  |  Kotobalavu  Moala |
Who Is “Fijian”? Shared Citizenship, Enduring Identity, and the Constitutional Line
I have known Jioji Kotobalavu from my early years observing and engaging with Fiji’s political life through family connections in the Alliance Party, when the contours of public service, statecraft, and constitutional debate were already taking shape around figures such as him. His voice today, measured and grounded in institutional experience, is entirely consistent with the clarity he brought to public affairs even then.
The last time I met him was in Oxford in the 1990s, when he travelled up and took me out for lunch. He had returned to visit his old alma mater, the Oxford Foreign Service Programme, where he had spent time as a young diplomat in the 1970s. That programme, significantly, was housed within my own Institute of Commonwealth Studies, creating a quiet convergence of our respective journeys - his through diplomacy and state service, mine through scholarship and writing. Others of his generation, including the recently deceased Ratu Epeli Nailatikau, had passed through the same Oxford corridors of training and reflection during that formative period.
The last time I met him was in Oxford in the 1990s, when he travelled up and took me out for lunch. He had returned to visit his old alma mater, the Oxford Foreign Service Programme, where he had spent time as a young diplomat in the 1970s. That programme, significantly, was housed within my own Institute of Commonwealth Studies, creating a quiet convergence of our respective journeys - his through diplomacy and state service, mine through scholarship and writing. Others of his generation, including the recently deceased Ratu Epeli Nailatikau, had passed through the same Oxford corridors of training and reflection during that formative period.
My acquaintance with Jale Moala and Jo Nata comes from the newsroom of the old Fiji Sun in the 1980s (closed down after Rabuka's 1987 coups), a place of long shifts, tight deadlines, and an unspoken ease across lines of difference. I still recall the simple meals that punctuated those weekends - cassava or dalo, tins of pilchard fish and onions - shared from the same plate when both of us happened to be on duty. On occasion Nata, also an old schoolmate, would join us, and those small gatherings became, in their own quiet way, a reflection of Fiji itself.
There was also the late Robert Wendt, a co-sub-editor with me, and of irrepressible wit, who would insert himself into our exchanges. When the banter turned, as it often did, to Sakeasi Butadroka and his notorious calls for the repatriation of Indo-Fijians, Wendt would quip: ‘What about me? Where will Saki deport me? Part this, part that Kai Loma but from Fiji.’ It was humour, certainly, but humour edged with truth. It exposed the absurdity of reducing identity to a single origin in a society so evidently intertwined.
The only real banter I recall with Moala and Nata in those days, and one I would just as readily have directed at Kotobalavu in later years, was my habit of reminding them: ‘Kais, remember what your great chief Ratu Mara told Fiji when Butadroka moved his motion - today it is Indo-Fijians; tomorrow it will be Lauans he will want to send back to the Kingdom of Ma'afu's Tonga.’
That would be met with haughty laughter. I would add, from my own encounters over grog with “Saki”, that his calls to deport “Indians to India” were often as much political theatre as conviction.
And yet, with the passage of time, that theatre hardened into something far more consequential. The coups of Sitiveni Rabuka in 1987 and the 2000 Fiji coup led by George Speight in 2000 did not merely disrupt governments; they altered the language of belonging itself. They gave political force to ideas that had once been aired, even by their own proponents, as rhetorical provocation.
In their wake, questions of identity - who is “Fijian”, who belongs, who does not - were recast in sharper, more exclusionary terms.
It is from that altered landscape that the present debate, now being advanced by elements within the Great Council of Chiefs, has emerged. What was once banter in a newsroom, or political theatre in a parliamentary motion, has reappeared as constitutional demand.
Nata’s own later imprisonment following the 2000 coup stands as a stark personal marker of that transformation, from shared meals and shared humour to a moment when the fragile balance of Fiji’s society gave way to rupture.
Yet those earlier moments endure in memory. They remind us that another Fiji existed, and still exists beneath the surface, one in which identity was lived with ease rather than asserted with exclusion.
