That framing misses the mark entirely. It assumes that unless Pacific islanders jump up and down on the global stage using the exact language, timing, and outrage dictated by metropolitan powers, our diplomacy has somehow failed.

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The Devpolicy piece uses the recent fallout over the Chinese ballistic missile test near Tuvalu’s Exclusive Economic Zone as a case study to argue that consensus is crippling us. Nobody in the North Pacific—or anywhere in Oceania—wants nuclear-capable missiles flying over our ocean. The fear in Tuvalu was real, and their right to speak out was absolute.

Yet, when the Forum foreign ministers met in Suva and did not issue a unified condemnation, Western commentators declared the death of regional unity. They blamed the “Pacific Way” of consensus, calling it a dark shield for bilateral convenience or a tool for paralysis.

Who Defines the “Pacific Way”?

When Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara popularized the phrase the Pacific Way in the 1970s, he wasn’t describing a rubber stamp for Western strategic panic. He was describing an Oceanian philosophy: dialogue over diktat, respect for sovereignty, and patience over rushed declarations.

In Western diplomacy, political strength is measured by noise—press releases, megaphones, and forced votes where a majority crushes a minority. In Oceania, political wisdom is measured by keeping everyone at the same table.

When nations like Nauru or Kiribati express a different view or refuse to sign on to a statement drafted to align with Canberra or Wellington’s geopolitical stance, they aren’t “failing the region.” They are exercising their sovereign right as Pacific nations. The insistence that 18 vastly different island states must speak with one voice on a complex geopolitical event—or else be branded as cowardly—is a standard the West never applies to itself.

Consensus Protects the Smallest States

The Devpolicy article calls for reforms like “distinguishing consensus to act from consensus to block”—essentially pushing for majority rule on security issues. But the moment you abandon strict consensus in the Pacific Islands Forum, you destroy the only mechanism that protects smaller island nations from being bullied.

• Without consensus: Larger, wealthier members and their superpower allies can easily buy, influence, or pressure enough votes to force an official regional stance.

• With consensus: Every single Pacific state, no matter how small, holds a seat of absolute equality.

Refusing to be dragged into a geopolitical shouting match between China and the West isn’t “paralysis.” For many small nations navigating economic survival, climate threats, and regional security, maintaining strategic flexibility is a calculated act of self-preservation.

An Ocean of Peace, Not a Western Echo Chamber

The Pacific was declared an “Ocean of Peace,” but for those of us living in the North Pacific, militarization isn’t new. We have lived alongside military bases, weapon tests, and foreign warships from all sides for generations.

When Western commentary demands that the Forum condemn one nation’s test while remaining silent on the massive, ongoing militarization by Western allies under agreements like AUKUS, it feels less like principled diplomacy and more like selective outrage.

The Pacific Way is not a filtered-down version of Western diplomacy, nor is it an instrument created to serve outside security interests. It is a commitment to family, to listening, and to remaining united even when we disagree.

If the Pacific Islands Forum didn’t issue a joint communiqué in Suva, it wasn’t because the Pacific Way failed. It was because the Pacific Way worked exactly as intended: it preserved the table, protected sovereign dissent, and refused to let our regional home be turned into someone else’s microphone.

Unlock a deeper understanding of Pacific traditions with Making Sense of Micronesia: The Logic of Pacific Island Culture by Francis X. Hezel SJ, an essential guide for anyone looking to navigate and respect the rich social dynamics of the region.

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Here in the Federated States of Micronesia, that statement isn’t just poetic—it is an urgent reality.

Consider the sheer scale of change witnessed within a single family over three generations:

• Both my Paternal and Maternal Grandfathers were born under the German Empire (1899–1914), an era of copra trade, remote imperial oversight, and traditional island life largely undisturbed by foreign infrastructure.

• Both my Father and Mother were born under the Japanese Empire (Nanyo-cho). My father came from Pingelap and my mother was born in Tol, Chuuk. Both grew up living without electricity or running water, navigating a rapid transition from Japanese rule to American military control, and eventually into the civilian Trust Territory government. In a single lifetime, my parents had to learn new languages, adapt to alien systems of bureaucracy, and redefine what it meant to live alongside “the Government.”

• I was born under the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands (TTPI), when our islands were designated a United Nations Strategic Trusteeship administered by the United States.

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For those of us now in our 50s, we occupy a unique space in history. We remember growing up in the TT era—before the Compacts of Free Association, before the vast Micronesian diaspora took root in Hawaii and the US mainland, and before the rise of a distinct generation of Micronesian U.S. military veterans.

What a time it was to grow up in the 1970s and 1980s, especially for those fortunate enough to live in Saipan, the headquarters of the TTPI. Capital Hill felt like a living experiment in regional unity. Micronesians from Palau, the Marshall Islands, Chuuk, Yap, Pohnpei, and Kosrae lived side-by-side in U.S.-manufactured suburban neighborhoods complete with sidewalks, manicured lawns, and wide open spaces. We went to school together, played together, and formed lifelong bonds across island groups long before modern borders and political separation took hold.

That level of rapid transformation—spanning four foreign flags in barely a century—is unmatched in most parts of the world. Yet, so much of this lived history was never written down in textbooks or preserved in official state archives. It exists inside the quiet recollections of our parents and grandparents, shared over evening stories or around household chores.

As our elders pass, those unwritten volumes of Micronesian history go with them. Preserving their stories isn’t just about documenting the past; it is about understanding how we navigated unprecedented change while keeping our identity intact. We owe it to the generations before us—and the ones coming after—to listen, record, and remember.

Discover the Stories That Shaped Our Islands

If you want to understand the rapid transformations our elders lived through—from the arrival of foreign powers to the dawn of modern Micronesia—Fr. Francis X. Hezel’s Strangers in Their Own Land: Colonial Records and Everyday Life in Micronesia is essential reading. It offers a detailed look at how colonial history unfolded across our ocean and shaped the Micronesia we know today.

Grab your copy on Amazon here

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According to the caption:

“The CCP is turning medical care into a weapon across the Indo Pacific... There’s a Chinese medical team… in The Federated States of Micronesia providing medical care to US veterans. And they are getting whatever information they can out of them in the course of their treatment.”

As a U.S. Navy veteran living right here in Micronesia, I have one direct question: What on earth are you talking about?

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Taking a Fact and Distorting It

Let’s call this what it is: taking a basic, visible fact—that there is a Chinese medical team in the FSM—and twisting it to fit a pre-packaged narrative.

Cleo Paskal makes it sound like U.S. veterans across the FSM are lining up en masse to hand over sensitive details to foreign doctors. It is completely untrue.

What is actually happening? People in our communities—some of whom happen to be veterans—are simply seeking basic healthcare wherever they can find it in an underserved region. To weaponize that everyday reality and turn it into a sensationalized clickbait headline for foreign media is disgusting.

Intelligence on What?

Let’s be real for a minute. What “valuable military intelligence” is an honorably discharged veteran in Pohnpei, Chuuk, Yap, or Kosrae giving up to a visiting doctor?

