Public excitement does not legalize illegality

Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka’s recent testimony before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission once again reveals a disturbing pattern: a consistent effort to recast himself as a reluctant participant in the 1987 coup rather than its chief architect. His claim that returning to the pre-coup constitutional order would have been “treason against the Crown” is not only historically inaccurate but a brazen inversion of reality.

Let the truth stand: the only act of treason in 1987 was the coup itself.

 

Rabuka speaks of an “emotionally charged, ethnically driven movement” as if he was merely swept away by forces outside his control. But no amount of emotional framing changes the basic fact; he commanded the guns, he gave the orders, and he executed the coup.

No council, no crowd, and no claimed “popular sentiment” absolves responsibility for toppling a democratically elected government.

 

His attempt to portray the coup as a “popular uprising” is equally deceptive. Even if segments of the population supported it, public excitement does not legalize illegality. A democracy cannot be dismantled by soldiers and then rebranded as patriotism.

 

Rabuka has now taken an even more troubling turn—depicting himself and his family as victims of the very coup he orchestrated.

He told the TRC that:

• his village is labelled as “the coup village,”
• his daughters lost friends after being taken to military camp on the morning of the coup,
• his wife and sisters faced difficulties at school and in their workplaces,
• and that one of his daughters was excluded from a school team because of her father’s actions.

 

These stories may be painful for his family, but they are not the tragedies of political persecution.
They are the natural consequences of a man’s decision to violently upend a nation’s democratic order. To present these anecdotes as if he is owed sympathy is deeply manipulative.
It suggests that the perpetrator is quietly seeking an apology from the real victims, the people of Fiji.

Let us be clear: His family did not choose the coup. He did. And their social discomfort cannot be  placed on the same scale as the trauma inflicted on Fiji.

The nation suffered democratic collapse, ethnic division, job losses, displacement, lasting political instability, and generational trauma still felt today.

For Rabuka to elevate his family’s hurt feelings above the collective pain of the nation is not healing. It is self-serving revisionism.

Feeling guilt is not accountability. Telling stories is not repentance. And reframing history is not truth.

Reconciliation requires the perpetrator to stop acting like the victim.

The people of Fiji do not owe Rabuka sympathy. He owes the people of Fiji the truth without excuses, without deflection, and without theatrics.

The coup was the treason. Everything else is performance.

 

APOLOGISING WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE:

Fiji’s Matanigasau and the Constitutional Elephant.

If Fiji were a stage, and it often behaves like one, then the recent matanigasau from the Fiji Military Forces to the Great Council of Chiefs would be the grand, sweeping, emotionally charged Act III moment. The violins swell, the lights dim, the warriors kneel, and the chiefs receive the apology with gravitas befitting centuries of tradition.

It is moving. It is solemn. It is beautiful. It is also (let’s not mince words here) hilariously incomplete because behind the dignified ritual, stands something so enormous, so awkward, so constitutionally indestructible, that everyone pretends not to see it:

The Immunity Clause. The elephant in the room that Fiji is legally required to ignore.

An apology delivered under a constitutional shield is not reconciliation. It is public relations in ceremonial attire.

1.     The Elegant Ceremony and the Ugly Reality

The matanigasau was everything a Fijian cultural ritual should be: respectful, symbolic, powerful.

But there was one thing it was not and that is "An apology to the people who actually suffered."

The military apologized to the GCC, a body of chiefs, many of whom were not the ones dragged from beds, beaten in police stations, threatened in cane fields, or economically destroyed.

The victims of Fiji’s coups were:

• Indo-Fijians whose homes and businesses were torched,
• moderate iTaukei ostracized for refusing hatred,
• families living through fear as mobs roamed city streets,
• families that lost fathers and sons,
• communities taught to brace for instability the way other nations brace for cyclones.

They were not in the room. They were not mentioned. They were not acknowledged.

Like the elephant, their presence was felt but inconvenient.

2.     The Constitution: Fiji’s Most Loyal Coup Defender

Let us speak plainly. The 2013 Constitution’s Immunity Clause is not a legal technicality.

It is a slap, delivered with bureaucratic precision, to every citizen who ever cried for justice.

 It declares, without hesitation:

“Coup-makers, fear not. Whatever you did, whatever you broke, whomever you harmed, you will never be accountable.” 

It turns the great national sin of Fiji not into a lesson, but into a precedent. It is the ultimate guarantee: a lifetime warranty for political adventurism.

When the military presented its matanigasau, it knelt before the chiefs. But legally, Fiji kneels before the Immunity Clause.

3.     Selective Remorse: A National Hobby

The apology to the GCC was sincere in tone, but deliberately limited in scope. It apologised vertically, toward hierarchy, not horizontally, toward humanity. It addressed institutional dignity, not personal suffering.

Fiji’s most wounded communities, the Indo-Fijians who lived through the riots of 1987 and 2000, iTaukei moderates who resisted extremism, and ordinary citizens traumatized by instability, watched from the outside.

Some watched with skepticism. Others with bitterness. Many with exhaustion.

Because this country has spent decades perfecting the ritual of public ceremonies while ignoring private pain.

4.     Reconciliation Without Accountability Is just Theatre

A nation cannot heal while its foundational law declares:

“The truth matters, but consequences do not.”

You cannot build reconciliation on a constitutional promise that ensures the most powerful actors can never be touched by the justice system. You cannot heal a people whose trauma is acknowledged only symbolically but erased legally.

You cannot move forward when the constitution itself clings to the past

like a guilty ghost refusing to vacate the house. Fiji must confront this paradox:

We perform apologies. But we forbid justice.

5.     The Real Matanigasau Still Waits

A genuine national reconciliation would look very different.

It would acknowledge:

• Indo-Fijian families driven from homes and farms
• children who grew up with the sound of coups as background noise
• iTaukei leaders punished for defending democracy
• business owners ruined by mobs
• citizens abducted, silenced, beaten or murdered.
• dreams deferred
• trust destroyed

It would not hide behind a ceremonial tabua. It would not lean on tradition to avoid accountability. It would not bow to chiefs while turning away from citizens. A true matanigasau would speak not to power, but to pain.

6.     Fiji’s Choice: Keep the Elephant, or Build a Future

Until the Immunity Clause is addressed, Fiji remains a nation asking victims to forgive

while protecting perpetrators from consequences.

We cannot call this healing. We cannot call this closure. We cannot call this national unity.

We can only call it what it is:

A beautiful ceremony staged in the shadow of an unmovable constitutional elephant.

Fiji must decide whether it wants ritual reconciliation or real reconciliation.

Because until accountability is possible, every apology, no matter how sacred, no matter how beautifully presented, remains incomplete.

And the victims,  every citizen bruised by Fiji’s chaotic political experiments deserve better than ceremonies.

They deserve truth. They deserve justice. They deserve a future unburdened by the ghosts of immunity. They deserve a Fiji where elephants do not write the constitution.

