All one has to do is open the Commission of Inquiry Report to see the problem in plain sight: the vast majority of those accused of various offences are iTaukei — spanning chiefs, commoners, men and women alike. Only two notable exceptions stand out: Biman Prasad and Wylie Clarke, both non-iTaukei.
  |  Semi Koroilavesau  |
*Ah yes - another week, another solemn warning in Parliament about the iTaukei “identity crisis.” This time it’s Opposition MP Semi Koroilavesau, gravely informing us that the very fabric of iTaukei culture and tradition is under threat.
Well, if by “fabric” he means a tattered masi being pulled in three different directions by chiefs, politicians, and elite commoners who are either breaking laws, dancing naked in videos, or answering to the Fiji Corrections Service, then sure - it’s in danger.
*If you’ve already fled your cultural obligations, why expect the youth to carry them alone? It’s rich to condemn urban youth for not “absorbing tradition” when the most visible iTaukei leaders have already traded their Mataqali obligations for political alliances, business ventures, and weekend getaways in Port Denarau. If the so-called guardians of culture have abandoned the blueprint, why should the next generation be shamed for following the example?
*Koroilavesau calls for a holistic approach, balancing cultural preservation with economic development. But maybe he should start with a simpler, more honest step: have the cultural elites and political chiefs go home, reconnect with their own tikina and yavusa, and show - not just tell - the youth what it means to live those values.
Fijileaks, Let’s be blunt: the “identity crisis” didn’t just fall from the sky. The very people lamenting it in Parliament — iTaukei MPs, both male and female — long ago abandoned the daily practice of their own traditions.
*Chiefs who once presided over village ceremonies now preside over parliamentary committees.
*Commoner politicians who once talked about service to the vanua now talk mostly about their portfolios.
*Both sides of the aisle happily enjoy lifestyles that quietly tell youth that success is found far from the village.
 In Parliament this week, Opposition MP Semi Koroilavesau declared that the iTaukei face an “existential” identity crisis. Urban youth are losing their Mataqali knowledge, kinship roles are fading, traditions are unravelling. Colonial reforms, modernization, and economic pressures have all played their part. |  |
So far, so reasonable. But then comes the part they never say out loud: just don’t point this out if you’re not iTaukei. Because nothing unites the elite faster - chiefs, thieves, commoners, men, women, government, opposition - than a chance to swat down “outsiders” who dare to hold up a mirror.
Let’s be blunt: the “identity crisis” didn’t just fall from the sky. The very people lamenting it in Parliament, iTaukei MPs, both male and female, long ago abandoned the daily practice of their own traditions.
The Silencing Game
And heaven help the non-iTaukei who dares to point any of this out. Suddenly, the conversation is no longer about the loss of tradition, it’s about “outsiders interfering,” “not understanding our ways,” or “showing disrespect.”
It’s a handy way to avoid answering the awkward question: if you’ve already fled your cultural obligations, why expect the youth to carry them alone?
The Example They’re Setting
When the most visible iTaukei leaders treat tradition as a speech prop, land as a transaction, and criticism as an insult, especially from non-iTaukei, the next generation gets the message loud and clear: the rules are flexible if you’re powerful, and sacred only when you want to lecture someone else.
A Real Holistic Approach
Koroilavesau calls for mapping traditions, teaching protocols, and celebrating heritage. Fine. But first, map the gap between what leaders say in Parliament and what they do in real life. And if non-iTaukei voices happen to notice that gap, maybe don’t shoot the messenger, especially when they’re pointing out the truth you already know.
Let’s see i-Taukei political leaders, all of them, spend real time in their villages, participate in ceremonies without the media in tow, and demonstrate that the vanua is more than a talking point.
Until then, the only “mapping” the youth will follow is the one charted by their role models - away from tradition and toward wherever the perks, contracts, and social media likes are richest.
The Leadership Gap
If the iTaukei elite, chiefs and commoners, men and women alike, have distanced themselves from their own cultural obligations, why are the youth expected to absorb, maintain, and pass on traditions alone? Leadership is supposed to model behaviour. Right now, it’s modelling abandonment.
