| Shouldn't Richard Naidu Know Better? *Richard Naidu, of all people, should know better. He was not just a bystander in Fiji’s democratic struggles—he was a fellow traveller with our Editor in 1987, standing in opposition to Sitiveni Rabuka’s two racist coups that toppled the democratically elected Bavadra government. |  |
Given that shared history—of defending constitutionalism, denouncing military rule, and standing against ethno-nationalist authoritarianism—it is deeply disappointing to see Naidu now silent, or worse, complicit, in the face of serious concerns surrounding the rule of law and professional accountability in Fiji’s legal system. When voices are urgently needed to uphold the standards he once risked his reputation to defend, where is Richard Naidu? He witnessed first-hand the so-called 'peaceful marches against the Bavadra government and the 1970 Constitution'. He narrowly escaped being burned alive by Rabuka's coup supporters who had prepared a lovo pit outside Fiji's parliament. He survived that ordeal. He transitioned from being Dr Timoci Bavadra's spokesman into law, becoming one of Fiji's most prominent legal voices. Which is why his current silence-amid serious concerns about legal accountability, political compromise, and the erosion of public trust in the justice system-is both baffling and disappointing. If anyone understands what's at stake when justice is manipulated and the rule of law is selectively applied, it is Naidu. So why is he silent now?
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Why Richard Naidu Is Wrong—And Why the Country Does Care
In a moment of public exasperation, seasoned lawyer Richard Naidu recently remarked that he was “sick of it,” lamenting that the rest of Fiji outside Suva doesn’t care about the unfolding Commission of Inquiry (COI) and related investigations. He hoped for a “COI-free weekend.”
But such sentiments, while understandable from a fatigued advocate, misread both the gravity of the moment and the growing national awareness—particularly outside the capital.
Naidu’s client, Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister Biman Prasad, was on the brink of being formally charged on 5 September 2024. Naidu requested a deferral to 9 September. The public does know why the delay was sought—because the president of the World Bank Ajay Banga was in town. But what is abundantly clear is this: political elites, lawyers, and their preferred timelines are not the only stakeholders in this democracy. The people of Fiji—whether in Lautoka, Labasa, or Levuka—have a right to transparency, accountability, and timely justice.
For decades, many outside Suva have watched the capital operate like a cloistered city-state—where political, legal, and bureaucratic actors protect each other under the banner of “rule of law,” even as rural communities suffer the consequences of misgovernance, corruption, and impunity. When those in the corridors of power appear to enjoy delays, evasions, or selective outrage, it does not go unnoticed. And when figures like Naidu, who have long championed democratic reform, suddenly show signs of fatigue or cynicism, it risks demoralizing the very public they claim to speak for.
The significance of the Commission of Inquiry is not just about one case or one political figure. It’s about setting a precedent for credible, independent scrutiny of all those who wield public power—regardless of political stripe. That includes accountability for how taxpayer funds are spent, how appointments are made, and whether there are double standards in enforcing the law.
Naidu is wrong to think the rest of the country doesn’t care. People do care. But they care not just about the COI as a political theatre—they care about what it represents: whether justice is finally catching up with the powerful, and whether Fiji is truly moving toward a culture of accountability.
If anything, the nation needs more weekends where the public reflects on the COI, not fewer. The fatigue Naidu feels should not become an excuse for deflection or delay. The work of justice is not seasonal. It is urgent, ongoing, and must be immune to the comfort zones of the elite.
This is not just a Suva story. It is a Fiji story. And the rest of the country is watching.
In a moment of public exasperation, seasoned lawyer Richard Naidu recently remarked that he was “sick of it,” lamenting that the rest of Fiji outside Suva doesn’t care about the unfolding Commission of Inquiry (COI) and related investigations. He hoped for a “COI-free weekend.”
But such sentiments, while understandable from a fatigued advocate, misread both the gravity of the moment and the growing national awareness—particularly outside the capital.
Naidu’s client, Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister Biman Prasad, was on the brink of being formally charged on 5 September 2024. Naidu requested a deferral to 9 September. The public does know why the delay was sought—because the president of the World Bank Ajay Banga was in town. But what is abundantly clear is this: political elites, lawyers, and their preferred timelines are not the only stakeholders in this democracy. The people of Fiji—whether in Lautoka, Labasa, or Levuka—have a right to transparency, accountability, and timely justice.
For decades, many outside Suva have watched the capital operate like a cloistered city-state—where political, legal, and bureaucratic actors protect each other under the banner of “rule of law,” even as rural communities suffer the consequences of misgovernance, corruption, and impunity. When those in the corridors of power appear to enjoy delays, evasions, or selective outrage, it does not go unnoticed. And when figures like Naidu, who have long championed democratic reform, suddenly show signs of fatigue or cynicism, it risks demoralizing the very public they claim to speak for.