• The location of the best local sakau market?

• Tides and secret GPS coordinates for the best reef fishing spots?

• How long the wait is at the local clinic?

The absurdity would be funny if it weren’t so deeply insulting. Many of our Veterans served as FSM citizens and therefore did not have access to confidential, secret, or even top secret information, because of their citizenship.

Stay in Your Lane: Stop Using Our Veterans

What makes this even worse is that commentators like Cleo Paskal—who hails from Canada—have zero personal stake in the blood, sweat, and service our people have given to the military.

It is easy for a foreign analyst sitting in a cozy think-tank office to spin paranoid stories. But she didn’t swear an oath. She didn’t deploy to foreign battlefields. And she certainly doesn’t have to deal with the harsh reality of living on an island where basic military benefits are almost impossible to access.

People need to stop making baseless accusations about veterans who actually served in real wars. Don’t use our veterans to build your platform or score points in a geopolitical drama.

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The Real Reality: Missing Healthcare at Home

Micronesians enlist in the U.S. Armed Forces at remarkably high per-capita rates. We raise our hands, swear the oath, serve honorably, and deploy around the world. Many of our brothers and sisters return home with service-connected injuries, chronic conditions, and scars—both visible and invisible.

Yet, full VA healthcare services and facilities back home in the FSM remain severely limited. Veterans here have struggled for years just to get routine checkups or disability evaluations without having to fly thousands of miles to Guam or Hawaii.

When local residents seek whatever healthcare is available locally, it isn’t a geopolitical scheme. It is human beings trying to get medical care.

Do Not Question Our Loyalty

To paint Micronesian veterans as naive informants trading state secrets for a checkup is an insult to every islander who ever wore the uniform.

Our loyalty and our sacrifice are not bargaining chips for talking heads looking to make headlines. We served honorably. We sacrificed. To imply that we are now giving up information while getting medical care is not just irresponsible—it is completely outrageous. And again, what information are we giving up?

Outside commentators need to stop treating our islands like a chessboard and our veterans like disposable pawns.

For an essential look at the region’s political transition, check out P.F. Kluge’s acclaimed memoir, The Edge of Paradise: America in Micronesia. First arriving in 1967 as a Peace Corps volunteer, Kluge worked closely with local island leaders during the Trust Territory era—even helping draft the Preamble to the Constitution of Micronesia. Decades later, he returned to trace the personal and political journeys of the men who shaped modern island nationhood.

You can find it on Amazon here

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But let’s be real for a second.

When you buy a movie ticket, grab a bucket of popcorn, and sit down in a dark theater, what are you actually looking for? You want to be entertained. You want catchy songs, stunning animation, a couple of laughs, and a good escape. Most people do. You aren’t walking into a cinema expecting a master’s degree in Pacific history, nor should you.

The idea that a Hollywood blockbuster needs to carry the heavy burden of absolute, unyielding cultural integrity is, frankly, a bunch of baloney. If you are genuinely looking for deep integrity, ancestral wisdom, and the true history of our islands, you don’t look to a multi-billion-dollar American entertainment conglomerate. You go to the source: our elders and traditional practitioners.

But this raises a deeper, more uncomfortable question that the internet activists seem to ignore completely: What even is absolute cultural integrity when it comes to oral histories?

The Myth of the Perfect Archive

We tend to look at cultural legends as if they were written in stone, perfectly preserved in a vacuum until Hollywood arrived to “ruin” them. But that isn’t how oral tradition works.

Our stories and legends have been handed down from generation to generation, voice to voice, over hundreds of years. And let’s be honest: they change. Even within our own cultures, stories are regularly embellished. A hero’s journey becomes a little more miraculous with each retelling; a villain becomes a bit more menacing. Parts are forgotten, details are altered to suit a modern audience, and sometimes elements are completely made up on the spot by a talented storyteller to keep the children listening around the fire.

If our own lineages alter these stories over time, can we truly claim there is a single, static “true cultural integrity” to protect? History and culture are living, breathing things. They evolve. If we accept that a village elder can embellish a tale to emphasize a point, how is it fundamentally any different when a filmmaker embellishes it for an onscreen, wider audience? Both are using the tools of their medium to capture attention.

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The Message vs. The Messenger

When we get bogged down in the minutiae of who is telling the story and whether every costume or accent is perfectly accurate, we lose sight of what actually matters. Shouldn’t the message, and not the messenger, be the main thrust behind these stories?

Most legends handed down by our ancestors weren’t just told for the sake of historical record-keeping. They had practical, vital lessons behind them. They taught us about survival, respect for the ocean, the importance of community, humility, and courage. They were psychological and social roadmaps disguised as myths.

When a movie like Moana hits the global stage, the core themes—navigating into the unknown, discovering who you are, honoring your ancestors, and healing the land—still shine through. The vehicle might be shiny, commercialized, and designed to sell merchandise, but the underlying heartbeat of the story remains intact. A kid sitting in a theater halfway across the world doesn’t need a flawless anthropological breakdown; they need to feel the spirit of the message.

Understand the Purpose

Expecting a Disney flick to be a perfect cultural mirror sets you up for disappointment. It’s a movie, not a museum.

Let movies be movies. Enjoy the spectacle for the fun, colorful escape that it is. If you want real, uncommercialized culture, shut off the screen, step outside, and talk to the people who live it. But don’t begrudge the world a good story just because the storyteller swapped a few details to make the stage a little brighter.

If you want to read the actual, raw legends we’ve been discussing instead of the polished Hollywood versions, you need to read Micronesian Legends by Flood and Strong.

• Read the Real Legends: Skip the movie theater and read the actual traditional stories collected straight from our islands.

• See the Evolution: Compare the original narratives to modern media to see exactly how much these stories have been changed or embellished over time.

• Discover the True Lessons: Uncover the practical survival advice and ancestral wisdom our elders actually intended to pass down.

• Get the book:

Micronesian Legends

Buying through this link directly supports the blog, so we can keep cutting through the noise. Let’s keep it moving!

Before offering a differing viewpoint, I want to pay my highest, most sincere respects to Cal, to our elders, and to every Micronesian family overseas who carries the weight of our islands in their hearts. The grit, dedication, and success of our diaspora are a source of immense pride for all of us. The financial lifelines sent back to our families are a testament to our enduring culture of sharing and responsibility.

But as we look toward the future of the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM), we must be willing to look at the whole picture. From where I stand on the ground here in Pohnpei, the narrative that the diaspora is “building two economies at once” is a comforting illusion.

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The hard truth is this: you cannot build a nation from thousands of miles away.

As a U.S. Navy veteran who chose to return home to put my discipline, training, and global experience to work within our local development, I understand the pull of both worlds. But my time back on the ground has shown me that true nation-building requires presence.

The Illusion of “Building Two Economies”

Let’s look practically at the examples of overseas contributions. Paying thousands in property taxes in Washington State, funding local HOAs, acquiring land in Hawaii, and contributing to volunteer fire truck funds in American towns are honorable civic duties. But we must be honest about where that wealth remains.

