The Kumulipo tells us that all life originates in the deep sea. The uku koʻakoʻa, coral polyp, is the first living creature and its birth begins an unbroken genealogy that ends with humanity. For Hawaiians, therefore, our genealogy comes from the deep sea.

Significantly, the genealogy recorded in the Kumulipo has become a powerful instrument in the fight against deep-sea mining.

“The Kumulipo describes everything created in the vertical water column of the deep sea up to the nearshore reefs, onto the land, into the hills, and even taking flight. People are not created until millions and millions of years later, but when we do come into this honua, we have an inherent responsibility to be part of nature and therefore, our kuleana is to care for nature,” explains cultural practitioner and international ocean advocate Solomon Pili Kahoʻohalahala.

“There is this idea of caring and receiving. I believe that this is what the Kumulipo intends for us to understand: if we care for the environment and for all things in nature of which we belong, then we, too, will be cared for.”

Kahoʻohalahala is Hawaiʻi’s foremost advocate working to stop deep-sea mining (DSM) before it begins. In addition to the irreversible ecological damage to the ocean ecosystem that DSM represents, it is an assault on the Indigenous people of Oceania many of whom, like Native Hawaiians, trace their lineage and creation stories to the deep sea.

For four years, Kahoʻohalahala has taken his message of mālama honua to the United Nation’s International Seabed Authority (ISA), pointing to the Kumulipo as a foundation for humanity’s relationship to the natural world.

In 2022, Greenpeace, a global network of environmentalists, invited Kahoʻohalahala to utilize their platform as a non-governmental organization (NGO) at the ISA. Since then, Greenpeace has partnered with Kahoʻohalahala to help ensure that Indigenous voices are represented in international deliberations on DSM at the ISA.

This is critically important since Hawaiʻi does not have standing at the UN as a sovereign nation state. In this international arena, it is presumed that the United States speaks for Native Hawaiians.

A recent hard-won victory in the fight to stop DSM is the UN’s new “High Seas Treaty” which became international law on January 17, 2026 (see related article in the June issue of Ka Wai Ola). While the ISA governs the seabed floor, the High Seas Treaty governs the living ocean above it – a critical distinction that will factor into future deliberations around deep-sea mining.

To celebrate the High Seas Treaty, “Greenpeace had an idea to commission murals around the world,” recounted Arlo Hemphill, Greenpeace U.S. project lead for its global Oceans for Life campaign. Greenpeace’s campaign to elevate ocean awareness has resulted in dozens of murals on city walls in 13 countries on five continents.

“In his interventions to the United Nations, Uncle Sol regularly talks about the Kumulipo and uses it as an illustration that deep-sea mining is not just an environmental issue. It is a cultural issue. Deep-sea mining attacks the very place of creation of the people who live in the region,” Hemphill said.

When Greenpeace first approached Kahoʻohalahala in January, their idea was to paint a mural depicting the Kumulipo in New York City where it would be visible to the international states housed at the UN General Assembly. But it was the middle of winter and freezing, so they pivoted and decided to site the mural in Hawaiʻi instead which all parties agreed felt right.

Finding a location was next. Kahoʻohalahala reached out to Kamehameha Schools (KS) and they were excited to support the project. KS offered the building on Waikamilo Road that serves as the “canvas” for the mural and provided the paint and other supplies.

“This mural offers a powerful lens for understanding who we are as a people and our relationship to our ʻāina,” explained Kamuela Cobb-Adams, managing director at Ke Kula ʻo Kamehameha on behalf of the schools.

“It reflects our commitment to caring for our oceans and lands by ensuring our kaiāulu (community) can learn about and deepen their connection to our moʻokūauhau (genealogy), while inspiring stewardship of ʻāina in ways that sustain future generations.”

Artist Kai Kaulukukui was invited to paint the mural. “We had met Kai early on and really wanted to work with him,” Hemphill recalled. Greenpeace commissioned Kaulukukui and paid for his work.

Born on Hawaiʻi Island, Kaulukukui cannot remember a time that he did not draw. Since 2012 he has worked as an artist full-time and has painted numerous murals. He also does a lot of ocean-themed art, so when he was asked to paint a mural depicting the origin of life in the deep sea as described in the Kumulipo, he didn’t hesitate.

“I’m super honored to be involved in this project,” said Kaulukukui who was already aware of the cultural and ecological danger that deep-sea mining poses to Oceania – and that proponents of DSM want to begin mining for rare metals in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone which is located just 500 miles south of Hawaiʻi Island.

He approached the project by reading and reflecting on the Kumulipo and by having long talks with Kahoʻohalahala. “I’d draw up a couple ideas then go to sleep and dream on it,” he said. “Through my dreams I’ll come up with a composition that I feel is strong. I think I did maybe 28 designs for this mural.”

Kaulukukui said that his last design “kind of just jumped out and I knew that was it.” He presented the design to Kahoʻohalahala and Greenpeace and they agreed. He began painting the mural in late May and finished in mid-June. In all it took him 11 days, working about 16 hours each day with help color-blocking from his wife, Angela.

His vision of the deep sea is based on the first wā (section) of the Kumulipo. “I included 14 of the creatures from the first 19 verses, like the primordial slime and phytoplankton and coral polyp,” he said.

Barely visible in the bottom left corner of the mural is an image of Queen Liliʻuokalani who translated the Kumulipo into English during her imprisonment following the 1893 overthrow. At the upper right corner are the words, “Hānau ka ʻuku koʻakoʻa” (born is the coral polyp) from the 15th verse of the Kumulipo.

“Being able to represent this stuff visually is awesome, but it’s the work that these scientists and people like Uncle Sol are doing – trying to get laws to change – that is making the difference,” Kaulukukui said.

“Most people have never heard of the Clarion-Clipperton Zone and when I talk about the mural, 95% of the people don’t have any idea of this issue [deep-sea mining]. I would love it if this [mural] helps get more eyes on what is happening.”

“We are at a really dangerous moment in time where the Trump administration is trying to force through deep-sea mining, both in U.S. and international waters, in defiance of international law,” Hemphill warned.

“The Trump administration is trying to say that, rather than the UN, they are the regulator of deep-sea mining in the international seabed – a position no other country agrees with. This mural is a symbol of defiance against that. And a symbol of Hawaiian connection to the ocean as a sacred place of creation that needs to be kept off limits to destructive industrial activity.”

“We know very little about the deep sea,” adds Kahoʻohalahala. “I’m hoping that, with the combination of science, research and a cultural perspective like ours, people around the world can support the idea that we should allow things that are created in nature to continue – rather than destroy them before we understand them.

“We [Hawaiʻi] need to be aware of what is happening around us; what is already happening just beyond the horizon. That is the urgency I feel.”

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By Wayne Chung Tanaka and Lenei Naipo

For many Hawaiʻi families who live in communities near or adjacent to military bases, the sounds of war and the byproducts of military training activities are woven into daily life.