It is against that lived past, and the lessons of what followed, that the present interventions by Kotobalavu and Moala must be understood.
There was also the late Robert Wendt, a co-sub-editor with me, and of irrepressible wit, who would insert himself into our exchanges. When the banter turned, as it often did, to Sakeasi Butadroka and his notorious calls for the repatriation of Indo-Fijians, Wendt would quip: ‘What about me? Where will Saki deport me? Part this, part that Kai Loma but from Fiji.’ It was humour, certainly, but humour edged with truth. It exposed the absurdity of reducing identity to a single origin in a society so evidently intertwined.
The only real banter I recall with Moala and Nata in those days, and one I would just as readily have directed at Kotobalavu in later years, was my habit of reminding them: ‘Kais, remember what your great chief Ratu Mara told Fiji when Butadroka moved his motion - today it is Indo-Fijians; tomorrow it will be Lauans he will want to send back to the Kingdom of Ma'afu's Tonga.’
That would be met with haughty laughter. I would add, from my own encounters over grog with “Saki”, that his calls to deport “Indians to India” were often as much political theatre as conviction.
And yet, with the passage of time, that theatre hardened into something far more consequential. The coups of Sitiveni Rabuka in 1987 and the 2000 Fiji coup led by George Speight in 2000 did not merely disrupt governments; they altered the language of belonging itself. They gave political force to ideas that had once been aired, even by their own proponents, as rhetorical provocation.
In their wake, questions of identity - who is “Fijian”, who belongs, who does not - were recast in sharper, more exclusionary terms.
It is from that altered landscape that the present debate, now being advanced by elements within the Great Council of Chiefs, has emerged. What was once banter in a newsroom, or political theatre in a parliamentary motion, has reappeared as constitutional demand.
Nata’s own later imprisonment following the 2000 coup stands as a stark personal marker of that transformation, from shared meals and shared humour to a moment when the fragile balance of Fiji’s society gave way to rupture.
Yet those earlier moments endure in memory. They remind us that another Fiji existed, and still exists beneath the surface, one in which identity was lived with ease rather than asserted with exclusion.
It is against that lived past, and the lessons of what followed, that the present interventions by Kotobalavu and Moala must be understood.
Former senior civil servant and academic Jioji Kotobalavu has pushed back against proposals to reserve the term 'Fijian” exclusively for the iTaukei. He warned that redefining the word risks dividing the nation. Mr Kotobalavu said Fiji must clearly separate ethnic identity from national identity, arguing that 'Fijian' should remain a shared term that unites all citizens.
While “iTaukei” accurately reflects indigenous history, land ownership and cultural rights, he said 'Fijian' represents citizenship and equality.
Mr Kotobalavu noted that indigenous people already hold unique recognition as the first settlers of Fiji and as customary owners of about 92 per cent of the country’s land — rights that are protected under law and the Constitution.
However, he stressed that citizenship is different from ethnicity.
“What binds us together is our equal status as citizens,” he said, adding that the term 'Fijian' reflects that unity in government, in international forums and when national teams represent the country overseas.
He also reminded leaders of past calls for unity, including appeals by figures such as Jai Ram Reddy and Mahendra Chaudhry, who urged traditional leadership to look after all communities in Fiji.
The debate comes at a sensitive time as Fiji reviews its Constitution and grapples with broader questions of identity, inclusion and equality.
Under the 2013 Constitution, all citizens — regardless of ethnicity — are recognised as 'Fijians', a national identity based on equal citizenship. At the same time, the Constitution clearly recognises the iTaukei and Rotumans as Fiji’s indigenous communities. Source: Fiji Sun
While “iTaukei” accurately reflects indigenous history, land ownership and cultural rights, he said 'Fijian' represents citizenship and equality.
Mr Kotobalavu noted that indigenous people already hold unique recognition as the first settlers of Fiji and as customary owners of about 92 per cent of the country’s land — rights that are protected under law and the Constitution.
