Three essays on cinematic representations of Hawai‘i and the Pacific from the 1950s to the 2010s.
72 _ A SITE OF KNOWLEDGE
Artist Sung Hwan Kim highlights Hawai‘i as a dynamic space of learning, reframing the islands as a lens for understanding global history and diaspora.
88 _ THE RISE OF COMMUNITY LAND TRUSTS IN HAWAI‘I
A growing network of community land trusts seek to provide permanently affordable homes for Hawai‘i’s people, while redefining the narrative on housing in the islands.
100
_ PANIOLO
In these never-before-published images, Shiloh Perkins photographs Hawai‘i’s enduring rodeo culture in all its grit, grace, and glory.
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140 _ WEST MAUI
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N THE COVERS
Reflecting the dynamism of stories in every edition, our new issues are released with multi-cover runs to express the kaleidoscopic and shifting landscape of the islands. L to R: 1. Bronco rider Jordon Mackin at a rodeo in Maui; 2. Mark Yoshizumi in his Mānoa studio.
Images, L to R, by:
1. Shiloh Perkins
2. Mark Kushimi
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NO. 49 _ OCTOBER 2025
JEANNE COOPER grew up in Houston, Texas, listening to her mother strum her ‘ukulele and sing the Hawaiian and hapa haole songs she had learned while a carefree teenager at Punahou in the 1950s. Cooper’s own transformative encounters with the islands began on Kaua‘i in 1998, after a journalism career led her from the Washington Post and Boston Globe to the San Francisco Chronicle. As the latter’s travel editor and creator of SFGate.com’s Hawaii Insider blog, she explored the deep ties between Northern California’s diverse communities and Hawai‘i, including their plantation-era history and contemporary Hawaiian music and hula scenes. Since moving to Hawai‘i Island in 2019, Cooper continued writing for AAA Explorer, Hemispheres, Hawaii Magazine, and other publications that promote respect for the islands. She wrote about a tuberose farm in Waimea for her first piece for Flux Hawaii, on page 118. “Sharing the stories of farmers Penny Kaae and Kahikina Kaae-Whittle always makes me think of the Hawaiian concept of kuleana,” Cooper says. “I have the privilege to step into their lives for a moment, but also the responsibility to write justly about those lives.”
JACK KIYONAGA is a believer in local stories and the indelible mark of true community. Raised in Washington D.C. and a University of Pennsylvania graduate, Kiyonaga spent the past three years living in his great-grandmother’s house in Kaunakakai, Moloka‘i, and running the island’s only newspaper, The Molokai Dispatch. Drawn to the island because of his family’s history there and its unwavering uniqueness, Kiyonaga has spent his time digging into the island’s distinctive stories. While there, Kiyonaga covered land access protests to airline shutdowns to the last Japanese American WWII veterans. Kiyonaga’s writing has been featured in Honolulu Civil Beat, The Christian Science Monitor, Hana Hou!, Living, and Hale. Makahiki on Moloka‘i was the topic of his first piece for Flux Hawaii, on page 126. “Sitting with the legendary Moloka‘i men and women who restarted the Makahiki games in the 1980s was a real privilege,” Kiyonaga says. “They spoke about the challenges faced, victories won, and dreams for their community. Makahiki speaks to the very identity of Hawai‘i, symbolizing a living communion between environment, tradition and, most of all, the Hawaiian people.”
DELIA MALIA KONZETT was partially brought up in Hawai‘i, on Sunset Beach and Lahaina, but grew up mostly in California, Texas, and Georgia. She pursued her Ph.D. degree in English literature and film studies at the University of Chicago, focusing on ethnic modernisms and Hollywood cinema. Watching films about Hawai‘i, she noticed that her experience of the Hawaiian Islands did not match up with its cinematic representation in Hollywood. This discrepancy inspired her book study “Hollywood’s Hawaii: Race, Nation, and War” (2017) which looks at how Hollywood represents Hawai‘i and Polynesia in general. Three essays from this study are excerpted in this issue of Flux, on page 56. Alongside these distortions, Hollywood consistently uses its major directors to explore the periphery of the U.S. empire and Hawai‘i is thus central to the narration of U.S. nationhood. In addition to teaching and doing research on cinema and visual studies, she is excited about the new series Chief of War starring Jason Momoa and its unique Hawaiian perspective, steering the representation of Hawai‘i into a new autonomous and global direction.
N. HA‘ALILIO SOLOMON He hope polopeka ‘o N. Ha‘alilio Solomon ma ka Hālau ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i ‘o Kawaihuelani, ma ke Kulanui o Hawai‘i ma Mānoa. No Honolulu nō ho‘i ‘o ia, ke noho nei i Makiki i kēia mau lā, a ‘o ke kālai‘ōlelo, ka ho‘ōla ‘ōlelo, a me ke a‘o ‘ōlelo kāna mau puni. Ho‘oikaika mau ‘o Ha‘alilio i ka hāpai ‘ana i ka ‘ōlelo kupa o ke kulāiwi, i mea e laha hou ai ia ma nā pō‘ai like ‘ole, e like me kona laha ‘ana i ka wā i hala. ‘O kāna mau papahana ‘imi noi‘i, pili ho‘i i nā ala e hemo ai nā mana‘o e pōpilikia ai ia, i holomua ai ho‘i ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i a lilo hou i ‘ōlelo kuluma ma kona ‘āina kupuna. ‘O ka papahana ho‘ōla ‘ōlelo āna e ho‘omanawanui nei, aia nō ma o ka lawelawe ‘ana i nā hana ku‘una a ka Hawai‘i, ‘o ka hula, ka mele, ka mo‘olelo, a pēlā aku. He luna ‘o ia no Flux, nāna e ho‘oponopono a kākau ho‘i i ke kōlamu ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i, e like me ia i kākau ‘ia e Kamaoli Kuwada no kāna puke hou.
“Even speaking your language is a form
of activism.” — Eric Wada
Before beginning a series of paintings, artist Mark Yoshizumi will sit down and handwrite nearly 30 titles on a blank piece of paper. Free-associative phrases like “swamp noni,” “Honda rattan,” or “maple soft serve” might fill his notebook, their meanings indecipherable to an onlooker but fondly bound up with his own personal memories.
“It’s almost like a playlist or an album that I want to be connected to the image,” he explains of these word lists from his Mānoa residence, a classic two-story paneled wood home with a lava rock foundation. He greets me
Still Lives
IN HIS CHARMING CANVASES, MARK YOSHIZUMI PORTRAYS ORDINARY SCENES IMBUED WITH IMPERCEPTIBLE MEMORIES.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ ALEXIS CHEUNG _ MARK KUSHIMI
at his front door on a gloomy June day, wearing a monochromatic navypant-and-shirt ensemble contrasted by orange socks, his buzzed hair peppered with greying strands.
Yoshizumi, 32, works from a small room adjacent to the kitchen that’s cornflower blue with a narrow wooden desk pushed up against the wall as a makeshift easel. It’s splotched with smudges of dry paint and various paint tubes line the art station’s open shelf, evenly spaced like artifacts in a museum.
At present he’s working on three pieces, all still lifes linked to his own recollections: Daiei depicts a plump pigeon roosting next to a corky ‘ihi stem (a native succulent) protruding from an earthen pot bearing the logo of the old-school Japanese grocery store which Yoshizumi frequented with his grandparents; Winnie’s Chickens shows several roving roosters and hens, necks cocked at various angles, against a flat abstraction of green grass, inspired by his fiancé’s aunty’s coffee farm; Hawai‘i ’75 captures fallen plumerias, with their tissue-thin petals and yellow centers, scattered atop a 75-pound
BALANCING PERSONAL NOSTALGIA WITH AN OUTSIDER’S LENS, MARK YOSHIZUMI TURNS EVERYDAY OBJECTS INTO MEDITATIONS ON IDENTITY AND PLACE.
FOR YOSHIZUMI, THE CREATIVE PROCESS IS LESS ABOUT PERMANENCE THAN THE QUIET TRACES LEFT BEHIND.
ARTIFACTS FROM THE ARTIST’S PAST LINE A SHELF IN HIS STUDIO. A SMALL SHELF OF TRINKETS: THE PAINTBRUSH HIS GRANDFATHER USED FOR PAINTING HOUSES, THE PLACARD BEARING “YOSHIZUMI” FROM HIS GRANDFATHER’S TIME AT THE ELDERLY HOME, A SMALL, WHITE CERAMIC CAT BELL FROM HIS CLASSMATE, AND SMALL FIGURINE OF THE CARTOON VILLAIN/HERO SWAMP MONSTER.
Hawaiian cement bag from a job site. (Its name is a reference to singer Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole’s composition “Hawai‘i ’78,” which reflects on the cultural and landscape changes brought on by modern colonization.)
Typically after the titles are assembled, Yoshizumi, who works in a square format (sometimes on stretched canvas but now primarily on wood) creates a base coat with spray paint, then attempts to coax his vision into reality. “Nine times out of ten, the image doesn’t really connect to the titles, so I’ll take an electric
sander and sand down the surface,” he says. That initial painting, which might have taken weeks or months or years to complete, is suddenly gone.
While other artists or outsiders might balk at such destruction, the sanding is a signature of Yoshizumi who insists the work isn’t wasted and helps refresh his process. “It makes things not as precious and makes me not take it as seriously,” he shrugs, clarifying that his unorthodox approach, which he adopted from his painting instructor Reem Bassous, creates certain textures that a brush cannot
convey. With every fresh start, Yoshizumi leaves “one or two marks, just to show that there was some sort of history,” however subtle that preservation may be. The idea of imperceptible histories, then, quietly radiates from nearly all of his finished works, both in conception (the handwritten list) and technique (leftover traces from previous paintings).
Yoshizumi’s lack of preciousness could be linked to his high school days dabbling in graffiti: street art is ephemeral, often tagged over by rival gangs or covered up by beleaguered business
owners. Yoshizumi, who holds a BFA in Drawing and Painting from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, counts skateboarders-turned-artists Thomas Campbell, Ed Templeton, and Barry McGee as influences. “I like that their work stands up in a museum or gallery but their mode of making is more DIY or figuring things out through process as opposed to following the rules or steps of a medium.” He appreciates their formal approaches too, adding, “They work with flatness in an interesting way.”
Much like his heroes, Yoshizumi’s paintings appear almost collaged. For Daiei, he carefully penciled horizontal lines to mimic a contrasting window screen; the ‘ihi stem cobbled together with dozens of tiny geometric shapes, the size of gravel, that tower towards the sky. Such tolerance for repetitive labor, both in creating details and restarting pieces from scratch, could be attributed to Yoshizumi’s day jobs in construction and landscaping, the latter of which he’s done since high school. “When I’m idle, my brain doesn’t stop,” he explains. Keeping his hands busy provides catharsis, “and I think that translates to painting.”
Though his work captures island references—local businesses like City Mill and Hardware Hawai‘i have graced certain flora vessels in his painted tableaus—Yoshizumi was born in Stone-
ham, Massachusetts, a small town nine miles north of Boston. Every summer, he visited his paternal grandparents on O‘ahu, where his father was raised, meaning for most of his adolescence, he was suspended between two worlds: as a mixed-race kid in homogenous New England and as a non-local visitor in melting pot Hawai‘i.
“I still feel like a little bit of an outsider,” Yoshizumi says when he’s in either location, and he’s currently contending with how his artwork helps him puzzle out his place in the world. The bigger existential question, if any, his practice raises might be the question of what constitutes “authentic” Hawai‘i. For some, this authenticity isn’t necessarily scenic beaches or mountains or even ancient traditional practices like hula— it’s going to Ward Shopping Center with your grandma, begging her for a frothy Orange Julius, and, as she tires of hearing you complain, turns and flicks an offhand comment about committing seppuku.
“She had a dark sense of humor,” Yoshizumi explains of his grandmother who was nisei, or second generation Japanese American, born on Maui to immigrants working the Puʻunēnē sugarcane plantation. She died in 2005 after an off-duty cop hit her in a crosswalk; Yoshizumi moved to the islands in 2011 for college as part of fulfilling a promise
to her. Because of her Japanese heritage, Yoshizumi’s grandmother often talked about samurai and sumo wrestlers, and today a framed picture of Akebono Tarō, the professional wrestler from Waimānalo, has a place on Yoshizumi’s studio shelf.
As with his other paintings, a specific memory animated the artwork. Pride of Nalo depicts Akebono, one arm akimbo and the other jutting out with an open “stop” palm, his limbs arranged in a Cubist manner that alternates between flesh tones and an oceanic blue. Yoshizumi recalled his grandmother driving him and his brother, Keith, to Dave’s Ice Cream in Waimānalo where an Akebono statue stood next door. “I remember she would tell Keith and I to try and push him over,” he remembers. “It seemed like she was inspired by his pursuit of something different from his surroundings,” which could be said of Yoshizumi’s body of work which narrows in on the invisible, idiosyncratic details of “the more real-life, day-to-day experience of living in this place.” a
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A Diasporic Dialogue
UKWANSHIN KABUDAN RECONNECTS HAWAI‘I’S OKINAWAN
COMMUNITY WITH THEIR HOMELAND THROUGH MUSIC, DANCE, AND CULTURAL EDUCATION.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ TINA GRANDINETTI _ IJFKE RIDGLEY
In Uchināguchi, one of the Indigenous languages of Okinawa, there is a saying: “Ichariba chōdē.” An expression meaning that once we meet, we are chōdē — brothers and sisters. For many in the diaspora, including myself, the saying reassures us that when we return to our homeland, we are welcomed as family. Yet, on a rainy winter night in Kalihi, my understanding of it is challenged by Norman Kaneshiro and Eric Wada, Hawaiʻiborn Uchinānchu and co-founders of Ukwanshin Kabudan, a performing arts troupe dedicated to perpetuating Okinawan arts and culture in Hawaiʻi.