One example is Waimānalo, Oʻahu, where children fall asleep to the thunder of explosions, the echo of gunfire, and the rumble of military aircraft shaking the windows of their houses on military training days. Meanwhile, along Kahawai o Pūhā, community members work to restore a stream that once sustained thriving loʻi kalo, fisheries, and food systems, while confronting contamination caused by decades of military occupation.

These impacts on ʻāina and surrounding communities demand far greater attention and discussion.

But they are only part of the story. What harms do military training activities, including this month’s Rim of the Pacific Exercises (RIMPAC), inflict on the ocean and its physical, cultural, and ancestral connections to Hawaiʻi and her people?

The Ocean as Ancestor, Relative, and Responsibility

Answering this question first requires an understanding of what the ocean means to Kānaka Maoli, and all who call Hawaiʻi home.

For Kānaka Maoli, the ocean is woven into genealogy, identity, and purpose. The Kumulipo traces the origins of life through successive stages of Pō, where early life emerges from the sea. It situates humans within a continuum of existence that begins in the ocean and extends through land, sky, and the spiritual realm, binding people to the natural world through ancestry.

This ancestral grounding shapes the kuleana to care for all ʻāina, including the ocean, which has fed families, connected communities, guided navigation, and provided spaces for ceremony and learning for millennia.

Ocean-based practices such as kilo (observation) and the management of loko iʻa (fishponds) reflect enduring pilina among people, ʻāina, and akua. The ocean also carries cultural memory and embodies long-standing genealogical responsibilities.

When our ocean is harmed, the damage is not merely ecological. Families lose access to gathering areas, cultural practices erode, and ancestral knowledge becomes harder to pass on. For Kānaka Maoli, harm to the ocean is harm to kūpuna and to the source of life itself.

RIMPAC, Military Exercises, and Our Ocean Waters

RIMPAC and similar ocean-impacting exercises extend beyond conventional Western measures of environmental harm. The following examples underscore the need for greater attention to these overlooked impacts.

Land-based pollution: On-land military exercises, including those that occur during RIMPAC, invariably introduce toxic contaminants to ma uka environments, where they can be transported into nearshore ocean waters via streams, runoff, and even air.

For example, testing has documented lead, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, and additional contaminants in the wetlands of Waimānalo, just one of several areas used for combat training on Oʻahu. These pollutants pose risks to aquatic ecosystems and the local communities they sustain.

Other military training sites, like Pōhakuloa, have also been associated with high levels of toxic pollutants including PFAS “forever chemicals,” trichloroethylene, arsenic, beryllium, lead, and dioxins, as well as the historical use of depleted uranium munitions. These long-lasting contaminants can easily make their way to the ocean via groundwater and runoff into adjacent streams.

Finally, runaway fires from military training, such as the nearly 900 fires associated with military training at Pōhakuloa, also rapidly accelerate the spread of toxic compounds through the air, across the landscape, and inevitably into the sea.

Water pollution: RIMPAC 2026 will bring more than 40 ships and 25,000 personnel to Hawaiʻi. Environmental impact statements (EISs) indicate that when docked at Pearl Harbor, warships will offload wastewater for treatment, likely at the Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam facility.

Given its history of unlawful discharges and an $8.7 million Clean Water Act penalty in 2022, added strain on this dilapidated facility increases the risk of yet another massive sewage leak into our ocean.

At sea, ships may dump treated or untreated wastewater directly into the ocean, depending on their distance from shore. Sewage system failures, such as those that sidelined the USS Gerald R. Ford and USS George H.W. Bush, could also result in releases closer to land.

Other pollutants, from fire-fighting foams to oils, solvents, and other toxic chemicals used on military equipment, weapons, and vehicles, may also be released at sea or in port due to accidents, training exercises, deck wash-downs, or rain.

Wildlife and habitat impacts: The Hawaiʻi-California Training and Testing EIS contemplates mine warfare training using underwater detonations, including near Pearl Harbor, Barbers Point, and Pearl City Peninsula.

The document acknowledges that such activities, as well as “military-expended materials” and anchoring, may damage coral reefs and cause years’ worth of damage to marine life.

Military sonar, which has been linked to mass strandings of whales and dolphins in Hawaiʻi and elsewhere, is also projected to cause millions of disruptions to marine mammal behavior.

Hawaiʻi Island residents may recall the beaked whale that stranded itself in Hōnaunau in 2022 after the Navy confirmed its use of sonar off the Kona Coast. And Kauaʻi residents may remember the mass stranding of 200 melon-headed whales in Hanalei Bay in 2004 which the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) later confirmed was the “plausible, if not likely” result of active Navy sonar use.

Whales are also at risk of fatal ship strikes. In 2023, the Navy reached its permitted limit of three whale kills from vessel collisions of the California coastline – prompting it to ask permission from the National Marine Fisheries Service to kill more whales.

This came after an Australian ship participating in a U.S. Navy-led multinational exercise unknowingly struck, killed, and dragged two Fin whales – occasional visitors to Hawaiian waters – into San Diego Bay.

Meanwhile, the Navy’s EIS for the Pacific Missile Range Facility on Kauaʻi proposes firing machine guns, rockets, and “inert” bombs at Kaʻula Island (located 23 miles from Niʻihau) up to 55 times annually, more than once per week on average, near native seabird nests and monk seal and dolphin resting areas.

The continuation of RIMPAC’s SINKEX exercises, in which decommissioned warships are intentionally sunk, threaten to damage deepwater habitats that take centuries to form.

Aquatic invasive species risks: Military activities and installations are well-known for their association with terrestrial invasive species, such as devil weed (first found on Oʻahu at the Army’s Kahuku Training Area) and the coconut rhinoceros beetle (first discovered at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam).

RIMPAC’s influx of naval vessels and planned underwater training exercises carry the risk of introducing or spreading aquatic invasive species as well.

Even with guidelines to reduce the risk of invasive species introductions from vessel ballast water and biofouling – the source of 80% of our aquatic invasive species – the extent to which visiting warships will comply with these safeguards is unclear.

Significantly increased vessel traffic and underwater detonation exercises may also contribute to the spread of the current octocoral infestation in Puʻuloa. These reef-smothering soft corals already cover a 100-acre area and led to the shutdown of fishing and kayaking at Pearl Harbor due to the ease in which they can spread through fragmentation.

Should octocoral fragments escape the harbor mouth, the consequences for our coral ecosystems could be devastating.

Climate change impacts: Climate destabilization remains the greatest threat to our oceans. Yet the U.S. – the world’s largest institutional consumer of fossil fuels – continues to expand its impact through exercises like RIMPAC, reinforcing a cycle of military expansion among allies and rivals that accelerates the climate crisis.

These examples capture only a fraction of the impacts that RIMPAC and other military exercises may have on the ocean – an ancestor, caretaker, and the source of life for all living things.

