Every year, on July 31, the Royal Order of Kamehameha I Moku o Kohala, Hui Aloha Aina, and community members gather at Luakini Puukohola to commemorate Kamehameha’s unification by celebrating La Hoihoi Ea. Luakini Puukohola was built by thousands of warriors from six moku – a symbol of lokahi. Kamehameha I dedicated Puukohola to Kukailimoku, god of politics, government, resource management, and war.

Given recent attacks on Hawaiian programs, we look to our past for our path forward.

In 1895, Kuhio Kalanianaole was arrested for attempting to restore the Hawaiian Kingdom and imprisoned for a year. In 1902, he restored the Royal Order of Kamehameha I and became Hawaiʻi’s delegate to Congress, winning 10 straight elections. Kuhio advocated for county governance in 1905, Hawaiian Civic Clubs in 1918, and the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act (HHCA) in 1921; by doing so he used American law to serve Hawaiians.

The Hawaiian Humanitarian Alliance, Koa Kiai, and the Association of Hawaiian Home Lands which represent wait-listers, are uniting leaders on Moku o Keawe to focus on one bill in 2027 to end the Hawaiian Home Lands wait list under HHCA purpose 101:

1. “Return to their lands in order to fully support self-sufficiency for native Hawaiians and the self-determination of native Hawaiians”
2. “Establishing a permanent land base … to live, farm, ranch … engage in commercial or industrial activities”
3. “Historical government to government relationship … affirm fiduciary duty to faithfully administer … this act”
4. “Nothing in this Act shall be construed to … affect the rights of the descendants … of the Hawaiian Kingdom”

The lawsuits attacking Kamehameha Schools and now the HHCA continue a centuries old structure of genocidal attacks to eliminate Hawaiians in a two-step process: destroy and replace.

In my dissertation, Americanizing Luakini: White Supremacy Colonizing a Nation State, I use the term “Americanization Genocide” to describe the ongoing structure of attack. Despite the 1993 Apology Bill, Hawaiians and Hawaiian programs in our homeland continue to be targeted.

When Hawaiʻi state legislators vote against funding rehabilitation for wait-listers, and those wait-listers die on the waiting list, it could be construed as genocide. A key condition for statehood was the State of Hawaii’s acceptance of the fiduciary obligation to fulfill the HHCA compact. This is the only proviso in the 1959 Admissions Act.

Thus, they are knowingly withholding congressionally approved housing to mitigate the effects of Americanization Genocide. Many Hawaiians have died, and continue to die, on the wait list.

The Royal Order, East Hawaii Homestead Associations, and wait listers on Moku o Keawe continue to have positive discussions and are unified to advocate for measures that fund rehabilitation of wait listers – a 7 billion allocation in 2027 – and to change the 50% blood quantum application requirement to 1/32; called “Road to 7 Billion to Stop the Genocide.”

We are reaching out to other Homestead Associations, wait listers, civic clubs, royal societies, and Hawaiian organizations across the pae aina to unite and focus on one bill to advocate for the placement of Hawaiians on Hawaiian land. If interested contact: kupaaiwialoha@gmail.com.

Dr. Kalaniakea Wilson is a scholar of Indigenous politics, Hawaiian Kingdom law, and genocide. He chooses not to use diacritical markings.

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We are raising our Native Hawaiian grandson Kaimana, who is 6 years old. Kaimana’s mother, (our daughter) Jayna, passed away in 2019 from a ruptured brain aneurysm while she was pregnant with Kaimana. He was born extremely premature and spent five months in the NICU fighting for his life.

In April 2020, we brought Kaimana home and have cared for him ever since, providing unwavering love and support. Kaimana suffers from severe cerebral palsy and brain damage. He is blind, cannot speak, control his arms or legs, hold his head up, sit, stand, walk or eat normally (he is fed through g-tube).

I’m a service-disabled veteran. My wife, JoAnne, and I are living on a fixed retirement income. We could not have foreseen or planned for the tragedy that led us to adopt Kaimana, and this has strained our finances. Kaimana has therapies not covered by insurance and requires expensive special medical supplies.

Kaimana requires a wheelchair full-time and has multiple therapeutic medical and specialist appointments every week. He has grown so much we can no longer carry him easily. To ensure he can get to these appointments safely and comfortably, we are raising funds to purchase a wheelchair-accessible minivan.