“It’s a powerful phrase, right?” Kaneshiro says. “But if you’re coming from a ‘take-take-take’ perspective — a colonizer perspective — what it means is that you’re entitled to everybody’s friendship and love without doing anything in return.”
In January, 1900, 26 Okinawan contract laborers arrived in Hawaiʻi to work on the plantations, launching a wave of emigration that sent thousands of Okinawans into the diaspora. In the years since, Okinawans in the homeland have endured a brutal battle between two empires, fractured to this day by ongoing Japanese colonization and American military occupation. Meanwhile, those in diaspora have faced discrimination while making home in a foreign land. Today, roughly 100,000 Okinawans live in Hawaiʻi.
In this context, what does it mean to meet as chōdē who, though connected by family genealogies and ancestral villages, are also separated by five generations of emigration, an ocean, a language barrier, and vastly different experiences of war and colonization?
When Kaneshiro and Wada founded Ukwanshin Kabudan in 2007, it was with the aim to nurture connections between
Hawaiʻi and Okinawa through traditional music and dance. More deeply, it was to instill in Hawaiʻi’s Okinawan community a sense of reciprocal responsibility, both to the islands of our ancestors and the islands that raised us.
“It’s a strong kuleana,” Wada says, as we sit on the floor of the dance studio he built in his Kalihi home. He wears a blue T-shirt emblazoned with the Hawaiian adage, “Ola i ka wai,” meaning “Water is life.” Above him, portraits of masters of the Tamagusuku style of Okinawan classical arts hang
in the manner of respected uyafāfuji , or ancestors. He continues, “In Uchināguchi we call it fichi-ukīn .” The verb pulls together two roots, fichun, to pull or inherit, and ukīn, to accept or embrace. Combined, it signifies our accountability to the responsibilities we inherit from our ancestors.
As young boys yearning for more of a connection to their Okinawan ancestry and Uchinānchu identities, Kaneshiro and Wada both took up dance and sanshin, an Okinawan stringed instrument. Kaneshiro was 16 when he met Wada,
THROUGH LANGUAGE, MUSIC, AND ACTIVISM, THE OKINAWAN COMMUNITY BUILDS BONDS THAT REDEFINE THE MEANING OF FAMILY ACROSS BOTH OCEANS AND GENERATIONS.
10 years his senior, but they quickly bonded over a shared passion for the arts, not just as a practice but also a kind of compass on their journey to make sense of themselves.
Together, they worked their way through the hierarchies of Okinawan classical arts, studying in Okinawa and deepening their commitment to cultural practice as a way of life. Wada reached the level of shihan, or grandmaster, in dance; Kaneshiro reached the same pinnacle in music. They learned both Japanese and Uchināguchi,
the Okinawan language, and became well-versed in cultural protocol.
“In a five-minute song, there’s this whole history, this whole world behind it,” says Kaneshiro. As he and Wada explored those worlds, they increasingly understood cultural practice as a political act. “Even speaking your language is a form of activism,” Wada says.
Before it was annexed by Japan in 1879, Okinawa was an independent nation known as the Ryūkyū Kingdom. Much like in Hawaiʻi, annexation brought the systematic suppression of language and culture, such that today, Okinawa’s Indigenous languages are considered severely endangered. Many cultural practices have been lost. The name that Kaneshiro and Wada gave their performance troupe, Ukwanshin Kabudan, is
itself a reminder of this sovereign history, referring to the ukwanshin or “crown ships” that carried large envoys from China to Ryūkyū for the coronation of a monarch. Upon their arrival, elaborate music and dance programs known as ukwanshin udui, crown ship dances, were offered to entertain the Chinese delegation. These would become the foundation for Okinawan classical arts.
Heavily influenced by the work of Hawaiian nationalists like HaunaniKay Trask and Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa, Ukwanshin Kabudan looked to dance and music as a way to ignite conversations about Ryūkyūan sovereignty and reclaim a culture and history that colonization and occupation tried to erase.
In Hawaiʻi, that meant not just performing for the Okinawan community,
but also educating people about the rich history of Okinawa — and confronting the role of Okinawans as settlers on Hawaiian lands. “We started bringing up the words ‘colonized, assimilated, settler, discrimination,’ and especially the older generation didn’t take to it,” Wada recalls. “It was something they couldn’t talk about.” Gradually, the conversation changed, often by making connections between the desecration of sacred lands in both Okinawa and Hawaiʻi — particularly by the United States military, which currently operates 32 bases in Okinawa.
In Okinawa, Kaneshiro and Wada found that their outside-insider identities — Uchinānchu born in Hawaiʻi but also certified shihan — granted them a unique kinship with those in their homeland. As musicians, they could create intimate
ERIC WADA AND NORMAN KANESHIRO FOUNDED UKWANSHIN KABUDAN IN 2007 TO INSTILL A SENSE OF RECIPROCAL RESPONSIBILITY.
spaces for difficult conversations about Okinawa’s history. And as visitors from the diaspora, they were slightly removed from the familial and intergenerational trauma that arose from those discussions. Eventually, they found themselves tending to wounds that had long been hidden.
“We got to this other level where elders could talk to us,” Kaneshiro says. “Things they had a hard time sharing with their own children but wanted to tell us, because it needed to be passed down to the next generation.” This deep trust demonstrated for them the importance of a reciprocal relationship between Hawaiʻi and Okinawa. Where once they looked to Okinawa for a sense of authenticity and authority, Kaneshiro and Wada saw an opportunity to reclaim and co-create an Indigenous identity with Okinawans in the homeland.
Over the years, Kaneshiro, Wada, and others at Ukwanshin Kabudan have
expanded the organization’s activities dramatically, offering uta-sanshin classes from co-director Keith Nakaganeku, Uchināguchi language classes from board member Brandon Ing, monthly workshops on Okinawan culture and politics, and an annual LooChoo Identity Summit that invites Okinawans from around the world to Hawaiʻi to spark dialogue about who we are as a people.
It has also become increasingly focused on the kuleana that Okinawans have to Hawaiʻi and Kānaka Maoli. In 2019, during the stand for Maunakea, members of Ukwanshin Kabudan led a delegation of Okinawans to offer hoʻokupu in solidarity with those protecting the sacred mountain at Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu, and in the aftermath of the Red Hill jet fuel leak in 2021, Ukwanshin Kabudan hosted panel discussions to draw vital connections between the U.S. military’s contamination of both Hawaiʻi and
Okinawa’s aquifers. Most recently, the group has become involved with efforts to repatriate the remains of Okinawan ancestors and return them to their rightful resting places.
Reflecting on the ways Ukwanshin Kabudan has grown over the years, Wada says, “Going back to fichi-ukīn, because that word is connected to so much — to who we are, and who we’re supposed to be — it just grows.” That is, perhaps, the burden and privilege of living in diaspora: you inherit responsibility for two different kinds of home.
Kaneshiro adds, “Because when you’re family, you don’t just show up to the house to eat and drink. You clean up after, you take care of the house. You come back and show up for the hard times. That is what it means to be chōdē.” a
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Ka Mana o Ka Unuhi
UA WEHEWEHE ‘O BRYAN KAMAOLI KUWADA KA MEA KĀKAU A ME KA
MEA HO‘ONA‘AUAO I KE KA‘INA HANA A ME KA POLITIKA O KA UNUHI ‘ŌLELO HAWAI‘I.
NĪNAUELE ‘IA NA
PA‘I KI‘I ‘IA NA
_ N. HA‘ALILIO SOLOMON _ JOHN HOOK
FLUX Hawaii: He aha ka ʻanoʻano mua i ulu ai kou hoihoi i kēia papahana āu, ʻo ke kākau i kēia puke?
Bryan Kamaoli Kuwada: ʻO ke ʻanoʻano o ia papahana, ʻo ia nō nā makahiki aʻu i hana ai ma ke ʻano he mea unuhi. He hope mea unuhi au me Sahoa Fukushima ma lalo Puakea Nogelmeier no Ka Moʻolelo o Hiʻiakaikapoliopele i hoʻopuka ʻia ma ka MH 2007, a lilo au ke alakaʻi no Ka Moʻolelo o Kamehameha I me Emalani Case lāua ʻo Beau Bassett (ʻaʻole naʻe ia i puka). Ua hana nō hoʻi au ma ke ʻano he mea unuhi no nā palapala ʻāina, e laʻa me nā palapala sila nui, nā kauoha hope loa, nā moraki, kēlā ʻano. A no ia hana unuhi, ua hoʻohei ‘ia ka manaʻo ʻoiai he ʻano nane ʻāpana ia akā pono nō ka ʻike ʻano kūliʻu ma nā ʻōlelo ʻelua (akā no kahi Haʻalilio, he ʻekolu a ʻehā a ʻelima paha mau ʻōlelo ka pololei) i mea e ʻike ai i nā ʻāpana e hoʻohana ai. Aloha au i kā kākou ʻōlelo makuahine
akā aloha hoʻi au i ka ʻōlelo haole, a he koina nā aloha ʻelua no ka unuhi. Akā ma o ia aloha pālua, ʻike ʻia ka hohonu o ke kaulike ʻole ma waena o nā ʻōlelo ʻelua ma Hawaiʻi nei a ma muli hoʻi ia o ke kolo nihinihi o ia naio hoʻoneo. Iaʻu e hana ana i ka hana unuhi, e hoʻopaʻa ana hoʻi au i ke kālaikuhi unuhi, nā mea na Gayatri Spivak, Maria Tymoczko, S. Shankar, Cristina Bacchilega, André Lefevere, Lawrence Venuti, a pēlā aku. Ma ia manawa, ʻaʻole i nui nā kānaka Hawaiʻi nāna i kākau ai no ka hana unuhi ma waho o ia manaʻo “lost in translation.” Akā, ʻo Venuti, pili kekahi o kāna mau kālailaina kaulana i ka ʻike ʻole ʻia o ka mea unuhi, kona kūnalohia. A ʻo kona manaʻo ma laila, ʻaʻole akāka i ka mea heluhelu, he mea haku hou ka mea unuhi i ka moʻolelo. Hoʻololi ka mea unuhi i ka moʻolelo ma muli o kāna mau koho, kāna mau pahuhopu, kāna e aloha nei, kāna e hoʻokae nei, a pēlā aku, akā no ka
hapanui o nā kānaka heluhelu, mahuʻi lākou i ke ʻano kūmikini o ka hana unuhi (a e piʻi ana ia ʻano manaʻo ma ka hoʻohana pinepine ʻana iā ChatGPT no ka hana unuhi). Hiki ke kuapo wale i hoʻokahi hua ʻōlelo ma ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi no kahi hua ʻōlelo like loa ma ka ʻōlelo haole.
No laila, no ka hapanui o kākou, kūnalohia ka mea unuhi, akā i kaʻu nānā ʻana i ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi nei a me ke ʻano o ka hoʻomaopopo ʻana i ko kākou moʻolelo, ʻaʻole i kūnalohia ka mea unuhi wale nō, ua kūnalohia hoʻi ka hana unuhi holoʻokoʻa. ʻAʻole kākou i nānā nui i ka hopena o ia hana unuhi i nā hanana o ia au. I koʻu manaʻo, he hana koʻikoʻi ka puke a Puakea i kākau ai ʻoiai hōʻike i nā pilikia mai luna a lalo, mai ka puke a i ka laina. A no kaʻu puke, he hōʻike i nā hopena pilikia o ka hana unuhi ma waho aku o ka puke, ma ke kaiāulu, ma ka lāhui, a ma loko hoʻi o ko kākou naʻau. Pili kaʻu puke i ka mana o ka unuhi ma ka ʻaoʻao kolonaio akā ua makemake pū au e hōʻike i ka mana o ka unuhi ma ka ʻaoʻao o ko kākou mau kūpuna ʻoiai ua maiau maoli ka hana a lākou. Inā nānā akahele ʻia ka mana unuhi, hiki ke ʻike ʻia kekahi mau mea i hoʻomaopopo mua ʻole ‘ia paha e pili ana i ka hoʻomaopopo ʻana i ko kākou moʻolelo ponoʻī a me nā ala e hele ai i ka wā e hiki mai ana.
Ma loko o kāu puke, e wehewehe mai ana ʻoe no ke ʻano e pilikia ai paha kākou ma muli o ka mana o ka mea unuhi, no ka mea, ʻo kāna mau unuhi ʻana, ʻaʻole paha mea nāna e heluhelu, nānā, loiloi, paka, a hoʻoponopono mua i kāna mau mea i unuhi ai. He mea maopopo nō paha ke kumu e loaʻa ai kēia pilikia, akā, hiki paha iā ʻoe ke hoʻākāka hou mai? He aha hoʻi ka mea e wehe ai ia pilikia?
