We were raised on the well-meaning but ultimately cowardly advice to avoid talking about politics, religion, and sex. This was not wisdom; it was intellectual disarmament. By silencing the conversations that matter most, we failed to build the muscles of civil discourse, leaving us unable to navigate disagreement with grace, to understand the faith of our neighbors, or to articulate the sacred boundaries of our own bodies with confidence.
This vacuum of understanding has now been filled by its most toxic counterpart: the performative, often destructive, culture of social media, particularly embodied by a certain breed of Fijian TikTok ‘influencer’ we should all abhor.
These digital performers are the grotesque product of our silence. Having never been taught how to have a difficult conversation, they instead master the art of the provocative spectacle. They trade in the currency of shame, scandal, and sensationalism because we never learned the value of substance. They reduce complex human beings to simplified caricatures and complex issues to inflammatory dares because we never cultivated a appetite for nuance.
When we avoid teaching our youth how to debate politics thoughtfully, they learn to substitute reason with rabid partisan trolling. When we avoid deep, theological discussions about faith, they exchange a mature spirituality for the hollow theater of religious performance, using scripture as a weapon rather than a guide for compassion. And when we fail to have honest, consent-based conversations about sex and touch, we create a environment where these topics are not explored with respect, but are exploited for clicks through sexualized dares and risky behavior, further blurring the lines of what is acceptable.
These influencers are not the cause of our societal dysfunction; they are a symptom. They are the harvest of a culture that prized polite silence over honest, messy, and necessary dialogue. Our silence did not create peace; it created a void, and nature abhors a vacuum. Into that void rushed the loudest, crudest, and most attention-seeking voices.
The path forward is not to scold them, but to out-compete them. We must consciously build a culture that values difficult conversations. We must teach our children—and ourselves—how to listen, how to question with respect, how to hold a conviction without dehumanizing the opposition, and how to use our platforms not for self-aggrandizement, but for genuine connection and understanding.
We tried silence. It gave us a digital screaming match. It is time to find our voice.
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.
The Pharisee in the Pulpit: How Fijian Christianity Lost Sight of the Mirror
In many of our churches across Fiji, a peculiar faith is preached. It is a faith more concerned with the geography of Jerusalem than the geography of the human heart. It speaks more of a chosen people in a distant land than the divine spark in the person sitting next to you. Unknowingly, it has become more aligned with the Christianity of the Pharisees—whom Jesus condemned—than with the Christianity of Jesus Christ himself.
The central tenet of this modern Pharisaism is external validation. Where the historical Pharisees clung to strict adherence to Mosaic law as a sign of holiness, some expressions of Fijian Christianity; influenced by colonial and political Zionism, display a fervent focus on a physical Israel, future prophecies, and outward rituals. This faith is built on a foundation of otherness: the holy land is there, not here; salvation history happened then, not now; God’s chosen are them, not us.
This is a profound departure from the radical, unsettling message of Christ. It rebuilds the very walls of separation that His ministry sought to dismantle. The apostle Peter experienced a revelation that shattered this paradigm: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him” (Acts 10:34-35). The early church concluded that the covenant was for all of humanity through faith. There are no exclusively ‘chosen people’; we are all God’s people.
When asked to name the greatest commandment, Jesus did not say, “Pledge allegiance to a foreign state.” He said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and love your neighbour as yourself.” He insisted the entire law hangs on this. Everything else is commentary. This commandment is universal, directed at every human being, without exception.
The transformative power of Christ’s teaching is that it demands we stare into the mirror. “The kingdom of God is within you,” He said (Luke 17:21). It is not a remote destination to be visited, but a state of being—cultivated through compassion, humility, and justice, right where we are.
The colonial introduction of Christianity to Fiji often came with a Pharisee’s handbook. It taught us to externalize God—to see Him as a distant, white patriarch whose favour was earned by rejecting our own world, our Vanua, our ancestors. It was a theology of displacement, convincing us our sacredness was elsewhere, white and that we were secondary in a divine plan. How can this be? In doing so, it committed the error Jesus condemned: prioritizing external abstract ritual over “the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness” (Matthew 23:23).
