These days, the ahupuaʻa of Kūpeke is also being watched over by Laʻa Poepoe, the kiaʻi poʻo (lead caretaker) for Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa.

Located on the east end of Molokaʻi, the ahupuaʻa of Kūpeke includes about 300 acres, from the top of the mountain to the shoreline and out to the fishpond wall. Poepoe’s stewardship of Kūpeke is the confluence of his Molokaʻi lineage, aloha for his community, a passion to mālama ʻāina, an unshakable work ethic, and his foresight.

The designation of Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa as the protector of this wahi pana (storied place) is itself a remarkable story. But Poepoe is quick to point out that “we do not own the ahupuaʻa. Kūpeke owns itself. I am just a caretaker.”

Pilina to Place

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Poepoe is native to Molokaʻi and the fishpond at Kūpeke figures in some of his earliest memories. He recalls going to the beach there with his paternal grandparents, and his grandmother pointing out important sites in the area, including her birthplace.

Growing up on Molokaʻi, Poepoe was taught lawaiʻa (fishing) the traditional way: follow behind, no talking, observe actions, carry the fish. As a young adult, he would visit the fishpond from time to time on his way to the shoreline to go fishing.

Over the years, he was increasingly drawn to mālama ʻāina work across Molokaʻi, influenced by the efforts of his father, Mac Poepoe.

In the early 2000s, the senior Poepoe, a long-time leader of Hui Mālama o Moʻomomi, helped inspire the creation of the mālama ʻāina initiative Kua ʻĀina Ulu ʻAuamo (KUA) whose mission is to support community-based organizations who protect, restore, and care for Hawaiʻi’s unique native species and ecosystems.

Ultimately, Poepoe was drawn to Kūpeke and his stewardship there evolved organically. No one was actively managing the land or the fishpond. The ʻāina near the shoreline was overgrown with invasive plants like mangroves, the kuapā (fishpond wall) needed repair, and invasive limu and fish were pushing out native species.

There was also silt in parts of the fishpond – an unfortunate byproduct of degraded ma uka lands diminished by a combination of overgrazing, out-competition by non-native plants, and unstable weather patterns that have left swaths of the uplands denuded and vulnerable to severe soil runoff during heavy rains.

When Poepoe began stewarding Kūpeke, the ahupuaʻa was jointly owned by Namahana Buchanan Estate and Buena Ventura Properties. Both entities were controlled by Stanwood Formes.

Poepoe reached out to Moku Buchanan, a relative of Formes. Together, Buchanan, his wife Lori, and Poepoe began building the grassroots organization that would eventually become the steward of these lands.

Wanting to be pono in their intentions and increasingly invested in the maintenance work that the fishpond required, Buchanan contacted Formes and obtained verbal permission for Poepoe to continue his work rehabilitating and managing the loko iʻa at Kūpeke.

Poepoe started small. “I picked a spot to anchor from with no clear plans or specific objectives in mind,” he recalled. “I just let the work guide the way, cleaning the property on a loose verbal agreement because it was the right thing to do.”

Returning Kūpeke to Kūpeke

For generations, the ahupuaʻa of Kūpeke was owned by the Buchanan ʻOhana. Looking ahead, Poepoe anticipated that the land would eventually be put up for sale.

He already had a long-term vision to restore and rehabilitate Kūpeke and hoped they would be able to formalize an agreement with the owner. Poepoe was concerned – as most Molokaʻi residents are – about developers buying up land to build multi-million-dollar estates that gentrify and ruin the rural character of the island.

When Formes passed unexpectedly in 2018, Poepoe, his wife Mahina, and the Buchanans founded Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa, an organization dedicated to the restoration and management of the ahupuaʻa. It was registered as a nonprofit in 2020, and their goal was to position the organization to purchase the land and protect Kūpeke from unwanted development.

Years passed, and as they waited for the estate to move through the probate process, Poepoe continued to mālama Kūpeke.

Repairs were made to the kuapā, invasive seaweeds and Upside-down Jellyfish were collected from the loko iʻa, red mangrove was cleared, and truckloads of plastic marine debris – an ongoing problem due to the fishpond’s location and prevailing ocean currents – were removed.

Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa hosted visits from haumāna from schools across the island, welcomed scientists from various institutions to conduct lab sampling of fishpond conditions, and invited the community to come kōkua during workdays.

Poepoe also invested time in building relationships with neighbors from the area; with community-focused organizations such as KUA, Sustainable Coastlines, and the Trust for Public Lands; and with government agencies like the Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR).

A Maui County fireman by profession, Poepoe has invested years of his time and energy in restoring and maintaining Kūpeke fishpond because of his aloha for and commitment to this wahi pana. He has never been compensated (or sought compensation) for his labor or time. Poepoe has also taken paid vacation to work at the fishpond and used money from his paycheck to purchase the tools and equipment needed to do that work.

In July 2024, when the probate process for Formes’ estate was completed, the ahupuaʻa of Kūpeke was listed by Corcoran Pacific Properties for $1.8 million.

For five years, Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa had worked to raise funds to purchase the land through large conservation organizations, but those processes take a very long time and with the land now listed on the open real estate market, their time had run out.

“We were informed that there was a potential buyer for the land. Someone from outside of Molokaʻi had put in a serious offer that was being considered,” Poepoe recalled.

Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa pivoted to a direct community fundraising campaign, seeking donations from organizations and individuals to purchase the land.

The years Poepoe had spent faithfully stewarding the loko iʻa and building a good reputation within the community had not gone unnoticed. “Those who knew us and had been following our work and believed in our mission felt comfortable enough in our abilities to support the cause,” he said.

The community came through and, against all odds, in January 2025 Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa was able to purchase the ahupuaʻa for $1.5 million.

“Had the other offer been accepted, all our years of work would have been at risk and the loko iʻa would have faced an uncertain future with a new, unknown owner,” said Poepoe.

Fishponds as Part of a Larger Ecosystem

Within a healthy ahupuaʻa, fishponds are part of a carefully managed and balanced ecosystem.

Hawaiian loko iʻa represent a highly sophisticated form of aquacultural engineering unlike anything else in the world. They are impressive features of Hawaiʻi’s traditional food system, and this speaks to the brilliance of our ancestors.

The loko iʻa at Kūpeke is a kuapā style fishpond with three mākāhā (sluice gates). Its wall is more than 2,200 feet long and connects the land at either side of Kūpeke, encompassing nearly 34 acres.

For centuries, an uninterrupted chain of fishponds stretched for miles along Molokaʻi’s southern shore. It is estimated that about 75 fishponds were once in production on the island but during the 20th century many fell into disrepair.

Hawaiian fishponds are not merely places to trap and harvest fish. They function as one hānau, (birth sands). Juvenile fish biologically imprint on Kūpeke by the hundreds of millions.

“It’s a mistake to believe loko iʻa primarily function as an industrial feed lot to mass produce a specific number of pounds of fish per acre,” Poepoe said. “That’s why they are called fish ponds not fishing ponds – a loko iʻa, not a loko lawaiʻa. There’s a balance to maintain and a kuleana for knowing that balance.”

Many of the fish born in healthy fishponds make their way out to sea, become part of the wild fish population, and ultimately part of the food chain ecosystem all the way to pelagic (deep water) fish.

Through fishponds, our kūpuna not only created a productive and sustainable nearshore food resource, they amplified the wild fish population as well.

Ongoing Mālama ʻĀina at Kūpeke

With Kūpeke now safe from development, Poepoe continues to work towards his vision of aloha ʻāina and restoration of the ahupuaʻa beginning with the rehabilitation of the loko iʻa.

Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa remains a small operation. It has a three-member volunteer board and no permanent full-time staff. Poepoe continues to do much of the work himself, but now has a helper thanks to Kupu, a conservation-focused nonprofit that provides environmental stewardship opportunities to young people.

Kupu is sponsoring an intern at Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa for an entire year and this has afforded Poepoe more time for handling the administrative duties a nonprofit requires.

The ongoing maintenance work at Kūpeke Loko Iʻa includes invasive species (both plant and animal) removal, marine debris clean-up, water quality monitoring, and limu monitoring. Biomass from the invasive plants and animals removed from the pond is composted and will be used to fertilize the mala (garden).

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Poepoe has recently planted a small loʻi kalo near the loko iʻa and is caring for several varieties of niu (coconut) that were planted along the coastline years ago. In May, Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa welcomed partner organizations to help survey and catalog varieties of coconuts among the ulu niu (coconut grove).

“We wanted to elevate the social and cultural revival of niu by connecting people with the places that provide ceremonial meakanu (plants) used in our traditional and cultural practices,” Poepoe said.

One variety of coconut tree growing at Kūpeke is particularly special and known to cultural practitioners on the island. It is a variety called niu hiwa and its shell is valued for ʻapu ʻawa (cups used in ʻawa ceremonies).

As invasive plant species are removed from the fishpond and the surrounding area, they are being replaced by native and endemic plants. Poepoe gathers the seeds of plants like alaheʻe (a small hardwood tree) and ʻūlei (a spreading shrub) to eventually restore the native forest.

He also has plans to cultivate plants like hala (for lauhala weaving), wauke (for kapa-making), ʻōlena (turmeric) and iliahi (sandalwood). “Aside from growing lāʻau (medicine), we would like to have these plants readily available if needed for iwi kūpuna reburial ceremonies,” Poepoe explained.

Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa is also active in water rights advocacy and water use on Molokaʻi. Natural springs supply fishponds and important fishing grounds with a constant flow of fresh water – an essential component of healthy estuarine and marine habitats.

Finally, Poepoe is looking to repair a small building at the site adjacent to the loko iʻa that was filled with mud after the recent Kona Low storms in March. He is reimagining the building as a lab fitted with basic equipment that can be used as a gathering space in support of established monitoring and research projects.

Through implementing managed access along with ongoing habitat maintenance and monitoring, a gradual increase in fish populations has been observed at Kūpeke with a notable increase in the number of ʻamaʻama (indigenous mullet) finding refuge in the fishpond.

Despite these efforts, and early success, the fishpond continues to face challenges including native habitat loss, increased erosion from rainstorms leading to massive topsoil runoff settling in the pond, and higher-than- average tides that now regularly breach the fishpond wall.

A Mālama ʻĀina Practitioners Network

Anticipating that their work will become increasingly difficult given existing conditions that are being magnified by climate change, Poepoe is working with Hui Mālama Loko Iʻa to find solutions.

Hui Mālama Loko Iʻa – which operates under the umbrella of KUA – is a network of fishpond practitioners and organizations. This alliance allows members to connect, leverage each other’s skills, and share knowledge about fishpond restoration and management to support ongoing stewardship efforts across the pae ʻāina.

Brenda Lima is the Hui Mālama Loko Iʻa coordinator at KUA, and she emphasizes the important role that fishponds play in reflecting the overall health of surrounding ahupuaʻa.

“Common problems facing fishponds are related to water quality and invasive species,” Lima said, noting that they are the direct result of mismanagement or neglect of broader ahupuaʻa systems.

“It shows the gaps in management that have allowed invasive species to become established. Another consequence of historical land use mismanagement in ma uka areas are fishponds being filled in with sediment.”

She counts Poepoe’s success at Kūpeke as part of a growing movement of fishpond practitioners finding ways to acquire or secure long-term access to the lands they are already caring for. Lima said that Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa’s permanent stewardship of the ahupuaʻa represents the ideal situation.

“Someone with knowledge of the place – those are the people who should be managing these fishponds,” Lima said. “The people that have worked for years to take care of these places, especially if they are a family that has a generational relationship … they should be the managers providing long-term stewardship.

“That’s really the long-term vision that we have for fishpond management.”

Moving Forward

Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa’s mission is to eventually restore – and maintain – the entire ahupuaʻa, and Poepoe draws inspiration from his maternal grandmother, Marilyn Kahalewai, the artist behind the iconic ahupuaʻa poster found in classrooms across Hawaiʻi.

Poepoe said that, for now, the loko iʻa is the focal point of their work. In time, they will gradually move their restoration work both upland and out to the reef, following the natural movement of the ahupuaʻa.

His approach, based on the konohiki framework of traditional land and resource management, reinforces the idea that fishpond rehabilitation is not just about increasing fish populations; it’s about maintaining the entirety of an ahupuaʻa’s ecological and cultural systems. When these elements are in balance, communities can thrive.

With an eye to the future, Poepoe is also looking at succession planning and hopes that one day someone from the next generation will step up and take over stewardship of the ahupuaʻa “so I can step back and just be the yard man,” he laughed.

But for the time being, Poepoe continues his kuleana for maintaining the land, rehabilitating and restoring habitat, managing ʻāina, and reducing the spread of invasive species.

His is a lifelong commitment to aloha ʻāina.

Looking back on Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa’s accomplishments over the past few years, Poepoe notes that while protecting this wahi pana from development is a great achievement, what he is most proud of is “being able to give Kūpeke back to itself.”

To learn more about Kūpeke Ahupuaʻa go to kupekelokoia.com

The post Giving Kūpeke Back to Itself appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

What people often imagine as the “Great Pacific Garbage Patch” is not actually a floating island of trash drifting visibly across the ocean. And despite the attention it receives, it is not the only floating garbage patch in the world.

Scientists have identified multiple large-scale marine debris accumulation zones within major ocean gyres – massive, self-contained systems of circulating ocean currents – across the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans that trap floating debris over time.

There are no towering piles of garbage rising from the sea. No single mass solid enough to stand on. No clear edges separating these accumulation zones from the surrounding ocean. Instead, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch is a vast and constantly moving concentration of marine debris created by the circulating currents of the North Pacific Gyre.

Stretching between Hawaiʻi and California, the gyre functions like a slow-moving spiral, pulling floating debris into rotation and trapping it within its currents rather than allowing it to disperse.

Covering an estimated 1.6 million square kilometers, roughly twice the size of Texas, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch contains trillions of pieces of plastic suspended throughout the water column, from massive, abandoned fishing nets drifting near the surface to microscopic fragments nearly invisible to the human eye.

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Most of the debris, by mass, is believed to come from industrial fishing activity across the Pacific. Lost and abandoned fishing nets alone account for nearly half of the plastic mass within the garbage patch.

Our Kānaka worldview of Papahānaumokuākea has never changed through the centuries. These protections are just another layer placed over a relationship and responsibility that already existed long before them. – Brad Kaʻaleleo Wong

Other debris originates from countries and coastlines around the Pacific Rim, carried into the ocean through rivers, stormwater systems, shipping activity and everyday human consumption. Plastic bottles, buoys, crates, ropes, packaging and countless other fragments can remain trapped within the gyre for years, sometimes decades, gradually breaking apart under sunlight and wave action but never fully disappearing.

Eventually, many of those currents converge around the Hawaiian Islands.

As the North Pacific Gyre circulates westward, the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands act almost like a comb, intercepting debris drifting across the Pacific. This marine debris regularly washes ashore across Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument, one of the largest protected marine conservation areas on Earth and one of the most culturally significant places in the Hawaiian archipelago.

For Hawaiʻi, the crisis is deeply uneven. Although the islands contribute relatively little to the global volume of marine debris entering the Pacific, Hawaiʻi often bears the burden of cleanup.

The tons of plastic and fishing gear arriving on Hawaiʻi’s shores originate thousands of miles away. Yet local communities, cultural practitioners, scientists, nonprofits and resource managers continue carrying most of the kuleana for removing it from beaches, reefs and remote shorelines across the pae ʻāina.

Beyond Hawaiʻi’s shores, most of the world is oblivious to the Pacific’s plastic crisis.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument. Established in 2006 as the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands Marine National Monument under Presidential Proclamation 8031, the monument was formally given the Hawaiian name Papahānaumokuākea a year later.