That capital is building the American economy, not ours.

Every hour of labor, every dollar of sales tax, and every property investment made by our people overseas directly build the infrastructure, the GDP, and the institutional strength of the United States. Meanwhile, our islands receive the remnants:

• The Remittance Trap: Sending a few hundred dollars home via Western Union keeps individual households afloat today, but it does not build an economy for tomorrow. It funds the consumption of imported goods rather than sustainable domestic production. What is that adage? “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime”

• The Human Capital Drain: When a skilled Micronesian mechanic, teacher, nurse, or administrator works in Texas or Washington, the U.S. gains their productivity. On the ground here, we face severe labor shortages. We are losing the exact people needed to fix our utilities, manage our schools, and run our hospitals.

• The Missing Tax Base: The capital spent building up neighborhoods across the ocean could be opening local businesses, building permanent family homes, and creating sustainable jobs right here in Chuuk, Yap, Kosrae, and Pohnpei.

On-the-Ground Reform Requires Presence

Cal’s blog raises valid, necessary frustrations regarding local governance and the critical need for public revenue innovation. He is entirely right that we must shift our mindset away from just spending public funds.

But structural reform cannot be achieved through remote commentary or periodic visits.

Fixing public systems, streamlining government operations, and implementing sustainable policies require professional management on the daily front lines. We cannot reform our local institutions if we continue to export the very people who possess the education, military discipline, and professional skills required to fix them. Advice from afar does not lay bricks; sweat equity on the ground does.

The Ultimate Ambition: Bringing the Skills Home

We honor our veterans, our service members, and the undeniable resilience of Micronesians across the globe. As a veteran myself, I salute every brother, sister, nephew, and niece standing on those frontlines. Their achievements prove the capability of our people.

But the ultimate destination for that leadership and discipline should not be a lifetime spent serving a foreign land. The invaluable skills, perspective, and capital we acquire abroad are tools that we must eventually bring back to our own shores.

True sustainability will never be achieved across an ocean. It will be achieved when our diaspora decides that the ultimate ambition is not just adapting to someone else’s country, but coming home to help build our own.

What do you think? How can we create better pathways to welcome our professionals and veterans back home to the islands? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

Support the Blog & Deepen Your Perspective

If you want to understand the true foundation of what we are discussing on this channel, I highly recommend reading Making Micronesia: A Political Biography of Tosiwo Nakayama by David Hanlon.

As the pioneering first president of the Federated States of Micronesia, Nakayama guided our islands through the complex eras of colonial administration, decolonization, and the birth of our constitution. His life story is essentially the history of our modern nation. For anyone passionate about our future, understanding Nakayama’s vision of unity, indigenous leadership, and true independence is essential reading.

Grab your copy through the link below. Every purchase helps support this channel so we can keep bringing you on-the-ground perspectives from the islands.

Making Micronesia Link

The weather wasn’t the story.

Our dependence on a single transportation network was.

For years, Micronesia has relied heavily on Guam as the region’s primary aviation hub and on a single airline to connect our islands. It has been a practical arrangement, but Typhoon Bavi demonstrated just how fragile that system can be. When Guam shuts down, so does much of Micronesia.

That should concern every leader attending the Forum when it finally convenes.

Regional connectivity is not simply about getting government officials to conferences. It affects trade, tourism, education, healthcare, emergency response, investment, and the ability of families to stay connected across thousands of miles of ocean. Air transportation is no longer a convenience—it is critical infrastructure.

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Many remember the days of Air Nauru, now operating as Nauru Airlines. Although it continues to provide valuable service across parts of the Pacific, it no longer possesses the network or fleet necessary to serve as the backbone of regional transportation. The aviation landscape has changed, but the need for stronger regional connectivity has not.

Rather than asking why one airline cannot do more, perhaps we should ask why the region has placed so much responsibility on so few.

The Freely Associated States—the Federated States of Micronesia, the Republic of the Marshall Islands, and the Republic of Palau—share common interests, longstanding partnerships, and strategic relationships through the Compact of Free Association. Combined with neighboring Pacific nations, there may be opportunities to pursue a regional aviation strategy that spreads risk rather than concentrating it.

This does not necessarily mean creating another national airline. It could involve code-sharing agreements, coordinated scheduling, route guarantees for essential services, joint investment, or partnerships with existing carriers willing to expand regional operations. It may even involve developing secondary hubs so that the entire region is not dependent on a single airport.

These ideas require investment and political will. They also require regional cooperation, something the Micronesian Islands Forum was created to encourage.

Ironically, the postponement of the Forum may have handed its leaders one of the most important agenda items they could discuss.

Climate change receives considerable attention across the Pacific, and rightly so. But resilience is not only about seawalls and disaster preparedness. It is also about ensuring that our transportation networks can continue functioning when storms interrupt normal operations.

Typhoon Bavi reminded us that our vulnerability extends beyond rising seas. It also exists in the skies above us.

If one storm can delay regional diplomacy, disrupt commerce, postpone medical travel, and isolate entire island communities, then our transportation system deserves far greater attention than it has received.

Micronesia has always overcome challenges through cooperation. This is another opportunity to think regionally rather than individually.

The Forum’s postponement should not simply become another scheduling inconvenience. It should become the catalyst for a serious conversation about the future of aviation in Micronesia.

Because the next typhoon is not a matter of if.

It is only a matter of when.

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The Majuro Model: High-Tech Meets Hard Cash

Here’s the deal: Every resident Marshallese citizen is now eligible for roughly $212 per quarter, totaling about $850 annually, delivered straight into their pockets regardless of employment or status. Speaking to ABC Australia, RMI Finance Minister David Paul emphasized that this baseline economy is vital to offset skyrocketing living costs driven by global conflicts—like the war involving Iran—while working to curb outmigration.

Best of all? It costs local taxpayers zero, as a COFA trust fund fully underwrites the program.

But moving money across an ocean territory the size of Mexico is a structural nightmare. Traditional banking infrastructure is slow, and waiting weeks for a physical check to arrive in the mail just doesn’t cut it when families need to buy groceries today. To bridge the gap, the RMI is pairing traditional banking and mail services with a cutting-edge digital currency framework.

Through a government-backed digital wallet named Lomalo (meaning “shared waters”) and a U.S. dollar-pegged sovereign bond (USDM1), the RMI is bypassing correspondent banking delays to push funds instantly via satellite networks straight to remote outer-island communities. Despite early skepticism, the digital rollout has seen immense popularity, with interest in the latest phases shattering the government's original expectations.

Why This Matters for the FSM

We are currently in a state of emergency, even if we don’t always call it that. Our last census was a gut punch: our population has plummeted to just 75,000 people. We used to be over 100,000 strong.

We are losing our heartbeat. Our brothers, sisters, and children are migrating to the U.S. not necessarily because they want to leave our shores, but because they have to to survive.

Is it time for our move?