The irony is profound: we venerate a man born in Bethlehem, who broke Sabbath laws to heal the sick and ate with sinners, yet we often practice a religion of exclusion, judgment, and meticulous outward observance that reinforces the very barriers He died to tear down.
True Christianity is not about looking to the Middle East for a sign of salvation; it is about looking into the eyes of your neighbour and seeing Christ. It is the recognition that Na Kalou na Vanua is not heresy but a profound truth—that the divine is immanent, present in this world, even right here in Fiji and within us. When God said, “Let us make mankind in our image,” He was describing a spiritual capacity for love and moral consciousness granted to all. God is a mirror of our highest being. To know God is to know ourselves truly and to choose love.
The challenge for Fijian Christianity is a choice: Will we continue down the path of the Pharisees, seeking holiness in external lands and rigid doctrines? Or will we embrace the liberating message of Christ himself—that there are no chosen people, only a chosen path: the path of love? The kingdom of God is within, demanding we see the divine in our own reflection and in all we meet.
Real Christianity is not an escape from the world, but a courageous engagement with it, beginning with the person in the mirror. It asks not, “Do you support the right nation?” but “Have you clothed the naked, fed the hungry, and loved the unlovable?” The answer—the state of our own hearts—is the only Zion that truly matters.
It is time for Fijian Christianity to have the courage to look squarely at its own reflection.
Na Kalou na Vanua. Na Vanua na Kalou. The God is the Land. The Land is God.
For millennia, across the continents, from the islands of the Pasifika to the plains of Africa and the forests of the Americas, Indigenous peoples lived by this fundamental truth. Our spirituality was not a separate belief but the essence of existence—a deep, reciprocal relationship with the living world. Then came the colonizers.
They arrived with their ships and their scriptures, their maps and their manifestos. They called our connection to the land ‘animism.’ They labelled our sacred rites ‘savage’ and our deities ‘demons.’ They told us we lived in ‘darkness’ and they were the ‘light.’ This was not a unique experience for Fiji; it was the brutal, standardized playbook of colonialism applied globally. As the African Union Ambassador Arikana Chi Umbori articulated, this was a deliberate “brainwashing” designed to defeat us “where it matters the most, which is the mind.”
The first step was to sever our spiritual connection to the Earth. After all, a people who believe the land is God will fight to the death to protect it. But a people taught that the land is merely a resource, a property to be owned and exploited, can be more easily dispossessed.
The ultimate act of contempt followed this spiritual conquest. After demonizing our sacred objects, the colonizers stole them. They took our ancestral carvings, and the sacred artifacts of countless other cultures—the Benin Bronzes, the ikenga statues, the totem poles—and placed them behind glass cases in distant museums. These are not mere art objects; they are “religious, spiritual, sacred” documents of our identity. This global theft was a physical manifestation of the spiritual theft already underway.
Here lies the profound, gut-wrenching irony of our time. The very worldview that colonizers spent centuries trying to eradicate is now hailed as the essential wisdom the world needs to survive.
What our ancestors knew as simple, sacred duty—living in balance with nature, seeing the land as a living ancestor—is now rebranded in Western conference halls as “climate adaptation,” “sustainable development,” and “environmental stewardship.” The spiritual intelligence they called primitive, is now the scientific consensus they urge us to adopt.
This is the height of hypocrisy. The same systems that plundered the world’s resources, fueled by the very disconnect they enforced upon us, now look to the fragments of our surviving traditions for salvation. They have the audacity to lecture the world on human rights and environmental policy, while their museums overflow with the sacred spoils of their conquest and their economies are built on the exploitation they pioneered.
We must see this clearly: the call to “save the environment” rings hollow when it comes from institutions that have yet to fully acknowledge or redress their role in destroying it—and in destroying the cultures that best knew how to preserve it.
The call to action, therefore, is not just about reclaiming stolen artifacts. It is about reclaiming our stolen narrative and our rightful place as holders of critical knowledge. It is a call for a profound reckoning.
