Tag: history

• A Call for a Pasifika Formal Dress Code: Reclaiming Our Climate, Culture and Confidence

  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 Meanwhile, Fijians and Kai Pasifika in formal roles, often swelter in outdated Western ensembles, a visual metaphor for a persistent cultural dissonance.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we must ask is: does maintaining these standards truly elevate our professionalism, or does it subtly reinforce an outdated hierarchy that places external norms above our own?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.

  2025.09.10

• 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