The Marshall Islands are treating their citizens like an investment. They aren’t waiting for the population to hit zero before they act. By securing this financial baseline and leveraging innovative technology to reach every citizen, they are telling their people: “We want you here.”

With only 75,000 of us left, can the FSM afford to wait any longer? Or is it time we look at our own Compact funds and ask why we aren’t investing directly in the people who keep our culture alive?

Seeing the pride in the eyes of parents, families, and communities fills me with a deep sense of gratitude. We are blessed to have an active, thriving education system dedicated to shaping our future. To the teachers who pour their hearts into our classrooms, and to the students who put in the hard work: I salute you. You give us all hope for a brighter tomorrow.

But as the echoes of the graduation marches fade and the decorations come down, a sobering reality sets in.

What happens next?

Putting years of dedication, late nights, and sacrifices into schooling, only to revert to the status quo, is disheartening. Our graduates cannot just blend back into the old ways of doing things. To build a stronger Micronesia, the generation entering the world right now must be willing to take risks, challenge outdated habits, and drive real change.

We have to adapt to the reality of the modern world—a world governed by two inescapable truths: time is valuable, and cash is king.

If we want genuine economic development and self-reliance, we have to drop the nonchalant attitude toward deadlines. Operating without a sense of urgency only holds our islands back. The global economy doesn’t wait for anyone, and we cannot achieve our structural and financial goals if we treat critical tasks as optional or flexible. Time management isn’t just a workplace skill; it’s a requirement for national progress.

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The same urgency applies to how we handle our resources. We cannot continue a cycle of earning money only to waste it, completely ignoring the basic principles of saving and investing. Financial literacy is no longer a luxury; it is a survival skill.

The Foundation: Health and Infrastructure

Beyond time and money, moving forward requires us to master the basics of long-term preservation—specifically, our health and our infrastructure.

There is no price tag on the value of a healthy body. Yet, we continue to battle some of the highest rates of heart disease, diabetes, hypertension, and obesity in the world—conditions that lead to early deaths or lives of unnecessary suffering. A nation cannot thrive if its people are unwell. True progress means prioritizing nutrition, physical health, and preventative care so our future leaders actually live to see the fruits of their labor.

Similarly, we must change how we view our physical surroundings. Infrastructure, like our roads and public facilities, is meant to be maintained, not just built and forgotten. The same goes for every single piece of equipment we use. We cannot afford the costly habit of neglect. The concepts of preventative maintenance, routine upkeep, and asset management need to be deeply embedded into our projects, public policies, and laws.

Expanding Horizons, But Remembering Home

Of course, the path forward won’t look the same for everyone. Some of our graduates will choose to pursue opportunities abroad. That is completely fine. Go out, experience different cultures, and obtain an education—whether that is formally in a university lecture hall or informally through life and work experience.

But please, remember to come home.

We need strong minds and resilient bodies to build our young nation. If the best and brightest leave permanently, we face a steep uphill battle. We need your global perspective, your newly acquired skills, and your energy right here.

Who will build this nation?

You.

We live in an age where all the information, tools, and knowledge we could ever need are literally at our fingertips. There is no excuse for stagnation.

Congratulations to the Class of 2026. You have the knowledge. Now, let’s have the courage to apply it, break the old cycles, protect our assets, and move Micronesia forward with purpose.

But if we look past the bureaucracy, the report highlights a much more painful truth: our most important resource is leaving us.

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The Export of Our Future

The GAO study notes that project implementation is suffering due to “labor shortages” linked to a steady population decline over the last decade. We are in a tragic cycle. We invest our limited resources, our culture, and our spirit into our youth—the “village” comes together to raise the child—but once that child is raised, they leave.

We are effectively exporting our future to build other nations while our own schools and hospitals sit unfinished or understaffed. We then find ourselves in the absurd position of importing foreign labor from the Philippines and Fiji, further driving up costs and draining the very funds meant to help us.

Who Raises the Village?

There is an old saying that it takes a village to raise a child. But we must ask ourselves: Who raises the village?

A village is not raised by grant money, and it is certainly not raised by those who leave and then spend their time on social media complaining about how “bad” things are back home. A village is raised by the people who stay. It is raised by:

• The Professionals who handle the tedious audits so our funding isn’t delayed.

• The Skilled Laborers who choose to build their own community rather than someone else’s.

• The Leaders who prioritize local progress over personal convenience.

The Departure Lounge Mentality

The IMF recently highlighted an economic slowdown in the FSM linked to a weak private sector. We cannot expect a robust private sector to materialize out of thin air if every potential entrepreneur is looking for the exit. We cannot continue to treat our islands as a “departure lounge” and then wonder why the service is poor.

Development is not a spectator sport. It is not something that happens to us while we wait in another country; it is something we must drive from within. The “on-the-ground realities” mentioned in the GAO report—the delays, the high costs, the administrative hurdles—will only change when we have enough people here who are personally invested in changing them.

A Call to Stay and Build

It is time to bridge the gap between our potential and our reality. We have the resources, and we have the international agreements, but we lack the consistent presence of our most talented people.

Criticism from afar is easy. Staying to solve the problem is the true test of national character. If we want a future for Micronesia, we have to be the ones to build it. We raised the children; now it is time for the children to come home and raise the village.

#MicronesiaProgress #StayAndBuild #FSM #COFA #RegionalDevelopment

This outreach likely stems from my vocal online criticism of the PCIS and its aim to lead the security and militarization dialogue for the Micronesian sub-region. In our Micronesian way, we prioritize respect for our elders and those who have dedicated their lives to public service. I hold Dr. Underwood’s distinguished academic career and his leadership in high regard. However, as a voice for my people and a defender of our political autonomy, I believe that true respect involves being candid. To be “walked over” in silence is not respect; it is a disservice to the sovereignty our ancestors and leaders worked so hard to secure.

Because the PCIS positions itself to “monitor” and “anchor” the strategic future of our islands from a colonial base, I am sharing my response here.

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Dear Dr. Underwood,

Kaselehlie. Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate the invitation to provide input, and it is with the utmost respect for your stature that I offer these reflections on the mission of the Pacific Center for Island Security.

I have followed your recent prolific contributions to the regional discourse, from your analysis of “strategic reclamation” in the Micronesia Security Outlook to your critiques of U.S. “economic imagination” in the Island Times. You have frequently posed the question of whether Pacific Islanders want to be “pawns in a chess game.” It is a vital question, but one that leads me to a different conclusion regarding the PCIS.

The PCIS mission speaks of closing “information gaps,” analyzing “geopolitical tectonic plates,” and serving as a “nexus for regional collaboration.” I notice that your platform carefully uses the phrase “Guam and Micronesia,” acknowledging that we are not the same. Yet, despite this linguistic distinction, the central premise remains: a Guam-based organization operating within the framework of a U.S. colony intends to monitor and shape the strategic future of sovereign nations.

To be direct, Dr. Underwood, that is stretching the concept of regional collaboration a bit too far.

