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This piece was originally published on Medium by Johnny Tudela Aldan, MPH. You can follow his work at https://medium.com/@johnny.aldan.
When my grandmother Antonia was still alive, she used to tell us grandkids how she and my Nånan (great-grandmother) Rosa, grew almost everything they ate on the island of Luta (or Rota). On trips to the local store they would only get a few basic essentials — cooking oil, flour, rice, and maybe some canned goods every now and then. A much simpler life.
After World War 2, her family moved to Saipan. There she met and married my grandfather Juan, raised a large family of nine kids, and still kept up with the tradition of planting and harvesting from the land. Decades later, one of those kids, my uncle, would fly the whole family to Luta for what would be my grandmother’s last visit to her home island, just a few years before she passed away. I’ll never forget how she showed us the land where she and Nånan Rosa farmed food and planted the trees used to feed the family. Even after nearly seven decades, some of those trees were still standing, tall and strong.
That family trip was filled with stories and my favorites were from her childhood. She told us one story that during low tides, she would gather sea salt from the dried-up tide pools at a nearby beach along a fringing reef near the family’s land. They would bring the sea salt home and use it for salting and drying fish or meat. Another story was how they use to collect fresh water shrimp from a natural spring and stream that flowed into a series of ponds. After having fun fishing them out, she’d bring them home to be cooked and eaten with other food grown on the farm, like suni (taro), lemmai (breadfruit), gollai (vegetables or greens), and dagu or dågo (yam). If others helped the family that day, then the prepared food would be shared and everyone went home fed.
My own personal memories with her come from the “old house” in Garapan village or “the apartment” in Puerto Rico village on the weekends in Saipan. That’s where she and Nånan Rosa would start seeds in old tin cans they saved from the kitchen. Once the seeds sprouted and were ready for planting, I sometimes help transplant them into the front yard, the backyard, or load them into the car to take to the family farm. It was quiet and patient work. A kind of rhythm I don’t get to experience much anymore. She continued that practice of germinating, planting, and growing food well into her late 50’s and early 60’s.
When I had the chance to come home from college, I would help myself to lemmai, suni, påpåya (papaya), mangga (mango), alageta (avocado), niyok (coconut), dagu or dågo, kamuti (sweet potato), mandioka (cassava or yucca) and gollai. Everything I ate would have been planted by her decades earlier or they were gifted to her by relatives who would stopped by the old house or the apartment to share what they had grown, catch up on life, and reminisce about the old days before the war.
The best part? The stories she shared and the food never cost a thing. It came from the farm, the back- or front yard, always fresh, in season, and abundant. That was real food security and food sovereignty. All it took was time, care, and patience, a way of life rooted in land, family, and stories. A way of life that is quickly disappearing from our islands.
In her days, food didn’t come in plastic, it came with stories.
The Island Food Landscape Today
Little by little, change in our islands arrived, core communities and family connections to the land were slowly replaced with the “9-to-5” grind and convenience. Imported rice arrived in abundance, replacing the lemmai, suni, and dågu. SPAM and canned goods replaced fresh fish and fresh meat. Fast foods like McDonald’s introduced us to the dollar menu, replacing our home-cooked lunches and dinners because of time and convenience.
Walk into any grocery store in the CNMI today and you’ll see it — shelves, refrigerators, and freezers filled with highly processed or industrialized food. There are rows of canned meats, like SPAM and corned beef, with aisles dedicated to instant ramen noodles or soba. Around a corner are sacks of white rice stacked above your head, right next to the cases of soda pop or soft drinks.
Freezers are packed with cheap cuts of fatty processed meats and farmed seafood. Right next to them, open-air refrigerators stocked with dairy or dairy alternative products. Everything is shipped in from Asia, the United States mainland, and even New Zealand, thousands of miles away.
Any organic food? Nope. Anything organic or “healthier” is overpriced. What about local farming? Well, it’s still done by some locals, but more immigrants are farming, as more locals move away for better opportunities.
Alright, well I’ll start a farm to help grow food. Well, not so fast.
Local farmers have pushed forward despite setbacks, but without the right support, it’s tough. I’ve seen more energy from policymakers around boosting tourist arrivals than backing local agriculture. And if you want to farm yourself, there are hurdles. First, make sure your family land wasn’t leased out years ago for an apartment or hotel. Then check if the land is zoned for agriculture. Don’t have land or your place is too small? Well, you’ll be waiting in the backlog for farming plots or farmsteads like everyone else interested.
Let’s say you get past all that. There are still the fees if you want to turn it into a small business one day. Selling that extra food your unable to consume on your own can be tough if you don’t have the right network or you’re not paying your dues. Under the table deals? Well be careful, you don’t know who’s watching.
But that’s not the worst part. Be ready for comments like, “farming is for poor people” or “why farm if you have a real job?” I’ve heard these on trips back to Saipan. I don’t blame anyone — their views come from growing up in a built environment that values degrees and desk jobs over working the land. Is that wrong? Depends on how you see it. Recent shifts have come with real costs, the personal, economic, and a deeper reliance on systems that don’t serve us well.
