Tag: news

• The Fall of the Old Guard and the Emergence of a New West Asian Order

  The post–World War II order is dead. What rises in its place will be shaped by conflicts still raging, diplomatic gambits still unfolding, and economic policies still being written. Nowhere is that truth more stark than in West Asia, where the Iranian regime—by sheer geographic presence and the endurance of a disciplined civilization—has survived the US-Israeli war and retains control over the Hormuz Strait.

  Less than a decade ago, Western strategists could sketch West Asia’s power map with reasonable confidence. Egypt commanded the Arab world’s political weight. Saudi Arabia and the UAE anchored the Gulf’s economic might under an American security umbrella. Iraq and Syria were containment zones for Iranian influence. Today, that map has been tossed aside. The region’s center of gravity is no longer in the Arab heartland. It sits in Ankara and Tehran. The Gulf monarchies that Washington counted on as pillars of a “rules-based” order, have been exposed as brittle dependents—caught in a conflict they did not choose and could not control.

  The war that backfired

  The US-Israeli war against Iran, supported tacitly by the GCC, was supposed to cripple Tehran’s power. Instead, it has hastened a slow-motion transition that strategists had been tracking for years: the emergence of Iran and Turkey as West Asia’s indispensable powers. Worse, the same miscalculation has diminished the Quad as a meaningful counterweight to China and accelerated Beijing’s rise as Asia’s pre‑eminent power. A war intended to restore American deterrence has done precisely the opposite.

  Let’s be clear about what was already happening before February 2026. The regional redistribution of power was visible. The Gulf states—Qatar, Saudi Arabia, the UAE—had leveraged their hydrocarbon wealth into a model of economic integration: advanced technology, logistics, tourism, finance. That “Gulf model” offered a post‑oil future while keeping Washington invested in their security. But it rested on a fragile assumption: that American protection would remain reliable and that the Gulf could insulate itself from geopolitical storms. The war shattered both assumptions.

  As Tehran retaliated against American bases across the Gulf, the very facilities designed to shield the GCC became magnets for attack. Gulf states found themselves in a security trap—unable to join the war offensively for fear of escalation, yet unable to prevent their territory from becoming a battlefield. Their strategic restraint, born of necessity, signaled to every regional actor, that the American security guarantee is conditional at best.

  Western commentators warned that if the Iranian regime survives and retains even limited control over the Hormuz Strait, it would amount to a strategic defeat for the US, Israel, and the Gulf states. After months of war, the regime has not fallen. Tehran has demonstrated it can punish Gulf economies at will—targeting energy facilities, disrupting the Strait, launching sustained drone and missile campaigns—while Washington struggles to articulate a political endgame.

  The unintended rise

  The war’s most consequential effect has been to accelerate the ascent of Iran and Turkey as the region’s indispensable powers. For Iran, survival is victory. Despite relentless airstrikes, the regime has retained control over the Strait, through which a fifth of global oil passes. More importantly, Tehran has shown it can impose costs on the Gulf directly, forcing a reconsideration of alignment with Washington. The GCC, through their restraint, have signaled that they now view Tehran not as a regime to be eliminated but as an unavoidable permanent stakeholder in any future regional order. That is a profound shift: the Arab Gulf’s long‑term calculation now includes Iran at the table, not just as an adversary to be contained.

  Turkey’s rise has been quieter but equally significant. Ankara welcomed the ceasefire and warned against steps that would destabilize Iran, recognizing that instability in Iran would immediately sharpen Turkish anxieties about Kurdish militancy, refugee flows, and border security. By positioning itself as a stabilizing power and a diplomatic interlocutor, Turkey has enhanced its regional standing while avoiding the costs of direct involvement. In a multipolar West Asia, Ankara’s strategic autonomy—its ability to move between NATO, Russia, and regional actors—has become a valuable asset.

  The Quad’s quiet fade

  These shifts have not occurred in isolation. The same American resources consumed by the Iranian war have been drawn from the Indo‑Pasifika, with direct consequences for the Quadrilateral Security Dialogue. Since his return to the White House in 2025, President Trump has refused to participate, leaving the Quad leaderless and degrading its geostrategic value. The downgrade from a leaders’ summit to a foreign ministers’ meeting in New Delhi this week, was a stark indicator of waning US political commitment.

  The Quad is now diminished politically and strategically. Its erosion is not accidental; it reflects a deeper logic. China’s strategy of “managed equilibrium” seeks not to dismantle the Quad by force but to weaken its cohesion, lower its political profile, and encourage accommodation in Washington. As the US becomes preoccupied with West Asia and its European allies face their own pressures, Beijing’s diplomatic space expands. US Secretary of Defence Pete Hegseth’s speech at the Shangri‑La Dialogue this week—calling for “partners, not protectorates” and warning that “the era of the United States subsidising the defense of wealthy nations is over”—sounded less like a reassurance to allies than a notice of retrenchment.

  China has been quick to exploit the opening. Where the Quad has stalled, Beijing has advanced bilateral arrangements—with Indonesia, with the Gulf states, across Central Asia—that quietly extend its influence without the confrontational rhetoric of a formal alliance. The war on Iran, as Chinese state media has noted, is undermining supply‑chain resilience across the Asia‑Pasifika and exposing the contradictions in Washington’s simultaneous pursuit of two distant theaters.

  No plan, no order

  The post–World War II order has come to an end. The war in West Asia has not merely confirmed that verdict; it has written the first chapter of whatever comes next. By launching an ill‑defined campaign against Iran without a credible political endgame, Washington has accelerated the very realignments it feared: the rise of Iran and Turkey as the region’s gravitational centers; the exposure of the Gulf states’ dependence on an increasingly unreliable protector; and the quiet fading of the Quad as Asia’s preferred counterweight to China.

  The new global architecture will not be designed in Washington, Riyadh, or Jerusalem. It will be contested in the Hormuz Strait, on the Turkish‑Iranian frontier, and in the boardrooms where Gulf investors decide whether to bet on the dollar or the renminbi. Geography has reasserted itself, and the lack of strategic thinking in Western interventions has merely hastened its return. The question now is not whether the old order is gone. It is whether anyone has a plan for what replaces it.

  2026.05.30

• The Civilizational Blind Spot: How the US and Israel Miscalculated Iran

  The war with Iran was sold as a quick decapitation—a replay of Venezuela, where a brittle regime would crumble under the first real shock. Instead, it became a strategic catastrophe. The US and Israel believed they were targeting a government. They discovered, too late, that they were confronting a civilization.

  Iran is one of the oldest, most resilient civilizations in human history. The Persians have fought wars for three thousand years, survived invading hordes, and revived every time. This insight—obvious to any student of history—was entirely absent from US and Israeli war planning.

  The False Analogy: Iran as Venezuela

  Weeks before the conflict, Netanyahu briefed Trump on a promise: a quick, easy war. Decapitate the leadership, the regime collapses, victory declared. Trump bought it. The premise was that Iran was a hollow shell like Venezuela. But Venezuela is a 19th-century nation-state. Iran is heir to Cyrus the Great and millennia of resistance. No invader has ever erased Persia.

  When decapitation strikes failed, Washington was surprised. Instead of weakening, Iran gained a powerful burst of energy. A civilization under existential threat does not send armies into hopeless battles. It strikes the global economy’s jugular: the Hormuz Strait.