The significance of the Commission of Inquiry is not just about one case or one political figure. It’s about setting a precedent for credible, independent scrutiny of all those who wield public power—regardless of political stripe. That includes accountability for how taxpayer funds are spent, how appointments are made, and whether there are double standards in enforcing the law.
Naidu is wrong to think the rest of the country doesn’t care. People do care. But they care not just about the COI as a political theatre—they care about what it represents: whether justice is finally catching up with the powerful, and whether Fiji is truly moving toward a culture of accountability.
If anything, the nation needs more weekends where the public reflects on the COI, not fewer. The fatigue Naidu feels should not become an excuse for deflection or delay. The work of justice is not seasonal. It is urgent, ongoing, and must be immune to the comfort zones of the elite.
This is not just a Suva story. It is a Fiji story. And the rest of the country is watching.
Why Didn’t Naidu Deliver His Client to FICAC on 9 September?
Now that World Bank President Ajay Banga has left Fiji’s shores, it’s time for the country to ask a very serious question: Why didn’t Richard Naidu walk his client, Finance Minister Biman Prasad, into FICAC on 9 September, as he himself had requested?
It is now public knowledge that Prasad was scheduled to be charged by FICAC on 5 September 2024. But at the eleventh hour, his lawyer, Naidu, requested a deferral until 9 September. That request was reportedly granted.
And then? Silence. No charge. No handover. No explanation.
It is a pattern all too familiar in Fijian politics: delays dressed up as legal strategy, silence framed as discretion, and accountability pushed aside for the convenience of political optics. The timing matters. Ajay Banga’s high-profile visit began almost exactly in the window when Prasad was due to face charges. Was that a coincidence—or was Fiji’s criminal justice process paused to protect the government’s international image while the World Bank entourage was in town?
We need to be clear: nobody—no minister, no deputy prime minister, no political ally—should be above the law. If FICAC had determined that charges were ready by 5 September, then a delay should only have meant one thing: a confirmed, non-negotiable appearance on 9 September. Naidu asked for that date. So why didn’t he deliver?
What message does this send to the public? That high-level suspects can negotiate their way around law enforcement? That FICAC charges can be scheduled and then quietly shelved if the optics are inconvenient? That accountability is only enforceable when the cameras are gone and the foreign dignitaries have flown out?
This is not about Prasad’s guilt or innocence—that is for a court to determine. It is about process, credibility, and the rule of law. FICAC either had a case or it didn’t. If it did on 5 September, it should still have had one on 9 September. If something changes, the public has a right to know.
Fiji’s justice system cannot operate on a ‘wait-for-the-world-to-leave’ basis. Nor should any lawyer—however well respected—be able to act as both gatekeeper and gatecrasher to the halls of accountability.
Richard Naidu, who has built a public reputation for advocating for the rule of law, now has a responsibility to answer a simple question: Where was his client on 9 September?
Because FICAC was waiting.
And so was the country.
Now that World Bank President Ajay Banga has left Fiji’s shores, it’s time for the country to ask a very serious question: Why didn’t Richard Naidu walk his client, Finance Minister Biman Prasad, into FICAC on 9 September, as he himself had requested?
It is now public knowledge that Prasad was scheduled to be charged by FICAC on 5 September 2024. But at the eleventh hour, his lawyer, Naidu, requested a deferral until 9 September. That request was reportedly granted.
And then? Silence. No charge. No handover. No explanation.
It is a pattern all too familiar in Fijian politics: delays dressed up as legal strategy, silence framed as discretion, and accountability pushed aside for the convenience of political optics. The timing matters. Ajay Banga’s high-profile visit began almost exactly in the window when Prasad was due to face charges. Was that a coincidence—or was Fiji’s criminal justice process paused to protect the government’s international image while the World Bank entourage was in town?
We need to be clear: nobody—no minister, no deputy prime minister, no political ally—should be above the law. If FICAC had determined that charges were ready by 5 September, then a delay should only have meant one thing: a confirmed, non-negotiable appearance on 9 September. Naidu asked for that date. So why didn’t he deliver?
What message does this send to the public? That high-level suspects can negotiate their way around law enforcement? That FICAC charges can be scheduled and then quietly shelved if the optics are inconvenient? That accountability is only enforceable when the cameras are gone and the foreign dignitaries have flown out?
This is not about Prasad’s guilt or innocence—that is for a court to determine. It is about process, credibility, and the rule of law. FICAC either had a case or it didn’t. If it did on 5 September, it should still have had one on 9 September. If something changes, the public has a right to know.