The prevailing military narrative frames these harms as “necessary” for America’s “national security.” However, our pilina and kuleana to the ocean require a fuller accounting of their consequences for our ancestors, ʻāina, and future generations.

The authors wish to thank Rebecca Holloway and Dan Rempala for their research assistance.

Wayne Chung Tanaka is the executive director of the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi and a former public policy manager with the Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Lenei Naipo, a kupa of Waimānalo, is a law student and a summer law clerk with Earthjustice whose work focuses on environmental and restorative justice for Kānaka Maoli.

The post An Ancestor Under Fire: The Cultural and Environmental Impact of RIMPAC appeared first on Ka Wai Ola.

From June 24 through the end of July, the biennial Rim of the Pacific (RIMPAC), the world’s largest multinational training exercise, will conduct war games on Hawaiʻi’s land, in its surrounding oceans, and across its skies. RIMPAC is a spectacle of sinking ships in the waters off Kauaʻi, artillery explosions at Pōhakuloa, amphibious invasions at Mōkapu and Waimānalo, and droves of sailors from more than 30 countries descending on Waikīkī. This month-long occasion is a mere trace of the military’s sweeping historic footprint in Hawaiʻi.

Even as the war with Iran and genocide in Palestine have dominated headlines, a military buildup in the Pacific aimed at containing China persists subliminally. This policy positions Hawaiʻi, with its heavy concentration of military bases and personnel, at the center of U.S. Indo-Pacific war planning.

Pro-military interest groups zealously lobby for ever-increasing military spending in the name of national security yet never provide an accurate accounting of the costs and consequences of such extensive militarization.

This year, the Trump administration brazenly requested $1.5 trillion for the military – the largest military budget ever – as costs of living rise and safety net programs are slashed. The collision of those pressures is bringing new scrutiny to what the military presence in Hawaiʻi actually costs and, more importantly, who bears that burden.

Last month, the Institute for Policy Studies, along with ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures, ʻĪlioʻulaokalani Coalition, Sierra Club Hawaiʻi, and other national organizations, co-produced the first multi-faceted report critically examining the military’s impacts in Hawaiʻi.

The True Cost of the U.S. Military in Hawaiʻi: A Comprehensive Analysis of the Economic, Environmental, Strategic, and Social Impacts of the U.S. Military Presence in Hawaiʻi, thoroughly reveals groundbreaking findings in nine areas: historical land use and sovereignty, strategic doctrine, environmental harm with a focus on PFAS contamination, public health, economic impact, employment, housing affordability, land valuation, and base conversion.

This report comes as national discourse is increasingly critical of Pentagon spending and the statewide debate over the future of military leases on 46,000 acres of Hawaiian trust lands that expire beginning in 2028 intensifies. The report’s key findings include:

• The military’s actual economic contribution to Hawaiʻi is 30% less than federal and state officials claim: $7.2 billion, not $10 billion, or 6.4% of Hawaiʻi’s GDP rather than 9.2%. That sum does not even accommodate for the steep, in some ways incalculable, costs to the environment, public health, and the islands’ long-term economic security.
• The health care, education, housing, food production, and energy-efficient housing sectors create more than 12 jobs per $1 million investment, whereas only 5 jobs are produced by the same level of military spending. More spending from those non-military sectors also remains within Hawaiʻi’s economy since most military personnel are only stationed in Hawaiʻi temporarily.
• The estimated fair market rent for these 65-year military leases totals $133.7 billion rather than $1 per lease.
• Military demand for off-base housing inflated average rents on Oʻahu by 7.1% in 2024, costing non-military renters an additional $234.8 million, or about $1,848 annually per household.
• The toxic waste legacy is largely unaddressed – including the Red Hill fuel disaster – and PFAS remediation at just three installations is conservatively estimated at $493 million, with indirect costs, including elevated cancer rates, water filtration, and lost food production potentially reaching into the billions.
• The bloated U.S. military presence in Hawaiʻi is inflated by imprecise threat assessments and an offensive doctrine that increases the risk of war with China. A defensive strategy would reduce escalation risks and free Hawaiʻi’s land and resources for the islands’ pressing ecological and social needs.

For decades, Native Hawaiians have led efforts to hold the U.S. military accountable. Now, this report gives policymakers, business leaders, and the broader public the tools to demand both accountability and a fundamental change in Hawaiʻi’s relationship with the U.S. military.

The people of Hawaiʻi, especially Native Hawaiians whose claims to these leased Kingdom lands remain unrelinquished, are entitled to engage in decisions that will affect future generations with full knowledge of the true costs, risks, and benefits.

In the words of Dr. Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, “Doubtless, there is much beyond our horizon and reach for we who love Hawaiʻi. But that has never really discouraged our willingness to try and protect our ʻāina and our communities, to maintain our peaceful resistance to the American empire. In the end, The True Cost of the U.S. Military in Hawaiʻi [report] is not so much an indictment as a blueprint for reclaiming our nation here, in hope and faith in one another.”

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“Hānau ka lauʻīpala noho i ke kai, kiaʻi ʻia e ka lauʻī noho i uka.”
Born is the yellow tang living in the sea, watched over by the kī leaf living on land.

This line from the Kumulipo underscores the connections our people recognize between ocean resources and the land and, by extension, with kānaka. Lauʻīpala, like other fish and marine life, come before us in our origin story, nurturing us while commanding our respect.

The tale of Hiʻiakaikapoliopele provides another glimpse into lauʻīpala’s cultural importance. When she met a woman whose grandchild was ill, Hiʻiaka instructed her to apply a poultice of maʻo flowers and feed him ʻuala and lauʻīpala, so that he would be healed. The lauʻīpala signified “an abundance of food.”

“What these mentions tell me is that lauʻīpala are an indicator of our marine ecosystem,” says Uʻilani Naipo, an advocate for traditional stewardship with genealogical ties to Kapalilua in South Kona. “If lauʻīpala are bountiful, it means we as a people will be fine. These are the foundational pieces of our universe that have to be there, so when they’re threatened, it’s up to us to go fix it.”

Naipo’s uncle, Willie Kaupiko of Miloliʻi, was taught by his uncles to look for the schools of lauʻīpala coming in over the reef, because other fish would be close behind. “When you see the yellow cloud, that’s when you go grab your net.”

Reef fish like the lauʻīpala are the foundation of our traditional diet. But like so many of our natural resources, they have been abused for financial gain.

In 1953, the Territorial legislature passed a law allowing the capture of Hawaiʻi’s reef fish for sale as aquarium pets. Legislative records reveal that the law was based on the fundamental lie that the fish sought after by aquarium collectors – like lauʻīpala, kole, pākuʻikuʻi, and others – have “no value as food fish.” But, the legislature said, “they will sell … on the mainland market.”

This old 1953 law remains on the books, despite its false premise. For decades, our juvenile reef fish have been extracted, maimed, starved, and air-freighted in plastic bags to pet shops on the continent. Most die within a year, even though they can live over 40 years in the wild.