As we discuss the future, we must be grounded in history and reality. We, as Micronesians, have never been part of Guam, nor have we ever followed its lead. Our presence on Guam today is not a byproduct of Guam’s leadership, but a result of the relationship we, as sovereign nations, negotiated with the United States.

Let us be serious: Guam has not always been accepting of our people. For decades, the media and certain leadership circles in Guam have promoted a narrative of negative stereotyping that has left a lasting mark. For those who may not know, the sting of being dismissed or called derogatory names by our neighbors is still very much remembered. It is frankly ridiculous that a territory where we have been consistently marginalized now seeks to position itself as the intellectual leader of our security and policy dialogue.

In your writing, you emphasize that Micronesians must be “participants in our own geostrategic future.” I agree. But I must ask: Why do we need a nexus based in a U.S. colony to realize our own geopolitics? Each of our sovereign nations—the FSM, Palau, the Marshall Islands—already dictates its own future. We manage our own distinct foreign policies. We do not view the world through a “microscope” provided by a think tank in an unincorporated territory. We view the world from the seats of government in Palikir, Ngerulmud, and Majuro.

What is wrong with each sovereign nation dictating its own future? Is this think tank a subtle suggestion that we are unable to navigate these strategic waters ourselves? If the goal is to provide a “voice” for the region, I must respectfully insist: Leave it to us. We are the policymakers and the decision-makers of our own destiny. We do not require a “bridge” in a non-sovereign territory to mediate our security needs. If our goals were the same, our political statuses would be the same.

Finally, Dr. Underwood, I must close in the way I was raised. In our Micronesian culture, it is difficult for a younger man to speak so boldly to an elder of your standing. For this, I offer my sincere apologies. If my blogs or my words have caused you any personal hurt or offense, please know that was not my intent. My passion is for the sovereignty of my islands, but it should never come at the expense of the respect I owe you as a leader and a scholar.

I wish you and the Pacific Center for Island Security success in your endeavors. More importantly, I hope you continue to push for Guam to achieve its own sovereignty. Perhaps when Guam is no longer a colony, we can discuss security, sovereign-to-sovereign.

Until then, my apologies and my respect.

Patrick Pedrus Micronesian Voice

To my readers: We must never confuse regional proximity with political unity. Sovereignty is not a shared asset; it is a lived responsibility. For decades, Guam’s media has done the grossly unequal opposite to Micronesians. To now suggest they should “anchor” our security policy is a bridge too far. True partnership begins only when there is a mutual recognition of who actually holds the mandate to lead.

Perspective 1: The Unified Legal & Electoral Authority

This view combines the authority of the judiciary with the power of the Election Commission to validate the inauguration of Mark Mailo and Joe Enlet.

• The Action: Judge Andreas Victus administered the oath of office. He serves in two key roles: as the Municipal Judge of Polle and as the Chairman of the reinstated Chuuk State Election Commission.

• The Argument: Supporters argue that this creates a “double layer” of legal validity. First, historical laws from the Trust Territory era allow a municipal judge to swear in officials. Second, because a court order recently reinstated the holdover Election Commission, Judge Victus acted with the full constitutional authority of the Commission’s Chairman.

• The Goal: This perspective views the inauguration as a definitive act that uses both judicial tradition and a specific court mandate to resolve election irregularities and finalize the transition of power.

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Perspective 2: The Chuuk State Government’s Formal Challenge

This view, held by the current administration, argues that the legal requirements for a change in leadership have not yet been met.

• The Action: The government has issued a formal notice declaring the April 16, 2026, inauguration illegal and without legal force.

• The Argument: The government clarifies that the Supreme Court ruling (Civil Action No. 034-2025) only decided who belongs on the Election Commission. They emphasize that the Court did not certify the election results, did not authorize an inauguration, and did not give the Commission (or a municipal judge) the power to seat a new Governor at this time.

• The Goal: This perspective seeks to uphold the “rule of law” by insisting that no transition can happen until the court explicitly rules on the validity of the election results themselves.

Summary of the Dispute

Moving Forward

As this situation develops, I wish the people of Chuuk the best possible outcome. The central conflict is whether the reinstatement of the Election Commission automatically gave them the power to swear in the candidates, or if a separate court ruling is required to finalize the election results.

For now, fellow Chuukese, please respect the judicial process as the Chuuk State Supreme Court provides further clarity on these matters.

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It was a beautiful day, made even more profound by the Governor of Pohnpei’s address. He spoke about the eight principles established by Isokelekel after he overthrew the Saudeleur dynasty.

A Revolution in the 1500s

For those unfamiliar with the history, Isokelekel is our legendary liberator. Whether he arrived from Kosrae or the Marshall Islands remains a debate for the historians, but the oral tradition is clear: he arrived with 333 warriors and ended generations of tyrannical rule.

What he left behind wasn’t just a new traditional system, but a framework for living called the Pilerehre. When you realize these concepts were established in the 16th century, you start to see just how advanced our ancestors truly were.

Ahead of Their Time

I won’t list every principle here—partly because I’m no expert, and partly because these foundations are sacred. I don’t want to overstep or offend by trying to catalog something so deep. I’m simply sharing what I heard and what personally spoke to me as I sat in the crowd.

A few reflections from the Governor’s speech stood out as incredibly modern:

• Two-Way Communication: Long before modern democracy, the Pilerehre established that communication isn’t just a top-down command from the Chiefs. It flows upward from the people, too.

• Freedom of Speech: There is a fundamental principle regarding the right to speak freely without fear—a concept many nations are still struggling to master today.

• Stewardship and History: The principles emphasize being guardians of the land and ensuring that the “mysteries” and lessons of the past are never forgotten.

• Gratitude: Acknowledging the higher power that guided our ancestors across the ocean to these shores.

Our Unique Fabric

It’s easy to get caught up in the modern hustle, but Cultural Day pulls us back to these gems hidden in the fabric of our society. These 1500s “foundations” are more than just old rules; they are the reason our traditional system still stands strong today.

Seeing the youth embrace this heritage gives me immense pride. We aren’t just a collection of islands; we are a civilization built on sophisticated, forward-thinking values that were centuries ahead of their time.

It was a wonderful day to be Pohnpeian, and a great reminder of why we stay proud. Now, back to the grind!

It’s easy to get caught up in how much technology has shifted our perspective, but after moving back home and watching my own kids grow, I’ve noticed something that hasn’t changed at all. Despite the screens, the “engine room” of our society remains the same: the character of our people.

The Infrastructure of Integrity

We often hear that Micronesia needs a more robust economy and that the government needs to do more. That is true. But an economy isn’t a machine you just turn on; it is a reflection of the people operating within it. The difference between a struggling institution and a thriving one usually comes down to the individuals inside being present, purposeful, and ready to work.

While technical skills get you through the door, research consistently shows that “soft skills” are the actual drivers of national success. Whether it’s the “Grit Factor” identified by Angela Duckworth or the “Growth Mindset” championed by Carol Dweck, the data is clear: reliability and perseverance outperform raw talent every time.