We must reject the mental colonization that tells us our ancestral ways are inferior. The principle of veilomani—mutual care and respect—extends beyond our communities to the living world. This is not a quaint tradition; it is a sophisticated ecological philosophy that has ensured our survival for thousands of years.
The path forward requires the courage to own the whole history. For the West, this means moving beyond empty apologies and returning not just stolen art, but honouring the stolen wisdom embedded in it. It means supporting Indigenous land rights and sovereignty as the most effective climate action there is.
For us, it means having that “serious conversation with the image in the mirror.” It means revitalizing our languages and teachings, not as folklore, but as vital frameworks for the future. It means telling our children that Na Kalou na Vanua is not a superstition, but a prophecy—a truth the world is finally, desperately, catching up to.
Our gods were never lost. They are in the waves, the forests, and the soil. The colonizers taught us to stop seeing them. Now, as the world faces the consequences of that disconnect, they are beginning to look for them. They will find that the answers they seek have always been here, waiting in the land, and in the hearts of the people who never stopped believing it was sacred.
No justice, no peace. Not just for stolen objects, but for stolen wisdom and a stolen future. It is time for the world to listen to the very voices it once tried to silence.
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:
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.
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.
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.
When news broke that Rwanda is seriously vying to host a Formula 1 Grand Prix, many in the world met it with surprise. The typical reaction: a small, landlocked African nation, known to the world for a tragic past, now wanting to stand alongside glitzy destinations like Monaco, Abu Dhabi, and Singapore? It seems audacious, almost fanciful.
But for those of us watching from Fiji, an island nation grappling with its own potential, the response should not be surprise. It should be a profound, and perhaps uncomfortable, moment of introspection. Rwanda’s F1 bid is not about car racing; it is the ultimate symbol of a leadership that thinks in decades, not electoral cycles. It is a lesson in what becomes possible when a leader’s vision is to build a nation, rather than merely to win an election.
President Paul Kagame’s Rwanda is a case study in transformative leadership. The foundation was not laid with glamorous projects, but with the gritty, unglamorous work of national rebuilding. The monthly community work of Umuganda was more than just cleaning streets; it was a deliberate strategy to forge a shared social contract, instilling discipline, collective responsibility, and a tangible sense of progress from the ground up. Once the foundation of civic pride and order was secure, the sky became the limit. The country now boasts being the “Singapore of Africa”—a tech hub, a beacon of cleanliness and security, and a destination for global conferences.
The F1 ambition is the logical next step in this vision. It signals to the world: “We are open for business, we are capable, we are world-class.” It is an economic stimulus package wrapped in a global marketing campaign. The message is clear: we are no longer defined by our past, but by our audacious future.
Now, let us turn our gaze to our own beloved Fiji. We are blessed with natural beauty that Rwanda can only dream of. We have a resilient people, a strategic location, and a history of punching above our weight on the global stage. Yet, we often find ourselves trapped in a cycle of short-term political manoeuvring. Our national discourse is too frequently dominated by racial and political divisions that harken back to a past we seem unable to transcend, rather than a future we are excited to build.
Where is our Umuganda? Where is our unifying, nation-building project that asks every citizen to contribute to a cleaner, more orderly, and more cohesive Fiji? We have the veiqaravi vakavanua, the traditional communal obligations, but this spirit has not been consistently harnessed at a national level by visionary leadership to create a modern, shared civic identity. Instead, we see infrastructure that deteriorates, public services that strain, and a national mood that often swings between hope and cynicism.
The difference lies in the nature of leadership. Visionary leadership, as seen in Rwanda, is not about popularity; it is about legacy. It is about having the courage to make difficult decisions today for a reward that a future generation will reap. It is about selling a dream so compelling that the people are willing to sweat for it. It asks not, “What can I promise to get re-elected?” but “What must I build to ensure my grandchildren’s prosperity?”
Fiji does not need a Formula 1 race. But Fiji desperately needs the kind of thinking that an F1 bid represents. We need a leadership that dares to imagine a Fiji that is not just a tourist paradise, but a regional hub for finance, technology, and sustainable ocean-based industry. A leadership that invests in world-class education and healthcare not as a cost, but as the essential infrastructure of a 21st-century nation. A leadership that unites us under a common name of “Fijian,” where our diverse backgrounds become a source of strength, not a political weapon.