 

 

                                                    

The Art of Amending the Unamendable

This past week, Fiji’s Supreme Court staged what might best be described as constitutional theatre: five days of earnest arguments over how to amend a Constitution that was very carefully designed never to be amended.

The government’s lawyer, with the confidence of a man holding a sledgehammer in a china shop, declared that section 159(2)(c) is a “poison pill” and must be excised. His solution? Keep a parliamentary supermajority but drop the referendum requirement altogether. Translation: let’s just remove the part where the people get a direct say.

The Fiji Law Society wasn’t impressed. Senior Counsel Arthur Moses reminded the Court that rewriting constitutions is Parliament’s job, not the judiciary’s. To him, the whole exercise was, in his words, “nonsensical.” After all, the State hadn’t even said what they actually wanted to change—just that they’d like the rules made easier, please.

The National Federation Party’s Jon Apted delivered the punchline: there’s no law in Fiji prescribing how to hold the referendum the Constitution insists on. It’s a legal version of an inside joke—the Constitution demands a process that doesn’t exist. No wonder one judge looked like he’d stumbled into a farce: “So you’re telling me we need a referendum law that doesn’t exist, to hold a referendum that can’t succeed, to amend a Constitution that forbids us from amending it?”

Other submissions added to the carnival. The People’s Alliance argued the 2013 Constitution isn’t valid at all and the 1997 version still rules. The Labour Party warned that lowering the bar would doom democracy. The amicus curiae, roped in to help, called the whole thing a “conundrum,” which is lawyer-speak for “this makes no sense.”

And presiding over it all was the Chief Justice, asking questions that sounded suspiciously like retorts. His line of interrogation suggested what many already know: the 2013 Constitution’s amendment process isn’t so much a democratic safeguard as it is an escape room with no exit.

The irony is glaring. After more than a decade of elections, oaths, and solemn speeches made under this Constitution, Fiji has finally noticed the fine print: you cannot change it, at least not legally. It is a locked box, with the key welded inside.

On 5 September the Court will deliver its advisory opinion. But whether it blesses a two-thirds vote, insists on an impossible referendum, or simply shrugs, one thing is already clear: the entire exercise has been an elaborate confirmation of Moses SC’s blunt assessment—it is, indeed, nonsensical.

Because at the end of the day, asking how to amend the unamendable is like arguing how to change the rules of Monopoly after someone has already flipped the board.

“Cleared by Law, Crowned by Suspicion: The Curious Case of Dr. Jalesi Nakarawa”

 In a land where the aroma of grilled lovo is occasionally overpowered by the stench of political intrigue, we find ourselves at yet another curious junction of legality and morality — the very place where public trust goes to die, politely, and in triplicate.

In a move that has left the public both bewildered and bemused, the Fiji Independent Commission Against Corruption (FICAC) has officially declared that the appointment of Dr. Jalesi Nakarawa's wife as a nurse practitioner within the Fiji Corrections Service (FCS) is devoid of any criminal wrongdoing. This conclusion, drawn from the vast and nebulous powers granted to the Commissioner under Article 130(7) of the 2013 Constitution, suggests that while the act may reek of nepotism, it comfortably resides within the bounds of legality.

Dr. Nakarawa, in a display of what can only be described as audacious impartiality, reportedly advised his wife against applying for the position. Yet, in a twist befitting a daytime soap opera, she pursued the role, was shortlisted, and ultimately appointed. The interview panel, a veritable who's who of the nursing council, police force, and corrections department, found her to be the ideal candidate. One might wonder if the family dinner table doubled as a preparatory panel for the interview.

While FICAC's investigation yielded no grounds for criminal charges, the commission couldn't resist slipping in a gentle nudge about the optics of such appointments. They recommended that, in the future, decisions involving close relations be deferred to higher authorities to maintain public confidence. A subtle hint that just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.

But alas, FICAC’s statement rings out like a hymn: “We saw, we sniffed, we furrowed our brows — and yet, we found nothing actionable.”

Translation: It looks bad, it smells bad, it feels bad — but it’s not illegal. So, carry on, citizens. Return to your yaqona circles and TikTok dances. The system is working. Sort of.

This episode underscores a troubling narrative where the boundaries between ethical propriety and legal permissibility blur, eroding public trust. The FCS's defense, rooted in constitutional provisions, offers cold comfort to those who expect public service appointments to be free from familial favoritism.

In the grand theater of governance, where the script is often written in the gray ink of legal loopholes, the FCS saga serves as a stark reminder: the absence of illegality does not equate to the presence of integrity. As officials navigate the murky waters of public perception, one can only hope they recognize that the stench of nepotism, while not criminal, is decidedly unpleasant.

PC: FBC

Rabuka: The Grandmaster of Political Divisions

If there is one thing Sitiveni Rabuka has perfected over the decades, it is the fine art of division. From splitting political parties like a chef dicing onions to watching once-united factions crumble under his leadership, Rabuka’s legacy is one of fragmentation. Wherever he goes, political unity seems to unravel, leaving behind a trail of broken alliances and splinter groups.

To understand Rabuka’s divisive nature, one must take a walk down memory lane. In 1987, he didn’t just stage a coup—he staged an entire redefinition of Fijian politics. After the once-mighty Alliance Party crumbled, Rabuka, fresh off his coup leader status, established the Soqosoqo ni Vakavulewa ni Taukei (SVT) party. But, as history shows, Rabuka doesn’t just create; he also destroys.

Under his watch, SVT went from being the dominant force of indigenous Fijian politics to a fractured mess. Disillusionment and infighting led to breakaway factions that would shape Fiji’s political landscape for years to come. The Fijian Association Party (FAP) emerged under Josevata Kamikamica, bringing with it many disillusioned politicians who opposed Rabuka’s leadership. Then came the Veitokani ni Lewenivanua Vakarisito (VLV), a Christian democratic party formed by those who felt Rabuka had strayed too far from the church’s influence in politics. Later, after the 2000 coup, the Conservative Alliance Matanitu Vanua (CAMV) was formed by hardline nationalists who rejected Rabuka’s attempts at reconciliation and blamed his leadership for undermining indigenous Fijian interests.

But Rabuka wasn’t done yet. He resurfaced in SODELPA, once again promising unity, only to see the party fracture under his leadership. Discontented members, frustrated with the internal turmoil, eventually splintered and followed him, leading to the birth of the People’s Alliance Party (PAP). Once again, Rabuka had left behind a divided house, proving that his version of leadership is essentially a high-stakes game of “divide and exit.”

The Proposed 15 New Political Parties: A Legacy of Chaos

Now, as if history hasn’t repeated itself enough, reports suggest that 15 new political parties are seeking registration in Fiji. One can’t help but marvel at how, no matter where Rabuka goes, political fragmentation follows like an overzealous shadow. It is almost as if his very presence inspires division. Fiji’s political landscape is not evolving under Rabuka—it is simply fracturing further, much like the parties he has left in his wake.