However, he stressed that citizenship is different from ethnicity.
“What binds us together is our equal status as citizens,” he said, adding that the term 'Fijian' reflects that unity in government, in international forums and when national teams represent the country overseas.
He also reminded leaders of past calls for unity, including appeals by figures such as Jai Ram Reddy and Mahendra Chaudhry, who urged traditional leadership to look after all communities in Fiji.
The debate comes at a sensitive time as Fiji reviews its Constitution and grapples with broader questions of identity, inclusion and equality.
Under the 2013 Constitution, all citizens — regardless of ethnicity — are recognised as 'Fijians', a national identity based on equal citizenship. At the same time, the Constitution clearly recognises the iTaukei and Rotumans as Fiji’s indigenous communities. Source: Fiji Sun
Fijileaks Explainer: ‘Who Is “Fijian”? Shared Citizenship, Enduring Identity, and the Constitutional Line’
Two recent interventions - one personal, the other constitutional - have converged to articulate a coherent response to the Great Council of Chiefs’ (GCC) proposal that the term ‘Fijian’ be reserved exclusively for iTaukei.
On the one hand, Jale Moala reflects on lived experience, identity, and clarity across generations. On the other, Jioji Kotobalavu advances a structured constitutional argument grounded in equality and state design.
Taken together, their positions form a unified defence of Fiji’s current civic identity framework, one that distinguishes nationality from ethnicity, and insists that both can coexist without contradiction.
Identity Clarified: Moala’s Lived Experience
Moala’s account begins not in theory, but in experience. Living in New Zealand, he encountered persistent confusion over what it meant to be “Fijian”. The term was often interpreted externally as referring to Indo-Fijians, reflecting migration patterns rather than constitutional meaning.
The post-2006 constitutional shift, associated with Frank Bainimarama and Aiyaz Sayed-Khaiyum, resolved that ambiguity by establishing:
For Moala, this was not a loss, but a gain:
His most compelling point lies in its intergenerational reach. For children of mixed heritage, particularly in the diaspora, the answer to “Am I Fijian?” becomes simple: Yes, by nationality, with a distinct ethnic identity alongside it.
Constitutional Structure: Kotobalavu’s Argument
Kotobalavu approaches the same question from a different angle: the architecture of the state.
His central proposition is that citizenship must remain the defining basis of national identity.
He draws a clear distinction:
Importantly, he emphasises that iTaukei rights are not in question:
Thus, the proposal to reserve ‘Fijian’ exclusively for iTaukei is, in his view, unnecessary, and potentially harmful.
It would reintroduce hierarchical identity, divide citizens along ethnic lines, and undermine the principle of equal belonging.
Convergence: A Shared Framework
Although arising from different perspectives, Moala and Kotobalavu converge on a single framework that dual Identity is sustainable. There is no contradiction in being Fijian (nationally), and iTaukei, Indo-Fijian, or otherwise (ethnically).
Clarity Matters
The current terminology is understood globally, functions across generations, and avoids ambiguity.
Inclusion Is Foundational
A shared national identity binds diverse communities, reinforces equality, and stabilises the state.
The GCC’s Proposal in Context
The GCC’s demand seeks to reverse this settlement. It proposes reserving ‘Fijian’ exclusively for iTaukei, redefining national identity along ethnic lines, and, implicitly, reintroducing differentiated citizenship. Set against the Moala-Kotobalavu framework, this appears not as restoration, but as rupture. It would complicate identity narratives, undermine civic unity, and re-open questions that had, until recently, been resolved.
The Deeper Issue: Ownership versus Belonging
At its core, the debate is not about terminology alone. It is about competing conceptions of the nation:
Moala and Kotobalavu do not deny the importance of indigenous identity. Rather, they argue that it does not require exclusive control over the national label to remain meaningful.
Risks of Reversal
Reverting to an exclusive definition of ‘Fijian’ carries identifiable risks:
It would also create a structural inconsistency: a modern, multi-ethnic state paired with a singular, ethnically defined national identity.