Rwanda’s story is a provocation. It challenges the fatalistic notion that a nation’s destiny is sealed by its history or its size. It proves that transformation is possible with relentless focus, discipline, and a leader who paints the horizon not as a distant line, but as a destination within reach.
The question for Fiji is not whether we can host a Grand Prix. The question is, do we have the leadership with the vision to make us believe we even could? Our potential is not in the ground or the sea; it is in the quality of our ambition. It is time we started reaching for the sky.
The words of Cherokee elder Stan Rushworth, strike a chord that resonates deep within the Fijian soul, particularly for us iTaukei. The distinction between being born with “rights” and being born with “obligations” is not a foreign philosophy; it is the very essence of our traditional governance system, the Vanua. In an age obsessed with individual attainment, this indigenous wisdom offers a radical—and perhaps essential—redefinition of true leadership.
The vulagi-settler mindset of “I have rights” is inherently self-centric, focusing on what is owed to the individual. In contrast, the indigenous mindset of “I have obligations” is community-centric. It asks, “What do I owe?” This question is the foundational principle of iTaukei leadership. One is not born a Turaga—a chief, a person of authority—simply to wield power. One is born a Turaga to serve.
This is encapsulated in the Fijian proverb, “Na Turaga na nodra i liuliu na lewe ni vanua”: The chief is the foremost servant of the people. This authority is not a license for privilege, but a mandate for profound responsibility. The chief’s role is to be the custodian of the land (qele), the preserver of the culture (itovo vakavanua), and the unifying force for the people (lewenivanua); as demonstrated recently in the installation of Na Turaga Tui Nayau, in Nayau and Lakeba. The chief’s well-being is inextricably linked to that of the Vanua. If the people suffer, the chief has failed in this primary obligation.
This principle extends beyond the village. A former Commanding Officer of the Fiji Battalion in the Sinai noted that the motto, “Leadership is Service!” was not merely a phrase but a lived cultural truth. The legendary bravery of the Fijian soldier is often misunderstood; it is not just a product of military training, but an extension of a deeper cultural duty—the obligation to protect the community and serve a cause greater than oneself. This is leading by serving, where authority is earned through selfless action, not demanded by title.
This compels a critical question: are we, the iTaukei, still honouring this sacred covenant?
Modernity, with its allure of individual rights and political power, has created a tension in our society. We witness a dangerous shift where some seek leadership positions to be served, rather than to serve. The title of “Turaga” is at times pursued for the status it confers and the economic benefits derived, not for the burdens it carries. This corrupts the very essence of the Vanua, hollowing out our traditions into empty performances.
True iTaukei leadership is the opposite. It is about serving to lead. One serves the community, the elders, the past by upholding tradition, and the future by protecting the land. Through this demonstrated commitment, leadership is naturally conferred and respected. Its legitimacy is rooted in fulfilled obligations.
The elder’s wisdom is thus an urgent call for introspection—for our leaders in the village, the church, and the nation. It challenges us all:
Do we see our positions as a platform for our own voice, or as a responsibility to listen to the voices of our people?
Are we making decisions for short-term gain, or with an obligation to seven generations yet unborn?
Are we leading to build our own legacy, or serving to strengthen the eternal legacy of the Vanua?
The path forward is not to reject rights, but to recenter our understanding of leadership on the deeper, more meaningful concept of obligations. Our identity as iTaukei is not a right we possess, but a gift from our ancestors. With that gift comes a solemn duty: to serve, to protect, and to nurture. When we embrace that obligation—to the past, present, future, and to the Vanua herself—we do more than become better leaders. We honour the very essence of what it means to be an ITaukei.
Na Kalou na Vanua, na Vanua na Kalou. We are all its servants.
