Guahan is celebrating its 81st year of Liberation. Because the title of the celebration is “liberation,” it is only natural to remember what we were being liberated from. The commemoration of the original Liberation Day is a significant historical undertaking in its own right. It requires us to remember. But after 80 years, that call to remember has been answered in different ways and in ways no one considered at its origin.

The history of the commemoration's contours provides insights into who we think we are and who we imagine ourselves to have been. The actual events of July 21, 1944, and their immediate aftermath differ from the history of commemoration. Commemorations respond to the environment in which they are held.

I believe we have two main obligations that arise out of our search for the meaning of Liberation. Our first task is not just to remember the actual “liberation” as a historical event, but to chronicle the changing nature of how Liberation Day has been celebrated. We should remind ourselves that history is not the actual event. History is what is said to have happened. History is an account of what happened, reported in a variety of forms. They are based on a series of vignettes and reports.

We then have to analyze how these vignettes have been organized to present differing narratives and storylines. There are so many storylines and perspectives that have emerged over the decades that it is uncertain what Liberation we are celebrating. To be sure, the celebration holds a great deal of emotional significance for the remaining World War II generation, collectively known as “survivors.” As a result of intensive storytelling, the children of the World War II generation can be ironically called survivors of war stories. But for them, the commemoration still evokes intense emotional responses. For grandchildren and those without a line of descent back to wartime Guahan, the connection is far less passionate.

Our second obligation is to ask fundamental questions about what the next step was after liberation.  We have borne witness to celebrating various dimensions of the Liberation Day experience. But what is the consequence of being liberated? It is pretty clear that we are unsure about what we have been liberated to do or accomplish as a result of this great historical drama. Were we liberated to become an unincorporated territory of the United States? Were we liberated so that the military can establish massive facilities that both use Guahan as a weapon against other nations, as well as a potential target?

Did we think of Liberation as the initial step towards autonomy, full self-government or even independence? We must remember not only the historical events surrounding “liberation,” but also how the meaning of liberation itself has evolved. Celebrating “liberation” requires us to take stock of what we did as a result of being liberated. This is equally serious, if not more so, than remembering the events. What have we done with liberation? What are we today as an island, as a society and as a people as a result of being liberated?

Today, Guahan still lacks a clear sense of its direction as a political entity or as a distinct society, despite its internationally significant role being abundantly clear to us every day. Liberation was connected to military activity. The road we took subsequent to Liberation is similarly connected to the military. It seems that our importance, then, now, and forever is defined by our military role. We are informed by press releases and social media postings from the planners and implementers atop Nimitz Hill about Guahan’s true role in the world we inhabit. They carry out the most Guahan-shattering plans that originate in Honolulu and in Washington, D.C. We are left to adapt with the understanding that resisting is not an option. Agreement is not required.

Our leaders at Adelup and in the Legislature seem powerless to resist (even if they were inclined to do so) anything that rolls down to them. We are the Tip of the Spear, and we are therefore the No. 1 target in a conflict in our part of the world. The not-so-reassuring message from atop Nimitz Hill suggests, “Deal with it by letting us handle it!”

As a political entity, Guahan has no established plan for achieving a new or distinct political identity. We are stuck in neutral, otherwise known as “status quo,” when it comes to political aspirations or development. Of course, the planners at Nimitz Hill may have to weigh in, just in case any political aspirations affect their near absolute freedom of movement to use Guahan in any way they want.

 As a unique island society, it is exceedingly hard to identify the elements of our society. The unifying forces, shared understanding of our past, and common values are neither shared nor common. Are we just Americans living on a distant island poised for action to defend America? We are not even all American citizens, and under the new thinking in Washington, D.C, it won’t be long before questions arise about birthright citizenship in unincorporated territories, let alone the 50 states and the District of Columbia. Can those thousands of Filipino workers and their families who became citizens under special rules be “denaturalized?” Denaturalization is the new term in the American political lexicon.

Is there a Guahan term that unites us? We can use Guamanian, but it is a confusing marker of identity. Its primary purpose in the 21st century is to “include” people into the Guahan social fabric. Originally, it was equivalent to CHamoru. Coming out of the Japanese Occupation, the people of Guahan quickly abandoned CHamoru in favor of being Guamanian. Perhaps they were being liberated into being Guamanians. The new term was sleek, sounded modern, and so unlike being Saipanese or Rotanese.  However, over time, the commemoration of Liberation began to evolve, and so did the usage of the term "Guamanian."