Fijians are left wondering: is this all a coincidence, or is Rabuka the common denominator in decades of political discord? His supporters may argue that he is a unifier, but history tells a different story. Whether it is SVT’s collapse, the breakaway of FAP, VLV, and CAMV, SODELPA’s civil war, or the birth of PAP from the ashes of yet another split, one thing remains consistent—where there is Rabuka, there is division.

Despite his track record, Rabuka still manages to reinvent himself as the elder statesman of Fijian politics. He speaks of national unity while presiding over a government riddled with internal strife. He calls for stability while his own party members clash over leadership and principles. He preaches ethics while selectively enforcing them. If anything, he is proof that in Fijian politics, contradictions aren’t a problem—they’re a strategy.

As Fiji looks toward its future, one must ask: how many more political parties must rise and fall under Rabuka’s watch before the cycle ends? Or is the continued division simply the price of his leadership? One thing is certain though. The rise in the number of proposed political parties is directly correlated to people's disillusionment with Rabuka and his government.

 

Amending vs. Scrapping the 2013 Fijian Constitution: A Legal and Political Dilemma

The Fijian 2013 Constitution remains a contentious document, with deep-seated divisions on whether it should be amended or completely discarded. The Coalition Government’s attempt to amend Chapter 11 of the Constitution has ignited renewed debate, with some People's Alliance (PA) supporters advocating for outright abrogation. Unity Fiji’s legal challenge further complicates the situation, while the ever-present specter of a military coup looms in the background. Additionally, the argument that the people have legitimized the document by functioning under its framework since 2013 presents another crucial angle. The question remains: should the government pursue amendments or aim for a total replacement?

The Coalition Government’s Attempt to Amend Chapter 11

The Fijian Coalition Government has proposed amending Chapter 11 of the 2013 Constitution, which outlines the procedures for constitutional amendments. Under the current framework, changes require an arduous process: a three-quarters majority in Parliament at each of three readings of the amendment Bill and a national referendum where three-quarters of registered voters must approve the amendment. The government aims to ease these stringent requirements to facilitate broader constitutional reforms. However, this approach acknowledges the legitimacy of the current Constitution and seeks to modify it from within, rather than discarding it entirely.

Calls for Abrogation and the Paths Forward

Despite the government’s approach, some PA supporters have called for the complete scrapping of the Constitution. There are a few ways this could be achieved:

1. A Legal or Legislative Process – The government could pass a resolution to declare the 2013 Constitution void and initiate a new constitutional drafting process. However, this would likely face legal challenges from defenders of the current Constitution, including former government figures and civil society groups. Furthermore, the current government cannot simply “scrap” the very document that legitimizes their very existence in our corridors of power. To do so would be akin to chopping off one’s own foot. So, unless they are ready to sacrifice their Parliamentary membership and call for a state of emergency and the formation of an interim government, expecting them to toss the document out of government house is akin to waiting for sunshine from the depths of Vatukoula Gold mine – never gonna happen.

2. Judicial Challenge – Unity Fiji has signaled its intent to challenge the legality of the 2013 Constitution, arguing that it was imposed undemocratically. A court ruling invalidating the document could pave the way for a new constitutional framework, though this remains a long and uncertain legal battle.

3. Military Abrogation – Historically, Fiji has seen military coups as a means of constitutional change. While a coup could forcibly remove the 2013 Constitution, it would undermine democratic principles and international standing. Given Fiji’s history of coups, such an option cannot be ignored, but it would have severe political and economic consequences.

Legal Challenges to the Amendment or Abrogation Process

If the government pursues amendments or abrogation, it is likely to face strong legal resistance. Proponents of the 2013 Constitution will argue that the document has provided stability and legitimacy, as it has governed the nation for over a decade. Any attempt to scrap it without following proper legal procedures could trigger lawsuits, constitutional crises, and even intervention by international bodies.

The Argument for Legitimization Through Usage

One of the strongest arguments against total abrogation is that the 2013 Constitution has been legitimized through continued use. Since its adoption, all laws, government institutions, and judicial decisions have operated under its framework. The public has participated in elections, and policies have been enacted in accordance with the Constitution. Critics may argue that while the Constitution’s origins were flawed, its longevity and functionality have granted it de facto legitimacy.

While the Coalition Government is taking a pragmatic approach by seeking amendments, some groups advocate for outright abrogation through legal challenges or more radical measures. However, the reality remains that the Constitution has governed the country for over a decade, making its complete removal without widespread consensus a risky endeavor. A balanced approach—one that includes broad consultations, legal scrutiny, and democratic processes—may provide the most viable path forward in shaping Fiji’s constitutional future.

Fiji’s Economic Soap Opera: A Crisis, A Recovery, and an Investment Fairytale

 In the grand theater of Fijian politics, where reality often takes a backseat to rhetoric, the nation has been treated to an enthralling new episode of economic storytelling. Starring Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka, Minister of Economy Biman Prasad, and Deputy Prime Minister Manoa Kamikamica, this latest production features conflicting narratives on Fiji’s financial health—ranging from crisis to optimism, depending on which government office you step into.

Rabuka’s Grim Proclamation – "The End is Near!"

https://www.fbcnews.com.fj/news/rabuka-lays-out-measures-to-tackle-debt-and-drive-recovery/

Prime Minister Rabuka, playing the role of the concerned statesman, has delivered a stark warning: Fiji is in an economic crisis! He bemoans the weight of national debt, the fiscal deficit, and the undeniable economic fragility. His dire tone suggests that if the government does not take immediate action, Fiji may soon be offering its beaches as collateral to international lenders.

Of course, this ominous declaration does serve a strategic purpose—setting the stage for a heroic government intervention. What better way to rally the public than to convince them that they’re teetering on the brink of catastrophe? Crisis narratives tend to justify tough policy measures, after all, and what’s politics without a little melodrama?

The people of Fiji should expect drastic recovery policies at the next budget as he attempts to bring order from a cleverly orchestrated economic chaos.

Biman Prasad’s Alternate Universe – "Crisis? What Crisis?"

Enter Biman Prasad, the ever-optimistic Minister of Economy, whose job is to assure the people that everything is perfectly fine. According to him, Fiji’s economy is on track for growth! He gleefully points to a projected 3.8% GDP increase, low inflation, and stable economic conditions. His version of events suggests that Fiji is not only surviving but thriving—a tropical paradise where financial woes are but a distant memory.

Perhaps the Minister has discovered an alternate Fiji in some economic simulation where national debt miraculously disappears, and GDP figures rise simply by willing them to. Either that, or he has mastered the art of selective economic storytelling—highlighting the numbers that sound good and conveniently ignoring the ones that don’t.