A Constitutional Settlement Worth Preserving
The present framework, however contested at its inception, has achieved a measure of stability. It has aligned identity with citizenship, preserved cultural specificity through distinct terminology, and provided a coherent answer to the question: who is Fijian? Moala’s lived experience and Kotobalavu’s constitutional reasoning converge on the same conclusion that the settlement works.
Identity Distinguished, Not Divided
The interventions of Jale Moala and Jioji Kotobalavu offer a clear and unified response to the GCC’s proposal. They demonstrate that national identity need not erase cultural identity, inclusion need not diminish tradition, and clarity need not come at the expense of heritage.
Their shared message is both simple and profound: “Fijian” is a civic identity that belongs to all citizens. “iTaukei” is an indigenous identity that remains distinct and secure.
To collapse the two is not to strengthen identity. It is to confuse it. And in a nation as diverse as Fiji, clarity is not merely linguistic. It is constitutional.
Two recent interventions - one personal, the other constitutional - have converged to articulate a coherent response to the Great Council of Chiefs’ (GCC) proposal that the term ‘Fijian’ be reserved exclusively for iTaukei.
On the one hand, Jale Moala reflects on lived experience, identity, and clarity across generations. On the other, Jioji Kotobalavu advances a structured constitutional argument grounded in equality and state design.
Taken together, their positions form a unified defence of Fiji’s current civic identity framework, one that distinguishes nationality from ethnicity, and insists that both can coexist without contradiction.
Identity Clarified: Moala’s Lived Experience
Moala’s account begins not in theory, but in experience. Living in New Zealand, he encountered persistent confusion over what it meant to be “Fijian”. The term was often interpreted externally as referring to Indo-Fijians, reflecting migration patterns rather than constitutional meaning.
The post-2006 constitutional shift, associated with Frank Bainimarama and Aiyaz Sayed-Khaiyum, resolved that ambiguity by establishing:
- ‘Fijian’ as a national identity shared by all citizens;
- ‘iTaukei’ as the designation for indigenous ethnicity.
For Moala, this was not a loss, but a gain:
- clarity replaced confusion;
- identity became intelligible globally;
- and individuals could hold both a civic and cultural identity simultaneously.
His most compelling point lies in its intergenerational reach. For children of mixed heritage, particularly in the diaspora, the answer to “Am I Fijian?” becomes simple: Yes, by nationality, with a distinct ethnic identity alongside it.
Constitutional Structure: Kotobalavu’s Argument
Kotobalavu approaches the same question from a different angle: the architecture of the state.
His central proposition is that citizenship must remain the defining basis of national identity.
He draws a clear distinction:
- nationality (‘Fijian’) is civic and inclusive;
- ethnicity (‘iTaukei’) is specific and protected.
Importantly, he emphasises that iTaukei rights are not in question:
- land ownership remains overwhelmingly indigenous;
- cultural recognition is constitutionally entrenched;
- traditional structures retain acknowledged status.
Thus, the proposal to reserve ‘Fijian’ exclusively for iTaukei is, in his view, unnecessary, and potentially harmful.
It would reintroduce hierarchical identity, divide citizens along ethnic lines, and undermine the principle of equal belonging.
Convergence: A Shared Framework
Although arising from different perspectives, Moala and Kotobalavu converge on a single framework that dual Identity is sustainable. There is no contradiction in being Fijian (nationally), and iTaukei, Indo-Fijian, or otherwise (ethnically).
Clarity Matters
The current terminology is understood globally, functions across generations, and avoids ambiguity.
Inclusion Is Foundational
A shared national identity binds diverse communities, reinforces equality, and stabilises the state.
The GCC’s Proposal in Context
The GCC’s demand seeks to reverse this settlement. It proposes reserving ‘Fijian’ exclusively for iTaukei, redefining national identity along ethnic lines, and, implicitly, reintroducing differentiated citizenship. Set against the Moala-Kotobalavu framework, this appears not as restoration, but as rupture. It would complicate identity narratives, undermine civic unity, and re-open questions that had, until recently, been resolved.
