Tag: constitution

• The People, Not Procedure, Are Fiji’s Supreme Authority

  The constitutional debate currently gripping our nation has produced a familiar refrain from certain quarters: that the 2013 Constitution can only be changed according to its own internal rules, and that any attempt to do otherwise is legally illegitimate. This argument; however elegant in its formalism, rests on a fundamental error. It confuses the mechanism of constitutional change with the source of constitutional authority. In a democracy, that source is not a document—it is the sovereign people.

  The 2013 Constitution’s Original Sin

  Let us begin with an inconvenient truth that procedural purists prefer to ignore: the 2013 Constitution was never ratified by the Fijian people. It was imposed by decree under a military regime, without parliamentary approval and without any referendum. As one submission to the courts put it, the 2013 Constitution “was imposed and did not embody the will and sovereignty of the people of Fiji.”

  This is not a fringe view. Former Chief Justice Daniel Fatiaki, who now chairs the Electoral Law Reform Commission, has been remarkably candid about the document’s democratic deficits. He has described the electoral system embedded in the 2013 Constitution as “ridiculous and almost unintelligible”—an imported system that “needed to be completely overhauled and replaced.” He has questioned how a nation of almost one million citizens could be “straitjacketed into a single all-embracing constituency,” and where is the “fairness and voter equality” in a system that allows MPs “with a few hundred votes to enter Parliament ahead of other more representative candidates who received thousands of votes?”

  Fatiaki has also been scathing about the broader constitutional order. He has called it a “tragedy” that Fiji was ruled by decrees, noting that “in any democratic government, the laws are made by Parliament for the people,” while “a decree reflects nothing but the authoritarian dictatorship that instituted it.” The 2013 Constitution, in his view, remains a “major constraint” on genuine reform.

  If the document’s own legitimacy is compromised from its inception, on what moral or legal ground can its authors now claim that it must be treated as sacred and unalterable except through its own flawed mechanisms?

  The Primacy of Popular Sovereignty

  The counter-argument to procedural formalism is simple and powerful: constitutions are instruments of the people’s will, not eternal contracts that bind future generations against their consent. The constituent power—the nation itself—is superior to any constituted power, whether that be Parliament or a constitution.

  This is not radical doctrine; it is foundational to democratic theory. When the people of Fiji speak through a referendum, they are exercising their sovereign right to give themselves a new governing framework. The Supreme Court’s August 2025 ruling, which lowered the amendment threshold to a simple majority of votes cast, implicitly recognised this principle. The Court did not entrench the 2013 Constitution; it dismantled barriers to popular expression.

  The “Amendment vs. Replacement” Distinction is Formalism

  Critics argue that the government must clarify whether it is proposing “amendments” or an entirely “new” Constitution, as if the distinction carries decisive legal weight. It does not. A comprehensive amendment is, in substance, a replacement. What matters is not the label but the process: parliamentary approval followed by a referendum where the people have the final say.

  If the people approve a new constitutional order through a free and fair referendum, no court can overturn that decision without placing itself above the sovereign will of the nation. The Supreme Court itself has previously recognised the 1997 Constitution as no longer valid because it was effectively replaced—a precedent that confirms replacement through political and popular fact is entirely possible.

  The Referendum is the Ultimate Check

  Fatiaki has highlighted the absurdity of the old 75% threshold, noting that on a roll of 100,000 voters, a referendum could theoretically fail even if 88% of those who actually turned out voted in favour. The Supreme Court’s intervention to lower this barrier was a recognition that the people’s voice must not be silenced by procedural obstacles.

  Some ask: if a referendum and election are held on the same day, which constitution governs? This is an administrative question, not a fatal legal flaw. Parliament can legislate for the new Constitution to take effect upon certification of the referendum result. The election can be conducted under the existing framework, with the new order coming into force simultaneously. Sequencing is a matter of legislative drafting, not constitutional impossibility.

  Conclusion

  Those who argue that the 2013 Constitution must be treated as a straitjacket—that the people cannot replace what was never given to them—have forgotten the first principle of democratic governance. Authority flows from the people, not from paper.

  Former Chief Justice Fatiaki has spent his career defending the rule of law. But he has also been unflinching in identifying where Fiji’s constitutional order has fallen short of democratic standards. His critique of the 2013 Constitution as imposed, unintelligible, and a constraint on genuine reform lends weight to the argument that the people of Fiji must now have their say—not as a procedural afterthought, but as the sovereign authors of their own constitutional destiny.

  The process is clear: Parliament will deliberate, and the people will decide. That is not a departure from legality. It is the very essence of it.

  2026.07.22

• Caught in the Headlights: Fiji’s Interplay of Sport and State

  As the world hurtles toward Monday’s footballing apotheosis—Lionel Messi’s Argentina facing Lamine Yamal’s Spain in the 2026 World Cup final—we are invited to witness the beautiful passing of a torch. The maestro against his heir apparent. A narrative of continuity, of grace handed down through generations.

