Tag: history

• The Covenant We Cannot Set Aside

  Yadra vinaka Nirmal Singh Cheema,

  I rarely respond to social media, but your post warrants an iTaukei perspective.

  I read it with respect. Your appeal for equal dignity, accountability, and a Fiji where no citizen feels inferior is sincere and morally serious. Many iTaukei share that aspiration.

  Yet your argument is framed in civic-nationalist terms, leaving little room for Fiji’s indigenous foundations. Perhaps that explains the silence of iTaukei. Silence is not agreement. It may reflect a feeling that our history, identity and relationship with land are missing.

  Your comparison with India is unconvincing. India’s princely states were not Fiji’s chiefly confederacies. Our chiefs represented the vanua — a living relationship between land, people, ancestry, custom and spiritual obligation, not property.

  The Deed of Cession was not a commercial transaction but an agreement between chiefs and the Crown, carrying reciprocal obligations to protect our people, land and customs. Native land was not extinguished. Over 90 per cent of Fiji remains under customary iTaukei ownership. Independence in 1970 did not erase this history. For iTaukei, the modern state’s legitimacy cannot be separated from that inheritance.

  You argue Fiji belongs to all its citizens. In the civic sense, yes. But shared citizenship does not make every claim identical. For iTaukei, land is not merely property. It is ancestry, identity, kinship and spiritual continuity. Our deeper anxiety is cultural and political displacement: the fear of becoming just another ethnic community in our own homeland, expected to relinquish our distinctive place.

  Your call for accountability is legitimate. No institution should be beyond scrutiny. But the BLV is not simply another influential body. It represents the traditional apex of iTaukei leadership and our connection to the vanua. Its removal from the 2013 Constitution was experienced not as reform but as a repudiation of our place in the national order. Its restoration affirms identity, continuity and indigenous dignity.

  You rightly argue that tradition must serve the people. But accountability is not subordination to a civic state whose legitimacy is defined without indigenous history. For iTaukei, tradition is part of the foundation upon which the state rests.

  Chiefly authority is not autocracy. A chief’s standing depends on relationships, service and the confidence of the people. Threats of violence must be condemned, but individual statements should not define the BLV as a whole.

  Your account of Indo-Fijian suffering during the 1987 and 2000 coups is powerful. That suffering was real and deserves acknowledgement. But the iTaukei experience must also be acknowledged. Those coups were justified as indigenous protection, yet many iTaukei ask what they gained. The consequences included weakened institutions, damaged investor confidence, fractured communities and diminished trust. Fears about land, identity and political security were real, even when elites exploited them.

  Your question — “What had we done to deserve this?” — is understandable. But another deserves equal consideration: “What have we gained?” Fiji cannot move beyond competing grievances without confronting both honestly.

  Your appeal for equal citizenship is noble. The difficulty arises when indigenous rights are presented as privileges balanced against equality. Protections for iTaukei land, culture and traditional institutions are not concessions granted by the state. They arise from a prior relationship with land and historical commitments inherited by governments. Recognising these rights need not diminish the dignity of other citizens. Equality does not always require identical treatment where histories and obligations differ.

  Your strongest observations concern iTaukei families struggling with poverty, housing, education and opportunity. These are central tests of whether indigenous institutions are fulfilling their responsibilities. Tradition must not excuse inequality within iTaukei society, just as indigenous rights must not justify inequality between citizens.

  But your argument risks alienating iTaukei when it treats tradition and indigenous institutions principally as obstacles to overcome. A shared future cannot be built by asking one people to set aside the foundations of their identity to prove national loyalty.

  The choice before Fiji is not between indigenous recognition and equal citizenship. It is whether we can build equal citizenship on a foundation that acknowledges our history, honours the iTaukei and protects the rights of every citizen.

  The covenant cannot be set aside simply because the language of modern citizenship has changed. Nor should it be invoked to deny the legitimate aspirations of other communities. It must remain a shared responsibility: to protect the vanua, uphold the dignity of all citizens, and ensure neither history nor equality is weaponised against the other.

  This is not a rejection of your vision for Fiji, Nirmal. It is an invitation to build upon an understanding of history — not only the citizenship we share today, but also the covenant from which our nationhood emerged.

  2026.10.12

• The Age Question: Fiji’s Gerontocracy and the Limits of Constitutional Reform

  Introduction: A Constitution That Exempts Its Author

  Just last month, Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka told a PINA summit that the proposed 2026 Constitution would disallow him from standing in the next election. He is 78 years old, has already served two non-consecutive terms as PM, and the CRC recommended a retirement age of 75 and a strict two-term limit for the office he holds. Under those proposals, Rabuka would be doubly disqualified—by age and by term count.

  Yet the Constitution (Amendment) Bill 2026, tabled by Rabuka’s own government, omits both limits for the PM. Under section 112, the only eligibility requirement is that the PM must be a member of the House of Representatives. The provisions “do not prescribe a maximum age or restrict the number of terms a person may serve.”

  This is the central paradox of our constitutional moment. A PM who acknowledges that age and term limits would rule him out has tabled a Bill that ensures they will not. The question is not whether Fiji needs age limits—the CRC and ordinary citizens have already answered that. The question is whether our political class will ever bind itself to the same standards it sets for others.

  The CRC’s Proposals: A Mandate for Renewal

  The CRC did not invent the age question. It inherited it from a public weary of a political architecture dominated by the elderly. It recommended that the PM serve no more than two four-year terms and retire at 75. These were not arbitrary numbers. They emerged from nationwide consultations in which citizens explicitly linked political leadership to the demographic realities of a nation whose median age is 28.

  The CRC’s proposals are “laudable elements” that provided democratic and accountability safeguards. Their removal from the Bill is a “significant downgrade.” The CRC did its work. Our political class simply refused to accept their findings.

  Rabuka’s Personal Stake: The Incumbent as Beneficiary

  The omission of PM limits is not abstract. It is personal. Rabuka turned 78 this year. He has already served twice as PM. He has publicly stated that he personally believes a two-term limit is “a good provision.” He has acknowledged that the CRC’s proposals would rule him out. Yet the Bill he tabled ensures he can seek another term.

  Rabuka has invoked the 2013 Constitution’s anti-discrimination clause on grounds of “health, age and other factors” to argue that age caps may be unconstitutional. This is legally defensible. But it sits awkwardly alongside his stated personal support for term limits—and his own admission that the CRC proposals would bar him. A PM who says one thing and legislates another has made the age question not just a matter of policy, but of credibility.

  A Wider Pattern: The Opposition Is Not Immune

  The gerontocracy problem transcends party lines. Former Prime Minister Mahendra Chaudhry, now in his eighties, continues to lead the Fiji Labour Party—a party founded on the principles of workers’ rights and generational renewal. Chaudhry first became Prime Minister in 1999, more than a quarter-century ago. His continued leadership illustrates that the culture of indefinite incumbency, is not confined to the governing coalition. It is a structural feature of our politics that that is perpetuated.

  This matters because it undermines the comforting narrative that age limits are a partisan issue—a tool for the opposition to constrain the government. In reality, the political class as a whole has demonstrated a reluctance to relinquish power. The FLP, which once represented the dispossessed, now mirrors the same gerontocratic tendencies it once opposed. If the opposition cannot renew itself, how can it credibly demand renewal from the government?

