Tag: news

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

  Introduction: A Constitution That Exempts Its Author

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

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

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

  The CRC’s Proposals: A Mandate for Renewal

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

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

  Rabuka’s Personal Stake: The Incumbent as Beneficiary

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

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

  A Wider Pattern: The Opposition Is Not Immune

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

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

  The Missing Conversation: Term Limits for MPs

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

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

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

  Public Opinion: A Citizenry Ahead of Its Leaders

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

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

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

  The Counterarguments: Age as a Blunt Instrument

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

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

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

  The Deeper Problem: Rules Without Enforcement

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

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

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

  Conclusion: The Question Beneath the Question

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

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

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

  2026.10.11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  2026.10.09

• The Hormuz Case in Multipolar Perspective

  Michael Froman’s NYT piece below on chokepoints is a lucid exercise in economic statecraft. He argues that Iran “overplayed its hand” in Hormuz, that its leverage is a “wasting and transitory asset,” and that chokepoints work best as deterrents. The mechanisms he cites—rerouting, substitution, diversification—are real, and his warnings about erosion deserve a hearing. But the framework beneath them rests on a premise: that the international system still has a centre, and that centre is the US.

  Froman’s model is hub-and-spoke. The dollar is the benchmark, the “most potent” chokepoint, against which Iran’s geography and China’s rare earths are measured and found wanting. His warning to Washington is “do no harm.” This is hegemonic-stability logic. It treats US primacy as the default and deviations as self-inflicted wounds.

  That assumption no longer holds. Kishore Mahbubani has repeatedly argued that Western domination of world history is over and that the world is already multipolar. The evidence is striking: the dollar’s share of reserves has fallen from over 70% in 2000 to 57% today; China settles roughly 28% of bilateral goods trade in renminbi, up from 11% in 2017; and the EU’s GDP, once seven times China’s, is now roughly equal. These are today’s operating conditions, not future trends. They are the ground on which any serious chokepoint analysis must now stand.

  Once the system is plural, Hormuz looks different. Iran’s closure was not a deterrent failure but a positional play. Froman concedes that Iran “shifted the primary focus of negotiations with the US from its nuclear, missile and regional aspirations to the reopening of the strait itself.” That is a strategic gain: a middle power forcing a superpower to negotiate over the middle power’s leverage rather than the superpower’s agenda.

  The strait has not returned to normal. Roughly 60% of regional crude still transits it. Pipelines and alternative ports exist, but Froman admits they “could be vulnerable to Iranian missiles and drones,” and more than oil moves through the waterway. Iran’s selective blockade—tolls, throttled traffic, selective access—is graduated and sustainable below the threshold of declared war. Iran need not win a military confrontation; it need only remain a credible disruptor. That is leverage, even if it is costly leverage.

  Nor is Iran playing on only one board. The US may still play the dollar, but Iran plays geography—and chess. Its Houthi allies hold Bab el-Mandeb at the Red Sea’s southern mouth. Together, Hormuz and Bab el-Mandeb form an asymmetric dual chokepoint: one throttles the Persian Gulf, the other strangles the Suez route. The Houthis need no navy, only drones, missiles, and a willingness to absorb retaliation. The result: surging freight rates, soaring insurance, and diverted Western shipping and assets. Tehran has turned a non-state actor into a deniable, sustainable, cheap extension of its coercive reach. This is not a weak hand overplayed. It is a weak hand multiplied by geography—and geography in a multipolar system is never solely American.

  Chokepoint erosion is not symmetrical either. Froman calls the dollar durable because “there’s no viable alternative.” In a multipolar system, the question is not whether one rival replaces the dollar, but whether a mosaic of alternatives is emerging. Mahbubani’s 7-7-7 Security Council reform—Brazil, China, EU, India, Nigeria, Russia, US—is a metaphor. The issue is not who becomes hegemon next, but whether the architecture becomes structurally plural. The dollar may remain first among equals, but first is not sole.

  Froman’s “self-harm” warning also reads differently. He locates US vulnerability in tariffs, deficits, and debt. Those matter. The deeper self-harm is refusing to listen—to engage rising powers as equals, to reform institutions that no longer reflect power. Western marginalization is not mainly a policy error; it is a structural consequence of insisting the system still revolves around the United States. That refusal is not a tactical mistake; it is a strategic blind spot.

