isn’t critical to Fiji’s—then put your money where your mouth is. Rally your international backers, business partners, and supporters. Let private donors—not struggling fishermen or sugarcane farmers—bankroll your selfish legal crusade. Taxpayers are in no mood to hand over one more cent to chase a phantom.

    Let the Government accept the High Court’s wisdom. Let the rule of law breathe. And let those who still thirst for this fight reach into their own pockets—it is the only morally and ethically defensible path forward.

    End the saga. Respect the bench. And Ms. Forwood—show us the receipt for your donation before you ask for ours.

  • You Have the Watch, But I Have the Time

    A concerned citizen captured it perfectly: The bus driver timing the lights in Suva, lunging forward while the signal is still red. The taxi honking before green even flickers. The overtaker on Ovalau’s narrow coastal road, speeding past serene villages, forcing oncoming traffic to swerve—while the Pasifika glistens quietly on one side and children play on the other.

    Her question haunts me: Where are you rushing to? Was there a tuna sale at PAFCO?

    It’s funny. It’s also deadly serious.

    Fiji prides itself on island time—that unhurried rhythm we hold up as our cultural signature. We take it slow with laughter, with talanoa, with Sunday afternoon naps and funeral kava sessions that stretch into the night. We joke about being late to a family gathering or showing up an hour past the scheduled wedding start. Yet on our roads, we transform into sprinters. We shave seconds off red lights, we overtake on blind corners, we treat 60 km/h signs in places like Pacific Harbour, as polite recommendations. We become people we wouldn’t recognise at a village gathering—impatient, aggressive, reckless.

    Why this contradiction?

    It’s not just about being late. It’s about ego—the subconscious belief that the rules apply to others, not me. It’s about the illusion that those two seconds saved will somehow matter in the grand story of our day. It’s about the lie we tell ourselves: I’m a good driver. I’ll be fine. And worst of all: It won’t happen to me.

    But the morgue at Colonial War Memorial doesn’t care about your hurry. Thirty-one families this year already know that. And as the concerned citizen reminded us, many of those deaths happen not on highways but on rural roads, in urban intersections, in places where pedestrians and schoolchildren and elderly couples are just going about their lives.

    Our infrastructure doesn’t help. In Suva and Nadi, traffic lights are often treated as suggestions. In Nadi, they flicker or fail entirely. On Ovalau, you’ve got beautiful scenery on one side and sheer drop on the other, with barely enough room for two cars to pass. Add speeding drivers, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. But while we wait for better roads and working lights—which will take years—we have choices we can make today.

    There’s an old saying that guides me: “You have the watch, but I have the time.”

    Think about that. The watch is mechanical—ticking, relentless, demanding. It measures microseconds. It stresses. It says hurry. But time is human—flowing, forgiving, patient. It bends around laughter, around farewells, around the extra minute you take to let someone cross the road safely. When we drive, we surrender to the watch. We race against numbers on a dashboard. We forget that time itself will always be there, waiting for us—if we arrive alive.

    Imagine if every driver paused. Took a breath. Let the bus go. Let the car pass when it’s safe. Left five minutes earlier so there’s no need to race. Told themselves: I am not late for God. I am just going to the shop. The Rewa Milk will still be there.

    And passengers—this is where you come in. Too often, we sit silently even when our hearts are pounding. We don’t want to offend the driver. We don’t want to seem dramatic. But that silence is collusion. If your driver is speeding, tailgating, weaving, or running reds—speak up. Say, “We’ll get there. Slow down.” Say, “I’m not comfortable.” Say, “Pull over if you’re tired.” It’s not weakness; it’s wisdom. It’s love for your own life and for theirs.

    Some will say we need more mobile speed cameras, higher fines, road humps, stricter vehicle inspections. And yes, absolutely—do all of it. But no camera can cure arrogance. No fine can reach into a driver’s heart and remind them of their grandchildren waiting at home. That work is internal. It’s personal. It’s each of us deciding, every time we turn the key, that we are not more important than everyone else sharing the road.

