Migrations on the Ancient Stone Paths of Rumung
Vicky Jade Lukan is a master’s student in the Department of Pacific Islands Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa.
The views expressed in this publication are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policies or positions of the Pacific Islands Development Program or the East-West Center.
Share or republish this article.
Rumung is an island tucked away in the northernmost tip of Yap in the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM). It once beamed with a vibrant community governed by rich and respected traditions, customs, and taboos. However, like elsewhere, the long arm of globalization has reached Rumung with waves of changes. Many of the island’s inhabitants rode the waves of change and have migrated, chasing dreams of better livelihood.
These changes were not entirely unexpected. Long ago, Rumung’s ancestors were forewarned by a legendary neighboring island called Sipin that “white skinned ghosts” would one day come to their shores and degrade their customs and cultures. Later on after World War II, the people of Rumung decided to ban foreigners from going to the island. Over the years, there have been some amendments. For example, priests and doctors have been allowed to go to designated places on the island. Other foreigners continued to be prohibited unless otherwise permitted.
Rumung has seven villages with clans that have been entrusted with the responsibility to look after the island and its environment. But over the years many of the island’s inhabitants have migrated to other parts of Yap and the FSM or abroad, mostly the U.S., in search of better opportunities. Nowadays, only a small population remains on the island.
I am from Rumung. However, I grew up in the neighboring municipality of Maap. As a little girl I was always reminded by my parents and elders that I was from Rumung and had obligations to the island. One of those responsibilities was the Malngag ko Ppin—a gathering of women to clean and care for the lands and shared infrastructure. At that time, the small village of Fal, one of seven in the municipality of Rumung, had more than 20 women who represented the six households in the village. The women were often joined by their children and grandchildren for the Malngag ko Ppin.
I remember those gatherings vividly; they were lively with the women working, chanting, chatting, and laughing while their children—including me—played. The village, shorelines, and the surrounding forests were echoed with chattering voices, singing, chanting, and laughter as the women cleaned the stone paths that went from one end of the village to the other, and between villages.
This was an obligatory communal task performed once or twice a month. Other villages have the same obligation to clean their lands, but they may govern it differently. I remember the stone path through Fal was carefully maintained and carpeted with green grass. The foliage along the stone paths were regularly trimmed to let sunlight in. I remember as a child walking—or more accurately running—along these stone paths. The graves of those who had passed on, landscape, forests, and trees that line the paths were mute witnesses of my people’s ancient stories and memories. It was a magical and spiritual journey into the womb of Rumung’s ancient pasts.
Since those childhood days, I have moved on in search of formal education, I left the island, eventually going to Wheeling, West Virginia, in the continental U.S. and now at the University of Hawaiʻi for college. Over the years I spent less time at home, and those childhood experiences were pushed to the edges of distant memories.
In the summer of 2024, I went home to visit my folks while doing pre-research for a Master of Arts thesis. But the research project was quickly relegated as I found myself traveling down memory lane. I joined the women of my clan for the Malngag ko Ppin obligations on Rumung. It had been almost two decades since I last joined as a child. Now, I am an adult. It was surreal and exciting, as though I had been teleported back to my childhood days, but now with the wisdom and foresight of adulthood.
The deeper meanings of the Malngag ko Ppin protocols and traditions were now clear to me. As I walked through the village on the same stone path that used to brim with laughter, voices, and movement, I noticed the changes. The foliage that lined the path had grown into trees blocking the sunlight. The carpet of grass that once covered the path was gone, replaced by coconut palm leaves, some still green while others in various stages of decay.
I asked my aunt why there were coconut leaves on the path. She said, “There are not many women left to clean anymore. We’re trying to kill the grass and slow its growth, so that it’s easier to maintain by the few who are left.” At first, I did not think too much of it. However, later when we gathered to start the day’s cleaning, I was shocked to see that apart from me, there were only seven women. Five of them were from my clan. I knew that in the past decades many people had migrated abroad, but I did not realize that only a few women had remained at home. It took me the entire day to come to terms with the fact that only a few women were left to do the Malngag ko Ppin. Those who had closely observed this change over time were not shocked.
The killing of carpet grass on the stone paths pained me the most because it was my most fond childhood recollection of home. However, as someone who had not participated in the Malngag ko Ppin for years, I kept my feelings to myself. I was one of those who had left, and would once again leave at the end of summer. So I quietly helped the women lay more coconut leaves on the path to kill the grass.
Despite my pains, I recognized how the women left behind on Rumung had creatively adapted to the pressures of declining population—a result of outmigration—to sustain their island. For a community whose livelihood is intricately intertwined with land and the environment, the women have found ways to maintain their responsibilities in the midst of social change. This ensures that whenever those who had left return to the island, the stone paths of Rumung will be there to lead them home.
At the end of the summer break, when I once again bid farewell to my home to return to Hawaiʻi, I was comforted by the belief that the stone paths of Rumung will guide me into the future. I have the obligation to keep it clean for the next generation—and that’s about all I could see myself promising for the future and changes that’s yet to come.