Lessons from the past, warnings for the present
THE 2013 Constitution was born out of the crisis following the December 5 2006 coup d’état led by Commodore Frank Bainimarama, which removed Prime Minister Laisenia Qarase from office. After the 1997 Constitution was abrogated in 2009, a new text was promulgated by presidential decree in 2013. The widely consulted Yash Ghai draft, produced after extensive public engagement, was infamously seized and literally burned by police in December 2012 — a stark rejection of transparency and consensus. What followed was a document created without meaningful public participation or broad endorsement, and Fiji continues to live with the consequences of that origin today.
The issue today is not simply the flaws of the 2013 text — they are well known and adequately documented. The real danger lies in repeating the same pattern: rushing politically timed amendments or temporary electoral fixes before the 2026 elections. The amendment provisions of the 2013 Constitution are among the most rigid in the Commonwealth, previously requiring three-fourths of Parliament and three-fourths of registered voters at a referendum — a design that was intended to block change, not enable it. This has changed now.
Supreme Court clarification on validity and amendment
In August 2025, Fiji’s Supreme Court issued an advisory opinion that simultaneously affirmed the 2013 Constitution as the country’s “legally effective” governing document and acknowledged its democratic deficit because it was imposed rather than chosen by the people. Crucially, the court indicated that Fiji’s rigid amendment provisions should be read in a way that allows realistic democratic change, narrowing their effect while keeping the constitution in force. The Court also made clear that the 1997 Constitution is no longer valid or applicable, noting the passage of time, multiple elections under the 2013 framework, and the extensive body of legislation enacted since its promulgation.
Such patchwork reforms, rushed under electoral timetables, would not strengthen democracy; they would weaken it. When governments treat constitutional change as a tool of expediency, they erode trust. When nations treat it as a collective act of maturity, they build legitimacy that endures beyond electoral cycles.
Military ambiguity and democratic instability
Fiji’s military has been sheltered from scrutiny for too long. Section 131 of the 2013 Constitution defines the Republic of Fiji Military Forces’ (RFMF) role as ensuring “the security, defence, and well-being of Fiji and all Fijians.” This dangerously elastic phrasing has been interpreted as granting political oversight rather than limiting the military’s role to national service, despite constitutional experts noting it does not confer guardianship of the constitution. Successive coups have leaned on this ambiguity to justify intervention, making constitutional vagueness a recurring gateway to instability.
In Fiji’s political culture, the commander of the RFMF is appointed by the government of the day. When disagreements arise, that same government risks being overthrown by the very institution it empowered — a pattern borne out by multiple coups in recent decades. A disgruntled commander can move against elected leaders in a matter of minutes. That is the nature of Fijian politics as we have lived it: successive coups enabled by constitutional ambiguity and entrenched military influence.
This danger becomes even clearer when viewed against the wider Pacific. Most Pacific Island nations — including Samoa, Tuvalu, Kiribati, Tonga, Vanuatu, the Cook Islands, and Niue — do not maintain standing armies. Their stability is strengthened by clear civilian authority, and resources that might otherwise be consumed by barracks and weaponry are directed toward schools, hospitals, infrastructure, and community development. Fiji remains the exception, bearing the burden of a standing army with an outsized political footprint and the scars that follow.
Every coup d’état in Fiji has been enabled by the military’s claim to constitutional guardianship. In practice, elastic mandates turn bloodless coups into constitutional coups, and constitutional coups into blood coups. Fiji cannot afford such a loophole and maybe it is time that the nation’s leaders do some introspection and decide if Fiji really needs a military force, given the culture of coup d’états in this nation.
If not then Fiji’s supreme law must clearly define the military’s legitimate role: disaster response, national rebuilding, maritime emergencies, engineering work, and structured community service and removal of members into a reservist role. Anything beyond that invites a repeat of the cycle of instability.
Electoral design and the risk of stop–gap fixes
Some political voices are floating the idea of temporary electoral changes before the next general election. That is a dangerous illusion. Fiji’s electoral system is not a matter of tinkering with legislation; it is hardwired into the 2013 Constitution itself. The single national constituency, open–list proportional representation, and the D’Hondt allocation method are embedded in the supreme law.
The government’s current interest in an Electoral Commission Bill aligned to the 2013 framework is therefore a wasted exercise. The Fiji Law Reform Commission’s 2025 review confirmed that while electoral laws can be adjusted, the fundamental design — one national constituency, proportional representation, and the role of the Commission — is entrenched in the Constitution. To pretend that legislation can re–engineer elections without constitutional overhaul is to mislead the public. Worse, it risks creating confusion and false expectations.
Electoral systems are the heartbeat of democracy. To tamper with them in haste is to invite mistrust at the ballot box, instability in the aftermath, and a crisis of legitimacy. Fiji should not complicate its transition with short–lived experiments. Electoral reform must follow — not precede — a properly structured constitutional process.
