I am an Indo-Fijian who has lived in Australia for more than 42 years – over half my life away from the land of my birth. Yet like many in the diaspora, Fiji has never left me. It lives quietly in memory, loudly in identity and faithfully in the values passed down through generations of Singhs and Deokis.
I was born in Suva to Fiji-born parents. My paternal grandfather arrived on these shores as a nine-year-old boy in 1889, part of the indentured labour system that would shape the destiny of thousands.
That generation endured hardship not for themselves, but for those who’d follow. Their sacrifice laid the foundation for a community that would grow resilient, industrious and deeply anchored in family and faith.
From the cane fields to small family run enterprises, families built a legacy through sheer determination and the desire to succeed at whatever cost. Their sacrifices were designed to ensure that we would become free from the clutches of poverty and the manipulative powers of servitude in a system akin to slavery.
Churches, temples and mosques became more than places of worship. They became centres of connectivity and places of spiritual support and sustenance. But they also became places where dialogue and belonging were discussed and debated as a means of addressing the disconnect of our lost identity. This story isn’t unique. It’s part of our shared national history.
But woven into that story is yet another truth – one less comfortable, but deeply formative. Many of us grew up knowing, often without it being said, where we belonged…and where we didn’t.
Under Colonial rule, Fiji was structured along racial lines. Access to education and even opportunities came with invisible barriers and boundaries. We had to find ways of overcoming those obstacles. And in doing that we became more resilient and determined to succeed.
There was freedom. But it came with controlled limitations. And while the system functioned, it did so not because it was just, but because it was tightly controlled by a British Colonial administration that became like the national policeman to ensure we didn’t step out of line.
As Fiji approached independence in 1970, a new generation of leaders emerged. They were determined to reshape the realities of living under British rule. My father was among them. He was one of the country’s early pioneers for social justice. As one of Fiji’s first lawyers he pursued a path where all citizens would be free to enjoy equal opportunities. He later became Attorney-General under Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara’s Alliance Government. And that’s where the tension began.
The core challenge: Two systems, one nation
Fiji’s deepest struggle isn’t merely political. It’s cultural, philosophical and profoundly human.
Indo-Fijians, descendants of displacement, naturally gravitated toward democracy, equality and a shared model of governance. Without a traditional village structure to anchor their identity, participation in a national framework became essential as a pathway to feel we belonged to something bigger than ourselves. This longing for belonging was shaped because of the disconnect we felt after our ancestors left small villages in India.
In contrast, indigenous iTaukei society is built upon a chiefly system with an enduring structure of hierarchy, stewardship and strong communal identity. Authority flows not from ballot boxes, but from centuries of customs and traditions. It isn’t simply governance; it’s culture, protocols and identity all wrapped together in the strength and vitality of the Vanua.
These aren’t just different systems.
They’re different ways of seeing the world and also working and living in a complex world of economics and politics.
For decades, Fiji has attempted to force one framework into the shape of the other. The result has too often been instability, mistrust and ultimately, four coups that have left lasting scars on the national psyche.
This is the tension Fiji continues to live with and a tension not of opposition, but of unresolved values of coexistence.
A way forward: Not choosing, but integrating
The answer doesn’t lie in choosing one system over the other. It lies in recognising that both carry truths and both deserve recognition and respect.
Fiji must evolve toward a structure that formally recognises both democratic equality and cultural sovereignty.
Parliament should govern national policy through the principle of equal representation – one person, one vote. But at the same time, traditional institutions must be empowered to safeguard iTaukei land, customs and chiefly authority through the wisdom of the BLV.
At the heart of Fiji’s divisions lies fear – quiet, persistent and often unspoken.
For many Indigenous Fijians, democracy has at times felt like a threat to land, identity and continuity. That fear cannot simply be dismissed; it must be addressed with clarity and compassion.
This means strengthening constitutional protections around iTaukei land ownership, preserving language and customs and ensuring that these safeguards cannot be undone by shifting political tides.
When identity feels secure, fear begins to fade.
Fiji has long wrestled with a fundamental question: What does it mean to be “Fijian”?
The answer cannot lie in erasing difference. It must lie in embracing it.
A shared identity must be deliberately cultivated through education that tells the full story of both Indo-Fijian and iTaukei histories, through national narratives that celebrate contribution rather than competition and through symbols that unite without diluting cultural truths.
Belonging doesn’t happen by accident. It has to be nurtured and built.
Too often, race has been politicised through land based economics and race based narratives. The future lies in shared prosperity – joint ventures between landowners and investors, community-based development and policies that reward collaboration across ethnic lines.
When people build together, they begin to learn how to work with each other. This environment is where trust for each other grows through shared challenges and shared victories.
And when trust grows, fear and division weaken and eventually disappears.
The final word
Fiji doesn’t have a race problem.
It has a trust problem. A problem born from history, shaped by fear and sustained by manipulation and misunderstanding. But trust isn’t beyond repair.
It will not be rebuilt through slogans or political manoeuvring. It will be rebuilt through honest conversations, courageous leadership and structural change that reflects the reality of who we really are.
The future of Fiji will not be secured by forcing one identity to yield to another.
It will be secured when we accept a deeper truth:
We aren’t meant to become the same. We’re meant to learn how to embrace each other’s unique differences and celebrate the diversity of belonging together in a truly beautiful nation.
And when that belonging is built on mutual respect, shaped by understanding and anchored in trust, Fiji will discover something far stronger than unity. It will discover an unbreakable invisible bond of brotherhood and one capable of weathering any storm.
COLIN DEOKI lives in Melbourne, Australia and is a regular contributor to this newspaper. The views expressed in this article are his and not necessarily of this newspaper.