Fiji’s justice system cannot operate on a ‘wait-for-the-world-to-leave’ basis. Nor should any lawyer—however well respected—be able to act as both gatekeeper and gatecrasher to the halls of accountability.
Richard Naidu, who has built a public reputation for advocating for the rule of law, now has a responsibility to answer a simple question: Where was his client on 9 September?
Because FICAC was waiting.
And so was the country.
Let us be clear: Biman Prasad has not been charged. He has not voluntarily presented himself. There has been no public statement of explanation. And Richard Naidu—who personally sought the 9 September deferral—has had nothing to say about why his client did not show up.
The truth is grim: the legal process was hijacked, and the people of Fiji were denied what they were promised—a government committed to transparency and accountability.
Prasad is now effectively on the run. Not hidden, perhaps, but protected. Shielded by the convenient reshuffling of the very institution meant to investigate him. And FICAC, once ready to act, was gutted overnight.
This isn’t just a scandal—it’s a warning. It signals that our anti-corruption watchdog can be politically neutered at a moment’s notice. That legal accountability for the powerful is conditional. That even when law enforcement is ready to act, political interests will intervene.
So we ask again:
Until these questions are answered, 5 September 2024 will be remembered as the day accountability died.
In 1987, coupist Sitiveni Rabuka led two coups that overthrew a democratically elected government and dragged Fiji into political instability and ethnic division. In 2000, history repeated itself with another coup - George Speight’s failed coup but that succeeded in overthrowing the Chaudhry government - that tore through our institutions and deepened national wounds. These events were not moments of “correction” — they were disasters that set the country back decades.
The current discontent with the 2013 Constitution, while not unjustified, must not be allowed to open the door to renewed instability. Yes, the Constitution was imposed without full consultation. Yes, many believe it needs reform. But this reform must be achieved through calm, lawful, inclusive dialogue — not through street marches, political grandstanding, or revived ambitions from the past.
And this time, we must be very clear about one thing: never again must Fiji allow the Great Council of Chiefs—or any chiefly elite—to become powerbrokers or kingmakers in our national politics. Our democracy must belong to all citizens equally, not filtered through hereditary privilege or chiefly endorsement. Chiefs have an important cultural role, but in a modern democracy, political legitimacy comes from the ballot box — not the bure.
This is where the Republic of Fiji Military Forces (RFMF) must hold the line. In the past, they were part of the problem. Today, they must be the protectors of peace, democracy, and constitutional order. We cannot afford to repeat the tragedies of 1987 or 2000. The nation must move forward, not back into the dark corridors of ethnic division, elite dominance, and political coups.
Fiji deserves a constitutional future that is truly by the people, for the people — all the people.
The truth is grim: the legal process was hijacked, and the people of Fiji were denied what they were promised—a government committed to transparency and accountability.
Prasad is now effectively on the run. Not hidden, perhaps, but protected. Shielded by the convenient reshuffling of the very institution meant to investigate him. And FICAC, once ready to act, was gutted overnight.
This isn’t just a scandal—it’s a warning. It signals that our anti-corruption watchdog can be politically neutered at a moment’s notice. That legal accountability for the powerful is conditional. That even when law enforcement is ready to act, political interests will intervene.
So we ask again:
- Why was Francis Puleiwai removed on the very day Prasad was to be charged?
- Who orchestrated the emergency installation of Barbara Malimali on 5 September 2024?
- Why did Richard Naidu, who asked for 9 September, fail to bring his client forward?
- Why hasn’t FICAC issued a bench warrant for Biman Prasad's arrest?
Until these questions are answered, 5 September 2024 will be remembered as the day accountability died.
In 1987, coupist Sitiveni Rabuka led two coups that overthrew a democratically elected government and dragged Fiji into political instability and ethnic division. In 2000, history repeated itself with another coup - George Speight’s failed coup but that succeeded in overthrowing the Chaudhry government - that tore through our institutions and deepened national wounds. These events were not moments of “correction” — they were disasters that set the country back decades.
The current discontent with the 2013 Constitution, while not unjustified, must not be allowed to open the door to renewed instability. Yes, the Constitution was imposed without full consultation. Yes, many believe it needs reform. But this reform must be achieved through calm, lawful, inclusive dialogue — not through street marches, political grandstanding, or revived ambitions from the past.
And this time, we must be very clear about one thing: never again must Fiji allow the Great Council of Chiefs—or any chiefly elite—to become powerbrokers or kingmakers in our national politics. Our democracy must belong to all citizens equally, not filtered through hereditary privilege or chiefly endorsement. Chiefs have an important cultural role, but in a modern democracy, political legitimacy comes from the ballot box — not the bure.