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Mentorship in Action: Where the Spark Lives

The good news is that we don’t have to look far to see this “stepping up” in action. All across our islands, programs are already providing the challenge and discipline our youth crave. We see it in:

• The PICS High School Digital Club & Habele Robotics: Where technology isn’t just for scrolling, but for building, problem-solving, and competing on a global level.

• The FSM Boxing Club & Local Softball Leagues: These aren’t just games; they are classrooms for discipline, physical resilience, and teamwork.

• Law Day Debates: From the state levels to the nationals, these debates force our high schoolers to be purposeful with their words and sharp with their logic.

• Student Takeover Day in Pohnpei: A direct exercise in being “present,” where our youth step into the shoes of leadership and see the weight of responsibility firsthand.

• The Indigenous Learning Recovery Program: Ensuring that as we move forward, our elementary students stay anchored in the culture and values that make us who we are.

Taking the Next Watch

We can’t wait for a “perfect economy” to start working hard. The economy becomes robust because we decide to be reliable. As parents and veterans who have “done our time,” our new mission is to support these programs and model that same presence in our own lives.

I still see that specific spark in our young men and women—the ones who want to be challenged and push the limits. When we see that hunger in the robotics pits or on the boxing mats, the future looks bright. We’ve had our watch; now let’s motivate them to take the helm with a steady hand and a solid heart.

But across the water, the Marshall Islands is trying something radical. They just launched a Universal Basic Income scheme—the first of its kind.

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The Majuro Model

Here’s the deal: Every Marshallese citizen is now eligible for $800, delivered four times a year. That is $3,200 annually, straight into the pockets of the people, regardless of whether they have a job or a high-ranking title. It’s a safety net funded by their Compact trust funds, designed to fight the brutal inflation hitting our region.

Why This Matters for the FSM

We are currently in a state of emergency, even if we don’t always call it that. Our last census was a gut punch: our population has plummeted to just 75,000 people. We used to be over 100,000 strong.

We are losing our heartbeat. Our brothers, sisters, and children are migrating to the U.S. not necessarily because they want to leave our shores, but because they have to to survive.

Is it time for our move?

The Marshall Islands is treating their citizens like an investment. They aren’t waiting for the population to hit zero before they act. By providing $800 four times a year, they are telling their people: “We want you here.”

With only 75,000 of us left, can the FSM afford to wait any longer? Or is it time we look at our own Compact funds and ask why we aren’t investing directly in the people who keep our culture alive?

As a Micronesian who actually lives here, let me offer a perspective you won’t find in a D.C. think tank.

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The “Deck” vs. The Dirt

The article mentions expert Cleo Paskal, who spent four days sleeping on the open deck of a Chinese-donated cargo ship just to witness the groundbreaking of the Woleai runway rehabilitation. She watched the dirt move and saw a “strategic foothold” being established on a former WWII Japanese strip.

But here is what she didn’t notice from that deck: she didn’t notice the people.

The article treats the rehabilitation of the Woleai runway as some covert military operation. Let’s be real: Woleai is incredibly remote. For the people living there, a functional runway isn’t about “geopolitical leverage”—it’s about whether a sick child can be medivaced to a hospital in time. It’s about basic human connectivity and getting much-needed supplies to our families. Ms. Paskal saw a “rehabilitated runway”; we see a lifeline.

You Can’t Eat “Strategic Denial”

The article quotes Gordon Chang, who says he gets “angry” thinking about China “dominating” us. He talks about American lives lost in WWII as if our islands are a trophy that belongs on a shelf. By the way, those lives are forever held in high regard here in Micronesia.

If the U.S. Department of War is only interested in the main island of Yap for its $2 billion projects, why is anyone surprised when the national government looks for partners to fix the infrastructure the West has ignored for decades?

The “experts” are so focused on the “kinetic map” that they have completely missed the human map. You can’t eat “strategic denial.” You can’t use “strategic denial” to fly a pregnant mother to a clinic or bring in rice and medicine.

Sovereignty is Not “Infiltration”

There is a lot of talk about China “infiltrating” us. This word is an insult to our intelligence. We have been a sovereign nation with our own foreign policy for decades. We have had diplomatic relations with China since 1989.

Are we “dominated”? No. We are doing what any nation does: navigating a world that requires infrastructure to survive. To suggest we are being “infiltrated” because a bridge is being built or an airstrip is being paved is to suggest that Micronesians are too naive to manage our own affairs. We know exactly what the Compact of Free Association (COFA) says. We know who our security partners are, and we are extremely grateful to have the mightiest nation on Earth as our strongest and closest partner.

The Narrative Seldom Heard

I welcome the views of others, and I understand the security concerns of our partners. But the narrative seldom heard—the one that matters most to those of us on the ground—is about respect.

We are part of the “Blue Pacific.” We are a vast ocean continent, not just “dots on a map” for military planners to worry over. When you read articles like this, ask yourself: Did they talk to a single local farmer, a teacher, or a traditional leader? Or did they just talk to people who view us as a buffer zone?

The next time an expert gets “angry” about what’s happening here, I invite them to come off the deck of the ship and actually sit with the people. Listen to what we need, not just what you’re afraid of.

Despite the headline promising a deep dive into the Compacts of Free Association (COFA), there is a glaring, almost impressive, absence: zero feedback from anyone actually living in a COFA nation.

A Colonial Lens on Sovereign Nations

The article relies heavily on voices from Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI). While our brothers and sisters in the Marianas are part of our cultural fabric, their political reality is vastly different. They are part of the US domestic framework. We are sovereign nations.

Robert Underwood, a frequent commentator on these issues, continues to frame the Micronesian story through a Guam-centric, quasi-colonial lens. He laments the lack of US economic “imagination,” yet fails to acknowledge that the COFA nations are not US territories looking for a handout—we are strategic partners managing a complex international treaty.

When Underwood or CNMI officials speak for the “Freely Associated States” (FAS), they inadvertently reinforce a Washington narrative that we are just a “strategic bargain” or a “buffer zone.”

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The “Security” Obsession vs. Our Reality

The article spends a lot of time on the “CCP threat” and the “strategic exchange.”

• The US view: We are a “platform” for defense.

• The CNMI view: We should use our “comparative advantage” (like our high military enlistment rates) to “ask for more support.”

Here is what’s missing from the RNZ piece:

1. Sovereignty: There is no mention of the agency of the FSM, RMI, or Palau in choosing their diplomatic partners.

2. Economic Autonomy: While Angel Demapan discusses “depopulation” as a threat, he frames the solution entirely in terms of US Department of Interior oversight. Where are the Micronesian entrepreneurs or local leaders talking about sustainable, internal growth that isn’t tied to a US federal grant?

3. The Human Cost: The article briefly mentions our youth “sacrificing their lives” in the US military. To hear a CNMI official suggest we “leverage” these deaths for more aid is, frankly, a cold way to discuss the sons and daughters of Micronesia.

We Are Not a Monolith

It is “clickbait” at its finest to use the COFA name to drive a China-US rivalry narrative while ignoring the actual leaders of the COFA nations. Where was the interview with President Simina, President Whipps Jr., or President Heine?