ʻAe, he pilikia kēia no ka ʻoihana paʻi holoʻokoʻa. He nele lākou i nā kānaka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi ʻole, a ʻo ka hapa nui o kākou i hana ma ia ʻano he luna hoʻoponopono, he mea loiloi, a pēlā aku, ua pono e aʻo aku iā kākou iho. He mau
kuaʻana paha kākou ma ia ʻano hana/ ʻoihana akā ʻaʻole nui nā papa a kūlana huʻeaʻo paha.
Kākaʻikahi nā hale paʻi i lawa ke kūpaʻa i ke koʻikoʻi o ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi e hai manawa piha ai i kekahi (mau) limahana no ka hana me ka ʻike a me ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. ʻO ʻoukou, ʻo Kamehameha Publishing, ʻo ka Hale Kuamoʻo, he mau mea hou aku paha akā ʻaʻole i laha ia ʻano hana. ʻO ka hana maʻamau, he hana ma lalo o ka ʻaelike. No kaʻu puke ponoʻī, ua aloha nui au i koʻu mau luna hoʻoponopono akā ʻo au iho nō ka i hoʻoponopono i
ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi o loko o laila. No ka hapa nui o nā hale paʻi he kai papaʻu ka pilina me ka ʻōlelo a me ka ʻike, a ma ka ʻōlelo a Heoli Osorio, lawa lākou i ka pepa wahī Hawaiʻi wale nō ia, he mea e hoʻonaninani wale ai i ka mea o loko me ka ʻole o ka hoʻololi iki i kahi mea koʻikoʻi.
A i koʻu manaʻo, he ʻelua ala e wehe ai i ia pilikia. ʻO ke ala mua, ʻano like ia me ke ohohia no ke kiʻiʻoniʻoni ʻo Black Panther ma ke kumuloaʻa, nā mea loi, a me nā anaina. He hōʻike ia no ka poʻe o ka ʻoihana kiʻi ʻoniʻoni i ka papaha ma nā kiʻi ʻoniʻoni a moʻolelo paha me ka haʻawina kālā nui me ka poʻe o ke kaiaulu Pōpolo ma ke kūlana mea
kuhikuhi a me ka hapa nui o nā hāmeʻe. E like me ia, pono kākou Hawaiʻi e hōʻike he mākeke ma laila. Pono e koi i nā puke a me nā mea a pau e pili ana ma ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi a me ke kahua paʻa o ka ʻike Hawaiʻi. A laila pono e kūʻai i ia mau mea i paʻi ʻia. E holo ana kēia ʻano mea ma nā ao makakū ʻē aʻe, e laʻa me ka hana keaka a me nā mele, akā ʻano lohi ka ʻoihana paʻi.
A ʻo ke ala ʻelua e wehe ai i ia pilikia, ʻo ia nō ka hoʻokumu hou ʻana i ke aloha hua ʻōlelo i paʻi ʻia. Ma kaʻu mau papa, aʻo au i ke kākau a me ka palapala ma ke ʻano he hana kuluma Hawaiʻi maoli nō ia ʻoiai ua hana kākou Hawaiʻi i ke kākau palapala no ʻelua haneli makahiki. Akā no kahi hapa nui o ka lāhui, he hana haole ke kākau, a ʻaʻole hiki ke hoʻohalahala i ia manaʻo ʻoiai ʻo ia ke ʻano o ke aʻo ʻana mai i ka hana kākau. Eia naʻe, ke hōʻike ʻia ka paulele o nā kūpuna i ka mana o ka hua ʻōlelo ma ka ʻaoʻao pepa i paʻi ʻia, ʻike pū hou kākou o kēia au i ke ea a me ka mana i loko o ke kākau. Kupu i ʻō i ʻaneʻi kēia ʻano hoʻoulu hou i kēia manawa, a he mahalo nui koʻu no ka hana a Kahikina de Silva ʻoiai ʻo ka ʻike kupuna ke kahua akā he kahua ia e hoʻākea i ka makakū o nā haumana, ʻaʻole no ka hoʻohāiki wale nō.
Lohe pinepine ʻia, ʻo kekahi mau mea i loaʻa ma ka ʻōlelo kumu, he loli, he emi, he nalowale paha ke unuhi ʻia mai. He aha kekahi mea, he moʻolelo, he mele, he ʻōlelo noʻeau paha, e hōʻike piha pono mai ana i ia hopena?
ʻO ka mea i lohe nui ʻia no ka unuhi, ʻo ia nō kēlā manaʻo no ka lilo mau aku ma ka unuhi, ʻo ka manaʻo ʻo lost in translation hoʻi. A he ʻoiaʻiʻo nō ia manaʻo akā he hāiki pū. He emi paha, he nalowale paha, akā he hoʻomana nō hoʻi paha, he hoʻohuli, he hoʻohawaiʻi ko laila. He ʻelua moʻolelo laʻana kaʻu, ʻo ka mua, he emi, he nalowale, akā ʻo ka lua, he hoʻomana, he aloha.
ʻO ka moʻolelo mua, ʻo ia ka moʻolelo no Kaluaikoʻolau na Kahikina Kelekona. He moʻolelo kūhohonu ia a he pili hoʻi i
BRYAN KAMAOLI KUWADA, NO MĀNANA.
ke aloha: ke aloha ʻohana akā ʻo ke aloha ʻāina nō hoʻi. He ʻeono wale nō mahina ma hope o ka hoʻokahuli aupuni ka hanana a Koʻolau, Piʻilani, a me Kaleimanu, a lilo lākou he hōʻailona o ke kūʻē a me ke kūpaʻa o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi. A ʻo Kelekona, he ʻoi loa paha ʻo ia o nā haku moʻolelo o ia manawa. Ua nōhihi kāna kaila kākau, he ʻōlelo kiʻekiʻe loa i hoʻokumu ʻia ma ka ʻike kupuna a hoʻoulu ʻia ma ka ʻike o nā mea kākau o ia manawa no waho a no Hawaiʻi hoʻi. He ʻaʻa ia ʻano ʻōlelo i ka poʻe hoʻokahuli aupuni i manaʻo ua maopopo akāka ka poʻe Hawaiʻi iā lākou. Akā i ka unuhi ʻia ʻana o nēia moʻolelo, kapa ʻia he moʻolelo aloha ipo/ʻohana wale nō a hoʻololi ʻia kā Kelekona kaila nōhihi a nōhie maʻalahi.
Ua hoʻohāiki ʻia.
ʻO ka lua o ka moʻolelo, ʻo 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. He lōʻihi aʻe ke kamaʻilio ‘ana no ia moʻolelo ma kaʻu puke, akā ma ʻaneʻi, makamake au e kuhi i ke ʻano hoʻohawaiʻi o ia hana unuhi. Ua unuhi ʻia a i ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi na G. W. Kanuha, a he moʻolelo ia i pili i ka mokuluʻu ʻo Nautilo a me kona kāpena, ʻo Nimo. He moʻolelo ʻaʻanahoa nō ia ma ka unuhina ʻōlelo haole (he moʻolelo Palani ka puke kumu) akā ma ka unuhi na Kanuha, he aloha ʻāina ʻo Nimo e naʻi ana i ka pono. ʻO ke kūʻokoʻa kāna e naʻi nei a ʻo ka Nautilo kona ʻāina. A hoʻopuka ʻia kēia moʻolelo ma nā nūpepa Hawaiʻi i ke au o ke Kuʻikahi
Pānaʻi Like a loʻohia ka lāhui i ka hoʻopaʻapaʻa no ka ʻae ʻana i ke aupuni ʻo ʻAmelika i ka hoʻohana ʻana iā Puʻuloa. A hoʻohana ʻia kēia moʻolelo he ʻaʻanahoa ma kona ʻili no ka ʻaoʻao o ka hoʻokē ma muli o ka mana o ka unuhi.
ʻO kekahi poʻe, manaʻo lākou, a lawelawe paha lākou i ka hana unuhi ma ka hoʻomākaukau ʻana i kekahi mau unuhi ʻana, ʻaʻole he hoʻokahi wale nō, i mea e hōʻike piha pono aku ai i nā ʻaoʻao a pau o ka ʻōlelo kumu. Pehea kou manaʻo ma laila?
He mea koʻikoʻi ia hōʻike ʻana no ka mea he kono ia e loiloi ai i kāu i hana ai me ka puke/ʻōlelo kumu a he kōkua ia no ka
He mea mana ka mana ma ke
ʻano he aniani kaulona no ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi.
mea heluhelu no ka ʻimina i ka moʻolelo ma ka ʻōlelo kumu. Akā kahi pilikia me kēia hana, mahuʻi ka mea heluhelu i hoʻokahi wale nō ʻano kaila unuhi. Lawe wale ʻia ka manaʻo o loko o ka ʻōlelo kumu a hōʻike ʻia ma ka ʻōlelo unuhi. No ka hapanui o nā moʻolelo Hawaiʻi i unuhi ʻia, lawa paha kēlā. Akā inā ʻoe makemake e hoʻohana i ke kaila unuhi hoʻokolohua, ʻaʻole e mahuʻi ʻia ana a ʻaʻole paha e mahalo ʻia ana. No laila, he ʻano hoʻohāiki hou ia hana ma kekahi manawa, akā ʻoi aku paha ka maikaʻi o ia hana no ka hapanui o ka manawa. ʻO kekahi pakanā maikaʻi no ia hōʻike, ʻo ia hoʻi kahi mokuna ʻōlelo e wehewehe ana i kāu kaila unuhi, kāu mau pahuhopu no ka papahana unuhi, kou moʻokumu, kēlā ʻano. He kōkua ia i ka mea heluhelu i ka hoʻomaopopo ʻana he haku hou ʻana nā unuhi a pau a ʻaʻole hiki ke alo aʻe.
He manaʻo anei kou no kekahi huaʻōlelo/ʻōlelo/manaʻo Hawaiʻi e maopopo hemahema nei i loko o ka nohona kanaka o ʻaneʻi nei? He aha ka hopena o ia mea?
Akā, ʻo kekahi pilikia nui o ke kūnalohia o ka mana unuhi, noho kākou Hawaiʻi a pau ma lalo o ka malu o ka unuhi. Ma kaʻu puke, kapa ʻia kēia pilikia he “living in translation.” ʻO kekahi māhele o ia pilikia, ʻo ia nō ka hoʻāʻo ʻana e hoʻokō i ke kuleana o ke aloha ʻāina ma ka ʻōlelo haole. Ua hoʻoili ʻia nā manaʻo a me nā welo kuʻuna ma o ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi akā i ka manawa kūʻē, pono e wehewehe ʻia ke kuleana i loko o kākou ma ka ʻōlelo haole, a he huakaʻi kāpekepeke ia. ʻIke ʻia kēia ma ke kiaʻi ʻana iā Maunakea; ua hoʻāʻo kākou Hawaiʻi e wehewehe i ka manaʻo ‘o kapu, laʻa, mana, wao akua, ʻohana, pilina, a pēlā aku akā lohe wale ʻia ma ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi ʻo sacred, sacred, sacred wale nō. ʻAʻole like ia manaʻo a ʻaʻole lawa ia manaʻo.
Akā, i koʻu manaʻo, ʻo ka pilikia nui aʻe o ka noho ʻana ma lalo o ka malu o ka unuhi, he mea ʻāpiki ia, he mea kūnalohia pū ia. A eia nō ia pilikia: i loko nō o ka hoʻohana ʻana i ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi a me ke komo ʻana o ia mau hua
ʻōlelo i loko o ka naʻau, i kekahi manawa he ikaika launa ʻole ko ka manaʻo i unuhi ʻia ma ka ʻōlelo haole, a hoʻohana kākou i ia manaʻo me ka ʻike ʻole. He laʻana no kaʻu e wehewehe ana, ʻo ia nō ka hua ʻōlelo ʻo “kūʻē.” No ka hapa nui o kākou, inā wehewehe ʻia ka manaʻo o ia hua ʻōlelo ma ka ʻōlelo haole, hoʻohana ʻia nā hua ‘ōlelo e laʻa me “resistance,” “protest,” a pēlā aku.
ʻIke ʻia ia ʻano manaʻo i ka hoʻēkoʻa ʻia ʻana o “kūʻē” me “kūkulu.” ʻAʻole kēia he hoʻohalahala ʻoiai he kālailai politika waiwai ia. Pono e noʻonoʻo i ka hopena a me ka waiwai o ka “building” ma kahi o ka “resistance.” Akā, ʻo ka ʻāpiki, hoʻohana ʻia ʻo “kūʻē” ma nā wahi e kohu maikaʻi ai ka manaʻo ʻo “resistance;” eia naʻe, ʻaʻole ʻo ʻo “resistance” ka manaʻo maoli no “kūʻē.” He mea hoʻohuikau paha kaʻu e ʻōlelo nei, akā inā ʻoe nānā i ka manaʻo o “ʻē,” ka hua ʻōlelo ma hope o “kū,” ʻoi aku ke kokoke o ka pilina o ka manaʻo me “ʻokoʻa” a me “ma mua.” ʻAʻole pili i ka hukihuki a me ka hakakā. Inā ua hele ʻē ʻoe i kahi wahi, ua hele ʻoe i laila ma mua, a ma ia manaʻo inā ua kū ʻē ʻoe, ua kū ʻoe ma ia ʻano ma mua. A he pilina hoʻi ko “ʻē” a me “ʻokoʻa,” no laila, he pilina ko “kūʻē” me “kūʻokoʻa.” ʻAʻole naʻe like loa ʻoiai pili ka “ʻokoʻa” i ka manaʻo o “holoʻokoʻa,” akā hiki ke ʻike ʻia ka like. No laila, he ʻano ʻonipaʻa ke kūʻē, ʻaʻole ia i kohu like loa me ka “resistance” eia naʻe hoʻohana ʻia ma ka ʻōlelo haole a me ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi me he mea lā ʻo ia kona manaʻo.