The wheelchair ramp conversion and tie-down safety system will be covered through an assistance program, so every dollar donated will go solely toward purchasing the minivan itself. Without this van, Kaimana cannot access the care he needs to thrive.

We love Kaimana dearly. He is a blessing in our lives and provides us with a perspective that allows us to focus on the important things in life. We embrace the sacrifices and hardships but could really use a little help.

Our community has already shown us so much love, and we are humbled to have to ask for more. Aloha is a way of life and the belief that we are bound to one another; that the wellbeing of one is the concern of all. We believe that spirit lives in every person who has ever loved someone they would do anything for.

We are raising funds to purchase a minivan for Kaimana through Go Fund Me and no contribution is too small. Mahalo nui loa from the bottom of our hearts.

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I heard a portion of the discussion on the “Future of Kalaupapa” on PBS’s KĀKOU: Hawaiʻi’s Townhall on May 28, 2026.

I live on Oʻahu so I do not fully understand the dynamics of Molokaʻi. However, I consider Kalaupapa to be a sacred place that must be preserved. Since it is designated a National Historical Park, why does anyone want that designation to change? And, with it, the government funding for such a site ought to remain in-place.

I understand that the peninsula consists of much more than Kalaupapa. Perhaps the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands ought to work with Mayor Bissen on how those lands can be utilized for the benefit of Native Hawaiians. It ought to be left to the county and Native Hawaiians to determine its fate.

Please do not fall into the ‘trap’ of looking to tourism as a revenue source for the area. My community of Kaʻōhao (Lanikai) in Kailua has become overrun by visitors in the last 20+ years. It is almost unrecognizable.

Kalaupapa ought not become a tourism destination. Ms. Mikiʻala Pescaia ought to be used as a resource to develop a non-invasive way to explore this area. It is not an absolute necessity for certain sacred places to be trod upon by humans.

The State of Hawaiʻi relies on most of its food and many other products from outside the state. It is beyond time to develop an economy that is more sustainable. The state has programs to assist small farmers. We must develop other models to create a reason for our young people to remain here, as well as to sustain the cultural uniqueness of our home.

In conclusion, I hope that the Maui County Council will resist the allure of tourism. It ought not to be looked upon as a means of advancing the lives of the residents of Molokaʻi.he lives of the residents of Molokaʻi.

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A Kanaka Maoli author and tūtū strengthens her connection to homeland and heritage through her novels.

I carry the culture and influences of my youth wherever I go, as I imagine other Kānaka Maoli who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi and then moved away also do. But once I became a tūtū, that was no longer enough. I needed to connect more deeply. I had become the keeper of Hawaiian traditions for my moʻopuna, despite having lived away from Hawaiʻi for over 45 years.

I think this is a common challenge among the Hawaiian diaspora. All of us who care about our heritage must find, reconnect with, and/or continually rediscover what being Hawaiian means to us.

Many in the Hawaiian diaspora also question (or have been questioned by others!) whether we are Hawaiian enough.

This issue of identity is so pressing among Native Hawaiians and multicultural communities at large that I have explored this theme in nearly everything I write, especially in my most recent novels, Hawaiʻi Rage and Kauaʻi Storm.

In this new series, I incorporate the Hawaiian diaspora experience by writing about a hapa-Hawaiian national park ranger, born and raised on a Kauaʻi Hawaiian Home Lands homestead, who has been on the continent for a decade and is now trying to fit in with her family and community back home.

But I also wanted to write authentically about the challenges Kānaka Maoli in Hawaiʻi are facing today.

Once again, I questioned if I had been away too long.

Fortunately, my research led me to reconnect with and discover many empowering old and new local friends. It also inspired me to take immersion courses in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi to better understand the language I had sung and danced to in my youth. I even began chanting again to feel the sounds in my bones. It made me so happy that I began composing little mele to amuse my moʻopuna and lull them to sleep.

I wouldn’t have known how to do this if I hadn’t been inspired to learn and reconnect.

Mahalo nui loa to the editors of Ka Wai Ola News for inviting me to share my diaspora experience and my work. It means so much that you offer this space to give our people a voice. Mahalo wau iā ʻoukou a pau! I appreciate you all so much!

