The words of Cherokee elder Stan Rushworth, strike a chord that resonates deep within the Fijian soul, particularly for us iTaukei. The distinction between being born with “rights” and being born with “obligations” is not a foreign philosophy; it is the very essence of our traditional governance system, the Vanua. In an age obsessed with individual attainment, this indigenous wisdom offers a radical—and perhaps essential—redefinition of true leadership.
The vulagi-settler mindset of “I have rights” is inherently self-centric, focusing on what is owed to the individual. In contrast, the indigenous mindset of “I have obligations” is community-centric. It asks, “What do I owe?” This question is the foundational principle of iTaukei leadership. One is not born a Turaga—a chief, a person of authority—simply to wield power. One is born a Turaga to serve.
This is encapsulated in the Fijian proverb, “Na Turaga na nodra i liuliu na lewe ni vanua”: The chief is the foremost servant of the people. This authority is not a license for privilege, but a mandate for profound responsibility. The chief’s role is to be the custodian of the land (qele), the preserver of the culture (itovo vakavanua), and the unifying force for the people (lewenivanua); as demonstrated recently in the installation of Na Turaga Tui Nayau, in Nayau and Lakeba. The chief’s well-being is inextricably linked to that of the Vanua. If the people suffer, the chief has failed in this primary obligation.
This principle extends beyond the village. A former Commanding Officer of the Fiji Battalion in the Sinai noted that the motto, “Leadership is Service!” was not merely a phrase but a lived cultural truth. The legendary bravery of the Fijian soldier is often misunderstood; it is not just a product of military training, but an extension of a deeper cultural duty—the obligation to protect the community and serve a cause greater than oneself. This is leading by serving, where authority is earned through selfless action, not demanded by title.
This compels a critical question: are we, the iTaukei, still honouring this sacred covenant?
Modernity, with its allure of individual rights and political power, has created a tension in our society. We witness a dangerous shift where some seek leadership positions to be served, rather than to serve. The title of “Turaga” is at times pursued for the status it confers and the economic benefits derived, not for the burdens it carries. This corrupts the very essence of the Vanua, hollowing out our traditions into empty performances.
True iTaukei leadership is the opposite. It is about serving to lead. One serves the community, the elders, the past by upholding tradition, and the future by protecting the land. Through this demonstrated commitment, leadership is naturally conferred and respected. Its legitimacy is rooted in fulfilled obligations.
The elder’s wisdom is thus an urgent call for introspection—for our leaders in the village, the church, and the nation. It challenges us all:
Do we see our positions as a platform for our own voice, or as a responsibility to listen to the voices of our people?
Are we making decisions for short-term gain, or with an obligation to seven generations yet unborn?
Are we leading to build our own legacy, or serving to strengthen the eternal legacy of the Vanua?
The path forward is not to reject rights, but to recenter our understanding of leadership on the deeper, more meaningful concept of obligations. Our identity as iTaukei is not a right we possess, but a gift from our ancestors. With that gift comes a solemn duty: to serve, to protect, and to nurture. When we embrace that obligation—to the past, present, future, and to the Vanua herself—we do more than become better leaders. We honour the very essence of what it means to be an ITaukei.
Na Kalou na Vanua, na Vanua na Kalou. We are all its servants.
The images from Gaza haunt the conscience of humanity: endless columns of desperate families fleeing under bombardment, children sleeping in rubble, parents starving themselves to feed their offspring, and the constant, grinding terror of displacement after displacement. According to recent UN reports, over 250,000 people have been displaced from Gaza City in just the past month alone, adding to the nearly two million already displaced throughout the territory. As I write these words, countless Palestinian families—including an estimated 1,000 Palestinian Christians—are being forced from homes that have become uninhabitable ruins, joining what the International Displacement Monitoring Centre identifies as one of the largest displacement crises in the world today.
From a Christian perspective, this catastrophic human suffering demands more than political analysis; it requires theological and moral reflection rooted in our deepest convictions about human dignity, divine compassion, and justice. How might Jesus of Nazareth—the Palestinian Jew who knew the trauma of displacement as a refugee in Egypt—view what is happening in Gaza today? What does the forced displacement of an entire population reveal about the state of Christian witness in the world? This question beckons us beyond simplistic binaries and comfortable religious nationalism into the uncomfortable territory where faith meets solidarity with the crucified peoples of our time.