  The Missing Conversation: Term Limits for MPs

  While the CRC addressed the PM’s tenure, it remained silent on term limits for ordinary MPs. This is a critical omission. If the goal is genuine generational renewal, capping the PM alone is insufficient. A political culture that allows indefinite incumbency at the backbench level perpetuates the same culture of waiting that frustrates young aspirants.

  Consider the practical reality: a politician can serve as an MP for decades, accumulating wealth, seniority and patronage without ever facing the prospect of forced retirement. This entrenches incumbency advantage and makes it nearly impossible for new entrants to compete. A three-term limit for MPs—whether consecutive or lifetime—would create regular openings, ensuring that Parliament remains responsive to the demographic realities of our nation.

  This proposal is not without precedent. The National Youth Council has called for four dedicated youth seats and 30 per cent youth representation within party structures. But reserved seats are a palliative. Term limits for MPs would be a structural remedy, ensuring that power circulates rather than accumulates. It is a conversation we must have, even if the CRC chose not to initiate it.

  Public Opinion: A Citizenry Ahead of Its Leaders

  The public has been clear. The National Youth Council’s Ms Laisani Sapo, called for retirement age rules for politicians similar to those for civil servants, who retire at 60. “There should be fairness in public office as well since ordinary civil servants work until 60 before they have to retire,” she said.

  Navua resident Nimesh Sharma told the CRC that while most workers retire around 60, politicians continue contesting elections into their 60s and beyond. He proposed a maximum age limit of 65 for elected office.

  These are not radical demands. And they have been consistently ignored by a political class that prefers to discuss limits in principle while refusing to enact them in practice.

  The Counterarguments: Age as a Blunt Instrument

  The case against age limits is not without merit. An analyst argued that “leadership should not be judged by age alone,” noting that experienced politicians understand campaigning and strategy developed over years. A retirement age of 75 is arbitrary—it would bar a sharp, healthy 84-year-old while potentially permitting a declining 74-year-old.

  Unity Fiji leader Savenaca Narube, who is in his early 70s, opposes term limits entirely, saying “I do not see any reason why a term for a PM… to be limited at all.”

  These are legitimate concerns. But they miss the structural point. The problem is not that individual older politicians are unfit. The problem is that indefinite incumbency creates a culture of waiting—a culture in which younger politicians are told to serve their time, to angle for favour, to wait for old men to step aside. Age limits are not a judgment on individual capacity. They are a structural mechanism for forced renewal.

  The Deeper Problem: Rules Without Enforcement

  The most important lesson of our constitutional moment is not that age limits are desirable. It is that written rules mean little if our political class refuses to be bound by them. The CRC recommended limits. The public supports limits. The PM says he personally supports limits. But the Bill omits limits.

  This is not a failure of constitutional design. It is a failure of political will. You can write any rule into a constitution. But if the people who hold power are the same people the rule would constrain, the rule will not be enacted—or if enacted, will not be enforced.

  The ultimate test of any age limit proposal is not whether it can be written into law. It is whether it can be enforced against the interests of those who currently hold power. Until our political class demonstrates a genuine willingness to bind itself to the same standards it sets for others, proposals like these will remain aspirational rather than transformative.

  Conclusion: The Question Beneath the Question

  Our age question is not really about age. It is about power—who holds it, who inherits it, and who is told to wait. The CRC’s proposals and the Bill’s omissions have made this explicit. A PM who would be disqualified by his own Commission’s recommendations has ensured that those recommendations will not apply to him. An opposition leader in his eighties continues to head the party of workers. The pattern is systemic.

  The deeper question is not whether Fiji should have age limits. It is whether our political architecture can ever be reformed from within by those who benefit from its inequities. Reform comes from pressure—from influential institutions, youth movements, civil society and from the public.

  The age question is a symptom. The disease is a political culture that treats power as a possession rather than a trust. Until that changes, no constitutional provision—however elegantly drafted—will make Fiji’s leadership reflect the youth of its people. The conversation must expand beyond the Prime Minister’s office to encompass every seat in Parliament. Only then can we claim to have addressed the question of generational renewal with the seriousness it demands.

  2026.10.11

• The Nation’s Long Memory: Governments Pass, Fiji Remains

  Dobs Tukana asks who really plans Fiji. The deeper question: who really learns for Fiji? A National Planning Commission may help, but the larger issue is whether governments learn from experience.

  Every government—this one and those that follow—should study reviews, commissions, constitutional reviews, audits and inquiries. Not through the electoral lens: Does this embarrass us? Can we blame the last government? Can we postpone it? But through the long lens: What challenges does it reveal? What must change regardless of who governs? What does it mean for the Vanua, institutions and the next generation? What lessons must never be lost when governments change?

  The first is political management. The second is national stewardship.

  Our electoral cycle is four years; a nation’s life is measured in generations. Government should plan for the next generation, not the next election.

  The pattern is familiar. A commission consults and reports; some recommendations are adopted, others ignored. An inquiry exposes failure, then is shelved. An investigation uncovers red flags, but those flags become truths to avoid rather than confront. Names change. The cycle does not.

  Each time, Fiji loses institutional memory, and the next government risks starting from zero. Citizens pay—in wasted resources, declining trust, poor infrastructure, delayed land administration and weak institutions.

  This is not about one government. Office creates an illusion of superior wisdom. Politics does the same.

  An election gives a government authority to govern. It does not give it ownership of the country. Power is not a trophy or a weapon. It is a trust. Government is a custodian, not an owner. It holds the country in trust for those who elected it—and for those not yet born to vote.

  Power should be judged not simply by what it achieves in office, but by what it leaves behind. A promise to citizens is a responsibility, not a slogan.

  Parliament must never become a private club. MPs are elected to represent citizens and exercise public power on their behalf, not to become an insider class. Citizens must be heard before decisions affecting them are made. Accountability cannot stop at Parliament’s door.

  The deeper danger is government believing it owns the truth while citizens are expected to be grateful rather than heard. Speeches cannot correct that. Institutions must require governments to listen, explain, remember and account.

  Every review, inquiry and commission should be treated as a national diagnostic, not a political weapon. Governments should formally respond to recommendations, explaining what they accept, what they reject and why. Parliament should track implementation. Independent institutions should report publicly. Findings should inform national planning, budgeting and policy. We should build humility into the system, not depend on ministerial humility.

  Water, land, housing, infrastructure, the economy, education, the environment and people are not silos; they are parts of one national system. Planning must see the whole.

  A National Planning Commission could provide that long view—connecting economic planning with infrastructure, land, housing, transport, skills, employment, environmental sustainability and iTaukei aspirations, while reporting publicly to Parliament.

  Our system has brought Fiji this far, but parts were designed for another era. It is like running a modern vehicle with an old engine. The answer is not to stop it, but to redesign the engine while keeping the country moving.

  Such a commission must not become another ministry or an elite club. It must be independent, accountable and connected to citizens, with multidisciplinary membership—planners, economists, engineers, social and environmental specialists, experienced practitioners, and national institutions and realities, including the BLV where appropriate. No single profession can design a nation.

  Nor should any government forget what previous governments learned. The real test is not whether a government accepts a report that praises it, but whether it studies one that challenges it. It must accept what is right, explain what it rejects, implement what citizens need, and preserve the lessons for those who come after.