Tori Eldridge is the bestselling author of “Hawaiʻi Rage,” “Kauaʻi Storm,” the “Lily Wong” ninja thriller series, and “Dance Among the Flames.” Born in Honolulu of Hawaiian, Chinese, and Norwegian descent, she graduated from Punahou School with classmate Barack Obama before performing as an actress, singer, and dancer on Broadway, television, and film, and earning a fifth-degree black belt in To-Shin Do ninja martial arts. She lives in Oregon with her moʻopuna and has continued her studies and enrichment by writing about Hawaiʻi’s rich paniolo culture in her newest novel, “Hawaiʻi Rage.” Learn more at torieldridge.com.

The post Alternate Ways for Kānaka to Come Home appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

Wildfire in Waiʻanae is not theoretical. It is a lived experience. Fire moves quickly across dry grasslands, threatens homes, and leaves ʻāina stripped and exposed. Along the Leeward Coast, families understand this risk through memory, loss and the long work of recovery.

In 2012, a wildfire tore through portions of Kaʻala Farm’s loʻi and surrounding agricultural lands. The response was immediate and collective. Kūpuna arrived with guidance rooted in experience. Volunteers arrived with tools and resolve. Students arrived ready to learn, work and rebuild. Replanting began while smoke still lingered in the air.

That moment reinforced a lesson long held in ʻike kūpuna: when we care for the land, the land protects us.

Kaʻala Farm exists to restore living culture through active stewardship. Loʻi restoration, invasive grass removal and native planting are not symbolic acts. They are practical, proven strategies that serve cultural practice and public safety at the same time.

Our community knows firsthand how closely fire, water and safety are connected. During the 2012 fire, waterlines were burned, cutting off a critical lifeline just when it was needed most. Community members stepped forward with kōkua, raising funds, purchasing materials and reinstalling the 1 mile of irrigation system so both land and people could recover.

In 2018, another major fire threatened the valley, trapping two school buses filled with keiki as flames surrounded the roadway. We sheltered together in the loʻi, which served as a natural firebreak and safe refuge while other staff fought the fire at our farm entry gate.

These moments made one truth unmistakable: well-maintained agricultural landscapes and water systems are not just about food production. They are essential infrastructure for community safety and resilience. Healthy land retains moisture. Native ecosystems slow fire spread.

Degraded landscapes dominated by invasive grasses do the opposite, accelerating danger and placing entire communities at risk. Wildfire prevention does not begin when sirens sound. It begins years earlier through consistent land management grounded in place-based knowledge.

Stewardship at the ahupuaʻa scale builds resilience from the uplands to the communities below, reconnecting ecological systems that once worked in balance.

The new Green Fee Advisory Council’s Year 1 recommendations recognize this reality. Proposed investments prioritize native plant restoration, invasive species control and community-led ahupuaʻa stewardship statewide. These recommendations align directly with the needs of Leeward Oʻahu, where decades of underinvestment have intensified wildfire risk.

Community-led efforts in Waiʻanae already demonstrate what works. Residents, schools, nonprofits and agencies come together to reduce risk while building long-term capacity. Students learn how fire moves across landscapes. Volunteers clear dry grasses and kiawe from high-risk areas. Families gain tools to protect homes and neighborhoods.

Green-fee funding represents more than environmental spending. It is an investment in wildfire mitigation, water security, food systems and cultural education. Every acre restored reduces fuel loads. Every native planting strengthens water retention. Every loʻi revived feeds families while lowering wildfire risk.

As legislators review green-fee recommendations, the connection must be clear: stewardship equals safety. Cultural practice equals climate resilience. Ahupuaʻa restoration is public infrastructure.

Waʻianae is showing what it looks like when communities lead. Green-fee investments offer Hawaiʻi a path forward grounded in responsibility to land, people, and future generations.

Eric Enos is the executive director of Kaʻala Farms, Inc. This opinion piece was originally published by the Honolulu Star-Advertiser on February 25, 2026.

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As Kānaka working in community-facing roles within astronomy in Hawaiʻi, we carry kuleana into spaces not built with us in mind. That reality shapes how we show up and what is possible within our roles.

Kuleana calls us to remain accountable to ʻāina and lāhui. Institutions operate within their own structures, timelines, and limitations. This is where tension often sits, because these systems often differ from the values that guide Kānaka relationships to ʻāina and to each other. Much of our work exists in the space between the two.