    We are a laid-back people by reputation. Let’s live up to it—behind the wheel, not just in our living room.

    So next time you’re driving, remember: the watch says you’re late. But time says you’re still breathing. Choose time. Choose life. Arrive a minute later, but arrive whole.

    And if you see me on the road—kerekere give way to this child of the universe. I’m not rushing. I’m enjoying the view. I’ll get there when I get there.

    And so will you.

  • Trump’s Double Defeat—And the New Axis Rising in Its Wake

    Look at these two screenshots below side-by-side, and you witness the unraveling of American regional diplomacy in real-time. One headline this morning, from the Washington Post, captures a defiant ally. The other, from the New York Times, captures an emboldened adversary. Yet the most profound message lies not in what the US is losing—but in what the region is building to replace it, and who is filling the vacuum.

    Consider Gaza first. The WaPo image tells us Netanyahu has publicly shredded the president’s prized “Board of Peace” plan. “Israel does not accept the 15-point document,” the prime minister declared, rejecting simultaneous Hamas disarmament and Israeli withdrawal. For a president who markets himself as the ultimate dealmaker, this is mutiny. If Washington cannot compel its closest regional ally to sign off on its own blueprint, trust in US guarantees evaporates.

    Now flip to the Hormuz Strait. The NY Times screenshot exposes Iran’s calculated leverage. Tehran is “holding firm,” using geography to force Washington back toward a June framework—conceding on frozen assets, sanctions, and naval blockades just to get oil flowing. The US is not leading; it is being herded toward terms it previously resisted. This is not brinkmanship; it is a masterclass in exploiting American retreat.

    Enter the Trilateral Hedge

    This is precisely where the new Pakistan-Saudi Arabia-Türkiye agreement enters the frame. Announced amid these very crises, this trilateral security and economic pact is the region’s explicit vote of no confidence in American reliability. Riyadh, deeply unsettled by Washington’s impotence in both Gaza and the Gulf, is actively diversifying its defense partnerships. Ankara sees a chance to lead a Sunni-consortium independent of NATO constraints. Islamabad gains strategic depth and economic corridors, beyond its traditional Gulf patrons.

    This axis is not merely symbolic. It encompasses joint military production, intelligence-sharing, and alternative trade routes—directly challenging the US-centric security architecture. But here is the irony: while this pact is partly designed to counterbalance Iran, it simultaneously signals to Tehran that the US is no longer the sole gatekeeper. Iran watches these developments with quiet satisfaction. The very act of Riyadh hedging its bets weakens the anti-Iran coalition, giving Tehran more room to maneuver.

    Iran: The Silent Victor

    In this post-American West Asia, Iran emerges as the primary beneficiary. Without US naval dominance in the Strait, Tehran’s leverage multiplies. Without US diplomatic credibility in Gaza, Iran’s proxies gain legitimacy. And without a unified Sunni bloc anchored by Washington, Iran’s détente with Saudi Arabia becomes not a concession but a strategic triumph—a recognition of Iranian parity. The trilateral pact, far from containing Iran, inadvertently acknowledges that the region’s future will be negotiated with Tehran, not against it.

    Taken together, the dual crises and the emerging counter-alliance deliver a devastating verdict. In the Levant, the US is impotent. In the Gulf, it is reactive. In the broader Islamic corridor, it is being bypassed. And in Tehran, the Mullahs are watching with glee—their nuclear program advances, their proxies thrive, and their economic pain becomes Washington’s bargaining chip.

    This is no longer about Trump’s “maximum pressure” or dealmaking legacy. It is about structural decline. The screenshots are not just daily news; they are diplomatic obituaries. The US is neither the arbitrator of Israeli policy, nor the enforcer of maritime order, nor the indispensable partner it once was. In this new West Asia, adversaries set terms, allies act unilaterally, middle powers forge their own security arrangements, and Iran stands tallest among the ruins. Washington is left to pick up the pieces—ahead of the mid term elections.