This is where the Republic of Fiji Military Forces (RFMF) must hold the line. In the past, they were part of the problem. Today, they must be the protectors of peace, democracy, and constitutional order. We cannot afford to repeat the tragedies of 1987 or 2000. The nation must move forward, not back into the dark corridors of ethnic division, elite dominance, and political coups.
Fiji deserves a constitutional future that is truly by the people, for the people — all the people.
Political Legitimacy comes from the Ballot Box-Not The Bure. Ra Chiefs Should have been denied permit to march against the 2013 Constitution of Fiji.
The march by a group of traditional chiefs from Ra Province against Fiji’s 2013 Constitution are not just symbolic expressions of discontent—they are a dangerous step toward undermining constitutionalism, stoking ethnic division, and unsettling the very foundations of democratic governance. While all citizens, including traditional leaders, have the right to express political views, this march crosses a line. It risks inviting chaos where the legal process should prevail.
The 2013 Constitution is the supreme law of Fiji. It may have emerged from a turbulent and militarized process, but it now underpins the functioning of the state, judiciary, and Parliament. For any group to publicly demand its abolition—without parliamentary debate, legal challenge, or referendum—is not a constitutional dialogue. It is a constitutional defiance.
And when that defiance comes from traditional chiefs, cloaked in inherited authority, it risks being interpreted as a symbolic strike against the very concept of democratic rule. It signals that legitimacy flows not from elections or the law, but from lineage—a regressive message that Fiji cannot afford to entertain in 2025.
What makes this movement especially dangerous is its subtext. When traditional chiefly figures speak against the 2013 Constitution, they often frame it as a betrayal of iTaukei identity and land. This taps into old and inflammatory narratives that falsely present democracy as a threat to indigenous rights.
But this ignores the reality: the 2013 Constitution enshrines protection of iTaukei land, culture, and language. What it does not allow is a two-tiered citizenry. And that, in truth, is what some of these protests long for—a return to ethno-political dominance by hereditary elites.
Let us not forget that similar rhetoric helped justify the 1987 and 2000 coups. The country paid dearly for it in blood, in exile, and in broken institutions. To march backward now is to forget those lessons. The Republic of Fiji Military Forces (RFMF) holds a unique—and dangerous—position under Section 131(2) of the current Constitution. It is charged with the responsibility to uphold the Constitution itself. A public movement of chiefly figures denouncing the Constitution can be interpreted as a signal, or even an invitation, for the RFMF to “act.”
Such signaling must be condemned in the strongest terms. In a country with a coup-ridden past, even peaceful protests can have unintended consequences—especially when the military is always watching, and sometimes waiting.
It is important to distinguish cultural leadership from political opportunism. Chiefs carry enormous mana, but that mana must be exercised within the limits of law and democratic principles. By aligning themselves with a political campaign to delegitimize the constitutional order, these chiefs blur the lines between custom and sedition.
Moreover, many of these actors have no democratic mandate. They were not elected. They are not answerable to the public. Their intervention into national politics without constitutional basis is therefore profoundly undemocratic.
If there is genuine dissatisfaction with the 2013 Constitution, Fiji has mechanisms to address it. Political parties can bring it to Parliament. Citizens can file legal challenges. Governments can call referendums. None of these involve marching in chiefly attire to intimidate, divide, or resurrect lost regimes.
Don’t Romanticize Rebellion
There is a temptation to view the Ra march as a cultural expression or an assertion of indigenous rights. But in substance, it is a challenge to constitutional order. Fiji cannot afford another national crisis rooted in symbols of the past. Chiefs must lead with wisdom, not nostalgia. And the law must lead with firmness, not fear.
Political Legitimacy comes from the Ballot Box-Not The Bure housing Traditional Rulers.
The march by a group of traditional chiefs from Ra Province against Fiji’s 2013 Constitution are not just symbolic expressions of discontent—they are a dangerous step toward undermining constitutionalism, stoking ethnic division, and unsettling the very foundations of democratic governance. While all citizens, including traditional leaders, have the right to express political views, this march crosses a line. It risks inviting chaos where the legal process should prevail.
The 2013 Constitution is the supreme law of Fiji. It may have emerged from a turbulent and militarized process, but it now underpins the functioning of the state, judiciary, and Parliament. For any group to publicly demand its abolition—without parliamentary debate, legal challenge, or referendum—is not a constitutional dialogue. It is a constitutional defiance.