Kamikamica’s Investment Dreamland – "The Money is Coming!"

Meanwhile, Deputy Prime Minister Manoa Kamikamica has taken the stage with an entirely different act. He doesn’t see a crisis, nor does he claim that the economy is booming just yet. Instead, he reassures the nation that investments are coming! There are grand opportunities in commercial agriculture, foreign direct investment, and other sectors that will soon transform Fiji into an economic powerhouse.

The only problem? Much of this is still "in the pipeline." Ah, the infamous pipeline—where all good things in politics seem to reside indefinitely. If Fiji had a dollar for every "investment opportunity" that was about to materialize, it wouldn’t need investors at all. But alas, the pipeline is a long and winding road, often leading nowhere.

The Real Economic Picture: Somewhere Between Fantasy and Fear

So, what is the actual state of Fiji’s economy? If we step away from the theatrical performances and consult actual economic indicators, we get a more sobering picture:

• GDP Growth: The Reserve Bank of Fiji recently revised growth projections downward to 2.8%, lower than Prasad’s optimistic 3.8% but not quite the doomsday scenario Rabuka envisions.
• Inflation: Down to 0.8%, which is positive, but it doesn’t erase the fact that household incomes are struggling to keep up with cost-of-living pressures.
• Public Debt: Fiji’s public debt is still at a staggering 79% of GDP, one of the highest in the Pacific, making Rabuka’s concerns about economic fragility quite valid.
• Investment Trends: While foreign investment "plans" exist, actual capital inflows remain inconsistent, meaning Kamikamica’s optimistic forecast is, at best, premature.

Confusion, Contradictions, and Chaos

The biggest problem with these conflicting narratives is that they create uncertainty—for investors, businesses, and the general public. If the leaders themselves can’t agree on whether the economy is sinking, stable, or soaring, how can anyone else have confidence in their policies?

Moreover, this inconsistency exposes the fractures within the Coalition Government. When different leaders paint radically different pictures of the economy, it suggests a lack of coordination, possibly even internal disagreements on policy direction. This is particularly dangerous in a coalition setting, where unity is the only thing keeping the government afloat.

A Masterclass in Mixed Messaging

Fiji’s economy may not be in freefall, but it’s also not in the glowing state of recovery some claim it to be. What is clear, however, is that this government needs a unified message. At present, they are essentially telling Fijians: “We are in a crisis, but don’t worry, because we are also recovering, and anyway, a flood of investments is about to save us.” It’s no wonder the public is left scratching their heads.

Perhaps the next step is not just fixing the economy but fixing the narrative about the economy. Until then, Fijians will continue to watch this political soap opera unfold—one conflicting statement at a time.

[Source: Parliament of the Republic of Fiji/Facebook]

The Art of Paying for Wars You Didn’t Start: Fiji’s Generosity vs. America’s Enlightenment

 In a world where fiscal responsibility is as rare as a unicorn sighting, two nations stand in stark contrast: Fiji, a small island nation that dutifully foots a significant portion of its peacekeeping expenses, and the United States under the astute leadership of Donald J. Trump, who bravely realized the sheer absurdity of funding wars and conflicts that don’t directly benefit his country’s bottom line. While Fiji nobly allocates a notable share of its national budget to keep the world at peace, America, the former global enforcer, has had an epiphany—why throw hard-earned taxpayer money at someone else’s mess when you can simply keep it for more important endeavors, like border security and corporate tax cuts?

Fiji: The Benevolent Martyr of Global Peacekeeping

Fiji, with a GDP that is roughly equivalent to what the U.S. Pentagon spends on pens and paperclips, has somehow decided that keeping the world safe is its personal responsibility. Who needs infrastructure, education, or healthcare when you can invest in military fatigues, boots, and plane tickets to far-off conflict zones?

In the 2024-2025 national budget, Fiji allocated FJD 169.6 million (approximately USD 76 million) to the Republic of Fiji Military Forces (RFMF), which includes FJD 57 million funding for peacekeeping operations. This allocation represents a substantial commitment for a nation with a GDP of around FJD 14 billion (approximately USD 6.3 billion), indicating the country's dedication to global peacekeeping efforts.

The Fijian government, in an act of economic acrobatics, has been subsidizing its soldiers’ missions to war-torn regions, ensuring that peace is kept in places most of its citizens could only dream of visiting—like Syria and Iraq. While their hospitality industry thrives on tourism, their national budget seems to have confused peacekeeping with an all-expenses-paid deployment program. And for what reward? A pat on the back from the UN? Perhaps a neatly worded letter of appreciation? Surely, the world will one day erect a monument in honor of Fiji’s self-sacrificing wallet.

America Under Trump: The Age of Fiscal Awakening

Then, we have the United States under Trump—where the doctrine of “America First” translated into “Not Our Problem” when it came to international military expenditures. Unlike Fiji, which enthusiastically sponsors global stability at its own expense, Trump’s America suddenly discovered that throwing trillions at foreign conflicts was, in fact, an unprofitable venture. The former peacekeeping powerhouse decided that senseless wars and peace operations could, and should, be someone else’s financial headache.

In a bold move, the Trump administration halted military aid to Ukraine, suspending the supply of critical battle tanks, long-range missiles, and air defense systems. This decision underscored a shift in U.S. foreign policy, reflecting a desire to reduce involvement in overseas conflicts and reallocate resources domestically.

Trump, in his infinite business acumen, identified the true absurdity: why fund NATO, the UN, or other multilateral operations when you can make them “pay their fair share”? Peace, after all, is a luxury, not a necessity—especially when America could redirect those funds toward making the military bigger, stronger, and more photogenic at home. Rather than spending billions to stabilize the Middle East or the Pacific, the U.S. opted for an alternative approach: economic sanctions, Twitter diplomacy, and letting regional allies fend for themselves. Genius!

A Lesson in Priorities

So here we have it: Fiji, the ever-charitable global hall monitor, vs. the United States, the reformed financier of foreign conflicts. One continues to pour resources into an international cause that barely acknowledges its sacrifices, while the other has pivoted to a more self-serving approach that prioritizes national interests over global goodwill.

The contrast is breathtaking. On one hand, Fiji is like that overly generous friend who insists on picking up the dinner tab despite being broke, while the U.S. has evolved into the shrewd dinner guest who strategically orders the cheapest item on the menu and expects others to split the bill. One is a lesson in idealism, the other in financial pragmatism.

Perhaps, someday, Fiji will follow America’s lead and realize that financing the world’s peacekeeping missions isn’t a divine calling, but rather a massive, self-inflicted fiscal wound. Until then, the world will continue to watch in amusement as one nation writes checks it can’t afford, while another revels in the savings of stepping away from the cash register.