  The Strait That Broke the War

  Iran had warned for years it could close the strait. The US and Israel bombed nuclear facilities while leaving this obvious lever unaddressed. Within days, Iran imposed de facto control. Oil prices spiked. Suddenly, Trump’s overriding concern—November’s midterm elections—became Iran’s primary bargaining chip. Iran is not waiting for a military knockout. It is waiting for an electoral clock.

  The Unraveling Alliance

  The US and Israel are no longer in unison. Trump, facing domestic pressure, desperately wants an off-ramp before November. Israel insists on finishing the job but cannot. This war is fundamentally between Iran and Israel. The US was dragged in by undue Israeli influence and, Washington embraced the Venezuela fallacy. You cannot decapitate a civilization. You can only bleed against it.

  Businessmen Negotiators

  The final insult: Trump appointed businessmen Jared Kushner and Steve Witkoff as negotiators. Their expertise is real estate, not Persian history or Shiite theology. They expected to out-haggle Iran. Instead, Iran holds the upper hand—because when a civilization feels existentially threatened, it does not negotiate from weakness. It waits. It plays the long game.

  As one seasoned observer put it: “Any other country would have surrendered from day one. Iranians didn’t surrender. In fact, they retaliated very strongly.” That is not bravado. That is three thousand years of muscle memory.

  Conclusion: The Cost of Forgetting History, Felt Even Here

  The US and Israel launched this war believing Iran would fold like a house of cards. Instead, Iran closed the Hormuz Strait, kept its economy afloat, and forced Washington to beg for a way out. The magnitude is undeniable: a civilization was underestimated, and the global order is paying the price.

  But this price is not paid only in Washington or Tel Aviv. Even here in Fiji—thousands of miles from the Persian Gulf—we are already feeling the direct effects, and we will continue to feel them long after the fighting ends. The closure of the Hormuz Strait has sent energy costs soaring. Imported goods, from food to fuel to manufactured basics, have become dramatically more expensive. Inflation presses down on every Fijian household. Our small island economy, already vulnerable to global shocks, has no shield against a war we did not choose and cannot influence.

  This should be a wake-up call. The era of stable fossil energy flowing through chokepoints controlled by distant powers is over—at least for now. It is time for Fiji to look seriously at alternative energy sources, as China has shown. Beijing understood years ago that strategic vulnerability follows the oil tanker. Today, China leads the world in renewable energy—not out of environmental idealism, but out of hard-nosed strategic, visionary calculation. Fiji can learn from that. What we lack is the political will to accelerate the transition.

  The Iran war has reminded every nation without its own oil fields of a simple truth: when great powers clash over civilization and empire, small countries get crushed by the wake. The only defense is resilience. And for Fiji, resilience means less reliance on fossil fuel. The Americans and Israelis miscalculated Persia. Let us not miscalculate our own future. The war will end. The lesson should not.

  2026.05.24

• Between Two Giants: Can the Pasifika Still Navigate Her Own Course?

  Between Two Giants: Can the Pasifika Still Navigate Her Own Course?

  The news from Vanuatu lands like a stone dropped into still water. Prime Minister Jotham Napat announces that his cabinet has approved a strategic cooperation pact with China—while simultaneously confirming that Vanuatu is “ready” to sign a stripped-back Nakamal Agreement with Australia. In the same breath, he accuses both Beijing and Canberra of “undermining” his country as they jostle for supremacy.

  This is not diplomacy as we once understood it. This is the sound of a small nation trying to keep its balance while two titans wrestle on its deck.

  For those of us watching from Fiji and across the Pasifika, the question is no longer whether geopolitical rivalries will reach our shores. They are already here. The question is whether we will meet them as scattered islands—or as a united ocean.

  What Does This Mean for Pasifika Solidarity?

  Let me be blunt: Pasifika solidarity is under greater strain today than at any point since decolonisation. Not because we have stopped caring for one another, but because the incentives for going it alone have never been stronger.

  When China offers a bilateral deal—infrastructure, financing, a seat at a very different table—it does not come with a requirement to consult your neighbours. When Australia offers security cooperation and police training, it speaks directly to a single capital city’s fears. Both powers understand a basic truth: it is easier to negotiate with one small country than with a regional bloc.

  The result is what we are seeing in Vanuatu. A subterranean arm wrestle, as a recent ABC report called it. Neither great power wants to be seen as heavy-handed. But both are placing their chips on individual nations, not on the Pacific Islands Forum (PIF) as a collective voice.

  This does not mean Pasifika solidarity is dead. It means it is being tested—and so far, we are failing the test. We speak of a “Blue Pacific Continent” in grand declarations, but when the moment comes to coordinate our responses to external security pacts, we act as separate jurisdictions. Vanuatu makes its own calculus. Solomon Islands makes another. Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Tonga—each calibrates its own balance.

  That is not solidarity. That is fragmentation dressed in polite regional language.

  Are We Being Quietly Isolated and Targeted Individually?

  Yes. And the word “quietly” is doing important work here.

  No foreign power will announce that it intends to divide the Pasifika. That would be counterproductive and diplomatically ruinous. But the effect of bilateral competition is precisely that: division by seduction.

  China does not need to weaken the PIF. It simply offers deals so attractive that small nations feel they cannot afford to wait for a regional consensus. Australia, in response, deepens its own bilateral security architecture—the Pasifika Policing Initiative, the Step Up, the new defense cooperation agreements. Neither is overtly hostile to regionalism. But neither makes regionalism their priority.

  The danger is not that we will be conquered. The danger is that we will be managed—treated as a collection of strategic real estate rather than as a civilisation of peoples with our own aspirations.

  Look at the language. “Infrastructure and capacity building,” says China’s embassy. “Security and resilience,” says Canberra. Both are true. Both are also covers for strategic positioning. And the small nation caught in the middle—Vanuatu, in this case—ends up doing something that would have been unthinkable a generation ago: signing two competing pacts with two competing powers, while publicly accusing both of undermining it.

  That is not sovereignty. That is survival swimming.

  Is Our Own Nationalism Preventing Us from Uniting Under a Common Front?

  This is the hardest question, because nationalism in the Pasifika is not a dirty word. We fought for our independence. We built identities out of colonial borders that were never ours to begin with. Our national pride is real and earned.

  But that same nationalism—when it becomes narrow, when it prioritises the immediate deal over the long-term regional interest—becomes a trap.

  Consider: What would a united Pasifika front look like in the face of great power competition? It might look like a collective moratorium on bilateral security pacts without regional consultation. It might look like a shared negotiating position on infrastructure financing, so that China and Australia and the United States bid against each other for regional projects, not for individual allegiances. It might look like a PIF that has real enforcement power over its members’ foreign engagements.

  We have none of that. Instead, we have what one diplomat once called “the tyranny of smallness”—the belief that each of us is too small to act alone, and therefore each of us must cut the best bilateral deal we can, and to hell with the neighbourhood.

  That is not nationalism in service of our people. That is nationalism as self-cancellation. It leaves every one of us weaker, because Beijing and Canberra know that they can play Port Moresby against Suva against Port Vila against Honiara.

  Are We Selling Ourselves Short for the Now, the Next Election Cycle, for Intergenerational Prosperity?

  Now we arrive at the deepest wound.

  I wrote earlier this week, about China’s thirty-year plan for renewable energy, about the US’s inability to think beyond the next election—is not just a story about superpowers. It is a mirror held up to our own politics.

  How many of our national energy strategies extend beyond the next budget cycle? How many of our foreign policy choices are driven by the need for a headline rather than a generation? When a prime minister signs a strategic pact with China, is that a carefully considered step in a fifty-year vision—or is it a response to a domestic political problem that will be forgotten in eighteen months?