  Iran did not overplay its hand. It played a weak hand well—then found a second. It converted geography into narrative leverage, showing Beijing, Moscow, and the global South that Washington will weaponize the arteries of the global economy when it suits. That framing compounds: middle powers diversify not because they love Iran, but because they fear a hegemon treating interdependence as a cudgel. The lesson is not that Iran is winning; it is that the game has more players.

  US power is not spent, by any stretch of the imagination. The dollar remains central; the US economy remains innovative. But centrality is not unipolarity, and durability is not monopoly. Froman asks whether Washington can preserve its chokepoints. The urgent question is whether Washington recognizes that it is no longer the only player holding one. Hormuz has not returned to normal. Neither has the system Froman’s framework assumes.

  2026.10.09

• An Open Letter to the Prime Minister

  Ni yadra vinaka, Turaga PM,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  So I ask you plainly: Will you step up?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Will you step up?

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

  As ever,
  Your trusted adviser

  2026.10.07

• Fiji’s Counter-Terrorism Strategy: Strong on Paper, Blind to the Enemy Within

  The drug crisis is no longer merely a law-and-order problem. It is a test of institutional integrity, national sovereignty and the survival of the social fabric that holds Fiji together.

  Fiji launched its National Counter-Terrorism Strategy 2026–2030 earlier this week. It speaks of operational readiness, emergency response, critical infrastructure protection, legislation, training and inter-agency cooperation. These are necessary measures for any responsible nation.

  Yet as our security planners prepare for threats from outside, a more immediate danger demands equal urgency: the growing possibility that transnational drug networks are exploiting weaknesses within our own institutions.

  The distinction matters. A nation can prepare for external threats while becoming vulnerable from within. Indeed, the most dangerous adversary may not be one that storms our gates, but one that quietly purchases access to the people entrusted with guarding them.

  Consider what has emerged this week. The entire 39.5 kilograms of cocaine, valued at approximately $31 million, associated with a high-profile drug case was found missing from the Suva High Court exhibit room, with flour discovered in the remaining bars. Police have confirmed the exhibits were tampered with and are investigating. Six people with access to the room have been identified as persons of interest, according to media reports. The investigation must establish who was responsible and how this happened.

  Whatever the investigation ultimately reveals, the implications are profoundly disturbing. If drugs held as evidence in a court of law can disappear and be replaced with flour, what does this say about the safeguards protecting our justice system?

  This is not simply a question of missing cocaine. It is a question of whether institutions entrusted with upholding the law can reliably protect the very evidence upon which justice depends.

  The concern extends beyond the courts. Drug-related charges involving police officers, allegations of corruption within public institutions, attempted breaches of military armouries and reports of drug consignments arriving through international networks raise serious questions about the resilience of our security architecture. Reports of cocaine washing ashore on remote islands add another dimension to our maritime vulnerability.

  Each incident requires proper investigation. None should be treated as proof of a single coordinated conspiracy. But taken together, they demand a national response that looks beyond individual arrests and seizures to the institutional weaknesses that organised criminals may exploit.

  My concern is that we may be underestimating the nature of the threat.

  In February 2023, Fiji authorities were already confronting transnational criminal networks linked to methamphetamine originating in Mexico. Fiji has since faced repeated major drug seizures and growing concern about the penetration of international trafficking networks into local communities. 

  The danger is not confined to the drugs themselves. International criminal networks bring money, intimidation, weapons, recruitment and the capacity to corrupt. They do not need to take over a country by force if they can acquire influence through bribery, fear and compromised loyalties.

  A Caribbean friend who watched criminal networks undermine the security of his own islands once warned me: “Bodies will start to be found floating in the sea and, guns will follow.”

  His words have stayed with me, particularly as we confront disturbing incidents involving drugs, unexplained deaths and questions about the integrity of our security institutions. Such incidents must not be casually linked without evidence. But neither should we wait for a pattern of escalating violence to become undeniable before acting.

  The lesson from countries overwhelmed by organised crime is that institutional compromise can precede open violence. By the time criminal networks become powerful enough to intimidate entire communities, the damage to public trust may already be extensive.

  Fiji must not assume that we are immune.

  The Government’s counter-terrorism strategy recognises that transnational criminal networks can create pathways that terrorists may exploit. That connection is important. But the wider drug crisis requires sustained attention in its own right, whether or not criminal activity meets the definition of terrorism.

  We therefore need to ask some difficult questions.