  Governments come and go. Fiji and the Vanua remain. Let every government treat every review, inquiry, commission and audit as part of our nation’s collective memory.

  Study it. Publish the response. Implement what is right. Explain what is rejected. Measure success not by the next election alone, but by what remains for the next generation.

  A government must read the signs—not only polls and headlines, but the times and the country’s needs.

  That is how a nation remembers. That is how a nation learns. That is how a nation plans. And that is how Fiji becomes more than the sum of its governments.

  2026.10.09

• An Open Letter to the Prime Minister

  Ni yadra vinaka, Turaga PM,

  Au nuitaka ni o ni bulabula vinaka tiko. You have known me long enough to forgive plain speaking. So I will be plain.

  You have lived through our modern political history from the inside—the coup, the immunity, the return, the coalition. You know what these cycles have cost us. You also know what many learn only after holding high office: power changes the dynamics around those who possess it. People defer. Institutions grow cautious. Advice becomes agreeable. Sometimes those in power mistake the ability to decide for the wisdom to decide well.

  Knowledge and wisdom are not the same thing. Wisdom is what we do when history places a difficult choice before us. It is knowing not only how to exercise power, but when to restrain it, when to share it, and when to trust others with its consequences. Sometimes that requires putting the nation above ourselves and our immediate political interests. I believe we are at such a moment now.

  Some have used harsh words about you. That is not my way. We do not curse our elders. But we do expect them to listen. The trust deficit surrounding our constitutional debate is real. It is not about your experience; it is about what that experience teaches us to do now.

  Our people have borne the heaviest cost of our cycles of instability—lives, livelihoods, and trust. We have watched constitutions arrive promising peace, only for questions of accountability to remain unresolved. We should therefore be careful about calling immunity the price of stability. Stability purchased with silence is not peace. It is unresolved history buried beneath the surface.

  Both the RFMF and the BLV have expressed concerns about blanket immunity. They spoke from their institutional responsibilities: one charged with national security and the Constitution, the other with safeguarding indigeneity. The CRC also addressed the issue and recommended removal of blanket immunity. Yet the present provisions retain and extend significant protections.

  You have said the intention is not to create immunity. But constitutional arrangements must be judged by their effect, not stated intention. That is why the Supreme Court’s 2025 opinion matters. The Court removed a legal barrier understood to restrict Parliament’s ability to alter these protections. The question remains: what kind of accountability should our new Constitution provide?

  CRFMF has publicly indicated the military does not wish to rely on the protections available to it. He has raised concerns about arrangements that could perpetuate the conditions that have historically drawn the military into political intervention. That is not a threat. It is a warning from history. And you, of all people, know that history.

  So I ask you plainly: Will you step up?

  Stepping up does not mean deciding the answer for the people. It means creating the conditions in which the people can decide knowingly. It means considering whether the question of immunity should be separated in the referendum, so citizens can express their views without accepting or rejecting the Constitution as a single package. It means listening to the RFMF’s proposal for a conditional, disclosure-based approach, alongside the CRC’s options. Most importantly, it means trust.

  The wise exercise of power is not measured by how much a leader accumulates or how many institutions he influences. It is measured by what he chooses not to do with that power. You have good people in your government. You have the experience to understand that constitutional protection and political stability are not necessarily the same thing. A Constitution can protect institutions while still requiring accountability from those who exercise public power.

  And this is perhaps the most important question for any leader who has lived through our history: when you have the power to shape the rules, do you shape them to protect power—or to protect the people from the abuse of power?

  You can still choose what kind of legacy this moment will leave. History will remember 1987. That cannot be changed. But history will also record what you chose to do in 2026. You could be remembered simply as the charismatic man who carried out the first coup, or as the elder statesman who, having lived through our cycles of intervention and immunity, helped the country move beyond them.

  That choice is not mine to make for you. Nor should it be made by your party, Government, the military, the BLV, or anyone else.

  Fiji is watching. The RFMF has spoken. The BLV has stood. The referendum is coming.

  Will you step up?

  That is your question to answer. And the nation will remember the answer you give.

  As ever,
  Your trusted adviser

  2026.10.07

• The Arrogance of Power: Technology, Contempt and Comfort in American Wars

  The Pentagon dispute reported by WaPo over Trump’s first war of his second term—and what it foreshadows about the challenges of the Iran war—is more than a bureaucratic quarrel. It exposes a recurring pathology in American warfare: the US repeatedly wins tactical and technological battles, while losing the strategic and human terrain.

  The pattern runs from Vietnam through Somalia, Afghanistan and Iraq to the Houthis and Iran. Its roots lie in an arrogance of power that mistakes technological superiority for understanding.

  Four failures reinforce one another: the cult of technology over human judgment; the corruption of metrics; contempt for partners; and the confusion of material comfort with military capability.

  Precision Without Understanding

  The US military-intelligence complex excels at measuring what machines can see—satellite imagery, signals intelligence, drones and increasingly, AI-generated targeting data. What it struggles to measure is often more important: clan loyalties, political grievances, cultural nuance and how people actually experience foreign military power.

  Human intelligence is slow, difficult and dangerous. Yet it is indispensable.

  The 2026 Iran war, including the Minab school strike that killed more than 120 children, illustrates the danger. Outdated intelligence, compressed planning and reliance on automated systems converged in a catastrophic failure of judgment.

  Technology did not cause the failure by itself. The deeper problem was believing technology could compensate for insufficient human understanding.

  That illusion is becoming more dangerous as AI enters the decision-making chain. Consulting an AI system about how an adversary might react is not intelligence. It is prediction built on existing information—and potentially existing assumptions. When algorithms begin reinforcing the confidence of those already convinced they understand the battlefield, technology automates hubris as efficiently as it automates targeting.

  When Metrics Replace Meaning

  Vietnam’s infamous body-count strategy created the illusion that measurable destruction represented progress. Today, body counts have been replaced by more sophisticated metrics: targets struck, sorties flown, drones deployed, enemy formations degraded and forces trained.

  The pathology is the same.

  Washington could count battalions trained in Afghanistan. It could not count the humiliation caused by night raids, cultural insults or the accumulated resentment of soldiers treated as inferiors. It could count bombs dropped on the Houthis. It could not measure the legitimacy lost when civilians were killed.

  War is ultimately a contest of political will, not spreadsheets.

  Contempt Is an Intelligence Failure

  I saw first-hand the condescending attitude some Americans displayed toward Afghan counterparts. It mattered.

  Green-on-blue attacks were often explained as Taliban infiltration or inadequate vetting. Sometimes they were. But some were grievance-driven and rooted in humiliation.

  Mock a soldier’s religion, language, courage or competence and you do more than offend him. You validate the narrative.

  The US response often intensified the problem: biometric screening, surveillance, restricted contact and “guardian angel” measures treated Afghan partners increasingly as potential threats. These precautions saved lives, but they also deepened the very divide they were intended to manage.

  A partnership cannot survive without dignity.

  Comfort Is Not Capability

  America also tried to build partner armies in its own material image—air-conditioned barracks, regular meals, equipment, salaries and logistical support. But amenities cannot substitute for ownership, legitimacy and purpose.

  Afghan soldiers were given beds but not ownership; equipment but not legitimacy; salaries but not always a compelling national mission.