  I do not ask this to single out Vanuatu. Every Pasifika nation, Fiji included, has made short-term calculations that mortgaged long-term autonomy.

  The tragedy is that the great powers do think long-term. China’s engagement in the Pasifika did not begin yesterday. It began with fishing agreements, with small infrastructure loans, with diplomatic courting that seemed harmless a decade ago. Now those relationships have matured into security pacts and strategic partnerships. Australia, belatedly waking up, is scrambling to play catch-up with its own long-term Pasifika strategy.

  Meanwhile, we in the Pasifika are still debating the next election.

  Intergenerational prosperity is not a slogan. It is the sum of every decision we make today about who we ally with, what infrastructure we build, what energy systems we rely on, and whether we sell access to our waters, our ports, our data cables, and our loyalties for short-term gain.

  The Chinese have a saying: “If you do not plan for a hundred years, you cannot plan for even one.” We are not planning for ten.

  What Does This Mean for National Aspirations and Our Common Pasifika Bond?

  A national aspiration is not just about sovereignty in the abstract. It is about the concrete ability of a people to determine their own future—to feed their children, to educate them, to keep them safe, and to pass on an inheritance larger than the one received.

  Our common Pasifika bond—the thing that makes us more than a scattering of islands—is the understanding that no one of us is safe until all of us are. A climate disaster does not respect borders. A debt crisis in one capital affects lenders’ willingness to lend to all. A security pact that gives one nation’s ports to a foreign navy changes the strategic calculus for every neighbour.

  That bond is being tested not by external enemies, but by our own failure to invest in it.

  Vanuatu’s double-pact strategy is understandable. When two giants are arm-wrestling on your table, you try not to get crushed. But understandable is not the same as sustainable. The long arc of history suggests that small nations caught between great powers eventually have to choose—and that the act of choosing fractures them internally and regionally.

  And Then Some: A Way Forward

  I do not want to end on despair. There is a way forward, but it requires three things we have so far lacked.

  First, a regional foreign policy framework with teeth. The PIF must evolve from a talking shop into a coordinating body where members agree—voluntarily but credibly—to consult before signing major security or strategic pacts with external powers. This is not about blocking any nation’s sovereignty. It is about recognising that a pact with China in Port Vila affects Suva, Nuku‘alofa, and Apia. That recognition must be institutionalised.

  Second, a long-term economic vision that reduces our vulnerability. We chase great power deals because we lack capital, infrastructure, and resilience. China and Australia offer what we need. But we will always be supplicants until we build regional pools of investment—a Pasifika Development Bank with real resources, regional energy grids, shared undersea cables, and collective bargaining for everything from vaccine procurement to aviation fuel.

  Third, a renewal of the Pasifika conversation at the grassroots. Our leaders sign pacts in capital cities. But our people—in villages, in outer islands, in the diaspora—must debate what kind of future we want. Do we want to be the playground of great powers? Or do we want to be the navigators of our own destiny, as our ancestors were when they crossed this ocean without GPS or foreign aid?

  Vanuatu’s Prime Minister Napat says both Beijing and Canberra are “undermining” his country. He may be right. But the deeper undermining—the one we do to ourselves—is the belief that we cannot unite, that our nationalism must be narrow, that the next election matters more than the next generation.

  Conclusion: Who Shall Be Captain?

  Vanuatu is determined to be its own captain. I respect that. Every Pasifika nation should be its own captain.

  But being a captain does not mean ignoring the other vessels in the fleet. It does not mean sailing into a storm alone because a foreign power promised safe passage. It means knowing that in the vast Pasifika, no boat survives long without its neighbours.

  The question before us is not whether we will engage with China or Australia or the United States. We will, and we should. The question is whether we will do so as Pasifika—with a common front, a common voice, and a common commitment to the generations who will inherit the choices we make today.

  If we cannot answer that question together, then the giants will answer it for us. And we will not like their answer.

  2026.05.20

• TLTB Statement:

  CLARIFICATION ON LAND OWNERSHIP AND MINERAL RIGHTS IN FIJI

  TLTB notes that many views and comments have been shared on social media platforms regarding land and land ownership in Fiji. TLTB intends to demystify land ownership in Fiji to clear up misconceptions, particularly regarding the rights of iTaukei landowners.

  The starting point of the discussion must be on the different land tenure types in Fiji, of which there are three: iTaukei land, Freehold land and State land

  iTAUKEI LAND

  The iTaukei Lands Act 1905 defines “iTaukei land” as land which is neither State Land nor subject of a State grant nor iTaukei grant, but includes:

  (a) All vacant land, including such land declared as vacant land under section 19 of the iTaukei Lands Act 1905

  (b) All land set aside by proclamation under section 18 of the iTaukei Land Trust Act 1940

  (c) All extinct mataqali land vested in the Board under section 19 of the iTaukei Land Trust Act 1940

  iTaukei Land is owned by the respective iTaukei owners and administered by TLTB for the benefit of the iTaukei owners under the iTaukei Land Trust Act 1940. About 91% of Fiji’s landmass is iTaukei land.

  FREEHOLD LAND

  Freehold lands in Fiji are Crown grants and represent absolute ownership of land in perpetuity (estate in fee simple). Lands which were sold prior to Fiji’s cession to Great Britain in 1874 required validation by the Lands Claims Commission in 1876. All validated sales were issued with a Crown Grant. A total of 1582 Crown Grants covering an area of 152,815 hectares thus became “freehold land”. Some Grown Grants have since been purchased or acquired by the State. These lands are now known as “State Freehold Lands”.

  About 6% of Fiji’s landmass is freehold land.

  STATE LAND

  Under section 2 of the State Lands Act 1945 “State lands” means all public lands in Fiji including foreshores and the soil under the waters of Fiji (including all inland waters such as

  rivers and streams) which are for the time being subject to the control of the state and all lands which have been or may be hereafter acquired by or on behalf of the State for any public purpose.

  State land is owned by the State, administered by the Department of Lands, and leased/licensed under the State Lands Act.

  Myth: land below “three feet or six feet underground” is owned by the State

  Fact: if land is iTaukei land or freehold land, the respective iTaukei owners and registered owners of freehold land have full ownership rights, including to land more than six feet below the ground.

  There are no provisions in law that differentiate between ownership of land above or below six feet from the surface of the land.

  The misconception likely arises from applying mineral ownership to land ownership in Fiji.

  Under the 2013 Constitution and the Mining Act, the State owns all minerals in Fiji – regardless of whether they are found on iTaukei land or freehold land. Minerals include all precious metals and precious stones. Also, under the Petroleum (Exploration and Exploitation) Act 1978, all petroleum is owned by the State.

  What this basically means is that, while ownership of minerals and petroleum is reserved to the State, the owners of iTaukei or freehold lands have full rights to their lands regardless of depth.

  Currently, under the Fair Share of Mineral Royalties Act 2018, landowners receive 80% of mineral royalties, with the State retaining 20%. However, this percentage applies to the royalty that is paid to the State under the Mining Regulations 1966. The rates currently prescribed under the regulations are as follows:

  1. For bauxite or iron ore – at the rate of 3% of their value

  2. For any other mineral – at the rate of 5% of their value.

  This means that landowners will only get 80% of the 5% royalty paid to the State, for example, on the value of gold extracted. TLTB is of the view that royalty currently paid to the respective owners is neither a “fair share” nor does it represent an equitable return of their land.