  Yet here in Fiji, as we glance from that global spectacle back to our own patch of earth, we see a different story—not of succession, but of paralysis. The Flying Fijians, stunned by Wales and battered by England, now face Scotland in a Rugby Nations Championship clash, that feels less like a redemption arc and more like a diagnostic test for our national psyche. And in the corridors of power, our government must soon weigh the Constitutional Review Commission’s recommendations, the spectre of a referendum, and the urgent pressures of security, social challenges and a spiralling drug epidemic. It appears equally frozen. The metaphor is inescapable: both our rugby team and our political landscape are caught in the headlights, unsure of their next move.

  A genealogical parallel

  This is not mere rhetoric. The exhilaration of the 1987 Rugby World Cup came on the heels of the 1987 coup—two seismic events that, for better or worse, fused sport and politics into our modern consciousness. For many iTaukei, the coup delivered a sense of political vindication; the World Cup, held months later, promised a corresponding triumph on the global stage. That promise evaporated in the cruelest fashion when Severo Koroduadua dropped the ball with the try-line begging against France. It was not just a lost quarter-final; it was a dropped national destiny. That single moment taught us that success is never assured, that even the surest hands can betray the heart.

  Nearly forty years on, Fiji has ascended to Tier I status—a long-sought recognition of our rugby pedigree. Yet the last two weeks have revealed a team that plays not with the free‑flowing bilibili of old, but with the stiff shoulders of men overthinking every pass. They are not being outmuscled; they are being out‑thought, out‑psychologised. They are playing like a nation that has forgotten what it stands for.

  Government, too, in the glare

  This is precisely the condition of our government today. The Constitutional Review Commission will deliver its findings next month, and Cabinet must decide: hold a National Referendum first, amend then hold elections or hold the referendum simultaneously with elections to save money and amend after? These are not technical questions; they are existential. To hold a referendum and amend before elections, may delay elections beyond constitutional mandates. To hold elections and referendum concurrently—then amend afterwards—risks accusations of self‑preservation.

  Meanwhile, inflation gnaws at household budgets, social tensions simmer, and our security agencies are overwhelmed by a growing drugs trade. The government, like our rugby team, possesses the formal tools of power—the players, the policies, the mandate—but is it paralysed by the sheer multiplicity of urgent choices? Every pass is a political minefield; every kick for touch alienates someone.

  The BLV’s bold submission

  Into this fraught space steps the Bose Levu Vakaturaga. Reinstated in 2023 after being disbanded in 2012, the BLV submitted sweeping proposals to the Commission: giving the Council power to appoint the President and Vice‑President, reserving the name “Fijian” exclusively for iTaukei, repealing the secular State clause, deleting references to “gender” and “sexual orientation” from equality provisions, and enshrining the 1874 Deed of Cession within the Constitution. It also calls for stronger legal protections for iTaukei proprietary rights and formal recognition of customary laws and governance structures.

  These proposals have sparked fierce debate. Civil society organisations express grave concern that they could undermine equality and social cohesion. Yet the BLV’s vision is not merely about entrenching privilege. Its advocates argue the institution can provide moral grounding, restorative wisdom and a connection to values predating any written constitution—a stabilising influence that modern democracies, operating on electoral cycles rather than intergenerational timeframes, struggle to supply.

  Two mirrors of indecision

  What makes this cocktail volatile is not that politics and rugby should remain separate—they never have in Fiji—but that we have allowed both arenas to become mirrors of each other’s indecision. In 1987, the coup and the World Cup were emotionally concurrent, but they moved in opposite directions: one was an assertion of will (however divisive), the other a heartbreaking lesson in fragility. Today, both our sport and our state exhibit the same symptom: a loss of narrative.

  The Flying Fijians no longer know whether they are the happy warriors of Oceania or the clinical professionals of Super Rugby and the European circuit. Caught between identities, they play hesitantly, reactively—inviting pressure. Similarly, our political leadership cannot decide whether it is the revolutionary vanguard of indigenous rights, the technocratic manager of a multicultural state, or the broker of a post‑ethnic social contract. Trying to be all three, it becomes none. The BLV’s submission forces this tension into sharp relief: should traditional authority be constitutionally entrenched; as the majority of iTaukei demand, or should the 2013 Constitution’s secular, egalitarian framework—however imperfect—remain paramount?

  A way out of the glare

  Yet paralysis is not permanent—it is transitional. For the rugby team, the answer is not more tactical diagrams but a return to first principles: trust, instinct, and collective responsibility. Argentina’s “wolf pack” ethos is not about individual brilliance; it is about hunting as one, moving not because they see the full field but because they trust the man beside them.

  The government, too, must rediscover its pack mentality. The constitutional question cannot be solved by avoidance; it must be confronted with a clear sequence and transparent rationale. If the people are the ultimate arbiters, then schedule the referendum with a fixed date and let elections follow—not as a threat, but as a natural rhythm. The BLV’s proposals, whatever one thinks of them, deserve open debate, not deferred oblivion. The security, social, and economic pressures will not fade while we deliberate; they will only intensify. Action—even imperfect action—breaks the spell of the headlights.