A ʻo ka pilikia ma laila, ʻaʻole ia i pili i ka ʻōlelo. He mea hoʻohāiki makakū kēia no ka wā e hiki mai ana no ka mea e manaʻo ana kākou he mau ala Hawaiʻi a kākou e hāhai ana akā he mau mea i kaupalena ʻia e ko waho (e laʻa me resistance a me building). Makemake au e ʻike ʻia nā ala nui hewahewa ma ke kūʻē a me ke koena o nā manaʻo ʻike Hawaiʻi akā i kekahi manawa ālai ʻia ia mau ala ma muli o ka ʻike ʻole i ka noho ʻana o kākou ma lalo o ka malu o ka unuhi, living in translation.
Pehea hoʻi ʻoe i kūkulu ai i ke poʻoinoa o kāu puke? Hoʻomākaʻikaʻi mai ʻoe
iā mākou i nā wahi like ʻole, mai ka Baibala a hiki loa aku i Maunakea, no ke aha? Inā he manaʻo nō kou, ma loko o kēia “kō a ke au”, he aha ko hope aʻe o Maunakea ma ka moʻolelo Hawaiʻi?
ʻO ka poʻoinoa o kaʻu puke, ʻo ia nō ʻo The Mana of Translation: Translational Flow in Hawaiian History from the Baibala to the Mauna. Ua koho au i ia poʻoinoa no ka mea ʻo ka mana unuhi kekahi piko o ka puke (a e wehewehe ʻia ana ka mana unuhi ma kēia nīnau aʻe) a ua makemake au e hōʻike aku i ke koʻikoʻi o ka hana unuhi a me kona mau hopena nui ma ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi. ʻAʻole nānā nui ka hapa nui o kākou i ka hana unuhi i ke kenekulia ʻumi kūmāiwa, ʻo ia kekahi o nā ʻami koʻikoʻi loa i kūʻamiʻami ai ka hoʻokolonaio a me ke kūʻē o nā kūpuna. He mana nui ko ka unuhi a me nā mea unuhi ma ka ʻaoʻao haole a me ka ʻaoʻao Hawaiʻi, eia naʻe he kūnalohia.
Ua hoʻomaka au me ka Baibala ʻoiai ʻo ia kekahi o nā hana unuhi nui loa o ia manawa a ʻano hūhewa ka hoʻomaopopo ʻana i ka pōʻaiapili no ia hana unuhi a ili mai nā hopena i kēia lā. ʻO ia ke kumu no ka hoʻomākaʻikaʻi ʻana, nānā ʻia ka Baibala, a laila ke kānāwai, nā nūpepa ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, ka unuhi ʻana iā Kamakau mā, a me ka hōʻole unuhi i ke au iā Maunakea. Hāʻaleʻale nā hopena o ka unuhi mai mua aku o ke aupuni mōʻī a i kēia au e neʻe nei akā ʻaʻole kālailai nui ʻia. Noʻu iho, he nalu kūhohonu i loko ko hope aʻe o Maunakea ma ka moʻolelo Hawaiʻi. Inā nānā ʻia ka mana unuhi a me kona mau ʻaleʻale, he mea ia e hoʻākea ai i ko kākou makakū no ka wā e hiki mai ana. Pau ka noho ʻana ma lalo o ka malu o ka unuhi, pau ka hoʻohana ʻana i nā wae ʻano no waho. I ka hoʻohana ʻana a nā kūpuna i ka hana unuhi ma kahi o ka hopena o ke kenekulia ʻumi kūmāiwa, ʻaʻole lākou i wiwo iki i ka unuhi ʻana a me ka hoʻohana ʻana i nā mea like ʻole a pau o waho no ka mea ua ʻike leʻa loa lākou hiki ke hoʻohawaiʻi ʻia ma o ka
unuhi, a ʻo kēlā ʻano koa wiwo ʻole no ka ikaika o ka moʻomeheu Hawaiʻi a me ke ākea o ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, ʻo ia nō kaʻu e makemake nei no ko hope.
E hoʻākāka mai paha ʻoe no kēia mau mana, ʻo ka mana unuhi, me ka mana “hulikua” (mana of refusal)?
BHe mea mana ka mana ma ke ʻano he aniani kaulona no ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi. Maopopo iā kākou ia mea ʻo ka mana. He mea ia i loko o nā mea a pau–nā akua, nā kānaka, nā pōhaku, nā ʻōuli o ka lani, nā mea ʻau i ke kai–a hiki nō ke piʻi a emi e like me ia kai. ʻO ka hua ʻōlelo ʻo “hoʻomana,” ʻaʻole ia he “religion” e like me ka i unuhi pinepine ʻia; pili ia i ka hāʻawi ʻana i ka mana i nā mea like ʻole. ʻAʻole ʻo ka mana he mea hoʻokalakupua hoʻi, he mea pili loa i ka ʻāina, i ka honua, i ke ao maoli. A ma kaʻu puke ʻo kēia mau mea kekahi ʻano o ka mana e hōʻike ai i ka waiwai o ke kālailai ʻia o ka pilina ma waena o ka mana a me ka unuhi.
A ʻo kekahi ʻano koʻikoʻi no ka mana, ʻo ia nō ka manaʻo he mana wai ma kahi kahawai a i ʻole ka manamana ʻana o ka lālā mai ke kumu aku. No laila, ke haʻi hou ʻia kahi moʻolelo, he mana wai hou ia, he manamana lālā hou ia, a he mana hou ko ia moʻolelo. No ka unuhi, he mea nui ia no ka mea ʻo ka mana o ka moʻolelo i haʻi nui loa ʻia, ʻo ia ka mana moʻolelo me ka mana. Aia nō he mau nīnau e hōʻike ai i ka mana unuhi: ʻo wai ke unuhi? no ke aha? a he aha ho‘i ke hoʻomana ʻia ana? Ke hahai ʻoe i ka mana unuhi ma ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi a pane i ia mau nīnau, hiki ke ʻike koke ʻia ka ʻāʻumeʻume ma waena o ka poʻe Hawaiʻi a me ka poʻe kolonaio a me nā hopena.
A no ka mana hulikua, e hoʻololi iki ana au i ia manaʻo ʻoiai ʻaʻole paha he hulikua wale ka hana akā he huli mai hoʻi ia, he ʻano maliu. Hulikua ʻia nā palena a me nā mahuʻi no waho mai akā huli nō, maliu nō i nā kūkulu hoʻokele Hawaiʻi. He mana nui ko ia ʻano mana.
Ma loko o kāu puke, kapa ihola ʻoe iā ʻoe iho he “rather ambivalent translator” — hiki anei ke hoʻākāka mai ma laila? Ke lawelawe aku ʻoe i ia hana, he unuhi ʻōlelo, he aha nā mea e hukihuki ai ka noʻonoʻo, e kānalua ai paha, e ʻōkupe ai hoʻi ka holomua, a pehea hoʻi ʻoe e hoʻomanawanui ai i loko o ia mau hihia?
ʻO ka mea mua, ʻo ke kānalua ma laila, pili ia i ka unuhi mai ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi a i ka ʻōlelo haole. Aia nō kahi hapa o ke ambivalence no ka hana unuhi holoʻokoʻa ma muli o nā mea i wehewehe ʻia ma kaʻu puke, nā ʻano i hoʻohana ʻia ai ka unuhi i mea e hoʻoikaika ai i nā naio e kolo malū nei, kēlā ʻano. Akā haʻaheo pū au i ke ʻano i hoʻohana ʻia ai ka unuhi e nā kūpuna o kākou no ke ea a me ka mana o ka lāhui, a ʻo ka hapa nui o ia ʻano unuhi, lawe ʻia nā mea o waho a i ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi.
ʻO kahi hapa o ia ambivalence, ʻoi aku ka nui o kuʻu mahalo i nā mea hou a kākou e haku nei ma ka ʻōlelo
THE MANA OF TRANSLATION: TRANSLATIONAL FLOW IN HAWAIIAN HISTORY FROM THE BIBLE TO THE MAUNA I PA‘I ‘IA E UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI‘I PRESS.
Hawaiʻi, ʻo ke kiʻiʻoniʻoni ʻoe, ʻo ka hana keaka ʻoe, ʻo ka moʻolelo mōhihiʻo ʻoe, a pēlā aku. A no ka nui o nā mea e unuhi ʻia ana mai ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi a i ka ʻōlelo haole, hoʻokahi wale nō ʻano o ka unuhi ʻana. ʻO ka manaʻo o loko ka mea nui e unuhi ai. ʻAʻole kākou pāʻani nui me ia hana unuhi. Pehea hoʻi
ka unuhi ʻana i kahi moʻolelo a i kahi moʻopoema lōʻihi? Pehea ka unuhi ʻana i ka moʻolelo o ka wā kahiko e hoʻohana ana i ka ʻōlelo o kēia au e neʻe nei? He mau mea koʻikoʻi nā moʻolelo o mua a ʻaʻole pono ka hana lapu wale me ia huina akā poina pinepine iā kākou he mea leʻaleʻa loa nō hoʻi ia mea he
moʻolelo no nā kūpuna, piha nō i ke aloha, ka lili, ke koa, ka hōhē, nā mea a pau o kākou, a manaʻolana au e huli ana ho‘i kākou i kēlā ʻano pāʻani leʻaleʻa wiwo ʻole me nā moʻolelo o kākou. a
Hoʻoponopono ʻia kēia kūkākūkā no ka pueko a me ka wali.
The Art of Unfiltered Love and Unapologetic Truths
IN TRIBUTE TO HAWAI‘I TRIENNIAL 2025: ALOHA NŌ, AN O‘AHU-BORN ARTIST REFLECTS ON HOW THE STATE’S LARGEST THEMATIC EXHIBITION OF CONTEMPORARY ART RECLAIMS ALOHA AS A TRANSFORMATIVE FORCE.
TEXT BY IMAGES COURTESY OF
_ DANE NAKAMA _ HAWAI‘I CONTEMPORARY
Despite being born and raised on the island of Oʻahu, there was a time when the word “aloha” seemed to leave a strange aftertaste on my tongue, a flavor unfamiliar and disingenuous. I once believed this discomfort stemmed from not being of Native Hawaiian descent, thinking that the language simply wasn’t meant for me. But looking back, I realize that my unease wasn’t about the word itself; rather, a reflection of how I had distanced myself from the culture and language of the place I call home.
This struggle to understand “aloha” is not mine alone. The word is ubiquitous — defined with over 30 meanings in Mary Kawena Pukui’s Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-English, English-Hawaiian — yet it is often reduced to marketing slogans and misused by the tourism industry. As a result, “aloha” is frequently spoken but rarely understood.
The word served as the foundation for the title and theme of this year’s Hawai‘i Triennial 2025 (HT25): ALOHA NŌ . Scattered across 14 locations on Oʻahu, Maui, and Hawaiʻi Island, the state’s largest exhibition of contemporary art is
curated by Wassan Al-Khudhairi, Binna Choi, and Noelle M.K.Y. Kahanu — the Triennial’s first non-hierarchical, allwomen-of-color curatorial team. Their vision offered us a chance to find kaona in the word again.
As the exhibition statement read: “By collapsing two seemingly opposite notions — ‘no’ in English with ‘nō,’ an intensifier in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language) — ALOHA NŌ reclaims aloha from a colonial-capitalist historicity and situates it as a transformative power that is collectively enacted through contemporary art.” The multi-site exhibition, which was on view from February through May 2025 and featured the work of 49 artists and collectives from across the Pacific and beyond, its scope was both global and deeply rooted in place.
I’ll admit, I’ve felt frustration and disappointment with previous iterations of the Triennial (and previously the Honolulu Biennial) — not because they lacked merit, but because they seemed to reflect a growing and unquestioned desire within Hawai‘i’s arts scene to be “more like the continent.” Portions of past
Nanci Amaka, Cleanse Three Walls , 2017–. Performance documentation.
Courtesy of the artist.
Edith Amituanai, Vaimoe (still), 2024. Digital video with sound, 16 mins. Courtesy of the artist.
exhibitions seemed curated in efforts to attract international attention, rather than fostering deeper engagement with the local community or empowering residents through contemporary art. Inviting high-profile figures like Izumi Kato and Yayoi Kusama to showcase their work without regard for the context of the venue — while generating press — felt like a hollow attempt to “elevate” local artists, implying that visibility for Hawai‘i’s creative community could only be achieved through proximity to celebrity. I worried that the development of Hawai‘i’s arts and culture scene would follow the same trajectory as places like Waikīkī and Kaka‘ako, transforming into something increasingly detached from Hawai‘i itself.
Nevertheless, HT25’s curatorial vision signaled a shift, and one that felt more intentional in its goal of showcasing not
what the art world can do for Hawai‘i, but what Hawai‘i can do for the art world.