  US soldiers can fight with extraordinary effectiveness despite their comforts because those comforts sit within a larger architecture: national purpose, professional leadership, unit cohesion, logistics and institutional identity.

  The lesson is not that comfort makes soldiers weak. It is that comfort without ownership creates dependency.

  The Strategic Bill

  The Houthis and Iran have exposed the limits of US power. Washington can destroy infrastructure and kill targets. It cannot bomb legitimacy into existence.

  Years of counter-insurgency against technologically inferior opponents also created complacency. Ukraine’s inexpensive drone warfare, the resilience of the Houthis and Iran’s capacity to absorb punishment have challenged the assumption that US technological advantage guarantees strategic dominance.

  The US remains enormously powerful. But power has limits.

  It can destroy buildings faster than it can build institutions. It can kill leaders faster than it can understand societies. It can train armies faster than it can create legitimacy.

  That is the real lesson from Vietnam to Iran.

  America did not get these wars wrong because it lacked power. It got them wrong because it misunderstood what power is for—and what power cannot buy.

  Technology cannot replace human intelligence. Metrics cannot replace judgment. Money cannot buy loyalty. Comfort cannot manufacture purpose. And contempt is not merely a moral failing; in war, it is an intelligence failure.

  The most dangerous military is not necessarily the one with the most sophisticated weapons.

  It is the one that can hit the wrong target faster and with greater confidence.

  2026.10.05

• The Sweetness of Power and the Bitter Harvest

  Government, the Bose Levu Vakaturaga and the Church in Our Intergenerational Reckoning

  Sugar has a long memory. Across the Caribbean and Latin America, it built fortunes through the dispossession of Indigenous peoples and the exploitation of enslaved Africans. In Fiji, its legacy took a different form: indentured labour, restricted economic opportunities and an economic order shaped by colonial priorities. Today, that legacy extends beyond the plantation and into our food systems, where changing diets and the widespread consumption of sugary and highly processed foods contribute to a growing burden of non-communicable diseases (NCDs).

  The methods have changed, but a fundamental question remains: whose interests does the system serve and who ultimately bears its costs?

  In Fiji, that question places three influential institutions under scrutiny: Government, the Bose Levu Vakaturaga (BLV) and the Church. Each possesses a different kind of authority. Together, they could help shape a future in which the wellbeing of generations yet unborn takes precedence over the interests of the present. The question is whether they will rise to that responsibility.

  The colonial roots of an unequal economy

  Between 1879 and 1916, more than 60,000 indentured labourers arrived in Fiji from India to work in the sugar industry. Their labour sustained a plantation economy from which the Colonial Sugar Refining Company derived substantial benefits. While the colonial administration preserved most iTaukei landownership, it also restricted indigenous economic opportunities. Indo-Fijian farmers, meanwhile, became central to cane cultivation on leased land.

  The resulting economic order was deeply uneven. Indigenous landownership was protected, but access to commercial agriculture, capital and entrepreneurial opportunity remained constrained. Indo-Fijian farmers built livelihoods around leases whose security depended on a system they did not control.

  After independence, uncertainty over land leases contributed to the displacement of many Indo-Fijian farmers and the contraction of the sugar industry. The legacy is more complicated than a simple division between winners and losers. Both communities inherited vulnerabilities from an economic structure, that distributed ownership, opportunity and risk unequally.

  The deeper lesson is that landownership alone does not guarantee economic empowerment. Nor does participation in an industry guarantee a fair share of its rewards.

  Fiji must confront this history without allowing it to harden into permanent ethnic grievance. Our challenge is to build an economy in which iTaukei ownership translates into meaningful opportunity and agricultural communities can prosper.

  From the plantation to the plate

  Today, sugar presents another challenge. Its consequences are increasingly visible not only in our economy but also in the health of our people.

  Sugary drinks, highly processed foods and changing dietary habits contribute to the burden of diabetes, heart disease, kidney failure and other NCDs. These illnesses affect families, strain public health services, shorten lives and diminish the wellbeing of communities.

  The parallel with the colonial sugar economy must be drawn carefully. Contemporary food consumption is not equivalent to indenture or slavery. Yet we must ask difficult questions about the commercial incentives and food environments that shape individual choices; particularly when inexpensive processed foods are readily available, while healthier alternatives are less affordable.

  When commercial incentives encourage consumption patterns that contribute to preventable illness, the consequences extend far beyond the individual consumer. Families bear the emotional and financial costs. Health services absorb the expense. Children watch parents and grandparents struggle with illnesses that; in some cases, might have been prevented or delayed.

  Here lies a troubling contradiction: we seek to sustain an economically important industry while the wider food environment imposes mounting costs on the health of our people.

  Government must therefore reconcile economic policy with public health. This means reviewing subsidies and incentives, strengthening preventive healthcare, improving access to nutritious foods and considering measures such as additional taxation of sugar-sweetened beverages. It also means helping farmers diversify into sustainable agriculture and traditional food production.

  The objective is not to demonise sugar or the communities whose livelihoods depend on it. It is to ensure that economic activity serves our wellbeing rather than undermining it.

  The responsibility of the Vanua

  This is where the BLV has a potentially transformative role.

  The BLV is not a political party, a Government department or an instrument of any faction. Its legitimacy rests on its relationship with the Vanua and its responsibility to the iTaukei. That responsibility must extend beyond preserving chiefly institutions and customary practices to safeguarding the wellbeing of the people whose lives, give the Vanua its meaning.

  What does custodianship mean if the land remains in indigenous hands but families struggle with preventable illness, substance abuse, violence, economic insecurity and the erosion of language and cultural knowledge?

  The BLV has an opportunity to articulate a broader vision of iTaukei wellbeing, connecting land, food, health, culture, economic participation and the dignity of ordinary members of landowning units. Food sovereignty, revitalisation of the iTaukei language, protection of women and children and meaningful opportunities for younger generations belong within that vision.

  Such a role requires independence. The BLV must be able to speak honestly, including when its concerns challenge Government policy or powerful commercial interests. Its authority cannot rest solely on legislation or constitutional recognition. It must continually earn legitimacy through service to the Vanua.

  But independence must not become insulation from accountability. The BLV must remain answerable to the people whose interests it exists to serve, rather than becoming preoccupied with its own status or preservation.

  The true measure of chiefly custodianship is not the authority exercised today, but the inheritance secured for tomorrow.

  The Church and the moral life of the community

  The Church occupies another distinctive position. Its presence in villages and communities gives it a reach few other institutions can match. It shapes moral understanding, family life, community relationships and the way people interpret suffering, responsibility and hope.

  That influence carries obligations.

  The Church can encourage healthier living, support community gardens, promote food security, counsel families affected by addiction and protect those vulnerable to violence and abuse. It can help communities recognise that caring for the body, the family and the natural environment is inseparable from spiritual responsibility.

  But the Church must also examine itself. Denominational rivalry, silence in the face of abuse and an excessive emphasis on material prosperity can undermine its moral authority. Faith should not become a means of blessing accumulation while overlooking the circumstances that leave families vulnerable.

  Nor should suffering be treated simply as a private spiritual failure when the conditions contributing to it are social, economic and institutional.