From Vanua to VIP
It’s not just the traditional chiefs who have swapped the village green for the parliamentary green benches. Plenty of commoner politicians have done exactly the same, rising to office on the rhetoric of service to the vanua but returning home only for funerals, campaign launches, or the annual photo-op in a bula shirt.
They speak passionately about “reclaiming” tradition while living lifestyles that quietly demonstrate to young people that the real rewards come from leaving it behind.
The Chiefs in Parliament
What about the parliamentary chiefs - those noble guardians of culture who have taken on the sacred duty of voting on how many duty-free hybrid cars MPs can import. Nothing says “protect the vanua” quite like signing off on perks while rural villages are still waiting for clean water. And of course, cultural leadership here often means delivering a stirring speech about tradition - right before crossing the floor for a coalition job.
The Chiefs Who Party
Then there are the chiefs who have embraced the modern age so completely that their biggest cultural contribution is an appearance at Suva’s weekend party circuit. These are the champions of “keeping traditions alive” by hosting Instagram-worthy kava sessions in hotel conference rooms, usually sponsored by the same corporate interests bulldozing ancestral land for a resort. Who needs a chiefly council when you have a VIP booth?
The Chiefs in Prison
And, finally, the chiefs who have traded their chiefly regalia for prison overalls. Some went down fighting for their interpretation of “traditional authority” (armed insurrection has a way of clashing with democratic constitutions). Others took a more entrepreneurial route, dipping into land trust funds or development grants. Either way, their leadership is now exercised from behind bars, with visiting hours replacing the traditional village talanoa.
Not to mention elite commoner iTaukei who return to their villages from prisons, forced to inform the youth of the villages that they served prison sentences for swindling taxpayers over travel parliamentary allowances. Isa, Tagi Mada, Na i Tovo Vaka iTaukei.
Let’s be blunt: the “identity crisis” didn’t just fall from the sky. The very people lamenting it in Parliament, iTaukei MPs, both male and female, long ago abandoned the daily practice of their own traditions.
- Chiefs who once presided over village ceremonies now preside over parliamentary committees.
- Commoner politicians who once talked about service to the vanua now talk mostly about their portfolios.
- Both sides of the aisle happily enjoy lifestyles that quietly tell youth that success is found far from the village.
The Silencing Game
And heaven help the non-iTaukei who dares to point any of this out. Suddenly, the conversation is no longer about the loss of tradition, it’s about “outsiders interfering,” “not understanding our ways,” or “showing disrespect.”
It’s a handy way to avoid answering the awkward question: if you’ve already fled your cultural obligations, why expect the youth to carry them alone?
The Example They’re Setting
When the most visible iTaukei leaders treat tradition as a speech prop, land as a transaction, and criticism as an insult, especially from non-iTaukei, the next generation gets the message loud and clear: the rules are flexible if you’re powerful, and sacred only when you want to lecture someone else.
A Real Holistic Approach
Koroilavesau calls for mapping traditions, teaching protocols, and celebrating heritage. Fine. But first, map the gap between what leaders say in Parliament and what they do in real life. And if non-iTaukei voices happen to notice that gap, maybe don’t shoot the messenger, especially when they’re pointing out the truth you already know.
Let’s see i-Taukei political leaders, all of them, spend real time in their villages, participate in ceremonies without the media in tow, and demonstrate that the vanua is more than a talking point.
Until then, the only “mapping” the youth will follow is the one charted by their role models - away from tradition and toward wherever the perks, contracts, and social media likes are richest.
The Leadership Gap
If the iTaukei elite, chiefs and commoners, men and women alike, have distanced themselves from their own cultural obligations, why are the youth expected to absorb, maintain, and pass on traditions alone? Leadership is supposed to model behaviour. Right now, it’s modelling abandonment.
From Vanua to VIP
It’s not just the traditional chiefs who have swapped the village green for the parliamentary green benches. Plenty of commoner politicians have done exactly the same, rising to office on the rhetoric of service to the vanua but returning home only for funerals, campaign launches, or the annual photo-op in a bula shirt.
They speak passionately about “reclaiming” tradition while living lifestyles that quietly demonstrate to young people that the real rewards come from leaving it behind.