The Deeper Issue: Ownership versus Belonging
At its core, the debate is not about terminology alone. It is about competing conceptions of the nation:
- Ownership: identity anchored in indigeneity and historical primacy;
- Belonging: identity grounded in shared citizenship and equal status.
Moala and Kotobalavu do not deny the importance of indigenous identity. Rather, they argue that it does not require exclusive control over the national label to remain meaningful.
Risks of Reversal
Reverting to an exclusive definition of ‘Fijian’ carries identifiable risks:
- reintroducing ethnic stratification into constitutional language;
- complicating international identity and representation;
- and unsettling a generation that has grown up under a unified civic identity.
It would also create a structural inconsistency: a modern, multi-ethnic state paired with a singular, ethnically defined national identity.
A Constitutional Settlement Worth Preserving
The present framework, however contested at its inception, has achieved a measure of stability. It has aligned identity with citizenship, preserved cultural specificity through distinct terminology, and provided a coherent answer to the question: who is Fijian? Moala’s lived experience and Kotobalavu’s constitutional reasoning converge on the same conclusion that the settlement works.
Identity Distinguished, Not Divided
The interventions of Jale Moala and Jioji Kotobalavu offer a clear and unified response to the GCC’s proposal. They demonstrate that national identity need not erase cultural identity, inclusion need not diminish tradition, and clarity need not come at the expense of heritage.
Their shared message is both simple and profound: “Fijian” is a civic identity that belongs to all citizens. “iTaukei” is an indigenous identity that remains distinct and secure.
To collapse the two is not to strengthen identity. It is to confuse it. And in a nation as diverse as Fiji, clarity is not merely linguistic. It is constitutional.
An Old Boy iTaukei Mate, a Map, and the Myth of Origins: Revisiting Lutunasobasoba's Voyage from Tanzania to Fiji
*When my Old Boy iTaukei mate asked me, almost casually, what my next piece would be, I told him I might finally turn to the oft-repeated-yet rarely interrogated-journey of Lutunasobasoba. Not long after, he sent me the image reproduced here: a vivid, almost cinematic rendering of a departure from Tanganyika and an arrival at Vuda, complete with stormy seas, ancestral figures, and the suggestion of a singular founding moment. It is, on its face, a compelling narrative. Yet it also invites a more careful inquiry - not only into origins, but into how such stories are constructed, circulated, and, over time, elevated from tradition into something resembling historical certainty.
“This is not a matter of convenience — it is a matter of heritage, dignity and survival. Naikorokoro Point was where [my] ancestors first arrived more than 200(?) years ago. To pollute this sacred site with foreign waste is an insult to the vanua of Vuda and a dishonour to our ancestral legacy."
Tui Vuda, Ratu Eparama Tavaiqia
Tui Vuda, Ratu Eparama Tavaiqia
In Chief Lutunasobasoba’s Ancestral Land, Indians Are Simply Tanzanians. Why Do We Insist Otherwise in Fiji?
President Nyerere From ‘Asians’ to Raia: Why Indians in Tanzania Are Simply Tanzanians
In the constitutional imagination of Tanzania, identity is not a matter of racial taxonomy but of civic belonging. This is not an accidental omission, nor a failure of classification. It is, rather, a deliberate repudiation of the colonial habit of naming, dividing, and governing populations through rigid racial categories.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the status of people of Indian origin, long present in East Africa, commercially influential, and historically visible, yet constitutionally unmarked as a distinct group. In law, they are not “Indians”. They are simply Tanzanians.
To appreciate the significance of this formulation, one must begin with the text and structure of the Constitution of the United Republic of Tanzania. The Constitution recognises, in its operative language, only the categories of citizen (raia) and non-citizen.
It does not enumerate races. It does not preserve the colonial triad of “European”, “Asian”, and “Native”. It does not distinguish between indigenous and migrant in any formal, juridical sense. Instead, it collapses these distinctions into a single, unifying status: that of the Tanzanian citizen.