This past February, while riding around the island on the press bus to preview the exhibitions with writers from around the world, I found myself slipping into the familiar role of tour guide, something many locals instinctively do. The curators met us at each site, but in the media vans, I was one of the few press members born and raised in Hawai‘i. As we traveled, I shared the significance of the places we passed and the cultural protocols observed during art dedication ceremonies.
One such moment was the blessing of Kanaka ‘Ōiwi visual poet and activist Meleanna Aluli Meyer’s ʻUmeke Lā‘au (Culture Medicine) at Honolulu Hale, a monumental piece honoring our kūpuna. It reminded me of the ʻumeke my aunty received and proudly displayed in her
home, a recognition of her many years of service as a lunch lady for the Hawai‘i Department of Education. The artwork serves as both a gathering space and an audio installation, chanting the names of 38,000 elders from the Kūʻē petitions. For many visiting reporters, it was their first time hearing oli or witnessing an art opening rooted in Hawaiian cultural practice, which is something that if viewed solely through the lens of the mainstream art world risks being misinterpreted or dismissed.
One reporter shared that they didn’t understand why the ceremony was taking place, even calling it “cheesy.” Ironically, as I explained the significance of these rituals, I found myself using language often employed to defend contemporary art: Is it strange, or is it different? Is it confusing, or is it something you don’t yet know how to translate?
Facing page: Megan Cope, Kinyingarra Guwinyanba (Off-Country) Kaulana ‘Ōlepe , 2025, at Hō‘ikeākea Gallery at Leeward Community College. Courtesy of the artist and Hawai‘i Contemporary. Image by Duarte Studios.
Drawing from the Hawaiian history I absorbed growing up, I saw a chance to reframe the conversation. I encouraged reporters to approach the Triennial with a mindset that recognized Hawai‘i’s close-knit arts scene as distinct from the broader art world. I explained how dispersing venues across the islands wasn’t just logistical but intentional, hoping to convey that in Hawai‘i, stories aren’t confined to galleries or museums because these islands are storied everywhere.
For example, Wahi Pana: Storied Places , a temporary public art project, brought installations directly into the daily lives of locals. The project will debut 11 multimedia installations over three years. One of the pieces features a series of viewing points for Lē‘ahi at Kapi‘olani Community College, Fort Rutger Park, Le‘ahi Beach Park, and Mākālei Beach Park. This installation incorporates the concrete poetry of Hawai‘i State Poet Laureate Brandy Nālani McDougall, prompting viewers to reconsider the familiar sight and oft-overlooked history of what’s commonly known as Diamond Head.
Meanwhile, at Fort Street in Honolulu, just outside the popular nightclub Scarlet, Carl F.K. Pao’s abstract tile mural Ke Kānāwai Māmalahoe references The Law of the Splintered Paddle, a foundational yet often underappreciated
chapter in Hawaiian legal history. In 1797, Kamehameha decreed a person’s right to rest on the side of the road without fear of persecution. Set against the backdrop of Chinatown, home to a large houseless community, the mural raises urgent questions about how we have neglected our own legal and moral responsibilities to leave people undisturbed. By dispersing art across different islands and sites, the Triennial makes a clear statement: the land itself holds knowledge, and each site is deserving of critical cultural discourse.
Many of the works presented in ALOHA NŌ confronted themes of subjugation, cultural erasure, and land exploitation — subjects neither light nor comforting. But, as the exhibition argued, “aloha” is not an unrealistically positive phrase but a philosophical force that emerges strongest in times of pain
Above: Meleanna Aluli Meyer, ‘Umeke Lā‘au/Culture Medicine at Honolulu Hale. Courtesy of the artist and Hawai‘i Contemporary. Image by Lila Lee.
and despair. At its core, “aloha” is a radical act of compassion and love.
Unlike institutions such as Indiana University or the Saarland Museum, who have censored discussions of ongoing colonial violence, HT25 confronted them unapologetically. At a time when exhibitions are being canceled and museum staff dismissed for expressing solidarity with Palestinians, this Triennial began its dedication of the exhibition at Capitol Modern (formerly the Hawai‘i State Art Museum) with a public reading of essays by Palestinian prisoners, led by Palestinian visual artist Jumana Manna.
Manna’s series Your Time Passes and Mine Has No End was the first set of works viewers encounter on the
Shannon Te Ao, Ia rā, ia rā (rere runga, rere raro) , 2021.
Three-channel video with sound, 6 mins, 20 secs.
Courtesy of the artist and Coastal Signs.
museum’s second floor: five banners meticulously stitched and lined with photographs that embodied not only the ongoing struggles of Palestinians but their unwavering ability to celebrate even in moments of immense pain. Hanging from the corridor that connects both wings of the museum, the work invited viewers to move through the exhibition and witness the shared patterns of oppression reflected in the works of artists across the world.
Alaska Native artist Sonya KelliherCombs’ White Idiot Strings paid tribute to the devastating rates of suicide among Indigenous Alaskans, while South Korean-Danish artist Jane Jin Kaisen’s video Guardians invited reflection on
land, ancestral trauma, and history through the playing of children in Jeju. The exhibition also included a poignant dedication to the late Kanaka ‘Ōiwi artist Rocky KaʻiouliokahihikoloʻEhu Jensen, a master carver who tragically took his own life in 2023. During the curators’ walkthrough, they shared that his family hoped his work would illuminate both his aspirations for Hawai‘i’s art scene and the significance of contemporary Kanaka ‘Ōiwi art, especially within the State’s collection, where, at the time he created much of his work, only approximately 4% of the collection was by Native Hawaiian artists.
This reckoning with grief, loss, and remembrance extended to the Triennial
hub at Davies Pacific Center, where Honolulu-based, Nigerian American artist Nanci Amaka’s three-channel video installation, Cleanse , expressed the love and care that emerges from profound loss. Amaka enacted a contemporary interpretation of the Igbo tradition of cleansing a body before burial, confronting personal grief, having lost her mother to violence at a young age and unable to perform the ceremony for her. Instead, she channeled this ritual toward another loss: the beloved Ward Warehouse, demolished in 2017, the same year she learned she was pregnant. Watching the piece, I couldn’t help but think of all the times I pressed my face to the glass at a pet shop there, watching puppies through the store’s window, or the aunties practicing hula and square dancing in the pavilion near Na Mea Hawai‘i while we waited for our reservations at the Old Spaghetti Factory. Through intense, deliberate gestures, Amaka cleansed the walls of a space rich with memories for many locals, not just as an act of farewell, but as an assertion of agency.
Much like Cleanse, which highlighted our connection to place through both personal and collective histories, the Triennial amplified the agency of aloha ‘āina, our duty not only to honor our relationship with the land but also to fight for
its liberation. At the Honolulu Museum of Art, Hayv Kahraman’s newly commissioned works extended this sentiment to the animals of the islands. Drawing inspiration from the endangered Hawaiian land snails, kāhuli and pūpūkanioe, her pieces intertwined an Arabic fable with Native Hawaiian ecological teachings, creating both visual and metaphorical connections. At Bishop Museum, J.D. Nalamakuikapo Ahsing presented ʻĀinamoana, a powerful meditation on Moananuiākea, crafted from his selfmade hau paper. As an ocean cartographer, Ahsing illustrated the complex, interwoven relationships among the 40,000 islands of the Pacific, visualizing a map of connection and continuity. At the Foster Botanical Garden, Melissa Chimera’s stunning fountain installation, Hulihonua, Transformed Landscapes, addressed the enduring impact of invasive species introduced to Hawai‘i since 1778. Primarily a painter, Chimera took on the ambitious challenge of sculpture for the Triennial, creating a piece about the ongoing transformation of Hawai‘i’s ecosystems. Inscribed on the installation is the proverb: He ali‘i ka ‘āina, he kauā ke kanaka (The land is chief, the person is its servant) — a reminder that our aloha must extend beyond human relationships to encompass a deep devotion to the environments that sustain us.
Jane Jin Kaisen, Halmang , 2023. Single-channel film, 4K, color with stereo sound, 12 mins. Courtesy of the artist.
Trying to encapsulate all that HT25 brought to mind for me in just a few paragraphs feels like an impossible task. And that’s perfectly all right. HT25 didn’t seek to introduce ideas that are entirely new; rather, it challenged us to rethink what we believe we know. To my eye, these exhibitions cannot be fully understood through the gaze of an outsider art world, but perhaps best viewed through the lived experiences of the islands and the artist themselves. Like noticing the vibrancy of colors under the Pacific sun, one must engage with the work by truly being here — feeling the quiet majesty of the ‘āina at the beach, tasting the hybrid histories woven into a plate lunch, taking pride in a cousin’s hula recital, and immersing in the rhythms of island life. In this sense, I came to see the Triennial as a love letter that calls us to look toward the future not with blind optimism, but with critical hope, so that Hawai‘i can continue to reclaim and define aloha on its own terms.
For this local boy, who once thought they had to leave the islands to find opportunity and took aloha for granted, HT25 is a reminder: you don’t have to leave Hawai‘i to have enough. The love of Hawai‘i is enough. a
Between Exile and Return
UPON LISTENING TO BAD BUNNY’S SIXTH SOLO STUDIO ALBUM, A DIASPORIC WRITER IS HIT WITH A WAVE OF LONGING FOR HAWAI‘I, HER HOME, AND THE MEMORIES WE FIGHT TO KEEP.
TEXT BY _ ASHLEY INSONG
Every time I tell someone I’m from Hawai‘i and they respond, “You’re so lucky,” I feel a wave of grief. Not because I disagree, but because I doubt they see the cost of leaving its beauty behind, my home’s layered histories, or the feeling of displacement I now carry as a former kamaʻāina who, like so many others, was priced out of paradise. In January, driving home from my job in Texas, I discovered Bad Bunny’s latest studio album, Debí Tirar Más Fotos, which translates to “I Should Have Taken More Photos.” The image on the album cover reminded me so much of my own island home: banana trees hanging in the background; two white plastic patio chairs sitting idly on green grass, a sign that somebody’s home is a place of gathering, storytelling, laughter, and music. Had I seen this photo outside the context of this album, I would have assumed it was taken in the backyard of some aunty or uncle’s hale in Waimānalo. I’d imagine two uncles sitting on those plastic chairs, one jamming on the ʻukulele while the other sings “Honey Baby” by Three Plus. Out of frame, I could even see family members scrambling to prepare for a pāʻina. Then my mind makes an uneasy shift and wonders: What happens when family parties become less frequent as loved ones move away from their roots? When beloved backyards get trampled over by tourists? When a nation is illegally overthrown, why does almost no one outside of Hawai‘i seem to know it happened? As I ponder these questions, I scroll through the album’s tracklist and find a song title mentioning my home’s name, “Lo Que Le Pasó A Hawai‘i.”
I think about how much I miss home at least once a day. Sometimes, it lasts only a few seconds, and it passes. Other
times, it can be for an hour, and I start to cry. Sometimes I cry because I’m afraid. My grandma turns 90 this year, and the thought haunts me that someday the phone will ring, and I’ll have to confront the weight of all the days I didn’t spend with her. “Balasang ko,” a term of endearment that she’d say with a tired smile. “You coming to da parteh dis year?” with her voice echoing like a ritual prayer I wish I had answered more often. I’m afraid because glaucoma finally laid its hands on my father, slowly stealing the light from his eyes. I’m afraid because my nephew’s voice isn’t the same; it’s grown a deep, unfamiliar bass, like time snuck in while I was gone and rewrote his childhood in a lower key.
Then there’s the fear that creeps up when I do have pockets of time to visit. I go home as often as I can, but each return comes with its own kind of ache. I’m afraid because what we called a secret beach is now marred with foreign feet chasing souvenir moments, trying to bottle up my home like a keepsake. Each time I return, things feel heavier and more crowded. My loved ones, aging in place, their roots struggling to grip the very land they were born on as the shoreline shifts, and I wonder how many more people are left to tell the story of what used to be.
Just like I find myself holding grief for what Hawai‘i is becoming, Bad Bunny’s latest record carries a similar ache for his birthplace, Puerto Rico. Bad Bunny, known for his trap instrumentals, bold lyrics, and rhythmic reggaeton beats, surprised everyone with the overtly political content of his latest work. Released in January 2025, some noted its similarities to Puerto Rican singer and rapper Residente’s politically charged music. But that’s to be expected of the 47-year-old Residente, not the 31-year-old household name Bad Bunny. On Debí Tirar Más Fotos, Bad Bunny, born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, explores Puerto Rican identity and draws inspiration from indigenous Taíno culture, inspired by a
THOUGH ONE IS A CARIBBEAN ISLAND AND THE OTHER A PACIFIC ARCHIPELAGO, BOTH SHARE PARALLEL HISTORIES OF COLONIZATION AND POLITICAL STRUGGLE. RIGHT, IMAGE BY J. AMILL SANTIAGO. PREVIOUS PAGE, IMAGE BY BEAU HORYZA.
love for his home, his people, and his passion for cultural resistance against colonialism. All of this is intertwined with instrumentals rooted in genres like salsa, dembow, bomba, and plena, all born from the struggles of oppressed peoples seeking freedom and expression. A short film accompanying the album, available on YouTube, tells a story of the changes an elderly Puerto Rican man witnesses as he reminisces over sentimental photos of what Puerto Rico used to be. He strolls through his gentrified neighborhood and orders food from his local panadería, which is no longer the same.