The Chiefs in Parliament
What about the parliamentary chiefs - those noble guardians of culture who have taken on the sacred duty of voting on how many duty-free hybrid cars MPs can import. Nothing says “protect the vanua” quite like signing off on perks while rural villages are still waiting for clean water. And of course, cultural leadership here often means delivering a stirring speech about tradition - right before crossing the floor for a coalition job.
The Chiefs Who Party
Then there are the chiefs who have embraced the modern age so completely that their biggest cultural contribution is an appearance at Suva’s weekend party circuit. These are the champions of “keeping traditions alive” by hosting Instagram-worthy kava sessions in hotel conference rooms, usually sponsored by the same corporate interests bulldozing ancestral land for a resort. Who needs a chiefly council when you have a VIP booth?
The Chiefs in Prison
And, finally, the chiefs who have traded their chiefly regalia for prison overalls. Some went down fighting for their interpretation of “traditional authority” (armed insurrection has a way of clashing with democratic constitutions). Others took a more entrepreneurial route, dipping into land trust funds or development grants. Either way, their leadership is now exercised from behind bars, with visiting hours replacing the traditional village talanoa.
Not to mention elite commoner iTaukei who return to their villages from prisons, forced to inform the youth of the villages that they served prison sentences for swindling taxpayers over travel parliamentary allowances. Isa, Tagi Mada, Na i Tovo Vaka iTaukei.
Returning to the Moment:
Why Ratu Tevita Uluilakeba Mara's Installation as Tui Nayau and Tui Lau Still Resonates
Why Ratu Tevita Uluilakeba Mara's Installation as Tui Nayau and Tui Lau Still Resonates
| Sometimes, we at Fijileaks feel like a vaka in rough seas - just as you set a course, new swells rise up, demanding you steer hard in another direction. That’s what happened with this piece on Ratu Ului Mara's installation. We had it in mind, notes ready, reflections formed and written - then a tide of urgent stories came in, each needing to be told right away. Now the choppy waters have settled a little, and it’s time to return to this moment of tradition and meaning. Here’s why Ratu Ului's installation matters, and why it stays with us. |  |
The Vanua Calls Again - Reflections on the Installation of Ratu Tevita Ului Mara as Tui Nayau and Tui Lau
Let me begin with a full and heartfelt declaration of interest. My ties to the Mara family and to the ideals they have long represented are both personal and political, forged across generations. In the 1970s, my late father served as the President of the Alliance Party’s Tailevu branch - a vital grassroots role in Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara’s national political movement. His brother, my uncle, was an Alliance Party - backed Lord Mayor of Suva and contested two general elections - in 1972 and again in 1975 - proudly under Ratu Mara’s leadership. As a young man, I campaigned for Ratu Mara, Ratu Sir Penaia Ganilau and Ratu Sir George Cakobau in both these elections.
These are not casual associations. They are foundational. They form the core of my political upbringing and ethical compass. Ratu Mara was not just a national leader to my family - he was a source of principle, stability, and inspiration in turbulent times.
It was with this enduring loyalty that I received a personal invitation to witness the installation of Ratu Tevita Uluilakeba Mara — Roko Ului — as Tui Nayau, Sau ni Vanua o Lau, and Tui Lau. Though I was unable to attend in person, I followed every moment of that historic occasion with reverence and hope - for Lau, for Fiji, and for the vanua itself.
What unfolded in Lakeba was not merely ceremonial. It was a national turning point. A restoration of dignity, tradition, and chiefly authority at a time when the country is searching for deeper roots and firmer ground.
A Sacred Reconnection
For over two decades, the chiefly titles of Tui Nayau, Sau ni Vanua o Lau, and Tui Lau had remained unoccupied. Since the passing of Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara in 2004, the people of Lau - and Fiji more broadly - had lived with the absence of not just a high chief, but a spiritual anchor. The silence left behind was more than symbolic. It reflected a deeper uncertainty about the place of traditional authority in a modern state.
Ratu Ului’s installation is not just about filling a void. It is about reawakening a sacred relationship between the vanua and its people - one that is grounded in ancestral memory, cultural stewardship, and chiefly obligation.
