I have always tried to stay away from politics and religion in public discourse, not because I lack conviction, but because too often those conversations devolve into noise, division, and senseless debates where winning matters more than truth and pride matters more than people. I have long believed that some battles are better fought through service, through community, and through action rather than endless arguments across tables and timelines.
But there comes a point when silence is no longer wisdom. There comes a point when lives are at stake, when families are stranded, when elders are waiting for medicine, when children are without power, water, or security after a storm tears through everything they know. At that point, what was once considered political becomes personal. It becomes moral, and it becomes impossible to look away.
In the aftermath of Super Typhoon Sinlaku, we have seen not only the destruction left behind by nature, but the frustrating delays and barriers surrounding badly needed resources and lifesaving relief efforts. We have seen communities forced to wait while bureaucracy moves at the speed of indifference. We have seen people on the ground doing everything they can, while systems designed to protect them become obstacles instead of lifelines. That is not just disheartening, it is abhorrent.
What makes this even harder to accept is watching our own people thousands of miles away, here stateside, mobilize faster than the very systems built for disaster response. Families in Oregon, Washington, California, Hawaiʻi, and across the mainland are organizing donation drives, collecting food, tarps, batteries, flashlights, hygiene supplies, baby essentials, and medical necessities. Small businesses are stepping in. Churches are opening their doors. Community leaders are coordinating shipping containers. Volunteers are using their own vehicles, their own fuel, and their own limited resources to do what government agencies should have already streamlined.
This is not because our people enjoy carrying the burden alone. It is because they have learned, time and time again, that if they do not act, no one will move fast enough. When Matson containers, local donation drives, and grassroots efforts become the primary lifeline instead of the emergency backup plan, we have to ask the uncomfortable question: what exactly are our institutions doing?
Relief should not depend on whether your auntie in Portland can organize a fundraiser, whether your uncle in Tacoma can help secure transportation, or whether diaspora communities can raise enough money to fill a container before another storm arrives. Community solidarity is beautiful, but it should never be used to excuse government failure. Resilience should not become an excuse for neglect.
I have said it before, and I will continue to say it again: being silent and complacent is being complicit. We cannot continue to accept the status quo with the tired excuse of “it is what it is.” That phrase has become one of the most dangerous forms of surrender in our islands. It excuses dysfunction, protects incompetence, and allows preventable suffering to become normalized. Enough is enough.
This is not a partisan message. This is not left versus right, red versus blue, Democrat versus Republican, independent versus establishment. This is a message to every elected official, every appointed leader, and every person who sought public trust and public office under every color of the rainbow under the sun. Your intentions matter, and if your intentions are truly pure, then you must understand this: you do not lose people, they lose you.
Purity in today’s world is rare. Genuine service without hidden agenda is rare. Honesty without manipulation is rare. Leadership without performance is rare. And because it is rare, it threatens people. It exposes what others are unwilling to be. When your intentions are good, you do not play games. You do not manipulate. You do not keep score. You show up consistently. You tell the truth even when it costs you. You serve because people matter, not because cameras are watching. You help because it is right, not because it is politically convenient.
Unfortunately, too many people no longer know how to handle sincerity. They mistake kindness for weakness. They take advantage of patience. They underestimate silence. They grow comfortable in systems where accountability is optional and appearances matter more than outcomes. But eventually, truth catches up.
One day, the people stop showing up, not out of anger, not out of spite, but because their spirit finally recognizes what their heart tried to ignore: when intentions are clean, losing people is not loss, it is alignment. People with impure intentions cannot stand the presence of someone genuine. It convicts them. It makes them uncomfortable because authenticity requires honesty, while corruption survives on ego, and ego always flees when truth enters the room.
So no, the people did not lose you. If your service was real, if your loyalty was genuine, if your leadership was rooted in responsibility rather than ambition, then those who turned away lost something far greater. They lost trust. They lost credibility. They lost the privilege of being believed. And if they abandoned that trust, they lost the people.
Public office is not ownership. It is stewardship. Leadership is not entitlement. It is accountability. And the people are not an inconvenience to be managed, they are the very reason your title exists. Sooner or later, every leader learns the weight of that truth, not because people seek revenge, but because integrity has a value that is often only recognized in hindsight.
To our people in the CNMI and across our islands, do not question your worth for demanding better. Do not apologize for expecting urgency when your families are suffering. Do not let anyone convince you that asking for transparency, competence, and compassion is somehow asking for too much. It is not. It is the minimum.
If we act with sincerity, with loyalty to our people, with clarity, and with heart, then demanding accountability is not failure, it is responsibility. Because when intentions are pure, we do not lose people. We simply stop carrying those who were never willing to match the honesty, urgency, and duty our communities deserve.
Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng) https://orcid.org/0009-0002-3004-8972 is a cultural advocate and independent researcher from the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands currently residing in Oregon. He writes on Pacific governance, ocean policy, and diaspora political participation.
Editor’s note: The views and opinions expressed in this op-ed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of NMI News Service or its staff. All assertions are the sole responsibility of the writer.
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