  The long view

  In the end, Messi and Yamal will give us a spectacle of clarity—two geniuses who know exactly who they are and what they are playing for. Fiji, by contrast, is still writing its own script for this generation and the next. As the BLV’s vision insists—the stewardship of the long view—we must ask whether we are capable of thinking beyond the next electoral cycle or the next rugby fixture.

  The Flying Fijians against Scotland tonight is not merely a rugby match; it is a public rehearsal for national resolve. And the political decisions of the coming months will be the final act of that rehearsal. We have dropped the ball before—in 1987, and in many elections since. But dropping the ball is not the tragedy; the tragedy is refusing to pick it up again.

  Whether on the field or in the parliamentary chamber, Fiji must decide: are we the nation that freezes in the glare, or the one that, squinting against the light, finally steps forward into the unknown? The world watches Messi; Fiji must watch itself. And then, at last, move.

  2026.07.16

• A Bulldozer in Disguise – Rabuka’s Haste Betrays the Court’s Consensus

  An Op-Ed in Saturday 6 September’s Fiji Times

  Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka’s confirmation that a draft Bill to amend the 2013 Constitution is ready for tabling — and that he already has the parliamentary numbers to pass it — should be a moment of democratic triumph. Instead, it feels like a sobering reminder that old political habits die hard. While the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling offered Fiji a rare opportunity to break from its history of top-down constitutional impositions, the government’s hurried approach threatens to reduce this profound judicial guidance to little more than a numbers game in Parliament. What was meant to be a pathway to national consensus risks becoming a political bulldozer in disguise.

  THERE is no denying the significance of the Supreme Court’s opinion. By declaring the previous amendment thresholds — requiring three-quarters of all MPs and three-quarters of registered voters, including non-voters — “unworkable” and reflective of a “democratic deficit,” the court did more than adjust legal technicalities. It repudiated the very philosophy of the 2013 Constitution: That fundamental law could be imposed on the people rather than shaped by them. In their place, the court instituted a new framework: Amendments must now be supported by two-thirds of Parliament and a simple majority in a referendum. This was designed not just to make change possible, but to make it legitimate — rooted in deliberation and popular consent.

  Yet, the Prime Minister’s announcement suggests a preoccupation with the arithmetic of change rather than the spirit of change. Boasting that “I know I have the numbers” and emphasizing parliamentary tactics over participatory process, echoes the very style of politics the Supreme Court’s ruling sought to transcend. It is true that the government’s previous attempt in March, which received 40 votes, would have passed under the new two-thirds threshold (requiring 37 votes). But reducing this profound constitutional moment to a question of vote-counting misses the point entirely. The court’s judgment was an invitation to nation-building, not a green light for political deal-making.

  The government’s approach — fast-tracking a draft Bill through Cabinet and Parliament with what a friend termed “indecent haste”— risks creating a constitutional amendment, that is legal, but not legitimate. The Supreme Court provided a dual requirement: Parliamentary supermajority and a referendum. This two-step process was clearly intended to ensure that amendments are not only negotiated among political elites, but also explained, debated, and ultimately endorsed by the people. By rushing the parliamentary process, the government threatens to treat the referendum as a mere formality — a rubber stamp on a deal already struck in the corridors of power. This would repeat the very “democratic deficit” the court condemned.

  A meaningful process would look very different. It would embrace the court’s ruling as a mandate to foster genuine dialogue across all sectors of society. Before tabling any Bill, the government should initiate an inclusive, transparent, and unhurried national conversation — facilitated by the promised Constitution Review Committee and parliamentary committees — about what changes are needed and why. This is not about delaying justice, but about ensuring that changes are deeply understood and broadly owned by the citizens, who must live under them. A referendum should be the culmination of a educated national debate, not a leap of faith demanded of an uninformed electorate. For the ordinary Fijian, this is not a matter of political point-scoring, but of democratic principle. We have lived through constitutions crafted in secrecy and imposed by decree. We have seen how legalistic compliance without genuine buy-in leads to instability and resentment. The Supreme Court has offered us a way out of this cycle — a chance to replace imposition with conversation, and diktat with consensus. It would be a tragic irony if the government used the court’s ruling to validate a process that remains, in spirit, profoundly at odds with the democratic renewal the judiciary envisioned.

  The Prime Minister is correct about one thing: this is about keeping promises to the people of Fiji. But the most important promise — bigger than any particular amendment — is the promise of a democracy that is truly by and for the people. That means respecting not just the letter of the court’s ruling, but its essence: That lasting change must be built together, with patience, transparency, and respect for the voices of all. The Supreme Court has given us a pathway. It is up to our leaders — and to us — to walk it with integrity, not run through it with haste.

  2025.09.10