  Have recruitment procedures and background checks for police and military personnel been strengthened to detect possible criminal infiltration? Are there effective systems for identifying unexplained wealth, conflicts of interest, suspicious financial transactions and compromised loyalties among personnel in sensitive positions? Are similar safeguards operating within the judiciary, customs, ports, airports and other public institutions?

  And when warning signs emerge in villages, hospitals, churches, schools or government departments, who brings those fragments of information together before they become a national crisis?

  These are not accusations against our institutions as a whole. They are legitimate questions of national security, demanding clear answers from those responsible for protecting the public.

  Fiji needs an intelligence capability that connects information across institutional boundaries, identifies emerging threats and enables timely, lawful action. The Government should assess whether a Fiji Intelligence Service should be constituted, resourced and empowered to fulfill that role, including identifying links between organised crime, corruption and threats to national security.

  Intelligence must not become a political instrument. Its purpose must be to protect Fiji, not protect those in power. Independent oversight, clear legal authority and accountability are essential if such a capability is to command public confidence.

  We must also examine our dependence on foreign security partners. Cooperation with Australia, New Zealand and other partners can provide valuable expertise, intelligence and operational support. But partnership must strengthen our own capacity to understand and respond to threats within its borders. Sovereignty means more than flying our flag; it means possessing the institutional competence to protect our people and make informed decisions about our national security.

  I am particularly concerned for us, the iTaukei.

  Our young people, villages, families and customary structures are among the things most at risk when the drug trade takes root. The Vanua has sustained generations through obligations of kinship, reciprocity, collective responsibility and care for one another. Drug dependency, criminal recruitment, intimidation and corruption threaten to erode those bonds further from within.

  The reported rise in HIV infections associated with injecting drug use adds a grave public-health dimension. This crisis requires prevention, treatment, rehabilitation and support for affected families alongside effective policing. Our young people must be offered a future beyond addiction, exploitation and organised crime.

  This is not merely a law-and-order challenge. It is a struggle over the kind of society Fiji will become.

  Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka and his Government must demonstrate that they understand the scale of the challenge. That means strengthening internal vetting, protecting whistleblowers, investigating corruption without fear or favour, securing evidence, monitoring vulnerable entry points and coordinating intelligence across agencies. It also means ensuring that communities can report concerns safely and that drug prevention and rehabilitation receive sustained attention.

  The counter-terrorism strategy is welcome. But a strategy is only as effective as the institutions implementing it. Protecting electricity, water, ports, airports and telecommunications is important. Protecting the integrity of the institutions responsible for governing and safeguarding those assets is equally vital.

  When cocaine disappears from a court exhibit room, the alarm should reach far beyond the courthouse. It should reverberate through every ministry, every security agency and every office entrusted with public confidence.

  Fiji cannot afford complacency. Nor can we afford to confuse the announcement of a strategy with the achievement of security.

  We voted for leadership that would protect our people, uphold the law and place the national interest above political convenience. That responsibility now demands more than reassuring statements and investigations after the damage is done.

  The question is no longer simply whether Fiji can defend itself against threats from outside.

  It is whether we have the courage, discipline and political will to confront the vulnerabilities within.

  The drugs are here. The institutional warning signs are before us. The time to act is now, before the rot spreads further.

  2026.09.30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  2026.09.25

• The Week AI Stopped Pretending to Be Controllable

  The most revealing thing about this week’s AI debate is not US-China disagreement. Beneath it, both powers are beginning to recognize the same danger.

  The US and China are racing for AI dominance because each believes it will shape military power, economic strength and technological supremacy. But the faster the race advances, the harder it becomes for either side to control what it is building. That paradox frames Trump’s meeting with Xi starting today.

  The New York Times captures the dilemma: the US leads in advanced chips and frontier models; China has strengths in AI talent, electricity and open-source systems. Neither can comfortably slow down—which may be exactly why both need to.

  Leading US AI executives now warn that increasingly autonomous systems are already behaving in ways their creators did not anticipate. At the UN yesterday, OpenAI’s Sam Altman and Anthropic’s Dario Amodei appeared before the Security Council as governments confront AI’s security implications. The UN Sec-General urged leading countries to share safety risks, cooperate on testing and develop common safeguards.

  This is not abstract. A reported incident from earlier this year involved a US military intelligence briefing generated with a chatbot that misidentified cargo on a Chinese ship as nuclear-related, triggering preparations to intercept it before officials found the error. An AI hallucination can become a geopolitical event when it enters a military decision chain.