Justice or Just Us? A Take on Fiji’s Two-Tier Drug Laws

Ah, Fiji! The land of pristine beaches, coconut trees swaying in the breeze, and a judicial system so hilariously inconsistent that it could be mistaken for a poorly written soap opera. Nowhere is this inconsistency more glaring than in the way drug-related cases are handled. If you ever need proof that Lady Justice isn’t just blindfolded but also half-asleep in Fiji, look no further than the great disparity in sentencing between poor drug users and, say, a certain well-connected businessman with a suspiciously light bail condition.

Let’s start with the humble, struggling citizen, shall we? Picture this: A desperate individual, possibly unemployed or working a low-wage job, turns to using or selling a small amount of drugs—because let’s be honest, life’s tough, and sometimes a quick escape seems like the only option. Caught by police? Straight to remand they go! No questions asked. No fancy lawyers. No cushy bail arrangements. Just a one-way ticket to an overcrowded remand center where they’ll await trial longer than it takes for the government to fix a pothole. And when they’re finally sentenced? Five to ten years behind bars—because obviously, possessing a small amount of drugs is a crime so heinous it demands a punishment harsher than corruption or fraud.

Now, enter the elite. Say, a businessman with the right connections and a last name that gets recognized in the corridors of power. Perhaps he’s caught with a substantial amount of drugs—far more than our poor user ever dreamed of possessing. But does he get remanded? Oh no, that’s reserved for the unfortunate souls without political or financial capital. Instead, he waltzes into court, hands in pockets, and walks out with a $500 bail condition—an amount so laughably low that it wouldn’t even cover a weekend getaway at one of Fiji’s fancy resorts.

It’s almost like the law in Fiji operates on a sliding scale. If you’re poor and powerless, the hammer of justice comes down with full force, obliterating any chance of fairness. If you’re rich and well-connected, the hammer turns into a feather duster—brushing off your crimes with a mild scolding and a ‘try not to do it again’ warning. Meanwhile, the public is expected to believe that justice is being served, as if we all woke up with collective amnesia and forgot how things have always worked.

What’s even more comical is the moral grandstanding from those in power. Politicians and law enforcement officials love to lecture the nation about the dangers of drugs, promising harsh penalties and stricter enforcement. But when a big fish is caught? Suddenly, it’s a case of ‘we must let the legal process take its course.’ A legal process that, funnily enough, seems to speed up for the privileged while dragging its feet for everyone else.

One might think that the law should be a great equalizer, treating all citizens fairly regardless of wealth or status. But in Fiji, it seems the law is more like an old weighing scale, tipping heavily in favor of those who can afford to grease its rusted hinges. So what’s the takeaway from all this? Simple—if you’re going to get caught with drugs in Fiji, make sure you have the right last name, the right connections, and at least $500 lying around. Otherwise, enjoy your stay in remand!

The Art of Political Gymnastics: PM Rabuka’s Cabinet Expansion Extravaganza

In a country where the economy is tight, services are stretched, and every cent counts, our dear leader has managed to do the impossible: increase government spending under the guise of efficiency. Fiji One News’ headline, "PM Rabuka responds to criticism over increased cabinet size and cost," barely scratches the surface of this masterful exercise in political gymnastics.

https://fijionenews.com.fj/pm-rabuka-responds-to-criticism-over-increased-cabinet-size-and-cost/

First, let’s address the elephant in the room—why exactly do we need such a bloated cabinet? Is it because Fiji is facing a governance crisis so dire that only an army of ministers can tackle it? Or is it because Rabuka, in his desperate bid to maintain power, needs to appease every ambitious politician with a cushy ministerial post? The answer is as clear as a Nadi sunset. The man is assembling his own league of political superheroes—The Coalition of Convenience—whose primary superpower is draining the nation’s coffers while delivering lengthy speeches on national unity.

Now, we must also admire Rabuka’s unwavering commitment to not dealing decisively with underperforming ministers. One might think that in a government swollen beyond reason, there would be some level of accountability. But no! Ministers who couldn’t manage a backyard barbecue are still sitting comfortably in high office, protected by a thick shield of political favoritism. It appears that performance reviews are merely decorative formalities, much like a prop in a magician’s act. And let’s not forget the bonus round—every time a minister makes a blunder, Rabuka delivers a poetic justification that sounds more like a bedtime story than an explanation.

But the real masterpiece in Rabuka’s political repertoire is his latest attempt at distraction—the Constitutional Review. Ah, the sheer brilliance! Why deal with real issues when you can send the public down a rabbit hole of endless debates over constitutional amendments? Ethno-nationalists, ever eager to be deceived by empty promises, are led to believe that this exercise is a step toward their long-awaited dream of political supremacy. Meanwhile, the true purpose of this maneuver is to keep the masses busy while the cabinet continues to grow unchecked and the real issues—like economic mismanagement and public service inefficiencies—remain unaddressed.

In the grand tradition of political illusionists, Rabuka has mastered the ancient art of making the public believe he is leading a strong and decisive government while actually doing little more than ensuring his grip on power. The man is less a statesman and more of a magician, conjuring distractions with one hand while the other quietly signs off on another round of ministerial paychecks.

So, as we watch Fiji’s political landscape transform into a never-ending circus of expansion, inefficiency, and deception, one thing is certain: PM Rabuka has turned governance into a theatrical performance where the audience never quite knows whether to laugh, cry, or simply applaud the sheer audacity of it all.

The Magical Disappearing Debt Trick: Biman Prasad’s Economic Illusion

Ladies and gentlemen, gather around! Witness the grandest economic magic trick of our time—the miraculous vanishing of national debt, as performed by none other than Biman Prasad. With a swift wave of his statistical wand, the good professor-turned-politician has convinced an entire nation that even though the debt is rising, it is actually... falling. How, you ask? Simple. He has mastered the ancient art of manipulating ratios!

Let’s break it down. Fiji’s national debt is increasing—yes, that’s right, increasing. But fear not! Instead of addressing that unpleasant fact, Prasad simply shifts focus to the Debt-to-GDP ratio. “Look!” he exclaims, “The ratio is going down! Everything is fine!” But before we break out the celebratory grog, let’s ask ourselves: how is this possible?

The answer, dear readers, lies in the composition of GDP. For those not fluent in economic double-speak, GDP is the total value of all goods and services produced within the country. Now, here’s the kicker: one of the biggest contributors to GDP is government spending, and guess what fuels that spending? That’s right—debt!

It’s the perfect economic ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail. The government borrows money, spends it on infrastructure, stimulus packages, or grand recovery programs, which then boost GDP, which in turn lowers the Debt-to-GDP ratio. But wait—has the debt actually gone down? Nope! It has climbed higher than a drunken tourist attempting to conquer the Sigatoka sand dunes. Yet, because GDP is also inflated by the very debt used to prop it up, the ratio appears more favorable. It’s financial wizardry at its finest.