For over 160 years, the sugar industry has been more than just an economic activity in Fiji; it has been a national identity, a political football, and a colonial ghost that refuses to leave. But the question we must now courageously ask is this: Are we preserving a vital national asset, or are we clinging to a monument of historical injustice that is haemorrhaging money and holding the nation back?
The case for the prosecution is damning. The industry is a relic of a colonial paternalistic system designed to keep iTaukei in their villages while their land was used to generate wealth for others. Today, it is economically unviable. We cannot compete with the giants of Brazil, Australia, and India. The government subsidises it to the tune of millions annually to sustain an ever-shrinking number of farmers and workers in what can only be described as indentured servitude to a dying trade.
The opportunity cost is staggering. While FSC buys sugar at F$100 per tonne, commodities like kava command up to $120,000 per tonne. Our land, cursed by generations of chemical runoff, could be nurturing high-value, sustainable crops. Instead, we pour good money after bad, perpetuating a cycle of poverty for the very iTaukei landowners who should be the primary beneficiaries of their own vanua.
So, why does it persist? The answer is the political elephant in the room. It is a failure of courage that mirrors a broader paralysis in our governance.
This same lack of strategic bravery is painfully evident in our approach to the digital future. The government proudly touts a National Digital Strategy, 5G networks, and a Google Data Centre. Yet, these achievements risk being a veneer of progress. After nearly three years, the government has been unable to cancel an exorbitant contract with a foreign IT company that effectively holds our country’s critical data hostage. We have, as noted, lost our data sovereignty—a modern-day echo of the economic sovereignty we surrendered in the sugar industry.
This failure has real consequences. While we host IT conferences that are “barely disguised vendor exhibitions,” our municipal councils remain stuck in the past, crippled by political indecision on local government reform. How can we talk about a FinTech Hub when we cannot digitise basic local services? Our budding BPO industry in Valelevu, a potential source of jobs, is already at risk of being decimated by AI, a threat we are simply not ready for. We are trying to build a skyscraper on a foundation of sand.
But if not sugar, then what? This is where our vision must expand beyond replacing one crop with another, and confront our technological inertia head-on.
Yes, agricultural diversification is a critical first step. We must empower landowners to transition to high-margin products. However, the most profound transformation lies not solely in the soil, but in the mind. With AI reshaping the global economy, our goal cannot be to create only a new generation of farmers, but to create a generation of innovators.
Our investment must be a courageous, dual-track mission:
Agricultural Justice: A managed, just transition out of sugar. This means direct investment in landowners and retraining for farmers, not as a handout, but as a capital injection for a new beginning, breaking the colonial cycle for good.
Digital Sovereignty: A concurrent, ruthless prioritisation of genuine digital governance. This starts with reclaiming control of our national data and infrastructure. It means moving beyond glossy strategies to implementing practical IT systems that improve lives, and—critically—launching a national upskilling program focused on AI literacy. We must prepare our youth not to be displaced by AI, but to harness it.
Saving the sugar industry is an act of confinement. Similarly, clinging to outdated IT contracts and superficial digital projects is a betrayal of our future potential. It chains us to past weaknesses.
The choice is clear: we can continue to be custodians of a dying, 160-year-old legacy and a shaky digital facade, or we can become the architects of a new Fiji. One that honours its people by finally giving them the tools—both agricultural and digital—to thrive in the 21st century. The political courage to break these twin cycles of dependency will define our nation for generations to come. It is time to stop feeding the elephants in the room and start building for the future.
The images from Gaza haunt the conscience of humanity: endless columns of desperate families fleeing under bombardment, children sleeping in rubble, parents starving themselves to feed their offspring, and the constant, grinding terror of displacement after displacement. According to recent UN reports, over 250,000 people have been displaced from Gaza City in just the past month alone, adding to the nearly two million already displaced throughout the territory. As I write these words, countless Palestinian families—including an estimated 1,000 Palestinian Christians—are being forced from homes that have become uninhabitable ruins, joining what the International Displacement Monitoring Centre identifies as one of the largest displacement crises in the world today.
