 | “I don’t care if somebody is killed to save hundreds of our younger generation, I support the death penalty. That should be part of the law. Put the military on the ground and start the drug war.” |
Suddenly, Fiji has discovered the death penalty.
At public consultations, on talkback radio, and across social media, a new political fashion has emerged. Faced with drugs, crime, prostitution, and social breakdown, some citizens now insist that only one solution remains: bring back hanging. The argument is delivered with great passion and moral certainty. Executions, we are told, will restore order, discipline society, and save the nation.
It is a simple solution. It is also a dishonest one.
Because before Fiji rushes to resurrect the gallows, there is a question that the new hangmen never answer: where were they when Fiji experienced real treason?
Fiji does not need to imagine what treason looks like. It has lived through it. In 1987, Sitiveni Rabuka overthrew an elected government, suspended the Constitution, and ruled by decree. He did it twice. In any serious constitutional system, that conduct constitutes treason in its clearest legal sense: the unlawful seizure of state power.
In 2000, George Speight and his supporters stormed Parliament and held the government hostage at gunpoint. It was an organised, violent insurrection that paralysed the state and plunged the country into chaos. That, too, was textbook treason.
In 2006, Frank Bainimarama followed in Rabuka and Speight's footsteps.
If hanging is the appropriate response to treason, Fiji should have been building gallows in 1987, 2000 and 2006.
It did not.
There were no mass petitions demanding executions. There were no public campaigns calling for Rabuka, Speight or Bainimarama to be put to death. There were no outraged commentators demanding “maximum punishment”. Instead, there was silence, accommodation, negotiation, and eventually rehabilitation.
Rabuka became Prime Minister. More than once. Speight went to prison and later walked free. The country was urged to reconcile, forgive, and move on.
The gallows brigade was nowhere to be seen.
Why? Because demanding accountability from powerful men is risky. It invites backlash. It threatens careers. It unsettles political alliances. It requires courage.
Demanding executions for drug suspects, by contrast, is safe. They are convenient targets. Calling for their deaths costs nothing. This is not moral courage. It is moral convenience.
Those who now shout “hang them” display extraordinary bravery only when there is no danger involved. They are fierce when confronting the powerless and silent when confronting power. That is not principle. It is performance.
The inconsistency is glaring. If hanging is justified for crimes that damage society, why was it not justified for crimes that destroyed constitutional government? If treason deserves death, why were coup-makers forgiven? If law matters, why did it matter only when the targets were politically harmless?
The answer is uncomfortable but obvious. Fiji has never practised consistent justice. It has practised selective memory.
Coups were treated as unfortunate episodes. Drug crimes are treated as existential threats. Constitutional destruction was excused. Social decay is dramatized. The hierarchy is clear: some crimes are forgivable, others are unforgivable, depending on who commits them.
This selective severity teaches a dangerous lesson. It tells citizens that power matters more than legality. It tells future adventurers that if you succeed in breaking the state, time will protect you. It tells ordinary people that punishment is reserved for the weak. That is not the rule of law. It is the rule of status.
The current enthusiasm for executions is therefore not about public safety. It is about frustration looking for an outlet. It is about anger without analysis. It is about punishing visible symptoms while ignoring structural failures in policing, prosecution, governance, and social policy.
Hanging people will not fix corrupt institutions. It will not improve investigations. It will not strengthen courts. It will not restore trust. It will only satisfy rage for a moment.
Fiji does not need gallows. It needs consistency. It needs credible law enforcement. It needs independent courts. It needs accountability that applies equally to generals, politicians, businessmen, and street criminals.
Until the country is willing to confront its own history honestly, including how it treated coup-makers with indulgence, calls for executions will remain what they are now: noisy, hypocritical, and hollow.
We were soft on treason.
Now we are pretending to be tough on everything else.
That is not justice.
It is confusion dressed up as courage.