These fish, which have sustained our people for millennia, are treated as disposable playthings, victims to the whims of hobbyists and the greed of sellers and the collectors that supply them.

“This is the only industry that’s exporting our reef fish, and that’s what bothers me so much about it,” says Uncle Charlie Young of Kealia. “If these fish were being caught to feed our ʻohana, that would be one thing. But this industry just wants to make money off our public resources.

“We Hawaiians are the ones that will always need to speak up for our environment and ways of life,” Young added. “As the Indigenous people, we’re the ones attached to this place, who can recite moʻolelo and tap into our ancestry to understand why is this fish called that, or why is this resource important from a cultural standpoint.”

Since 2012, diver and cultural practitioner Mike Nakachi has been part of a hui that banded together to protect Hawaiʻi’s reef fish from the aquarium pet trade. Although they won a landmark legal victory in 2017 that required the pet industry to examine its environmental impacts, Nakachi says that in many places, coral and fish populations damaged by commercial collection may never recover.

“When we dive where the water’s rough or in more remote areas, we still see places that spiritually uplift you because of the amazing life that is present,” Nakachi shared. “But on the other hand, there are a lot of places that bring you down because of the damage that has been inflicted.”

Kaupiko, Young, Naipo, and Nakachi, were among hundreds of Moku o Keawe residents gathered at Kealakehe High School in April to oppose re-opening West Hawaiʻi to commercial aquarium collection; a unanimous community outcry to prioritize natural resources over the financial interests of a handful of collectors. But the Department of Land and Natural Resources plans to move forward with permitting anyway.

Earlier this year, the hui and their allies from across the islands joined the Office of Hawaiian Affairs in urging the state legislature to ban commercial aquarium collection. A ban bill made it all the way to the end of the legislative session, only to be killed behind closed doors.

Since 2023, advocates from across Hawaiʻi have also urged the Board of Land and Natural Resources to adopt regulations banning commercial collection statewide. The Board will revisit those requests this summer.

“These lawmakers, policymakers, and decision-makers – they are our modern-day konohiki,” says Nakachi. “But they still aren’t listening to the people.”

Meanwhile, the pet industry is also pushing to resume collecting on Oʻahu, where reef fish populations collapsed after Hurricane ʻIniki in 1992 and have never recovered.

Nevertheless, Elena Bryant, a Koʻolaupoko kamaʻāina and member of the Kāneʻohe Bay Regional Council, remains hopeful for the future.

“It’s inspiring to see the energy building among our communities, and especially the ʻōpio. This is an issue that affects so many people, but not [one] that many people know about. It’s going to be up to our youth to ensure a future Hawaiʻi where they can enjoy the ocean’s bounty like their kūpuna before them.”

Mahesh Cleveland, born in Honokalā, East Maui, is an attorney with the Honolulu office of nonprofit environmental law firm Earthjustice. Mahesh believes that Kānaka co-management of natural resources is the key to a sustainable future for Hawaiʻi. For more information about the advocacy efforts discussed above, visit earthjustice.org/experts/kylie-wager-cruz/the-latest-on-commercial-aquarium-collection-in-hawaii.

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Bearing the Weight of WESPAC’s Push for Extractive Fishing in Papahānaumokuākea and Other Sacred Pacific Ocean Spaces

By Kenika Lorenzo-Elarco and Hau‘oli Lorenzo-Elarco

What does protection mean when even some of our most sacred and carefully protected ocean spaces are being reopened to commercial fishing? As World Ocean Day approaches, there is a renewed attention to the need for marine protected areas that are strong not only on paper, but in purpose and practice.

While the world is being urged to strengthen ocean protections, the Western Pacific Regional Fishery Management Council (WESPAC), fueled by the Trump Administration, has moved to restore commercial fishing access of all four Pacific Marine National Monuments: Pacific Islands Heritage (PIH), Muliava (Rose) Atoll, Marianas Trench, and Papahānaumokuākea.

Despite massive opposition, WESPAC took final action recommending the reopening of commercial fisheries in the 3 to 200 nautical mile (nm) zone of Papahānaumokuākea. Additionally, they voted to reopen commercial fisheries in the 12 to 50 nm zone at Muliava, Sāmoa, 0 to 50 nm in the Marianas Trench Islands, and 50 to 200 nm at Jarvis and Wake Islands, and Johnston Atoll in PIH.

These final recommendations will move into further federal review by NOAA and for public comment. Papa- hānaumokuākea, with the extra protective national marine sanctuary designation layer, would require additional congressional steps.

That procedural detail matters, but only up to a point. The deeper issue is not simply what zone might be opened or under what regulatory conditions, but what it means to revisit commercial extraction in places already recognized as culturally sacred and ecologically critical.

At the WESPAC meeting, Papahānaumokuākea Native Hawaiian Cultural Working Group (CWG) member William Ailā Jr. warned the council that “those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” Commercial fishing, though labeled as “sustainable” and with the misappropriated term “pono,” risks repeating past mistakes.

Since the commercialization of fishing in Hawaiʻi, particularly in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands (NWHI), unsustainable and harmful practices have caused irreparable damage to both the ecological and cultural wellbeing of our ocean.

As early as the 1840s, foreign commercial traders nearly wiped out the Hawaiian pearl oyster from Pearl Harbor within a short 30-year period. After a massive population of large pearl oysters were discovered at Manawai (Pearl & Hermes), an estimated 100 tons of pearl oysters were extracted from Manawai in just three years (1927-1930) for global trade. Nearly a century later, that population still has not recovered.

Between the 1970s and the 1990s, the lobster fishery in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands (NWHI) caused a near ecosystem collapse. Lobster populations plummeted, precious coral reefs were damaged by traps, and the endangered Hawaiian monk seal, which depends in part on lobster as prey, also declined. The fishery was closed in 2000 to avoid further catastrophe.

That same year, the shark population in NWHI was ravaged by a single commercial fishing vessel that killed 990 manō in just 21 days. In 2014, longliners reported a catch of 11,700 ʻahi from the now protected expanded area of Papahānaumokuākea, along with more than 5,600 sharks as bycatch, meaning one shark was caught for every two ʻahi. Most sea animals caught as bycatch do not survive.

Fishing is a rich cultural practice shared amongst many people. Native Hawaiians, like many of our Pacific cousins, have lived in harmony with the ocean through pono fishing practices since time immemorial.

However, commercial fishing is not a cultural practice, and it threatens our ability to live respectfully with the ocean.

In just a few decades of colonial, destructive, and profit-driven fishing, populations of important species have plummeted resulting in near-catastrophic ecosystem collapses. With this renewed push to restore commercial fishing, we no longer risk repeating past mistakes, we are deliberately choosing them.

Commercial fishing continued in Papahānaumokuākea until 2016. The late Uncle Buzzy Agard was one of the commercial fishermen in NWHI. Over a 10-year period, he witnessed a massive fish population decline from fishing in the area.