  That is what makes the US-China AI race different from the nuclear arms race. Nuclear weapons are hard to build, physically identifiable and controlled through command chains. AI is software. Once a powerful model is released—especially open source—it can be copied, modified and redistributed across borders almost instantly. Its safeguards can be altered; its capabilities repurposed. You cannot impose a national border on code.

  Washington frames the competition starkly: whoever wins AI wins. Beijing resists anything that might constrain China’s rise. The result is familiar logic applied to an unfamiliar technology: if we slow down, they win. But if the technology creates risks neither side can reliably control, moving faster does not produce security. It produces mutual exposure.

  The NYT report makes the dilemma clear: US companies keep tight controls around leading models, while major Chinese companies increasingly release powerful systems as open source. Open source accelerates innovation, but it also makes capabilities easier to modify and misuse. Unilateral regulation cannot solve this. If Washington imposes strict controls while Chinese open-source models advance, US developers may migrate or fall behind. If China slows while US companies accelerate, Beijing fears losing strategic advantage. If neither slows, every safety measure becomes subordinate to the next breakthrough.

  One encouraging development: Washington and Beijing have begun discussing an AI safety notification mechanism to alert each other when an AI issue reaches national-security level. US Treasury Secretary Bessent described the proposed US-China AI dialogue as a move from opacity toward transparency. That sounds modest, but modesty may be what is needed.

  The Cold War nuclear hotline did not end US-Soviet rivalry. It created a basic channel for communication when events outpaced diplomacy. AI needs the equivalent. The first objective should not be a grand treaty regulating every algorithm. It should be layered. Major AI laboratories should agree on common thresholds for catastrophic-risk testing, with independent evaluation before deploying the most powerful systems. Washington and Beijing should establish a permanent AI incident channel: if an autonomous system escapes containment, compromises critical infrastructure, conducts significant cyber operations or produces a potentially catastrophic intelligence assessment, the other side should know. The UN should build a global reporting and standards framework—not an AI police force—setting common definitions, testing principles and transparency requirements.

  The temptation is to treat this week’s summit as another contest over who is ahead. The more important question is whether the two leading AI powers can recognize that strategic competition and strategic restraint are not opposites. They already cooperate, however reluctantly, when the alternative is catastrophic miscalculation. The emerging AI hotline is a small acknowledgment of that.

  This week exposed a contradiction. Those closest to frontier AI warn that the technology may outrun our ability to control it. Governments remain convinced they can control the geopolitical race around it. Both cannot remain true indefinitely. AI regulation should no longer be framed as innovation versus fear, or US leadership versus Chinese leadership. The real choice is whether humanity can build common rules for a technology that does not recognize national borders. The question is whether we can build the guardrails before the race outruns them—and all of us.

  2026.09.24

• A wise speech from Beijing — but what does it mean for Fiji and the Pasifika?

  When Singapore’s Defence Minister Chan Chun Sing addressed the Xiangshan Forum in Beijing this past Wednesday, he delivered what may be the most thoughtful speech on statecraft heard in the region this year. It deserves to be read carefully here in Suva, because the principles he outlined speak directly to the delicate position Fiji and our Pasifika neighbours now occupy.

  Chan’s central question was this: how do we strengthen our own security without weakening the security of others? It is a question that resonates across the Blue Pasifika, where we are being courted, pressured, and pulled by competing powers — Australia, the United States and the West on one side, China and India on the other.

  His answer drew on a well-known insight in international relations: the “security dilemma.” One country’s efforts to make itself safer almost inevitably make others feel less safe, triggering a spiral where everyone ends up more insecure. For small states like ours in the Pasifika, this is not an abstract theory. It is our daily reality.

  Consider what has unfolded in just the past few months

  In July, Fiji signed the Ocean of Peace Alliance with Australia — our first mutual defense treaty. Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka and his Australian counterpart Anthony Albanese formalised what is now called the Vuvale Union, under which the two nations agreed to consult each other over any “security-related development” which may threaten their sovereignty. Australia committed $1.5 billion over ten years. In response to questions in Parliament, Fiji’s Foreign Affairs Ministry insisted the pact would not affect our relationship with China.

  Around the same time, China test-fired a nuclear-capable ballistic missile from a submarine into the South Pasifika. At the Pacific Islands Forum summit in Palau earlier this month, Pasifika leaders expressed “concern” and called on all states undertaking such tests to provide at least 24 hours’ advance notification. Naoero dissented.