And when that defiance comes from traditional chiefs, cloaked in inherited authority, it risks being interpreted as a symbolic strike against the very concept of democratic rule. It signals that legitimacy flows not from elections or the law, but from lineage—a regressive message that Fiji cannot afford to entertain in 2025.
What makes this movement especially dangerous is its subtext. When traditional chiefly figures speak against the 2013 Constitution, they often frame it as a betrayal of iTaukei identity and land. This taps into old and inflammatory narratives that falsely present democracy as a threat to indigenous rights.
But this ignores the reality: the 2013 Constitution enshrines protection of iTaukei land, culture, and language. What it does not allow is a two-tiered citizenry. And that, in truth, is what some of these protests long for—a return to ethno-political dominance by hereditary elites.
Let us not forget that similar rhetoric helped justify the 1987 and 2000 coups. The country paid dearly for it in blood, in exile, and in broken institutions. To march backward now is to forget those lessons. The Republic of Fiji Military Forces (RFMF) holds a unique—and dangerous—position under Section 131(2) of the current Constitution. It is charged with the responsibility to uphold the Constitution itself. A public movement of chiefly figures denouncing the Constitution can be interpreted as a signal, or even an invitation, for the RFMF to “act.”
Such signaling must be condemned in the strongest terms. In a country with a coup-ridden past, even peaceful protests can have unintended consequences—especially when the military is always watching, and sometimes waiting.
It is important to distinguish cultural leadership from political opportunism. Chiefs carry enormous mana, but that mana must be exercised within the limits of law and democratic principles. By aligning themselves with a political campaign to delegitimize the constitutional order, these chiefs blur the lines between custom and sedition.
Moreover, many of these actors have no democratic mandate. They were not elected. They are not answerable to the public. Their intervention into national politics without constitutional basis is therefore profoundly undemocratic.
If there is genuine dissatisfaction with the 2013 Constitution, Fiji has mechanisms to address it. Political parties can bring it to Parliament. Citizens can file legal challenges. Governments can call referendums. None of these involve marching in chiefly attire to intimidate, divide, or resurrect lost regimes.
Don’t Romanticize Rebellion
There is a temptation to view the Ra march as a cultural expression or an assertion of indigenous rights. But in substance, it is a challenge to constitutional order. Fiji cannot afford another national crisis rooted in symbols of the past. Chiefs must lead with wisdom, not nostalgia. And the law must lead with firmness, not fear.
Political Legitimacy comes from the Ballot Box-Not The Bure housing Traditional Rulers.
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Fijileaks: A Constitution in Question, and a Messenger in Doubt - Niko Nawaikula
Fiji finds itself once again at the crossroads of memory and law, tradition and reform. Former parliamentarian and convict Niko Nawaikula is now calling for a public march against the 2013 Constitution—a document he says has disenfranchised the iTaukei and erased indigenous protections once enshrined in earlier legal frameworks.
The right to protest peacefully is the cornerstone of a functioning democracy. But when the rallying cry comes from a man who was jailed for abusing parliamentary allowances, the message risks being drowned out by the baggage of the messenger.
The Messenger’s Dilemma
Nawaikula is no stranger to the law—both as a lawyer and a lawbreaker. In 2022, he was convicted of dishonestly claiming over $20,000 in travel allowances by falsely declaring his residence. That conviction disqualifies him from holding public office, but it also tarnishes his ability to lead a movement rooted in principles of justice and good governance.
Some may argue that having served his sentence, he deserves a second chance in public life. Perhaps. But leading a constitutional movement requires more than rhetorical zeal; it requires unassailable moral credibility. Right now, Nawaikula is not the man to embody that mantle.
Fiji finds itself once again at the crossroads of memory and law, tradition and reform. Former parliamentarian and convict Niko Nawaikula is now calling for a public march against the 2013 Constitution—a document he says has disenfranchised the iTaukei and erased indigenous protections once enshrined in earlier legal frameworks.
The right to protest peacefully is the cornerstone of a functioning democracy. But when the rallying cry comes from a man who was jailed for abusing parliamentary allowances, the message risks being drowned out by the baggage of the messenger.
The Messenger’s Dilemma
Nawaikula is no stranger to the law—both as a lawyer and a lawbreaker. In 2022, he was convicted of dishonestly claiming over $20,000 in travel allowances by falsely declaring his residence. That conviction disqualifies him from holding public office, but it also tarnishes his ability to lead a movement rooted in principles of justice and good governance.
Some may argue that having served his sentence, he deserves a second chance in public life. Perhaps. But leading a constitutional movement requires more than rhetorical zeal; it requires unassailable moral credibility. Right now, Nawaikula is not the man to embody that mantle.
From Fijileaks Archives
