A few hundred miles south of mainland Japan is a narrow island called Okinawa. Its Indigenous residents, the Uchinanchu, whose older residents have been living longer than just about anyone on Earth, are surrounded by crystal blue water and coral reefs, an ecosystem so biodiverse that some call the region “the Galápagos of the East.” Okinawan culture is known for being spiritual and relaxed, but the residents' peace is interrupted daily by the roar of helicopters and jets, because the U.S. military still uses Okinawa as a strategic base.
Kaiya Yonamine, 17, knows the story well. Born in Portland, Oregon, to a mother who immigrated from Okinawa, she grew up hearing tales from elder relatives who had witnessed the island’s devastation during World War II. When U.S. forces invaded Okinawa, as part of an assault on Japan in 1945, Kaiya’s great aunt Higa helped her nursing school students hide in caves, where they treated the wounded at night. In just 82 days, up to half of the island’s 300,000 civilians had died.
“Every household [in Okinawa] has at least one person who survived the war, or family members who were all affected,” says Kaiya, who describes herself as second-generation Uchinanchu. Now her great aunt Higa is 99, and still telling stories. “Hearing her talk shows me how powerful our people are, and that’s what I’m most proud of: We’re still fighting.”
For Okinawans, the war’s end in 1945 was only the start of what some consider a U.S. military occupation of the region that continues today. The island is .6% of Japan’s landmass, but hosts 70% of the country’s U.S. military forces, with ensuing noise pollution, dangerous accidents, and incidents of sexual violence by U.S. servicemen. In the past few years, Okinawan resistance has coalesced to defend Henoko, a coastal town where the Marines plan to relocate the air base. Kaiya has supported the resistance with Our Island’s Treasure, a short and heartfelt documentary meant to call attention to what her people are facing in the name of U.S. security.
During her first visit to Henoko, in 2018, Kaiya witnessed elders lying in the road to block bulldozers that were starting work on the new 507-acre base (that’s 383 football fields). The activists, who began daily sit-ins 15 years ago, held “No Osprey” signs, referring to the loud military aircraft that may be causing hearing loss among some elders. Offshore, masked “kayaktivists” paddled into a restricted zone where coral reefs are being landfilled to make runways in Henoko’s Oura Bay, home to over 5,300 species, 262 of which are endangered, like the dugong, prized in Uchinanchu culture.
As Japanese riot police dragged stubborn protesters from the road, Kaiya used her phone to broadcast the repression online. She asked the elders how she could help and says they told her, “Tell people what’s happening.” Despite widespread local opposition to building this base in Henoko, the Japanese government sides with the U.S. in supporting the project, and activists feel the issue is widely overlooked outside of Okinawa.
Watching “inhumane” arrests at the sit-in “was the moment that really broke my heart,” Kaiya recalls. “I knew what was going on, but actually being there made me almost break down. I couldn’t just fly back to Oregon and act like I didn’t watch all that happen to my relatives.” She remembers thinking, If the media isn’t going to do anything, then why don’t I become the media?
When Kaiya returned home, she connected with others in the Uchinanchu diaspora, seeking advice about who to interview for a documentary about Henoko. She was a filmmaking novice, but her teacher offered tips on lighting, and implored her to “just get it done.” Friends in Kaiya’s high school Pacific Islander Club sold baked goods to help fund her return to Okinawa. In February, more than 72% of Okinawans voted to reject the Henoko base in a nonbinding referendum.
To make Our Island’s Treasure, Kaiya spent her spring break trekking around Okinawa, filming interviews in Japanese, and working “late into the night every day.” She recorded the ocean-loving sentiments of local students, lifelong activists, and even Denny Tamaki, the island’s governor, who has taken a strong stance against the Henoko base. The most important perspective was that of World War II survivor Fumiko Shimabukuro, who Kaiya calls “the matriarch of the whole movement.” Shimabukuro “will grab the mic and talk directly to the camera [about] why she doesn’t want to repeat history, and why the military base is a symbol of that,” Kaiya says.
The film’s name comes from what Kaiya says is a well-known Okinawan nickname for the sea. Since Kaiya completed the Our Island's Treasure, in mid-2019, it’s been screened in Honolulu, Chicago, Oakland, San Francisco, and Portland. In addition to panoramas of Oura Bay, candlelight vigils, and sit-ins, Kaiya’s film features a Q&A format in which her Portland classmates ask questions of young Okinawans, and ends with youth on both sides of the ocean uttering a rallying cry: #RiseForHenoko!
Kaiya implores people touched by her work to contact their elected representatives, because “acknowledging the pressing need to reduce the presence of the United States Marine Corps on Okinawa” is currently being considered in the Senate’s version of Congress’s annual defense spending bill. “People in America need to do our part,” she says. “If the U.S. doesn’t want the base, Japan won’t build the base.” She hopes others will do their own research, including looking up photos of Oura Bay to “see how beautiful it is, while knowing that it’s being taken away from people.”
“In the documentary, you see the pain that’s in those people’s hearts,” Kaiya says. For her and her Uchinanchu relatives, Henoko is just the latest episode in a 75-year history of U.S. military intrusion onto their land. “It’s not just an Okinawan issue. It’s an American issue,” she adds. “People there were telling me, ‘We shouldn’t be the only ones in this fight.’ If you were in others’ shoes, what would you do?”
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