The CHamorus went back to being CHamoru. Most of us tacitly recognize that Guahan is really “their” island, but we can’t agree on how to operationalize that term in society, political discourse or collective memories. We see that recognition in the slogan “Tano’ I CHamoru” (CHamoru land) on the license plates. It remains unexplained and unimplemented. In 2025, we are probably further away from a society united in its identity. There was certainly more social unity amongst CHamorus or Guamanians in 1945 than there is today. 

If this is our current situation, what is the “Liberation” that we are celebrating as a historical event? Being liberated is an exhilarating phenomenon, especially for those who may have directly experienced it. Historically, it is clear what we are celebrating. We are celebrating the end of Japanese rule and the hardships that it brought on the people of Guahan. The Japanese Occupation started to unravel when the Americans landed in Hagat and Assan on July 21, 1944. The subsequent exhilaration and emotional joy of being freed from the camps and what they represented must have been overwhelming. For nearly all of us, it is entirely vicarious since we were not alive at the time.

From that historical drama, we have literally thousands of vignettes with heroes, villains, miracles, tragic deaths, heartwarming moments and heartbreaking hours. The compendium of these stories has been woven into many different narratives about the “liberation,” fitting various perspectives and valuing some vignettes over others. If you have been a Liberation Day parade watcher since the 1950s, as some of us have, the changing nature of what was actually being celebrated and remembered seems clear.

In the beginning, the twin elements of Liberation Day events focused on the actual battle and the cruelty and terror of the Japanese Occupation. Liberation Day special editions featured pictures of the battle, the landing, and the celebration of the American Marines, soldiers, and sailors. Liberation Day parades featured large military marching units that focused on the “liberators” but not the “liberated.” When the Marine Corps hymn was played, there was widespread cheering as the parade wound its way through Marine Drive. It was genuine. It was sincere.

The concomitant message also featured vignettes about the Japanese. There was the liberator, the liberated and the enslaver. Sometimes, the parade would feature reenactments of cruelty in which actors in Japanese uniforms would nudge along helpless CHamorus. These appeared to cause silence, reflection, and occasionally harsh words from the parade watchers. The Liberation Day special editions featured the worst examples of atrocities and beatings. The massacres at Faha and Tinta in Malesso’, the execution of Pale’ Duenas, and the attempted beheading of Tan Beatrice Flores Emsley were incidents we read about. The general narrative was about the common and cruel enemy, the liberator, and the liberated. Into these perilous circumstances came the rescuer and the gratitude of the rescued.

However, as the years passed and the postwar generation of CHamorus, who were survivors of war stories, started to mature, the tone changed. Defiantly, CHamoru activists asked if there was true liberation, and not just substituting the latest colonial master with the previous one. Was this really Liberation Day or just Reoccupation Day? In 1977, they bought ads in the newspaper (but not the supplement) asking the question Kao Magahet Na Manlibre Hit or Is it true that we are free. In full disclosure, I wrote the ad.

This was followed by discussion about the role that CHamorus played in their own drama. Were they actors with agency in their own story? If they were survivors, how did they survive? The original narrative said that they survived because they were awaiting the arrival of the Americans. It was the hope that the Americans would return that kept them alive. It wasn’t their faith in themselves or their capacity to fend for themselves; it was their faith in others and their loyalty to America.

The historical reality of the events started to be reinterpreted in light of a dispassionate examination of facts. The notion of “liberation” from the Japanese was not part of Nimitz’s island-hopping plan. The notion of “return” only applied to General Douglas MacArthur in the Philippines, as he carefully filmed his arrival and his loudspeaker speech. Liberation was a byproduct of a grand military strategy, not its objective.

And what about the testimonies to Japanese enslavement and cruelty? Time and Japanese tourism started to de-emphasize that narrative. That all came to a screeching halt at the 40th anniversary of Liberation Day in 1984 when Governor Bordallo allowed a Japanese Naval Unit to march in the parade. As I recall, the Japanese were marching down with the leader sword in hand. They carried the Japanese rising sun flag. The parade watchers were silent, perhaps stunned and unprepared. I didn’t hear any harsh words, and there certainly weren’t any cheers either.

By the time the 50th anniversary arrived in 1994, the entire World War II experience of the United States was being celebrated and commemorated in its full glory. The 1990s saw the birth of the term “the greatest generation” by Tom Brokaw and the movie Saving Private Ryan, which put an exclamation point on the national American experience. Guahan’s participation was no longer being framed as liberation or rescue. They became co-liberators in the great historical project. Their experiences became emblazoned in the Asan Bay Overlook Memorial Wall, where every member of Guahan’s own “greatest generation” deserved to be mentioned by name. Perhaps in vain, I promoted the co-liberator narrative. At the dedication of the Memorial Wall, I gave a speech about two sets of liberators — one came in by sea and the other came down from the hills.  