In many ways, it’s that space that drew us here. Astronomy is rooted in observation and, for us, that has always been relational. The opportunity to engage the sky while remaining grounded in our pilina to ʻāina and to each other is what holds us here.

There are moments when those spaces align, when relationship, intention, and institutional direction move together. But there are also moments when they do not. In those moments, kuleana does not disappear. It becomes more important.

Kuleana shows up in the choices we’re asked to make. When to advocate, and how far. When to push, and when pushing may close more doors than it opens. When to speak directly, and when to move quietly to maintain relationships for future movement.

These decisions are rarely straightforward. They are informed by trust, timing, and an understanding that change does not always happen visibly or immediately.

There are limits to what any one person can shift within an institution. There are also risks. Speaking up can carry consequences. So, too, does remaining silent. Kuleana does not remove these realities. It compels us to navigate them with more in mind than ourselves.

For many of us, this means working within constraint without being defined by it, recognizing where movement is possible while continually looking for openings for change.

This work is not always recognized. It happens in conversations, in relationships built over time, and in decisions not visible to others. These moments matter. They shape what becomes possible.

At the same time, there are shifts. In many spaces, ʻŌiwi perspectives are increasingly recognized as essential to shaping responsibility and relationship to place. These shifts aren’t uniform or complete, but they create openings to build pilina, bring forward ʻike, and shape how these spaces evolve.

We are not separate from the institutions we are part of, and we are not fully contained by them. We move within them while remaining grounded in relationships that extend beyond them.

Kuleana does not resolve the tension between these spaces. It sharpens our awareness.

We choose this work, not because the path is easy, but because our relationships to ʻāina and lāhui are present here too. Our presence is not about fitting into institutions as they are, but in remaining grounded while creating space for relationships, ʻike, and accountability to continue.

And in that awareness, we continue deciding how to move. Not with certainty, but with intention, knowing our presence here carries responsibility and possibility.

Kenika Lorenzo-Elarco works in public affairs at the W. M. Keck Observatory, and Kara Dumaguin works in community relations at the Canada France Hawaiʻi Telescope.

The post Where Personal Kuleana Meets Institutional Constraint appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

In Hawaiʻi, land is not just property – it is ʻāina, a living connection between people, culture, and future generations. Water, too, is more than a resource. As many shared during the March 23 gathering in Honolulu, wai is life. When water is threatened so, too, is the health of our communities and the continuity of our way of life.

Community members, Native Hawaiian leaders, policymakers, and military representatives came together to discuss the future of military lands. What became clear was not disagreement about the importance of these issues, but a shared recognition that trust has been deeply strained.

For many, this conversation reflects generations of displacement, restricted access to ancestral lands, and decisions made without meaningful consultation. Voices in the room spoke with honesty and emotion: we have lost trust, and we need transparency, not backdoor conversations. These are not simply frustrations – they are a call for respect, inclusion, and accountability.

As a physician serving West Oʻahu, I see how these issues directly affect health. Clean water, safe land, and a healthy environment are essential to wellbeing. When communities are uncertain about contamination or access to resources, the impact is not only physical, but emotional and cultural.

Military representatives acknowledged these concerns and expressed willingness to improve communication and coordination. Yet important questions remain. Communities are asking for clarity on environmental safety, timelines for cleanup, and long-term plans for land restoration and return. Without clear answers and visible progress, trust will remain difficult to rebuild.

The discussion highlighted serious environmental concerns, including PFAS contamination and the legacy of past military activities. While a multi-year cleanup process has been discussed, families want assurance that these efforts will be thorough, transparent, and guided by community input. The health of keiki and future generations must remain at the center of every decision.

Mākua Valley stands as both a symbol of past challenges and future possibility. While portions of land have been discussed for return, the broader vision of restoration remains incomplete. For many, this is not only about acreage – it is about cultural healing, connection to ʻāina, and honoring moʻokūʻauhau.

Moving forward, rebuilding trust will require more than meetings. It calls for kuleana, a shared responsibility to act with integrity, transparency, and respect. This includes ensuring that communities are informed, that Native Hawaiian voices are included early in decision-making, and that commitments are followed by measurable action.