In English, Bad Bunny’s cautionary song, “Lo Que Le Pasó A Hawai‘i,” translates to “What Happened to Hawai‘i.” His lyrics, sung in a low baritone, give the song a haunting, mournful, even spiritual tone. One of his verses says, “They want to take the river / they want to take the village / and they want my grandma to leave. / No, don’t forget the flag / nor forget the Le Lo Lai. / Cause I don’t want them to do to you what happened to Hawai‘i.” Like Hawai‘i, outsiders interested in tourism and urbanization see tropical islands like Puerto Rico as nothing but dollar signs. Hawai‘i has seen—is seeing—the consequences of such extractive practices: born-and-raised Hawaiians and locals forced to move away under economic strain, supplanted by transplants with very little understanding of Hawaiian history.
What makes Bad Bunny’s lyrics even more resonant is that the instrumentals in “Lo Que Le Pasó A Hawai‘i” feature traditional Puerto Rican instruments, all of which are grounded in cultural resistance and pride: the cuatro, a small, 10-stringed
instrument developed by the Jíbaro people, the indigenous mountain-dwelling people of Puerto Rico; the pandero, a type of handheld frame drum rooted in AfroCaribbean resistance and commonly used in plena and bomba music; the güiro, a percussion instrument made of a hollowed-out gourd that’s played by scraping a stick on the notches on its surface. Some would argue that there are similarities between these traditional instruments, which are used not only for music but also to carry oral history, spirituality, and resistance, reminding us of the ʻukulele, ipu, and pahu. Both Hawaiian and Puerto Rican cultures have utilized and continue to use string, percussion, and natural instruments to pass on vital stories. For me, Bad Bunny’s haunting vocals, combined with the repetition of these instruments, call to mind the mele “Kū Ha’aheo E Ku’u Hawai‘i” by Kumu Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu because both are reclamation stories in native tongues that uplift indigenous and local people to resist and stand proud in their unique identities.
Although one place is an island in the Caribbean and the other is an archipelago in the middle of the Pacific, both are bound by similar experiences of colonial histories and political struggles. Across two tracks on Debí Tirar Más Fotos, Bad Bunny sings, “You hear the jíbaro crying, another one who’s left. / He didn’t want to leave to Orlando, but the corrupt ones pushed him out” and “Ayy, I hope my people never have to move away.” Nichole Mercado, a native Puerto Rican and current Texas resident, explains that although she did not want to leave her home, she felt like she had to. “Displacement,” Mercado says, “is taking you away from your roots. Taking away your sense of belonging. Everything is changing because of gentrification. You can still come back to your community, but you don’t feel like you belong. I had a community. I had support. I had my family. And it’s such a heartbreaking experience when you need to make that trade-up for you or your children.”
In both Puerto Rico and Hawai‘i, homes that once held generations of stories are now listed as vacation rentals.
The cost of living keeps rising, and tourists stream through like plastic bottles caught in ocean tides—fast, constant, and impossible to contain. As communities are pushed out, what’s left is a haunting sense of nostalgia for a home that’s still there but no longer ours in the same way.
The University of Hawai‘i’s Economic Research Organization reported in 2023 that around 5% of the state’s local housing units now operate as tourist accommodations — 4.7% of those listed on Airbnb alone. To put that in perspective with another high-cost city, San Francisco has only 1.4% of its housing stock listed as STRs, or shortterm rentals. Puerto Rico faces similar pressures. In San Juan, Cataño, and Aguadilla, short-term rentals now account for more than half of all available housing units.
Rubin Marin, a Puerto Rican native and FEMA employee who worked on post-Hurricane María recovery efforts in 2017 and later assisted after the 2023 Maui wildfires, witnessed firsthand how disaster can attract opportunism. “Investors were quick to buy up properties in the most devastated areas,” he recalls, often places with displaced residents still mourning their losses.
After Hurricane María, Puerto Rico saw housing prices spike by 22% between 2018 and 2021, according to CNE 25, the island’s independent think tank. A striking increase also emerged on Maui after the Lahaina fires in 2023. A report from the
University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa this past March found that rent in Lahaina remains 50 to 60% higher for fire-impacted households, while 90% of burn area residents remain displaced.
“There are more Puerto Ricans on the mainland than in Puerto Rico,” Marin also points out. It’s a reality he’s seen reflected in his own family, and in Hawai‘i, too. “The similarities are stark,” he says. “Everyone in Puerto Rico has at least one family member who left the island. Some left for better opportunities. Others had no choice.”
According to the U.S. Census, there are approximately 4.2 million Puerto Ricans living in the continental U.S., which is about 400,000 more than on the island. The Native Hawaiian community has followed a similar alarming trend. In 2020, the U.S. Census reported that only 47% of Native Hawaiians lived in Hawai‘i, while 53% now live on the continent where that population is also growing five times faster than in Hawai‘i.
Marin explains that the reasons for leaving are often rooted in economics. “Everything is more expensive. Salaries are lower. Even the sales tax is higher. It’s hard to stay.”
Then he tells a story. “I was walking through Waikīkī, past the Chanel store, and saw a brown man who looked local— probably houseless—setting up camp on the sidewalk right after the store closed. That moment stuck with me,” he says. “That’s what Bad Bunny is talking about. Tourism and investors come into places like Puerto Rico and Hawai‘i, and the people who actually belong there are the ones being pushed out.”
Like Bad Bunny sings in “Lo Que Le Pasó A Hawai‘i”: “No one here wanted to leave, and those who left all dream of coming home.” The fear of never making it back is one thing. But coming back and finding that home is no longer yours… that’s the fear that lingers. Like a secret beach that couldn’t stay hidden, the loss is quiet but permanent. Maybe photos aren’t enough. Maybe what we really need is to protect what’s still here before it’s retold, renamed, and remembered by people who were never meant to inherit it. a
ALBUM ART FOR DEBÍ TIRAR MÁS FOTOS BY BAD BUNNY.
“We still can build wealth
contributing to displacement.”
Taylor Kaluahine Lani
THREE ESSAYS ON CINEMATIC REPRESENTATIONS OF HAWAI‘I AND THE PACIFIC FROM THE 1950S TO THE 2010S.
TEXT BY
_ DELIA KONZETT
Hollywood does not take its task of filming the Pacific lightly, relying on some of the best directors, writers, and cinematographers in the industry. Its cinematic distortions of representation have been achieved with considerable film aesthetics, ranging from spectacular nature and oceanic scenes to underwater and color photography, complex editing, the creation of new genres such as the South Seas fantasy, the combat film, and battlefield documentary, as well as the use of classical Hollywood conventions of melodrama and musicals to highlight the work of nation building. In addition, the industry’s top stars have been involved in this enterprise to convey the Pacific’s full incorporation into the imaginary space of Hollywood drama. While contemporary audiences may be dismayed at some of the racist stereotyping and disavow these films as mere Hollywood products, audiences of the past received them favorably and saw them as an extension of the mainland’s imaginary space. This systematic conceptualization of the representation of the Pacific continues today with new technological and aesthetic developments to promote its appropriation. As such these films and television programs also provide a map to the ideological concerns that help build the edifice of the United States.
Hollywood films about Hawai‘i and the Pacific betray a colonial and imperial mind at work and give insight into the structures of power that have governed and still govern the United States today. Hawai‘i and the Pacific appear in this sense as a symptom pointing to the
nation’s repeated attempts at self-portrayal. To what extent the South Pacific is a space of leisure or military conflict remains forever undecidable as Hollywood preserves the structural ambiguity of its symbolic universe, making it a form of entertainment rather than political discourse. It is in this fashion that it interposes itself between representation and consumption as a form of mediation. Cinematically mediated images of the South Pacific and Hawai‘i purposely compromise and co-opt this region in order to serve as the continuing playground for the fantasy production of the United States.
aloha
Aloha (Cameron Crowe, 2015) presents in this new mode an ecologically inflected military-industrial complex fusing Hawai‘i’s ecological outlook with US military concerns. Casting of blonde Emma Stone as one-quarter Hawaiian drew criticism but works predictably within the Hollywood logic of profit, using popular white stars as focalizing draws for film audiences. This business strategy also explains the casting in The Descendants of star George Clooney rather than a more credible and part-Hawaiian actor such as David Strathairn, who, though known, usually does not carry entire films. To this date, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, of Samoan and African Canadian ancestry, and Jason Momoa, of Hawaiian descent, are the only Pacific film stars with wide recognition value. However, a growing
number of recent productions featuring Native Hawaiian perspectives and actors such as Moana (2016), Moana 2 (2024), Lilo & Stitch (2025), and especially the TV series Chief of War (2025), starring Momoa and spoken mostly in the Native Hawaiian language, may well change this representational shortcoming.
Set in contemporary Hawai‘i, Aloha often appears forced and artificial in its attempt to give Hawai‘i a more realistic and recognizable representation from a Hawaiian point of view. Emma Stone, for example, as Captain Allison Ng, sings with a Hawaiian group of musicians Gabby Pahinui’s slack key guitar classic “Waimānalo Blues” as one of her favorite tunes, but does so unconvincingly. Mitchell, the white son of retired Brian Gilcrest’s (Bradley Cooper) former girlfriend Tracy (Rachel McAdams), turns out to be a “Hawaiian myth buff” and decorates his room with the flag of the Hawaiian nationalist movement. Gilcrest’s daughter Grace comes to melodramatic awareness during a hula dance class that Brian, her mother’s former boyfriend, is indeed her biological father. This scene is shot with many medium close-ups of her dancing the hula, placing other Hawaiian class members out of the frame.
Apart from such obvious Hollywood distortions, however, the film does address political claims for sovereignty by the Hawaiian nationalist movement and features a cameo of Bumpy Kanahele, Hawaiian nationalist leader and head of Nation of Hawai‘i. His T-shirt, filmed front and back and stating “Hawaiian By Birth–American By Force,” is nevertheless undermined as he is shown to be close friends with Gilcrest and admires the military in general, while asserting that Hawai‘i is “under occupation.” Since the nationalist movement’s flag, presented by him to Gilcrest, is shown in a final shot in the children’s bedroom of the Hawaiian
myth buff Mitchell, to whom it has been bequeathed, the film further suggests that this movement is at best in its infancy and thereby belittles its seriousness. Other cameos of Hawaiian musicians are likewise used in exploitative fashion to evoke the usual atmosphere of local Hawaiian cookouts and lūʻau accompanied by Hawaiian music.
As a new feature, the film portrays the military and military contractors cooperating closely with Native Hawaiians, seemingly respecting their customs and lands. Gilcrest retired from the military and, now a private contractor, oversees a traditional Hawaiian blessing for a pedestrian gate on a former Hawaiian burial ground on Hickam Field and secures Hawaiian participation in exchange for two mountains and cell phone service. This ludicrous plot device allows the film to introduce Emma Stone’s part-Hawaiian character Allison Ng, who is introduced as a local liaison to Kanahele, the Hawaiian nationalist leader. Gilcrest is at the same time hired by billionaire Carson Welch (Bill Murray), who intends to install a communications satellite to aid six poor Pacific Rim countries. Later this claim is found out to be an outright lie, forcing Brian and the military to sabotage its concealed weaponized nuclear capability, causing the satellite to explode. Predictably the romantic comedy ends in the production of two couples (Brian and Allison, and the restored marriage of Tracy and her husband, Woody) as well as the blessing of the gate, ridiculously suggesting that the military preserves balance on Hawai‘i and protects the islands from ruthless private businessmen.
The film’s opening montage made up of video and documentary footage introduces its major thematic strands of military technology in conflict with Hawai‘i’s peaceful and ecological outlook. Hawaiian cultural icons (Duke
IN ROMANTIC DRAMA ALOHA (2015), STARRING BRADLEY COOPER AND EMMA STONE, THE ALLEGEDLY NECESSARY REMILITARIZATION OF PACIFIC CULTURE IS MADE PALATABLE TO AUDIENCES VIA THRILLER AND ACTION PLOTS.
Kahanamoku, Queen Lili‘uokalani), dancers, wartime images, and King Kamehameha parades alternate with historic footage of rocket launches, drones, and other reconnaissance technology. Ironically and unintentionally the montage also captures the military-entertainment complex, as it intercuts space and rocket technology footage with leisure footage from Hawai‘i, showing the two as intimately connected. As Brian Gilcrest lands at Hickam Field, Hawaiian dance ceremonies alternate with military ceremonials such as “Taps.” Later in the film, Captain Ng claims, “This is not the military of old … this is the new.” She invokes the Outer Space Peace Treaty of 1967 and promises Kanahele that the military “will not put weapons above these sacred skies.” This promise tacitly overlooks that Hawai‘i is already militarized to its teeth with many nuclear-powered carriers and nuclear submarines patrolling the Pacific. As Haunani-Kay Trask, Hawaiian activist-scholar and staunch defender of Hawaiian independence, summarizes the facts:
On O‘ahu, the capital of our state and the most densely populated island, the military controls 25% of the land area. Statewide, the combined U.S. armed forces have 21 installations, 26 housing complexes, eight training areas, and 19 miscellaneous bases and operating sites. Beyond O‘ahu, Hawai‘i is the linchpin of the U.S. military strategy in the Asia-Pacific region. It is home to the largest
portage of nuclear-fueled ships and submarines in the world. These ships are received, cleaned, and refashioned at Pearl Harbor, where workers are called “sponges” because of their high absorption of radiation during cleaning. Regionally, Hawai‘i is the forward basing point for the U.S. military in the Pacific. The Seventh Fleet, which patrols the world from the Pacific to the coast of Africa, is stationed at Pearl Harbor. . . . This kind of “peaceful violence” results in land confiscations, contamination of our plants, animals, and our peoples, and the transformation of our archipelago into a poisonous war zone. Additionally, many of the lands taken by the military are legally reserved lands for Hawaiians.