From a Christian perspective, this catastrophic human suffering demands more than political analysis; it requires theological and moral reflection rooted in our deepest convictions about human dignity, divine compassion, and justice. How might Jesus of Nazareth—the Palestinian Jew who knew the trauma of displacement as a refugee in Egypt—view what is happening in Gaza today? What does the forced displacement of an entire population reveal about the state of Christian witness in the world? This question beckons us beyond simplistic binaries and comfortable religious nationalism into the uncomfortable territory where faith meets solidarity with the crucified peoples of our time.
Biblical Landscapes of Displacement
The narrative of forced displacement is tragically familiar within Scripture. The Hebrew Bible tells countless stories of exile and displacement—from Adam and Eve expelled from Eden to the Israelites dragged into Babylonian captivity. God’s people knew the anguish of being driven from their land, the terror of living under occupation, and the bitter tears of displacement. The Psalmist captures this trauma vividly: “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion” (Psalm 137:1).
These stories were not mere historical artifacts to Jesus; they formed the spiritual imagination of his Jewish identity. When Matthew’s Gospel tells us Joseph fled to Egypt with Mary and the infant Jesus to escape Herod’s slaughter of innocents, it places God himself in the position of a displaced person. The Incarnation thus includes the experience of forced migration—God becomes a refugee, sanctifying the experience of those who flee violence today. This theological truth should fundamentally shape how Christians view Gaza’s displaced millions: in their faces, we encounter Christ himself, who identified with the displaced and marginalized so completely that he said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40).
How Would Jesus View Gaza’s Displacement?
Based on the gospel accounts, Jesus would likely respond to Gaza’s suffering with three distinct postures:
1. Radical Identification with the Suffering
Jesus consistently demonstrated what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies not with powerful rulers but with victims buried under the debris of violence. In Gaza today, Christ is present in the child buried under concrete, the mother mourning her family, the father searching for bread. Jesus’ ministry was characterized by this intentional solidarity with those on the margins: the sick, the impoverished, the ritually unclean, the occupation-weary residents of Galilee. His compassion (literally “suffering with”) was not abstract pity but gut-wrenching identification . As Graham Joseph Hill writes, “The cross holds no nation; it holds brokenness, and it holds both Israelis and Palestinians”.
2. Unflinching Truth-Telling
Jesus would undoubtedly name the realities in Gaza with prophetic clarity. He would condemn Hamas’ horrific attacks on October 7th that killed approximately 1,200 Israelis and took hundreds hostage. But he would also condemn the disproportionate response that has left over 65,000 Palestinians dead, mostly civilians, and created famine conditions. Jesus never remained silent in the face of injustice, whether confronting religious leaders about their hypocrisy or driving money-changers from the temple. His example challenges us to speak truth without partiality, recognizing that “we cannot apologize for truth: and yet we must not weaponize it. We must speak truth rooted in lament, not in tribal vindication”.
3. Rejection of Dehumanizing Theologies
Jesus consistently challenged religious frameworks that justified ignoring human suffering. He healed on the Sabbath, touched the unclean, and ate with sinners—all acts that privileged human need over rigid interpretations of religion. In Gaza, Jesus would undoubtedly reject theologies that privilege one people’s security over another’s right to exist, or that use Scripture to justify endless violence. He would confront what Munther Isaac identifies as the “matrix of coloniality, racism, and theology” that enables the current violence . His ministry reveals a God whose compassion is “indiscriminately available to all”, not a tribal deity who takes sides in human conflicts.
The Crisis of Christian Conscience
The tragedy of Gaza’s displacement is not merely humanitarian; it represents a profound crisis of Christian conscience. While millions suffer, many Christians have remained silent, defensive, or openly supportive of policies that lead to civilian casualties and mass displacement. This failure stems from what Palestinian Christian Dr. Fares Abraham identifies as “the absence of Christ-honoring compassion during these darkest moments of our humanity”.
This moral failure has theological roots. For decades, certain strands of Christian theology—particularly forms of Christian Zionism—have uncritically supported Israeli policy while minimizing Palestinian suffering. This theology often spiritualizes away Palestinian rights and interprets biblical prophecies in ways that require unquestioning support for the Israeli state. As the Gaza war strains these theological models, even evangelical scholars are questioning whether their frameworks have “exhausted a group of evangelical Bible professors pursuing unity on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict”.
