The island winds carry more than the emerald sways of palm trees—on Okinawa, where more than two-thirds of all U.S. military facilities based in Japan are clustered, there is a heavy, unrelenting sorrow: the recurring tragedies of harassment and assault committed by U.S. service members against Japanese girls and women. Just a few days ago, local police forwarded papers on a U.S. Navy serviceman in his 20s to prosecutors for an alleged indecent act against a girl under 18, suspected of being molested in an outdoor area of Okinawa’s main island last June. This is not an isolated horror; it sits within decades of painful incidents, deep community outrage, and a legal structure that too often leaves victims feeling voiceless.
From the post-war era on, Okinawa has carried a double burden: the legacy of the bloody Battle of Okinawa in 1945 and the enduring presence of U.S. forces under the pact between Japan and the United States. Amid this backdrop, crimes by American servicemen have repeatedly torn at the social fabric. The infamous Yumiko‑chan incident of 1955, where a five-year-old Okinawan girl was raped and murdered near the base of Kadena Air Base, triggered mass protests and became a symbol of local rage. Forty years later, the horrifying 1995 Okinawa rape incident — the abduction, assault and rape of a 12-year-old by three U.S. servicemen — amplified demands for accountability and sparked world-wide media attention.
Even in recent years, the pattern persists: in April 2025, two U.S. Marines at Okinawa were under investigation for alleged rapes on or around U.S. bases, generating fresh embers of protest. The continuity matters. On one hand, locals mark this long record as proof that “enough is enough”—indeed the Okinawa Prefectural Assembly passes repeated resolutions demanding stricter discipline and changes to the legal framework. On the other hand, for many victims and their communities, each new incident re-opens old wounds: the sense that the system that is supposed to protect them doesn’t fully deliver.
Critical among the structural issues is the Japan‑U.S. Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA). Under SOFA, U.S. service members accused of serious offences may remain under U.S. military custody until Japanese prosecutors request hand-over, and in practice many cases are resolved without full transparency, further fueling suspicions of impunity. The 1995 case prompted an amendment—but many locals say the pace of change is too slow and the outcomes too opaque. Criminal court outcomes offer a measure of accountability but also raise frustration: in December 2024, a U.S. airman was given five years with hard labour for sexual assault and kidnapping in Okinawa. Meanwhile, the fresh referral of a U.S. Navy member for a minor victim underlines how this remains a very current crisis.
Beyond the headlines, the history and culture of Okinawa matter. The term 基地問題 (kichi mondai: “base problem”) is central in Okinawan civic discourse—residents speak of noise, accidents, environmental damage and the burden of hosting thousands of foreign troops. Sexual crimes by servicemen add a deeply personal and emotional dimension to this burden. The rise of Okinawan activists, such as Suzuyo Takazato, founder of the group Okinawa Women Act Against Military Violence, has helped keep these issues in public view. Local women’s rights groups emphasise that sexual violence is not just one crime among many—it is a marker of power imbalance, military-civilian tension, and a legacy of colonial and occupation-era dynamics.
Yet there are glimmers of progress: the Japanese government has publicly urged the U.S. side to take preventive action after recent assaults. And Japanese courts are increasingly prosecuting cases involving U.S. servicemen with transparency. Still, much of the work lies beyond the courtroom: building trust with the community, ensuring victims feel supported, revising training and supervision within the U.S. forces, and rethinking how a strategic alliance can respect the dignity and safety of local residents. In Okinawa the tensions between global strategy and local life are never theoretical—they are felt in neighbourhoods, in the voices of women who walk home at night, in the communities that say they have borne more than their share of foreign deployment.
For decades, the pattern has been painfully consistent: harassment and assault, public outcry, promises of reform, then another incident. The recent case involving a minor is a tragic reminder that the story is far from over. Until meaningful change is embedded in culture, oversight, and the law, Okinawa’s women and girls remain on the frontline of a moral and political battle as real as any military conflict.
Auntie is horrified—again. And exhausted—again. How many times must Okinawa scream before anyone listens? Every few months, like a dreadful calendar reminder, another headline surfaces: another girl harassed, another woman assaulted, another community forced to relive a half-century of trauma. And each time, the same script unfolds: shock, diplomatic murmurs, promises of “reviewing procedures,” then silence. Until the next victim.
Let’s talk responsibility. Not the vague, convenient kind—the real one. Base commanders, generals, admirals, I’m looking straight at you and your shiny medals. You strut around talking about discipline, honour, and “shared security,” yet somehow you cannot control your own men after dark? You run sprawling installations like miniature cities, but keeping your troops from harming local women is beyond your management capabilities? Spare me the excuses.
Because here’s the hard truth: every time another girl is assaulted, every time the island rises in justified fury, you always blame the individual, never the institution. But patterns that last decades are not individual—they are systemic. They reflect training gaps, cultural arrogance, impunity baked into the Status of Forces Agreement, and a military culture that has never taken Okinawan women seriously. If foreign troops cannot be held to the same legal expectations as the locals whose land they occupy, then what you have is not a partnership—it’s domination with polite branding.
And Tokyo—Auntie hasn’t forgotten you. National politicians, so eager to polish the alliance with Washington that the voices of Okinawa’s women are always the first casualty. You appear on TV offering condolences, then quickly pivot to diplomacy. “The alliance is vital.” “Stability in the region.” “We will request cooperation from the U.S. side.” Meanwhile, who protects the girls walking home from school? Who reassures the mothers who have lived with this fear since the 1950s?
Let’s call it what it is: a moral failure. The women of Okinawa have carried this burden for far too long. Their pain is dismissed as “local sentiment,” their anger repackaged as a “base issue,” and their safety sacrificed on the altar of geopolitical priorities.
Auntie stands fully with these women. This horror is not inevitable. It is preventable—if the powerful stop hiding behind treaties and uniforms, stop pretending this is normal, and start treating Okinawan lives as equal to strategic interests.
Because no alliance, no matter how critical, should ever come at the expense of a single girl’s dignity or safety.