Aloha’s utopian narrative of demilitarization remains one of wishful thinking and does little to change the status quo of Hawai‘i in its spurious narrative, where the military checks the island’s safety against rogue corporate interests. The film is divided in its message by trying to give more voice to Hawai‘i and at the same time defending the major interest group, the military, that has kept Hawai‘i under occupation. In a sequence interspersed with the final credits of the film, Kanahele ceremonially reburies ancestral bones relocated from the Hickam gate together with Gilcrest on Hawaiian land and hands him a volcano stone. The old Hawaiian flag is shown upside down, with the British part of the flag in the lower left corner, a further reminder of the Kingdom’s hostile annexation and its state of occupation. Unfortunately, with the film framing the military as the guardian of stability, these scenes mostly constitute lip service for liberal-minded audiences.
With the rebalancing of US military
power in the Pacific, starting under the Obama administration in 2012, strong military and strategic interests in Hawai‘i have in fact increased. As the United States gradually disengages from the unstable regions of the Near and Middle East, it has turned its view toward the large, profitable markets of China and India, while also protecting its older interests in Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan. Crowe’s film Aloha, which involves the military much more significantly than previous films about Hawai‘i ( 50 First Dates , Forgetting Sarah Marshall , The Descendants ), reflects the new remilitarization of the Pacific but seeks to tame its reality with a discourse of ecology, one of Hawai‘i’s latest cultural exports. In turning to the discourse of ecology, Aloha finds new a narrative formula to naturalize the inevitable US claim on Hawai‘i in the face of its recently increased military role in the Pacific.
In examining contemporary films and television programs about Hawai‘i, it has become apparent that two diametrically opposed themes dominate in the on-screen representation of the Pacific, namely amnesia and militarization. The former is rooted in escapist fantasy and white melodrama, negating any historical accountability of the United States toward its quasi-colony of Hawai‘i. Instead, Hawai‘i figures as a wholesome ecosystem that restores broken relationships or induces new romances. Its natural and oceanic habitats remind viewers that a belief in ecological balance and sustainability will correct all problems, even those that the films steadfastly refuse to address such as race, property, and political representation. The white coded liberal universe that sees Hawai‘i as a home away from home appears benevolent but gives little voice to those inhabitants who have
been socioeconomically displaced by settler colonialism, tourism, real estate prices, and cost of living. In contrast to these fantasy escape scenarios, films with a dose of realism view Hawai‘i as a battleground for global conflicts and the maintenance of geopolitical dominance via military power. The necessary remilitarization of Pacific culture is made palatable to audiences via thriller and action plots, providing lowbrow entertainment rather than high-minded political seriousness. Once again, the reality of contemporary Hawai‘i and the Pacific falls through the cracks in such scenarios that indulge in the ever-growing enlargement of the military-industrial-entertainment complex.
the descendants
In an example concerning race, sovereignty, and property, consider the film
The Descendants (Alexander Payne, 2011). Directed by indie filmmaker Payne, the film picks up the question of amnesia featured in 50 First Dates but with the seriousness it deserves in relation to Hawai‘i’s history. Based on the novel of Kaui Hart Hemmings, The Descendants stays close to a perspective of Hawai‘i seen through the critical eyes of a Hawaiian author, surpassing by far the usual entertainment fare of Hollywood. It opens with the comatose Joane King, wife of Matt King, being regularly visited by her husband in the hospital after an accident during a boating race. Matt King’s plea “wake up,” as the film will show, will have to be applied to him as well, namely his obliviousness in his private life to the extramarital affair of his wife and in his public life with his neglect of his Hawaiian ancestry and the accompanying moral obligations to the Hawaiian community. His ancestry is established early in the film through voice-over, providing necessary
information about his wealth and status in Hawai‘i. Close-ups of two family portraits highlight his great-great-grandparents who entered a mixed marriage between one of the last princesses related to King Kamehameha and a white banker, son of a New England missionary family. This combination of power and land brings the King family into wealth and the possession of valuable land leases that are about to expire under a new law that prohibits the transfer of these rights in perpetuity. The film’s trajectory in its double narrative seeks a solution to both public and private concerns. Although many reviewers on the continent simply mistook the film for a melodrama with dysfunctional family members (it is a
convention in independent films to not convey harmonious images of this institution), the film stresses on numerous occasions its public concern with the legacy of Hawai‘i and its possessions passed down among the haole elites.
To underscore this topic, the film opens in medias res with the eventual fatal accident, demystifying Hawai‘i as the tourist paradise. Establishing shots of Honolulu taken from an elevated position show Diamond Head, the city’s trademark tourist site, crowded into the background by skyscrapers and the H-1 cutting through a maze of buildings. Little of the original nature paradise is visible, as the next shot cuts to a multilane traffic jam usually associated with
Los Angeles. The city appears as unattractive, overdeveloped, modern urban real estate. Matt King himself turns out to be a real estate lawyer, and the secret affair of his wife involves another real estate agent, Speer, whose sign is prominently shown in close-up before we meet the actual character. Speculation on the part of King suggests that Speer, who would benefit largely from the sale of the King estate, may have even dated King’s wife to wield some influence on this decision. In Kaua‘i, where King visits his extended family to reach a final decision, we once again see numerous tourist developments such as resorts and golf clubs. King himself is shown in a T-shirt of the Outrigger Club, an
exclusive escape for the island’s elite on the outskirts of Waikīkī, which he regularly frequents. A final display of family pictures also shows that the interracial marriage that built the family’s fortune is from then on basically a legacy of white couples, keeping the estate in the hands of the white elites. King’s cousins are shocked to hear when he refuses to sign the handover documents from which everyone stands to make a considerable profit. At this point, however, woken up to the dysfunctionality within his family, King develops moral qualms about the exploitative use of the land trust that Hawai‘i bestowed on his family. The film ends on a gesture of sacrifice with King returning the lease to
To what extent the South Pacific is a space of leisure or military conflict remains forever undecidable as Hollywood preserves the structural ambiguity of its symbolic universe.
the original ownership of Hawai‘i. The utopian, and slightly artificial, happy ending stresses the ecological sanctity of Hawai‘i’s Pacific islands to be preserved for posterity. Hawai‘i’s land, as the film suggests, should no longer be subjected to real estate speculation and development for pure profit. However, it remains the decision of the white land owner (90 percent white) to rededicate its purpose, thereby turning him into an ecological philanthropist. The casting of Clooney, known for his liberal activism, deceptively obscures a more realistic depiction of the issue of land ownership and subsumes it under the sentimentality of the white liberal savior and ecologist. Casting Clooney as mixed Hawaiian further adds a layer of appropriation whereby representation and voice of Hawaiians seamlessly pass into white ownership.
The ending, unfortunately, also does not reflect the current aggressive development on O‘ahu, Maui, and Kaua‘i, with an additional eye to the formerly prohibited island of Moloka‘i, as the leper colony fades out. Not surprisingly, in its 2015 visit to Hawai‘i, Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown, an exotic food TV show documenting various global cuisines, had a brief stopover in Moloka‘i and met local residents who were formerly part of Hawaiian nativist protests against construction. Reality TV shows such as Hawaii Life (2013–present) advertise affordable real estate for more affluent mainland middle-class families in many areas of Hawai‘i. The formerly elite real estate market on Maui, boasting such clients as the late George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Oprah Winfrey, has been expanded and extends now to average mainland buyers at the exclusion of poorer Hawaiians. In doing so, Hawaii Life further promotes the economic dispossession of Hawai‘i’s native population
by presenting the island to a mass market of US buyers and highest bidders.
the revolt of mamie stover
Postwar film depictions of Hawai‘i’s World War II sex industry, due to Hollywood’s censorship codes, could not explicitly show its reality and instead resorted to sanitized images of dance bars and social clubs as seen in From Here to Eternity (1953). Film audiences familiar with James Jones’s best-selling novel, wartime Hawai‘i, and Hollywood’s censorship conventions, however, would easily recognize the real context in which that film cast the lives of young soldiers in Honolulu. A notable film concerned with Honolulu sex work, The Revolt of Mamie Stover (Raoul Walsh, 1956), presents this context in equally obscure fashion and dwells on a narrative stressing the return to family values.
The Revolt of Mamie Stover was shot on location in Hawai‘i and is set during the time before and after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The film’s story is an adaptation of William Bradford Huie’s 1951 novel of the same title that first appeared serially in the American Mercury. Buddy Adler, who had produced From Here to Eternity (Fred Zinnemann, 1953), sponsored Walsh’s production, which can in many ways be seen as a parallel film. As with Jones’s novel, Huie’s graphic and explicit descriptions of wartime assembly-line prostitution in Hawai‘i once again could not be shown and were explained via the conceit of taxi dancing and private entertainment stalls. The sheer numerical quantity of serviced customers was shown with the device of copious rolls of fairground tickets with which the soldiers paid for dances and drinks. As historians Beth Bailey and David Farber note in The First Strange Place: Race and Sex in World War II Hawaii,
“Each prostitute normally serviced about 100 men a day, at least twenty days out of every month.” Jane Russell in the lead role gives a convincing portrayal of Mamie as a modern, self-determined, and self-empowered woman who quickly learns to invest her hard-earned money in Hawai‘i real estate. While the film hints at eroticism in musical numbers and Hawaiian dance scenes, its main focus lies with the entrepreneurial and capitalist spirit of Mamie Stover, circumventing restrictions of location and movement in order to amass as much money as possible. Her accomplice is the reporter Jim Blair, with whom she has a secret affair but also business dealings. As Jim is drafted, she promises to stop her trade but is lured back by irresistible offers of profit. Jim returns unexpectedly, finds Mamie in the old “entertainment” establishment, and breaks the engagement with a lecture that money cannot be the ultimate pursuit of life. Mamie retorts that this advice applies only to people who have always had money. Enlightened partially by his words, she returns home to Mississippi and confesses to a police officer in San Francisco that she had made her fortune in Hawai‘i but lost it. This reference hints at the loss of Jim and prospective marriage and not the money per se. The film’s ending thus stresses a return to civil society, pays respect to the desirable status of marriage, and retains the hard-earned money as the reward for Mamie’s misguided but instinctively sound Protestant work ethic.
An extensively staged attack scene on the morning of December 7, involving many Hawaiian extras as the turning point in the film, becomes the inaugural moment for Mamie’s entrepreneurial endeavors and her revolt. As she is physically beaten and disciplined off-screen by the establishment’s bouncer Adkins for having violated a key rule by leaving the
premise, the film cuts to the beginning of the Japanese attack, when the panic of war erupts with locals evacuating their homes. Mamie is shown leaving the establishment relatively unscathed, using the distraction to leave the premises once again and purchase real estate from owners desperate to leave the islands. These scenes are shown in parallel shots, juxtaposing the attack scenes and Honolulu’s population emerging on the street with Mamie’s buying of real estate, constituting her own attack and revolt against patriarchal norms. The scenes stress movement and mobility, representing Mamie’s own emerging socioeconomic mobility. In a curious reversal of the time image and its paralyzed male heroes in postwar films, Mamie fully embodies the action image. Later in the film, Mamie has a date with Jim at Waikīkī Beach, another strictly forbidden location for women of the trade, and once again Adkins wishes to make trouble but the tables have turned. Jim is now in uniform and military police come to his and Mamie’s aid when a fight erupts with Adkins. The MPs teach Adkins a lesson, giving him a thorough beating and showing the audience that the military now rules the islands. In another surprise turn, the strict madam Bertha Parchman (Agnes Morehead) holds on to Mamie as a financial asset and takes her side, dismissing the luckless Adkins from her services. Portrayed as a shrewd businesswoman, Bertha quickly understands that the military will protect her business interests and become her new clientele. Contrary to expectation, Mamie is shown not as a ruthless war profiteer but as a heroic woman who simply turns necessity into a virtue. In obscene but self-reliant fashion, she inaugurates Henry Luce’s American Century, converting both the military and prostitution into financial advantage.
In Huie’s novel, which also describes the changes in wartime Honolulu in satirical fashion, the trade of the prostitute is equated with a form of military service for the nation: “In short, the traveling men emancipated Honolulu’s whores from provincial exploitation. No longer were the whores to be regulated and exploited by the local fascists; they were now fonctionaires, as it were, of the Government of the United States. Naturally, all this national regulation made the whores feel patriotic.” In addition to becoming a quasi-legitimate branch of the military, prostitution also ushers in a new economic mobility. At the lead of this development stands Mamie Stover, a bolder version of Rosie the Riveter, who is not content with merely manning a factory job. As Huie writes:
By the Spring of ’43 Mamie had revolted against all the old restrictions except two. She had not yet married a serviceman, and she had not yet bought a home outside the restricted area. But on May first that year she formally completed her revolt by marrying Major Joseph Robert Albright, of the United States Air Force, and moving into a $40,000 home in Pacific Heights. Mamie cabled me the news of the twin events. I was in London, and I remember reading the cable and thinking about it as I walked from the Dorchester Hotel over to Grosvenor Square. Her marrying the major didn’t surprise me—all over the world whores were marrying majors. But I was surprised that she had really invaded the Heights. I had never believed that she’d find the courage to do it. Swimming at Waikiki, dining at Wai Lee Chong’s, buying a Cadillac, these were easy acts of defiance under the circumstances. But to scale the Heights—to
Blu-Ray of The Revolt of Mamie Stover (dir. Raoul Walsh, 1956) starring Jane Russell. The film was shot on location in Hawai‘i and set during the time before and after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Movie posters for films shot and set in Hawai‘i, 1937–2015
squeeze herself right in amongst the old Anglo developers — I had never believed Mamie would dare it.