From that point forward, he along with many other respected kūpuna including Aunty Laura Thompson, Uncle Eddie Kaʻanāʻanā, Uncle Walter Paulo, Aunty Wilma Holi, Uncle Kawika Kapahulehua, Dr. Kekuni Blaisdell, Dr. Carlos Andrade and others lobbied state and federal agencies to establish a marine protected area called the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands Coral Reef Ecosystem Reserve in 2001.

Through their efforts, the CWG was established. Guided by these kūpuna, Papahānaumokuākea was born as a national marine monument in 2006, expanded in 2016, recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2010, and designated a national marine sanctuary in 2025.

WESPAC argues that Pacific Island peoples carry an unfair burden of global marine conservation goals. But that argument ignores a central truth: these protections were never forced on Pacific Island peoples. We fought for them.

Indeed, we embody the words of late Tongan-Fijian writer Epeli Hauʻofa, “No people on earth are more suited to be guardians of the world’s largest ocean than those for whom it has been home for generations.”

Rather than framing ocean protection as a burden, we should instead ask why Pacific Island peoples, and our protected and sacred oceans, are forced to bear the unfair burden of industrial fishing.

As World Ocean Day on June 8 calls attention to strong marine protected areas, Hawaiʻi faces a harder question: what does protection require of us when the place in question is sacred, storied, and entrusted to future generations?

Papahānaumokuākea reminds us that some places are not meant to be measured only by what can be taken from them, but by the relationships they carry, the memory they hold, and the responsibilities they call forth.

Kenika Lorenzo-Elarco is a Kanaka ʻŌiwi educator and scholar from Waialua, Oʻahu. He is a member of the Papahānaumokuākea Native Hawaiian CWG and serves as the co-chair of the communications subcommittee. Kenika also serves as the community engagement manager at the W. M. Keck Observatory and a junior specialist faculty at UH Mānoa.

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“It’s just regular language, ʻthrow it away,’” said Allison Fraley, Solid Waste Division chief, County of Kauaʻi. “There is no ʻaway’ here on the island.”

With a population close to 74,000 and roughly 1.3 million visitors annually, Kauaʻi produces over 90,000 tons of trash every year. For the last 73 years, its landfill has been in Kekaha and is now close to reaching capacity.

“Finding landfills is never easy. We’ve been trying to do it on Kauaʻi for more than 20 years. We’ve been studying it and it’s been difficult,” said Fraley. “We’re at the point where we’re kind of in a crisis. We don’t have any more capacity unless we expand, so we’re pursuing that.”

Similarly, Oʻahu is facing its own landfill capacity crisis and difficulty finding another site. The “Gathering Place” of the state has a population of nearly one million and receives up to six million visitors annually – all of whom collectively generate roughly 1.2 to 1.7 million tons of residential, commercial, and industrial waste per year.

The search for a new landfill was an issue that Honolulu Mayor Rick Blangiardi was told not to deal with. “These are people in elected office who said, ʻYou just leave it alone if you are smart. Let somebody else deal with it,’ which all the more incentivizes me to say, ʻNo. That’s not who we’re going to be.’”

In his first term, Blangiardi created a Landfill Advisory Committee (LAC) to help the city identify and evaluate potential sites for Oʻahu’s next landfill before the current Waimānalo Gulch Sanitary Landfill is required to close in March 2028.

In his 2026 State of the City address, Blangiardi underscored the urgent need for a new Oʻahu landfill, describing it as one of the city’s most pressing infrastructure challenges. He reiterated his opposition to placing another landfill on the Waiʻanae Coast, but noted that other sites face significant legal, environmental, and land-use constraints, and called on the state legislature to help address the issue.

In 2020, the Hawaiʻi State Legislature passed Act 73, establishing strict landfill siting restrictions, including buffer requirements from homes, schools, and hospitals, and prohibiting landfills in conservation districts.

This is in addition to the fact that there is limited available land in Hawaiʻi, the cost of land is extremely high, and Hawaiʻi is geographically isolated.

“Like if we were on the mainland, we could just haul it out, you know, just take it somewhere else, drive it out of our community. It would just be the shipping cost,” said Fraley. “But [here] we have to buy land and make sure it complies with all of these criteria.”

The proposed vertical expansion is intended to extend the life of the Kekaha Landfill, which is otherwise expected to reach capacity around 2030.

In response to heightened public concern over aquifer protection following the Red Hill fuel spill, the state legislature enacted additional restrictions in 2025 aimed at preventing new landfills from being sited above sensitive aquifer areas on Oʻahu.

That restriction has made an already difficult situation on Oʻahu even more challenging; in 2022, the LAC rejected all proposed alternative sites due to concerns that included risks to Oʻahu’s aquifers.

“We’re convinced if they were to drill a hole in the ground and spend a million dollars, it’s probably over an aquifer,” said Blangiardi who referred to other development taking place on the island, including high rises.

All counties have implemented programs to reduce the amount of waste going into landfills.

“Each person on Oʻahu generates a little over five pounds of trash every day,” said Josh Nagashima, City & County of Honolulu refuse chief. “It’s kind of wild when you think about it.”

Through incineration, H-POWER produces up to 10% of Oʻahu’s electricity and reduces the volume of waste requiring landfill disposal by 90%, with the remaining 10% in the form of ash. Recycled waste is taken to local recycling facilities.

“Because of H-POWER, we’re already recycling or beneficially using over 70% of our waste,” noted Nagashima. “That doesn’t mean that we can’t do more. There’s a lot of food waste that was identified in what’s going to H-POWER in the waste stream, so we’re trying to remove a lot of that before it gets there.”

In April 2026, Honolulu County launched the G.R.O.W. (Green Recycling Organic Waste) pilot program in select households within Kailua, Hawaiʻi Kai, Mililani, Nānākuli, Waipahu, and Kalihi. G.R.O.W. allows those residents to add food scraps and food waste to their existing green compost carts.

“There’s lots of opportunities to reduce, reuse and recycle. But once that’s done, we still have this massive amount of material that needs to be landfilled,” said Fraley, whose department recently held a community informational meeting on the proposed vertical expansion of the Kekaha Landfill, which would increase the landfill’s height to 85 feet. While there has been discussion over a potential new landfill site, there has been environmental and community opposition.

Meanwhile in Honolulu, Blangiardi continues to fight an uphill battle of opposition in the fruitless search for a new landfill site outside of West Oʻahu.

All counties have investigated new technologies, which is an argument often raised by community voices at meetings. However, investments into those technologies are in the billions of dollars. “Everybody forgets about that,” said Blangiardi, who has sat through meetings to learn about waste solutions from gasification to plasma vitrification.

However, as with most major development projects in Hawaiʻi, delays in identifying a landfill site result in rising costs.

“I am really concerned we’re gonna run out of time because this is not one of those things that you can say, ʻWell, let’s just squeeze another couple more years in here,’” said Blangiardi. “We’re pushing it as it is.”