If the US is concerned about China “corroding democracies,” perhaps the first step in protecting those democracies is to listen to them. You cannot claim to support Micronesian democracy while treating our nations like silent chess pieces on a board designed in D.C. and analyzed in Guam.

We serve under the U.S. flag at some of the highest per-capita enlistment rates in the country. We deploy to the same wars, wear the same uniforms, and take the same risks. But when service ends, and we return home to Palau, the Federated States of Micronesia, or the Marshall Islands, access to VA health care becomes limited, delayed, or simply unavailable.

That reality may finally be starting to change.

A bipartisan group of U.S. Senators has introduced the Caring for Veterans and Strengthening National Security Act (CLICK to read)legislation that would require the Department of Veterans Affairs to deliver concrete services to U.S. veterans living in the Freely Associated States. Within one year of enactment, the VA would be required to provide telehealth care, mail-order pharmacy services, and beneficiary travel reimbursement.

This is not abstract policy. These are the exact services COFA veterans have been asking for—basic, practical, and overdue.

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Why This Matters

COFA citizens enlist in the U.S. military at extraordinary rates. In exchange, the United States holds exclusive defense and basing rights across a strategically vital region of the Pacific. This relationship has never been symbolic. It is operational, strategic, and deeply personal.

Yet for decades, veterans who returned home after service encountered a hard stop. The VA’s Foreign Medical Program was costly, limited, and often impractical for island nations separated by thousands of miles from the nearest VA facility. Care that was routine for veterans in the continental U.S. became a logistical nightmare in the Pacific.

Congress addressed part of this problem in 2024 by granting the VA clear authority to provide medical services and travel benefits to veterans living in the Freely Associated States. The problem? The VA never used that authority.

This new bill removes any remaining ambiguity. It directs the VA to act, not eventually, but within a defined timeline.

The Pacific Catching Up

There is an uncomfortable comparison that COFA veterans know well.

U.S. veterans living in the Philippines, another foreign country, have access to a VA regional office, a VA outpatient clinic, and long-standing systems of care. Veterans in Puerto Rico, a U.S. territory in the Caribbean, are fully integrated into the VA system.

Meanwhile, the Pacific—despite its strategic value, despite its enlistment rates—has remained an afterthought.

This legislation doesn’t close that gap entirely, but it acknowledges it. It recognizes that geography should not determine whether a veteran receives timely care, medication, or reimbursement for travel. It also signals that the Pacific should no longer be treated as less urgent than other regions where veterans live abroad.

More Than Health Care

What stood out in the statements supporting this bill was how clearly leaders connected veteran care to national security.

When veterans are forced to leave their home islands just to access health care, families are split. Communities lose experienced leaders. Nations lose stability. And the United States loses something less measurable but just as important: credibility.

Allowing veterans to receive care at home strengthens families, keeps communities intact, and reinforces the very partnerships the U.S. relies on for forward defense in the Indo-Pacific. Several Pacific leaders said it plainly—this isn’t charity, and it isn’t politics. It is shared sacrifice, honored properly.

A Reason for Cautious Optimism

As a Micronesian and a U.S. military veteran, I see this as good news—real progress, not just language.

But experience also teaches caution.

Authority without implementation is meaningless. We’ve seen that already. This bill matters because it compels action and sets expectations. Passage must be followed by oversight, pressure, and continued advocacy to ensure the VA actually delivers.

Still, this is a step in the right direction. It acknowledges the imbalance. It recognizes the Pacific. And it points toward a future where COFA veterans receive the same robust, dependable services already available to veterans in the Philippines and Puerto Rico.

Equal service should mean equal care—no matter which ocean you call home.

For the first time in a long while, that future feels possible.

Let me take you back.

Great Lakes, Illinois - October 1991

I arrived at Naval Station Great Lakes on October 8th, 1991, a kid from Micronesia who had never felt cold like that before. Our company had over seventy men—white guys from the Midwest, Black guys from the South and inner cities, Asians, Filipinos who talked and dressed like cowboys (which amazed me), white guys who’d grown up in Black neighborhoods and carried themselves accordingly, Black guys from suburbs who listened to rock music. Every accent, every attitude, every kind of American you could imagine, and then me—not American at all yet, just Micronesian.

We were a mess of contradictions thrown together, forced to march in step, make our racks the same way, eat at the same time, succeed or fail as one unit. The military doesn’t ask if you like each other. It demands that you function together.

Somewhere in those first weeks, I mentioned casually that I’d never seen snow. The reaction was immediate—guys stopped what they were doing. “Never?” “Not even once?” “Bro, you’re in for it.” They couldn’t fathom it, the same way I couldn’t fathom their stories about shoveling driveways or building snowmen with their dads. But what struck me was how they talked about the “first snowfall” of each year. It wasn’t just weather to them. It was a moment—something families gathered for, something that made everything feel different, quieter, more hopeful. They spoke about it the way I might talk about the ocean.

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The Night Everything Changed

Graduation was set for December 11th. We were deep into our training, exhausted, focused. Then one night—I think it was around 2:30 in the morning—I woke up on my top rack to find thirty or forty guys standing around my bed in their skivvies.

My first thought, honestly, was: This is it. Blanket party. I’m about to get jumped.

I ran through everything in my head. What had I done? Who had I pissed off? We were all tired, all stressed. Bootcamp does things to people. But I couldn’t think of anything that would warrant this.

Then I saw Hibbard, a guy from Ohio who’d become a friend, standing at the front. He was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Pedrus,” he said, “we all wanted to experience your first snowfall with you.”

I climbed down, confused and relieved, and we walked to the window. Outside, under the streetlights of the base, snow was falling. The first snowfall of the season. My first snowfall ever.

We stood there—grown men, most of us still teenagers really, in our underwear in the middle of the night—and watched in silence. Some of them were smiling. Some looked lost in memory. Nobody spoke much. The snow kept falling, soft and steady, and for those minutes we weren’t recruits from different worlds. We were just there, together, sharing something none of us would forget.

I don’t remember how long we stood at that window. Long enough. Long enough for me to understand that this strange, complicated country I’d joined had people in it who would wake up in the middle of the night to make sure I didn’t experience something beautiful alone.

What America Was Supposed to Be

That night shaped everything about how I saw America. Not the America of politicians and pundits, but the America of ordinary people who choose, despite everything, to look out for each other. To create moments of connection. To say, “You’re one of us now, and we want to share this with you.”

It wasn’t always like that, of course. Bootcamp was hard. We fought, we competed, we got on each other’s nerves. There were guys in that company I didn’t like, guys who didn’t like me. We came from different worlds—literally different worlds in my case—with different experiences, different prejudices, different ways of seeing everything.

But we learned to function as one. We had to. And in learning that, something else happened. We became something bigger than our individual selves, our individual backgrounds, our individual grievances.