Biblical Landscapes of Displacement
The narrative of forced displacement is tragically familiar within Scripture. The Hebrew Bible tells countless stories of exile and displacement—from Adam and Eve expelled from Eden to the Israelites dragged into Babylonian captivity. God’s people knew the anguish of being driven from their land, the terror of living under occupation, and the bitter tears of displacement. The Psalmist captures this trauma vividly: “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion” (Psalm 137:1).
These stories were not mere historical artifacts to Jesus; they formed the spiritual imagination of his Jewish identity. When Matthew’s Gospel tells us Joseph fled to Egypt with Mary and the infant Jesus to escape Herod’s slaughter of innocents, it places God himself in the position of a displaced person. The Incarnation thus includes the experience of forced migration—God becomes a refugee, sanctifying the experience of those who flee violence today. This theological truth should fundamentally shape how Christians view Gaza’s displaced millions: in their faces, we encounter Christ himself, who identified with the displaced and marginalized so completely that he said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40).
How Would Jesus View Gaza’s Displacement?
Based on the gospel accounts, Jesus would likely respond to Gaza’s suffering with three distinct postures:
1. Radical Identification with the Suffering
Jesus consistently demonstrated what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies not with powerful rulers but with victims buried under the debris of violence. In Gaza today, Christ is present in the child buried under concrete, the mother mourning her family, the father searching for bread. Jesus’ ministry was characterized by this intentional solidarity with those on the margins: the sick, the impoverished, the ritually unclean, the occupation-weary residents of Galilee. His compassion (literally “suffering with”) was not abstract pity but gut-wrenching identification . As Graham Joseph Hill writes, “The cross holds no nation; it holds brokenness, and it holds both Israelis and Palestinians”.
2. Unflinching Truth-Telling
Jesus would undoubtedly name the realities in Gaza with prophetic clarity. He would condemn Hamas’ horrific attacks on October 7th that killed approximately 1,200 Israelis and took hundreds hostage. But he would also condemn the disproportionate response that has left over 65,000 Palestinians dead, mostly civilians, and created famine conditions. Jesus never remained silent in the face of injustice, whether confronting religious leaders about their hypocrisy or driving money-changers from the temple. His example challenges us to speak truth without partiality, recognizing that “we cannot apologize for truth: and yet we must not weaponize it. We must speak truth rooted in lament, not in tribal vindication”.
3. Rejection of Dehumanizing Theologies
Jesus consistently challenged religious frameworks that justified ignoring human suffering. He healed on the Sabbath, touched the unclean, and ate with sinners—all acts that privileged human need over rigid interpretations of religion. In Gaza, Jesus would undoubtedly reject theologies that privilege one people’s security over another’s right to exist, or that use Scripture to justify endless violence. He would confront what Munther Isaac identifies as the “matrix of coloniality, racism, and theology” that enables the current violence . His ministry reveals a God whose compassion is “indiscriminately available to all”, not a tribal deity who takes sides in human conflicts.
The Crisis of Christian Conscience
The tragedy of Gaza’s displacement is not merely humanitarian; it represents a profound crisis of Christian conscience. While millions suffer, many Christians have remained silent, defensive, or openly supportive of policies that lead to civilian casualties and mass displacement. This failure stems from what Palestinian Christian Dr. Fares Abraham identifies as “the absence of Christ-honoring compassion during these darkest moments of our humanity”.
This moral failure has theological roots. For decades, certain strands of Christian theology—particularly forms of Christian Zionism—have uncritically supported Israeli policy while minimizing Palestinian suffering. This theology often spiritualizes away Palestinian rights and interprets biblical prophecies in ways that require unquestioning support for the Israeli state. As the Gaza war strains these theological models, even evangelical scholars are questioning whether their frameworks have “exhausted a group of evangelical Bible professors pursuing unity on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict”.
The result is what Munther Isaac rightly calls complicity: “The denial is so loud. It’s nothing short of complicity” . When we fail to name atrocities—when we hesitate to call out the killing of 17,000 children or the deliberate creation of famine conditions—we become like the religious leaders who passed by on the other side in Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan . Our silence echoes that of German Christians who largely failed to protest the Nazi persecution of Jews—a historical parallel that should unsettle every Christian conscience.
Beyond Bunker Mentalities: Toward a Cruciform Compassion
Christian response to Gaza’s displacement requires moving beyond what Graham Joseph Hill calls “bunker mentalities” that shrink our moral imagination . Nationalism, he argues, “shrinks the heart. Tribal identity makes vacuums in compassion.” Instead, we need a spirituality that embodies what the ancient Christian tradition called orthopathos—right emotions—particularly the virtue of compassion.