Over 90% of our food is imported, from countries with supply chains that collapse during crises like pandemics. That reality hurts our health, our wallets, and even our cultural connection. When industrialized foods and convenience arrived, we were expected to adjust quietly, chase degrees, start families, and live the “American Dream” — but it all came with a cost.
The Health Cost
In 2019, the CNMI government spent an estimated $17.8 million on off-island medical referrals, despite an average annual budget of $2 million. About 28% of our population depends on Medicaid, but with a poverty rate around 52%, many families still don’t qualify for any coverage at all. Then for each island, health care is limited and sometimes unavailable. When someone gets seriously sick, leaving isn’t a choice, it is necessary to survive. Rates of diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease, and kidney disease are rising, all connected to the imports we eat and disconnection from the land. We all know someone affected. A parent. A cousin. An auntie. Maybe even a classmate or someone in their late 20’s or 30’s already taking medication. That’s not just bad luck. It’s the result of years of systemic change and now our community is paying the price. Meanwhile, imported convenience foods fill our shelves — high in calories, salt, sugar, and fat, but low in the nutrients our bodies actually need. This isn’t just about changing diets or moving more. It’s a public health crisis born from our dependence on imports and a lack of support for our own food systems.
The Economic Cost
Remember that $17.8 million price tag? That is what the local health system paid out in 2019 alone to cover costs for off-island medical care and that was years ago. The economic cost is likely higher now. At the same time, our economy leans heavily on a single economic engine — tourism. So when the flights stop or visitors don’t come, everything else also stops. Meanwhile, we are still stuck importing the food that makes us sick and paying more for less.
The cost isn’t just in dollars — it’s in lost time, lost energy, and lost potential.
The trend of chronic illnesses in the CNMI has taken its toll on how we work, how we show up, and how we contribute to our families and communities. If you are someone managing their diabetes, kidney disease, or heart complications; the normal everyday tasks are probably harder. Missed workdays, medical appointments, fatigue, and long periods of recovery chip away at your productivity, both at home and on the job.
For many in the CNMI, especially those in low-wage or hourly jobs, taking time off for medical reasons means lost income. For local businesses and the CNMI government, it means fewer able workers, slower economic growth, and more strain on limited public resources. And the community? It means fewer people able to pass down skills, raise kids with our shared cultural values, care for our elders, or contribute to the collective strength that has always defined island life. When our collective health declines, so does everything else that depends on it.
From Survival to Food Sovereignty and Food Security
But this story doesn’t have to end with loss. Right now, across the CNMI, there’s a renewed and growing movement to reclaim what was once ours: food grown by us, shaped by our hands, and shared with family and community.
Food sovereignty might sound like a big, complicated term, but its really simple. It is about being able to grow and eat food that reflects who we are and what we value. It’s about having more say over what ends up on our plates, instead of being in a vulnerable state dependent on when the next ship is coming in. It’s choosing fresh over frozen, local over pre-packaged, and tradition over convenience whenever we can.
Today, its really awesome seeing local farmers share their success on social media and in the news, all of them working hard with limited support to grow food and rebuild our connection to the land. Groups like the Kagman Agricultural Farmers & Producers Association, Marianas Producers Association, Hafa Adai Farms, and Kumoi Farms are growing local crops and raising live-stock. Institutions like Northern Marianas College’s Cooperative Research, Extension, and Education Services (NMC-CREES) Program and the Saipan Mayor’s Office are also stepping up, supporting locally driven efforts for sustainable, regenerative agriculture across the CNMI.
The CNMI’s Department of Land and Natural Resources’ Division of Agriculture is also playing their part in offering aid through the Micro-Grants for Food Security Program, that assists small-scale farmers in increasing local food production. Smaller community initiatives, such as churches, school gardens, youth programs, and non-profit work are playing roles in educating the youth to develop a “support local” mindset and understand the importance of healthy living, local food systems, food security, and the success of locally grown businesses.
Though their work is hard and support often scarce, their commitment is real. All rooted in land, in memory, and in support for one another in shaping the CNMI’s healthier future. When I think about that future, I remember my grandmother. Her way of life, once considered normal everyday tasks by so many local families, is being fought for by public health advocates, farmers, local institutions, and community members working collectively to make sure we never have to worry about when the next ship will be arriving with the food to feed our families.
My grandmother didn’t call her daily activities — preparing, planting, and growing food — sovereignty. She called it life. Her days were shaped by her responsibilities to her family, by planting and preparing the food so her kids and her grandkids would have something to eat from her even after she was gone. When she fed me, she also taught me that whenever you prepare seeds and wherever you plant them — there is always going to be more stories when there is more to eat. I’m really glad she passed down that perspective as part of the values from her own life, that are now part of me.
Today, it’s about remembering similar stories and experiences, and returning to the practices that once shaped our health and who we were as a community. It’s not about rejecting the present, but strengthening our future. Because whether it’s about preserving culture, improving health, or simply making sure our families have enough to eat, our collective efforts offer something for everyone in our community.
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