  TLTB SUBMISSION ON LEGISLATIVE REVIEWS

  The TLTB has made submissions to the Fiji Law Reform Commission on the review of the State Lands Act and Mining Act for:

  1. An amendment to the definition of “State lands” to exclude foreshore, and soil under inland waters, so that full ownership rights are reverted to the respective iTaukei owners

  2. An amendment to the Mining Act for full ownership of minerals to be returned to the respective iTaukei land and qoliqoli owners

  TLTB is also making submissions to the Constitution Review Commission on the review of the 2013 Constitution on the matters above.

  TLTB MANAGEMENT

  Decolonising the Land: A Response to TLTB’s Clarification above:

  The TLTB management deserves a measure of commendation. Earlier today, it issued a public clarification on land ownership and mineral rights—an unusual step for an institution that has historically preferred opacity. The statement correctly dismantles the myth that the State owns land below six feet. It correctly notes that iTaukei and freehold landowners own their land to any depth. And it correctly observes that the so‑called “Fair Share” of mineral royalties is neither fair nor a share: 80 percent of a 5 percent royalty on gold value is; in plain arithmetic, 4 percent of the value. The TLTB even admits this is inadequate.

  That admission is rare. It should not go unremarked.

  But let us not mistake a single candid paragraph for a conversion. The TLTB statement, read in full, reveals an institution that still resides in the past—still pleading with the State for amendments, still accepting the premise that colonial laws are the only framework available, still issuing press releases in English to landowners who speak iTaukei. If TLTB truly intended to “demystify” land ownership, it would have issued the statement ena vosa vakaviti as well. The language of the iTaukei landowner is not legalese. It is not the dialect of Suva boardrooms. It is the voice of the koro, the mataqali, the Vanua. That the TLTB chose English alone tells you whose comfort it prioritises.

  The clarification that clarifies nothing new

  TLTB has told us what the law says. But the law itself is the problem. The iTaukei Lands Act of 1905. The Native Land Trust Act of 1940 (now the iTaukei Land Trust Act). The State Lands Act of 1945. These are colonial statutes, written by British administrators to serve a colonial economy—to make native land available for European plantations, to control the movement of labour, to keep the indigenous population contained and compliant. TLTB is a creature of that era. Its very structure—a board appointed by the minister, a CEO who answers to the board, a welfare fund that deducts money from landowners without their consent—is a colonial trust model, designed to manage natives, not to empower them.

  The TLTB’s statement acknowledges that the current mineral royalty regime is unfair. Then it says: “TLTB has made submissions to the Fiji Law Reform Commission… for amendments.” Submissions. Amendments. This is the language of petitioners, not of trustees. Imagine a freehold landowner discovering gold on their property. Would they write a submission asking the government to please allow them to keep their own minerals? Of course not. They would assert ownership. They would go to court. They would demand. The TLTB, by contrast, asks permission from the very State that wrote the laws, that dispossess iTaukei of their subsoil wealth.

  Decolonisation is not amendment

  TLTB is trapped in a reformist mindset. It believes that tweaking a percentage here, redefining “State lands” there, will eventually deliver justice. That is a delusion. Colonial laws do not become just through amendment; they become just through abolition. The 2013 Constitution itself declares that all minerals belong to the State. That is not a minor clause. That is a fundamental expropriation of iTaukei property. The TLTB’s response is to ask for a review. But the Bose Levu Vakaturaga—the true shareholder of iTaukei land—should not be asking. It should be demanding. It should be preparing legislation that vests full mineral ownership in the landowners; with the State as a licensing partner, not the owner.

  The same applies to foreshores and the soil under inland waters. TLTB says it has asked for an amendment to exclude these from “State lands.” Why ask? Why not assert? Because the TLTB does not see itself as the agent of iTaukei sovereignty. It sees itself as an administrator of a colonial estate. That is the institutional mindset that must die.

  The language of the Vanua

  I return to the language of the statement. The TLTB issued it in English—fluent, legalistic, correct. But the iTaukei landowner, the mataqali member in a remote village, does not read English legal prose. They listen to radio. They hear announcements in the vernacular. If the TLTB genuinely wanted to “demystify” and “clear up misconceptions,” it would have issued the statement in iTaukei on the same day. It would have sent divisional estate officers to explain the difference between land ownership and mineral rights in valevakoros/village halls, not in a press release aimed at Suva journalists.

  The failure to do so is not an oversight. It is a reflex. The TLTB still communicates upward—to the government, to the media—rather than downward to the 400,000 landowners it claims to serve. That is the habit of a colonial trust, not of an indigenous empowerment body.

  What real decolonisation looks like

  Genuine decolonisation of iTaukei land administration requires three acts, none of which the TLTB has proposed:

  First, the repeal of all colonial land statutes—the iTaukei Lands Act, the iTaukei Land Trust Act, the State Lands Act, and the Mining Act—and their replacement with a single, iTaukei‑drafted, constitutionally entrenched Land Sovereignty Act that vests full ownership (including minerals, foreshores, and water columns) in the landowning units, with the State exercising only regulatory powers for safety and environment.

  Second, the transformation of the TLTB itself: not through amendments to its board composition, but through a new institution—call it the Fijian Land Trust Council or whatever the Vanua through the BLV decides—that operates under a hard cap of 10 percent administration, with the President as its Chair, with no sitting minister on the board, and with a statutory obligation to issue all public communications in both English and iTaukei.

  Third, the immediate, unconditional public audit of the $26.1 million welfare fund, with the results published in the vernacular, and every cent of unaccounted money returned to the landowners with interest.

  The TLTB’s statement does not mention any of this. Instead, it asks for amendments. It asks for reviews. It speaks of “submissions.” That is the posture of a supplicant, not a sovereign.

  Conclusion: praise where due, but not silence

  Let me be clear: I commend the TLTB management for acknowledging that the current mineral royalty is not a “fair share.” I commend them for correcting the six‑feet myth. But commendation is not endorsement. A broken clock is right twice a day. The TLTB can issue a correct statement and still be the wrong institution for the job.

  The iTaukei have waited eighty‑five years for TLTB to serve them. It has not. It issues statements in English, asks for amendments, and calls that progress. It is not progress. It is the sound of an old machine trying to sound new.

  The time has come to decolonise not just the laws, but the institution itself. No more pelicans. No more ministers as chair. No more English‑only statements to landowners who speak iTaukei. And no more asking permission for what is already ours.

  The Vanua is watching. The land remembers. And we have waited long enough.

  It is time to wake up.

  2026.05.15

• Beyond the Fear of the Word: Why Indo-Fijians Need to Understand iTaukei Communalism

  In Fiji, the word “communalism” has become a ghost at the feast. It is invoked with a shudder—usually by urban, educated, multiracial progressives, who see it as the opposite of national unity. For many Indo-Fijians, communalism evokes the coups of 1987, the 1990 constitution’s guaranteed parliamentary majority for indigenous Fijians, and the lingering suspicion that in any crisis, blood will speak louder than citizenship.

  But here is a difficult truth: communalism is not going away. And more importantly, for the iTaukei, it is not merely a political preference. It is a philosophy of survival, identity, and dignity. To demand that iTaukei abandon their communal framework is, in effect, to demand that they cease being iTaukei. That is neither realistic nor just.

  The question, then, is not whether communalism should exist. The question is whether Indo-Fijians can learn to read it correctly—not as a threat, but as a different grammar of belonging. And whether, in that reading, a new kind of national conversation becomes possible.