Table: Elements of Christian Response to Gaza’s Displacement
Theological Concept
Traditional Response
Transformed Response
Compassion
Pity from a distance
Identification with suffering
Solidarity
Charity for those like us
Justice for all oppressed
Land Theology
Exclusive divine promise
Shared homeland for all
Security
Military protection for one
Human security for all
Peacemaking
Absence of conflict
Presence of justice
This compassion is not mere sentiment but what the Latin root (compati) literally means: to suffer with . It moves beyond sympathy (“feeling for”) to identification (“suffering with”). This compassion becomes incarnational—taking flesh in concrete action:
1. The Spiritual Practice of Lament
Christian tradition offers us the language of lament—the spiritual practice of grieving honestly before God. Lament refuses to rush to resolution or theological justification. It sits in the dust with Job, weeps with Jesus at Lazarus’ tomb, and cries out with the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord?”. Lament creates space to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15), holding the cries of Gazan mothers alongside Israeli survivors of Hamas’ attacks. This lament must include both Israeli and Palestinian suffering, refusing to play a morbid calculus of comparative victimhood.
2. Prophetic Truth-Telling
Following Jesus requires naming injustices without partiality. We must condemn Hamas’ violence and call for the release of all hostages while also condemning Israel’s disproportionate tactics, blockade, and creation of famine conditions. This includes using accurate moral language—even when it makes us uncomfortable. When evidence mounts from numerous Holocaust scholars, genocide experts, and international bodies that Israel’s actions meet the legal definition of genocide, Christians must have the courage to name this reality.
3. Concrete Solidarity
Compassionate orthopathos must translate into orthopraxy—right action. This includes supporting humanitarian efforts, advocating for ceasefires, demanding our governments stop supplying weapons used against civilians, and welcoming displaced people. It means pressuring governments to “open windows for water, food, and medicine, without strings attached”. As Hill powerfully states, “We don’t bless bombs. We bless bread. We don’t sanctify oppression. We wash feet”.
4. Theological Reformation
We need to develop theological frameworks that transcend the partisan divides that have captured Christian witness. This requires rejecting the “us versus them” binary thinking that contradicts the inclusive vision of the gospel. As the Christians in Conversation on the Middle East group has modeled, we need spaces where “self-critique” and genuine listening can occur across theological divides. This theological reformation must center the image of God in every human being—Israeli and Palestinian alike—and recognize that authentic Christian hope “lies not in political solutions but in the Prince of Peace who will one day make all things right”.
The Courage to See Christ in the Rubble
The forced displacement of Gazans represents one of the great moral crises of our time—a crisis that demands Christian response rooted in the life and teachings of Jesus. This response begins with recognizing what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies with victims buried under the debris of violence . It continues with embracing a compassion that suffers with those who suffer, and it culminates in courageous action that protects life, demands justice, and refuses to choose between victims.
The way of Jesus—the way of the cross—invites us to stand in the crack where grief meets hope. It calls us to reject nationalistic idolatries and tribal loyalties that shrink our hearts. It challenges us to embody what Graham Joseph Hill calls “cruciform ethics” that “doesn’t shy from calling out abuses but does so without rhetorical weaponry”.
As the world watches Gaza’s displacement with either horror or indifference, Christians face a choice: will we be chaplains to power or sanctuaries for the broken? Will we bless bombs or bless bread? Will we sanctify oppression or wash feet? The answer will determine not only the credibility of our witness but the fidelity of our discipleship.
In the end, the question is not whether God is present in Gaza’s suffering—the Incarnation assures us God is profoundly there, buried in the rubble with the suffering. The real question is whether we will have the courage to join God there.
“Grief cracks the heart open wide enough to carry courage.
The spiritual identity of the iTaukei people represents a complex tapestry woven from indigenous beliefs, Christian influences, and political manipulations. When the iTaukei utter the phrase Turaga sa mai vua na Kalou (chiefs come from God), we participate in a theological construct, that has been strategically employed to advance specific religious and political agendas. This fusion of Christian doctrine with traditional chiefly systems, has created a distorted spirituality that serves power structures rather than authentic cultural or religious values; resulting in a population that is devoutly religious yet potentially manipulated, honorably traditional yet unconsciously colonized.
Historical Manipulation and Spiritual Syncretism
Prior to Christianization, our spirituality was deeply integrated with social structures and environmental relationships through the concept of Vanua—a holistic worldview connecting the physical and spiritual realms. Chiefs served as sacred representatives of ancestor-gods, possessing sau and mana (spiritual power and authority), while bete (priests) acted as intermediaries within a carefully balanced socio-cosmic order. This system maintained ecological and social harmony through prescribed rituals and respect for traditional knowledge holders.