The result is what Munther Isaac rightly calls complicity: “The denial is so loud. It’s nothing short of complicity” . When we fail to name atrocities—when we hesitate to call out the killing of 17,000 children or the deliberate creation of famine conditions—we become like the religious leaders who passed by on the other side in Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan . Our silence echoes that of German Christians who largely failed to protest the Nazi persecution of Jews—a historical parallel that should unsettle every Christian conscience.
Beyond Bunker Mentalities: Toward a Cruciform Compassion
Christian response to Gaza’s displacement requires moving beyond what Graham Joseph Hill calls “bunker mentalities” that shrink our moral imagination . Nationalism, he argues, “shrinks the heart. Tribal identity makes vacuums in compassion.” Instead, we need a spirituality that embodies what the ancient Christian tradition called orthopathos—right emotions—particularly the virtue of compassion.
Table: Elements of Christian Response to Gaza’s Displacement
Theological Concept
Traditional Response
Transformed Response
Compassion
Pity from a distance
Identification with suffering
Solidarity
Charity for those like us
Justice for all oppressed
Land Theology
Exclusive divine promise
Shared homeland for all
Security
Military protection for one
Human security for all
Peacemaking
Absence of conflict
Presence of justice
This compassion is not mere sentiment but what the Latin root (compati) literally means: to suffer with . It moves beyond sympathy (“feeling for”) to identification (“suffering with”). This compassion becomes incarnational—taking flesh in concrete action:
1. The Spiritual Practice of Lament
Christian tradition offers us the language of lament—the spiritual practice of grieving honestly before God. Lament refuses to rush to resolution or theological justification. It sits in the dust with Job, weeps with Jesus at Lazarus’ tomb, and cries out with the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord?”. Lament creates space to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15), holding the cries of Gazan mothers alongside Israeli survivors of Hamas’ attacks. This lament must include both Israeli and Palestinian suffering, refusing to play a morbid calculus of comparative victimhood.
2. Prophetic Truth-Telling
Following Jesus requires naming injustices without partiality. We must condemn Hamas’ violence and call for the release of all hostages while also condemning Israel’s disproportionate tactics, blockade, and creation of famine conditions. This includes using accurate moral language—even when it makes us uncomfortable. When evidence mounts from numerous Holocaust scholars, genocide experts, and international bodies that Israel’s actions meet the legal definition of genocide, Christians must have the courage to name this reality.
3. Concrete Solidarity
Compassionate orthopathos must translate into orthopraxy—right action. This includes supporting humanitarian efforts, advocating for ceasefires, demanding our governments stop supplying weapons used against civilians, and welcoming displaced people. It means pressuring governments to “open windows for water, food, and medicine, without strings attached”. As Hill powerfully states, “We don’t bless bombs. We bless bread. We don’t sanctify oppression. We wash feet”.
4. Theological Reformation
We need to develop theological frameworks that transcend the partisan divides that have captured Christian witness. This requires rejecting the “us versus them” binary thinking that contradicts the inclusive vision of the gospel. As the Christians in Conversation on the Middle East group has modeled, we need spaces where “self-critique” and genuine listening can occur across theological divides. This theological reformation must center the image of God in every human being—Israeli and Palestinian alike—and recognize that authentic Christian hope “lies not in political solutions but in the Prince of Peace who will one day make all things right”.
The Courage to See Christ in the Rubble
The forced displacement of Gazans represents one of the great moral crises of our time—a crisis that demands Christian response rooted in the life and teachings of Jesus. This response begins with recognizing what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies with victims buried under the debris of violence . It continues with embracing a compassion that suffers with those who suffer, and it culminates in courageous action that protects life, demands justice, and refuses to choose between victims.
The way of Jesus—the way of the cross—invites us to stand in the crack where grief meets hope. It calls us to reject nationalistic idolatries and tribal loyalties that shrink our hearts. It challenges us to embody what Graham Joseph Hill calls “cruciform ethics” that “doesn’t shy from calling out abuses but does so without rhetorical weaponry”.