  Days earlier, Australia and the United States announced a combined $580 million in funding for Pasifika nations, explicitly framed as part of their competition with China for influence in the region.

  These are the dynamics Chan warned about. Each action, taken in isolation, may seem justifiable. Collectively, they produce exactly the spiral of insecurity he described — and it is the Pasifika that feels the effects.

  What Chan got right

  The Singaporean minister’s most powerful insight was his redefinition of “winning.” To him, winning is not about “outgunning or outlasting a rival.” It is about winning others over through “the power of our example,” not “the example of our power.”

  He quoted the ancient philosopher Mencius: “Power may compel others to comply. But in the end, it is trust that truly wins others over.” This is the distinction between what Chinese strategic thought calls badao — the hegemonic way of force, which is brittle and unsustainable — and wangdao, the kingly way of virtue, where others follow voluntarily.

  For Fiji, this is a welcome framework. We have long insisted on an independent foreign policy. We are friends to all and enemies to none. We do not wish to be conscripted into anyone’s alliance. We have repeatedly rejected the idea of hosting a permanent Chinese military presence, and just as firmly rejected the notion that signing a defense treaty with Australia means we are taking sides against Beijing.

  Chan’s emphasis on “strategic patience” also deserves attention. “Not every capability needs to be advertised,” he said. “Not every advantage needs to be immediately pressed. Not every provocation demands an immediate response.” A great power that feels compelled to respond to everything is, in effect, letting its rivals set its agenda. A confident power can afford restraint.

  And his final principle — “first, do no harm” — is one we would ask every partner to embrace. Trust, he said, “is built by being consistent, but lost in a single instant.” Every unnecessary provocation, every military test without warning, every dollar of aid that comes with strings attached is a withdrawal from a trust account that is very expensive to fill.

  Where the speech falls short

  Yet for all its wisdom, Chan’s speech was delivered from the perspective of a confident small state that has found its equilibrium. Fiji’s position; as well as most Pasifika island states, is more precarious.

  The security dilemma Chan describes is not something we can solve through statecraft alone. It is an external condition being imposed upon us. When Australia and the US announce half a billion dollars in funding explicitly as a measure to “battle China for influence,” we are not participants in that rivalry — we are the terrain on which it is being fought.

  More troubling is the silence at the heart of the speech. The Pasifika’s own security agenda — as articulated in the 2050 Strategy for the Blue Pacific Continent and the Boe Declaration — identifies climate change as “the single greatest threat to the security and wellbeing of Pacific peoples”. Yet climate change barely features in the frameworks the major powers bring to our region. Their security is defined by military competition; ours is defined by survival.

  Chan’s speech does not grapple with this. Its conception of “winning” remains strategic and economic, not ecological. For a Fijian, any definition of security that does not prioritise the survival of our islands is fundamentally incomplete.

  What Fiji and the Pasifika should take from this

  Chan Chun Sing’s speech is a valuable contribution to a conversation the Pasifika needs to have. Its emphasis on redefining winning, building trust, and exercising restraint offers a genuine alternative to the zero-sum logic that too often dominates great power discourse.

  But its principles are those of a confident state speaking to other confident states. For Fiji and the Pasifika, they are aspirations to hold our partners to, not descriptions of the world we live in.

  The true test of the statecraft Chan describes is not whether great powers can articulate wise principles. It is whether they can subordinate their rivalries to the existential security needs of the region they are courting.

  Until they do, the “spiral of insecurity” will remain a lived reality for the Blue Pasifika — not a theoretical warning from a comfortable lecture hall in Beijing.

  2026.09.17

• The Undying Incumbents

  On Political Addiction to Power and Leaders Who Cannot Let Go

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

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

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

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

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

  When Power Becomes a Lifetime Possession

  Consider President Paul Biya of Cameroon.

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

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

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

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

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

  Different Systems, Similar Dependence

  McConnell and Biya are not equivalent figures.

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

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

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

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

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

  A Global Pattern

  The phenomenon is hardly confined to Washington or Yaoundé.

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

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

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

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

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

  Why Leaders Refuse to Let Go

  Why does political power become so difficult to relinquish?

  The reasons are both structural and psychological.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Cost of Staying Too Long

  The consequences are not merely generational.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  What Would a Healthier System Look Like?