In 2010, it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its combined natural and cultural significance – one of the few places in the world recognized for both. In 2025, marine portions of the monument were additionally designated as Papahānaumokuākea National Marine Sanctuary, becoming America’s 18th national marine sanctuary and the largest within the National Marine Sanctuary System.

While the monument and sanctuary now overlap across marine areas of the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands, the sanctuary designation adds another layer of long-term marine conservation tools, research coordination and public engagement within the National Marine Sanctuary System.

Larger than all U.S. national parks combined, it is home to more than 7,000 marine species, many found nowhere else on Earth. Millions of seabirds nest throughout the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands, while endangered Hawaiian monk seals and threatened green sea turtles rely on the region’s reefs and shorelines for survival.

Yet even after two decades of protection, Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument continues bearing the burden of a global marine debris crisis generated far beyond Hawaiʻi’s shores. Carried across the Pacific by ocean currents and trade winds, plastic garbage and abandoned fishing gear relentlessly wash into one of the most remote and protected places on Earth.

Ghost nets snag coral reefs. Plastic fragments collect among seabird nesting grounds. Buoys, crates and ropes accumulate along shorelines after drifting through the Pacific for years. Storms and shifting ocean conditions can rapidly push new waves of debris ashore, even after beaches and reefs have already been cleared.

The cleanup cycle never truly ends.

Much of that work now falls to organizations like the Papahānaumokuākea Marine Debris Project, a Hawaiʻi-based nonprofit leading large-scale marine debris removal efforts throughout Papahānaumokuākea. Since becoming an independent nonprofit in 2019, PMDP crews have removed more than 1.28 million pounds of marine debris from the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands through extended cleanup expeditions across remote reefs, shorelines and atolls.

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Crews often spend weeks at sea cutting massive ghost nets from shallow reef systems, disentangling wildlife and manually hauling waterlogged debris from isolated beaches under difficult marine conditions. The work is physically exhausting and often emotionally heavy, especially knowing more debris will continue arriving with the currents.

But for many involved, the work is also deeply personal.

“If you love something, it’s really easy to want to protect it,” PMDP Executive Director James Morioka said.

Morioka said PMDP intentionally tries to approach the work through stewardship and responsibility rather than hopelessness. While marine debris continues accumulating throughout the Pacific, he believes local action, cultural connection and long-term restoration efforts still matter.

The scale of the work is immense.

Cleanup expeditions often require weeks at sea aboard research and support vessels traveling between isolated islands and atolls located hundreds of miles from the main Hawaiian Islands. Divers carefully cut massive ghost nets from coral reefs to avoid causing additional damage to fragile ecosystems already under stress. Crews manually haul tons of debris from beaches under intense sun and difficult marine conditions, dragging waterlogged nets across coral rubble before loading the material onto vessels for transport back to Honolulu.

Some recovered nets are eventually processed through Hawaiʻi’s Nets-to-Energy program on Oʻahu. Other debris is repurposed for education, research and art. Much of the funding supporting the work comes through federal agencies, particularly NOAA, alongside state support, grants and nonprofit partnerships.

But the labor itself often falls to a relatively small network of scientists, cultural practitioners, conservation workers, nonprofit organizations and volunteers who continue returning despite knowing more debris will inevitably arrive again.

And while larger debris can be removed from shorelines and reefs, the damage extends far beyond what is visible.

Plastic itself never truly disappears. Sunlight and constant ocean movement gradually break larger debris into tiny fragments known as microplastics, which continue moving through marine ecosystems long after the original objects have degraded.

Researchers have found microplastics in fish, seabirds, salt, rainwater and even human bloodstreams. Tiny plastic fragments have been discovered everywhere from the deepest parts of the ocean to remote mountaintops.

Within Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument, marine life bears these consequences continuously. Lost or abandoned fishing gear crushes and scours coral reefs as currents drag heavy nets across shallow reef systems. Hawaiian monk seals and green sea turtles become entangled in drifting nets and marine debris. Seabirds mistake floating plastics for food, feeding fragments to their chicks.

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Our endemic and endangered seabirds, Hawaiian monk seals and green sea turtles are extremely vulnerable to marine debris and garbage. Seabirds mistake floating plastics for food and feed fragments to their chicks, while monk seals and honu quickly become entangled in discarded commercial fishing nets that collect just below the ocean surface. These monk seals and honu were found and rescued. Others are not so lucky. – Photos: Ryan Tabata, NOAA; Richard Chen, PMDP; Andrew Sullivan-Haskins, PMDP

But what happens within Papahānaumokuākea does not remain there in isolation.

Ocean currents, migratory species and interconnected marine ecosystems link Papahānaumokuākea to the main Hawaiian Islands in ways that directly affect Hawaiʻi’s nearshore waters, fisheries and long-term food security.

Many species found within the monument travel throughout the Hawaiian archipelago during different stages of life, while healthy reef systems in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands help support broader marine biodiversity across the region.

For island communities, the ocean is not a distant wilderness. It feeds families, supports local fisheries, shapes cultural practice and sustains relationships passed between generations. Fish and marine resources are not simply commodities, but integral parts of daily life throughout Hawaiʻi.

As plastics break down into microplastics, those fragments can move through entire marine food webs. Small organisms consume them, larger fish consume those organisms, and the contamination continues moving upward through the ecosystem.

Researchers continue to study the long-term impacts of microplastics on marine life, fisheries and human health, particularly in island communities that remain deeply connected to the ocean as a source of food, culture and livelihood.

Today, Papahānaumokuākea is jointly managed through a co-management structure involving NOAA, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the State of Hawaiʻi and the Office of Hawaiian Affairs. In 2021, OHA was formally elevated to co-trustee status within the monument, placing Native Hawaiian representation alongside federal and state agencies in overseeing one of the largest marine conservation areas on Earth.

However, Native Hawaiian stewardship within the monument predates federal protections, marine sanctuary designation, and monument boundaries entirely. “Papahānaumokuākea is Hawaiian,” former OHA Papahānaumokuākea Program Specialist Brad Kaʻaleleo Wong said. “And it’s not a Hawaiian place unless you have Hawaiians involved.”

Wong spent nearly a decade helping shape OHA’s role within Papahānaumokuākea’s evolving management structure, working alongside the monument’s Cultural Working Group, federal agencies and state partners during a formative period in the monument’s history.

“The Cultural Working Group and community were so instrumental in making sure that level of protection continued,” Wong said.

Their advocacy helped integrate ʻike kūpuna and Native Hawaiian stewardship into the monument’s long-term management framework through initiatives such as Mai Ka Pō Mai, a Native Hawaiian guidance document developed collaboratively between the Papahānaumokuākea Native Hawaiian Cultural Working Group, community members, and the monument’s co-trustees.

Rather than separating culture and conservation into separate systems, the framework emphasizes stewardship grounded in Native Hawaiian worldview, reciprocity and kuleana.

Science doesnʻt dictate our actions. Our values do. Our DNA carries memory. What we need to do is remember together. – Pelika Andrade

“Our Kānaka worldview of Papahānaumokuākea has never changed through the centuries,” Wong said. “These protections are just another layer placed over a relationship and responsibility that already existed long before them.”

For Native Hawaiian cultural practitioner and Papahānaumokuākea Cultural Working Group member Pelika Andrade, the work of protecting Papahānaumokuākea extends far beyond conservation policy or marine debris removal. At its core, she describes the responsibility as one grounded in pilina, memory and cultural continuity.

“Science doesn’t dictate our actions. Our values do,” Andrade said.

While Papahānaumokuākea is internationally recognized for its ecological significance, Andrade emphasizes that it is also an ancestral realm whose meaning cannot be separated from Hawaiian identity, genealogy and spiritual understanding. For many Native Hawaiians, the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands are deeply connected to concepts of creation, Pō (the ancestral realm) and the continuity of life itself.

For Andrade, preserving Papahānaumokuākea also means protecting the knowledge systems and cultural practices that have long sustained relationships between people and the environment.

“Our DNA carries memory,” Andrade said. “What we need to do is remember together.”

She describes stewardship of the environment as an act of remembering. Not remembering in the sense of discovering something entirely new, but reconnecting to knowledge already carried through ancestry, lived experience and relationship to place.

To her, knowledge does not exist only within institutions, management plans or scientific reports. It lives within communities, protocol, moʻolelo and the ways people continue showing up for one another and for the environment. Caring for places like Papahānaumokuākea, she suggests, requires collective care rooted not only in conservation, but in relationship. It is a call to reconnect people to the environment, to one another, and to future generations.

That urgency continues growing as younger generations inherit a Pacific increasingly shaped by climate change, biodiversity loss, and plastic pollution.

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“The garbage patch is not sourced from Hawaiʻi, and a lot of it’s not even sourced from America,” Andrade said. “We could drastically reduce the trash coming out of Hawaiʻi and we would still be burdened with a global problem.”

And while island nations like Hawaiʻi contribute relatively little to the global volume of marine pollution entering the Pacific, they continue finding themselves on the frontlines of its consequences.

Papahānaumokuākea may sit in the middle of the Pacific, but fishing gear lost thousands of miles away eventually washes ashore on its remote atolls. Plastics carried across the Pacific from continental rivers and coastlines become trapped within the same currents moving through the North Pacific Gyre.

Yet for many who care for these islands and the life surrounding them, stewardship is not measured solely by whether the debris stops arriving. It is measured by the willingness to continue restoring shorelines, protecting marine life and teaching younger generations – despite knowing that the work may never fully end: plastics remain trapped within the gyre; nets continue washing ashore; and debris still arrives with the currents.

But so do the cleanup crews that return again and again. The people who choose to care for it and each other anyway.

The post Below the Surface: A Burden Washed Ashore appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

“We love Haleakalā. It is in our bones. It is in our body. It’s in everything about us that we know we must protect Haleakalā,” said Mikahala Helm, long-time Maui community leader, educator and activist, speaking in March at Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā, a community-created forum.

“Uncle Les [Kuloloio] shared with us the wisdom of our kūpuna: You don’t just go up there any old time and do whatever you want [because of] the wai, the water. You do anything on top, it’s going to affect the wai down below.”

Helm and Leiʻohu Ryder, both members of Kilakila ʻo Haleakalā, represented the forebears of a decades-old movement to protect the sacred summit at the event, which drew about 100 people.

Hanohano was organized in protest to the military’s desire for more development on the summit. The U.S. Air Force (DAF), which has been operating a surveillance complex on Haleakalā since the 1960s, wants to construct up to seven more telescopes to maintain what it calls “space domain awareness.”

DAF released its draft environmental impact statement (DEIS) for the proposed project, known as the Air Force Maui Optical and Supercomputing Site Small Telescope Advanced Research Facility (AMOS STAR) in January 2026, with plans to begin construction this year.

For many Native Hawaiians, the DAF proposal is the latest chapter in a generational struggle.

Kilakila ʻO Haleakalā was formed in 2005 to protest the installation of a telescope on the summit of Haleakalā. “The motivation to stand up for Haleakalā is simply put: Haleakalā is sacred. That’s what led us to the 20-year journey of standing and honoring and breathing this knowing from eons ago,” Ryder said emotionally, speaking at Hanohano.

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Construction of the telescope (later named the Daniel K. Inouye Solar Telescope) was completed in 2021 despite community objections. But in the intervening years, the movement to protect Haleakalā survived and grew.

There are now three community groups representing multiple generations of kiaʻi who are pushing against further development on Haleakalā. In addition to Kilakila, there are Kākoʻo Haleakalā and Hoʻoulu Lāhui. The groups, collectively known as the Protect Haleakalā Community Coalition, organized the March forum.

“We created Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā as a way to break out of the mold of engagements that have been the same for years,” said Hina Kneubuhl, coalition member and event speaker. “We created it to lay down a challenge in front of them [the military]: Will you engage with us on our own terms? Do you care enough to listen to information we consider important about our place?”

Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā was a community-led forum in March to discuss the U.S. Air Force’s plans to build seven more telescopes on Haleakalā. It was a way to engage with the military on the community’s terms, instead of through the military-controlled draft EIS public process as in the past. Instead of limiting testifiers to 3-minutes, the forum allowed cultural practitioners and kiaʻi time to fully express their mana’o. Speakers included (l-r) UH Maui Interim Associate VP for Academic Affairs Kahele Dukelow; cultural practitioner and entrepreneur Hina Knuebuhl (representing Protect Haleakalā Community Coalition); UH Maui Professor Emeritus Mikahala Helm with composer/musician and peace educator Leiʻohu Ryder (representing Kilakila ʻo Haleakalā); and UH Maui Associate Professor of Hawaiian Studies Kaleikoa Kaʻeo. On the far right Kumu Hula Hōkūlani Holt Padilla asks a question at the forum. – Photos: Courtesy of Protect Haleakalā

Until that point, the U.S. Air Force controlled the DEIS public process, wherein testifiers were each given three minutes to speak. But Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā shifted these dynamics and gave cultural practitioners, educators and kiaʻi the time they needed to convey the importance of Haleakalā as a spiritual-cultural- environmental connection point.

“[The summit] is where Haleakalā was connected to its mother, Papa … The symphony of life we talked about earlier, which includes us as Kānaka, is nourished through this critical point of connection,” said Kneubuhl who spoke for about 15-minutes.

“This is at the heart of why obstructions and developments at the summit, in particular, are highly detrimental” (see related story Why is Haleakalā a Sacred Place).

“One of the things that came out of [Hanohano] was [that the U.S. Air Force] engaged with Hawaiians on the terms that we set, which was huge for us,” Kneubuhl said.

“Another thing that was accomplished is they heard perspectives out of our mouths, face to face. The Air Force having to answer our questions was a huge outcome. There is nothing in their process that mandates they answer our questions,” she added.

Senior military advisor Noelani Kalipi attended the event along with members of the 15th Space Surveillance Squadron – the DAF group that operates the surveillance complex – including its commander, Lt. Col. Doug Thornton.

Responding to a question about whether AMOS STAR will increase Hawaiʻi’s vulnerability as a target in war, Thornton said, “I understand the fear and a military presence can make a location a target … we’re not here [on Maui] about directing weapons. Our purpose is to watch and protect objects in space. This capability serves as a power deterrent across the world, making conflict less likely to extend in space by ensuring the stability of the space environment.

“We believe this defensive mission contributes more to the safety of Hawaiʻi by deterring conflict than it does [by] creating risk,” Thornton added.

Kalipi, who runs the newly formed Hawaiʻi Coordination Cell under the Office of the Secretary of Defense, said she believes Hanohano was the first event of its kind (public-led with military participation) on Maui. She added that other groups on Oʻahu have expressed interest in hosting similar events.

“What I really appreciated about the Hanohano event was the opportunity to humanize the discussion. For the community to say, ʻthis is our place, and so let’s talk about it. Let us ask you the questions so that everybody can hear what the answers are,’” she said.

Preston Schlachter, strategic outreach chief for Combat Forces Command Public Affairs issued a subsequent statement saying, “We appreciated the opportunity to attend the Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā event and hear the community’s feedback firsthand. These perspectives provided valuable context for the EIS process. The written comment period closed April 15, 2026. The next step is to conduct a thorough review of the officially submitted input. Public feedback will be incorporated and considered in the final EIS, scheduled for publication in the Fall of 2026 with a Record of Decision to follow.”

By all accounts, residents, community leaders and elected officials vehemently oppose any further development on Haleakalā.

A public scoping memo at the end of DAF’s 516-page DEIS reflected that 89% of all public testimony was in opposition to the military’s proposal.

This past March, the Maui County Council unanimously passed a second resolution (the first was passed in June 2025) urging the U.S. Air Force to stop its plans and urging federal land managers to deny any permits for the project.