  A genuinely prophetic Church must care about both the soul and the conditions under which people live. It must speak not only about salvation beyond this life, but also about justice, dignity and compassion within it.

  A covenant between generations

  Government, the BLV and the Church should not become extensions of one another. Their responsibilities differ and their independence matters. Yet their distinct forms of authority could become complementary.

  Government possesses the legislative, regulatory and fiscal tools to shape our economic and public health environment. The BLV can articulate a long-term vision grounded in the Vanua, customary responsibility and iTaukei wellbeing. The Church can mobilise communities, cultivate moral responsibility and provide practical support where families need it most.

  Together, they could help build a social compact that places human wellbeing above institutional self-interest. Such cooperation must extend across ethnic and religious boundaries, because our future cannot be secured by any one community acting alone.

  This is not a call to enlarge the power of any one institution. It is a call for each to rediscover the purpose for which its authority should be exercised.

  The future of Fiji cannot be measured solely by economic growth, government revenue, institutional recognition or the preservation of inherited status. It must also be measured by whether our children grow up healthier, families live with dignity, communities retain their cultural knowledge and young people inherit meaningful opportunities rather than accumulating burdens.

  Sugar once helped organise an economy around colonial extraction. Today, the challenge is broader: to ensure that economic incentives, political decisions, cultural authority and religious influence serve life rather than diminish it.

  The bitter harvest of history need not determine the harvest of the future. But change will require more than declarations of goodwill. It will demand institutional courage, public accountability and a willingness to look beyond immediate advantage.

  The Vanua is not merely the land we inherit. It is the living relationship between those who came before us, those who stand here today and those yet to be born. We are its temporary custodians, not its final beneficiaries.

  Ultimately, the measure of our leadership is what we leave capable of flourishing after we are gone. We must plant trees under whose shade we may never sit.

  The future is not simply something we inherit. It is something we owe.

  2026.09.28

•  The Bose Levu Vakaturaga and the Vanua: Towards a Pasifika Democracy

  The debate over the restoration of the Bose Levu Vakaturaga (BLV) has become a debate about much more than an institution. It has become a debate about what kind of democracy Fiji wants to be.

  Those questioning restoration have raised legitimate concerns: democratic legitimacy, equal citizenship, accountability, separation of powers and the place of customary authority in a modern constitutional state. These concerns deserve to be heard.

  But there is another question: must Fiji simply reproduce a Western model of democracy, or can we build a democracy that reflects who we are as Pasifika people—one that accommodates representative government while recognising customary authority, communal responsibility, culture and tradition? I believe we can. Indeed, we must.

  I write from within the Vanua—not as a lawyer or political strategist, but as an iTaukei, a chief and someone who understands that this debate is not merely about constitutional architecture. It is about identity, belonging, responsibility and the relationship between generations. For the iTaukei, the Vanua is not an abstraction. It is lived.

  That is why I support the full restoration of the BLV. But I support something larger than restoration: the opportunity to build a uniquely Pasifika democracy.

  Communalism is Not the Enemy of Democracy

  A few months ago, I wrote about iTaukei communalism: beyond the fear of the word. The word “communalism” carries a heavy history in Fiji. For many Indo-Fijians, it evokes the coups of 1987 and the fear that ethnicity could become more important than citizenship. That fear is understandable.

  But another truth must also be understood. For the iTaukei, communalism is not simply a political doctrine. It is a way of life—veilomani, solesolevaki, veivuke; the Yavusa and Mataqali; the relationship between people, land, ancestors, custom and responsibility. When an iTaukei speaks of Vanua, s/he is not speaking simply of territory. Vanua is land and people, history and ancestry, obligation and identity. It is a different grammar of belonging.

  To ask the iTaukei to abandon that communal identity to prove commitment to democracy misunderstands both the Vanua and democracy. The question is not whether communal identity should exist. It is whether we can create a constitutional order in which it exists without becoming exclusionary or oppressive. That is where the BLV matters.

  The BLV is About More Than Chiefs

  The Vanua is not the BLV, and the BLV is not the entire chiefly system. The institution we restore cannot simply reproduce another era. But neither should we pretend it has no relationship to the deeper customary systems of iTaukei society.

  The BLV represents a tradition of chiefly deliberation, consultation, responsibility and mediation. Those values should not be treated as relics incompatible with democracy. They can be part of democracy.

  The CRC has proposed giving the BLV a dedicated constitutional place, with defined functions, institutional independence and accountability, including roles touching customary law, provincial councils, village bylaws, iTaukei institutions and national social cohesion.

  The deeper question is not whether chiefs should have a ceremonial role. It is whether the Vanua should have a legitimate constitutional voice. I believe it should.

  But if we ask Fiji to accept the BLV, we must be honest about what we are restoring. What kind of body will it be? What powers will it have—and what powers will it not have? Who will select its members? How will women, young people and those without chiefly titles participate? How will it relate to Parliament, Government, the courts, Bose Vanua, the Bose ni Yasana and the lewenivanua? Will its decisions be binding? If so, in what areas? If not, what constitutional weight will they carry?

  These are not hostile questions. They are the questions of a mature institution.

  Here, the Chairman of the BLV, Ratu Viliame Seruvakula, recently clarified an important point. The iTaukei Trust Fund is a statutory body under the iTaukei Trust Fund Act 2004. It is not funded by taxpayers; its funds come from investment portfolios in local and international markets. Its financial affairs are subject to internal accountability and independent audit, and its reports go to the BLV—not to Parliament. That distinction matters. It would be wrong to treat the BLV as a government department, or to assume parliamentary tabling as if public money were involved.

  But autonomy is not the same as unaccountability. If the BLV is to have a constitutional voice, its integrity must be beyond suspicion. Its independence must be real; its accountability must be genuine. A binding code of conduct, independent audit, financial transparency within its own structures, and clear mechanisms for misconduct are not threats to chiefly authority. They protect it.

  Chiefly leadership is ultimately about service. A title without responsibility is merely status.

  A restored BLV must not become a parallel government. Nor should it become an instrument of any political party or government of the day. It should be a constitutional voice for the Vanua—nothing more, but nothing less.

  Fiji Should Not Have to Borrow Its Democratic Imagination

  We often speak of “democracy” as though there is only one legitimate institutional form. But democracy is a principle, not a single cultural template.

  Elections, universal citizenship, fundamental rights, judicial independence, representative government and accountability are essential. But in a Pasifika society, so too can consultation, collective responsibility, reconciliation, communal stewardship and respect for customary authority.

  Why must these be placed in opposition? Why must Fiji choose between the individual and the community?

  A Fiji that is modern does not have to become culturally Western. A Fiji that is democratic does not have to become culturally rootless. Different institutions can derive legitimacy from different sources while operating within one constitutional order.

  That is the foundation of the Pasifika democracy I believe Fiji can build.

  A Different Grammar of Belonging

  The misunderstanding between iTaukei and Indo-Fijians often begins here. For many Indo-Fijians, communal identity has been shaped through religious organisations, community associations, cultural bodies and networks forged through indenture and subsequent generations. For the iTaukei, communal identity is more deeply embedded in ancestry, land and inherited obligation.

  Neither experience should be dismissed. But they are different.

  When an iTaukei defends communal land, s/he may not be thinking about an economic asset. S/he may be thinking about whether his/her grandchildren will still have a place to belong.