The revival of ceremonies, the lifting of taboos, the presence of traditional leaders and Pacific royals - these are not nostalgic gestures. They represent the living strength of indigenous institutions, the resilience of their cultural systems, and the capacity of iTaukei to find belonging in the wisdom of their forebears.
The Man, the Journey, the Mantle
Ratu Ului Mara’s return to this role was not inevitable. His path has been marked by public service, military rank, political upheaval, and years of exile. For some, those chapters remain contentious. But for others - including those of us who have stood with the Mara family through the best and worst of times - this moment marks not a return to power, but a return to purpose.
As the only surviving son of Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara, Ratu Ului was always destined to carry the weight of legacy. But now he carries something even greater: the responsibility to define that legacy anew. Not through the lens of the past, but through the needs of the present and hopes for the future.
What Fiji now faces is not whether chiefly titles still matter - they clearly do. The question is how chiefly leadership can responsibly evolve. Ratu Ului’s challenge is to serve not only as custodian of culture, but as a model for ethical leadership, generational guidance, and principled stewardship in a rapidly changing world.
Let me begin with a full and heartfelt declaration of interest. My ties to the Mara family and to the ideals they have long represented are both personal and political, forged across generations. In the 1970s, my late father served as the President of the Alliance Party’s Tailevu branch - a vital grassroots role in Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara’s national political movement. His brother, my uncle, was an Alliance Party - backed Lord Mayor of Suva and contested two general elections - in 1972 and again in 1975 - proudly under Ratu Mara’s leadership. As a young man, I campaigned for Ratu Mara, Ratu Sir Penaia Ganilau and Ratu Sir George Cakobau in both these elections.
These are not casual associations. They are foundational. They form the core of my political upbringing and ethical compass. Ratu Mara was not just a national leader to my family - he was a source of principle, stability, and inspiration in turbulent times.
It was with this enduring loyalty that I received a personal invitation to witness the installation of Ratu Tevita Uluilakeba Mara — Roko Ului — as Tui Nayau, Sau ni Vanua o Lau, and Tui Lau. Though I was unable to attend in person, I followed every moment of that historic occasion with reverence and hope - for Lau, for Fiji, and for the vanua itself.
What unfolded in Lakeba was not merely ceremonial. It was a national turning point. A restoration of dignity, tradition, and chiefly authority at a time when the country is searching for deeper roots and firmer ground.
A Sacred Reconnection
For over two decades, the chiefly titles of Tui Nayau, Sau ni Vanua o Lau, and Tui Lau had remained unoccupied. Since the passing of Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara in 2004, the people of Lau - and Fiji more broadly - had lived with the absence of not just a high chief, but a spiritual anchor. The silence left behind was more than symbolic. It reflected a deeper uncertainty about the place of traditional authority in a modern state.
Ratu Ului’s installation is not just about filling a void. It is about reawakening a sacred relationship between the vanua and its people - one that is grounded in ancestral memory, cultural stewardship, and chiefly obligation.
The revival of ceremonies, the lifting of taboos, the presence of traditional leaders and Pacific royals - these are not nostalgic gestures. They represent the living strength of indigenous institutions, the resilience of their cultural systems, and the capacity of iTaukei to find belonging in the wisdom of their forebears.
The Man, the Journey, the Mantle
Ratu Ului Mara’s return to this role was not inevitable. His path has been marked by public service, military rank, political upheaval, and years of exile. For some, those chapters remain contentious. But for others - including those of us who have stood with the Mara family through the best and worst of times - this moment marks not a return to power, but a return to purpose.
As the only surviving son of Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara, Ratu Ului was always destined to carry the weight of legacy. But now he carries something even greater: the responsibility to define that legacy anew. Not through the lens of the past, but through the needs of the present and hopes for the future.
What Fiji now faces is not whether chiefly titles still matter - they clearly do. The question is how chiefly leadership can responsibly evolve. Ratu Ului’s challenge is to serve not only as custodian of culture, but as a model for ethical leadership, generational guidance, and principled stewardship in a rapidly changing world.