“As council members, we are the representatives of our community, and I’ve only heard testimony in opposition [to this proposal]. It’s our responsibility to ensure that, as their representatives, we are amplifying their voices and getting it on the record,” said Keani Rawlins-Fernandez, the Maui County councilwoman who introduced both resolutions.

Along with the cultural significance of Haleakalā that Kneubuhl expressed in her remarks, the strong opposition to the military’s proposal is because Haleakalā’s summit is at the top of the ahupuaʻa where downstream water originates – as well as being home to several endangered and endemic species.

“The Air Force wants to build seven telescope domes on one of the most sacred mountains in the Pacific which is ecologically and environmentally very sensitive. And while the Air Force admits it will cause significant and irreversible harms, it’s still asking the public to trust that telling contractors to be respectful is enough to mitigate those harms,” said Maxx Phillips, Hawaiʻi and Pacific Islands director and senior attorney for the Center for Biological Diversity.

“One of the glaring deficiencies with the DEIS, from an environmental standpoint, is that a federal biologist walked the site and found two (burrows) of our endangered petrels – and this is exactly where they want to put the telescopes. The Air Force’s response was to call that a ʻnon-significant’ impact,” Phillips said.

Two other endangered species found on the summit are the ʻāhinahina or Haleakalā silversword and the ʻōpeʻapeʻa (Hawaiian hoary bat), Hawaiʻi’s only native mammal. “Haleakalā silversword has already lost 90% of its population to climate change,” Phillips noted. “The Air Force wants to add construction traffic through its last remaining critical habitat and call that ʻdiscountable.’”

Coupled with the intertwined cultural and environmental concerns for Haleakalā are fears rooted in the military’s documented history of poor environmental stewardship. In 2023, about 700 gallons of diesel fuel leaked from a generator at the Maui Space Surveillance Complex (MSSC). DAF said the spill would take seven years to clean up.

“The U.S. military has polluted and destroyed this land for far too long with places like Kahoʻolawe, which even to this day has yet to be cleared and cleaned in totality,” said UH Maui Associate Professor Kaleikoa Kaʻeo, speaking at Hanohano. Above him, as he spoke, was a presentation slide entitled: “A Pattern of Military Destruction & Harm.”

“There’s the U.S. Navy who continues to lie to this day over the poisoning [at Red Hill]. Let’s be clear, this is poisoning of our water; that which gives us life is the most sacred. That’s why places [like Haleakalā] were set aside as sacred.”

Another issue is the legitimacy of land ownership and management on the summit.

The proposed project site is part of a larger Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) parcel that was set aside for federal use in October 1957 via executive order 1808, signed by Territorial Governor William Quinn. But whether the federal government and its agencies actually had legal claim to do that is debatable.

“The United States’ assumption of control over Hawaiian Kingdom government and crown lands in 1898 remains the most significant of the unresolved claims of the Hawaiian people,” said Maui attorney Lance Collins.

The Protect Haleakalā Community Coalition introduced two petitions to slow or stop the Air Force’s plans for the summit. One petition, which collected nearly 2,000 signatures, unsuccessfully sought to extend the DEIS public commentary for an additional four months. Their other petition is to deny the MSSC lease renewal in 2031.

The online petitions, coalition website, and social media accounts show how new generations of kiaʻi are using technology to reach more people.

Hanohano ʻo Haleakalā was livestreamed to 170 viewers, and the archived video on Protect Haleakalā’s website has garnered hundreds more views since then. Though plans for construction on Haleakalā have changed over the years, the resistance endures. This gives movement leaders hope for the future.

“There’s a whole new crew of voices. This is the power of aloha ʻāina. The U.S. military doesn’t understand this,” said Kaʻeo. “We have awakened. Our souls have been born again, and we’re going to do whatever is necessary.”

The post We Have Awakened: Kiaʻi Vow to Protect the Wao Akua of Haleakalā appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

On February 16 the Honolulu Star-Advertiser announced that the U.S. Department of Defense intends to make Hawaiʻi a key player in arms manufacturing and distribution.

Though its title, “Hawaiʻi could be key hub for Pacific arms manufacturing” made the plan seem more aspirational than real, the article revealed that several years of planning have already resulted in an Advanced Manufacturing Program Facility at Honolulu Community College and a new facility at Schofield Barracks called “The Forge” capable of “rapid prototyping,” presumably of military hardware.

Nothing in this article reveals what could be – or already is being – designed and produced at these installations. But that will not surprise anyone with roots in Hawaiʻi.

On Oʻahu, especially, secured gates and armed guards are only the most obvious signs of the military’s sense of privilege when it comes to surrounding communities. But so is the U.S. military’s position that its security and its mission entitles it to share information with the public solely at its own discretion.

And yet, an assistant secretary of the Department of Defense (or is it War?) speaks so glibly of a “partnership” while others in the article try and persuade the reader that this industry will reduce Hawaiʻi’s overdependence on tourism.

“The people of Hawaiʻi need to decide if we want to implicate ourselves in America’s accelerating commitment to menacing other nations at will.”

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This is just an old and familiar rationale for Kānaka Maoli and the other Hawaiʻi residents whose heritages trace back to 19th and 20th century plantation workers: We will be given the chance to work and provide goods and services for an industry dedicated to the welfare of a nation that has taken hundreds of thousands of acres of our lands, obscured and obstructed our right to restore our national government, and routinely treated us as trespassers on ʻāina that Kamehameha III designated as our birthright more than 175 years ago.

These should be reasons enough for every Kanaka Maoli to oppose this latest proposed industry or, at the very least, to subject it to intense scrutiny.

But when it comes to the U.S. armed forces, State of Hawaiʻi government agencies and even the general public have historically given them a pass on the grounds of “national security” and because of an unwillingness to interfere with the revenue stream of military spending.

The Board of Land and Natural Resources’ May and June 2025 rejections of the Environmental Impact Statements submitted with the Army’s applications for lease extensions at Pōhakuloa and on Oʻahu are reassuring to Kānaka, especially those concerned with the impacts of military training on ʻāina and those who continue our cultural practices and efforts to resettle ʻāina from which our people were evicted.

But the larger resident community seems to have little appetite for scrutinizing the military’s claimed prerogatives.

After running the story on potential arms manufacturing in Hawaiʻi, the Star-Advertiser conducted its usual survey of public opinion. Seventy-three percent of those responding to the “Big Q” survey on February 18, answered “Yes” to the question, “Should Hawaiʻi play an increased role in the military supply chain?”

“There are better uses for our ʻāina, and far better uses for our labor and intelligence.”

To be fair, these results may have been affected by the phrasing of the selected answer: “Yes: more tech/research programs for Hawaiʻi.” It is possible that many respondents saw “tech/research,” and approved of such programs – regardless of what they produced or for whom, simply because they would presumably help diversify the state’s economy.

So, it is crucial for Kānaka Maoli to lead the public conversation on the military’s future in Hawaiʻi because we know, from long ancestral and personal experience, that producing food, shelter, medicines, and textiles are far better uses of our lands economically than contributing to the U.S. government’s ability to threaten and exploit nations and governments in Oceania and Asia.

One way we can begin to shape a different future for Hawaiʻi is to remember our history with the United States.

Though the Mōʻī Kamehameha I built a fleet of warships and trained an army in firearms to keep both rival aliʻi nui and foreign adventurers in check, within a few years after his death this navy and army had nearly disappeared. Thus, under the regency of Kaʻahumanu, Hawaiʻi had few means to resist demands by Britain, France, and the United States.

Between 1826 and 1839, all three countries pressured the Kingdom to agree to treaties that privileged foreign trade at the expense of the Kingdom’s own economy, and in some cases, even our own laws.

Through threatened military intervention, these European powers and the United States coerced favorable trade access to Hawaiʻi as it had with other large and prosperous countries like India, China, and Japan.

The adoption of a constitutional government and international recognition of Hawaiʻi as a nation-state in 1843 brought an end to such military-backed extortion for the next 40 years.

But in 1887, the Kingdom experienced a renewed threat from the U.S. Navy when Mōʻī David Kalākaua refused to lease Puʻuloa (Pearl Harbor) to the United States in exchange for a renewal of a reciprocity treaty that had greatly benefited the sugar plantations for over a decade.

This was because a lasting U.S. naval presence in the Kingdom was extremely unpopular among Hawaiian citizens.

Fourteen years earlier, when Mōʻī William Charles Lunalilo proposed a long-term lease of Puʻuloa for a naval harbor in exchange for a reciprocity treaty with the U.S. in 1873, the unhappiness and the open and widespread protests by the lāhui were so great that Lunalilo withdrew his support for the treaty – much to displeasure and scorn of the Kingdom’s business community.

When Lunalilo died a year later, David Kalākaua campaigned for the throne by promising to secure a reciprocity treaty without sacrificing the “Pearl River Lagoon.” In 1875 he did as he promised and, from 1877 on, the sugar industry enjoyed a ten-fold annual increase (1,000%) in profits, in land under sugar cultivation, and in the number of laborers – most of them under indentured contracts and working for meager wages.

Forcing the acceptance of a foreign naval installation to maintain these economic advantages was ominously clarified when the United States warned the Hawaiian government in 1885 that no renewal of the reciprocity treaty would be possible without a long-term deal for Pearl Harbor.

Kalākaua’s refusal to budge angered the sugar planters – not only because their sales would suffer – but also because they would still have to pay the laborers under contract and would still be liable for the purchases and leases of lands they had added for increased cultivation. Even some of the larger plantations could have faced ruin.

Their response was to organize a secret society called the “Hawaiian League.”

With almost no Hawaiians in the organization, many of its members also enlisted in a militia known as the “Honolulu Rifles.” In the summer of 1887, Hawaiian League leaders used the threat of the Honolulu Rifles to force the Mōʻī to replace the ministers of his own cabinet with Hawaiian League members.

That same threat led to Kalākaua signing a constitution that removed almost all the King’s executive power, reduced the number of eligible Native Hawaiian voters, denied citizens of Asian ancestry the right to vote and, through high property requirements, virtually guaranteed the white business community control of the legislature. The lāhui overwhelmingly disapproved of these new laws and the way they were extorted, calling the result the “Bayonet Constitution.”

When in 1892, with the support of the lāhui, Queen Liliʻuokalani attempted to mandate a more equitable constitution, U.S. naval forces supported haole insurgents who declared themselves the de facto government of Hawaiʻi. This military action led the Queen to temporarily yield her authority to the United States on January 17, 1893.

The American military has historically deployed several types of intimidation against other nations. The most “traditional” has been the threat of violence against our people or our sovereign.

But a longstanding and equally coercive strategy has been to insist on our “dependence” on the American armed forces and on our acceptance of their whims and prerogatives due to the economic subsidies and supposed protection they provide.

“Our best choices are always guided by our ancient wisdom and aloha for our ʻāina. To transform our lands and our society into instruments for better lives and a healthier environment, we find ourselves squarely in opposition to U.S. military objectives and operations here in Hawaiʻi.”

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If, like our kūpuna, we are indeed a nation of intelligent Kānaka – and I know that we are – then we, too, should always be examining closely the intentions of anyone, any organization, or any nation that proposes to use our ʻāina and our labor for any enterprise that suits their purposes.

The fact that military hardware can be produced in Hawaiʻi does not mean it should be. And we are not just entitled, but required to ask of every new initiative: “What will this mean for our lāhui and for our residents, and what will this mean for our ʻāina?”

The U.S. military buildup in the Pacific about a hundred years ago was made possible by America’s seizures of the Philippines, Guam, and Hawaiʻi. And while historians might not agree on the details, there is a general consensus that the vastly greater presence of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, when added to the already significant British naval presence in Southeast Asia, helped provoke the rise of national resentment and militarism in Japan that eventually resulted in their decision to attack these western powers in 1941.

The consequences of creating the Pearl Harbor naval base were, therefore, not just the thousands of American deaths on December 7, 1941, but the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Japanese men, women, and children in Tokyo, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki in 1945 and perhaps a million other Japanese and American deaths in the four years between.

To bring us up to the present, the current U.S. president’s unleashing of military actions in Yemen, Venezuela, and Iran demonstrates that the new national “diplomatic” strategy is threat, destruction and death for any country that stands in the president’s way.

The people of Hawaiʻi need to decide if we want to implicate ourselves in America’s accelerating commitment to menacing other nations at will.

Our lāhui was unable to stop the U.S. takeover in the 1890s, or its seizure of our crown and government lands for military bases and training grounds during the territorial era and even after statehood. But we should refuse to participate in this new manufacturing undertaking and we can urge Hawaiʻi residents to condemn this scheme as courageously and unwaveringly as possible.

But above all, the people of Hawaiʻi – Native Hawaiian and resident alike – must recognize and embrace the vast possibilities of restoring ʻāina to health and with it ourselves, our families, and our communities.

There are better uses for our ʻāina, and far better uses for our labor and intelligence. Climate change and the increasing impoverishment of peoples can only be counteracted by our communities becoming more self-sufficient, innovative, and agile as producers of food and protectors of water.

We can decide to go along with the plunder of other nations as other empires have done in the past, or we can insist on contributing to the future of life and resiliency on this planet.

We know what our kūpuna thought about this: ʻOnipaʻa. ʻAuʻa ʻia. E ui ē. They told us to stay together, to persist on the land, and above all, to treat ourselves and others with aloha.

The United States has set a new and violent path for itself. That nation’s fate is uncertain.

Our choices are clearer and our best choices are always guided by our ancient wisdom and aloha for our ʻāina. To transform our lands and our society into instruments for better lives and a healthier environment, we find ourselves squarely in opposition to U.S. military objectives and operations here in Hawaiʻi.

And that opposition begins with remembering our kūpuna and their bravery:

ʻAʻole mākou aʻe minamina
I ka puʻukālā o ke Aupuni.
Ua lawa mākou i ka pōhaku
I ka ʻai kamahaʻo o ka ʻāina.

Aloha nō.

The post Hawaiʻi Can Do Better: Rejecting A Militarist Future appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Traditionally, our moʻokūʻauhau (genealogies) establish us as Kānaka ʻŌiwi – the Indigenous people of Hawaiʻi. It is from this foundation of moʻokūʻauhau that we have pilina to our ancestors, to this ʻāina, and to one another; an identity established by bloodlines, lineage, and connection.

It was not until the 1921 Hawaiian Homes Commission Act was passed by the U.S. Congress, with language defining “natives” as those individuals having 50% or more Hawaiian blood, that the idea of “blood quantum” to determine our Hawaiian-ness was introduced into the consciousness of our people and began to redefine how we saw ourselves.

If conditions remain as they are today it will only be a matter of a short space of time when this race of people, my people, renowned for their physique, their courage, their sense of justice, their straightforwardness, and their hospitality will be a matter of history.
– Prince Kūhio to Congress on Dec. 14, 1920

A tool of dispossession

The idea of blood quantum to determine indigeneity is an invention of settler colonial governments designed to dispossess Native Peoples from their lands.

In Canada, the 1876 Indian Act, still in effect today, determines who receives “status” from the government. “Status Indians” must be 50% or more Indigenous and are eligible for a variety of benefits not available to the rest of the population. Whether or not a person identifies as Indigenous, or practices Indigenous culture and traditions, is irrelevant to the designation.

Mi’kmaq attorney and professor Pamela D. Palmater writes: “There is a long-term effect of this type of legislation: that every single First Nation in Canada effectively has an extinction date, a day when that Nation’s last registered Indian is born.”

In the Americas, blood quantum first shows up in 1705 in Virginia when the colony adopted an “Indian Blood Law” limiting the rights of Native Americans with 50% (or more) Indigenous ancestry and affording greater rights to those with less than 50% ancestry.

Then in 1887, Congress passed the General Allotment Act (the “Dawes Act”) which gave the U.S. president the power to break up communally held tribal lands into parcels of about 160 acres that were then “allotted” to individuals – typically heads of households. The law was designed to push Native Americans from tribal land ownership to private land ownership, ostensibly to encourage independent farming and economic prosperity.