On May 13, the Honolulu City Council voted unanimously to pass a resolution introduced by Councilwoman Andria Tupola that would establish an “End Landfills Task Force” to develop alternatives to landfill disposal. The task force will have until November 2027 to evaluate strategies for ending landfill dependency and develop a plan to enact them. The task force will include county and state representatives plus subject matter experts from the recycling, waste management and energy sectors.

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By Alika Peleholani Garcia

As a first responder during the recent Kona Low storms, I know that addressing the impact of natural disasters on human beings comes first: getting people to safety, protecting their homes when possible, and helping them begin the long road to recovery.

But when the rains stop and the flood waters settle, I wear another hat as the executive director of Kuleana Coral Restoration. In this role, I can see the otherwise unseen impact of such storms below the ocean’s surface and the way that extreme weather is affecting our nearshore reefs – and the long-term cost of this damage to our communities.

After the Kona Lows were over, I went underwater and saw it clearly: a thousand corals torn loose, flipped, or shattered by storm surge waves and flood debris. And that was just a tiny portion of the reef that encircles our entire island.

Across Oʻahu and throughout our pae ʻāina, the damage is real and widespread.

When corals are ripped out, we lose more than coral – we lose shelter for reef life, habitat for fish, and part of the reef’s natural ability to take the punch out of waves before they reach our shoreline. That loss affects our food systems, livelihoods, and community health.

While repairing portions of the reef after the Kona Low damage, Kuleana Coral Restoration recently reached a milestone: 10,000 corals planted and repaired. The number is worth celebrating, but only if we understand what it represents.

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A reef is not just coral. A reef is a community: fish moving through structure, crabs sheltering in crevices, shrimp flashing in and out of shade. When coral survives, it becomes structure, and structure invites life back. That’s the neighborhood returning.

But we hold a firm truth alongside the celebration: planting corals is not enough by itself. Corals live within a system shaped by what happens above them. In Hawaiʻi, our reefs sit at the ma kai end of the water cycle where everything collects.

Ma uka to ma kai water carries life. It also carries consequences. Our corals live downstream of our choices; what we allow to happen upstream affects the lived conditions for our reefs downstream. A Kona Low is an acute example of that connection, with damage to the land and stress underwater arriving together.

That connection can feel like a mirror of community health, especially for Kānaka communities trying to persist in a modern world that wasn’t built with our best interests in mind. Reefs get smothered, stressed, and pushed by forces bigger than any single organism can solve alone – not unlike the way that our people experience the socio-economic pressures that keep us from thriving in our homeland or that drive us away.

Coral restoration matters because coral is living architecture. It is housing underwater. When reef structure collapses, the smallest relatives lose shelter first. Planting and repairing corals helps rebuild that structure so life can return.

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But just like housing on land, simply building more homes doesn’t solve the housing crisis. If the systemic forces that push families out remain unchanged, the crisis continues. Reefs face the same reality. If upstream pressures don’t change, coral planting becomes temporary.

However, “upstream” doesn’t mean “out of our control.” It means that changes must be made earlier in the system; what we choose, what we tolerate, what we prioritize, and what we build together. Durable reef recovery comes when we align coral restoration work in the ocean with actionable mālama ʻāina, from working to ensure that our freshwater streams are cleaner to making smarter shoreline decisions, and everything in between.

And the urgency is growing. With oceans trending warmer and the possibility of a strong El Niño pattern this year, coral bleaching and more damaging storms become more likely.

When reefs are already weakened they can’t slow waves as well, and storms can hit our coastline harder. That’s why preparation matters: ready crews, ready communities, and a shared plan to respond both above and below sea level.

Planting 10,000 corals is not a finish line. It’s a beginning: repairing the reef neighborhood while strengthening the human community that protects it.

By restoring reefs, our eldest kūpuna, we restore ourselves.

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June 15, 2026, marks the 20th anniversary of Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument. At the time the monument was designated by President George W. Bush in 2006, it was the largest marine protected area in the world, limiting permitted activities and access to the area to educational, scientific, and cultural endeavors.

Native Hawaiian advocates, lawaiʻa (fishers), kūpuna, and cultural practitioners were critical in securing this victory. Early efforts to limit commercial fishing in Papahānaumokuākea were led by Native Hawaiians who had fished in the northern islands as early as the 1940s and personally observed the outsized negative impacts even a small commercial fishery can cause in this pristine and nutrient-limited environment.

Native Hawaiian leadership continued through the monument’s first superintendent, Aulani Wilhelm, and within the larger community. In January 2015, a group of seven prominent Native Hawaiian scholars and leaders, including former Office of Hawaiian Affairs (OHA) Chief Executive Officer Dr. Kamanaʻopono Crabbe, sent a letter to President Barack Obama that helped galvanize momentum in support of expanding the monument and adding OHA as a co-trustee on the Monument Management Board.

When President Obama issued the 2016 proclamation expanding the monument to its current boundaries (582,000 square miles), he recognized the area as “part of a highly pristine deep sea and open ocean ecosystem with unique biodiversity and that constitute a sacred cultural, physical, and spiritual place for the Native Hawaiian community.”

OHA was added as a co-trustee shortly thereafter, joining the State of Hawaiʻi, the Department of Commerce, and the Department of Interior as the highest level government stewards of this place and its biocultural treasures – which include the primary nesting and pupping grounds for a range of culturally significant and endangered species, such as honu (green sea turtles) and ʻīlioholoikauaua (monk seals).

Mai Ka Pō Mai: A Native Hawaiian Guidance Document for Management of Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument (2021), is a model for elevating Indigenous principles and worldviews within conservation management and advancing a rights-based framework that recognizes Indigenous decision-making as critical for environmental stewardship.

Key within the ecosystem of Kānaka ʻŌiwi leaders who have ensured that the conservation of this place occurs in a culturally grounded manner is the Native Hawaiian Cultural Working Group, which serves as OHA’s key community partner for management decisions. OHA extends its deepest mahalo to the Cultural Working Group for its work to protect Papahānaumokuākea, which predates and was foundational to the establishment of the monument.

In celebration of this 20th anniversary, the author recommends two publications by noted archaeologist Dr. Kekuewa Kikiloi, a Cultural Working Group member: Rebirth of an Archipelago: Sustaining a Hawaiian Cultural Identity for People and Homeland (2010) and Kūkulu Manamana: Ritual Power and Religious Expansion in Hawaiʻi the Ethno-Historical and Archaeological Study of Mokumanamana and Nihoa Islands (2012).

These papers are available online and provide a rich introduction to the historical use of the Northwestern islands, the significance of the islands within traditional Native Hawaiian cosmology, and the physical and oral record that illuminates these ancestral ties to place.

Dr. Kikiloi’s work is foundational to the reintroduction of the Hawaiian place names now commonly used to reference the islands, and essential reading for further understanding of the cultural significance of this area.

I ka wā ma mua, ka wā ma hope. The future is found in the past.

