Whom am I going to trust if I have to back again.

The words of Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara, the founding father of Fiji, echo across the ages with the solemnity of a leader tested by storms: “Whom am I going to trust if I have to back again.” This cry is not the weakness of a man in doubt, but the lament of one who has borne the burden of governance and betrayal. It speaks to the ancient and eternal struggle of leaders and common men alike: the search for trust, the anchor of all human bonds. Without trust, kingdoms fall, friendships dissolve, families splinter, and the spirit itself is left wandering without a compass.

The ancients knew well the sacred weight of trust. Did not Julius Caesar fall to the daggers of those he had counted as brothers, his final gasp reserved for Brutus? Did not Achilles rage when Agamemnon, his own commander, dishonored him, shattering the fragile trust that bound warriors to their leader? History resounds with these lessons: where trust is broken, chaos floods in. Mara’s words remind us that even the strongest ruler, even the wisest sage, cannot walk alone. To lead or to love, one must place faith in others, and when that faith fails, the very soul trembles at the thought of where to turn again.

Kamisese Mara spoke as a man rooted in the upheavals of his land. Fiji’s path from colonial rule to independence was marked by both unity and fracture, by promises made and promises broken. His lament reflects the reality of a leader who saw his nation’s course disrupted by coups, divisions, and shifting loyalties. For him, the question “Whom am I going to trust” was not abstract but painfully real—a reflection of betrayal in politics, and the recognition that leadership is often a lonely road. His words rise as both a personal sorrow and a national warning: without trust, a nation cannot endure.

Consider, too, the tale of Abraham Lincoln during the American Civil War. Surrounded by advisors with competing ambitions, spied upon by enemies, criticized even by his allies, he often wondered whom he could rely on. Yet he chose to trust in the ordinary soldiers and the will of the people. This trust gave him strength to lead through the darkest nights of disunion. Lincoln’s endurance teaches us what Mara’s lament makes clear: when trust is lost at the highest levels, one must still seek it in the steadfast hearts of those who remain true.

The emotional power of Mara’s words is heroic in its vulnerability. To admit the wound of broken trust is not weakness but courage. For many choose silence, covering betrayal with pride. Mara instead exposed the raw truth: that trust, once shaken, leaves a leader’s spirit torn. And yet, in this very admission lies hope. By naming the wound, he also calls us to heal it—through loyalty, honesty, and the courage to stand by our word even when the winds of advantage shift.

So what wisdom must we carry from this? That trust is not cheaply given, nor lightly broken. To betray trust is to wound not only the other but the very fabric of community. To keep trust, even in hardship, is to weave bonds stronger than steel. Let each man and woman weigh carefully the promises they make, for a single broken word may undo years of faith.

Practical action follows: be deliberate with your commitments, and once given, guard them fiercely. Seek companions not by their words alone but by the constancy of their deeds. And when trust is broken, do not rush to despair. Instead, look again to those who remain steadfast, however few, for a single loyal friend outweighs a thousand flatterers. In this way, even if we must “back again,” we shall not be empty-handed, for trust, once rightly placed, will guide us like a beacon through the darkest nights.

Thus Mara’s lament becomes a timeless teaching: to lead, to love, to live fully, we must dare to trust. But we must also guard trust as sacred, for upon it rests the destiny of nations and the dignity of souls.