At the time, an estimated 138-150 million acres were under Tribal authority and control. According to the Native Governance Center, under the Dawes Act “the federal government used blood quantum to determine allotment eligibility and also granted Native people with lower blood quantums the ability to sell their allotments. Any unallotted ʻsurplus’ land [in the end about 90 million acres] was sold to non-native buyers. The federal government used this strategy to further strip Native nations of their land base.”

In other words, the government “gave” portions of land already controlled by the Native Nations to their individual members and when there were no more tribal members “eligible” to receive a land allotment based on blood quantum, the government kept the rest (about 65% of the original acreage) and sold it to non-natives.

The “Indian Reorganization Act” of 1934 ended the forced allotment of tribal lands as the federal government changed its policy to one of recognition of tribal governments and the promotion of self-government – so long as they conformed to an American model. However, it also formalized blood quantum as the federal tool for defining Native American identity and tribal membership, replacing kinship-based membership systems.

“Blood quantum emerged as a way to measure ʻIndian-ness’ through a construct of race. So that over time, Indians would literally breed themselves out and rid the federal government of their legal duties to uphold treaty obligations,” explained Dr. Elizabeth Rule (Chickasaw) an assistant professor at American University in a 2018 NPR interview.

According to the Native Governance Center, the Indian Reorganization Act resulted in many Native nations adopting “boilerplate constitutions” developed by the federal government that included using – for the first time – blood quantum as the basis for tribal citizenship.

Deciding who is Hawaiian

According to Dr. J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, a professor of Indigenous Studies at Princeton University, “the blood quantum rule operates as a technique of state craft that undergirds dispossession” noting that “U.S. governmental bodies have used blood quantum classifications both historically and in the present to appropriate Native lands and promote cultural and biological assimilation to the advantage of whiteness.”

Her 2008 book, Hawaiian Blood: Colonialism and the Politics of Sovereignty and Indigeneity, focuses on the U.S. imposition of blood quantum on Hawaiians codified in the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act (HHCA) of 1921.

As her research documents, the legislation initially proposed by Hawaiʻi’s Congressional Delegate, Prince Jonah Kūhiō Kalanianaʻole, defined Native Hawaiians as all Hawaiians “in whole or part.” Members of Congress, however, were uncomfortable with an all-inclusive definition of Native Hawaiian and pushed for a new definition. Eventually, 1/32 became a hypothetical example and later, the newly proposed standard.

Kūhiō saw the HHCA as “belated justice” and emphasized in his testimony before Congress that Hawaiian dispossession, depopulation and economic marginalization had to be remedied. Its purpose, therefore, was rehabilitative and inclusive.

The greatest opposition to the HHCA came from Hawaiʻi’s wealthy corporate plantation and ranch owners. They sent their representatives to Washington, D.C., to voice their dissent to Kūhiō’s proposed legislation. Unwilling to give up their access to trust lands, they proposed “full-blood Hawaiian” as the most appropriate definition.

Kauanui asserts that the blood quantum criterion emerged as a way to avoid recognizing Hawaiian entitlement to the lands desired for the homestead program. “Key players in the HHCA hearings redefined ʻneed’ in racial terms by using blood quantum as an indicator of social competency, where those defined by the 50% rule were deemed incapable to look out for themselves,” she said.

“Hence, in the quest to control Hawaiian land and assets, blood quantum classification emerged as a way to undermine Kānaka Maoli sovereignty claims – not only by explicitly limiting the number who could lay claim to the land, but also by reframing the Native connection to the land itself from a legal claim to one based on charity.”

This was evident in the testimony of attorney William B. Pittman at the Congressional hearings in December 1920 on behalf of Raymond Ranch (now Ulupalakua Ranch) and other interests.

Arguing that the legislation should only apply to full-blooded Hawaiians Pittman said, “I do not believe the delegate [Kūhiō] will object to that – that it be confined to the full blood instead of the half blood – because he knows and everybody knows that any part Hawaiian is capable of taking care of himself and does not need any rehabilitation.”

To which Kūhiō replied, “I would like to see everybody get the benefit of it in Hawaiʻi. For years past and up to the present time, the Hawaiians have never received any benefits.”

The proposed legislation continued to use a 1/32 blood quantum to define Native Hawaiians at least through April 1921. However, after the proposal was rejected by Congress for an unrelated reason and sent back to the territorial legislature for revision, 1/8 became the new standard being debated.

By the time the proposal went back to Congress, however, Native Hawaiian was defined as 50%, “a compromise made between Kūhiō and Hawaiʻi Sen. John H. Wise (also Kanaka Maoli) with the elite ʻMerchant Street gang’ in Honolulu,” Kauanui said.

She posits that “had there been an abiding focus on Hawaiian land entitlements, rather than a shift to a welfare discourse of Hawaiian neediness, genealogical descent could have remained as the way to determine Kānaka Maoli eligibility for homesteading, since as descendants of the kingdom, Kānaka Maoli could claim an equitable right to the land as their inheritance.”

However, she adds, “neither the island representatives serving the interests of the sugar corporations, nor the U.S. government intended to bolster Hawaiian claims, especially those that would call U.S. occupation into question.”

Kūhiō’s call for Hawaiian rehabilitation focused on Indigenous mortality and the HHCA was originally premised on recognition of citizenship under the Hawaiian Kingdom as Hawaiians grappled with unresolved land rights, “but the problem was in articulating that awareness of these historical claims within the confines of American law, citizenship and racial categories,” said Kauanui.

Blood quantum and identity

“Portraits of Hawaiians, 1909”

Photo series by Caroline Haskins Gurrey, Wikimedia Commons

Until 1921, Hawaiians were simply Hawaiians. After foreign contact began in 1778, the mixed race children of Hawaiian mothers and (mostly) European fathers were raised Hawaiian and fully integrated into Hawaiian society.

Hawaiian identity was based on lineage and cultural norms rather than racial reckoning, thus many Hawaiian children of mixed ancestry were not even aware of their mixed ancestry – especially if they were hānai.

Today, despite the imposition of blood quantum on the Hawaiian psyche for the past 100 years, in most instances one’s appearance or estimated blood quantum is not an exclusionary social factor because of the importance of genealogy and pilina within the Hawaiian community. Indeed, nearly every Hawaiian family today includes members who qualify (and don’t qualify) as Native Hawaiian under the federal definition.

Reflecting on the negative impacts of blood quantum on our lāhui, Papa Ola Lōkahi CEO Dr. Sheri Daniels observed that it becomes a “have or have not” question. “I think when we talk about blood quantum, people get really stuck around ʻwhat does it mean for me? How do I benefit?’” She acknowledges that we need spaces, as ʻŌiwi, to talk through the ʻeha (pain) associated with the blood quantum label and the ways it has divided us.

“We come from strong people so why are we still focused on how disparate we are? We know our moʻokūʻauhau. It is about having koko (blood). If someone tells me they are Kanaka, I’m going to take that at face value. I’m not going to ask to see their documents.”

As it suits their needs

In discussing blood quantum as a colonial invention used to acquire land, wealth and power, it is important to point out the glaring contradiction between the imposition of blood quantum policies on Indigenous Peoples as distinct from Black Americans.

While the federal government has consistently imposed minimum blood quantum requirements on Indigenous Peoples to establish them as “native,” any amount of African blood was enough to establish someone as Black.

The notorious “one drop” rule originated after slavery ended in 1863 and was entrenched during the “Jim Crow” era, a period of legalized racial discrimination in America, primarily in southern states. It persisted until the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Rooted in white supremacy and slavery, the “one drop” rule was intended to keep the white race “pure” and to prevent individuals with any amount of African blood from accessing the privileges of whiteness in America. Meanwhile, Indigenous persons of mixed race were not only permitted to assimilate – they were encouraged to do so.

Dr. Brian W. Dippie is a professor emeritus of U.S. cultural history at the University of Victoria in British Columbia. In his 1982 book, The Vanishing American: White Attitudes and the U.S. Indian Policy, he writes, “The situations of the Negro (sic) and the Indian were not really analogous … one was earmarked for a segregated, menial existence, the other for full participation in white civilization.”

Expanding on this idea he notes, “The native population was small – just an infinitesimal fraction of the whole American population – and while a massive infusion of Indian blood might pollute the national type, the limited amount available could do no harm and might even do some good.”

For the U.S. government, assimilation of Indigenous Peoples had several benefits. For one thing, absorption of Indigenous Peoples into the dominant white American culture negates pesky Indigenous land and sovereignty claims, and reduces the number of individuals who can qualify for federal benefits as people intermarry.

Indigenous People have also been fetishized in American culture in ways that Black Americans have not. Take, for example, the romanticized “noble savage” trope or the sexualized “hula girl” of the territorial era. These stereotypes make native peoples more palatable and even inspire dubious claims of Indigenous ancestry.

Impossible to measure

Blood quantum as a concept for determining our Hawaiian-ness has become entrenched over the past century. As a result, many of us think of ourselves and our Hawaiian identity in terms of fractions.

However, blood quantum is impossible to quantify and cannot be measured using birth certificates. The reason? Science.

Children inherit half of their DNA from their mother and half from their father. But unless they are identical twins, siblings do not inherit the exact same DNA. That is why children from the same family can look quite different.

A child receives 23 sets of chromosomes from each parent – so 46 altogether – which makes up their DNA. When joined, these chromosomes commingle and swap genetic information resulting in even more variations.

According to biotech company Sano Genetics, there are more than 8 million possible DNA combinations from just 23 chromosome sets, and research has shown that full siblings can share as little as 37% or as much as 65% of their genetic variants.

So while siblings receive 50% of their DNA from each parent, they don’t receive the exact same 50%. It is the reason why siblings who take DNA tests often get very different results. Thus blood quantum is an unscientific western construct without substance or merit.

Reconciling and moving forward

In contrast to genealogies and lineage which connect people to each other and to the land, the use of blood quantum to determine “Hawaiian-ness” attempts to classify ʻŌiwi into disparate groups of Hawaiians, which has divided families and communities for generations.

As intermarriage created new family dynamics and the 50% blood quantum requirement threatened HHCA descendants with dispossession from the land they were raised on, to its credit the State of Hawaiʻi was able to get Congressional approval to decrease the blood quantum requirement for successorship from 50% to 25% more than 20 years ago.

More recently, in 2017, the State of Hawaiʻi signed Act 80 into law further decreasing the HHCA successorship requirement to 1/32 Hawaiian – much closer to the original vision of Prince Kūhiō. However, implementation requires Congressional approval and it has been languishing in Washington, D.C., since 2022.

Ultimately, as is the case among First Nations Peoples, many ʻŌiwi object to the 50% blood quantum designation – not because they desire federal benefits – but because it is inherently divisive and undermines Indigenous self-identity and political claims. “Hawaiian kinship and genealogical modes of identification allow for political empowerment in the service of nation-building because it is inclusive,” Kauanui said.

“Not only is the genealogical approach more wide-reaching, it is embedded in Indigenous ontologies (realities) whereby peoplehood is rooted in the land. This inclusivity is especially true in the face of non-Hawaiian political opposition to Native Hawaiian entitlements and the sovereignty movement.”

While blood quantum continues to be a controversial topic, it does not need to be a divisive one. “We may not see eye-to-eye,” Daniels said. “But, at the end of the day, if we all collectively say that our North Star is being Hawaiian – and we practice being the best Kanaka we can be – then everything else is just noise.”

Author’s note: Mahalo nui to Dr. J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, who generously shared her extensive research on blood quantum for the purposes of this article. Dr. Kauanui is an author, professor, and expert on settler colonialism, self-determination, decolonization, international law, race, gender and sexuality.

To learn more about Act 80 and to track changes to the HHCA visit: doi.gov/Hawaiian/hhca-amendments

The post Designed to Divide: Understanding Blood Quantum appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Unuhi ʻia e Paige M. K. Okamura

Wahi a Tom Pōhaku Stone, ua hānau ʻia ʻo ia he kama na ke kai.

He kanaka heʻe nalu nui kaulana a he ihupani holokai ʻo Stone, no laila, he ʻālapa hiapaʻiʻole ʻo ia e ʻimi mau ana i nā mea e hoʻokapalili ai ka houpo. He mau ʻālinalina me nā moʻolelo kona e hōʻike ai i kona komo mau ʻana i nā hana weliweli i ʻaneʻane make ʻo ia.

He loea kālai ʻo ia, he mea hoʻomau moʻomeheu, he kumu, a he moho laeʻula. Me ia hoʻokahi ka hoʻohanohano no ka hoʻōla ʻana i ka heʻe hōlua, a ʻo ia nō ke kāʻeʻaʻeʻa heʻe hōlua o ko Hawaiʻi paeʻāina.

No ka Heʻe Hōlua

ʻO ka heʻe hōlua a ko kākou kūpuna, he pāʻani keu a ka weliweli i ʻike ʻia ma Hawaiʻi wale nō.

ʻOkoʻa ka lōʻihi, ka piʻina, me ke kūlana mākau o nā kahua hōlua no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana. No ka leʻaleʻa me ka hoʻomaʻamaʻa nā kahua hōlua i hana ʻia me ka mauʻu. ʻO nā kahua hōlua i hana ʻia me nā pōhaku a uhi ʻia me nā lānahu pōhaku, no ka hoʻokūkū ʻana o nā aliʻi ia mau kahua hōlua. Lū ʻia ka pili a i ʻole ka pua kō ma luna i ʻoi aʻe ai ka pakika o ke kahua hōlua.

Hoʻomaka nā kahua hōlua nui loa ma uka a holo a hiki loa aku i kapa kai – aia ka hopena o kekahi ma kaʻe pali. ʻO ke kahua hōlua lōʻihi loa i mālama maikaʻi ʻia, aia ma Kāneaka ma Keauhou ma Hawaiʻi mokupuni. I ke kūkulu ʻia ʻana o ia kahua, he mile a ʻoi paha ka lōʻihi mai ka puʻu a i ke kai kūʻono ʻo Heʻeia.

He 12 – 18 kapuaʻi ka lōʻihi o nā papa hōlua, akā, he ʻeono ʻīniha wale nō ka laulā. ʻElua ona kāmaʻaloa i hana ʻia me nā lāʻau ʻōiwi paʻa, e laʻa me ke kauila, i hauhoa ʻia i nā keʻa ʻohe. Hauhoa ʻia nā papa liʻi i nā keʻa no ka pola a me nā lāʻau paʻa lima. Hamohamo ʻia ka ʻaila kukui ma lalo o nā kāmaʻaloa i ʻoi aʻe ai ka paheʻe ʻana.

He mea kupaianaha nō ma ka haku ʻana o ka papa hōlua. Kūkulu ʻia nā papa hōlua me ke akeakamai i maʻalahi ka paheʻe ʻana i ka makani. Hiki ke moe ma ka ʻōpū ma ka pola, kukuli iho ma ke kuli, a i ʻole e kū i luna, a heʻe nō me ka wikiwiki he 75 mile o ka hola a ʻoi.

Nui nā kumu no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana. No ka hapanui o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi, he hana leʻaleʻa wale nō. He hana punahele ia ma ka wā Makahiki, a komo kekahi poʻe nānā i ka pili waiwai no ka lanakila ʻana o kā lā-kou heʻe hōlua punahele.

E like me ka mea i hōʻike ʻia ma kā Apple TV kiʻi kīwī ʻo Chief of War, ʻo ka heʻe hōlua kekahi hana hoʻomana a nā aliʻi. “Ua pono nā aliʻi nui e hōʻike aku i ko lākou mākaukau no ka make ʻana, inā he ʻiʻini ko lākou e alakaʻi,” wahi a Stone. “I loko nō naʻe o kona kaila Hollywood, he kiʻi maikaʻi ʻo Chief of War no ka hōʻike ʻana i ke ʻano o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi me ko kākou mālama ʻana i nā mea like ʻole.”