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On January 17, 2026, the United Nation’s Agreement on the Conservation and Sustainable Use of Marine Biological Diversity of Areas Beyond National Jurisdiction (BBNJ), commonly known as the “High Seas Treaty,” officially entered into force.

Adopted in 2023 after years of negotiation and advocacy, the treaty represents one of the most significant international ocean conservation agreements in modern history.

The BBNJ seeks to protect biodiversity in international waters and supports the global “30×30” conservation initiative – an effort to place at least 30% of the world’s oceans under protection by 2030 to halt biodiversity loss, build ecosystem resilience and mitigate climate change.

Its implementation comes at a critical moment.

For the past several years, the International Seabed Authority (ISA), established under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), has debated whether to approve regulations that could open the door to commercial deep-sea mining in international waters.

Now, the two agreements will shape the future governance of the high seas together.

“UNCLOS and the ISA govern the seabed itself,” explained Hawaiian cultural practitioner and international ocean advocate Solomon Pili Kahoʻohalahala. “The BBNJ governs the living ocean above it — the water column and biodiversity. Between the two, they now influence the future of nearly two-thirds of the world’s oceans.”

“High seas” includes all parts of the ocean beyond the 200-nautical-mile exclusive economic zones (territorial seas, internal waters or archipelagic waters) of a nation state. UNCLOS further establishes the high seas as the “common heritage of humankind” regardless of a nation’s proximity to the ocean.

A total of 89 United Nations member states ratified the BBNJ treaty, far surpassing the 60 ratifications required for it to take effect. Notably, Pacific Rim nations such as Chile, Panama, Ecuador, Costa Rica, Mexico, Japan, and China ratified the agreement. The United States, Russia, and Canada did not.

For Indigenous advocates, one of the treaty’s most critically important advances is its recognition of Indigenous knowledge systems and the role of Indigenous Peoples in ocean stewardship. Indigenous participation is framed through consultation and knowledge-sharing, and the treaty acknowledges that traditional knowledge and western science can work together to protect marine ecosystems.

Yet despite that progress, many Indigenous leaders believe a critical opportunity was missed.

In the final stages of negotiation, Pacific Small Island Developing States (PSIDS) were unable to reach consensus on language that would have more directly formalized Indigenous participation in decision-making processes under the treaty.

“It’s disappointing,” Kahoʻohalahala said. “We came very close to establishing stronger mechanisms for Indigenous participation in international ocean governance. That would have changed the future of these discussions.”

The issue is expected to resurface during the first Conference of the Parties (COP1) for the BBNJ treaty in January 2027, where governance structures and implementation mechanisms will continue to be negotiated.

For Kahoʻohalahala, however, the debate reaches far beyond legal frameworks and treaty language.

At the center of his work is a broader concept he describes as “ocean governance” — an Indigenous framework grounded in relationship and responsibility rather than ownership and extraction.

“Indigenous peoples of Oceania come from the ocean,” he said. “We understand ourselves as part of creation, not separate from it. That creates a very different relationship to governance.”

He often points to the Kumulipo, the Native Hawaiian creation chant, as a foundation for understanding humanity’s genealogical relationship to the natural world.

“The Kumulipo reminds us that the ocean is not a resource separate from ourselves. It is our ancestor. That worldview is fundamentally different from systems built around control, ownership, and domination.”

Kahoʻohalahala argues that many existing international governance systems continue to reflect colonial-era assumptions about authority and resource management. “European powers developed systems based on dominance over lands, peoples, and resources,” he said. “Those systems still shape international policy today.”

He believes Oceania has the potential to offer another path.

“If Pacific peoples stood together and asserted our collective responsibility to care for the ocean — not merely exploit it — that could become a powerful force in international affairs.”

That conversation becomes especially urgent as the United States unilaterally accelerates efforts to advance deep-sea mining within the waters of its Pacific territories, irrespective of the debate taking place at the ISA and despite resolute opposition from residents of the affected communities.

In April 2025, President Donald Trump issued an executive order titled “Unleashing America’s Offshore Critical Minerals and Resources,” intended to fast-track access to strategic seabed minerals.

Several months after the EO was issued, and with the backing of every major political leader in American Sāmoa, Congressional Rep. Amata Coleman Radewagen wrote in comments to the Department of the Interior, “There is strong opposition to any exploration or extraction of minerals from the ocean floor in waters near American Sāmoa.”

Similarly, in a letter to Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee Chair Mike Lee earlier this year, Commonwealth of Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) Gov. David Apatang and Guåhan (Guam) Gov. Lou Leon Guerrero called for a moratorium on deep-sea mining in the Marianas.

Nevertheless, on May 21, 2026, the Associated Press reported that at least nine companies are currently in talks with the Trump administration, queueing up to obtain licenses and leases to mine in waters off American Sāmoa, CNMI, Guåhan and Alaska.

“The United States is moving forward as if Pacific peoples do not exist,” Kahoʻohalahala said. “As if our voices and concerns are irrelevant because these territories fall under U.S. authority. That is deeply offensive.”

He also notes a significant shift in the rhetoric surrounding the need for deep-sea mining.

Initially promoted as necessary for “green energy” technologies such as electric vehicle batteries, proponents increasingly frame DSM as essential for military readiness and national security competition with China and Russia.

One reason for the shift has to do with emerging developments in green technology. In August 2025, Japanese automaker Toyota unveiled what it calls a “water engine” likely based on hydrogen combustion or hydrogen fuel cell technology powered by water-derived hydrogen. If successful, this zero emission technology would be revolutionary.

“The narrative around deep-sea mining is changing,” Kahoʻohalahala observed. “Now it’s about militarization and strategic dominance.”

Still, he remains cautiously optimistic.

Despite years of discussion and industry pressure, no commercial-scale deep-sea mining operation currently exists anywhere in the world. Major technological, financial, legal, and environmental hurdles remain unresolved. Kahoʻohalahala speculates that commercial scale capacity is at least five years away.

“There is still no fully operational system capable of mining at commercial scale in the deep ocean,” he said. “Much of the technology is still experimental.”

Kahoʻohalahala believes this reality creates an important window of opportunity for Indigenous peoples, Pacific communities, scientists, and environmental advocates to shape international policy before irreversible harm occurs.

“We are not powerless,” he said. “Pacific peoples have observed and understood the ocean for generations. That knowledge is an inheritance. The question now is whether we will put it into action.”

“For Hawaiʻi and for all of Moananuiākea, this is ultimately about responsibility – to our ancestors, to future generations, and to the living ocean itself.”

What is Deep-sea Mining?

Deep-sea Mining (DSM) is the extraction of commercially valuable mineral deposits from the ocean floor. It is essentially undersea strip mining whereby massive machines (think 35 tons) are lowered to the ocean floor by surface ships.

There, at depths of 2.5 – 3.5 miles below the surface, they bulldoze over the pristine ocean floor, scraping off the top layer of sediment – and every living organism in their way – to extract the polymetallic nodules that rest on the ocean floor.

