How the Marshall Islands rearranged my soul
Majuro—When I arrived in the Marshall Islands as a young Peace Corps volunteer in 1981, I expected to learn a new language, eat unfamiliar foods and experience a different way of life. What I did not expect was that the experience would fundamentally change who I am. Indeed, I believe it has somehow rearranged my soul.
Can a soul actually change? Is there something within us that remains constant, or are we continually reshaped by the people we meet, the places we inhabit, and the cultures that become part of our lives? I am not necessarily talking about religion. I mean that mysterious part of our humanity that determines how we see the world, treat others, and understand what gives our lives meaning.
When I first arrived from Pennsylvania, I carried an entire collection of assumptions about how the world worked. Most were unconscious, absorbed while growing up in the U.S. Individual achievement mattered. Time was something to manage. Success could be measured by what you accomplished, owned or earned. These were not necessarily bad values. They were simply the values of the society that had produced me.
Then I found myself on a small, isolated island in Namu Atoll, surrounded by a couple of hundred people whose understanding of life was profoundly different from mine. Slowly, sometimes painfully, my assumptions began to unravel.
On the outer islands, I encountered a society where relationships often mattered more than individual accomplishments, community obligations took precedence over personal ambition, and generosity was not extraordinary but expected.
I was struck by how little material wealth some families possessed, yet how willingly they shared whatever they had. Food circulated among neighbors, and I quickly learned that refusing food could be considered an insult. Children moved freely between households, often adopted by aunts and uncles. Family extended far beyond the boundaries I had grown up understanding. One's existence was inseparable from the lives of others. My wife herself was raised by an aunt and uncle, and we later adopted two children from her younger sister.
But this was no romantic paradise. Marshallese society, like every society, has its conflicts, jealousies, contradictions and injustices. There are aspects of island life that frustrated me when I first arrived, and some that still do today. I have lived here far too long to pretend otherwise. Yet beneath those imperfections, I discovered a way of understanding human relationships that challenged my deepest Western assumptions. Perhaps the hardest lesson was accepting that my cultural perspective was not necessarily correct.
I had to listen more than I spoke. In fact, during my six years living on the outer islands, that's pretty much all I did: listen. I learned that silence could communicate something important, and that what appeared inefficient to me might serve a purpose I did not yet understand. Some of my greatest teachers have been Marshallese elders who never attended a university or traveled outside the Pacific.
Yet their understanding of human nature, community obligations, survival and the relationship between people and their environment was extraordinary. They taught me things no classroom could have taught me. Some of my most important education had nothing to do with textbooks or academic degrees. They came from people whose wisdom had been shaped by generations of island life.
There is something profoundly humbling about discovering that people with little of what your society considers important may understand certain aspects of life far better than you do. But moving to another country does not automatically transform anyone.
I have known foreigners who lived in the Marshall Islands for decades and remained essentially unchanged. They occupied the same geographical space as the Marshallese people, but emotionally, they never really left home. They observed the culture without allowing it to challenge their understanding of themselves.
To be changed by another culture, you must surrender something: the comforting certainty that the world you came from represents the natural order of things. You must be willing to feel confused, embarrassed, frustrated, and occasionally completely wrong. You must allow another society to challenge not just what you think, but how you think. That can be frightening.
During my early years on the outer islands, cultural differences sometimes overwhelmed me. I questioned my judgment and wondered whether coming here had been a terrible mistake.
Yet those difficult experiences often changed me the most. Looking back, I suspect my most important lessons came not when everything made sense, but when absolutely nothing did. Often, the problem was not that the Marshallese were doing something incorrectly, but that I was interpreting their actions through assumptions that did not apply.
Living within another culture does not mean abandoning the one you came from. I remain American in certain ways. My upbringing will always be part of me. But I am nowhere close to the person who arrived here in 1981.
The Marshall Islands have become part of my internal landscape. The rhythms of island life, the importance of extended family and the resilience of people who have endured hardships outsiders can scarcely imagine have reshaped my understanding of the world. Almost my entire adult life has been spent living and working with the people of Bikini Atoll. Their history of displacement and suffering has taught me profound lessons about dignity, injustice, perseverance and forgiveness.
When you spend decades listening to people describe the loss of their homeland, their struggle to preserve their identity and their determination to maintain hope, it becomes impossible to remain untouched. Their experiences have become inseparable from my understanding of justice, dignity and human resilience.
I have come to understand that the loss of a homeland involves far more than the loss of land. It can mean the disruption of family relationships, traditions, and a sense of belonging that has existed for centuries. Eventually, the distinction between learning about another culture and being transformed by it begins to disappear.
Which brings me back to the question: Can a soul change? Perhaps the answer depends on what we believe a soul actually is. If it is an eternal, unchanging essence, perhaps not. But if the soul is the deepest expression of our humanity—our compassion, our understanding of others, our sense of belonging—then I believe it can change profoundly.
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I often wonder what kind of person I would have become had I remained in America. Would I have learned the same lessons about generosity, community, suffering and resilience? Would I have developed the same capacity for empathy? Maybe. There is no way to know. But I suspect I would have become a very different person.
I have come to believe that the soul is not simply something we are born with. It is also something we shape through the lives we live and the people we allow ourselves to love. The Marshall Islands did not erase the person I once was. They challenged my assumptions, expanded my understanding of humanity and taught me lessons I am still struggling to fully appreciate.
Perhaps changing a soul does not mean becoming someone entirely different. Perhaps it means becoming someone you never knew you were capable of being. After 45 years, I am still learning, and I am still being humbled. I suspect that, until the day I kick the proverbial bucket, the Marshall Islands will continue to rearrange my soul.
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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