Ma mua, ua manaʻo ʻia ʻo ka heʻe hōlua he hana na nā aliʻi kāne wale nō, akā naʻe, paʻa i loko o nā moʻolelo kahiko nā moʻolelo o nā kāne a me nā wāhine e komo ana ma ka heʻe hōlua ʻana – nā makaʻāinana a me nā aliʻi pū kekahi – ma mua o ka launa ʻana me nā kānaka no waho. Eia kēia, ʻo ka moʻolelo kaulana no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana, pili ia i ko Pele heʻe hōlua ʻana ma luna o ka pele i mea e lanakila ai ma luna o Kahawali, ke aliʻi haʻakei no Puna, a i ko lāua heihei ʻana ʻaneʻane make ʻo Kahawali.

He Ola Piha Hoʻomākaukau

I kona wā ʻōpio, nui ko Stone kipa ʻana iā Waikīkī kahi a kona tūtū i hana a kūʻai lei aku ai. Ma hope o ke kōkua ʻana i kona tūtū, hele ʻo ia i kahakai a nānea me nā Keiki Kahakai o Waikīkī. Na Duke Kanamoku i kōkua iā Stone ma ke kau ʻana ma kona nalu mua loa, he ʻelima wale nō ona makahiki ma ia wā.

Mai ia manawa, hei ʻo Stone naʻau a puni ʻo ia i ka heʻe nalu. Ke hele i Waikīkī, ma hope o ke kōkua kūʻai lei ʻana, hele aku ʻo ia i kahakai e kali ana i ke kiʻi ʻana o kekahi o nā Keiki Kāne o Waikīkī i ka papa heʻe nalu nona e heʻe nalu aku ai. ʻO kekahi o ia mau Keiki Kāne, ʻo Joey Gerard, he kanaka koʻikoʻi no Stone. “Pēlā au i hoʻomaka e heʻe nalu ma nā nalu nui – ma muli o Joey Gerard,” i hoʻomanaʻo ai ʻo Stone.

ʻIke ʻia kona ʻano ʻālapa e kona mau kūpuna a i kona makahiki ʻehā, hoʻouna ʻia akula ʻo ia e noho me kona ʻanakala kuakahi ʻo John Solomon, he paniolo no Kohala. ʻAʻohe āna keiki, no laila, ua manaʻo ʻia e hānai iā Stone a laila na Stone e mālama i kāna hana hānai pipi. “Ua hānai ʻia au he paniolo, akā, ua paʻakikī naʻe no ʻAnakala John no ka mea, ua puni au i ke kai,” i ʻakaʻaka ai ʻo Stone. Ua noho pū ʻo ia me Solomon no ʻelua wale nō makahiki.

Iā ia ma Oʻahu, kipa akula ʻo ia i kona kupuna kāne ma ka ʻaoʻao o kona māmā, ʻo David Kahanu, ma Kāneʻohe. “A pēlā nō e hōʻea mai ai i kēia moʻolelo o ka heʻe hōlua,” i wehewehe maila ʻo Stone. “Hoʻomākaukau ana ʻo ia iaʻu e aʻo i ka heʻe hōlua.”

Moʻolelo maila ʻo Kahanu no ka heʻe hōlua a ua lawe ʻo ia iā Stone e heʻe lāʻī ma kekahi puʻu mauʻu ma Kāneʻohe, me ka heʻe lepo ʻana i ke awāwa ʻo Nuʻuanu. Lawe ʻia ʻo ia i kekahi ulu manakō i uka o Pālolo a ʻaʻa iā Stone e lele mai kekahi kumu lāʻau i lalo loa hoʻi o ke awāwa. “Aʻo ana ʻo ia iaʻu e ʻaʻa i ka hana; e kia hoʻi i ka pahuhopu a ʻaʻole e kānalua,” i hoʻomanaʻo mai ʻo Stone.

ʻO kona pilina me Kahanu kekahi mea koʻikoʻi o ko Stone wā ʻōpio. “Nui koʻu aloha i nā manawa aʻu i noho pū ai me ia no ka mea, moʻolelo ana ʻo ia iaʻu iā māua e inu kī me ka ʻai pelena ana. A laila, ua haʻalele nō ʻo ia, ua hala. Pēlā nō ia.”

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He Ala ʻana o ka Moʻomeheu me ka Politika

E like me ka nui o nā ʻōpio Hawaiʻi o nā makahiki 1960, piʻi ana ko Stone kai i nā mea i hiki ʻole iā ia ke wehewehe pono. Ma waho o ka heʻe nalu ʻana me kona hoihoi i nā pāʻani kai, kāʻili ʻia kona noʻonoʻo a loaʻa ʻo ia i ka pilikia me nā mākaʻi.

Haʻalele ʻo ia i ke kula kiʻekiʻe a komo ʻo ia i ka pūʻali koa. Ma hope o ka puka ʻana mai ka pūʻali koa, hana ʻo ia no ke Kūlanakauhale o Honolulu ma ke ʻano he kiaʻi ola a i kona wā kaʻawale ua heʻe nalu a holo papa peʻa ʻo ia.

A laila, ma ka lā 17 o Ianuali, 1993, ua komo ʻo Stone ma ka paikau ʻOnipaʻa, ka hoʻohanohano ʻana i ka piha ʻana he 100 makahiki o ka hoʻokahuli ʻia o ke aupuni Hawaiʻi. Ma ka Hale Aliʻi ʻo ʻIolani i lohe ai ʻo ia i ka haʻi ʻōlelo a Haunani Kay Trask, ka haʻi ʻōlelo kaulana i kēia wā me kona hoʻōho ʻana aku “ʻAʻole kākou he ʻAmelika! ʻAʻole loa e lilo ana he mau ʻAmelika!”

Ua loli loa ko Stone ʻano i ka lohe ʻana i nā ʻōlelo a Trask. Hoʻokō ʻo ia i kāna kekelē GED, komo akula i ke kulanui ma ke Kulanui Kaiāulu o Koʻolau (WCC), ʻaʻole ʻo ia i nānā i hope.

Ka Hoʻōla ʻana i ka Heʻe Hōlua

No kekahi pāhana noiʻi ma ka papa ʻike Hawaiʻi ma WCC ma lalo o Kumu Kalani Meinecke, ua ulu aʻe ko Stone hoi e aʻo mai e pili ana i ka hōlua. “Nānā nui ʻia ka hoʻokele waʻa ʻana e nā kānaka ʻē aʻe. Akā, ua makemake au e kia ma ka ʻike a koʻu tūtū kāne i aʻo mai iaʻu, a loaʻa paha kekahi mea i ʻike ʻole ʻia. Pēlā i hoʻomaka ai kēia.”

No laila, i ka makahiki 1994, me ko Meinecke kākoʻo, hoʻomaka ʻo Stone e aʻo mai i nā mea a pau i hiki iā ia ke aʻo e pili ana i ka hōlua. ʻAʻole ʻo ia i kākau wale i pepa noiʻi, ua kūkulu ʻo ia i ka papa hōlua āna i kapa ai ʻo Keahiokekai.

Ua kūkulu ʻia kāna papa hōlua mai nā wehewehena i loaʻa ma ka puke ʻo Arts and Crafts of Hawaii i kākau ʻia e Sir Peter H. Buck (Te Rangi Hīroa), he kanaka hulikanaka Māori. Nele naʻe ko Buck wehewehena o ka hauhoa ʻana o nā kāmaʻaloa i nā keʻa, no laila, hauhoa ʻo Stone e like me ka hauhoa ʻana no ka waʻa.

Kuhi koke maila ʻo Stone, ʻaʻole ʻo ia hoʻokahi ka hanohano o ka hoʻōla ʻana i ka heʻe hōlua. He mau pakanā kona ma ia hana, ʻo kona mau hoa papa mai WCC ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo Kilohana Duarte (ua hala) lāua ʻo Anne Campbell (kā Stone wahine i kēia manawa). “Aia pū lāua me aʻu mai kinohi. ʻO mākou ʻekolu ma kēia huakaʻi like.”

ʻOiai ʻo ia i kona mau makahiki kanahā, lilo kona kālena ma ka heʻe nalu nui ʻana i ke aʻo ʻana iā ia iho i ka heʻe hōlua. Lawe ʻo ia i kāna papa hōlua i Maui no ka heʻe hōlua ʻana ma ke kahua hōlua ma ʻUlupalakua, akā ua haki nā wēlau o nā kāmaʻaloa ma ka huakaʻi ʻana i Maui. Ua hiki nō ke kau ma luna a heʻe, akā ma hope ua lawe ʻo ia i kāna papa hōlua i Hawaiʻi mokupuni e kuni ai ʻoiai ua pilikia.

Ua hele akula ʻo Stone i Kīholo a waiho i kāna papa hōlua ma kapakai iā ia e ʻohiʻohi ʻana i nā lāʻau no ke ahi. I kona hoʻi ʻana mai, aia he ʻeono honu nui e moe ana ma luna o kāna papa hōlua. He hōʻailona kēia no Stone. ʻAʻole i kuni ʻia i ke ahi ma ia lā, mau nō kona heʻe hōlua ʻana ma luna o ia papa hōlua a hiki i keia lā.

Ma mua o ka makahiki 1997, ua kūkulu ʻo Stone i mau papa hōlua a ua ʻae ʻia ʻo ia e nānā i ka papa hōlua hope loa i koe ma mua o ka hiki ʻana mai o Kuke ma ka Hale Hōʻikeʻike o Bīhopa. No kekahi mau makahiki i kilo ai ʻo Stone i ke kūkulu ʻia ʻana o ua papa hōlua nei.

“He mea kahiko loa ke akamai o ka wilikī ʻana i ka hōlua. He mea nui ke kaulike me ka napa o ka papa hōlua. He hōʻailona ia, a he hana ʻepekema. Inā ʻoʻoleʻa ka papa hōlua, e haki ana ke holo me ka wikiwiki loa. Pono ʻoe e kūkulu i ka papa hōlua me ka manaʻo no ka lōkahi o nā māhele a pau. ʻO ia ka mea nui.”

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Ka Hōʻailona me ke Kūlana o nā Wāhine ma ka Hōlua

Ma waena o nā makahiki 1994 me 1998 he mau haili moe ko Stone. I loko o ia mau moeʻuhane, aia ʻo Stone e hele wāwae ana me kekahi wahine. Hiki aku lāua i Halemaʻumaʻu i Kīlauea, a laila ua ʻike ʻo ia ʻo ka wahine, ʻo Pele nō ia. Ma kēia moeʻuhane, wehewehe akula ʻo Pele iā ia i ka hauhoa kūpono ʻana no ka papa hōlua.

“Ala aʻe au ma kahi o ka hola ʻekahi o ke aumoe, puka aku i waho, wāwahi i ka hōlua, a laila kūkulu hou e like me ke ʻano kahiko,” wahi a Stone.

No ka hōlua, pono e pālua ke kīpuni ʻana – i hiki i nā kāmaʻaloa ke hemo iki me ka holu ʻana i mua a i hope. Pono naʻe he 375 kapuaʻi o ka ʻaha.

Nui hou aku nā haʻawina a Stone i aʻo mai ai ma kona mau moeʻuhane ma waho o ka hauhoa ʻana wale nō. Hoʻomaopopo maila ʻo ia i ke kūlana koʻikoʻi o nā wāhine ma ka hōlua. “Haʻi mau mai ana koʻu māmā iaʻu, ke kipa mai kahi kupuna iā ʻoe, e hele nō ma ka huakaʻi. Pēlā au i hana ai. ʻOi aʻe koʻu aʻo ʻana i loko o ia mau moeʻuhane ma mua o nā mea i loaʻa ma kaʻu ʻimi noiʻi ʻana.”

Ua aʻo maila ʻo ia i ka inoa o ka papa hōlua āna i noiʻi ai ma ka Hale Hōʻikeʻike o Bīhopa, ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo Lonoikamakahiki, a ʻo ia ka papa hōlua o Kanemuna, he wahine no Hoʻokena. “A laila, hoʻomaopopo maila wau, iaʻu e huli ana no nā papa hōlua, he mau inoa wahine ko lākou.”

Wahi a Stone, no ka nui me ke kūlana koʻikoʻi o nā wāhine i komo i ka heʻe hōlua – me ia pilina i nā akua wāhine e laʻa me Pele – lilo ka heʻe hōlua i māka no nā mikionali i kūʻē i ka hoʻomana kahiko, me ka mana o ke kūlana o nā wāhine ma ka nohona Hawaiʻi i mea e kūlike me ko waho – me nā kāne ka mana ma luna o nā wāhine.

I ko Stone manaʻo, ʻo ia ke kumu i laha ʻole ai ka ʻike no ka heʻe hōlua, a ʻo ke kumu i nele ai kākou i nā papa hōlua kahiko, ua kākaʻikahi nā mea i koe.

“I ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi, he mana ko ka wahine, ʻoi aʻe ko lākou kūlana ma luna o nā kāne no ka mea, me lākou ka moʻokūʻauhau,” wahi a Stone. “Nui ka mana o nā wāhine Hawaiʻi ma luna o nā wāhine o ka ʻāina ʻē ma ka hana politika, kaiāulu, a me ka hoʻomana, he kūʻē kēia i ke kuanaʻike Iudaio-Kalikiano.”

ʻŌlelo ʻo Stone, ma ke kuanaʻike o nā mikionali, ua ʻike lākou i kahi mea pāʻani weliweli i komo pinepine ʻia e nā wāhine me nā papa hōlua i kapa ʻia no nā akua wāhine. “Ua pono lākou e hoʻopau i ka hoʻomana ʻana i nā wāhine,” a i mea e holoi ai i ka hōlua mai ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi, ua pono e wāwahi i nā kahua hōlua. A i kekahi mau manawa, hoʻohana ʻia nā pōhaku mai nā kahua hōlua no ke kūkulu ʻana i nā hale pule.

No ka Heʻe Hōlua mai Kēia Mua Aku

ʻOiai ʻo Stone i piha kona mau makahiki kanahiku i kēia manawa, hopohopo ʻo ia e lawe ʻia ʻana ka keʻe hōlua e nā malihini i mea e hoʻonui i kā lākou kālā wale nō mai nā hana kuʻuna me ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi e like me ka heʻe nalu ʻana – ko Hawaiʻi mea pāʻani waiwai hoʻolilo kaulana loa – ua kāʻili ʻia ka waiwai o ka heʻe nalu mai Hawaiʻi a puni ka honua i waena o ke kenekulia 20.

“Kānalua nui wau i ke kanaka nāna e mālama ana i kēia ʻike no ka mea, ua loaʻa iaʻu nā noi e hana pū me na ʻoihana papa huila me nā ʻoihana papa heʻe hau. Eia naʻe, ʻaʻole kēia ʻike he mea e kūʻai ʻia aku nei.”

I kēia manawa, ʻaʻole ʻo Stone e alakaʻi nei i kekahi kanaka hana hōlua a i ʻole heʻe hōlua ma waho o kona ʻohana ponoʻī, eia naʻe, he kumu ʻo ia no kekahi mau kānaka mālama moʻomeheu e hoʻomau nei i ka ʻike hōlua me ka hana ʻana i nā papa hōlua, ʻo ia hoʻi ʻo: Kumulāʻau Sing, ʻIliahi Doo, Kunāne Wooton, a me Mahi La Pierre.

Eia naʻe, ʻo Stone paha ko Hawaiʻi kanaka heʻe hōlua pinepine loa.