As the world watches Gaza’s displacement with either horror or indifference, Christians face a choice: will we be chaplains to power or sanctuaries for the broken? Will we bless bombs or bless bread? Will we sanctify oppression or wash feet? The answer will determine not only the credibility of our witness but the fidelity of our discipleship.
In the end, the question is not whether God is present in Gaza’s suffering—the Incarnation assures us God is profoundly there, buried in the rubble with the suffering. The real question is whether we will have the courage to join God there.
“Grief cracks the heart open wide enough to carry courage.
To the commentators and anyone else conflating the Fijian Drua with the Flying Fijians, listen closely. The statement that the Flying Fijians are merely “the Drua plus Viliane Mata” is not only idiotic but profoundly disrespectful to the legacy of Fijian rugby. It confuses a club with a country, a franchise with a nation.
The difference is not minor; it is absolute and exists on multiple levels.
1. Legal Identity and Purpose: The “Why”
The Fijian Drua is a Franchise. It is a professional club team, a business entity created to compete in Super Rugby Pacific. Its primary purpose is high-performance competition and commercial success. Crucially, and this is the point you are missing, it was explicitly established as a high-performance pathway and a feeder system to develop players for the ultimate goal: representing Fiji on the international stage. The Drua is the means, not the end.
The Flying Fijians are the National Team. They are not a franchise. They are the representative side of the Fiji Rugby Union, the sovereign governing body for the sport in the country. They do not “play for” a commercial league; they play for the people of Fiji. Their purpose is national pride, international glory, and carrying the hopes of a nation. They are the end goal that the Drua feeder system was built to supply.
2. Representation: The “Who”
The Drua represents a brand. They represent the Fijian Drua Super Rugby franchise. While they inspire Fijians everywhere, they play for their coaches, their management, and their fans in the context of a club competition. They wear the Drua jersey.
The Flying Fijians represent a nation. They represent every single citizen of Fiji, every Fijian living abroad, and the entire history of the nation. They are the custodians of a sacred legacy built by legends like Serevi, Nakaitaci, and Matavesi. They don the national colors—the white shirt with the mighty Fijian crest. This jersey is not merely a uniform; it is a symbol of national identity. To reduce it to a “Drua jersey plus a badge” is an insult to every player who has ever earned the honor of wearing it.
3. Player Composition: The “How”
This is where your argument collapses completely.
The Drua is bound by contract and selection policy. Its squad is built within a salary cap, with a mix of local and international (though often Fijian-eligible) players. Their selection is based on form, fit for the club’s strategy, and contractual agreements.
The Flying Fijians select from a global talent pool. The Flying Fijians coaching staff has the entire world of professional rugby from which to select any eligible Fijian player. This includes:
Stars based in Europe (France, England, Ireland).
Stars based in Japan and other Top League competitions.
Stars based in New Zealand (All Blacks, Mitre 10 Cup) and Australia (Wallabies, Super Rugby teams other than the Drua).
Yes, it also includes the best performers from the Fijian Drua.
The Flying Fijians team is not “the Drua plus one.” It is a curated selection of the best Fijian players on the planet, many of whom have never worn a Drua jersey. To claim otherwise is to ignore the vast diaspora of Fijian talent excelling in leagues across the globe.
Conclusion: A Sacred Distinction
The Fijian Drua is a brilliant, successful, and beloved vehicle for developing Fijian rugby. Its success is a point of immense national pride, and it has undoubtedly strengthened the depth available to the national team.
However, the Flying Fijians are the destination.
Calling the national team “the Drua plus one” is like calling a five-star meal “a few groceries plus a chef.” It misses the entire point of selection, artistry, national pride, and legacy. It confuses the ingredients with the final, sacred product.
The Flying Fijians stand on their own. They carry a weight no franchise team can ever carry. They are not an “all-star” version of a club side; they are the embodiment of a nation. Understand the difference, and show the jersey, the team, and the nation the respect they deserve.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 