This stands in marked contrast to the administrative logic of British colonial rule in East Africa, where Indians, often brought as traders, clerks, and labourers, were classified as “Asians”, occupying an intermediate tier between Europeans and Africans. That taxonomy was not merely descriptive; it structured access to land, commerce, residence, and political representation. It was, in effect, a system of stratified belonging. The constitutional order that emerged at independence set itself consciously against this inheritance.
The intellectual and political force behind this transformation was Julius Nyerere. Nyerere’s vision of nationhood, articulated through ujamaa and a broader ethic of African socialism, rejected the premise that a modern state could be built upon inherited racial compartments. For him, the nation was not a mosaic of fixed ethnic blocs but a community of equal citizens. To preserve colonial racial labels in constitutional form would have been to concede that those divisions retained normative force. Their omission, therefore, was an act of constitutional principle.
It follows that, within Tanzanian law, a person of Indian descent who holds citizenship is designated simply as a raia wa Tanzania. The law does not inquire into origin. It does not attach legal consequence to ancestry. It does not create sub-categories of citizenship based on descent, migration history, or communal identity. In this sense, Tanzanian constitutionalism embodies a civic model of nationhood: one in which belonging is defined by legal status and participation in the political community, rather than by ethno-racial lineage.
This is not to say that social distinctions have vanished. In everyday speech, and in certain administrative or descriptive contexts, terms such as “Asian” or “Tanzanian of Asian origin” persist. These expressions carry the residue of history, echoes of colonial classification and post-colonial demography. Yet they have no constitutional standing. They do not determine rights. They do not delimit citizenship. They exist, as it were, alongside the law, not within it.
The implications of this approach are both practical and philosophical. Practically, it ensures that all citizens stand equal before the law, unmediated by racial categorisation. Philosophically, it affirms that the nation is not an inheritance of blood but a construction of shared political life. In this respect, Tanzania’s constitutional order offers a striking example of how a post-colonial state can seek to dismantle the epistemology of empire, not by reversing its categories, but by refusing them altogether.
There is, moreover, an irony - perhaps a productive one - when this constitutional position is placed alongside narratives that trace distant ancestral journeys, whether real or imagined. If, as some traditions suggest, figures such as Lutunasobasoba are linked, however tenuously, to regions such as Tanganyika, then the modern legal reality of that region presents a quiet counterpoint. In the land from which such ancestral stories are said to originate, identity is not fixed by origin. Indians there are not set apart as a constitutional category. They are, in the eyes of the law, Tanzanians - no more and no less.
This contrast underscores a broader lesson. Constitutional identity need not mirror historical narrative, nor should it be constrained by it. A state may acknowledge the complexity of its past - its migrations, its mixtures, its layered communities, while choosing, in law, to speak in a different register: that of equal citizenship. Tanzania has done precisely this. It has taken a history marked by movement and diversity and distilled from it a principle of unity.
The result is a constitutional vocabulary that is at once spare and profound. There are citizens, and there are non-citizens. Within the category of the former, there is no further division that the law recognises or enforces. To be a Tanzanian is sufficient. Ethnic origin, whether Indian, Arab, African, or otherwise, recedes from the constitutional foreground.
In that sense, the absence of the word “Indian” from the Constitution of Tanzania is not an omission to be corrected but a decision to be understood. It reflects a deliberate choice to privilege civic identity over racial description, to build a nation on the basis of equality rather than classification.
And it explains why, in Tanzania, those of Indian origin, however they may be described in history or society, are, in law and in principle, simply Tanzanians.
In the constitutional imagination of Tanzania, identity is not a matter of racial taxonomy but of civic belonging. This is not an accidental omission, nor a failure of classification. It is, rather, a deliberate repudiation of the colonial habit of naming, dividing, and governing populations through rigid racial categories.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the status of people of Indian origin, long present in East Africa, commercially influential, and historically visible, yet constitutionally unmarked as a distinct group. In law, they are not “Indians”. They are simply Tanzanians.