  • The Pasifika Way is not a Procedural Hurdle – It Is Who We Are

    The Pacific Islands Forum Foreign Ministers Meeting in Suva last Friday was meant to set the agenda for the Leaders’ Meeting in Palau later this month. Instead, it exposed a fundamental divide – not between Pasifika nations, but between how we see ourselves and how some of our partners see us.

    When foreign ministers failed to agree on a joint statement condemning China’s July missile test into Pasifika waters, New Zealand’s Winston Peters was visibly frustrated. He told media that some Pasifika nations were using the consensus system because they were “more concerned with external partners’ wishes than those that belong to the Pacific Islands Forum” – a position he described as an “unusual view”.

    Let me be direct: there is nothing “unusual” about it.

    What is unusual is a visiting foreign minister lecturing sovereign Pasifika nations on how they should conduct their regional diplomacy. What is unusual is demanding that small island states fall in line with a strategic narrative that serves the interests of larger powers, not our own.

    The Pasifika Way is not a procedure – it is our identity

    The Pasifika Way was first articulated by one of our greatest regional leaders, the late Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara, Fiji’s first Prime Minister. Coined in the early 1970s, it came to symbolise a way of doing things specific to our islands: a way that emphasised moderation, respect, consensual dialogue, inclusiveness, adaptation and compromise.

    Ratu Mara conceptualised the true meaning of this phrase, representing the uniqueness of our island nations and their shared interests. The Pasifika Way is rooted in traditional values – the same values enshrined in the Fijian phrase “Me Dua Vata Tiko na Keda i Vau” – a sentiment that has a prominent place in the Vale Ni Bose Levu Vakaturaga, in Draiba, Suva.

    This is not merely a diplomatic procedure. It is who we are. It is how we have governed ourselves for generations – through consensus, through respect, through the understanding that unity is found not in forcing agreement but in patiently building it.

    Unlike the United Nations where you vote, the Forum operates on the basis of consensus – “just like in a BLV meeting”. The 2050 Strategy for the Blue Pasifika Continent describes this as “consensus-based decision making, whilst respecting sovereignty and the principle of non-interference in national affairs”.

    When consensus is mistaken for obstruction

    Kiribati and Naoero opposed a strong statement condemning the missile testing. Peters wanted them to fall in line. When they didn’t, he accused them of appeasing outsiders.

    But here is what Peters fails to understand: in the Pasifika Way, consensus is not a hurdle to be overcome. It is the destination. The process of dialogue, of listening, of finding common ground – that is what holds Pasifika island states together.

    Forum Secretary General Baron Divavesi Waqa rejected suggestions that any country had blocked the statement. He said countries had put forward their sovereign positions and ministers were working through those differences according to the Pasifika Way of dialogue and consensus. Solomon Islands Foreign Minister Rick Houenipwela, who chaired the meeting, stressed that Pasifika unity does not mean every member must hold the same position. He said the Pasifika Way requires countries to listen to each other’s national circumstances and perspectives and work towards positions reflecting the collective interests of the region.

    When a nation exercises its sovereign right to withhold consensus, it is not “blocking” anything. It is participating in the very process that makes the Forum legitimate.

    Some governments have rightly pointed out that China is not the only country testing nuclear-capable missiles in the Pasifika – the United States regularly conducts tests into the Marshall Islands. That complexity, that nuance, is precisely why the Pasifika Way matters. It allows space for all perspectives to be heard, rather than imposing a single narrative convenient to one partner’s strategic interests.

    The “unusual view” that isn’t unusual at all

    The Pasifika Way is not about choosing sides. It is about maintaining relationships with all powers, because our national interests require engagement with all who contribute to our security and development.