  When an iTaukei speaks about the Vanua, hear home, not hierarchy. When an Indo-Fijian speaks about enterprise, hear aspiration, not greed. These translations are necessary if Fiji is to move beyond mutual suspicion.

  And belonging must be reciprocal.

  Indo-Fijians are fully Fiji citizens. But citizenship and cultural belonging can deepen through understanding the indigenous culture of Fiji. Learning Vosa vakaViti, understanding iTaukei customs and appreciating the obligations embedded in the Vanua can be bridges into a deeper sense of home—not a surrender of Indo-Fijian identity.

  Equally, iTaukei must understand the histories, anxieties and aspirations of Indo-Fijians. Belonging is a two-way journey.

  Customary Authority is Not Domination

  None of this means that everything customary is automatically legitimate, or that chiefs should be above scrutiny. The Vanua itself must evolve.

  Custom has always evolved. Our ancestors encountered Christianity, colonialism, education, commerce and the modern State and found ways to retain identity while adapting to change. The BLV must do the same.

  A living tradition is not one that never changes. It is one that knows how to change without losing itself.

  This is particularly important when we discuss women and younger generations. Some customary systems remain rooted in patrilineal chiefly succession. But custom cannot become a synonym for immobility.

  If change is simply imposed from outside, it may produce compliance without ownership. If the Vanua engages honestly with change, customary institutions can evolve in ways that are both authentic and sustainable.

  Protecting the Vanua is Not Excluding Others

  The most difficult questions concern the constitutional protection of iTaukei land, customary rights and institutions.

  Land is not merely a commodity to the iTaukei. The relationship between people and land is foundational to the Vanua. Anxiety about land alienation is therefore not simply economic. It can be existential.

  The desire for constitutional protection should not automatically be interpreted as hostility towards other citizens. It is a form of collective self-preservation.

  But protection must not become domination.

  If the BLV receives meaningful constitutional powers, those powers must be carefully defined and responsibly exercised. The BLV should be a shield for the Vanua, not a sword against Fiji.

  That distinction is essential. The iTaukei can protect what they value without becoming what they fear.

  Equal Citizenship Does Not Require Cultural Sameness

  Some critics understandably ask whether guaranteed iTaukei representation is consistent with equal citizenship. It is a legitimate constitutional question.

  But equality does not necessarily mean sameness. The iTaukei are the indigenous people of Fiji, with a particular historical relationship to land and customary institutions. Recognising that reality does not make another less of a citizen.

  At the same time, indigenous recognition cannot justify treating others as permanent outsiders. Both truths must stand.

  That is why the idea of the BLV as “chiefs for everyone” matters. Its particular responsibility may be to the iTaukei, but its contribution should be to the peace, cohesion and wellbeing of Fiji as a whole.

  As Ratu Viliame Seruvakula has said, the BLV stands ready to lead its indigenous people while creating a conducive environment for the peace and prosperity of other ethnicities who live among us.

  That is stewardship.

  Towards a Pasifika Democracy

  This is why Fiji’s constitutional future should not be measured solely by how closely it resembles Western democracies.

  A Pasifika democracy would recognise that individuals have rights but also obligations; that communities matter; that indigenous identity is not cultural decoration; and that customary authority can have constitutional space while remaining subject to constitutional accountability.

  It would allow Parliament to govern the nation while giving the Vanua a meaningful constitutional voice. It would protect fundamental rights while recognising that land, culture and communal identity carry obligations that cannot always be reduced to individual property rights.

  It would seek consensus where possible without making consensus a substitute for democratic decision-making. It would draw from modern constitutionalism without assuming that everything valuable must have originated elsewhere.

  That is not a rejection of democracy. It is democracy adapted to the soil in which it is planted.

  Let the Vanua Deliberate

  The questions being raised about the BLV should not frighten us. They should make us more deliberate.

  The iTaukei deserve to know precisely what is being proposed: what powers the BLV will have, how members will be selected, how it will be funded, how it will relate to Parliament and Government, how customary authority will interact with the courts, and how its decisions will be held accountable.

  The Vanua must have time to deliberate. The Bose Vanua must be heard. The Bose ni Yasana must be heard. Women must be heard. Young iTaukei must be heard. And the wider Fijian public must understand what is being proposed.

  Constitutional documents should be translated into Vosa vakaViti and made accessible. Consultation must not mean asking the Vanua to endorse a settlement already determined elsewhere. It must mean allowing the Vanua to help shape it.

  That is genuine restoration.

  One Ship

  Ultimately, this debate is not simply about whether chiefs should return to the Constitution. It is about whether Fiji has the confidence to define democracy on its own terms.

  Can we recognise indigenous authority without abandoning equal citizenship? Can customary law have constitutional space without undermining the rule of law? Can communal responsibility coexist with individual rights? Can chiefly institutions evolve without losing their cultural legitimacy? Can the iTaukei protect their inheritance while extending their hand to every other Fijian?

  I believe we can.

  Fiji does not have to choose between being modern and being Pasifika. We can be both.

  The restoration of the BLV should therefore not be about resurrecting yesterday. It should be about building tomorrow: a democracy rooted in universal citizenship, but not stripped of communal responsibility; a constitutional order that protects individual rights while recognising indigenous collective rights; a modern Fiji that does not require the iTaukei to become less iTaukei in order to become fully Fijian.

  That is what I mean by a Pasifika democracy.

  Not chiefly rule. Not ethnic domination. Not a rejection of democracy. But a constitutional settlement that grows from the soil of Fiji itself.

  The BLV can be one of its most important institutions—not because it represents a return to the past, but because it can help Fiji reconcile two truths we have too often treated as opposites: the survival of the Vanua and the unity of Fiji.

  We are in a ship called Fiji. Within the Vanua are confederacies, provinces, yavusa, mataqali and countless relationships shaped by genealogy, history and obligation. We disagree. We always have. But the ship is one.

  The BLV is not the ship. It is not the captain. It is not the State. It is part of the crew. And a member of the crew has a particular responsibility while remaining responsible for the safety of the whole vessel.

  Perhaps that is the democratic grammar Fiji now needs: veilomani, solesolevaki, veivuke and communal responsibility alongside elections, rights, representation and accountability.

  A grammar in which the Vanua is not feared, but understood. And perhaps, in understanding it, we may discover that the survival of the Vanua and the unity of Fiji were never meant to be opposing goals.

  Same ocean. Same shore. Same storm. One ship.

  2026.09.27

• The Rules of the World — and Who Gets to Write Them

  Since February 28, the war in West Asia has exposed a question larger than any single conflict: who decides what is lawful, when great powers disagree?

  At this year’s UNGA, small island states from the Pasifika and Caribbean, African leaders, and countries outside traditional power centers are not merely debating today’s crises. They are questioning the architecture of the international system itself.

  Barbados Prime Minister Mia Mottley called for the Caribbean to remain a zone of peace, invoking “dialogue, sovereign equality and respect for international law.” Fiji’s President, Ratu Naiqama Lalabalavu, framed its participation around multilateralism, sovereignty, climate change and small island needs. Palau’s president put it plainly: the Pasifika is our home, not a theatre for geopolitical competition.

  When we discuss the emerging multipolar world, we imagine a table where only great powers sit. But 193 countries are in that room. They do not possess equal power, but they are all there.