To appreciate the significance of this formulation, one must begin with the text and structure of the Constitution of the United Republic of Tanzania. The Constitution recognises, in its operative language, only the categories of citizen (raia) and non-citizen.
It does not enumerate races. It does not preserve the colonial triad of “European”, “Asian”, and “Native”. It does not distinguish between indigenous and migrant in any formal, juridical sense. Instead, it collapses these distinctions into a single, unifying status: that of the Tanzanian citizen.
This stands in marked contrast to the administrative logic of British colonial rule in East Africa, where Indians, often brought as traders, clerks, and labourers, were classified as “Asians”, occupying an intermediate tier between Europeans and Africans. That taxonomy was not merely descriptive; it structured access to land, commerce, residence, and political representation. It was, in effect, a system of stratified belonging. The constitutional order that emerged at independence set itself consciously against this inheritance.
The intellectual and political force behind this transformation was Julius Nyerere. Nyerere’s vision of nationhood, articulated through ujamaa and a broader ethic of African socialism, rejected the premise that a modern state could be built upon inherited racial compartments. For him, the nation was not a mosaic of fixed ethnic blocs but a community of equal citizens. To preserve colonial racial labels in constitutional form would have been to concede that those divisions retained normative force. Their omission, therefore, was an act of constitutional principle.
It follows that, within Tanzanian law, a person of Indian descent who holds citizenship is designated simply as a raia wa Tanzania. The law does not inquire into origin. It does not attach legal consequence to ancestry. It does not create sub-categories of citizenship based on descent, migration history, or communal identity. In this sense, Tanzanian constitutionalism embodies a civic model of nationhood: one in which belonging is defined by legal status and participation in the political community, rather than by ethno-racial lineage.
This is not to say that social distinctions have vanished. In everyday speech, and in certain administrative or descriptive contexts, terms such as “Asian” or “Tanzanian of Asian origin” persist. These expressions carry the residue of history, echoes of colonial classification and post-colonial demography. Yet they have no constitutional standing. They do not determine rights. They do not delimit citizenship. They exist, as it were, alongside the law, not within it.
The implications of this approach are both practical and philosophical. Practically, it ensures that all citizens stand equal before the law, unmediated by racial categorisation. Philosophically, it affirms that the nation is not an inheritance of blood but a construction of shared political life. In this respect, Tanzania’s constitutional order offers a striking example of how a post-colonial state can seek to dismantle the epistemology of empire, not by reversing its categories, but by refusing them altogether.
There is, moreover, an irony - perhaps a productive one - when this constitutional position is placed alongside narratives that trace distant ancestral journeys, whether real or imagined. If, as some traditions suggest, figures such as Lutunasobasoba are linked, however tenuously, to regions such as Tanganyika, then the modern legal reality of that region presents a quiet counterpoint. In the land from which such ancestral stories are said to originate, identity is not fixed by origin. Indians there are not set apart as a constitutional category. They are, in the eyes of the law, Tanzanians - no more and no less.
This contrast underscores a broader lesson. Constitutional identity need not mirror historical narrative, nor should it be constrained by it. A state may acknowledge the complexity of its past - its migrations, its mixtures, its layered communities, while choosing, in law, to speak in a different register: that of equal citizenship. Tanzania has done precisely this. It has taken a history marked by movement and diversity and distilled from it a principle of unity.
The result is a constitutional vocabulary that is at once spare and profound. There are citizens, and there are non-citizens. Within the category of the former, there is no further division that the law recognises or enforces. To be a Tanzanian is sufficient. Ethnic origin, whether Indian, Arab, African, or otherwise, recedes from the constitutional foreground.
In that sense, the absence of the word “Indian” from the Constitution of Tanzania is not an omission to be corrected but a decision to be understood. It reflects a deliberate choice to privilege civic identity over racial description, to build a nation on the basis of equality rather than classification.