Now, let’s not forget the elephant—or rather, the virus—in the room: COVID-19. The pandemic threw Fiji’s economy into a nosedive. Borders were shut, tourism (our economic lifeblood) dried up, businesses collapsed, and government borrowing soared to keep the country afloat. Rightly so—desperate times called for desperate measures. But now, as the economy is rebounding, thanks to reopened borders and a surge in tourism, GDP is naturally growing again. And guess what? That means the Debt-to-GDP ratio was always going to decrease as part of the recovery process.

So, what has Prasad really achieved here? Nothing, except for trying to convince the public that a natural post-COVID recovery is some kind of fiscal masterstroke. He takes credit for what was an inevitable statistical adjustment. Meanwhile, the actual amount of debt still looms large, much like an uninvited relative at a family function—ignored, but impossible to get rid of.

At the end of the day, using the Debt-to-GDP ratio as a measure of success is like saying you’re getting healthier because your weight has remained stable—even though you’re just standing on a taller scale. The truth remains: debt is debt, and someone will eventually have to pay the bill.

So, next time you hear a politician like Biman Prasad boast about a falling Debt-to-GDP ratio while debt itself continues to mount, remember—you’re not watching real economic reform. You’re simply watching a very well-rehearsed magic show. 

The Great Comeback Tour: Bainimarama & Khaiyum’s Last Dance

Rumors are swirling in Fiji that the dynamic duo of political drama—Frank Bainimarama and Aiyaz Sayed-Khaiyum—are plotting their grand return by registering a new political party to contest the 2026 elections. If true, this would be the most ambitious comeback since coconut wireless last reported that Ratu Sukuna was considering a political return. But let’s examine this latest development with the seriousness it deserves—none at all.

First, we must consider the tiny legal hiccup that Bainimarama and Khaiyum seem to have overlooked: they are both, in varying degrees, legally and politically incapacitated. Bainimarama, after his recent legal woes, is about as eligible to run for office as a fish is to climb a coconut tree. Then there’s Khaiyum, the former Attorney-General, who spent his time in government rewriting laws to ensure he and Bainimarama would never leave office. Ironically, those same laws now stand as their biggest roadblock to making a return. If poetic justice were a political party, it would already be in government.

According to the Political Parties (Registration, Conduct, Funding, and Disclosures) Act, those convicted of crimes and had been imprisoned for at least 6 months are ineligible to run for party office for at least five years. The Electoral act [S23(4)(g)] disqualifies an election candidate if he or she had been convicted of an offence carrying a maximum sentence of at least 2 years for at least 8 years after conviction. 

Bainimarama, fresh from his legal battles, and Khaiyum, reportedly avoiding the long arm of the law like a coconut falling from a tree, may find these particular clauses rather inconvenient. One can almost imagine them sitting in a secret meeting, furiously searching for legal loopholes, only to realize they had closed them all themselves back when they were in charge. Tragic, really.

But let’s assume, for a moment, that a miracle occurs—perhaps a sudden attack of selective amnesia in the judiciary or an unexpected legislative loophole allows them to register their party. The question remains: who would actually vote for them? The people of Fiji, having spent over a decade under their governance, might find it hard to miss a political style that combined iron-fist rule with occasional flourishes of comedic tyranny.

And then there’s the iTaukei perception of Khaiyum. 

No discussion about their return would be complete without addressing the elephant—or rather, the lawyer—in the room. Throughout his tenure, Khaiyum was viewed by many iTaukei as the architect of policies that systematically dismantled traditional institutions, reduced indigenous influence, and centralized power in a manner that left many suspicious of his true intentions. 

Whether through land bills, constitutional changes, or the infamous “We know what’s best for you” approach to governance, Khaiyum has spent years cultivating an image among iTaukei communities that would make a wild boar more electable in certain rural villages. It remains to be seen how he intends to win them over this time—perhaps a rebranding campaign featuring him performing a meke at the Hibiscus Festival?

For many in the iTaukei community, Khaiyum remains a controversial figure, widely seen as the mastermind behind policies perceived as eroding traditional structures and indigenous influence. While Bainimarama fronted the show, Khaiyum was often viewed as the ventriloquist pulling the strings. His role in constitutional changes, land policies, and institutional restructuring left many feeling alienated. If this duo hopes to charm the iTaukei electorate again, they might need more than a well-rehearsed campaign—they’ll need divine intervention.

Perhaps Khaiyum could reinvent himself as a champion of indigenous rights, complete with ceremonial garb and an apologetic smile. That, or he could embrace his notoriety and run on a platform of “You Hated Me Before, But Give Me Another Chance.” Stranger things have happened in politics.

Then there’s the small matter of their sudden departure, which led to the deregistration of FijiFirst. Supporters of the once-dominant party now find themselves politically homeless, abandoned faster than a sinking ship’s last lifeboat. Their loyalty, once unwavering, has morphed into outrage. After years of defending Bainimarama and Khaiyum against all critics, these supporters now face the bitter realization that their political idols may have left them high and dry.

The question is: will these disillusioned followers embrace the duo’s new venture, or will they turn to new leadership, bitterly muttering about misplaced trust? If Bainimarama and Khaiyum expect an easy return, they may find that Fijians have long memories and little patience for betrayal.

Ultimately, the real question isn’t whether Bainimarama and Khaiyum will succeed in registering their party. The real question is whether the people of Fiji are willing to relive a political era that left democracy wheezing, and human rights in an induced coma. If they do make a return, it will be less of a political comeback and more of an unintentional stand-up comedy tour. One thing is for certain: whatever happens, the 2026 elections will not be boring.

The 2026 elections promise to be a showdown of epic proportions. Will Fiji welcome back its former rulers, or will it finally turn the page on this political saga? Either way, grab your popcorn—it’s going to be a show worth watching.

A Coup for the People: The Glorious Betrayal of 1987

Ah, 1987—a year of grand political theatre in Fiji, starring none other than Sitiveni Rabuka, a man who entered the stage with a mission to protect the iTaukei people from the imaginary horrors of democracy. With a flourish, he executed Fiji’s first military coup, proving once and for all that elections were merely a suggestion and that real power came from the barrel of a gun (or at least from a military uniform and a well-timed press conference).

The Promise of Victory

Rabuka, ever the eloquent statesman, assured the iTaukei that they had won—hence the rallying cry Sa noda na qaqa! (We have won!). Victory, however, turned out to be a rather peculiar concept, as it seemed to involve economic decline, social unrest, and international condemnation. The supposed triumph for indigenous Fijians translated into a government that mostly enriched a few elites while the rest were left scratching their heads, wondering what exactly they had won. But hey, semantics!

The Masterstroke: Divide and Conquer

The genius of Rabuka’s rule was his ability to convince the iTaukei that political dominance equated to economic prosperity—despite all evidence to the contrary. Under his watchful leadership, Fiji’s economy took a delightful nosedive, investors fled in droves, and racial tensions were expertly sharpened to ensure that unity among Fijians—of all backgrounds—remained a distant dream. 