  A Lesson from Philadelphia: Anger Is Not the Enemy of Understanding

  In March 2008, at the height of a presidential campaign that had already broken racial barriers, Barack Obama stood before a nation deeply divided over the inflammatory sermons of his former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright. Obama could have condemned Wright and moved on. Instead, he did something rare. He acknowledged the roots of Wright’s anger—the generations of racism, segregation, and neglect that had shaped black churches. Then he also acknowledged the resentment of working-class white Americans who felt they had watched their jobs and communities disappear.

  He said: “The anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races.”

  Fiji can learn from this. Indo-Fijian anger about coups and the fear of being permanent outsiders—that anger is real. iTaukei anger about land alienation, cultural erosion, and the feeling of being strangers in their own ancestral home—that anger is also real. Neither can be wished away by a constitution or a national slogan. The first step toward a more perfect union is not to suppress communal anger, but to listen to what it is actually protecting.

  What Communalism Actually Means in iTaukei Life

  Let us strip away the political caricature. For an iTaukei villager in Ra or Cakaudrove, communalism is not a doctrine imposed by a nationalist politician. It is the daily reality of veilomani (mutual care), solesolevaki (shared labor), and veivuke (assistance). It is the mataqali (land-owning unit) holding together families who have tilled the same soil for generations. It is the yavusa deciding together whether to lease grazing land to a sugar farmer or to reforest a watershed.

  When iTaukei speak anxiously about “land” or “custom” or taukei (owners of the land), they are not speaking about property deeds in the Western sense. They are speaking about Vanua—a word that means land, but also people, also custom, also the spiritual presence of ancestors. To be iTaukei is to be in relationship with the Vanua. That relationship is inherently communal. No iTaukei stands alone before the state. They stand within a web of obligations and inheritances.

  What iTaukei communalism seeks is recognition—that their ancestral way of organizing society has a legitimate place alongside the individualist, contract-based, market-driven logic that arrived with colonialism and sugar, and is now embedded in the imposed 2013 constitution.

  Why Indo-Fijians Often Misread Communalism as Exclusion

  The misunderstanding is understandable. Indo-Fijian history in this country is a story of individual and family survival. Arriving as girmitiyas between 1879 and 1920, Indo-Fijians had their communal bonds systematically broken by the colonial plantation system. They rebuilt them—through panchayats, through mandalis, through temples and sangams—but those bonds were always voluntary associations, not ancestral birthrights.

  Indo-Fijians feel they do not belong but have overhwelming economic power. Are they willing to share these in a genuine manner that embraces being Fijian, in the iTaukei sense? iTaukei have seen their land and culture stripped away. Neither grievance cancels the other. As Obama put it: “We can condemn a statement without condemning the person. We can acknowledge the pain of a community without endorsing every word spoken in that pain.” Indo-Fijians can reject ethno-nationalist politics while still understanding the pain behind iTaukei communalism. iTaukei can reject the bitterness of some Indo-Fijian leaders while still understanding the trauma of girmit and its aftermath.

  What Thoughtful Understanding Looks Like

  To “understand” iTaukei communalism does not mean agreeing with every iTaukei political demand. It does not mean accepting racial discrimination or supporting the abolition of the common roll. It means three things.

  First, understanding that iTaukei communalism is primarily defensive, not aggressive. The fear that drives most iTaukei anxiety is that globalization, land sales, tourism development and climate displacement will erode the Vanua until nothing is left. When an iTaukei elder insists on communal land tenure, they are trying to prevent a future where their grandchildren sell the last piece of ancestral soil for a resort and a second-hand SUV. Indo-Fijians, who have no ancestral land base of their own, can afford to see land as a commodity. iTaukei cannot.

  Second, understanding that communalism and multiracial democracy are not mutually exclusive—but they do require new institutions. Switzerland manages three languages and two religions through a federal system that gives cantons significant cultural autonomy. Belgium has been held together for decades by sophisticated power-sharing arrangements. Fiji has never seriously attempted a consociational model—one that guarantees iTaukei communal representation alongside common-roll seats, with iTaukei vetoes on matters of culture and land. Instead, we have swung between iTaukei-dominated ethnocracy (1987–2006) and a “one man, one vote” system (2013 onward) that many iTaukei see as imposed without addressing their existential anxiety. A thoughtful Indo-Fijian might ask: Is there a middle way that protects my vote and their Vanua?

  Third, understanding that iTaukei communalism contains wisdom that Indo-Fijians might actually need. The global climate crisis is going to devastate Fiji’s coastal villages and sugar belts. Individualist responses—buying your own higher ground, insuring your own assets—will fail. Survival will require veivuke: collective decisions about relocation, resource sharing, and mutual obligation. iTaukei have been doing this for centuries. Their communal structures, adapted wisely, could become Fiji’s resilience architecture. Indo-Fijians who dismiss communalism as backward are walking away from a toolkit that might save their grandchildren.

  The Path Forward: From Fear to a More Perfect Union

  Obama concluded his Philadelphia speech with a simple, powerful image: “I have never been so naive as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle. But I do believe that we can get beyond them if we work together.” He did not demand that anyone leave their identity at the door. He asked only that each side extend the same grace to the other that they would claim for themselves.

  No one is asking Indo-Fijians to stop being Indo-Fijian. No one is asking iTaukei to stop being iTaukei. What thoughtful understanding asks is this: Stop seeing each other’s communalism as a zero-sum threat.

  When an iTaukei speaks of the Vanua, an Indo-Fijian could learn to hear “home” rather than “hierarchy.” When an Indo-Fijian speaks of individual enterprise, an iTaukei could learn to hear “aspiration” rather than “greed.” These translations are not easy. They require humility, patience, and the courage to sit in discomfort.

  But the alternative is what Fiji has known for too long: a politics of mutual suspicion where each community waits for the other to weaken. That is not a nation. That is a ceasefire.

  The Bose Levu Vakaturaga could be one space for this translation. A reformed parliamentary system, with genuine protections for both communal and individual rights, could be another. But no institution will work if the heart is not willing—if we refuse to see that, as Obama put it, “we may have come on different ships, but we are all in the same boat now.”

  Indo-Fijians do not need to embrace communalism. They need to understand it—as a living, breathing, wounded, hopeful expression of iTaukei humanity. And in that understanding, perhaps, discover that their own survival is not separate from the survival of the Vanua. It is the same ocean, same shore, same storm.

  The difficulties will pass. But only if we stop rowing against each other, and start rowing toward the same horizon.

  2026.05.13

• Toxic by Default: Why Fiji Must Wake Up to our Social Media Crisis

  Acting DPP Nancy Tikoisuva delivered a sobering reality check this week: social media posts do not move the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions. “We only respond to evidence – admissible evidence,” she said. Hearsay and online chatter do not count in a court of law.

  But beneath that legal clarity lies a deeper crisis. If social media is not a court, what is it becoming? For Fiji, the answer is alarming. Against a backdrop of escalating drugs, HIV and NCD crises, our online spaces have devolved into an “outlaw country”—a toxic swamp of hate, scams, and anonymous trolling. As one observer put it, “every person for himself and herself.” The question for the National Security Council (NSC): Should the digital realm be policed for our national sanity? The answer is my view is, yes.

  The unseen threat to national cohesion

  Prime Minister Rabuka rightly stated that national security now includes digital systems and psychological well‑being. Social media toxicity is not a nuisance—it is a security threat. Hate speech, doxxing and coordinated harassment erode our social fabric, traumatise individuals and substitute mob rule for the rule of law. The damage to our collective Pasifika psyche is as real as any drug bust.

