History repeating? Yap remembers the last war and fears the next

Inside The Reef By Joyce McClure

In Yap, the past is never far from the present. It lingers not only in the rusting remains of World War II planes scattered across the island that are now preserved tourist sites, or in the bunkers and cannons that the forest has reclaimed, or the occasional discovery of ordnance, but in the living memory of the people.

For many Yapese, especially the elders, war is not a distant concept. It’s a vivid, inherited trauma passed down through stories and scars.

During WWII, Yap was a Japanese possession, fortified as part of its South Seas mandate along with other islands throughout the north Pacific where the Japanese military constructed airfields, gun emplacements and naval bases.

Yap and the surrounding outer islands were primary targets when they became strategically vital as a site for the Japanese Empire's communications and defense network. The Japanese lighthouse on the main island stands among the silent reminders of this time.

Beginning in 1944, the U.S. bombed Yap repeatedly as part of its island-hopping campaign in the Pacific. Ulithi was the largest naval base in the world in 1944 and 1945, with over 600 ships anchored in the lagoon at one time. The Ulithi naval base was built to support the  Pacific War efforts of the Allied nations with additional bases on the four largest islands rimming the deep lagoon.  

There was no full-scale invasion, but the aerial assaults devastated much of the island's infrastructure and claimed civilian lives. Food shortages, forced labor and the constant fear of bombardment defined the wartime experience for Yapese families as it did for its neighbor, Guam. Villages were destroyed and crops were burned. Some islanders fled to hastily dug shelters, surviving on taro and breadfruit. Others were conscripted to dig trenches or work under duress for the Japanese military. The war came not with warning, but with fire from the sky.

Today, Yap's elders still remember those days when they were very young with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. Some of the stories have been passed down from the elders’ parents and remain a part of the island’s lore. The remnants of that long-ago war aren't just historical artifacts; they’re reminders of a time when foreign powers fought over the    Pacific region with little regard for the Indigenous people caught in between.

That visceral memory now informs a growing anxiety: Could it happen again?

With increasing tensions between the U.S. and China, particularly over Taiwan and influence in the Pacific, Yapese residents find themselves once more contemplating their place in a potential conflict not of their making.

In addition to the renovation of the old WWII-era airstrip on Ultihi’s Falalop island by the U.S. military for backup, representatives from China’s embassy in Pohnpei, along with FSM President Wesley Simina, held a groundbreaking ceremony to announce China’s renovation of the crumbling Japanese airstrip on Woleai in May. Welcomed by the residents after years of empty promises from the U.S., this involvement of China is another sign of the ongoing jockeying for influence between the two superpowers.

While Yap has no military base, its location places it well within the broader network of U.S. strategic planning. In 2018, proposals from Chinese companies to build hotels on the island raised alarm in Washington. Though those deals were ultimately blocked by the people, it underscored how the island is viewed as a potential asset in the competition.

This geopolitical tug-of-war is unsettling to many in Yap, who see echoes of the prelude to World War II: foreign interests making decisions that will affect their lives, lands and futures without their consultation or consent. The fear is not just about bombs and battleships; it’s about sovereignty, about voice and about the right to live in peace.

"The last time, no one asked us," said a Yapese community leader, who asked not to be named. "We were told where to go, what to do. We were caught in the middle. We are afraid that if there is another war, we will again be the ones to suffer first and be heard last."

There is also a cultural dimension to these fears. Yap, like many Pacific Islands, is a place where oral history, traditional navigation and kinship networks define identity and cohesion. War, especially war imposed from the outside, threatens to sever these connections. Displacement, destruction of sacred sites and the influx of military personnel and construction could erode the very fabric of Yapese life. Even without bombs falling, the militarization of the Pacific threatens the island's cultural and environmental integrity.

Some in Yap have begun advocating for more engagement with the military leaders, regional bodies and U.S. policymakers not just for reassurances, but recognition that their island is not just a pawn in a chess game, but a community with history, dignity and a right to peace.

The Compact of Free Association gives the United States responsibility for the defense of the FSM, but it also promises mutual respect and consultation. The Yapese elders are now asking, what does that consultation look like in practice, especially when the winds of war begin to stir?

And they’re watching the news, reading about China's maneuvers near Taiwan, about U.S. military investments in Guam, Palau and Yap. They’re watching the military enlarge the airport runway and upgrade the port to accommodate planes and ships as backup for Guam. They’re asking, will anyone protect us? Will we be asked, or just told?

History does not always repeat, but it often echoes. In Yap, those echoes are growing louder. The rusting warplanes in the jungle are no longer just curiosities for visiting tourists. They’re grim warnings, witnesses to the past and reminders that the people of Yap—who have already paid the price of someone else's war—deserve to be more than bystanders in the decisions that may shape their future once again.

In the quiet villages and on the shorelines of Yap, the desire is simple but profound: to live without fear, to preserve what remains and to never again be forced to survive another war that was never theirs to begin with.

Joyce McClure is a former senior marketing executive and former Peace Corps volunteer in Yap. Transitioning to freelance writing, she moved to Guam in 2021 and relocated back to the mainland in 2023. Send feedback to joycemcc62@yahoo.com 

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