Polymetallic nodules are fist-sized rocks comprised of layers of precious metals like copper, nickel, manganese and cobalt, that build up over millions of years around marine debris, such as bits of coral.

The sediment and nodules are sucked up through giant tubes to the ships, and then the excess water and sediments are returned to the ocean, creating a sediment plume that includes dissolved heavy metals and other toxins.

These “mid-water discharge plumes” are not released on the ocean floor, but at depths about halfway between the seabed and the surface. As a result, the toxic sediment can travel on deep ocean currents anywhere from tens to hundreds of miles from the discharge site. They can also work their way into our food chain through pelagic fish like ʻahi, aku, mahimahi and ono.

DSM would have a catastrophic, irreversible impact on the health and biodiversity of our marine ecosystem and possibly the entire planet.

Of particular concern to Hawaiʻi is the Clarion-Clipperton Zone (CCZ), located about 500 miles south of Kaʻū, Hawaiʻi Island. It is believed to have one of the richest deposits of polymetallic nodules and if DSM is approved, the CCZ will be a primary target of mining corporations.

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I’ve always wondered why groceries are so expensive in Hawaiʻi – given that its climate is suited to year-round agriculture – and what local communities (and I) could do about it. So, I decided to learn about Native Hawaiian self-determination, mālama ʻāina, and food sovereignty from experts in Maui County.

Today, 1.4 million people live in Hawaiʻi. And, according to the Hawai‘i Food Bank, 43% of Native Hawaiians suffered from food insecurity in 2024. But this wasn’t always the case.

Prior to western contact, the ahupua‘a system produced food for a million people. This system established a reciprocal relationship between people and land and was completely self-sufficient.

Georgia Pinsky, director of the Maui Farmer Support Network, lives off grid in Kaupō, Maui, with her husband and son. They steward their home farm with a passion for organically grown and sustainable foods. “The Hawaiian Islands import 90% of their food, making the islands’ food supply system vulnerable to supply chain disruptions,” Pinsky noted.

How has there been such a drastic change in food production and security in Hawaiʻi, and how can Hawaiians come together to steward the land and their communities?

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For more than a century, the historical – and contemporary – colonization of Hawaiʻi has made access to agricultural land, and the freshwater necessary to grow crops, extremely difficult for traditional farmers.

The dispossession of Native Hawaiians from the land, and diversion of streams for corporate sugar and pineapple plantations, undermined the ahupua‘a system, degraded soil health, disconnected communities from their ancestral lands, and complicated Native Hawaiians’ ability to steward land and produce food self-sufficiently.

Over time, limited access to land and water affected traditional food production and the adoption of processed, imported western foods created health disparities for Native Hawaiians.

“A lot of the health issues that we see in our rural communities are a direct result of the food they’re consuming – or the food they’re not consuming,” Pinsky said. Re-establishing widespread cultivation of, and access to, traditional foods such as kalo, ‘ulu, and mai‘a (banana) can help close the health gap.

On Maui’s southeastern coast is the rural community of Kīpahulu. There, the Kīpahulu ‘Ohana, a community-run nonprofit, is stewarding state lands and restoring lo‘i kalo. Utilizing the traditional ahupuaʻa system, they are producing food for their geographically isolated community while also providing protected environments for native and endemic species.

Communities like Kīpahulu prove that re-establishing Native Hawaiian stewardship practices encourage abundant and healthy ecosystems, while providing physical, cultural, and spiritual benefits.

Beyond, its power to heal the land and its people, restoration of ahupua‘a practices can also benefit climate resilience.

Dr. Scott Fisher is a professor at Maui College and the director of ‘Āina Stewardship for the Hawaiʻi Land Trust (HILT). One of their projects includes restoring loko i‘a (fishponds) at Waihe‘e Refuge. Dr. Fisher explained that sea level rise and intensifying storms, precipitation, and drought all affect coastal capacity for agri- and aquaculture.

By restoring loko i‘a, sediment deposition from freshwater runoff into the ocean is reduced by 93%, protecting coral reefs and surrounding marine life. As a result, healthy reef systems can better mitigate coastal damage from intensifying storms.

Self-determinism is tied directly to the revival of Hawaiian cultural practices. Bobby Pahia owns 300 acres in Waikapū, Maui, that he leases to individuals and commercial farmers below market rate to increase community food production. “We need to build a mindset around kākou,” Pahia said. “Excessive individuality broke the Indigenous mindset of cooperation.”

As exemplified by individual and community action on Maui, Hawai‘i’s current ecological conditions necessitate re-establishment of ahupua‘a practices. Doing so will not only increase self-determination and the self- sufficiency of Hawaiian and local communities, but also support food security, environmental resilience, cultural preservation, and environmental conservation.

Re-establishing food sovereignty for Hawaiʻi is a kākou effort. Everybody can – and should – mālama ʻāina and take steps to increase their individual capacity for self-sufficiency.

To start, Pahia encourages the community to acknowledge past injustices and move forward. “Don’t be mad at the system. Fruit of bitterness doesn’t bear good fruit,” he said, adding that the duality of acknowledging wrong while moving forward to create a better system makes space for self-determination, mālama ʻāina, and continuation of culture.

Pahia believes that harboring resentment and bitterness regarding the injustice of past and present colonialism prevents forward progress towards achieving more food-sovereign communities.

He also points out the need to adapt traditional knowledge to modern colonial landscapes. In his work, Pahia has created a “sphere of regenerative knowledge” to encourage his lessees to work with the land and soil biology, rather than utilize commercial and extractive methodologies.

On Molokaʻi, Hanohano Naehu, head kiaʻi loko of nonprofit Hui o Kuapā, lives by the ʻōlelo noʻeau, “He ali‘i ka ʻāina, he kauwā ke kanaka; the land is chief, people are its servant.” Emphasizing that the ahupua‘a system created sources of abundant food and environmental benefits, he uses fishponds as educational tools for the island’s youth.

Another way to establish food sovereignty is to support and engage with local food producers by participating in fruit stand systems to share the abundance.

“Fruit stands emulate ma uka to ma kai exchange, keep food within rural communities, and reduce food waste and rural community dependence on grocery stores in central Maui,” said Pinsky. Fruit stands increase food sovereignty by allowing communities to dictate methods of food acquisition, rather than reinforcing our reliance on imported food.

Finally, Pahia emphasizes that active political engagement at both the local and state levels will increase pressure on politicians to support, and pass, environmentally and socially beneficial policies.

“We need to encourage local communities to vote,” he said, noting that voting community-oriented Native Hawaiians into government positions can increase government support for environmentally beneficial policies.

This article is based upon research for the author’s undergraduate honors thesis, “Creating a Food Sovereign Maui: Indigenous Land Management and Agricultural Practices.” Please feel free to contact me at rose.c.angelo2@gmail.com to talk story, share experiences, or for a copy of the thesis.

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