I kona ʻike, kākaʻikahi nā kānaka kūpaʻa ma kēia hana. “He hana ʻeha ka hana ʻana i ka papa hōlua,” wahi a Stone. “E kahe ana ke koko ma kou lima a e ʻeha ana kou kino holoʻokoʻa no ka mea e hoʻohana ana ʻoe i kou mau manamana lima, kou mau manamana wāwae, kou niho – nā mahele like ʻole – no ka hauhoa ʻana.”

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I kona noʻonoʻo ʻana i kona mau ʻiʻini nui ʻelua – ʻo ka heʻe hōlua me ka heʻe nalu – ʻōlelo ʻo Stone ua like a like nā mea ʻelua.

“E noʻonoʻo paha ma o ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi. Aia ʻo Pele ma kahi ʻaoʻao, aia ʻo Nāmakaokahaʻi ma ka ʻaoʻao aʻe. Pili naʻe ka moʻolelo kaʻao i ko lāua hakakā mau ʻana a puni ka paeʻāina, ma koʻu kuanaʻike, he moʻolelo no ka lōkahi o nā ʻaoʻao ʻelua. Hele pū nā ʻaoʻao ʻelua pēlā,” wahi a Stone.

“Ua like a like ka heʻe hōlua me ka heʻe nalu. Inā ʻaʻohe nalu o ke kai e heʻe ai, e heʻe ma nā kuahiwi.”

Stone makes both papa hōlua (sleds) – as well as traditional papa heʻe nalu (surfboards) – that can be ordered from his small business, Hawaiian Boarding Company: hawaiibc.com

The post Ka Hoʻōla ʻana i ko Hawaiʻi Mea Pāʻani Wiwoʻole: Ka Heʻe Hōlua appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Tom Pōhaku Stone says he was born to the ocean.

A renowned big wave surfer and waterman, Stone is a superb athlete and a self-avowed thrill-seeker with the scars to prove it and countless stories of danger and near-death experiences.

He is also a cultural practitioner, a master carver, an educator, and a Ph.D. candidate credited with almost single-handedly reviving heʻe hōlua (land sledding) and is considered to be Hawaiʻi’s foremost expert in the sport.

The Practice of Heʻe Hōlua

Heʻe Hōlua as practiced by our ancestors was an extreme sport unique to Hawaiʻi.

Slides varied tremendously in terms of length, incline, and difficulty. Some were grass slides used for training or recreation. Others were slides built with stones and then covered with hard-packed cinder for more serious competition by aliʻi. The slides were often strewn with pili grass or sugar cane tassels to decrease friction.

Many of the longer slides started up ma uka and ended at the coastline – some at ocean cliffs. The longest and best-preserved rock slide is Kāneaka at Keauhou on Hawaiʻi Island, which, when first constructed, extended about a mile from the hillside to Heʻeia Bay.

Papa hōlua (sleds) range from 12- to 18-feet-long, but are only about six inches wide. They consist of two runners (kāmaʻaloa) made with native hardwoods like kauila lashed to crosspieces (keʻa) made from ʻohe (bamboo). Smaller rails (papa) lashed to the crosspieces served as a platform and hand rails. The kāmaʻaloa were often lubricated with kukui nut oil to make them slide even faster.

Marvels of engineering and design, the aerodynamically constructed sleds can be ridden prone on one’s belly, kneeling, or standing upright, and can travel at speeds in excess of 75 mph.

The practice of hōlua served many purposes. For most people, most of the time, it was purely a fun and thrilling amusement. It was a favorite Makahiki pastime, and spectators would bet on their favorite riders.

Hōlua was also used ritualistically by aliʻi, as portrayed in Apple TV’s Chief of War. “The aliʻi nui had to perform, to show they’re willing to die if they wanted to lead,” Stone said. “Even though it’s Hollywood style, Chief of War is a great visual of who we were as a people and how we dealt with things.”

Once believed to be a sport reserved for male aliʻi, traditional accounts of the sport describe both male and female riders – commoners and aliʻi alike – prior to western influence. In fact, the best known moʻolelo about hōlua features Pele who rode her papa hōlua on a wave of lava to defeat Kahawali, a prideful young chief from Puna, in a race that nearly killed him.

A Life of Preparation

Growing up, Stone spent a lot of time in Waikīkī where his tūtū made and sold lei. After helping her, he would go down to the beach and hang out around the beach boys. It was Duke Kahanamoku who helped Stone catch his first wave when he was just 5 years old.

Stone was hooked. Whenever he was in Waikīkī, after helping to sell lei, he was at the beach raking the sand until one of the beach boys put a board into the water for him to surf. A young beach boy, Joey Gerard, was one of his greatest influences, “that’s how I started surfing bigger waves – it’s because of Joey Gerard,” Stone recalled.

Having been pegged by his kūpuna as “athletic,” at the age of 4 Stone was sent to live with his great uncle John Solomon, a Kohala rancher. Solomon had no children so the plan was to hānai Stone and have him take over the ranch. “I was being raised to be a cowboy but Uncle John found me very difficult because I was always drawn to the ocean,” he laughed. Stone lived primarily with Solomon for two years.

Whenever he was on Oʻahu, Stone also spent a lot of time with his maternal grandfather, David Kahanu, in Kāneʻohe. “And that’s how we get to hōlua,” Stone explained. “He was training me to learn about it.”

Kahanu told stories about hōlua riding and took young Stone ti-leaf sliding on grassy Kāneʻohe hillsides and mud sliding in Nuʻuanu Valley. He also took him to a grove of mango trees above Pālolo Valley and challenged Stone to jump from tree to tree all the way down into the valley. “He was teaching me to commit; to focus on what I was doing and not to hesitate,” Stone reflected.

Kahanu was one of Stone’s most significant relationships as a child. “I loved being with him whenever I had a chance because that was where he would tell me the stories over a cup of tea and crackers. And then he left, you know, he passed away. So that was that.”

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A Cultural and Political Awakening

Like many young Hawaiians coming of age in the late 1960s, Stone was increasingly dissatisfied and angry about things he couldn’t quite articulate. Outside of surfing and his interest in ocean sports, he was unfocused and got in trouble with the law.

He dropped out of high school and later joined the military. After being discharged, Stone worked for the City & County of Honolulu as an ocean safety officer and spent his free time surfing and windsurfing.

Then, on Jan. 17, 1993, Stone participated in the ʻOnipaʻa March marking 100 years since the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom. At ʻIolani Palace, he heard the late Haunani Kay Trask’s now-famous speech in which she asserted “We are not Americans! We will never be Americans!”

Hearing those words in that moment was transformational for Stone. He completed his GED, enrolled at Windward Community College (WCC), and never looked back.

Reviving the Art and Practice of Heʻe Hōlua

A research assignment for a Hawaiian culture class at WCC with Kumu Kalani Meinecke, inspired Stone to learn more about hōlua. “Everyone was focusing on voyaging. But I wanted to focus on what my tūtūkāne had been teaching me and research something nobody knew anything about. That’s how it all began.”

So in 1994, with Meinecke’s support, Stone began learning everything he could about hōlua.

He not only wrote a research paper, but built a papa hōlua (sled) that he named Keahiokekai.

His sled was constructed based on descriptions found in Arts and Crafts of Hawaii by Māori anthropologist Sir Peter H. Buck (Te Rangi Hīroa). The description lacked details on how to lash the runners to the crosspieces, so Stone improvised and used canoe lashing techniques.

Stone is quick to point out that reviving hōlua wasn’t his accomplishment alone. His WCC classmates, the late Kilohana Duarte and Anne Campbell (now his wife), were his partners. “They were with me almost from day one. The three of us were on this journey.”

Already in his 40s, Stone channeled his talent for big wave riding and began teaching himself to heʻe hōlua. He took his papa hōlua to Maui to ride an ancient slide at ʻUlupalakua, but the tips of his runners broke off in transit. He was still able to ride it, but later took his papa hōlua to Hawaiʻi Island intending to burn it since it was damaged.

Stone went down to Kīholo Bay and left his papa hōlua on the shore while he gathered wood for a fire. When he returned, there were six large honu (turtles) resting on it. Stone took this as a hōʻailona (sign). He did not burn his papa hōlua that day. In fact, he still rides it.

By 1997, Stone had already built several papa hōlua and so was allowed access to the only surviving pre-contact papa hōlua which was housed at Bishop Museum. Stone spent years studying its construction.

“The engineering that goes into hōlua construction is ancient. It’s about balance and flexibility. It’s both scientific and symbolic. If you make the papa hōlua rigid it’s going to break at high speed. You have to build that sense of unified flexibility into it. That’s the most important thing.”

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Divine Inspiration and the Role of Women in Hōlua

Between 1994 and 1998 Stone had a series of vivid dreams. In his dreams he walked the land with a woman he did not know. Eventually, they ended up at Halemaʻumaʻu in Kīlauea and he recognized the woman as Pele. In his dream, Pele explained the proper technique for lashing hōlua.

“I woke up at like 1:00 in the morning, went outside, took it apart, and re-lashed it traditionally,” Stone said.

Hōlua lashing requires a circular double wrap – a pattern that allows the sled’s runners to open slightly and flex forward and backwards. It takes about 375 consecutive feet of sennit.

But Stone learned more than hōlua lashing techniques from his dreams. He also came to understand the important role that women played in hōlua. “My mom always told me when a kupuna visits you, be open and go on the journey. So I did. And I learned more within those moeʻuhane than I learned from my research.”

He learned that the papa hōlua he studied at Bishop Museum was named Lonoikamakahiki and had belonged to Kanemuna, a woman from Hoʻokena. “And then I started to realize, as I searched for hōlua slides, they all have wāhine names.”

According to Stone, the prominence of women in the sport – and it’s connection to female deities like Pele – made hōlua a target of missionaries who not only wanted to suppress traditional religion, but also the prominence of women in Hawaiian society to align with western notions of male dominance and female subservience.

He believes that this is why so little is known about hōlua, and why so few hōlua slides remain.

“In Hawaiian culture, wāhine are more important [than men] because they carry the moʻokūʻauhau,” said Stone. “Hawaiian women had more political, social and spiritual capital than their western counterparts, which clashes with the conventional western Judeo-Christian world view.”

Stone said that what the missionaries “saw” was a dangerous sport that women actively participated in, with slides named after female deities. “They needed to eliminate the worship of females,” he said, noting that erasure of hōlua from Hawaiian consciousness included dismantling many of the slides. And in more than one instance, the stones that formed the slides were reused to build churches.

The Future of Heʻe Hōlua

Now in his 70s, Stone is concerned that outsiders will co-opt heʻe hōlua, monetize it, and profit off of Hawaiian intellectual and cultural property the way surfing – Hawaiʻi’s most famous export – was co-opted in the mid-20th century.

“The reason I’m very choosy about who maintains the knowledge is because I’ve had offers from skateboarding and snowboarding companies. But it’s not for sale,” Stone said adamantly.

Stone is not currently mentoring any hōlua makers or riders outside his own family, although he has previously served as kumu to a handful of cultural practitioners who are now perpetuating ʻike pertaining to hōlua and fabrication of papa hōlua: Kumulāʻau Sing, ʻIliahi Doo, Kunāne Wooton, and Mahi La Pierre.

However, Stone is arguably Hawaiʻi’s most active hōlua rider.

In his experience, few people want to commit. “It’s a process of pain to make a papa hōlua,” said Stone. “Your hands will be bleeding and your whole body aches because you learn to lash with your fingers, toes, teeth – whatever.”

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Reflecting on his twin passions for heʻe hōlua and heʻe nalu (surfing), Stone said that at their essence they are the same.

“Look at it from a cultural point of view. Pele is on one side and Nāmakaokahaʻi (sea goddess and sister to Pele) is on the other. Although the legend is about them battling their way across the islands, I see it as a harmonizing. They go hand in hand,” Stone said.

“Hōlua and surfing are one and the same. If no more waves, ride the mountains.”

Stone makes both papa hōlua (sleds) – as well as traditional papa heʻe nalu (surfboards) – that can be ordered from his small business, Hawaiian Boarding Company: hawaiibc.com

The post Reviving Hawaiʻi’s Extreme Sport: Heʻe Hōlua appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

By Kaipu Keala, Hina Keala, and Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor

In an act of bold defiance against U.S. military might, on Jan. 4, 1976, nine aloha ʻāina evaded a U.S. Coast Guard blockade in the ʻAlalākeiki Channel to make landfall on the ravaged island of Kahoʻolawe.

Determined to support an Aboriginal Lands of Hawaiian Ancestry (ALOHA) bill demanding U.S. reparations to Kanaka ʻŌiwi, they wanted to draw national attention to the illegal role that the U.S. played in the overthrow of the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi and protest ongoing U.S. military control and destruction of Hawaiian national lands.

George Helm, Emmett Aluli, Kimo Aluli, Kawaipuna Prejean, Walter Ritte, Ian Lind, Ellen Miles, Steve Morse, and Karla Villalba were later dubbed the “Kahoʻolawe Nine,” becoming contemporary folk heroes.

Their courage in risking not only arrest but death to stand in opposition to the desecration of Hawaiian land was the catalyst for the formation of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (ʻOhana) and the birth of the modern Aloha ʻĀina Movement that celebrates its 50th anniversary this year.

After witnessing firsthand Kahoʻolawe’s ruined landscape, feeling the island’s pain, and sensing a powerful underlying spiritual force on the ʻāina, ʻOhana leaders sought guidance from kūpuna such as Kahuna Sam Lono, Aunty Emma Defries, Aunty Edith Kanakaʻole and others known to them from Molokaʻi and Hāna.

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A Storied History and Sanctification

Through these kūpuna, the ʻOhana learned that, traditionally, Kahoʻolawe was honored as Kohemālamalama Kanaloa.

Named for the god Kanaloa, the island played an important role in the art of wayfinding; a wahi kapu where both navigators and kahuna were trained. The island’s westernmost point is called Kealaikahiki (the path to Tahiti), as is the channel between Kahoʻolawe and Lānaʻi. This channel was known as a “sea road” that connected Hawaiʻi to Kahiki – the ancestral homeland.

In addition to being a navigational center for voyaging, Kahoʻolawe was an agricultural center and a site for religious ceremonies. There are some 600 cultural sites and 3,000 physical features on the island, including heiau, koʻa (fishing shrines), small fishing villages along the coast, inland settlements, and an adze quarry.

The kūpuna advised the ʻOhana to negotiate with the U.S. Navy for special access to the island to conduct a spiritual ceremony.

George Helm led the negotiations and on February 13, a month after the landing of the Kahoʻolawe Nine, the kūpuna conducted a ceremony at Hakioawa, Kahoʻolawe. The purpose of the ceremony was to laʻa – sanctify and cleanse the land from the military’s abuse, to reconnect with the spirits of the land, and to ask their permission to open the way for the ʻOhana to protect the island from the military and heal her wounds – the ʻŌiwi way to ethically engage the kuleana to aloha ʻāina.

Following the sanctification ceremony, the ʻOhana began to actively organize a grassroots Aloha ʻĀina movement on each island, guided spiritually by the Edith Kanakaʻole Foundation.

The Hawaiian Renaissance and a Tragedy

Awareness and understanding of aloha ʻāina became a core tenet of the Hawaiian Renaissance along with the resurgence in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, navigation and wayfinding, traditional art and music, and cultural pride.

As ʻŌiwi across the pae ʻāina learned the history that had been suppressed for decades, and began to reclaim their historical narrative, the Aloha ʻĀina movement thrived, gaining widespread support – support that remains strong and steadfast today.

But a year after the historic landing of the Kahoʻolawe Nine, the unthinkable happened.

