By Glen Hunter
A concerned citizen in the CNMI
IN Part 1 and Part 2 of this series, I explained how the CNMI’s political system has long worked against the public interest. I described how the old guard co-opted some of our community’s brightest minds, and how temporary federal windfalls were used to create the appearance of prosperity while our foundations were weakening underneath us.
But pointing out the failures of a broken system is only part of the job. The harder question is this: How did a small entrenched group manage to keep so many people silent for so long — and what will it take for us to break that cycle and reclaim our government?
What went wrong
When I first returned home to Saipan decades ago, I was struck by a deep sense of community apathy. I spent years trying to understand why a people as resilient as ours — deeply connected to this land and fiercely protective of family — could stay quiet while a handful of insiders steadily mortgaged our children’s future.
Let’s be honest about how that future was sold off. The damage to our institutions was not an accident; it came from repeated choices. The system hollowed out essential services, draining local budgets that should have gone toward modernizing our struggling health care system and building a stronger, more reliable power grid. To secure quick wins at the ballot box, politicians overpromised unfunded pension increases. They used public money to buy short-term loyalty, driving the NMI Retirement Fund into a catastrophic, court-mandated settlement that left our manamko’ worried about their financial security.
At the same time, leaders abused federal immigration and labor carve-outs for personal gain. Their actions were so reckless that the federal government stepped in and stripped the Commonwealth of local authority in key areas. It was a serious blow to our self-governance, and it stemmed from insider greed and failure.
That long period of misgovernance reached a painful peak under the last administration. The government ran up hundreds of millions in structural deficits and spent nearly $2 billion in federal pandemic relief with little lasting to show for it. The same leadership tied our economy to a predatory casino project that collapsed under the weight of its own empty promises, leaving local revenues in freefall and the public to absorb the consequences.
To keep that damage out of view, the administration failed to produce single audits for three straight fiscal years — FY20, FY21, and FY22. That was more than poor bookkeeping. It was a way to keep the people of the CNMI in the dark while our future was being spent away. The list of self-inflicted wounds goes on. And the painful truth is that, for a long time, we stood by in silence.
How silence was maintained
How did they hold on for so long? Part of the answer lies in a web of cultural pressure and institutional fear. We are a small community. In a place where everyone is connected, direct confrontation is deeply uncomfortable. People are related to decision-makers, they do business with them, or they count them as friends. For years, the entrenched system used that closeness to its advantage, creating a culture of silence by making the cost of speaking out feel too high for the average family.
Even worse, they took our most sacred cultural values and twisted them into tools of control. In our islands, respect (respetu) for our elders and leaders is a foundational part of who we are. It is meant to bind us together, protect our heritage, and maintain harmony. But the political machinery twisted that value. They turned “respect” into silence in the face of wrongdoing. They told us that questioning misconduct was a sign of disrespect, and that keeping our heads down was a cultural duty. They used our humility as a shield to protect corruption, effectively convincing an entire community that silence was a virtue when, in reality, it allowed them to strip our islands bare.
That silence has always been driven by three forces: fear, cynicism, and blind acceptance.
For generations, the fear was real. It was the open secret that choosing the “wrong” political faction could mean harassment, lost opportunities, or a family member quietly losing a government contract. The cynicism was just as harmful: the belief that speaking up was pointless because a lone voice in the desert would be ignored, targeted, or crushed.
I know that fear and cynicism personally. Not because I read about it in a book, but because I lived it. Speaking out against corruption over the years came with a heavy personal cost. I’ve been fired twice. I’ve endured vandalism. I’ve received death threats, and I’ve watched people in power try to pressure my family and friends to force my silence.
But giving in was never an option. Once you trade away your integrity to protect your comfort, you give the very machine harming your home control over your life.
Why that is changing
Something important has changed in the CNMI over the past decade. The era of near-total public apathy is beginning to fade. Thanks to a growing number of citizens who stepped forward and cleared a path, we are seeing a genuine awakening. The old guard is realizing it can no longer rely on fear and pressure to control every outcome.
Today, our public conversation is breaking down rigid old party lines. Voters increasingly want candidates who bring real ideas, sound policy, and clear principles — not just loyalty to a political organization.
Just as importantly, this change has not come only from outside traditional party structures. To build a better CNMI, we have to recognize that card-carrying party members have also helped drive this shift. Over the past decade, courageous Republicans, Democrats, and Independents alike have shown that true loyalty belongs to the people, not to a party label. When serious problems arose, these individuals had the civic courage to speak up and challenge wrongdoing, even when it meant crossing their own leadership. The old belief that a political machine can fully control a member’s conscience is fading.
That change helped make one of the most important milestones in our recent history possible: the election of the late Arnold Palacios as the CNMI’s first Independent governor. His victory sent a clear message from voters that principles matter more than party machinery.
And yet, standing up to an entrenched status quo remains lonely work. Governor Palacios often used a phrase that captured that isolation: “Sometimes I feel like John the Baptist in the desert.” It speaks to the feeling of shouting hard truths into a wide silence and wondering whether anyone is listening. However one interprets that comparison, the point is clear: speaking truth to power can be isolating, even when it is necessary.
Still, the public response to leaders like Palacios shows that people were listening.
The wilderness was not empty.
What readers must do now
We should recognize and honor the amount of progress that has been built by the hands of our own people. This path has never been easy. It has been an uphill fight against a system that often answered truth with retaliation, pressure, and political attacks. Yet countless people found the courage to act. They spoke out. They pursued legal challenges to confront corruption. They ran for public office. Whistleblowers risked their livelihoods to expose what was happening behind the scenes. Everyday citizens drew a line and held friends, relatives, and neighbors accountable, because doing the right thing mattered more than tribal loyalty.
Our people endured a great deal to bring us to this moment, and the work is still not finished. In less than six months, when we stand in the voting booth, we have a responsibility to honor that sacrifice and protect what has been built.
We cannot afford a snap-back to the old ways. We must guard against the forces that would once again manipulate, divide, and co-opt the people who have spent years carving out a path to a better CNMI. True recovery requires resolve. If we allow the past to reclaim control, we risk losing both the people who helped drive change and the progress that has already been made.
There are nearly 50,000 people who call our Commonwealth home. There are only 29 legislators and a governor, and their power is borrowed from us. Our silence is the only thing that ever gave them permission to abuse it.
When we step into the voting booth, the machinery of intimidation loses its power. In that moment, the voice of the people is stronger than any system that drained our public funds, undermined programs like BOOST, and turned life-saving federal aid into a tool for special interests. It is stronger than a system that diverted public resources to protect political allies, spent a historic amount of federal relief with too little lasting benefit, and left our islands carrying heavy debt, fines, and broken trust.
Our rights to speak freely and live securely should never be held hostage by a system built on dependency and fear. Real change does not come from glossy campaign brochures or empty promises. It comes from an active, watchful citizenry that remembers the past and refuses to repeat it.
The path to a better CNMI is open because our people fought to clear it. Do not hand the keys back to those who helped damage it. The power to decide where our islands go next belongs to you.