  Consider China and Iran. China buys Iranian oil; Washington regards this as undermining its sanctions. Who gave Washington authority to decide China cannot support Iran? The UN Charter is built on sovereign equality. The US has enormous authority under US law to decide its own sanctions. But US domestic law is not universal international law.

  Turn the mirror: the US provides Israel with enormous military and diplomatic support. Suppose China said this assistance enabled a war threatening regional stability and would use its power to counter it. Would Americans accept China’s characterization as legitimate simply because Beijing disagreed? Probably not. If sovereignty means anything, it cannot mean one great power exercises sovereign discretion while another’s is automatically illegitimate.

  The most revealing thing at this UNGA isn’t any single speech but the cumulative effect. Countries disagree on almost everything, yet there is remarkable consistency in concerns raised outside traditional power centers: sovereignty, international law, representation, development, climate vulnerability, economic inequality. These voices are not arguing for China or against America. They are arguing for space—for smaller states to make their own choices without becoming collateral damage in great-power competition.

  For much of the post-Cold War era, the US possessed extraordinary power. That power remains immense, but power is not the same as legitimacy. As other centers emerge, we may be moving from a world where one power sets the terms to one where several claim the right to interpret them. When great powers disagree, what constrains them? And who gets a voice in deciding those constraints?

  The UN Charter is clear on sovereign equality, territorial integrity and the prohibition on the use of force. These are not Chinese or American principles—they are supposed to be international. The gap between having rules and applying them consistently is the crisis.

  There is nothing wrong with a “rules-based international order”—until it becomes unclear whose rules, enforced against whom. If the rule is genuinely international, it must constrain Washington as much as Beijing, Israel as much as Iran, the powerful as much as the weak. Otherwise, countries will stop seeing rules and start seeing instruments of power.

  This is why the voices of Fiji, Barbados, the Caribbean and Africa matter. Small states have little interest in replacing a US-centered order with a Chinese-centered one. Their interest is more fundamental: they do not want their sovereignty to become theoretical because someone else has more ships, missiles, money or influence.

  The UNGA gives the world a microphone. West Asia is testing whether the international system can operate when major powers disagree about sovereignty, self-defense, sanctions and international law. The question cannot simply be who is right. It must also be: who gets to decide? By what rules?

  Perhaps the real question is whether we can build a system in which no country gets to be the world’s policeman—not Washington, not Beijing, not anyone. A world where sovereignty is real but not absolute; where self-defense is recognized but not unlimited; where international humanitarian law applies to friends and adversaries alike.

  That is a harder standard. It is also the only one that can survive the transition to a genuinely multipolar world. Because once several powers can say “your rules don’t bind us,” the only sustainable alternative is rules everyone believes will bind all of them.

  The test of a rules-based order is not whether the powerful can invoke the rules. It is whether the powerful are willing to be bound by them.

  2026.09.25

• From 1945 to Today: Why the UN Security Council Must Finally Reflect a Multipolar World

  Secretary-General António Guterres’s declaration that “Africa needs permanent seats on the Security Council”—is not just a call for diversity; it is a stark admission that the current global order is dangerously out of step with reality. As we watch the UN struggle to mediate modern crises, his words strike at the heart of the UN’s foundational flaw.

  Any meaningful reform must fundamentally restructure the P5: the US, UK, France, Russia, and China. We must build a Security Council that reflects today’s multipolar realities, not yesterday’s nostalgia.

  The Security Council architecture was forged in the ashes of World War II. The P5 were the victorious powers of that war. The inclusion of veto power was a pragmatic compromise to prevent superpowers from walking away, but it inadvertently froze global governance in time. For 80 years, the world has undergone decolonization, globalization and a massive geopolitical power shift. Yet the ultimate arbiter of international peace and security remains a small, largely Western and Northern club. Defending this structure today is an exercise in clinging to a bygone era.

  Guterres rightly points out that Africa “commands an ever-greater influence in world markets — and speaks with ever-greater authority on the world stage.” With 1.4 billion people, the youngest workforce on the planet and immense natural resources, Africa is no longer a peripheral player—it is a central engine of future global economy. Furthermore, African nations provide the bulk of UN peacekeeping troops, bearing the heaviest burdens of regional conflicts while having zero permanent say in how those conflicts are resolved. To exclude Africa from permanent decision-making renders the Security Council morally bankrupt and practically ineffective. A Council without permanent African representation lacks the legitimacy to enforce its resolutions across the Global South.

  However, a true reflection of today’s multipolar world must extend beyond Africa. As the global center of gravity shifts eastward, India stands as an undeniable rising global power. As the world’s most populous nation, a top-five economy, and the world’s largest democracy, India is a pivotal actor in the Indo-Pasifika and a leading voice for the Global South.

  Currently, Asia is represented on the P5 solely by China. It is logically untenable for a continent that houses nearly 60% of the world’s population to have just one permanent seat, especially when that seat represents a single political pole. A genuine multipolar order requires that Asia have an additional seat at the table. India’s inclusion is not a favor; it is a structural necessity for global stability and balanced decision-making.

  To make room for Africa and India, we must confront the arithmetic of overrepresentation. Today, Europe holds two permanent seats (the UK and France), representing less than 10% of the global population but commanding 40% of the permanent veto power. This disproportionate historical inheritance must be adjusted to reflect contemporary realities.

  To achieve a truly representative Council, Europe must lose two seats. These seats should be relinquished to Africa and Asia—the two regions that are demographically, economically, and strategically vital to the 21st century. Whether through consolidating European representation into a single EU seat or phasing out individual European vetoes, the West must recognize that clinging to disproportionate power undermines the very legitimacy of the institution it claims to champion.

  Merely adding African and Asian nations to an expanded P5 without addressing the mechanics of the Council is insufficient. The phrase “reform of the P5 arrangements” must tackle the elephant in the room: the veto. The veto was designed to prevent World War III among great powers, but it has been weaponized to paralyze action in the face of modern atrocities, from Syria to Ukraine to Gaza. If the P5 is expanded, the veto must be reformed. Whether through a mechanism requiring a consensus of multiple regional powers to override a veto, or a voluntary pledge to refrain from using it in cases of mass atrocities, the unchecked power of a single nation to halt global action must be addressed.

  The UN cannot effectively police a multipolar world while operating on a unipolar and bipolar playbook. Reforming the P5, granting Africa permanent representation, and welcoming India as a permanent member is not an act of charity; it is a strategic necessity. As Guterres noted, we must ensure that Africa’s growth “serves Africa’s people first and foremost.” A reformed Security Council is the first step. It is time to retire the nostalgia of 1945 and build a multilateral system that truly belongs to the globe it serves. The alternative is a UN that becomes increasingly irrelevant to the very nations that need it most.

  2026.09.22

• The Undying Incumbents

  On Political Addiction to Power and Leaders Who Cannot Let Go

  US Senator Mitch McConnell returned to office this week after a 3-month absence following a fall and a subsequent illness. At 84, the Senator appeared in a wheelchair and cast his first vote since June, helping advance the nomination of a federal judge. His return was presented as an act of determination. McConnell himself described his recovery as “a long and often frustrating process,” complicated by the lingering effects of childhood polio. 