In 1977, sometime between March 7 and 9, George Helm and Kimo Mitchell were lost in the ocean off Kahoʻolawe. They departed from Maui and were headed to Kahoʻolawe to bring home two ʻOhana members who were occupying the island and had become stranded. It was an act of heroism that abruptly cut short the lives of two gifted young ʻŌiwi leaders.

In the wake of this tragedy, the ʻOhana regrouped and persevered, carrying the weight of Helm’s and Mitchell’s sacrifice as they continued moving forward.

It would take another 13 years, but the ʻOhana overcame every obstacle in its path, standing up to the world’s largest and most powerful military-industrial complex. On Oct. 22, 1990, the U.S. military agreed to stop the bombing and its military use of Kahoʻolawe – an unprecedented victory for Native Hawaiians.

A New Strategy secures Stewardship

After the loss of Helm and Mitchell, occupation of Kahoʻolawe as a strategy to stop the bombing had become too costly. Instead, the ʻOhana put their efforts into a pursuing a civil suit, Aluli v. Brown, that had been filed by Helm before his passing.

By 1980, the lawsuit had resulted in a court-mandated Consent Decree that recognized the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana as the kahuʻāina (steward) of Kahoʻolawe, marking the beginning of a 10-year period of expanded legal access to, and joint governance of, the island.

Since then, the ʻOhana has conducted monthly access to Kahoʻolawe for cultural, religious, subsistence, and educational purposes, setting a precedent for ʻŌiwi access to government and private lands for traditional and customary practices.

But for the handful of members seeking an “all or nothing” outcome, the Consent Decree was not acceptable, and they chose to part ways with the ʻOhana.

Ironically, it was their kūpuna advisors who counseled the ʻOhana’s leadership that taking the path of the Consent Decree would allow them – and eventually thousands of others – to become maʻa, more familiar and connected with the island, which would grow the support for, and commitment to, ending military use of the island.

The kūpuna were right.

In 1993, three years after the bombing was stopped, the Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission (KIRC) was established to assume management of the island, working to restore it as a cultural and natural reserve in cooperation with the ʻOhana under a stewardship agreement known as the Palapala ʻAelike Kahuʻāina.

The ʻOhana’s continued advocacy, legitimized by the Consent Decree and their status as kahuʻāina for the island, ultimately resulted in the return of Kahoʻolawe to the State of Hawaiʻi by the U.S. military in a formal transfer ceremony at Palauea, Maui, on May 7, 1994.

Under Hawaiʻi state law, Kahoʻolawe is now held in trust for a future “sovereign Native Hawaiian entity.” The historic return of Kahoʻolawe set a precedent for the return of other federally controlled lands to the State of Hawaiʻi in accordance with the 1959 Admission Act.

But more substantially, it made Kahoʻolawe the first Hawaiian land to be held in trust for sovereign Hawaiian governance since the 1893 overthrow.

Celebrating 50 Years of Aloha ʻĀina

“Laʻa, Maʻa, Paʻa; Sanctify, Sustain, Solidify,” is an ʻōlelo noʻeau from Aunty Alice Kuloloio of Maui that has been adopted as the ʻOhana’s 50th Anniversary slogan.

It provides a guiding vision for the aloha ʻāina work of the ʻOhana, teaching us that to engage in our kuleana we must first sanctify, make “laʻa” – both ourselves and that to which we are committing – as was done with the first ceremony in February 1976. 

Only then can we become familiar, “maʻa” and able to expand and sustain our aloha ʻāina work through direct hands-on experiences involving kilo (observation), clearing the land, restoring the natural landscape, and monitoring and stabilizing cultural sites while engaging in ʻaha (ceremonies) that deepen our connection to the land. This characterized the period from the 1980 Consent Decree through the ordnance clean up (1994-2004).

The ʻOhana showed the world that it is possible to hold the U.S. military accountable to clean up ʻāina ravaged by decades of military training. Under Title X, Congress appropriated $400 million to remove ordnance from Kahoʻolawe.

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The military cleared 9% of the island to a depth of 4 feet and an additional 68% of the island’s surface – although none of the surrounding waters were cleared. Some $44 million (of the $400 million) was given directly to KIRC to begin its restoration of the island.

The final step is to solidify and make “paʻa” our pilina (relationships), respect, and reverence for our ancestral ʻāina as the aliʻi to which we are merely kauwā (servants).

The ceremonies conducted on the island and the I Ola Kanaloa! I Ola Kākou! Strategic Plan have now been elevated. Kahoʻolawe is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and recognized within Hawaiʻi, the U.S., and internationally, as a sacred place where Kānaka ʻŌiwi practices are mastered and uplifted.

For the past 50 years, the ʻOhana has been steadfast in its aloha kūpaʻa i ka ʻāina ʻo Kohemālamalama, making great strides built upon the sacrifices and commitment of the kūpuna who believed in its mission of aloha ʻāina.

Throughout 2026, the ʻOhana’s 50th anniversary will be a time of celebration and activation for all who live in Hawaiʻi to recommit and rededicate themselves to aloha ʻāina, to ea (sovereignty) and to the protection of Hawaiian lands from the devastation of military training.

Download Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe Timeline

Aloha ʻĀina Inspired Music

The Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana is producing a musical album to commemorate half a century of Aloha ʻĀina. It honors five decades of the movement sparked by the historic landing on the island in January 1976. Created through aloha ʻāina music camps and writing sessions, the project features artists such as Keahi Piʻiʻōhiʻa, Pōkiʻi Seto, Moku Young, Kaʻikena Scanlan, Kimié Miner, Ikaakamai, Kekuhi Kanahele and Kaumakaiwa Kanakaʻole. The first single, a reinvigorated Mele o Kahoʻolawe, (written by Harry Kunihi Mitchell, father of Kimo Mitchell) debuts on January 2, with the full album release planned for fall 2026. The project aims to reconnect Kānaka and the global community to Kahoʻolawe and support future programs that cultivate aloha ʻāina.

2026 Events Calendar

• January 4: 50 Years of Aloha ʻĀina Exhibit Launch
  Bailey House – Wailuku, Maui
• April 11: Aloha ʻĀina March
  Merrie Monarch Festival – Hilo, Hawaiʻi
• August 9: Kamaʻāina Sunday Celebrating 50 Years of Aloha ʻĀina
  ʻIolani Palace – Honolulu, Oʻahu
• September 4 – October 31 50 Years of Aloha ʻĀina Art Exhibit
  Honolulu Hale – Honolulu, Oʻahu
• September 22: Laʻa Consecration of Aloha ʻĀina in ʻAha
  Bishop Museum – Kaiwiʻula, Oʻahu
• October 24: Maʻa: Establishing our Pilina to Kanaloa
  Bishop Museum – Kaiwiʻula, Oʻahu
• November 12: Paʻa: Kanaloa Kānaka i Kanaloa: Ea aʻe ka ʻOhana
  Bishop Museum – Kaiwiʻula, Oʻahu
• November 13: Laʻa, Maʻa, Paʻa! Concert and Festival: 5:00 – 9:00 p.m.
  Bishop Museum in Kaiwiʻula, Oʻahu

For the full calendar of events, go to: protectkahoolaweohana.org

The post La‘a, Ma‘a, Pa‘a: Sanctify, Sustain, Solidify appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

By Sonny Ganaden

This month marks 30 years since the state has utilized private prisons on the continent to house inmates from Hawaiʻi

It is a well-established truth that the criminal justice system in Hawaiʻi disproportionately impacts Native Hawaiians.

While significant progress has been made in the last few decades to address Native Hawaiian equity in education, business, housing, and economic opportunity, the state criminal justice system remains deeply inequitable.

Despite generations of respected Hawaiians practicing law and serving in the judiciary; despite numerous studies and the termination of private prison use by other states; the utilization of private prisons has remained a significant tenet of Hawaiʻi’s justice system since December 1995.

The Rise of Private Prisons in America

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Saguaro Correctional Center is located in the Arizona desert 65 miles southeast of Phoenix near the town of Eloy. Nearly half the inmates at the 1,896-bed facility are from Hawaiʻi. Saguaro is a private prison operated by CoreCivic, a corrections management corporation. In 1995, the State of Hawaiʻi began sending inmates to private prisons on the continent due to overcrowding. Above are both a street view and aerial view of the facility. – Photos: Moss.com

America’s “war on drugs,” initiated by the Nixon administration and expanded in the 1980s under the Reagan administration included establishing mandatory federal sentences for all drug-related crimes. Today, most states have mandatory minimum sentencing laws, significantly increasing the rate of incarceration as judges are required to impose long, predetermined prison terms in drug cases without professional discretion.

As a result, since the 1980s, the federal prison population has increased by more than 500%. Today, the United States has the dubious distinction of having the highest incarceration rate of any country in the world, with nearly 2 million American citizens incarcerated in state and federal prisons, or in local jails – 70% of whom are people of color.

It did not take long for the increase in drug offense convictions to overwhelm state correctional facilities, which ultimately gave rise to a new industry: private prison management. In 1983, Corrections Corporation of America opened the world’s first for-profit prison in Tennessee.

Today, Corrections Corporation of America – rebranded as CoreCivic – is the largest prison management company in the U.S. Along with GEO Group (a publicly traded company), CoreCivic manages more than 170 prisons and detention centers across America, with annual revenues in the billions of dollars.

In the past year, incarceration has increased exponentially because of hardline immigration enforcement policies. When Donald Trump announced “the largest deportation operation in the history of our country” at his 2025 inauguration, investors began betting on private prison stock, with the promise of new government contracts and the stability of existing contracts with states like Hawaiʻi.

According to a September 2025 article published in Just Security, during the second quarter of this year (April to June) CoreCivic reported total revenue of $538 million – an almost 10% increase from the same period in 2024. Meanwhile, GEO Group, ICE’s largest contractor, reported second-quarter revenue of $636 million – representing a 5% increase.

A Perfect Storm

As America waged its “war on drugs,” economic disparity in Hawaiʻi steadily increased due, in part, to speculation by outside investors that drove up land prices, while the prevalence of low-paying service jobs in our tourism-dominated economy failed to provide many residents with living wages.

At the same time, the methamphetamine crisis was exploding in Hawaiʻi. With increasingly harsh mandatory sentencing, incarceration at Oʻahu Community Correctional Center (OCCC) and Hālawa Correctional Facility soon exceeded capacity.

This led to other problems including failing infrastructure, staffing and health concerns, and deaths. A 1993 lawsuit by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) resulted in a consent decree with the State of Hawaiʻi mandating that the correctional system meet basic requirements – but allocated no new funds to support any reforms.

By then, methamphetamine use was disproportionately afflicting rural and Native Hawaiian communities. Sentences got harsher and longer as prosecutors routinely stacked drug charges to secure convictions with lengthy prison terms.

Drug addiction was seen as a personal failing, not a medical condition or a coping mechanism associated with poverty or trauma. And convictions were difficult to appeal, as overworked public defenders were swamped.

From the perspective of the private prison industry, Hawaiʻi was the perfect customer.

In late December 1995, just a few months after Hawaiʻi State prison officials traveled to the continent for a tour of privately run prisons, some 300 Hawaiʻi paʻahao (inmates) were quietly relocated to private prisons in Texas.

It was supposed to a temporary solution until a new prison was built, but that never happened. Indeed, the practice of sending paʻahao to the continent to address prison overcrowding has expanded under every Hawaiʻi governor since its inception.

Strangers in a Strange Land

In the Arizona desert, some 65 miles south of Phoenix, tumbleweeds collect along fences in an arid landscape that stretches to the horizon. This is Eloy, home of Saguaro Correctional Center, a for-profit prison managed by CoreCivic. Saguaro is named for the tree-like cactus species made famous by countless western films.

Eloy could not be more different from Hawaiʻi and yet there are currently close to 900 Hawaiʻi paʻahao housed at Saguaro Correctional Center.

When Hawaiʻi’s private prison contract was initially signed, CoreCivic was allowed to choose who it housed from the state’s male and female inmate populations, shuttling them across facilities in Alabama, Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Minnesota, Mississippi, Montana, New Jersey, and Texas.

But in 2008, female paʻahao sent to private prisons on the continent were brought home after several lawsuits alleging sexual assault by guards. Subsequently, most of the male paʻahao were consolidated at Saguaro.

Despite being incarcerated in the middle of a desert hundreds of miles from the ocean and nearly 3,000 miles away from home, some paʻahao say that conditions at Saguaro are better than in Hawaiʻi.

Local prison conditions have become so intractable that some have their own nicknames. For example, at the Hilo Community Correctional Facility, the shared communal space (without a bathroom) is known as “the fishbowl” while the same space at OCCC is called the “thunderdome.”

Current State of Affairs

Testifying before the Hawaiʻi State legislature in 2025, Department of Corrections (DCR) Director Tommy Johnson said, “DCR would have returned the inmates long ago, but for the lack of space in its correctional facilities. DCR has no choice but to send them to private out-of-state facilities. DCR has no control over when and/or how many persons are sentenced by the court to DCR’s custody and care.”

Johnson’s regretful official tone is a more recent development, as there are currently no elected officials in Hawaiʻi who support the practice. In fact, several audits and state task force reports have slammed the private prison arrangement.

In January 2013, the Native Hawaiian Justice Task Force, comprised of nine members from the criminal justice system, submitted its report to the legislature. Their unanimous recommendation was that “prisoners held out of state should be returned. The state should make the return of inmates a top priority . . . and inmates should be returned as soon as practicable, consistent with public safety.”

Like other state-sponsored, well-intentioned documents, it was ignored.

The idea that Hawaiʻi cannot bring its prisoners home until a new facility is built is the deeply held belief of some state officials. It rests on the assumption that the number of incarcerated individuals is static. It is not. Crime, primarily violent crime, has fallen significantly in recent years in Hawaiʻi.

Meanwhile, CoreCivic profits from bureaucracy and inaction by the State of Hawaiʻi. The state pays CoreCivic more than $30 million a year to house paʻahao – ironically less than it costs to keep them home – which may explain why the practice has continued despite its unpopularity.

More enlightened thinking on the issue in recent years has led to a gradual return of inmates by the DCR – the result of an informal policy wherein individuals with Class-C felonies (charges carrying sentences of five years or fewer) are not sent out of state. The Hawaiʻi Paroling Authority has also begun bringing home inmates who are eligible for parole.

A Broken System

It is widely understood that, for Indigenous peoples and other people of color in America, the criminal justice system is broken. Or maybe it was intended to be this way.

Incarceration has long been used as a tool of oppression. The overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom was followed by a restructuring of laws. Everything about being Hawaiian became illegal: access to the sea; communal land ownership; freedom to practice traditional forms of dance and sport; access to Hawaiian medium education.

Known for her research on Native Hawaiian criminalization, in 2010 Dr. RaeDeen Keahiolalo-Karasuda published A Genealogy of Punishment in Hawaiʻi: The Public Hanging of Chief Kamanawa II. Accused of murdering his wife, Kamanawa was hanged in 1840 shortly after the signing of Hawaiʻi’s first written Constitution. The execution, witnessed by over 800 Hawaiians, was a grim public-political spectacle that reflected the increasing foreign influence in Hawaiʻi.

According to Keahiolalo-Karasuda, “Reexamining Hawaiian experiences in the past and current justice system through this lens allows us to see the political ramifications of incarceration and other forms of punishment, and to know that the criminalization of Hawaiians is neither straightforward nor simple.”

Some of the most ardent advocates for prison reform are not Hawaiian. Kat Brady of the justice reform-focused Community Alliance on Prisons has long fought for better treatment of Indigenous prisoners. “The difference between Indigenous and Western justice is that with Indigenous justice, you always had a chance at redemption. You could be forgiven, get your slate wiped clean and start over. With Western justice you never, ever, get out,” said Brady.

