Celebrating the Marshall Islands’ matriarchal society

Microwaves By Jack Niedenthal

Majuro—I remember my first Christmas on Namu Atoll as a Peace Corps volunteer in 1981. On the outer islands, preparation begins long before the holiday season arrives. By the end of October, the island is already alive with song, dance and anticipation.

Communities divide into friendly rivals, each composing original music and dances, rehearsing tirelessly, refining harmonies that enchantingly drift across the night. They begin simply, with the solfège scale—do re mi—learning the bones of a melody over weeks before layering in words and meaning.

By December, the practice has fallen away; the songs are set, the dances precise.

I would sit in the church late into the night, listening. Sometimes I tried to follow along, catching fragments of melody or language, but mostly I simply absorbed the moment. There was a sign on the wall of the church that first Christmas: Christ Jebro EO. I didn’t understand. I asked an old man I had befriended named Melang. He told me the story of Jebro.

It is, as he explained, one of the most important stories in Marshallese tradition—not because of power or conquest, but because of what it teaches about family, humility and above all, the role of a mother.

Loktanur was a woman chieftainess with 12 sons living on Woja island of Ailinglaplap Atoll. When her sons came of age, they decided to prove themselves by racing eastward in their canoes, agreeing that the first to arrive on the other side of the atoll would become the next chief.

When the day of the race arrived, Loktanur walked down to the shore carrying a heavy bundle and asked each of her sons, one by one, to take her aboard. Each refused. They were focused on winning, on proving themselves, on becoming chief. So they pushed off into the ocean, leaving their mother behind. Except for one, the youngest, Jebro.

When his mother called out to him, Jebro did not hesitate. He welcomed her aboard his canoe, guided by instinct rather than calculation. Loktanur quieted his doubts by explaining to him that he need not fear being the youngest, nor the least expected to prevail. From her bundle she brought forth a sail she had fashioned and, with steady hands, showed him how to set up her novel invention.

While his brothers labored at their paddles, fighting the pull of the water, Jebro’s outrigger leaned into the wind and slipped past them with ease. As the story is told, a guiding fish appeared to lead their course, and with the sail full, a single rogue wave rose beneath them, bearing them safely toward the island.

In the end, Jebro arrived first, not through strength, speed or even cunning, but because he honored his mother, because he listened and because he carried the wisdom only she could give. He became chief. And the lesson here, as the old man told me that night, is simple: your mother is the most important person in your life.

At the time, I took it as a moral teaching, a statement of culture. Years later, living in the Marshall Islands, I came to see it as something much deeper—structural, foundational—shaping the very architecture of our society. This is, at its core, a matriarchal system. Land, the most enduring source of wealth and identity, passes through women. Lineage follows the mother. Rights, belonging and authority are rooted in her.

On the outer islands, where life remains closest to tradition, this is unmistakable. Decisions about land, family and community flow through the maternal line. A mother is not simply a parent; she is the center of gravity, the keeper of the past and the guarantor of the future. With that comes obligation, not only from her, but toward her.

Care for your mother. Respect your elders. These are not suggestions; they are duties woven into Marshallese life.

When I first heard the story of Jebro from Melang, I admired it, even valued it, but I had not yet grasped its full weight.

That came much later.

Last year, I brought my mother, Diane, here to the Marshall Islands. She is 92 now. She had spent her entire life in the United States, the last 15 years living independently. But in time, it became clear she needed care—real care, the kind that cannot be outsourced or scheduled. With my father and sister gone, it is now just the two of us from our small, nuclear family, so I brought her here, to the islands, to be with my family.

In many ways, it was a practical decision, but it was also something more. I believed this would be a good place for her.  In the Marshall Islands, there are no nursing homes; you do not send your elders away for someone else to care for them. You bring them closer. You make space for them in your home, in your routines, in your daily life. You care for them not out of obligation alone, but out of respect, immense gratitude and love.

There is something profoundly grounding about having her here. Almost every evening, we sit together and talk story before she turns in. That time feels like an extraordinary act of giving on her part. My wife, Regina, along with my children and grandchildren, see her every day. We are, in the truest Pacific island way, four generations living under one roof, sharing space, time and the quiet continuity of family. They play with her, learn from her, and absorb her stories and her presence in a way that would never have been possible from 8,000 miles away.

She is no longer a scratchy voice on a cellphone, a fleeting face on a computer screen or someone we saw only during occasional two-week visits to the United States; she is now woven into the very fabric of our lives.

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I return to the story I learned on Namu, to Jebro, whose simple choice came to embody something essential in his culture. In a modern world that prizes ambition and independence, we are taught to measure success by salary, distance traveled, the car we drive or the titles we hold. But Jebro’s lesson—and that of the Marshall Islands—is that success can, and perhaps should, be measured differently.

Everything you are begins with your mother. Living here has sharpened that truth for me, turning what once felt abstract into something more immediate. It has shown me that culture is not only observed; it is lived, chosen, carried and made your own, even if you were not born into it.

Bringing my mother here was a way of aligning my life with the values I had come to respect so deeply. The story of Jebro is not just a legend, but a guide: a reminder that in the end, what matters most is not necessarily who arrives first, but who you choose to carry with you along the way.

Jack Niedenthal is the former secretary of Health Services for the Marshall Islands, where he has lived and worked for 45 years. He is the author of “For the Good of Mankind, An Oral History of the People of Bikini,” and president of Microwave Films, which has produced six award-winning feature films in the Marshallese language. Send feedback to jackniedenthal@gmail.com

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