For Fiji and the wider Pasifika, the continued adherence to colonial-era formal wear—heavy wool suits, stifling ties, and oppressive judicial robes—is more than a mere sartorial inconvenience; it is a lingering anomaly that demands urgent and conscious re-dress. Our reality is one of sun-drenched islands and humid breezes, a tropical climate that naturally suits lighter, breathable, and culturally resonant garments. Yet, in our halls of power, courtrooms, and corporate offices, we cling to the sartorial legacies of a distant, colder world. This disconnect is not just a matter of physical discomfort but a profound symbolic issue, highlighting a lingering hesitation to fully step into a post-colonial identity that is authentically our own. After more than five decades of independence for many Pasifika nations, it is time to align our professional attire with our environment, our heritage, and our future.
The irony is palpable. Visitors to our shores are quick to embrace the comfort and vibrancy of island-style clothing, often purchasing bula shirts and sulus as cherished souvenirs. Meanwhile, Fijians and Kai Pasifika in formal roles, often swelter in outdated Western ensembles, a visual metaphor for a persistent cultural dissonance. This is not about rejecting global interconnectedness but about questioning why, in the very heart of our own nations, the uniform of authority and professionalism remains one that is fundamentally foreign and physically unsuitable. The question we must ask is: does maintaining these standards truly elevate our professionalism, or does it subtly reinforce an outdated hierarchy that places external norms above our own?
This conversation extends far beyond practicality into the crucial realm of symbolic self-determination. Nowhere is this more evident than in our judicial institutions. The sight of judges and lawyers donning horsehair wigs and thick black robes, designed for the courtrooms and climates of 18th-century Britain, feels less like a respected tradition and more like an uncritical homage to a colonial era. If we are serious about the project of decolonizing minds and institutions, then reimagining these powerful symbols is not a frivolous endeavour—it is essential. These vestments are not neutral; they are potent symbols of a system imposed from without. Reforming them would be a powerful declaration that our justice system is of, for, and by the people of the Pasifika, respectful of its past but not bound by it.
We are not without compelling blueprints for this transition. Nations with similar colonial histories have navigated this path with pragmatism and pride. India, for instance, discarded the impractical wig in the 1960s, recognising its incompatibility with both the climate and the cultural identity of a confident new nation. Kenya followed suit in 2011, abolishing wigs and introducing redesigned judicial robes featuring green and gold accents, the colours of its national flag. Some Kenyan judges even incorporate Maasai-inspired beaded collars into their ceremonial attire. These nations understood that professionalism and dignity are not inextricably linked to European aesthetics. They demonstrated that it is entirely possible to honour the solemnity of an institution, while rooting it in local reality. The question is not can we do this, but why haven’t we?
Critics of such change often argue that Western formalwear conveys “professionalism” in a globalised world and that deviating from this norm might undermine international perception. This argument, however, confuses uniformity for universality. True professionalism is conveyed through conduct, competence, and respect—not through the cut of one’s jacket. Moreover, this perspective risks implicitly devaluing our own cultural expressions. The vibrant, well-tailored bula shirt, the dignified sulu vakataga, and the elegant jaba are not casual wear; they are garments of immense pride, heritage, and inherent dignity. By redefining our standards of formality to include these items, we do not lower our standards—we affirm that our identity holds equal value in spaces of power. We declare that a Kai Pasifika, can be taken seriously while dressed as a Kai Pasifika.
The benefits of such a shift are multifaceted. On a practical level, shedding stifling attire would undoubtedly enhance comfort, productivity, and well-being in our oppressive heat. On an economic level, it would empower local designers, tailors, and textile artisans, fostering an industry centred on Pasifika identity rather than importing foreign suits. Culturally, it would be an act of empowerment, especially for the younger generation, to see their leaders and professionals adorned in garments that reflect a confident, modern Pasifika identity.
The path forward is not one of wholesale rejection, but of thoughtful curation and creative innovation. It requires a national and regional conversation led by cultural stakeholders, designers, climate experts, and professionals from various sectors. The goal is not to impose a rigid, state-mandated uniform—as past attempts with the kala vata (colour-coding) have shown—but to develop organic, widely embraced guidelines, that celebrate our unique position in the world. Imagine a Fijian barrister in a tailored, open-neck sulu vakataga and a black jacket trimmed with traditional masi motifs. Imagine a regional diplomat in a sleek, modernised sulu and a Nehru-style jacket made from breathable local linen. The possibilities are as rich and diverse as our cultures.
For Fiji and the Pasifika to fully step into our post-colonial future, we must dare to dress the part. It is time to consciously curate our professional identity, retaining what serves us and courageously redesigning what does not. Let us build institutions and a society where the dress code is not a relic of a bygone empire, but a reflection of our own sun-kissed, ocean-bound, and culturally vibrant reality. Let’s not just participate in the world; let’s enter it on our own terms, clothed in the confidence of who we are.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 