Meanwhile, the Indo-Fijian community, many of whom had lived in Fiji for generations, were encouraged to leave through casual intimidation and a steady erosion of their rights. Who needed a diverse and skilled workforce anyway? Certainly not a developing island nation in need of stability and progress!

Here now in 2025, nothing much has changed under Rabuka and his minions.

The Great Rebrand: ‘Fijians’ for All (July 1987 Edition)

Then came the grandest irony of all. By July 1987, Rabuka, the self-appointed defender of the iTaukei, suddenly had a brilliant revelation—why not unite the people under one common identity? Thus, the proposal to call all citizens ‘Fijians’ was born. A man who had spent months—and let’s be honest, years—stoking divisions and orchestrating a military coup now decided that national unity was the way forward. The comedy writes itself!

One must admire the audacity of a man who, after pulling the rug from under an entire nation, now insists that everyone stand together on the bare floorboards. If nothing else, Rabuka proved that political reversals are a hallmark of true leadership—especially when they come with no accountability.

Rabuka’s coup of 1987 remains a masterclass in political opportunism, wrapped in patriotic slogans and served with a generous helping of economic mismanagement. His promise of victory for the iTaukei ultimately proved hollow, much like his later efforts at national unity. And yet, in true political fashion, he remains a fixture in Fijian politics, proving that in the grand theatre of power, past actions are merely inconvenient details best left forgotten. After all, history has a funny way of repeating itself, especially when its key players never truly leave the stage.

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1996110783986913

Bend It Like Beckham: The Coalition Government’s Olympic-Level Gymnastics to Amend the 2013 Constitution

 Ah, the Coalition Government—Fiji’s very own elite team of constitutional acrobats, determined to prove that when it comes to legal loopholes, they can twist, bend, and contort better than a Cirque du Soleil performer. Their latest act? A desperate, long-winded, and painfully elaborate attempt to find just the right technicalities to tweak the 2013 Constitution.

One might assume that constitutional amendments require, oh, I don’t know—broad political consensus, proper legal grounding, and perhaps even some moral legitimacy. But no, the Coalition Government has taken a far more sophisticated approach: a high-stakes game of "let’s reinterpret the law until it suits us."

Step 1: The Search for the Perfect Loophole

Ever seen a team of lawyers, politicians, and self-proclaimed legal scholars huddle together like detectives trying to crack an unsolvable case? That’s basically been the Coalition’s full-time job since taking office. With the 2013 Constitution conveniently requiring a referendum and a parliamentary supermajority for amendments, one would think they’d take a step back and respect the rules. Instead, they’ve adopted a "bend it like Beckham" approach—kicking around technicalities with the hope that one of them miraculously lands in the back of the net.

Step 2: Pretend the Rules Don’t Apply

Faced with the inconvenient reality that the Constitution is not, in fact, a rough draft, the Coalition has instead opted for the “creative interpretation” method. Who needs public consensus when you have a well-rehearsed press conference, a few constitutional advisors willing to squint hard enough at the text, and a good old-fashioned parliamentary filibuster?

Step 3: The Never-Ending Debate

Months (or was it years?) into this constitutional soap opera, the Coalition still hasn’t quite nailed down a strategy that doesn’t collapse under the weight of its own contradictions. Every time a bold new loophole is presented, legal experts, the opposition, and even the Constitution itself seem to respond with a collective “nice try.” But that hasn’t stopped them from trying again. And again. And again.

Step 4: Blame the 2013 Constitution for Existing

Of course, when all else fails, blame the document itself. According to the Coalition, the real issue isn’t their inability to follow legal procedures—it’s that the Constitution is “too rigid,” “too undemocratic,” and, frankly, “too inconvenient for their political ambitions.” Never mind that it was their job to work within its framework; instead, let’s pretend it’s the document’s fault for not bending itself into submission.

The Great Constitutional Limbo Continues

At this rate, we might as well start placing bets on how many more months (or years) this constitutional scavenger hunt will last. Will they ever find the perfect loophole? Will they exhaust the patience of the nation before they exhaust their legal tricks? Or will they finally admit defeat and attempt the radical idea of following due process?

One thing is certain—if the Coalition Government put as much effort into governance as they do into dodging constitutional realities, Fiji would already be a utopia. Until then, we can all sit back, grab some popcorn, and watch the next episode of Bend It Like Beckham: The Constitutional Edition.

The Superstar versus Partisan Model, Fiji First's Deregistration and the 2026 Scenario

The Fiji First Party has been a dominant force in Fijian politics since its inception under the leadership of Prime Minister Frank Bainimarama. Across the three general elections of 2014, 2018, and 2022, the party's performance reflected both the strengths of its leadership and the evolving political landscape of Fiji. Central to Fiji First’s electoral successes and eventual decline was the superstar appeal of Bainimarama, whose influence over the party’s popularity was significant. Additionally, the shifting iTaukei (indigenous Fijian) support base and declining voter turnout played crucial roles in shaping election outcomes.

1.     Fiji First's Performance in the 2014 Election

In the 2014 general election, Fiji First secured a decisive victory, winning 59.2% of the vote and capturing 32 out of 50 parliamentary seats. This landslide win was largely attributed to Bainimarama’s strong personal appeal. As the architect of Fiji’s post-coup government and the leader who oversaw economic growth and infrastructural development, he positioned himself as a modernizer committed to stability and progress. His image as a strong leader, particularly in contrast to Fiji’s historically unstable political environment, resonated with many voters.

A significant factor in the 2014 victory was Bainimarama’s outreach to non-iTaukei communities, particularly Indo-Fijians, who had historically felt marginalized. By advocating for a common national identity and eliminating race-based electoral rolls, Fiji First garnered substantial support from these groups. However, iTaukei support remained a concern, as many indigenous Fijians remained skeptical of Bainimarama’s policies, particularly his moves to diminish traditional chiefly authority.

2.     The 2018 Election: Retaining Power Amidst Declining Support

The 2018 general election saw Fiji First’s vote share drop to 50%, translating to 27 seats in Parliament—a decline from 2014 but still enough to secure a second term. Bainimarama’s personal appeal remained strong, and his ability to maintain control of the party’s narrative played a crucial role in the outcome. However, opposition parties, particularly the Social Democratic Liberal Party (SODELPA), gained ground, fueled by increasing skepticism among iTaukei voters.

The erosion of iTaukei support in 2018 was influenced by concerns over land rights, cultural preservation, and Bainimarama’s governance style, which some saw as authoritarian. While urban and Indo-Fijian voters largely remained loyal to Fiji First, rural iTaukei voters leaned towards SODELPA, which positioned itself as the defender of indigenous interests. The narrowing victory margin indicated that Fiji First’s electoral dominance was waning, despite Bainimarama’s continued personal popularity.