  Consider the real‑world consequences. Young Fijians are self‑harming after online pile‑ons. Families are torn apart by viral lies. Witnesses to serious crimes refuse to come forward because they fear being named and shamed on Facebook before they ever reach a police station. The DPP’s office cannot act on a screenshot—but the damage is already done. This is not a moral panic; it is a public health and security emergency dressed in digital clothing.

  The Singapore solution: a blueprint for the Pasifika

  Australia and Indonesia have banned under‑16s from social media. But Fiji should study Singapore’s more comprehensive model. Singapore’s Protection from Harassment Act (POHA) criminalises online harassment, stalking and doxxing, with extraterritorial reach and penalties up to 12 months’ jail. Its Online Criminal Harms Act (OCHA) lets authorities swiftly disable criminal content.

  Most relevant is Singapore’s new Online Safety (Relief and Accountability) Bill (OSRA) , launched this year. It creates an Online Safety Commission with real teeth: binding takedown orders, account restrictions, and the power to unmask anonymous abusers. Victims of deepfakes, doxxing and sexual harassment get a one‑stop agency. Platforms that refuse to comply face criminal sanctions. And statutory torts let victims sue abusers, group admins and platforms directly. Singapore removes anonymity as a shield and places legal duties on those who run online spaces.

  Why does this matter for Fiji? Because our current Online Safety Commission has publicly admitted it lacks the legal authority to remove harmful content or compel platforms to act. A victim can report a death threat, but the Commission’s hands are tied. Singapore showed that strong laws do not kill free speech—they kill impunity. In the three years since POHA was strengthened, Singapore saw no decline in legitimate expression, but a measurable drop in organised online harassment campaigns.

  A mandate for the National Security Council?

  Fiji is not starting from scratch. A taskforce aims to bar under‑16s by year’s end, and Minister Tabuya admits the current Online Safety Act lacks “teeth.” But a ban on children does nothing for today’s toxic adult spaces. The NSC must urgently study the Singapore model and recommend a multi‑layered approach:

  1. Empower the Online Safety Commission – binding takedown notices, fines for non‑compliant platforms, and investigative powers without waiting for police.

  2. Criminalise anonymity for abusers – compel platforms to reveal perpetrators’ identities upon reasonable suspicion of criminal harassment.

  3. Duty of care legislation – hold group and platform administrators legally liable if they knowingly allow hate speech to thrive.

  Concluding

  The DPP’s warning is stark: the court of public opinion is lawless. When we allow social media to become a toxic dumping ground without consequence, we undermine the police, the courts and the rule of law. Protecting the national psyche is now as vital as protecting our borders. Without urgent, enforceable laws along Singapore’s lines, Fiji’s digital future will remain a lawless frontier—damaging our collective soul one hateful post at a time. The National Security Council meets to address threats. It is time they recognised that the most pervasive threat today is not at the border. It is in the palm of every Fijian’s hand.

  2026.05.12

• Beyond Fear: Why Australia Must Embrace a Truly Open Door for Its Pasifika Family

  The Vuvale or family, is a concept that runs deep in the Pasifika. “At the heart of this Union is the concept of Vuvale—built on trust, loyalty, respect, understanding, and responsibility,” Fijian officials have declared, articulating a vision that Australia has eagerly signed onto in multiple security and economic agreements. Yet for all the talk of family, when it comes to the practical act of welcoming Pasifika peoples through its borders, Australia remains guarded, suspicious, and restrictive. Every Pasifika national must still obtain a visa to enter Australia—a regime that Pasifika leaders have repeatedly condemned as unfair and disrespectful.

  Visiting Australian Foreign Minister Penny Wong talks about a Vuvale Union but her nation does not even allow free visa access to Australia. What kind of Vuvale is that? In our Pasifika culture, Vuvale means my house is your house. You don’t make your family stand at the gate filling out twenty pages of paperwork just to come in for a cup of tea. The core question deserves honest airing: What has Australia truly got to be afraid of? A real Vuvale looks after its own first; a genuine partnership erases barriers, not just in strategic treaties but in human movement.

  The Myth of the “Swamping” Tide

  Australia’s reluctance to embrace visa-free travel for the Pasifika is rooted in a fundamental misunderstanding: the overwhelming belief that Pasifika migration is going to “swamp” Australian shores. Yet the data tells an entirely different story. Australians vastly overestimate the share of Pasifika-born immigrants in the country, believing it to be around 9.4 percent when the actual figure is merely 2.3 percent. That means for every ten immigrants Australians imagine are coming from the Pasifika, fewer than three actually are. In raw numbers, the Pasifika diaspora in Australia numbered approximately 337,000 as of 2021—a significant community, undoubtedly, but not a demographic flood.

  Consider the broader context: the entire estimated population of the Pasifika Islands in 2025 was 14.3 million people. Spread across dozens of countries and territories, this is not a population base that threatens to overwhelm a continent of 26 million. Other than Papua New Guinea, the Pasifika’s demographic weight is modest at best. Those who cite migration fears overlook a simple truth: Pasifika peoples value their home islands. Migration is not abandonment; it is circulation.

  Learning from China and Singapore

  While Australia hesitates, nations with far less historical connection to the Pasifika are leading the way. China formalised a mutual visa-free agreement with Samoa in April 2025, allowing Samoan citizens to enter China without a visa for stays of up to 30 days. Similarly, Singapore consistently ranks as a global leader in passport freedom, holding the world’s most powerful passport with visa-free access to 195 destinations. If nations that share neither geography nor deep cultural kinship with the Pasifika can open their doors, what excuse remains for Australia? The argument that visa-free access is impossible or reckless, collapses when examined against these real-world policies already in operation.

  The Economic Imperative

  Beyond symbolism lies hard economic benefit. Fiji’s former Deputy Prime Minister Biman Prasad explicitly argued that visa-free travel across the Pasifika would yield “economic benefits for Australia and consolidate its position as the Pasifika’s major security partner.” He is not alone. The Lowy Institute reached the same conclusion, describing visa-free access for all Pasifika Islanders to Australia as a “practical next step” in the relationship. Pasifika leaders have stressed that “visa-free access within our region is going to be essential, particularly to the larger markets in Aotearoa and Australia” if the region is serious about economic growth. Facilitating business travel, medical access, family visits, and educational exchanges would unlock significant economic activity that the current visa bureaucracy actively suppresses.

  The Vuvale in Practice: A Deadbolt on the Door

  In the Pasifika context, Vuvale isn’t just a buzzword for a press release. It is about shared responsibility, open doors, and genuine family ties. To use the word while keeping the door locked via strict immigration policies is a total contradiction of the very culture Australia claims to be embracing.

  As a fellow ITaukei commentator asked recently, “How can Canberra and Wellington claim they’re “part of the Pasifika village” when they’re the only houses with a deadbolt on the door?

  The security argument against visa-free travel, at its core, is not about actual misconduct but about fear itself. As one critic has aptly observed, Australia’s harsh visa restrictions reflect “FEAR of mass mobility, not misconduct” disguised as border security. Yet deepening security cooperation is precisely why visa-free access makes sense. Australia is actively negotiating a sweeping Vuvale Union security pact with Fiji, aimed at countering external influence and stabilising the region. These agreements share a stated goal: to build “a peaceful, stable and prosperous Pasifika”. How can such a partnership be considered genuine when one partner treats the other’s citizens as potential threats requiring bureaucratic scrutiny before every visit? Trust and suspicion cannot coexist in a true Vuvale. Strengthening cooperation on transnational crime, as the Vuvale Union explicitly seeks to do, is entirely compatible with freedom of movement for legitimate travellers.