Hawaiʻi stands at an important moment. The past cannot be undone, but the future can still be shaped by what we choose to do next. By embracing mālama ʻāina and honoring our shared kuleana, we can begin to rebuild trust – not just in words, but through consistent and meaningful action.

Dr. Inam Rahman is a West Oʻahu physician and community advocate focused on health, environmental wellbeing, and practical solutions for Hawaiʻi’s families.

The post Wai Is Life, Trust Is Broken: Hawaiʻi’s Call to Mālama ʻĀina appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

America once built dreams; now it builds weapons and calls it security.

Over the past five years, the United States has increased defense and related security spending from roughly $700 billion to nearly $1 trillion annually. Projections suggest total outlays could approach $1.5 trillion by 2027. These figures are so vast they no longer shock.

Yet the central question remains largely unasked in Washington: Why?

Are the threats facing the nation truly so great as to justify ever-expanding commitments? Or has the country come to equate security with spending while overlooking the costs elsewhere?

Every bomber produced, every missile tested, carries a tradeoff: a school not built, research deferred, a patient left without care, a community left behind.

During the Cold War, policymakers spoke of peace through strength – but strength was paired with restraint. Today, it risks becoming an end unto itself.

Instead of prioritizing medical breakthroughs or energy innovation, the nation channels its intellectual capital into refining weapons systems. Each additional trillion directed toward defense reduces the capacity to invest in long-term economic vitality.

The consequences extend beyond budgets. Policies that restrict skilled immigration and limit educational visas discourage global talent from choosing American institutions. In the name of security, the nation risks weakening one of its greatest sources of strength: openness to ideas.

Proponents argue that defense spending supports jobs and economic activity. In a narrow sense, this is true. But much of that activity is tied to weapons production rather than broadly shared prosperity.

Communities need investment in education, healthcare, and infrastructure, not dependence on military contracts.

An economy oriented around conflict cannot deliver durable growth. Redirect even a fraction of current military spending toward clean energy, transportation, or disease prevention, and the benefits would multiply across generations.

This concern is not new. President Dwight Eisenhower warned that a growing military-industrial structure could distort national priorities. That structure has since expanded into a network of contractors, lobbyists, and political incentives. Budget decisions now reflect not only strategic necessity but also institutional momentum.

At the same time, the assumption that greater military spending guarantees greater security is rarely examined. Many of the nation’s most pressing challenges are domestic: aging infrastructure, rising costs of living, uneven education, and widening inequality. Military power cannot repair bridges, reduce household strain, or improve public health.

America’s global leadership was built not only on military capability but on innovation, openness, and cooperation. An overreliance on military dominance risks eroding those advantages. By prioritizing military strength over internal renewal, the nation weakens the foundation it seeks to defend.

The United States now faces a defining choice. It can continue expanding the machinery of war, or it can invest in the conditions that make strength possible: education, research, infrastructure, and public health.

Strength is not measured by the size of arsenals. It is measured by the vitality of a society and the opportunities it creates.

Van Abbott is a retired financial manager who served as a teacher in the Peace Corps. He resides in Alaska.

The post The Illusion of Strength: Why more military spending may be making America less secure appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

On March 30, 2026, the Native Hawaiian Health Scholarship Program (NHHSP) was sued for discrimination because applicants must demonstrate Native Hawaiian ancestry. The plaintiff, an American organization, Do No Harm, claims to be “dedicated to protecting healthcare from radical, divisive, and discriminatory ideologies and policies.” This ornate characterization ignores the context in which NHHSP was founded and the role it plays in Hawaiʻi.

In October 1988, Congress enacted the Native Hawaiian Health Care Act (Public Law 100-579) to “improve the health status of Native Hawaiians.” This was in response to findings that Native Hawaiians faced significantly poorer health outcomes than the general population, alongside persistent barriers to accessing care.

From this Act emerged a Native Hawaiian health system, including NHHSP as a workforce pathway to address provider shortages, with nonprofit Papa Ola Lōkahi as the coordinating body. The purpose was to increase the number of Native Hawaiian healthcare professionals and ensure underserved communities across Hawaiʻi have access to care.

Since 1991, the program has awarded more than 330 scholarships to Native Hawaiians across more than 20 health and allied health professions, including medicine, nursing, psychology, and social work. In return, recipients commit to serving full-time in medically underserved communities across Hawaiʻi for two to four years. Scholars receive support for tuition and a stipend while completing their training.