    For small Pasifika states, the calculation is different:

    · We need security partnerships – Australia and New Zealand offer the most credible.

    · We need economic partnerships – China offers significant investment.

    · We need to navigate between giants – and that requires skill, not alignment.

    When Kiribati and Naoero withheld consensus, they were not betraying the region. They were protecting their sovereign right to determine their own relationships, in their own time, on their own terms. That is not “unusual”. That is the Pasifika Way in action.

    A lesson for our partners

    Among the discussion points at last Friday’s meeting was the Solomon Islands’ proposal for a regional security treaty – an “umbrella” on top of existing non-binding regional MOUs. The proposal is understood to require more consultation.

    If our partners want to engage constructively on such proposals, they must first understand how we make decisions. The Pasifika Way is not a procedural technicality. It is the expression of our sovereignty, our unity, and our distinct identity as Pasifika peoples.

    Ratu Mara understood this. He built the Pacific Islands Forum on these principles. The late leader emphasised the importance of vuvale, the Pasifika Way, consensus and talanoa. Those values have served our region well for decades.

    Perhaps it is time for our partners from down south, to study them more carefully – before they dismiss as “unusual” what we know to be the very foundation of our regional family.

  • Beyond the Union Jack: Reclaiming Our Fijian Soul

    In a quiet act of reclamation, the Pasifika nation of Nauru returns to its linguistic soul. Now the Republic of Naoero, its new name sheds the foreign tongue’s ease for the cadence of its own speech. Its people will be Dei-Naoero—not Nauruans—and even its postal code shifts, a small but profound signal. Like Türkiye and Eswatini, this is more than rebranding; it is dignity etched into letters. I admire Dei-Naoero for this courage. To rename oneself is to remember, and in remembering, to stand a little taller.

    The Fiji flag, a serene blue field with the Union Jack ensconced in its corner, is a picture of politeness. It is a visual apology; a quiet nod to a past that, on paper, ended over half a century ago. But as we navigate the complexities of the 21st century, that small, persistent symbol in our corner whispers a larger, more insidious truth: we are still clutching the relics of a colonial mindset, not just in our deeds, but in our very definition of ourselves.

    To question the flag is not to be unpatriotic; it is to be honest. It is to ask why the image of a distant monarch must be our national imprimatur. We have swapped the war club for the memorandum, the colonial government for a democratic one, yet the underlying architecture of power and perception remains a colonial blueprint. We have been conditioned to believe that our value must be validated by an external, often Western, yardstick. We import governance models that don’t fit our communal foundations, measure our economic success by GDP metrics designed for industrial nations, and consume a globalized culture that drowns out our own indigenous narratives.

    This mindset is evident in our institutional thinking. Our education system, for years, prioritized a curriculum that felt more at home in London than in Levuka. We are taught to aspire to the comfort and order of a foreign standard, often at the expense of understanding our own intricate socio-cultural tapestry. Our economic policies; historically geared towards monoculture exports, reflect a system designed for the Empire’s convenience, not for the resilience of our islands. We continue to be “Fiji glad”—content, or at least quiet, in a system that encourages us to be passive recipients rather than active architects of our destiny. Yet we have more educated Fijians than ever before in more than half a century—a resource we squander when we continue to look outward for validation.

    But the most profound colonisation is of the mind. It is the internalized voice that tells us our iTaukei traditions are quaint but not modern, that our Hindi is a language of the home but not of the boardroom. It is the subtle, unspoken hierarchy that still sees “overseas experience” as the ultimate qualification, placing a foreign passport on a pedestal. We perpetuate this in our actions when we favor international consultants over local knowledge, and in our words when we default to a belief that “they” know better.

    Nauru’s courage reminds us that renaming is remembering. To change our flag is to begin the arduous work of decolonizing our own minds. It is a declaration that we are not the leftover of an empire, but the centre of our own universe. It is acknowledging that our strength lies in our Vanua, in the collective wisdom of our Chiefs, in the resilience of our multi-ethnic communities, and in the vast ocean that connects us, not the one that separates us.