And it explains why, in Tanzania, those of Indian origin, however they may be described in history or society, are, in law and in principle, simply Tanzanians.
From East African Roots to Downing Street: The former British Prime Minister Rishi Sunak and the Primacy of Civic Identity
The life trajectory of Rishi Sunak illustrates, with unusual clarity, how civic identity can prevail over ancestral origin in modern constitutional states. Born in Southampton, England, in 1980, Sunak is British by birth and upbringing. Yet his family history reflects a wider imperial and post-imperial movement of peoples: his grandparents were part of the Indian diaspora in East Africa, and his parents were born in Kenya and Tanzania before later settling in the United Kingdom.
This layered migration - India to East Africa, and then to Britain - was characteristic of the networks created under British imperial rule. Many families of Indian origin established themselves in East Africa as traders, professionals, and intermediaries in colonial economies. In time, political change and new opportunities prompted further movement to Britain, where subsequent generations were born and educated.
Sunak’s own formation followed a recognisably British institutional path. Educated at Winchester College and later at University of Oxford, with further study at Stanford University, he entered public life through finance and politics. His rise culminated in his tenure as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 2022 to 2024, after which he ceased to hold that office.
What is most instructive, however, is not merely the offices he held, but the terms in which he is understood. At no point in constitutional or legal language is Sunak defined as ‘Kenyan-Indian’, ‘Tanzanian-Indian’, or any comparable compound identity. In law, in Parliament, and in public office, he is simply British. His ancestry, while acknowledged in biography and public discourse, carries no constitutional weight.
This reflects a deeper principle of modern governance: that citizenship is civic rather than ethnic. The state does not fragment identity into inherited categories, nor does it assign differential status on the basis of origin. Instead, it recognises individuals as equal members of a political community, bound by law rather than lineage.
Sunak’s career therefore serves as a contemporary illustration of a broader constitutional idea. A person may carry within their history the movements of continents - India to East Africa, East Africa to Britain - yet in the public and legal sphere, that history does not define their status. They are not perpetually labelled by origin. They are recognised, fully and without qualification, as citizens.
In that sense, the journey from East Africa to Britain, and from private citizen to national leadership, reinforces a simple proposition: that in a mature constitutional order, identity is not anchored in ancestry but in belonging.
This layered migration - India to East Africa, and then to Britain - was characteristic of the networks created under British imperial rule. Many families of Indian origin established themselves in East Africa as traders, professionals, and intermediaries in colonial economies. In time, political change and new opportunities prompted further movement to Britain, where subsequent generations were born and educated.
Sunak’s own formation followed a recognisably British institutional path. Educated at Winchester College and later at University of Oxford, with further study at Stanford University, he entered public life through finance and politics. His rise culminated in his tenure as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 2022 to 2024, after which he ceased to hold that office.
What is most instructive, however, is not merely the offices he held, but the terms in which he is understood. At no point in constitutional or legal language is Sunak defined as ‘Kenyan-Indian’, ‘Tanzanian-Indian’, or any comparable compound identity. In law, in Parliament, and in public office, he is simply British. His ancestry, while acknowledged in biography and public discourse, carries no constitutional weight.
This reflects a deeper principle of modern governance: that citizenship is civic rather than ethnic. The state does not fragment identity into inherited categories, nor does it assign differential status on the basis of origin. Instead, it recognises individuals as equal members of a political community, bound by law rather than lineage.
Sunak’s career therefore serves as a contemporary illustration of a broader constitutional idea. A person may carry within their history the movements of continents - India to East Africa, East Africa to Britain - yet in the public and legal sphere, that history does not define their status. They are not perpetually labelled by origin. They are recognised, fully and without qualification, as citizens.
In that sense, the journey from East Africa to Britain, and from private citizen to national leadership, reinforces a simple proposition: that in a mature constitutional order, identity is not anchored in ancestry but in belonging.
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VUDA TO VICTORY: Dr Timoci Bavadra Ends Rule of the Chiefs, 1987
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