The America I’m Watching Now

So now, decades later, I watch America tearing itself apart over the very differences that our company somehow navigated. I see people sorted into tribes—red and blue, black and white, this identity and that identity—and I wonder what happened to the America that woke me up to see snow.

Don’t misunderstand me. The issues people are fighting about are real. Injustice is real. Inequality is real. The pain is real. I’m not suggesting we all just hold hands and pretend everything is fine.

But I am suggesting that we’ve forgotten something fundamental: the experiment only works if we’re willing to be in the same room together. In the same company. Looking out the same window.

The guys in my bootcamp company didn’t agree on everything. We didn’t have to. What we had to do was harder—we had to see each other as human. As worthy of consideration. As deserving of moments like that first snowfall.

The Most Useful Experiment of All

America calls itself an experiment, and it is. It’s the most useful, most ambitious, most frustrating experiment ever attempted: Can people from everywhere, believing different things, looking different ways, carrying different histories, build something together that’s greater than their divisions?

I saw it work on a small scale in 1991. Seventy-plus men who had no reason to care about each other learned to. Not perfectly. Not without friction. But we learned.

I wish I could tell you the answer to fixing what’s broken now. I can’t. I’m just a blogger from Pohnpei who served his time and made his life. But I can tell you what I know: The moments that changed me weren’t the moments someone won an argument or proved they were right. They were the moments someone chose connection over division. The moments someone said, “You should see this with us.”

What I Remember

That night in December stands in my memory as clear as anything I’ve experienced. Not because of the snow, though I’ll admit I had my fill of it quickly after that. But because forty guys decided that my first snowfall mattered enough to lose sleep over. Because they wanted to give me something—a memory, a welcome, a sense that I belonged to something bigger than myself.

That’s the America I still believe in. The one that’s worth fighting for. Not the one that wins by defeating others, but the one that wins by including them. By waking them up at 2:30 in the morning and saying, “Come see this with us.”

We’re all standing in our skivvies now, metaphorically speaking. Vulnerable. Exposed. Wondering if we’re about to get jumped or embraced.

I’m hoping for more first snowfalls.

I’m hoping we remember that we’re all in this together—this strange, difficult, beautiful experiment. And that the moments we share, the times we choose to see each other as humans rather than as opposition, are what make it all worthwhile.

That’s what America taught me. In my underwear. At 2:30 in the morning. In December 1991.

And it’s a lesson I hope we haven’t forgotten.

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But here in Micronesia, I’ve noticed something that genuinely concerns me. Across many of our public agencies—and even some private workplaces—there is little to no structure for training, professional development, or continuous improvement. In too many offices, there is no orientation, no expectations for maintaining standards, and no organized way to help employees grow. It’s simply: you’re hired, start working. And after that, you’re on your own.

As a taxpayer, as someone who has dedicated my life to public service, and as someone who deeply loves these islands, I have a big problem with that.

We cannot build a strong government, a strong workforce, or a strong nation if our people are not growing. And we cannot blame employees for poor performance if we never give them the tools or training to succeed in the first place.

Training is not a luxury.
Professional development is not an American idea we “don’t need.”
Skill-building is not something that only happens in other countries.

It is a responsibility.

If we want high-quality public services, then we must invest in the people who provide them. If we want efficient government offices, then we need systems that train, guide, and develop our workers—not just hire them and hope for the best. And if we want to prepare Micronesians for the future, we must stop acting like training is optional. Because it isn’t.

I believe Micronesia is full of talented, capable, hardworking people. I believe many of them want to grow, learn, and improve. But without a system, without support, without a culture of professional development, even the best people will struggle.

It’s time to change that.

As public servants—and as citizens—we deserve better. Our people deserve workplaces that invest in their growth. Our government deserves employees who are trained, supported, and continually improving. And our nation deserves a workforce that is prepared for the challenges of today and tomorrow.

Professional development is not an expense.
It’s an investment in Micronesia’s future.

And it’s long overdue.

We’ve fought, bled, and died for freedoms that stretch far beyond our islands. We volunteered — no draft, no promise of wealth, just the belief that serving meant something. And it still does.

But the irony is… well, ironic.

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The Unserved Who Served

When our Micronesian veterans return home — to Pohnpei, Chuuk, Kosrae, Yap, or Marshall Islands and Palau — they come home to the warmth of family and the peace of the islands. But they also come home to a silence that’s hard to explain.

Because here, there are no VA hospitals. No clinics. No counselors.

The same veterans who stood ready to give their lives for America now struggle to access even the most basic healthcare benefits that they earned. Benefits that their brothers and sisters in the States — and even in the Philippines or the Caribbean — can receive through U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs facilities abroad.

So why not us?

Questions That Linger

Is it because we are not U.S. citizens, even though we serve under the same flag?
Is it because our islands are too small, too far, too forgotten?
Or do we simply not matter enough to warrant the same care given to others overseas?

These are not questions of entitlement — they are questions of fairness.
Of recognition.
Of dignity.

We volunteered. We fought. We served.
And when we came home, we were forgotten by the very system that promised to remember us.

An Annual Reminder

For many Micronesian veterans, Veterans Day is not a day of free meals, parades, or ceremonies. It’s a quiet reflection — a reminder that while our service was honored in uniform, it is neglected in retirement.

Each year, I think about my fellow veterans — the Sailors, Soldiers, Airmen, Marines, and Coast Guardsmen from across the Pacific — who continue to live with physical wounds and invisible ones, without access to the support they deserve.

It hurts to see brothers and sisters who once marched proudly under the U.S. flag now struggling to afford medicine or medical care in their own homeland.

Priorities Are Clear When Money Talks

Here’s what makes the irony even sharper.

The United States is currently funding defense infrastructure in Micronesia — such as the Yap runway improvement project, valued at nearly $4 billion dollars. At the same time, our newly negotiated third iteration of the Compact of Free Association (COFA) will provide about $3 billion over the next 20 years to support development across the FSM.

These are massive figures — billions allocated for runways, ports, and strategic defense.

And yet, a simple VA service center in the Federated States of Micronesia seems impossible.

That, to me, says everything about where priorities lie. When money talks, veterans’ needs fall silent.

Gratitude and Resolve

Still, I am grateful.
Grateful for the courage of Micronesian veterans.
Grateful for their loyalty and quiet resilience.
Grateful that despite being overlooked, Micronesians continue to answer the call to serve — even when the system doesn’t serve them back.

But gratitude alone isn’t enough.

We need recognition — real, tangible support for our veterans. A bridge between Micronesia and the VA that works in practice, not just on paper. The commitment must be more than symbolic — it must be operational.

The Irony and the Hope

Yes, the irony is painful — that those who once served so faithfully now remain unserved. But the hope is alive — that one day, Veterans Day in Micronesia will not only be a day of remembrance, but a day of justice fulfilled.

Until then, we continue to speak.
We continue to remind.
We continue to serve — even after the uniform comes off.

Because that’s what Micronesians do.
We serve, we endure, and we never forget each other.

To my fellow veterans across the Pacific — I see you, I honor you, and I thank you.
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