At public consultations, on talkback radio, and across social media, a new political fashion has emerged. Faced with drugs, crime, prostitution, and social breakdown, some citizens now insist that only one solution remains: bring back hanging. The argument is delivered with great passion and moral certainty. Executions, we are told, will restore order, discipline society, and save the nation.
It is a simple solution. It is also a dishonest one.
Because before Fiji rushes to resurrect the gallows, there is a question that the new hangmen never answer: where were they when Fiji experienced real treason?
Fiji does not need to imagine what treason looks like. It has lived through it. In 1987, Sitiveni Rabuka overthrew an elected government, suspended the Constitution, and ruled by decree. He did it twice. In any serious constitutional system, that conduct constitutes treason in its clearest legal sense: the unlawful seizure of state power.
In 2000, George Speight and his supporters stormed Parliament and held the government hostage at gunpoint. It was an organised, violent insurrection that paralysed the state and plunged the country into chaos. That, too, was textbook treason.
In 2006, Frank Bainimarama followed in Rabuka and Speight's footsteps.
If hanging is the appropriate response to treason, Fiji should have been building gallows in 1987, 2000 and 2006.
It did not.
There were no mass petitions demanding executions. There were no public campaigns calling for Rabuka, Speight or Bainimarama to be put to death. There were no outraged commentators demanding “maximum punishment”. Instead, there was silence, accommodation, negotiation, and eventually rehabilitation.
Rabuka became Prime Minister. More than once. Speight went to prison and later walked free. The country was urged to reconcile, forgive, and move on.
The gallows brigade was nowhere to be seen.
Why? Because demanding accountability from powerful men is risky. It invites backlash. It threatens careers. It unsettles political alliances. It requires courage.
Demanding executions for drug suspects, by contrast, is safe. They are convenient targets. Calling for their deaths costs nothing. This is not moral courage. It is moral convenience.
Those who now shout “hang them” display extraordinary bravery only when there is no danger involved. They are fierce when confronting the powerless and silent when confronting power. That is not principle. It is performance.
The inconsistency is glaring. If hanging is justified for crimes that damage society, why was it not justified for crimes that destroyed constitutional government? If treason deserves death, why were coup-makers forgiven? If law matters, why did it matter only when the targets were politically harmless?
The answer is uncomfortable but obvious. Fiji has never practised consistent justice. It has practised selective memory.
Coups were treated as unfortunate episodes. Drug crimes are treated as existential threats. Constitutional destruction was excused. Social decay is dramatized. The hierarchy is clear: some crimes are forgivable, others are unforgivable, depending on who commits them.
This selective severity teaches a dangerous lesson. It tells citizens that power matters more than legality. It tells future adventurers that if you succeed in breaking the state, time will protect you. It tells ordinary people that punishment is reserved for the weak. That is not the rule of law. It is the rule of status.
The current enthusiasm for executions is therefore not about public safety. It is about frustration looking for an outlet. It is about anger without analysis. It is about punishing visible symptoms while ignoring structural failures in policing, prosecution, governance, and social policy.
Hanging people will not fix corrupt institutions. It will not improve investigations. It will not strengthen courts. It will not restore trust. It will only satisfy rage for a moment.
Fiji does not need gallows. It needs consistency. It needs credible law enforcement. It needs independent courts. It needs accountability that applies equally to generals, politicians, businessmen, and street criminals.
Until the country is willing to confront its own history honestly, including how it treated coup-makers with indulgence, calls for executions will remain what they are now: noisy, hypocritical, and hollow.
We were soft on treason.
Now we are pretending to be tough on everything else.
That is not justice.
It is confusion dressed up as courage.
 |  "Reviewing the current political landscape, I believe Mr Sitiveni Rabuka is the leader who will best be able to take Fiji forward and bring the changes that Fiji needs at this time. He is humble and compassionate. He is a leader that listens. He has learnt from his past mistakes. He has the experience of being a former head of government. I trust him. The founders of Mr Rabuka’s party give me confidence that if they win a majority of seats in the general elections, Fiji will have a government that is kinder, gentler and more inclusive." Graham Leung |
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