Citizenship and belonging

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Dr Appanna at the gates of the Royal Palace in Japan. Picture: SUPPLIED

The last four articles in this series highlighted how two communities living apart under institutionally constrained circumstances have struggled to find common ground resulting in belated development of shared socio-cultural structures in Fiji.

This article delves into the issue of democracy, constitutions and illusions of permanency.

A fragile democracy

The democracy that was designed and developed to take Fiji through independence in 1970 lasted for 17 years.

That model had a number of articulated and unarticulated premises that were to fall with time.

One, that Fijian leadership was constitutionally guaranteed – no Indo-Fijian would ascend to Prime Minister.

Of course, this could happen, but only if that candidate was endorsed through Fijian protocols by the vanua.

Two, that Fijian land and customary rights would never be challenged.

This became a huge issue in the lead-up to the 1977 elections as the Agricultural Landlord and Tenants Ordinance (ALTO 1966), under which native land was leased predominantly by Indo-Fijian cane farmers, had come up for review barely one year earlier.

Security of tenure was the buzzword.

Ratu Mara and the Alliance Party were well aware that this would arise as a contentious issue.

They watched as the NFP hemorrhaged with Siddiq Koya demanding “permanency” of tenure and Jai Ram Reddy and his faction accepting the compromise of 30 years offered by Ratu Mara.

That became the Agricultural Landlord and Tenants Act (ALTA 1976). Moving focus back to the premises on which Fiji’s democracy rested before 1987: three, was that the Fijian chiefly system would remain intact under the able leadership of Ratu Mara with the endorsement of the three paramount chiefs of Fiji: Tui Cakau, Vunivalu and the Roko Tui Dreketi.

It needs to be noted that these three seats of power were linked by both marriage and blood.

Four was that the two major ethnic groups in Fiji would remain clearly divided and there would never be enough political accord for a multi-ethnic challenge to be mounted on the leadership of the country.

This was proven wrong with the emergence of the multi-ethnic Fiji Labour Party in 1985 under the able leadership of Dr Timoci Bavadra, a humble Fijian doctor from Vuda.

Each of the four premises outlined above was severely tested over time and the events of 1987 disrupted and cruelly ended that experiment.

The trashing of the 1970 constitution via the coup of 1987 suddenly showed that constitutional permanency was a mere figment of the imagination.

A constitution was only as good as the stewards who guarded it.

An unshakeable belief in the permanency of constitutions

After independence in 1970, the citizens of Fiji carried an unshakeable belief in our democracy.

There were no doubts that the 1970 Constitution had iron-clad provisions with very little room to manoeuvre around in order to damage the social order that it helped establish.

I recall an incident at our post-graduation tea party in December 1986 that clearly illustrated this confidence.

The famous Mr Koya was holding court at the USP Dining Hall as his eyes fell on me.

He immediately smiled and hugged me saying, “this young man is from Taveuni; I must congratulate him”.

The 1987 election was just around the corner and ominous concerns had begun to emerge with ethnic-based utterances becoming more volatile, so that became the topic as I prodded him on his thoughts.

After lamenting the fragmentation of the NFP and the growing popularity of Labour, he suddenly said, “do you know they are talking about changing the Constitution? Over my dead body I said; you will change it over my dead body”.

That is how much faith he had in the 1970 Constitution that he and his team had negotiated at two constitutional conferences and beyond.

Less than six months after that outraged assurance from Koya, the 1970 Constitution was trashed as Fiji awoke to a
new means of changing government – coup d’etat.

I had left Fiji for studies in Japan in April 1987.

The coup happened just over a month later on May 14.

I returned to a tense Fiji in July 1987 against the advice of family and friends.

Here I share with you truncated experiences that I consider hugely enlightening.

A visitor in Fiji in 1987

Nadi Airport was tense and manned by stern, disapproving-looking personnel as I joined a very small group of apprehensive passengers and negotiated my way through Customs.

As I approached the Immigration desk, I could sense negativity in the officer manning it.

He asked me what I was doing in Fiji and became incredulous when I responded in perfect Fijian that I was visiting my parents.

He then ended up smiling and saying bula as we shook hands.

Further down, my bag was thoroughly checked and the one bottle of whisky looked at with suspicion until an uncle of mine from Qamea (Jo Rasova) intervened and said, na neitou gone qori.

After that, amid the poison that prevailed in the environment, I was greeted by anyone who could reach me with warm smiles and welcoming handshakes.

The drive from Nadi to Lautoka in an Avis rental car was supposedly fraught with danger especially if you were stopped at a checkpoint – there were both formal and informal ones at the time as Fiji was in the thrall of a coup.

I went through one manned by uniformed personnel near the Mobil service station as you approach Lautoka.

They checked, asked, prodded and let me proceed.

The second one was near the entrance to the FSC compound.

A group of loutish-looking males had set up a special roadblock.

I knew that this spelled trouble as I approached and started answering questions in Fijian.

A tall bearded bloke, who appeared to have authority, stood up and approached the vehicle.

When he saw me, he burst out, wey, au rogoca ni ‘o tu mai Japani.

I ended up having my first Fiji Bitter session with that group after four months in Osaka.

That guy was my USP mate and would shortly become the general manager of Penang Mill.

I then stopped over at my cousin’s place – he was a senior police officer – and drove to Suva the next day.

There were numerous concerns about safety, but I believed in Fiji and Fijian-ness.

Two checkpoints were passed with the one in Walu Bay (in front of Carlton Brewery) becoming awkward as they asked me to get out of the car.

Suffice to say that I arrived home, had a much-relieved family reunion and attended a Christian birthday party in Kinoya a few days later.

Things turned ugly there.

A clearly smokescrambled Fijian youth crashed through the throng of well-wishers and kicked the cake while
spewing racial gibberish that made the word kai idia sound like a curse from Hell itself.

No one dared stop him as he stomped, threatened and harassed people until he left on his own volition uttering threats and profanities.

When I asked why nobody did anything, I was told that he would return with thugs and do worse because the
police were paralyzed.

That was the plight of the Indo-Fijian in 1987.

The rest of my stay was less eventful as we went about living in a fragile and tense environment.

One question that gnawed at all our minds was whether I would be allowed to return to Japan and establish my future.

For this, I returned to my cousin’s place in Lautoka and visited Sukanaivalu Barracks.

Colonel Manulevu was most helpful and furnished us with a pass to Nadi Airport during curfew hours.

That night, I was the lone passenger in the airport as I struggled to find someone to process my entry into the departure lounge.

This was done by a skeptical, but helpful Fijian officer who took me through the whole process by himself and ushered me into the departure lounge.

As I waited, I could not help thinking that there would be no witnesses if I were to disappear from the face of the earth right there.

The plane arrived from Auckland and in quick time, we got boarding calls.

There were four transit passengers and myself.

As I walked past the boarding pass check, a shadow disengaged from the wall and approached me.

“Sir, where are you going?”

“Japan”, I said.

“Can I see your passport?”

I handed him my passport, but he did not even open it and said it would not do.

I knew then that the coup had got me and that was the end of my dreams.

Then, I do not know where the thought came from, but I handed him the military pass issued to me earlier that day.

The sight of the pass magically got me the bula smile as the “military” officer actually carried my bag to the doorway
of the aircraft and said, kalougata, we’ll wait for you”.

I was on my way back to Japan from a coup-ravaged Fiji.

This theme will be elaborated on in my next article on this topic of belonging and citizenship.

  • DR SUBHASH APPANNA has been writing occasionally on issues of historical and national signifi cance. The views expressed in this article are his alone and not those of The Fiji Times or his employers.
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