  Rejecting Double Standards

  Australia currently operates the Pasifika Engagement Visa (PEV), offering permanent residency to up to 3,000 Pasifika nationals annually through a ballot system. It has also committed $440 million to expanding the PALM labour mobility scheme. These programs demonstrate that Australia can manage mobility, and that it recognises the value of Pasifika workers and residents. But treating migration as a bureaucratic lottery, a temporary labour arrangement, or a climate-displacement provision—as seen in the Tuvalu Falepili Mobility Pathway—frames Pasifika movement as a problem to be managed rather than a relationship to be honoured.

  The double standard is glaring. Tourists from wealthy nations walk through immigration with casual ease. Meanwhile, a Pasifika elder seeking to visit their child in Brisbane, a Fijian business owner pursuing new markets, or a Samoan family hoping to attend a wedding face forms, fees, delays, and the implicit message: you are not quite welcome here.

  Walking the Talk: No More Propaganda

  Talk is indeed cheap. This is a cynical use of our culture by Canberra bureaucrats and politicians to score propaganda points. Australia has positioned itself as the Pasifika’s partner of choice, investing heavily in security agreements and development aid. But true partnership is measured not in dollars signed in treaty rooms but in everyday dignity afforded to real people. China and Singapore have moved; their commitments are operational. If Australia continues to demand visas from its Pasifika family while competitors open their doors, the Vuvale becomes not a relationship of mutual respect but a structure of managed dependence.

  Migration is not a threat to be contained; it is a bridge to be built. Pasifika peoples are not a demographic wave to be feared; they are neighbours, fellow citizens of the Blue Pasifika Continent. The evidence is clear: the fear is overblown, the economic case is compelling, and the moral obligation is undeniable.

  Australia must walk the talk. Grant visa-free travel to the Pasifika. Anything less is not family-not vuvale

  2026.05.11

• Digital Unleashing – Is Open Season on Government Good for Fiji’s Democracy?

  Since the December 2022 election, Fiji has experienced a quiet revolution. After sixteen years of tight controls on public expression under the previous regime, the floodgates have opened. Social media—Facebook, TikTok, Instagram—has become our new town square. Fijians are now naming ministers, leaking documents, and live-streaming accusations of police corruption without the immediate fear of a night in the cell.

  For a nation that remembers bloggers being arrested and newspapers facing closure, this feels like a renaissance. But a difficult question follows: Is this raw, unfiltered expression appropriate for a Pasifika nation emerging from autocracy? Or are we simply trading one set of problems for another?

  How social media changed the game

  Before 2022, criticism of government was often whispered in kitchens or coded in sermons. Now it is broadcast to thousands. Citizens post videos directly accusing ComPol and the Director of CID of being paid off by drug cartels. They share screenshots of leaked messages, name senior officers, and dissect controversial issues in real time. For many, this transparency is exhilarating—a long-overdue accountability mechanism.

  We have witnessed genuine benefits: real-time fact-checking of official claims, citizen journalists exposing local neglect that mainstream media hesitates to touch, and organised online pressure that forces government to respond. Trust in authority is no longer automatic; it is earned and withdrawn in comment sections and share counts.

  The Pasifika dilemma: respect versus recklessness

  Yet a deep tension runs beneath this digital energy. Pasifika cultures value relationships, respect and constructive dialogue. Traditional leadership was not challenged publicly; dissent was channelled through elders, clans, or quiet forums. Social media flips this entirely. Anonymous accounts launch personal attacks. Elders are ridiculed. Rumours spread faster than any correction.

  Is this “speaking our minds” or “speaking out of turn”? The answer is not simple. After years of autocracy, a period of catharsis may be necessary—even messy. You cannot teach a generation to fear speaking and then expect polished civility overnight. However, others rightly worry that the absence of vanua-based accountability (respect for family, chiefs, church) means we are importing a Western-style shouting match that erodes our social fabric. Worse, false accusations can destroy real lives in a small island nation where relationships and reputation are everything.

  The double-edged sword of digital freedom

  The same platforms that expose government wrongdoing can also be used to divide the police, discredit individuals or destabilise a fragile democracy for personal or political gain. We have already seen edited videos designed to malign opponents and coordinated attacks on institutions. The Alex Forwood case—whatever one believes of her claims—illustrates the dilemma: a single person with a social media account can force a national investigation while also spreading unverified information. Is she a whistleblower or a destabilising agent? In the old Fiji, the state would have decided for us. Now we must decide for ourselves, without reliable tools.

  So, is this appropriate?

  I believe yes—but with Pasifika guardrails. A Pasifika democracy should never return to autocratic silence. However, it must cultivate digital talanoa: an online culture that values evidence, respect, and the right to reply. That requires several practical steps.

  First, strong fact-checking initiatives led by community-trusted voices—not government censors, but independent groups with cultural authority. Second, media literacy taught not only in schools but also in community halls and church gatherings. Third, platform accountability that curbs deliberate harm (doxxing, incitement, defamation) without sliding into political censorship. Fourth, the restoration of face-to-face forums, where hard conversations happen with dignity, and where social media heat can be cooled by direct human presence.

  Our ancestors navigated the Pasifika without destroying each other. We can learn to post without destroying the soul of our nation.

  Final thought

  Social media has given Fiji a voice. Now we must learn to use it as a tool for construction, not demolition. A democracy where everyone shouts and no one listens is not a democracy—it is a crowd. And we are better than a crowd. We are a vanua.

  Let us speak, but let us also listen. Let us challenge power, but let us not abandon respect. That is the true Pasifika way.

  2026.05.11

• The Entangling Alliances: Why Fiji Must Not Tie Its Security to Any Single Mast

  The news from Port Moresby should echo across the Viti Levu not as a model to emulate, but as a cautionary tale. Papua New Guinea’s approval of a new defense treaty with Australia, is the latest move in the Pasifika’s Great Game, a strategic gambit where larger powers vie for influence, using smaller nations as pieces on their geopolitical board. For Fiji, a nation that has painstakingly carved out a role as a regional leader and a master of “multi-alignment,” this path is a dangerous anachronism. To tie our security—and thus, our sovereignty—to any single power would be to betray our hard-won independence and our unique potential as a unifier in a divided region.

  The seductive allure of a security guarantee is understandable. It promises protection, resources, and a place at the table of a powerful friend. But this is a fool’s bargain. As we have learned through our own history and our deft navigation of international relations, security is not a gift to be received; it is a condition to be built. And true, lasting security cannot be imported from Canberra, Washington, or Beijing. It is homegrown, cultivated in the fertile soil of economic resilience, social cohesion, and climate stability.

  The Deft Art of Multi-Alignment vs. The Blunt Tool of Alliance

  Fiji’s strategic genuinity: engaging with all, but being beholden to none. We work with China on infrastructure, with Australia and Aotearoa on policing and military training, and with a multitude of partners on development. This is not indecision; it is supreme strategic agency. It allows us to extract benefits while retaining the ultimate power—the power to say “no,” to set our own terms, and to pivot based on our national interest, not the interests of a patron.