    It is time to sever the final symbolic tether. Let us design a flag that speaks of our sunrise, not a foreign sunset. Let us stand a little taller, as Dei-Naoero has shown us. Because until the symbol in our corner changes, the mindset in our heads will never truly be free.

  • The Art of Reading Between the Lines: A Lesson in Critical Thinking

    The Washington Post recently published a story about President Donald Trump’s frustration with Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth over munitions shortages affecting military options with Iran. Within hours, Trump had labeled the leaks “treasonous” while simultaneously praising Hegseth’s performance. The whiplash is almost dizzying.

    But here’s what caught my attention: We all know who owns the Washington Post and his unequivocal support for Trump. So let’s apply some critical thinking. Are we to believe that Hegseth would genuinely stand up to Trump? Unlikely. Are we to believe that Hegseth blamed his deputy instead? You bet.

    This brings me back to a lesson I learned many years ago at boarding school at Matavatucou. A younger but already wise Murray Heasley, told our class something that has stuck with me ever since: “90% of what you read in the papers is BS.” We didn’t have television back then, but the principle remains unchanged. This is how the rich and powerful shape our thinking.

    And yet, 90% of us will believe what we read and the news stories we’re fed, without critically thinking through the information presented to us.

    The Danger of Consuming Without Questioning

    Today, we find ourselves on the cusp of another four-year election cycle in Fiji. Every day, we’re being fed a heavy dose of party propaganda—from all sides. The newspapers, social media feeds, and eventually, television broadcasts are saturated with political messaging designed to influence, persuade, and sometimes manipulate.

    Our responsibility as citizens has never been more critical. We must sift through the noise, question what we watch and read, and demand satisfaction before forming our opinions.

    When candidates come through our communities during their campaigns, we must ask the hard questions. Not the softballs that allow them to recite rehearsed talking points, but the uncomfortable inquiries that reveal their true character and convictions.

    The Question That Demands an Answer

    Consider this: For those who started in this Parliament as opposition Fiji First candidates and are now being considered for other parties—why did you back the decrees that abolished the Bose Levu Vakaturaga and tried to erase the very existence of the iTaukei?

    This isn’t a question meant to trap or embarrass. It’s a fundamental inquiry about principles, consistency, and accountability. If you supported measures that undermined indigenous institutions and identity yesterday, what has changed today? Or more troublingly, were you simply following orders then, and following different orders now?

    The Bose Levu Vakaturaga wasn’t just an institution—it was a cornerstone of iTaukei identity and governance. Its abolition represented a profound shift in Fiji’s social and political fabric. Those who supported its dissolution must explain their reasoning then and justify their current positions now.

    The Responsibility of the Voter

    In the coming months, we will be bombarded with promises, accusations, and emotional appeals. Some will be genuine; many will be calculated. The difference between the two often lies in the details we overlook in our eagerness to support our preferred candidates.

    Murray Heasley’s lesson wasn’t about cynicism—it was about empowerment. The 90% that might be “BS” isn’t an excuse to disengage; it’s a reason to engage more deeply, to read more carefully, and to question more persistently.

    As we approach our elections, let’s commit to being citizens who think critically, who demand accountability, and who refuse to accept surface-level answers to complex questions. Let’s be the voters who remember what was said—and what was done—years ago, and who hold our leaders accountable for their entire record, not just their most recent press release.

    The power of democracy doesn’t lie in the act of voting alone. It lies in the informed judgment we bring to the ballot box. And that judgment requires us to look beyond the headlines, beyond the propaganda, and beyond the carefully crafted narratives designed to shape our thinking.

    90% may be BS. But the 10% that matters—the truth we uncover through critical thinking—that’s what will determine Fiji’s future.

    The choice is ours. Let’s choose wisely.