Despite, or perhaps because of, this alienation from their ʻohana, culture and ʻāina, Hawaiian men in Saguaro have asserted their heritage – most notably by celebrating Makahiki each year.

Delbert Wakinekona and Makahiki

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The history of Makahiki celebrations by paʻahao began in the early 2000s – due in large part to the efforts of Delbert Kaʻahanui Wakinekona.

In 1969, at the age of 25, Wakinekona was indicted for the murder and robbery of a Nuʻuanu store owner – although he was not the shooter. After a three-day trial, the jury found him guilty. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

After several altercations, in 1976 the State of Hawaiʻi sent Wakinekona to serve his time at Folsom State Prison in California – notorious for its violence and harsh, dehumanizing conditions.

Wakinekona sued, claiming that his exile from Hawaiʻi violated his constitutional rights. His case made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, where he lost in 1983. That decision paved the way for the banishment of future paʻahao to the continent.

Notably, in his dissent to the 1983 decision, acclaimed civil rights advocate and Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall wrote, “Whether it is called banishment, exile, deportation, relegation or transportation, compelling a person to quit a city, place, or country, for a specified period of time, or for life, has long been considered a unique and severe deprivation, and was specifically outlawed.”

Of his experience at Folsom Wakinekona once said, “all they had there was the Mexican Mafia, the Black Guerrilla Family, and one stupid Hawaiian.” Far from home, he eventually created a new community in exile as a leader among a growing population of Native Hawaiian paʻahao serving their time on the continent.

With help from cultural practitioner Kaiana Haili and Hawaiian social justice advocate Lillian Harwood (whom he eventually married) Wakinekona organized Hawaiian language and culture classes at Saguaro after he was relocated there. They also established an annual Makahiki celebration, with the men learning hula, oli and worshiping together.

Prison officials viewed these initiatives with skepticism. It took more than a decade, but eventually issues with facilities, wardens, official (and unofficial) rules were overcome, allowing paʻahao at Saguaro to celebrate Makahiki – a tradition that continues to this day.

In 2011, after nearly 42 years in prison, Wakinekona was granted a “compassionate release” after a liver cancer diagnosis. He lived the last two years of his life at home in Hawaiʻi, reunited with his family. He got married and became an advocate for a modern puʻuhonua to replace the brutal system in which he spent most of his life.

An Inconvenient Truth

Even though white Americans comprise 60% of the U.S. population, they only represent 30% of incarcerated individuals – evidence of the systemic racism that plagues America’s justice system and disproportionately convicts and imprisons Indigenous and other people of color charged with crimes.

That tracks here in Hawaiʻi where 40% of paʻahao are Native Hawaiian despite comprising just 20% of the population. The Native Hawaiian Justice Task Force Report is filled with stories about the men and women exiled to corporate prisons thousands of miles from home, tantamount to an “out of sight, out of mind” solution to the state’s 40-year-old prison overcrowding issue.

Whether due to funding or apathy, efforts to fix Hawaiʻiʻs overcrowded prison problem have made little progress. This, despite numerous studies strongly indicating that not only does mass incarceration have only a marginal impact on reducing crime, but it can also hinder rehabilitation, resulting in higher recidivism rates.

Rather, current research suggests that what does work are collaborative, community-based restorative justice programs; evidence-based models for rehabilitation; addiction treatment; job training; the zealous preservation of due process rights; and traditional cultural practices which perpetuate and reinforce the sense of belonging to a community.

Moving Forward

The Department of Public Safety recently released a study titled “Breaking Cycles: Alternative Models for Rehabilitation and Restorative Justice on Oʻahu.” It notes the overwhelming public support for systemic reform.

Earlier this year, the House passed Concurrent Resolution 153 calling for the incremental reduction of paʻahao incarcerated in out-of-state prisons. It also requests that DCR submit annual progress reports to the legislature ahead of the 2027, 2028, 2029, and 2030 legislative sessions.

Testifying in support of the resolution, the ACLU noted that “from 1995 to 2019, the state relied upon [DCR] to provide oversight over itself. During this time, a tragic history of death, sickness, and harm unfolded at Saguaro with no concerted efforts to fix conditions or question Hawaiʻi’s relationship with CoreCivic.”

The practice of sending Kānaka Maoli men to prisons on the continent is the ultimate expression of American colonialism in the 21st century, reflecting centuries of systemic oppression, cultural erasure, and displacement from the ʻāina.

This type of forced separation exacerbates emotional distress, weakens family bonds, severs ties to the land, and hinders successful reintegration. Advocates correctly argue that poverty continues to be criminalized in Hawaiʻi, with draconian laws regarding bail, and state and county ordinances that punish the survival behavior of those with the fewest resources.

There is no doubt that bringing our paʻahao home to Hawaiʻi will be expensive. But this is more than a political or budget issue; it is a moral issue akin to asking what it will cost to preserve Hawaiʻi’s forests, protect our coral reefs, or educate our children.

The post Living in Exile appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

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“My mom always said you had to have the ʻeye’ – that ability to see and recognize beauty or balance,” artist and entrepreneur Craig Neff recalls.

Art came easily to Neff who grew up in a creative home. His mother also had the ʻeye,’ and his father enjoyed working with his hands. He started dabbling in t-shirt making in middle school, and when the 1977 Kalani High School graduate learned how to silkscreen in an art class, he and his brother, John, made t-shirts for their Makapuʻu body surfing club.

Neff came of age during the Hawaiian Renaissance – from the land struggles to Hōkūleʻa to the resurgence of Hawaiian pride – and that influenced both his art and his life.

After high school, Neff went on to UH Mānoa where he was one of just two ʻŌiwi art majors. In college he explored a range of artistic mediums from painting to sculpture to ceramics, but expressed his politics through his t-shirt designs, which soon became a side hustle.

“At the time there were hardly any Hawaiian clothing companies – and no one was making the kinds of designs I was looking for, so I started making my own designs,” Neff explained. “And then people would ask where I got my shirt and so I started making shirts for other people and then started to sell them on the side.”

His first design influenced by the Aloha ʻĀina Movement featured the Hawaiian flag. His second was his now iconic “Hawaiian Blood” t-shirt which is still a huge seller more than 40 years later.

While in college, Neff made his first visit to the island of Kahoʻolawe – a huakaʻi that proved transformational. “Kahoʻolawe gave me a spiritual connection to ʻāina and deepened my connection to pono. It changed my life,” he said.

Neff quips that while he graduated from UH with a BFA degree, he graduated from the University of Kahoʻolawe with an AA (aloha ʻāina) degree, learning from revered kūpuna like Uncle Harry Mitchell and Uncle Les Kuloloio, and being mentored by Dr. Emmett Aluli.

Growing a business while growing the movement

By the time Neff graduated from UH in 1982, he was already producing t-shirts by the hundreds and selling them at craft fairs.

He also had a few early patrons who supported him, like Israel Kamakawiwoʻole. And while working at the Central YMCA, Neff met Palani Vaughan who encouraged his business pursuits – and backed it up by placing large orders of t-shirts for holiday gifts.

Neff’s designs were inspired by his growing political awakening, and his distinctive artwork and powerful aloha ʻāina messaging soon found a devoted following. At the time, Hawaiian Force t-shirts were wildly popular – there was nothing else like them and customers eagerly sought them out at craft fairs.

He admits that his early designs were “a little bit radical,” but usually offset with humor. His still-popular “Radical Hawaiian Tarorist” design was imagined while working in the loʻi kalo at Kānewai with some friends.

And when the phrase “Live Aloha” began being bandied about, Neff put his own spin on it. He produced a t-shirt design that said: “Live Aloha. Return Stolen Lands.” It was a satirical response to a shallow and overused phrase.

The name for his burgeoning t-shirt business – Hawaiian Force – was only slightly influenced by the Star Wars movies that came out around the same time. “I wanted it to represent Hawaiians as being a force,” Neff explained. “Like you wear the t-shirt, and you are part of that force and power. It wasn’t just a nice shirt; the name was intended to hui everyone together.”

Neff became increasingly active with the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (PKO) and was part of its first Makahiki celebration in 1982. It was also through his involvement in the Aloha ʻĀina Movement that he met his future wife, Luana Busby, at a protest in Waikīkī.

He was immediately smitten, but she already had a boyfriend. Undaunted, Neff bided his time. The two became friends, often working together as Kahoʻolawe access coordinators for Oʻahu. When Busby and her boyfriend split, her friendship with Neff grew into something more. By 1984, she was helping Neff with his t-shirt business, and they began to make a life together.

Hawaiian Force was established as a licensed business in 1984 – but for 15 years Neff’s shirts were sold primarily at craft fairs, although he took phone orders too. It was a lot of work – especially during the holiday season, “but you know, I was young, and I could hustle, and I had a lot of family and friends that always helped,” he said.

As Hawaiian political consciousness grew in the 1980s, people wanted t-shirts that made political statements – but the only available “Hawaiian” t-shirts were geared towards tourists. “The most local thing was ʻCrazy Shirts,’” Neff said. “There were no real Hawaiian t-shirts. It was a niche market, and we were able to ride it.”

Neff said that Hawaiian Force t-shirts make bold political statements, in part for their shock value, to spark dialogue and political conversations. “A lot of times at events when I was selling [my shirts], I would have discussions with people and try to educate them about what went down in Hawaiian history.”

In the mid-1980s, Neff began doing custom print jobs for Hawaiian organizations like Pūnana Leo. But a lot of effort goes into creating custom designs for clients and gradually he pulled back, preferring to focus on creating new designs for Hawaiian Force.

As his brand grew, buyers from stores like J.C. Penney’s and Sears approached Neff wanting to sell his shirts in their stores. But no matter how much money they offered, Neff declined preferring to retain full creative control.

“Craig has integrity. He’s unmatched when it comes to not selling out – to corporations or for the big bucks,” said his wife, Luana Busby-Neff.

By the late 1980s the couple had assumed leadership roles within PKO. Neff took the lead on building the hale halawai at PKO’s Hakioawa base camp and was training to become a moʻolono to help lead Makahiki ceremonies, while Busby-Neff was increasingly focused on the spiritual aspects of caring for ʻāina, studying under Pua Kanakaʻole and spending a lot of time in Hilo.

In many ways, their relationship was built around Makahiki and the healing ceremonies they were part of on-island. “We would always go together,” Busby-Neff recalled. “The Makahiki ceremonies held us, and the politics, together. Our pilina with the ʻāina was more real and more infused in the land. Makahiki was huge. It changed all our lives.”

In the early 1990s, the couple decided to move to Hawaiʻi Island. There, they continued to grow their business while working for the Aloha ʻĀina Movement, becoming active in efforts to protect Maunakea and to stop the bombing at Pōhakuloa while continuing their kuleana to Kahoʻolawe.

Shortly after moving, they opened their first storefront on Kīlauea Avenue in downtown Hilo. It was a small store, a little off the beaten path, but it was enough. When online shopping became a thing, they created a website and began selling their t-shirts online.

In 2012, after 17 years on Kīlauea Avenue, Hawaiian Force moved to a new, larger location on Kamehameha Avenue on the Hilo waterfront which gets a lot more foot traffic. The increased foot traffic plus the popularity of online shopping continued to grow the business, but Neff says that the addition of aloha wear took the Hawaiian Force to the next level. “T-shirts are still a big factor for us, but our aloha wear does really good.”

Their aim in adding aloha wear, Busby-Neff explained, “was to dress the nation in wearable art deeply inspired by what we value as Hawaiians – our ʻohana, our cultural traditions, our ʻāina, our kuleana.”

“A lot of people come into the store, especially tourists, and they want something that’s real that comes from Hawaiʻi. They want to support the economy of the Native people,” Neff reflected.

“That’s why [the sign] on the store says, ʻHawaiian Force – Native Hawaiian Artist.’ Hawaiian art is great, but art made by Native Hawaiians – that is Native Hawaiian art. That’s important to me, but it’s also important to the customer.”

“I ke aloha ʻāina ʻo ia hoʻi! May the force be with you … the Hawaiian Force!” Busby-Neff added laughing.

Most days, Busby-Neff minds the store. Her warmth and aloha create a welcoming space when customers stop by. This allows Neff to focus on creating new designs and hand-screening the t-shirts – which he still does in his workshop.

“Luana and I both have busy lives, so we balance out – you know, we take care of home and we take care of the business together,” Neff said.

Ea and authenticity

Unlike most modern designers, Neff still hand-draws all his designs.

“The sheer volume of work that he does, the mediums he uses – nobody I know does what Craig does,” said Busby-Neff. “Most people use computer generated designs. Craig doesn’t do any of that. It’s all hand-drawn, which I think is amazing. And even silkscreen – nobody does silkscreen anymore – it’s old school – but Craig does silkscreen.

“It’s real. It’s authentic. It’s powerful in its simplicity. I appreciate Craig Neff and I’m not saying that because he’s my husband. I appreciated that when I first met him. He is a man of integrity.”

Not only is the fabric for Neff’s aloha wear printed here in Hawaiʻi, but every piece of clothing is sewn here as well.

Today, most Hawaiian wear is made in Asia, but Neff is committed to his clothing being 100% made in Hawaiʻi. “Seamstresses are a dying breed,” he shrugged. “Labor here is more expensive and there’s a shortage. No young kids want to sew as a job now. It’s hard work.”

Despite their commitment to “Made in Hawaiʻi” product integrity, Hawaiian Force aloha wear is competitively priced.

In so many ways, Hawaiian Force is a model for ʻŌiwi entrepreneurship – a successful business with a higher purpose. “Hawaiian Force has supported our activism all these years. It has supported our work for aloha ʻāina because the Hawaiian Force is all about aloha and its expression and its reality in practice. It’s not just cerebral. It’s the act of doing and being present for the kuleana at hand,” Busby-Neff said.

“Kahoʻolawe and the movement were the inspiration for the Force, but the Force has supported me so I could do all of those things,” added Neff. “I’m not the richest guy in town, but I have the freedom to go where I need to go when I have to go.”

“When we talk about sovereignty and self-determination, the fact is that we’ve lived off of our own work,” noted Busby-Neff. “Hawaiian Force has paid our bills, paid for our house, and afforded us a comfortable lifestyle.”

A legacy of art

Although Neff is trained in multiple mediums, he wanted to make a living from his art, and knew it was “easier to sell a t-shirt than fine art.” However, he continues to paint and draw and work in other mediums, transforming some of those images to his shirt designs.

“Art is the way Craig expresses himself. He shares what he is passionate about – his Kanaka-ness, his Hawaiian-ness, through his artwork. That’s very important to him,” said Busby-Neff.

“We’ve always been part of the Hawaiian movement, always been advocates for aloha ʻāina, from the time it was unpopular. We helped make it popular because of the work we’ve done from the get-go. Seriously, I will claim that,” declared Busby-Neff. “We were a big part of the movement – and Craig depicted that movement through his art.”

In fact, Neff’s artwork and t-shirt designs have so uniquely depicted the history of the Native Hawaiian political movement, that they have been exhibited at Disney’s Epcot Center, at the Smithsonian Institution, and at Te Papa, the national museum of Aotearoa.

“His messaging was always pro-Hawaiian, and he addressed the issues in either a funny or serious way – the good, the bad, the ugly and the funny – he put it on a t-shirt when no one else was doing that,” said Busby-Neff.

Having stayed the course for more than 40 years, Neff is now contemplating the future.

“I’m living a good life; still living the dream. I recognize how lucky I am, with the skills and ability to have this business. But I’m 67 now. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel already and I’m open to options – but I’m also open to just closing the Force. Someone might want to buy it, but I’d rather close it than have it go off into the wrong direction.”

Neff pauses. “The Force is me. I am the Force. Maybe my lifetime is its lifetime.”

The post Behind the Force: Aloha ʻĀina Entrepreneurs appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.