3.     The 2022 Election: A Decline in Popularity and the Loss of Power

By 2022, Fiji First’s vote share further declined to 42.5%, securing only 26 seats—insufficient to form a government. This result marked a significant shift in Fijian politics, as a coalition of opposition parties, including the People's Alliance Party and the National Federation Party, successfully ended Fiji First’s rule. Bainimarama’s once-unquestioned superstar appeal was no longer enough to sustain electoral dominance, and key structural factors contributed to the party’s loss.

One major factor was the continued erosion of iTaukei support. The opposition effectively mobilized indigenous voters by capitalizing on grievances over land policies, governance, and Bainimarama’s top-down leadership approach. Additionally, economic challenges, including the impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic, exacerbated public dissatisfaction.

4.     Declining Voter Turnout: Causes and Implications

A crucial trend across all three elections was the decline in voter turnout. In 2014, turnout was a robust 84.6%, but by 2018, it had dropped to 72.5%, and in 2022, it declined further to 68.3%. Several factors contributed to this downward trend:

1. Voter Apathy and Disillusionment – Over time, some voters became disillusioned with Fiji First’s governance, particularly regarding its handling of democratic freedoms and economic issues. However, they did not necessarily see viable alternatives in opposition parties, leading to political disengagement.
2. Fear and Intimidation – Opposition parties and civil society groups reported concerns that some voters felt pressured or intimidated by the government’s strong rhetoric and control over media and institutions, discouraging voter participation.
3. Migration and Demographic Changes – A significant portion of Fiji’s population, particularly younger and urban voters, either emigrated or became disengaged from the political process, further reducing turnout.

5.     Predictions for the 2026 Election: The Impact of Bainimarama’s Exit and Fiji First’s Deregistration

With Bainimarama no longer at the forefront and Fiji First’s deregistration as a political party, the 2026 election is set to be a transformative moment in Fijian politics. The absence of Fiji First leaves a power vacuum that opposition parties will seek to fill. The key question is whether the People’s Alliance Party (PAP), under Sitiveni Rabuka, can maintain control of the government.

Rabuka’s leadership and popularity will be crucial in determining PAP’s fortunes. His ability to unite iTaukei support and retain Indo-Fijian backing will be a determining factor. While he enjoys a strong personal appeal, his leadership will be tested by economic challenges, governance issues, and potential opposition from new political forces emerging in the wake of Fiji First’s collapse.

Without Bainimarama’s centralized leadership and Fiji First’s political machinery, opposition parties such as the National Federation Party (NFP) and new entrants could gain traction, potentially fragmenting the political landscape. If Rabuka can consolidate his coalition’s position and effectively address economic and social concerns, he may maintain power. However, a divided opposition or an unexpected new political movement could challenge his administration in 2026.

Fiji First’s trajectory from dominance in 2014 to defeat in 2022 highlights the role of strong leadership, shifting voter demographics, and political opposition strategies. Bainimarama’s personal appeal was the linchpin of the party’s success, but as economic and political challenges mounted, even his charisma could not counteract growing dissatisfaction. The decline in iTaukei support, coupled with decreased voter turnout, signaled a changing political landscape, ultimately culminating in Fiji First’s loss of power.

Looking ahead to 2026, the absence of Bainimarama and the deregistration of Fiji First create an unpredictable political environment. While Rabuka’s People’s Alliance Party currently holds power, the next election will test whether his leadership can sustain long-term political dominance or if new forces will reshape Fiji’s political future.

6. The Superstar Model vs. the Partisan Model under the D'Hondt System in Fijian Politics

Fiji uses the D'Hondt system, a proportional representation method, for its parliamentary elections. This system tends to favor larger political parties by distributing seats based on party vote share rather than individual candidates. Within this framework, political parties in Fiji often adopt different electoral strategies, notably the Superstar Model and the Partisan Model.

• The Superstar Model relies on a highly popular leader or candidate who attracts the majority of votes for the party, effectively pulling other candidates into parliament through seat allocation.
• The Partisan Model focuses on building a strong, ideologically unified party where votes are more evenly distributed among candidates rather than concentrated on a single figure.

The Superstar Model in Fiji

The Superstar Model has been a dominant strategy in Fijian politics, particularly evident in recent elections where powerful political figures, such as Frank Bainimarama and Sitiveni Rabuka, have played a central role in mobilizing voter support.

Advantages

1. Vote Accumulation: The D'Hondt system allows votes cast for a single candidate to benefit others on the party list, making a superstar leader an asset.
2. Simplifies Campaigning: The focus on one key figure reduces the need for extensive individual candidate campaigns.
3. Emotional and Ethnic Appeal: In Fiji, politics is often shaped by ethnic and personal loyalties, making a strong leader an effective rallying point.

Disadvantages

1. Over-Reliance on a Single Figure: If the superstar leader is removed (due to legal issues, health, or loss of popularity), the party risks collapsing.
2. Candidate Quality Disparity: Less prominent candidates may enter parliament without having earned significant personal voter support.
3. Internal Party Struggles: Other party members may feel sidelined, leading to factionalism.

The Partisan Model in Fiji

The Partisan Model is centered on a strong party brand rather than a single leader. Parties such as National Federation Party (NFP) and SODELPA have attempted to adopt this approach, focusing on collective leadership and grassroots support.

Advantages

1. Stability and Longevity: The party remains relevant beyond the tenure of a single leader.
2. Distributed Campaigning: Candidates campaign independently, broadening voter outreach.
3. Reduced Internal Conflict: Shared leadership can prevent the concentration of power in one individual.

Disadvantages

1. Less Effective in Vote Maximization: In the D'Hondt system, a party lacking a strong unifying figure may struggle to attract enough votes to compete with superstar-led parties.
2. Harder to Mobilize Voters: Fijian politics often favors recognizable faces over ideological commitments, making it harder for collective leadership parties to compete.
3. Challenges in Messaging: A party with multiple voices may struggle with a consistent and compelling message.

7. Which Model Works Better under the D'Hondt System?

The Superstar Model has been more effective in Fijian politics due to the mechanics of the D'Hondt system. Since the system rewards large vote accumulations within a party, a single charismatic leader can pull in votes that translate into multiple seats. This was evident in FijiFirst’s 2014 and 2018 victories, where Bainimarama secured a significant personal vote share, boosting lesser-known candidates into parliament.

However, the Partisan Model offers long-term resilience. A party that builds a strong brand and a broad candidate base may suffer in the short term but can ensure continuity beyond a single election cycle.

Under the D'Hondt system in Fiji, the Superstar Model has proven more effective in securing immediate electoral success by maximizing vote accumulation. However, the Partisan Model offers greater long-term stability, reducing dependence on a single leader. The most effective strategy may be a hybrid approach—leveraging a popular leader while ensuring a strong party foundation for sustainability.