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

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

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

  That requires several reforms:

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

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

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

  * Stronger safeguards against political dynasties and conflicts of interest.

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

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

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

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

  The Courage to Leave

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

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

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

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

  The deeper problem is not that old leaders remain.

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

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

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

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

  2026.09.15

• The Demographic Suicide of Aging Nations

  From Washington to Brussels to Canberra, aging powers are repelling the workers they need — and calling it policy.

  Demographer Nicholas Eberstadt asks: “Can America continue to prosper even if it veers into indefinite depopulation?” For the first time since the Great Depression, population decline looms. It could arrive before a baby born this year enters high school, Eberstadt warns, and America is “not well positioned to pass the stress test that depopulation will unforgivingly impose.”

  Washington’s response is the opposite of what the moment demands.

  In 2025, US population growth was just 0.5%. Net international migration fell from 2.7 million to 1.3 million. In 2026, net immigration could range from a gain of 185,000 to a loss of 925,000 — enough to shrink the population by over 400,000, a decline unseen since 1970.

  This is arithmetic. The native-born population is aging, fertility is at record lows, and deaths increasingly outnumber births. Immigration is the only variable that can meaningfully change the trajectory — yet Trump administration policies are sharply reducing net migration and accelerating decline.

  Europe is trapped in the same contradiction. It needs immigrants to sustain its economies and welfare systems. An internal EU report predicts a decline of nearly two million working-age people annually to 2040; migration is already slowing natural decline. Yet anti-immigrant politics is rising, with right-wing parties capitalizing on cultural anxiety. Europe needs immigrants but treats them as threats.

  China faces a starker cliff. After its disastrous one-child policy, it has one of the world’s fastest-aging populations. Its working-age population, once around one billion, could fall to 300 million by 2100. Beijing has loosened birth limits and pivoted aggressively to robotics. By 2024, China installed more industrial robots than the rest of the world combined and accounted for 90% of humanoid robots shipped globally. The logic: if you cannot replace workers with babies, replace them with machines. But robots do not pay taxes, consume goods, or build communities. They are a stopgap, not a solution.

  Australia offers a warning. Without immigration, it is a generation from the same decline as Europe and the US. It depends increasingly on Pasifika workers, especially from Fiji, under programs like PALM. Canberra calls its relationship with Fiji “Vuvale” — family. Australians can enter Fiji visa-free; Fijians cannot do the same in Australia. As one Fijian commentator put it: “In the Vuvale family, one sibling is trusted with the house keys while the other is asked to wait outside until Immigration finishes checking their references.” Australia welcomes Pasifika labor for orchards, hospitals, and aged care, but closes the door when those workers want to visit relatives. This is not partnership. It is exploitation dressed as family.

  Pasifika nations are not passive. They see the contradiction: needed as labor, rejected as visitors. They see remittances — Fijian workers in Australia send home about $2,010 monthly — but also visa rejections and waiting rooms. Australia’s demographic future depends on the Pasifika, yet its politics treats them as temporary conveniences. That cannot hold.

  The US is closing the door entirely. The Supreme Court’s expansion of deportation powers, reduced temporary protected status for hundreds of thousands, and the chilling effect on legal immigration all point one way: a nation of immigrants repelling immigrants. This is demographic suicide dressed as border security.

  Eberstadt warns that America has developed “undesirable new habits — political, social and economic” that steady growth masked. Depopulation will expose them. A shrinking population means fewer workers paying into Social Security and Medicare, fewer consumers, fewer entrepreneurs, fewer communities sustaining schools and hospitals. It means a smaller, older, poorer nation — not because of enemies, but because it refuses to see arithmetic.

  Can America still prosper as it depopulates? Eberstadt says yes. Human ingenuity and adaptability enriched the world during the population explosion; they can during decline. But that requires policy, practice, and behavior to change. It requires recognizing immigration not as a threat to national identity but as a lifeline to prosperity — and treating would-be immigrants as future citizens, not temporary labor or security risks.

  Australia calls Fiji family while keeping it outside. Europe decries demographic winter while voting for parties that worsen it. China bets on robots to replace the children it told people not to have. And America — built on the idea that anyone can become American — is building walls.

  Eberstadt asks whether a depopulating America can still prosper. Yes — but not if it keeps slamming the door on those who could help it do so. The arithmetic is unforgiving. The politics are worse.

  2026.09.13