  There is something undeniably human in that perseverance. But there is also something institutionally troubling in the fact that the return of a single elderly senator can become a matter of national political consequence. In a closely divided chamber, one member’s presence—or absence—can affect the government’s ability to conduct its business.

  The question, then, is not whether McConnell should be admired for returning to work. It is whether a political system should become so dependent on any one individual that personal health becomes a governing variable.

  McConnell’s case is not unique. It is a symptom of a broader problem that stretches across the democratic world and beyond: political leaders who cannot, or will not, make way for the next generation.

  The problem is not age. It is the attachment to power beyond the point of usefulness—and the systems that make departure difficult.

  When Power Becomes a Lifetime Possession

  Consider President Paul Biya of Cameroon.

  In June, at the age of 93, Biya left Yaoundé for what his office described as a “brief private stay in Europe.” That brief stay became a 73-day absence. He returned from Geneva in August, but his limited public appearance did little to settle questions about his health or the exercise of presidential authority in his absence. Opposition figures described the country as operating on “autopilot.” 

  The controversy was not simply about an elderly president taking time away. It was about the uncertainty surrounding the continuity of government in a highly centralized political system.

  Cameroon’s constitutional arrangements had previously placed the president of the Senate in the line of succession if the presidency became vacant. In April 2026, parliament approved a constitutional amendment reintroducing the office of vice president, abolished in 1972. The new VP would be appointed and dismissed by the president and would assume presidential duties in the event of death, resignation, or permanent incapacity. Supporters described the reform as a measure for continuity. Critics argued that it concentrated even more power in the presidency. 

  The reform also intensified speculation about succession. Some observers raised the possibility of a dynastic transition involving Biya’s son. The broader concern remains legitimate: when succession depends primarily on the preferences of an incumbent, institutional continuity can become inseparable from personal rule. 

  Biya has governed Cameroon since 1982. Much of the country’s population has known no other president. In a nation where young people constitute a substantial share of the population, the distance between the age of the leadership and the age of the governed raises an unavoidable question: when does continuity become stagnation?

  Different Systems, Similar Dependence

  McConnell and Biya are not equivalent figures.

  One is a senator in a constitutional republic with established institutions, competitive elections, and a defined term of office. The other is an authoritarian ruler who has governed Cameroon for more than four decades. Their political circumstances, powers, and responsibilities are fundamentally different.

  Yet their cases illuminate a common institutional vulnerability: the tendency to treat political authority as a lifetime possession rather than a temporary public trust.

  In McConnell’s case, the concern is not that he returned to the Senate. It is that the narrow balance of power can make the presence of one aging lawmaker disproportionately consequential.

  In Biya’s case, the concern is more profound: the concentration of executive authority, the uncertainty surrounding succession, and the absence of transparent mechanisms for ensuring continuity when the president is unavailable.

  These are different problems. But both invite the same question: What happens when institutions become too dependent on individuals?

  A Global Pattern

  The phenomenon is hardly confined to Washington or Yaoundé.

  Across the world, political systems struggle with entrenched incumbency, aging leadership, dynastic politics, and the reluctance of established parties to make room for successors.

  In the US, the advanced age of several senior lawmakers has prompted recurring debates about congressional renewal and the transparency of politicians’ health. In countries with weaker institutional checks, long-serving leaders have sometimes blurred the distinction between the state and the individual who governs it.

  Elsewhere, political families continue to dominate public life. In such systems, leadership can become a form of inheritance, with public office passed from one generation to the next as though it were a family asset.

  None of this is entirely new. But the persistence of these patterns raises concerns about political renewal, accountability, and the capacity of institutions to adapt.

  A healthy political system should not depend on the indefinite survival of a particular leader, family, or political faction.

  Why Leaders Refuse to Let Go

  Why does political power become so difficult to relinquish?

  The reasons are both structural and psychological.

  Incumbency brings name recognition, donor networks, media access, institutional influence, and a considerable advantage over challengers. Political parties often protect familiar figures because they appear safer than untested alternatives. Supporters, too, may fear that a change in leadership will threaten their interests.

  There is also the psychology of power. After decades in public life, office can become more than a job. It can become an identity, a source of status, and a shield against irrelevance.

  For some leaders, stepping aside may feel like surrender. For others, it may raise uncomfortable questions about their legacy, their influence, or their future.

  And for political parties, succession can be dangerous. A strong successor may eventually become a rival. So the incumbent remains, the alternatives are weakened, and renewal is postponed.

  In Fiji, we have our own expression for the instinct to cling to what one has: vesu mona—the attachment to what is familiar, secure, or already possessed. In politics, that instinct can become especially powerful when office offers not only influence but protection, prestige, and access to resources.

  The result is a political class that can reproduce itself while insisting that it is indispensable.

  The Cost of Staying Too Long

  The consequences are not merely generational.

  When leadership becomes entrenched, younger talent struggles to emerge. New ideas are filtered through old political calculations. Succession planning becomes an exercise in loyalty rather than merit.

  Institutions may begin to revolve around the leader rather than the office. Decisions become slower, accountability weaker, and public administration increasingly vulnerable to personal influence.

  The risks become especially acute when a leader’s health deteriorates.

  First comes the walking stick. Then the wheelchair. Then the questions: Who is really governing? Who makes the decisions? Who has access to the leader? What happens if the leader can no longer perform the duties of office?

  These are not questions that should arise only during a medical crisis. They should be answered by institutions long before a crisis occurs.

  A political system that has failed to prepare for succession can turn a private matter of health into a public emergency.

  What Would a Healthier System Look Like?

  The answer is not to purge older leaders from public life.

  Experience matters. Institutional memory matters. Political wisdom often comes with age. A democracy should not confuse youth with competence or longevity with failure.

  But transition must become normal, and succession must be institutional rather than personal.

  That requires several reforms:

  * Clearer term limits and retirement arrangements, where appropriate, to prevent the indefinite accumulation of power.

  * Transparent and constitutionally sound procedures for dealing with incapacity and ensuring continuity of government.

  * Appropriate health and financial disclosure requirements, balanced against legitimate privacy concerns.

  * Stronger safeguards against political dynasties and conflicts of interest.

  * Political parties that cultivate successors rather than suppress potential rivals.

  * Electoral reforms that widen participation and reduce the advantages of entrenched incumbency.

  * A political culture that values departure as much as achievement.

  The goal is not to discard experience. It is to ensure that experience is passed on rather than used to justify permanent occupation of public office.

  The Courage to Leave

  McConnell’s return to the Senate is a reminder of personal determination. Biya’s long absence from Cameroon is a reminder of the risks that arise when a political system becomes too closely identified with one individual.

  Neither story, by itself, proves that an elderly leader should leave office. Nor should age alone determine a politician’s fitness to serve.

  But both cases invite a larger reflection on the relationship between leadership and institutions.

  A government should not depend on the physical endurance of one person. A nation should not have to wait for a leader’s final departure before beginning to prepare for the future.

  The deeper problem is not that old leaders remain.

  It is that political systems sometimes make them too difficult to replace, too powerful to challenge, and too central to survive without.

  And when that happens, personal frailty becomes a public crisis.

  The true test of leadership is not merely the ability to hold power.

  It is the wisdom to know when power must be shared, when successors must be prepared, and when the time has come to let go.

  2026.09.15