But that still felt borrowed and, in reality, belonged to someone else. Where was the agency, the resilience, the capacity of the CHamoru people to survive in spite of the harsh circumstances? This is when the rescued became survivors. Moreover, they continued to be victims, but no longer victims of Japanese cruelty. They were victims of being ignored by the American government, which ostensibly was their benefactor. The pursuit of war claims and the eventual payment wound its way through Congress and political posturing over the course of nearly five decades.

The recent emphasis on commemorating the CHamoru experience through local memorials and ceremonies has transformed July 2025 into a month distinct from July in 1945, 1955, and even 1995.  Liberators are largely absent from the conversation and even formal events. We don’t have any more liberated either. Defiant survivors who share stories about how they lived and kept their families together despite their circumstances have taken center stage. The Japanese now formally attend these ceremonies to express their regret.

Stories about CHamoru agency by even a group of teenagers led by the amazing Tonko Reyes in Malesso’ now also find their voice. The books Mariquita and Massacre at Atate both reflect the changing nature of how we remember the war. Mariquita is the story of a tragic attempt to find a mother lost to a CHamoru man named Chris Perez Howard. Chris lived through the Japanese Occupation as a toddler, but his mother did not. He was raised in the United States and returned to piece together the saga of his mother.

Massacre at Atate was the story of young men who decided to attack the Japanese rather than wait for another massacre like those that had already occurred at Faha’ and Tinta. Written as a firsthand account by Jose Torres, it tells the remarkable story of a courageous human being. The story is no less brazen or daring than any Banzai Charge by desperate Japanese soldiers or charge up Chorrito Ridge by courageous Marines.

Where are we in 2025 with this compendium of narratives? If we don’t take the next step to true Liberation, then all of these would amount to a tragic story with no consequence or meaning in our lives. How do we breathe life into our existence today through the examples set by Tan Beatrice, Tun Tonko’ and even Pale’ Duenas? That is the challenge we face.

Obviously, Liberation is meaningless without taking the next step. It is historically accurate to say that Guahan, as a venue for battle between the Japanese and the Americans, was not about the intent to conquer or to liberate. These were the great powers at work in the Pacific at the time. Guahan was then just a piece of land to be fought over. In the case of the Japanese, they knew that the Americans taking the Mariana Islands would bring “hell” to the Japanese home islands. Through bombing raids, it did. For the Americans, taking the Marianas would hasten the end of the war. The fate of the people was of a secondary consequence.

After the conclusion of World War II, Guahan was transformed by a series of massive military facilities to address a new conflict, the Cold War. Guahan’s role was to become a military base. The prevailing political climate maintained the military's control. The acquisition of land was an enormous project that dispossessed islanders of nearly 50% of the land. The eventual Organic Act quitclaimed the property to the military and ensured that military decisions could not be seriously challenged. Until 1962, people still required military permission to enter and leave the island.  I doubt that anyone in 1944 thought that liberation meant the loss of land, the introduction of a military economy and construction based primarily on foreign workers.

We are again in the same situation in 2025 as we were in 1946. We are facing the increased militarization of our island’s existence. The landscape is being reshaped, and while land is not being taken, thousands of newcomers are being brought to the island, with multiple consequences for housing, society, and the economy.

The consequences of this rapid militarization and reordering of our lives, as implemented by those at the top of Nimitz Hill, are as dramatic as those nearly 80 years ago. It isn’t called Nimitz Hill for nothing. I guess we can try to restore the old name of Libugon in the hope that we can make progress towards a Guahan-centric plan for the future. Until we cross that bridge from one form of liberation to the next, Nimitz Hill planning will determine our future.

The institutional descendants of the World War II liberators in uniform are still here, and they are still trying to convince us that no matter what they do, it is for our own good and our own protection. What will island liberators say? Speak up! Fanohge CHamoru!

— Dr. Robert A. Underwood is a distinguished Guamanian scholar, educator, and former U.S. Congressman who has dedicated his career to advancing the rights, identity, and political status of the CHamoru people. He served as Guam’s Delegate to the U.S. House of Representatives from 1993 to 2003, where he was a leading voice on indigenous and territorial issues. A former President of the University of Guam, Dr. Underwood is also a respected academic in Pacific Island studies and a tireless advocate for self-determination, language preservation, and cultural empowerment. His work continues to shape conversations around Guam’s future and the broader status of U.S. territories.

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