In Tonga, traditions matter. We honor our ancestors, we treasure our faith — and, it seems, we’ve perfected a new sacred custom: loudly crying out against corruption, establishing impressive-sounding institutions, and then doing absolutely nothing to fix the legal system that enables corruption in the first place.
i) The $60 Million That Went Sightseeing:
Take the curious case of the missing $60 million in COVID-19 funds. Firstly, there is the outcry — Parliament grumbled, social media roared, and the Auditor General shook his head solemnly at the disappearance of receipts, documents, and basic financial accountability.
But once the outrage simmers down, will anyone draft reforms to tighten financial controls? Demand stronger audit powers? Rewrite the procurement laws?
Of course not. We had already performed our sacred duty: we expressed our disappointment. A deeply traditional response — loud in voice, quiet in action.
ii) Institutions to Watch Corruption… Politely:
In the spirit of doing something about nothing, Tonga has proudly established the Anti-Corruption Commission and the Ombudsman Office. Their mission? To bravely issue statements, conduct polite investigations, and ultimately recommend that “something should probably be done.”
It’s comforting to know that corruption now has professional spectators, complete with offices, letterheads, and logos. Should we be reforming the system that breeds corruption? You know, do something to actually fix the problem? Nah! That would disturb the ancestors — or worse, the politicians.
iii) The Infrastructure Magic Show:
Consider our infrastructure projects, where numbers dance like spirits. The Poutaha headquarters — projected at a modest $4.8 million — blossomed to a majestic $11 million.
Rather than address why project costs regularly double, we prefer a traditional response: issue a press release, blame “miscommunication,” and pour another kava: “palu taufua pea heka mai ai”
iv) Education Funds – An Educational Experience in Itself:
In 2021, a Minister and her husband were jailed after being proven to have illegally obtained funds for vocational training. Australians, who funded the program, were reportedly unimpressed.
But why reform how foreign aid is handled? Why strengthen oversight? Tradition teaches us that it’s much easier to jail a few unlucky ones, pat ourselves on the back, and move along. But not so fast mate because in 2022, the Court of Appeal overturned their convictions, because the judge had played prosecutor instead of referee.
A retrial was ordered, which, naturally, has been moving at a majestic glacial pace. Key evidence, such as the Auditor General’s report pointing out glaring irregularities, was dismissed for relying on “hearsay” — because in Tonga, even facts must pass a traditional endurance test before they’re allowed into court.
Years later, the retrial remains a charming relic-in-progress, offering future generations a lesson in how to loudly promise justice while patiently waiting for everyone to forget.
v) The Constitution: Preserved in a Glass Case:
Since 2010, Tonga’s Constitution has been treated not as a living document, but as a sacred artifact, locked away lest its venerable dust be disturbed. While nations around the world update their laws to meet new challenges, Tonga’s political elite have decided that the best reform is no reform at all.
Because if we amended the Constitution, we might accidentally empower the public to expect accountability — and that would be untraditional.
vi) A Proud, Perpetual Cycle:
In Tonga, faces change like costumes at a village dance, but the stage stays the same. New leaders parade in with promises, old scandals are repackaged as “learning experiences,” and shiny new commissions are unveiled like birthday presents — yet the rotten foundations are left untouched, year after year.
We’ve mastered the art of pretending to fight corruption without ever laying a finger on the system that feeds it. Until we stop swapping masks and start tearing down the broken stage, Tonga will remain exactly what it has become: a place where corruption changes faces, but never, ever places.
Supa Mario aka Po’uli Havili is a freelance journalist and a Talanoa ‘o Tonga contributor.
