NO REST FOR THE AWAKE - MINAGAHET CHAMORRO

I have been traveling for the past few weeks and struggling while conducting research and giving a variety of presentations, to also finish up a couple of articles. One of them is based on the research I did for the Guam Humanities Council a few years ago for their exhibit Sindålu: Chamorro Journey Stories in the US Military. It was an exciting and interesting project on a variety of levels. I got to share some interesting stories that I've come across in my archival and oral history research, some of which haven't really ever been publicized before. I also got to tackle some issues in terms of understanding or unpacking contemporary Chamoru identity. The veteran subjectivity is so pervasive and somewhat hegemonic in Chamoru culture today, that it ends up taking a great deal of space, even for those who aren't veterans themselves. How many people when talking about issues of decolonization and demilitarization feel a inner need to curb their potential voice, their potenti

So far this year Independent Guåhan has organized two Hale'-ta Hikes; the first to Laso' Fouha or Fouha Rock, and the second to Hila'an. Our third hike is set for later this month to Pågat. I have written in several articles recently about how important this type of outreach has been in terms of developing community resistance to US military plans in Guam. Taking people into the areas that may be affected, contaminated or closed off to the public, and allowing them to forge their own personal and eventually, hopefully, political connections was essential, especially in the case of Pågat. This is one reason why things have been different recently with regards to Litekyan. The fact that when you take people on hikes there, you are walking not through "public" or "local" lands, but instead federal property makes it difficult for people to imagine a strong connection to the lands and their meaning. Instead it feels like more of the stolen lands, stolen

5,000 days of protest in northern Okinawa. In truth, the protests there go much further back, but 5,000 is a nice, big, profound number. It represents 5,000 days of continuous protest, of daily, symbolic and direct resistance to US militarism and militarization in the island. I have been fortunate enough to visit the protest camps in Okinawa on several occasions since 2011. I have spoken to scholars, to activists, to students, to elders, to farmers, to fishermen and even to paddlers and scuba divers. It does make me wonder, at one point the level of militarization or of consciousness about militarization in Guam will come to a similar point. There have been outbursts, periods of direct action, protest, there has been a great deal of counter-hegemonic activity, trying to make it more possible for the community to engage in critical discussions about Guam's military presence or purpose. But nothing similar to what we see in Okinawa. Will the plans for a firing range at Litekyan

It is so intriguing the way in which local media covers Liberation Day in Guam, the holiday meant to commemorate the American re-taking of the island from Japanese forces during World War II. Objectively, the American reoccupying of the island in 1944 was not a liberation, at least not in most senses of the word. It's level of "liberation" depends largely on whether or not you exclude the Chamorros, the indigenous people of Guam, who have called this island home for possible thousands of years. It is very bewildering how we predicate the idea of Liberation Day being a liberation on the experiences of the Chamorro people, because so many of them express it as being a liberation, but calling it a liberation requires suspending their human rights and reducing their to a mere colonial effect of the United States. You can refer to July 21st as a liberation from Japanese occupation, as a liberation of US territory from foreign clutches. Even if Chamorros themselves may call i

I first wrote this article 13 years ago while I was applying for graduate school in the states and working part-time at the Guam Communications Network in Long Beach, California. My auntie Fran Lujan was working there as well and they had an irregular publication called Galaide'. Prior to my leaving Guam, I had photocopied hundreds of articles from the Pacific Daily News around the time of the the 9/11 attacks, and I had spent more than a year trying to organize my thoughts on it. It seemed so strange in that moment, how everyone was reaching out to the United States, trying to find a way to patriotically or tragically feel included in its embrace. But the more that people asserted their inclusion and their belonging, the more the structure of their exclusion became pronounced and obvious. I used the article below as my attempt. It remains my first all-out attempt at a critical intervention. I still find myself making some of these arguments, whereas others I have moved on from o

What a strange world it is, where lately I find myself agreeing regularly with neo-conservatives, hawkish Democrats and former heads of the CIA. One thing that I am struggling to figure out, is why I find Donald Trump's foreign policy positions so repulsive. In a way, his lack of knowledge about the structure of American power in the world, makes it so that he is occasionally or randomly likely to take a position closer to my own. When he discusses withdrawing US support or participation from various alliances, he is talking about reducing America's imperial bootprint over the globe, something that local activists in communities forced to shoulder the burden of America's more than a 100 overseas bases have been demanding for years. Hillary Clinton on the other hand will no doubt maintain, albeit with reasonable imperial justifications, the vast and ridiculously expensive global network of American power. She is after all, the voice that reaffirmed the US commitment to m

I would never want to be the Ti Mambobota na Kongres para Guahan in the US Congress. First of all, so much in Congress works on seniority, and so by starting off you would be as one elder told me "i mas takpapa' na gå'ga'." Second, your status as a non-voting delegate and not a full member of Congress means that while you get the perks, you do not get the rights. Third, your status depends so much on whichever party controls the US House. When the Democrats have controlled the house for a short period in the 1990s and during the 2000s, the non-voting delegates from Guam and other territories received symbolic voting rights, meaning they could vote as part of the whole, with their vote counting, only if their votes did not affect whether a bill passed or failed. When the Republicans are in power, this symbolic power disappears and all the symbolic excitement associated with it. Fourth, as for most of the Federal government (and much of the US) Guam's

The Importance of Noise Michael Lujan Bevacqua Guam Daily Post April 6, 2016 Writing about colonization in action can be a hysterical albeit terrifying experience. It is something that has consumed my work as an activist and a scholar for more than a decade. It reminds me of a Dilbert comic from long ago, where the pointy haired boss tells a worker that the collar he is putting on him comes with an electric shock which will buzz him if he leaves the area of his “office” or a circle drawn on the carpet. Later in the week the worker is still there and we learn that he has been taught to beg for food. Seeing colonization in action is paying attention to those invisible walls that keep the co-worker in his place, and trying to get others to adjust their eyes just long enough to see that nothing, to very little is probably there. Colonization can involve very clear forms of force, violence and oppression, but it leaves intangible, sometimes barely perceptible marks that persist even