The lawsuit reduces this entire system to a single claim that the program “facially excludes all races other than ‘Native Hawaiian’” and therefore constitutes discrimination. It argues that eligibility is determined by being the “right” race and that excluding non-native applicants is inherently unjust.

But this framing distorts the program’s purpose. NHHSP was never intended to function as a general scholarship open to anyone who wishes to work in Hawaiʻi, but rather as an intentional workforce pipeline created to address specific and ongoing disparities facing Native Hawaiians and the communities where those disparities are most severe.

The lawsuit further dismisses the importance of culturally informed care, asserting that research “does not support” the idea that patients benefit from having doctors of the same race. Yet in making this claim, it relies on a report produced by the same organization bringing the lawsuit.

This circular, self-supported argument assumes NHHSP was built on a theory of racial matching – reducing a complex healthcare reality to a single convenient conclusion.

In reality, the program is built on the need to recruit and train healthcare providers in communities that have long faced health challenges, where trust, communication, and cultural understanding shape whether patients even seek and accept care.

Native Hawaiian physicians remain underrepresented, and programs like NHHSP exist to address that gap. This lawsuit reflects a broader effort to recast targeted programs as discrimination while ignoring the conditions that made them necessary in the first place.

If efforts like this succeed, alongside the ongoing lawsuit against Kamehameha Schools, they will not stop at a single scholarship program. Organizations like Do No Harm, with a seemingly noble mission, will continue to dismantle systems meant to restore the health of, and rehabilitate, Native Hawaiian people.

Kaeo Yuen is a 2024 graduate of Kamehameha Schools Kapālama. He is currently a sophomore at Harvard and a teacher assistant at Ke Kula Kaiapuni o Pūʻōhala in Kāneʻohe.

The post Another Attack on Hawaiians appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

As Kānaka working in community-facing roles within astronomy spaces in Hawaiʻi, we often find ourselves carrying more than just our professional roles. We carry ʻike, identity, and a deep sense of kuleana to the places and communities that shape us. That kuleana does not stay outside of our work. It moves with us into every space we enter.

Recently, we engaged in community meetings across the pae ʻāina through the Mauna Kea Stewardship and Oversight Authority. We listened to voices from different islands, each sharing memories, ʻike, and pilina with Maunakea. What stood out was not only the diversity of perspectives, but the consistency of relationship. There was a shared understanding that this work does not exist in isolation, but within a broader landscape of relationships, histories, and ongoing conversations around stewardship and responsibility.

The mana of those spaces stayed with us.

They reminded us that our presence in astronomy is not separate from who we are as Kānaka. Long before telescopes, our kūpuna observed the skies, navigating vast oceans and understanding their movements through relationship and practice. Observation was never only technical, but relational, grounded in ʻike and in an awareness of place that extends beyond what is measurable.

That understanding continues to shape how we move through these spaces.

Kuleana is often spoken about as responsibility, but for us, it is not something that turns on or off depending on where we are. It is present in how we listen, how we engage, and how we decide what we are willing to accept or remain silent about.

At times, this work feels like kōnane. Each move is deliberate. Each choice shapes what becomes possible next. Not every move is visible, and not every move leads to immediate change, but over time, the board shifts. Relationships shift. The environment itself begins to respond.

There are moments when that kuleana feels clear, grounded in relationship and in the ways we hold space with intention. But there are also moments where it feels heavier, where it sits in tension with the structures around us. In those moments, there is no simple resolution. There is only the work of deciding how we continue to show up.

We carry kuleana to our communities, who continue to share their ʻike and manaʻo about the future of Maunakea. We carry kuleana to our kūpuna, whose knowledge systems remind us that observation is rooted in relationship, not only technique.

We also carry kuleana within the institutions we are part of. Part of that responsibility is helping these spaces become more grounded, more aware, and more accountable in their relationship to place.

The road up the mountain is never just a road.

Each time we make that drive, we are reminded that we are not arriving as only one thing. We arrive carrying everything that has shaped us, everything that we are accountable to, and everything that we are still learning how to hold.

Kenika Lorenzo-Elarco works in astronomy at the W. M. Keck Observatory, and Kara Dumaguin works in community relations at the Canada-France-Hawai’i Telescope.

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