  An exclusive security treaty shatters this delicate balance. It effectively makes us a client state, aligning our national destiny with the strategic objectives of another. When that power enters a conflict or a period of heightened tension—as is inevitable in today’s world—we are no longer a neutral voice for peace. We become a forward base, a target, or at best, a compliant ally expected to fall in line. We trade our role as a sovereign player for that of a supporting actor in someone else’s drama.

  Our Real Battlefield is Not the Sea, But the Soil

  The greatest threats to Fijian security do not sail warships or fly fighter jets. They rise with the seas, blow in with intensifying cyclones, and fester in the persistent inequalities of our communities. Our national security is inextricably linked to human security.

  · Poverty is a national security issue. A population struggling to meet basic needs is vulnerable to exploitation, political instability, and crime.

  · Climate change is the single greatest existential threat. It erodes our coastlines, destroys our crops, salinates our water, and displaces our people. No defense pact with a foreign military can fortify a village against a king tide.

  · Economic vulnerability makes us susceptible to debt-traps and predatory investment, which can be just as corrosive to our sovereignty as any military threat.

  These are the battles that demand our full attention and resources. A defense treaty would inevitably skew our priorities, diverting political focus, financial capital, and institutional energy towards military posturing and away from the foundational work of poverty alleviation, climate adaptation, and sustainable development.

  A Call for Principled, Inclusive Partnership

  This is not a call for isolationism. It is a call for a more profound and principled form of engagement. Fiji’s foreign policy should be a magnet, drawing the world to our shared challenges, not a chain tethering us to one power’s agenda.

  We must lead the charge in reframing the conversation. Let us invite Australia, Aotearoa, the US, China, India, and the EU to a different kind of partnership—not a “security alliance” against a common enemy, but a “prosperity and resilience coalition” for a common future. Let the agenda be:

  1. Co-investment in Climate-Resilient Infrastructure.

  2. Collaborative Projects for Poverty Alleviation and Sustainable Agriculture.

  3. Strengthening Regional Institutions like the Pasifika Islands Forum to be the primary arbiters of Pasifika security.

  In this vision, Fiji is not a prize to be won in a geopolitical contest, but the architect of a new Pasifika century. We become the hub that connects disparate powers around a common, constructive purpose.

  The world is dividing into new blocs, and the pressure to choose a side will only intensify. Fiji’s greatest strength lies in its refusal to be rushed. Our security does not lie in hitching our drua to a foreign warship, but in ensuring our own vessel is seaworthy, our navigators and crew skilled, and our course set firmly towards the horizon of our own choosing—a future where everyone is lifted together, not where anyone is tied down alone.

  2025.10.02

• From Coup Maker to Kingmaker: Can Rabuka Cement His Legacy By Stepping Aside?

  As Fiji inches toward the 2026 general elections, our nation stands at a pivotal juncture. The question looming over our political future is not merely about policies or party platforms but about identity: Can a country still haunted by the ghosts of its coups and constitutional crises—embodied in the figures who orchestrated them—truly evolve if it remains chained to the architects of its turbulent past?

  At the heart of this reckoning is Prime Minister Sitiveni Ligamamada Rabuka—a man whose life mirrors Fiji’s jagged political arc. The same hands that orchestrated two coups in 1987 now position him as a reconciler, a bridge-builder in our fractured democracy. Yet to many, especially our youth who make up over 60% of the population, Rabuka embodies a paradox: a figure of division masquerading as a unifier, a relic of the past steering a nation desperate to move forward.

  The TRC: A Reckoning or a Farce?
  Fiji’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) offers a rare chance to confront this paradox. Modeled after South Africa’s post-apartheid process, the TRC’s success hinges not only on Rabuka’s willingness to surrender to transparency but also on the cooperation of Fiji’s entrenched power brokers. At the apex, stands Ratu Naiqama Lalabalavu, the Turaga Tui Cakau, whose influence on Rabuka and traditional Vanua Levu’s chiefly hierarchies (Vanua) looms large.

  Rabuka’s acts of reconciliation—accepting apologies, preaching unity—have been politically shrewd but symbolically shallow. They sidestep the elephant in the room: immunity. The constitutional clauses shielding him and others from prosecution for past coups remain intact, mocking Fiji’s claims to justice. For the TRC to transcend political theater, Rabuka must pair radical accountability with strategic diplomacy.

  Here’s what that courage could look like:

  1. Testify, Don’t Obfuscate: Rabuka must detail his role in the 1987 coups before the TRC—not with vague regret, but with raw honesty about their human toll and democratic vandalism. This would lend credibility to the TRC and signal that no one, not even Chiefs, is above the nation’s truth.
  2. Tear Down the Immunity Shield: As PM, he could lead the charge to scrap coup-related immunity from the constitution. Yes, this risks his own prosecution—but it would dismantle the legal loopholes that incentivize future power grabs.
  3. Resign to Reignite—But Not Without a Plan: After catalyzing these reforms, Rabuka should step down. Yet his exit must be negotiated. To avoid destabilizing the People’s Alliance, he must secure the Tui Cakau’s endorsement of a successor. Only then could he pivot from strongman to statesman, prioritizing Fiji’s future over his foothold in power.

  Why Generational Change Isn’t Optional—But Far From Simple
  Fiji’s demographic reality is impossible to ignore. A youth bulge pulses with energy, digital fluency, and impatience with the cycles of coup and counter-coup. Yet, the political arena remains dominated by figures like Rabuka, whose careers began with guns, not ballots. The PAP’s deputy party leaders and ranks, represent an untapped bridge to this younger electorate. But their rise is eclipsed by Rabuka’s enduring dominance and the “regional kingmakers”, who hold the keys to power.

  The danger of clinging to old-guard leaders is not just ideological; it is existential. Climate change, economic inequality, and technological disruption demand agile, forward-thinking governance. Yet, Fiji’s political transition must also navigate the ambitions of potential PAP successors and their hunger for power.

  2026: Stability or Stagnation?
  Rabuka’s defenders argue that his experience “stabilizes” Fiji’s fragile coalition. But stability without justice is stagnation. The 2026 elections will reveal whether Fiji’s democracy values accountability—or still cowers before the ghosts of its past.

  To win, any successor must reckon with a ‘kingmaker role’, a lesson from Ratu Naiqama’s 2001 CAMV split that left then-PM Laisenia Qarase perpetually indebted. Today, the Tui Cakau’s loyalty to Rabuka is both an asset and a shackle. A smooth transition requires Rabuka to persuade his High Chief to back a reformist successor—someone who can appeal to both traditionalists and the youth.

  Imagine instead: A campaign where parties led by a new generation—unshackled from coup baggage but attuned to regional realities—compete on visions for climate resilience, anti-corruption reforms, and equitable development. Imagine a PAP rejuvenated by fresh leadership, its legacy reshaped not by Rabuka’s past, but by his willingness to broker a future that honors both the Vanua and progress.

  Conclusion: The Redemption Rabuka Still Chases
  History will judge Rabuka not by his ability to cling to power, but by his courage to relinquish it—and to negotiate the terms of his exit. His final act could be the greatest service to Fiji: using his influence to dismantle the systems that once protected him, while ensuring his successor inherits both the mantle of leadership and the support of Fiji’s fractious power blocs.

  The TRC is more than a process; it is a mirror. If Rabuka stares into it unflinchingly—and convinces the Turaga Tui Cakau to peer into it alongside him—he might yet see the statesman he longs to be. If he turns away, history will remember him as the man who could not let go.

  Vinaka vakalevu, Prime Minister. The nation awaits your next move—and the alliances you must forge to make it matter.

  May 13, 2025

  2025.09.24