The arrival of missionaries and colonial forces, initiated a deliberate strategy of blending Christian concepts with existing structures to facilitate conversion. Missionaries employed linguistic manipulation, introducing foreign concepts like tevoro (devil) to displace existing spiritual understandings. They recognized the potency of chiefly authority and strategically positioned Christian theology to simultaneously undermine and utilize traditional power structures. The conversion of high chiefs including Ro Banuve of Rewa and Ratu Cakobau of Bau, accelerated this process, creating a syncretic system where Christian leaders gradually usurped the roles of traditional bete. This strategic co-option created what scholar Asesela Ravuvu termed “the façade of continuity” that masked fundamental transformations in spiritual power structures.
This fusion produced a doctrine that equates chiefly authority with divine mandate—Turaga sa mai vua na Kalou. This theological innovation created a double bind for iTaukei believers: to question chiefly authority became tantamount to questioning God’s will, while to question Christian doctrine undermined the spiritual foundation of chiefly legitimacy. This confusion enabled power holders to switch between frameworks depending on what best served their interests, creating what contemporary iTaukei scholars describe as a form of spiritual colonialism that persist, generations after political independence.
Contemporary Exploitation and Consequences
The mutual reinforcement of religious and political institutions continues to exploit iTaukei religiosity for power maintenance. The 2010 decree replacing “Fijian” with “iTaukei” in official language superficially celebrated indigenous identity while reinforcing the taukei-vulagi (owner-stranger) dichotomy that serves political interests. This framework has been weaponized into what academics now term “taukeism”—an ideology asserting indigenous supremacy in governance and land control. The previous regime’s policy, while well-intentioned in some aspects, inadvertently ignited among many iTaukei—myself included—a defensive posture that often bypassed critical examination of its broader implications.
The Methodist Church, to which approximately 64% of iTaukei belong, has historically advocated for “absolute control over this nation by the iTaukei,” illustrating how religious institutions endorse ethnic supremacy. This collusion benefits churches through increased influence and resources, while political leaders gain divine legitimization of their authority—particularly during constitutional crises, when appeals to Christian identity and indigenous rights justify extra-constitutional actions. The military coups demonstrated how effectively this fusion of religious and ethnic identity could be mobilized for political ends.
The psychological and cultural toll manifests as a population that fiercely embraces Christian identity while valuing traditional customs, despite their contradictory foundations. Many iTaukei have abandoned fundamental practices like traditional kava ceremonies or observance of personal tabu, while still embracing cultural artifacts, reflecting the deep dissociation generated by centuries of spiritual manipulation. This internal conflict represents what anthropologist Arno Parrot terms, “the colonial double consciousness”—where indigenous peoples simultaneously operate within conflicting worldviews without fully inhabiting either.
Toward Authentic Spiritual Sovereignty
Breaking this cycle requires decolonizing thinking—critically examining historical processes and distinguishing authentic spiritual principles from exploitative mechanisms. Reclaiming pre-Christian spirituality involves recognizing that ancestral gods were not “fallen angels” but guardians of the Vanua, and reasserting the value of Vanua spirituality as an integrated worldview that connects social, environmental, and spiritual domains. Scholars like Professor Unaisi Nabobo-Baba of FNU, have called for “epistemic rediscovery” that centers iTaukei ways of knowing without automatically subordinating them to Christian frameworks.
Authentic iTaukei spirituality must navigate between uncritical traditionalism that ignores colonial distortions and wholesale Westernization that abandons indigenous epistemology. The future lies in reclaiming the Vanua ethos that recognizes the inseparability of body and spirit, physical and spiritual worlds, and individual and community wellbeing. This involves revitalizing the understanding that Vanua, encompasses not just land but the social, spiritual, and cultural dimensions of existence—a holistic concept that predates and transcends imported religious frameworks.
Only through this reclamation can we the iTaukei honor both our ancestral heritage and authentic spiritual aspirations, without being manipulated by power structures that exploit religiosity for control. The path forward requires courageous examination of both our Christian and traditional practices to distinguish genuine veivakaturagataki (reverence) from political vesumona (deception). It demands acknowledging that the arrival of Christianity—while bringing positive dimensions—also served as a vehicle for colonial domination that must be critically examined rather than unquestioningly celebrated. By embracing this complexity, we the iTaukei can move toward a spiritually authentic future that respects our tradition while liberating us from the manipulations of both church and government.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 