Referendum missteps
Talk of a referendum under the 2013 Constitution is equally misguided. Its amendment provisions are among the most rigid in the Commonwealth, requiring three–quarters of Parliament and three–quarters of registered voters in a referendum. These thresholds were designed to block change rather than enable it.
The Supreme Court’s advisory opinion in August 2025 clarified that while the 2013 Constitution remains Fiji’s governing law, its amendment provisions must be interpreted more flexibly. The Court ruled that certain chapters may be amended with a two–thirds majority in Parliament plus a simple majority of voters in a referendum, easing the straitjacket but still requiring broad consensus. Importantly, the Court also confirmed that the 1997 Constitution is no longer valid, citing the passage of time, four elections under the 2013 framework, and thousands of laws enacted since its promulgation.
A simple yes–or–no vote cannot resolve systemic flaws. Fiji does not need a referendum on a broken text; it needs a new text altogether — born of dialogue, consensus, and genuine public ownership. The costs of holding a referendum now would be premature and wasteful. Reform requires three to four years of civic education, design engagements, drafting, and deliberation in a people’s assembly. Only then should a referendum be held — as the final act, the seal of legitimacy, not a shortcut at the beginning.
To push for a referendum under the 2013 framework is to pretend that legitimacy can be manufactured by a binary vote. In reality, it must be earned through patience, inclusion, and the people’s voice.
Chiefs, church, and the separation of powers
The Great Council of Chiefs (GCC) has historically been both a cultural institution and a political actor. Established in 1876 under colonial rule, it became a cornerstone of Fijian identity and governance. Yet its dual role has often destabilised the nation. When chiefly authority is combined with political power, conflicts of interest arise. Chiefs are meant to be custodians of culture and tradition, not brokers of political deals. When they stray into politics, they weaken both spheres.
The Methodist Church has played a similar destabilising role. As the dominant denomination among iTaukei Fijians, it has historically aligned itself with nationalist politics, particularly during the coups of 1987 and 2000. In those moments, religion became a weapon rather than a source of unity. Church leaders endorsed ethno–nationalist agendas that excluded Indo–Fijians, deepening division and legitimising instability. The lesson is clear: church and politics do not mix. When they do, communities fracture.
Both institutions must be respected in their proper domains. The GCC should remain ceremonial and cultural, guiding tradition and identity, but staying out of political contests. The Methodist Church should remain spiritual offering moral guidance, but not partisan endorsement. Fiji’s future stability depends on this separation of powers.
Today, crime, disrespect, and the breakdown of traditional structures show that chiefs are not fulfilling their cultural duties fully. Too often, the GCC has been consumed by politics rather than by the preservation of Fijian culture. Likewise, the church had been distracted by political entanglements instead of focusing on its spiritual mission. If these institutions fail to return to their rightful roles, they risk becoming sources of instability rather than pillars of society.
The national project beyond 2026
Constitutional renewal must be Fiji’s national project, for all leaders and the people of Fiji together, after the 2026 elections. This is not the work of one party or one government; it is the work of the nation. When Fijians cast their votes in 2026, they should know they are electing facilitators of this project — not partisan beneficiaries of incumbency.
The project must be bipartisan, non–political, and inclusive. It must involve women, unions, chiefs, churches, civil society, professional bodies, and communities across Fiji. It must take account of social, economic, cultural, and environmental realities. And it must reject any blueprint designed to entrench the rights of one segment of society over others. Nationalistic ideals of indigenous supremacy or ethnic dominance cannot form the basis of a modern constitution. A constitution must unite, not divide.
Experts stress that legitimacy cannot be manufactured; it must be earned through process. That means a timetable of three to four years: first, a year of civic education to explain constitutional basics in three languages across Fiji’s communities; then a year of design engagements through forums, submissions, and thematic working groups; followed by drafting and deliberation in a people’s assembly. Only then should a people’s assembly, followed by a referendum be held — as the final act, the seal of legitimacy. Anything less is a shortcut to failure.
Conclusion: Build with care, not speed
Fiji has faced repeated constitutional ruptures. The scars remain visible in public attitudes toward authority and fairness. The country cannot afford another rushed or politically driven amendment cycle.
This moment requires national maturity. If Fiji wants a constitution capable of strengthening democratic governance, international acceptance and recognition, ensuring stability, and earning public confidence, the work must be done with patience, clarity, and transparency.
Fiji’s identity needs to be shaped by dialogue between its diverse communities. To rush constitutional reform now would betray that heritage. To build carefully, with patience and inclusion, would honour it — and secure a democratic order that future generations of all ethnic groups in Fiji can trust, respect and call Fiji their home. A constitution built in haste will fracture. A constitution built by the people of Fiji — for the people of Fiji — will endure.
