Micronesian soldiers in the time of uncertain promises

Inside the Reef By Joyce McClure

For decades, young men and women from the Federated States of Micronesia, the Marshall Islands and Palau have worn U.S. military uniforms at strikingly high rates.

Under the Compacts of Free Association, these freely associated states grant Washington strategic access to their land, waters and skies. In return, their citizens gain the right to live, work and enlist in the armed forces of the United States without visas.

It is a quiet but profound bargain. At any given time, roughly 1,000 to 1,500 Micronesians serve in the U.S. military. Per capita, Micronesians enlist at nearly double the rate of Americans. Their contributions stretch from San Diego to Okinawa. Many return home with honorable discharges only to find patchy support for veterans. Some return in boxes—the cemeteries of the Pacific mark the lives of Micronesian soldiers lost in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Now, as the Trump administration reshapes U.S. foreign aid, veterans services and Pacific strategy, Micronesian service members and their families again find themselves at the crossroads of decisions made far away.

The economic provisions of COFA were renewed in 2023 after years of uncertainty, sealing $7.1 billion in federal funding for two more decades.

On paper, little has changed.

But the lived experience is more complicated. The Trump administration has taken a transactional approach to foreign policy, emphasizing deals, cost-cutting and questioning long-standing commitments. In July, it froze USAID programs in the Pacific, halting health, governance, women’s economic empowerment and education projects.

For COFA nations, this disruption strikes at the foundation of the partnership. U.S. aid is not a handout; it is the counterpart to military access. When one side falters, the whole arrangement wobbles.

For Micronesians in uniform, the question is simple: will the promises hold?

The struggles facing Micronesian veterans are well known. Unlike U.S. citizens, COFA veterans often face hurdles in accessing federal benefits, especially healthcare. Many return to islands without VA clinics and must rely on underfunded local hospitals. Others stay in Guam, Hawaii or the mainland to pursue treatment, straining family ties and finances.

Robson Henry, a Kosraean Army veteran with more than 20 years of service, spoke of travel costs for medicine: “A majority of our veterans don’t have the means… You know how expensive it is.”

Kalani Kaneko, a Marshall Islands senator and U.S. Army veteran, framed it simply: “It’s a human right.”

These voices underline a painful truth: Micronesians shed the same blood and wear the same boots, but too often return to unequal care.

Micronesian women also serve as soldiers, sailors and medics. Their numbers are smaller, but their challenges are distinct.     

Nationally, women make up about 17 percent of the U.S. military, yet they face higher rates of harassment, slower promotion and limited access to gender-specific healthcare.

Under the Trump administration, rollbacks of diversity and inclusion programs weakened safeguards for women facing harassment or discrimination. Cuts in military medical services strained access to reproductive and maternal care. For Micronesian women, often serving far from family support, these gaps weigh heavily.

The tone at the top matters. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth has argued against women in combat, saying in 2024, “We should not have women in combat roles. It hasn’t made us more effective.”

At his 2025 confirmation hearing, he softened this stance, adding that women could serve if they met the same standards as men. But the earlier remarks linger. U.S. allies rejected his view, reaffirming the importance of women in combat forces.

For Micronesian women, such rhetoric compounds existing hurdles. They navigate not only gender barriers but also cultural isolation, thin community networks and uncertain access to veterans care. Their stories are less often heard, yet they share the same compact of sacrifice—standing watch, deploying overseas and balancing family with duty.

Sen. Tammy Duckworth, a highly decorated veteran, pushed back: “Contrary to what Pete Hegseth has said repeatedly, women have always made our military stronger and are more qualified to serve in their roles than Pete Hegseth is to serve as secretary of defense.” She underscored that women have earned their places by passing the same rigorous testing as men.

Beyond aid and veterans’ issues, bigger geopolitical shifts loom.

Washington views the Pacific as the “third island chain,” a critical buffer against China. Military planners prize COFA’s guaranteed U.S. access, which allows radar sites, missile defense and airfield upgrades like those currently under construction in Yap.

For the Trump administration, this strategic value is the main point. Officials describe Micronesia and its neighbors as “unsinkable aircraft carriers.” But that framing reduces Micronesians to pawns in a larger chess match. The human dimension—the soldiers from Yap, Kosrae, Chuuk or Pohnpei standing guard in desert heat—fades into the background.

When aid programs are suspended or veterans’ benefits denied, it undercuts not only trust in Washington’s promises but also the morale of those still enlisting.

The FSM’s population is just over 100,000, yet hundreds serve at any given time. The Marshall Islands, with fewer than 60,000 residents, have contributed dozens of soldiers to every recent U.S. conflict.

Stories abound: a Kosraean Marine in Okinawa sending remittances home, a Palauan Army medic navigating the VA system in Texas, Chuukese families in Guam honoring relatives lost in Iraq. These are not abstract symbols of alliance; they are lived sacrifices.

The amended compacts should anchor trust for another 20 years. But in island capitals, leaders wonder if Washington’s word still holds. In the barracks, Micronesian service members question whether the country they serve will stand by them when their tours end.

Analysts warn that transactional diplomacy risks pushing island nations toward Beijing, which offers aid and loans without debate in Congress. For Micronesians in uniform, the concern is more personal: whether their families will still see the schools, hospitals and support systems COFA promised.

The reef has always been both protection and boundary. From inside, islanders look out at a world that is powerful, turbulent, sometimes welcoming, sometimes threatening. For Micronesian service members, the reef line is also symbolic. They cross it when they swear the oath, leaving home for boot camp in Missouri or California. They cross it again when they return, carrying the weight of service in a uniform that still surprises many in their villages.

The reef does not vanish when policies shift in Washington. But it does change how islanders read the waves rolling in. If aid falters, if veterans care weakens, if the U.S. speaks more of strategy than people, the reef feels less like a shield and more like a wall.

Islanders who serve under the American flag deserve more than rhetoric about “unsinkable carriers.” They deserve healthcare, education and the certainty that their families will not be forgotten when budgets are cut.

Much now depends on whether Congress reasserts its bipartisan commitment to COFA and whether Pacific voices are heard in Washington. For Micronesians in the military, the stakes are not theoretical—they are measured in deployments, in veterans’ clinics and in the choices of the next generation deciding whether to enlist.

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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