While Huie stresses here the emancipation of women during wartime, he does not mention a similar emancipation of the local Hawaiian population from similar constraints of social and real estate zoning. In the film version, Jim Blair occupies a house at the highest point, possibly at the top of Mānoa Valley, overlooking the island from the colonial bird’s-eye perspective. When the Hawaiian natives emerge on the streets during the attack, the camera tracks their movements from the hilly terrain downward toward the city and eventually settles on shots in which rural field workers hurriedly leave the plantations while being strafed by Japanese warplanes from above. The visual geography places the white American at the top of the island, a position to which Mamie aspires. The film version does not grant Mamie this
elevated perspective and never shows her moving to Pacific Heights. Nor does the film allow Hawaiians a modern narrative of social mobility.
The sexual and gender politics in Walsh’s film similarly reflects the contradictions of the postwar era in its depiction of wartime sexuality among the troops. In Victory Girls, Khaki-Wackies, and Patriotutes: The Regulation of Female Sexuality during World War II, scholar and historian Marilyn Hegarty discusses how female sexuality was controlled during the wartime period in which thousands of women, often termed “patriotutes,” provided soldiers with entertainment and other “morale-boosting services”:
During the World War II, women’s bodies were nationalized and their sexuality militarized: women’s laboring and sexual bodies were, in a sense, drafted for the duration. The draft called men to serve their country, and
THE TITULAR CHARACTER, MAMIE STOVER, IS A BOLDER VERSION OF ROSIE THE RIVETER WHO ISN’T CONTENT WITH MERELY MANNING A FACTORY JOB.
Due to Hollywood’s censorship codes, the postwar film depictions of Hawai‘i’s WWII sex industry couldn’t explicitly show its reality and instead resorted to sanitized images of dance bars and social clubs.
of women’s sexual desires was, however, silenced by the framing of female desire as a psychological problem or social pathology. The equation of female desire with deviance simultaneously oversexualized and desexualized many wartime women.”
women likewise received their orders: to be patriotic and support the war effort, in part by maintaining servicemen’s morale.
This paradox of enlisting women for quasi-military service while simultaneously attempting to mark aspects of female sexuality as abnormal and diseased by equating it with venereal disease “created myriad problems, both institutional and individual.” Not only was this campaign, writes Hegarty, “complicated by deeply embedded ideologies of the female and male sexuality and by issues of race, class, and ethnicity,” but it “also amplified ambiguous social attitudes toward women at a time when serviceman had a ‘male mystique’ that valorized aggressive (hetero) sexuality. Military policies, including sex education for servicemen, free contraceptives, prophylactic stations, and support of houses of prostitution, all recognized and normalized male sexual needs and desires. The normality
In Mamie Stover , the heroine’s sexuality is never explicitly shown but remains confined to melodramatic kissing scenes with her love interest Jim Blair. Suggestive clubs and dancing serve as the cleaned-up stand-in for the business of sex conducted on Honolulu’s Hotel Street. Conversely, the film depicts normative and marital sexuality among natives and locals in derogatory fashion. During the attack scene, the film shows an overweight and unkempt Hawaiian family packing up their many children into a station wagon with a naked baby hanging off the father’s shoulder. Normative heterosexuality is both advanced in the case of white women and discredited for minorities where it may lead to excessive population growth or “breeding.” Hegarty argues that such control of female sexuality “not only operated to mitigate women’s wartime gains” but also had long-term consequences, impacting all women, but most of all Black women, especially unmarried ones, who were marked as pathological and the antithesis of 1950s domestic and family culture. Unfortunately, none of these films reflect in any way the social and cultural shake-up that the arrival of military and mass prostitution triggered in Hawai‘i. As Bailey and Farber point out, “Prostitutes had invaded every neighborhood. Hawai‘i’s carefully calibrated social stratification was being mocked. Mainland whores, white women, were out in public, demonstrating daily how little white skin meant in the way of moral superiority or some sort of ‘natural’ right to lord it over the vast majority of
Hawai‘i’s people of darker hues. Already the hordes of working-class white soldiers, sailors, and war workers had damaged the racial equilibrium that gave stability to the island’s ruling white families who had seemed indestructible for some forty years. Now the white prostitutes made further mockery of the whole racialist setup.” Bailey and Farber rightly argue that the old social order of postwar Hawai‘i would undergo radical changes due to the impact of military personnel and wartime prostitution that exposed the 19-century missionary’s claim of the moral superiority of white civilization as a complete fraud. However, with the new stronghold of the US military in Hawai‘i, it remained to be seen if Hawai‘i could ever truly shake off white rule in its postwar history where the military-industrial complex wove its tentacles around the islands in the form of land grab and various forms of subcontracting to mainland businesses that still define Hawai‘i’s economy today.
These essays have been excerpted and edited from Hollywood’s Hawaii: Race, Nation, and War by Delia Konzett. A
Cover of Sung Hwan Kim, Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia
우아 아오 이아 오 이아 에 이아 (book), Seoul: Seoul Museum of Art, Rasun Press, 2025. Photographed on September 20, 2025, during Keanahala residency at Aupuni Space.
INTERVIEW BY
IMAGES BY
_ DONNIE CERVANTES
_ SANCIA MIALA SHIBA NASH
The artist joins protesters in Seoul on March 22, 2025, amid unrest sparked by the declaration of martial law.
ARTIST SUNG HWAN KIM HIGHLIGHTS HAWAI‘I AS A DYNAMIC SPACE OF LEARNING, REFRAMING THE ISLANDS AS A LENS FOR UNDERSTANDING GLOBAL HISTORY AND DIASPORA.
The following is a conversation between Sung Hwan Kim, David Michael DiGregorio, and Donnie Cervantes that took place on July 12, 2025 at 2:30 p.m. Hawai‘i Time. It has been edited for length and clarity.
Donnie Cervantes: Thank you for trusting me with this conversation, Sung Hwan. I’ve been reflecting on why I decided to focus specifically on the exhibition at SeMA [Seoul Museum of Art] and I realized how meaningful it is to bring all this work and research to Korea, to see it placed the way you’ve done, and to open it up to the public at the city museum.
These ideas have been presented quite extensively, particularly in Europe, so in a way, this feels like a continuation, but it’s also a very significant iteration in its own right. For me, it draws together many threads from your work in and about Hawai‘i, placing them in conversation with Seoul, its histories, and also your past works. I feel very fortunate to have spent a good amount of time with
Sung Hwan Kim’s recent exhibition at the Seoul Museum of Art marks a significant milestone in his career: his first solo exhibition at a major public museum in Korea. Set within the historically loaded walls of what was once the Japanesebuilt Supreme Court, the exhibition reflects Kim’s long-standing engagement with dense, layered narratives and his eschewal of simple messaging. Titled Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia, the show is deeply entangled with the museum’s physical and political geography and the complex web of Korean diasporic histories that stretch between Seoul and Hawai‘i.
Kim’s approach remains distinctively opaque yet profoundly connective, creating a space that’s not just visited but inhabited. “The landscape has multiple names with different contexts,” Kim explains, referencing the layered symbolism of Dosan An Chang-ho, one of the historical figures featured in the show, whose chosen name was inspired by Lē‘ahi in Hawai‘i. These kinds of crossings — temporal, geographical, political — trace unexpected lines of connection.
Coinciding with the sudden and short-lived declaration of martial law in December 2024 by Yoon Suk Yeol, who was the first sitting South Korean president to be arrested, the exhibition was literally framed by state tensions. “Let this be the context,” Kim recalls telling SeMA curator Gahee Park. “Because people who come to the exhibition walk through this huge protest,” he said. The atmosphere of uncertainty heightened the urgency of the work’s presence in public life. In this charged environment, Kim’s work doesn’t offer resolution. Instead, it insists on the encounter, asking viewers to sit with complexity rather than escape it.
the exhibition at the museum, and to witness the public presentation of your series of workshops. They felt like a beautiful weaving of so many ideas, collaborations with people from Hawai‘i, and especially the continued partnership between you and David [Michael DiGregorio].
I’d love to start by speaking about the title of the exhibition, Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia, which stood out to me today when I
revisited it in ʻōlelo Hawai‘i. It feels quite “pronoun-coded,” in a way. I’m curious, how was the title chosen, and by whom? And how do you hope or imagine it would be understood?
Sung Hwan Kim: As you know, when I first arrived in Hawai‘i, David and I were learning ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi by reading Ka Lei Haʻaheo: Beginning Hawaiian by Alberta Pualani Hopkins, which I got from the University of Hawaiʻi. I find that textbook interesting. When I engage with a culture that informs the subject of my films or other projects, I try to learn the language through language books and other literature that is from that culture. In this particular Hawaiian textbook, there are many examples that I don’t find in other language textbooks. It’s not just about practical things like going to the supermarket or making friends. Those things all exist, but in a very different context in this book. For example, one of the sentences in the book says, “Korean women are not very tall.” I found that sentence very interesting because it talks about the people who are present in Hawaiʻi.
The exhibition title, Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia, can be more or less translated into “he/she/they learned something by another person.” Somebody was there in a place, and there was somebody else from another place who wanted to learn. This interesting syntactical structure depicts the action of learning — and between those two people, a distinct space emerges. That space is what I was interested in; and I wanted that space to be the subject — the space of action between people — rather than focusing on the verb like “learning,” or the gender of the individuals involved, such as, “he or she.”
This genderless pronoun “ʻo ia” in Hawaiian interested me because in Korean [language], keuh (그) is a genderless third pronoun as well. Contemporary Korean language has “she” and “he” because it is influenced by the Japanese language during occupation. I learned in school that
the Korean language did not have gender before colonization.
The title of my exhibition was indeed about keuh (그). It’s about the third party. So I want to leave it at that. And whenever people ask me what the title means, I just give different pronouns. Sometimes I say “he, she,” “she, he,” or “they, they,” or “they, he.” So, it could be anybody.
DC: Beautiful. In the exhibition guide, it says, “They learned from them. Learned by them, their teaching.” That to me goes beyond simply presenting those three statements without gender. It speaks to your process, and to the forms of communication and collaboration you’re engaging in and presenting throughout the exhibition, if that interpretation aligns with your intention.
SHK: Yes. I wanted a title that focuses on neither the object of the research nor on the person conducting it, someone who ventured into a field that few are familiar with, with the aim of bringing something new or exotic back to where they came from. I wanted to add another medium, in this case, another language, to leave this binary space instead of thinking about that object that is delivered as the object of learning, such as Hawaiian culture or history, or vice versa, I wanted to create a space where that whole culture turns into another language, in this case ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi, through which we interpret the history of Korea and of the United States.
David Michael DiGregorio: Also, the title as presented on the cover of the exhibition guide, and in the museum itself, in Korean is transliterated into sound only. In other words, it isn’t translated into the meaning of the text in Hawaiian language. It’s just the sound.
DC: So this is teaching how to pronounce this in ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi. That’s so wonderful. I didn’t realize that at all. This publication that Gahee Park, the exhibition curator, wrote is one of the most generous exhibition guides that I’ve ever seen. In
revisiting the show through reading this again, it’s so beautifully written. And as much as the exhibition itself brought in so many different voices and ideas, that’s all represented in the guide too.
So, the exhibition had three rooms. Room One, with its utilitarian name and its location on the ground floor of the museum, feels like the natural place to begin unpacking the work for this conversation. As I understand it, there is a group of works called Figure Complex, and those are presented in relation to artworks by different artists who were brought in from Drew [K.] Broderick’s curation of the 2022 Hawai‘i Triennial. It’s a wonderful way of bringing in Drew’s artistic genealogy and connecting it to the research and connecting you to him.
I wonder if you could speak about some of the interventions you made in presenting those Triennial works in Room One, literally framed or presented or annotated. One aspect being the sense of welcome or generosity you’ve received among the people of Hawai‘i, the other being your own experience with it.
SHK: I can give a few examples of how, as you say, it was an intervention into Drew’s exhibition at the 2022 Hawai‘i Triennial, which extended into the state museum, Capitol Modern [formerly Hawai‘i State Art Museum]. There’s an interview with Joan Lander of Nā Maka o ka ‘Āina with Drew and Taylour Chang asking the questions. The film is one of an Artist Conversation series by kekahi wahi [a grassroots film initiative led by Sancia Miala Shiba Nash and Drew K. Broderick], made in the context of the Hawai‘i Triennial to introduce some of the artists Drew included in that exhibition. I find these films to be very new and interesting in terms of filmmaking. I decided to have a selection of films from the Artist Conversation series playing on a loop in a smaller room connected to Room One at SeMA. These films reveal both the connection and divide between Drew’s generation and the generation of the artist that he’s looking at.
Room One. Top, the photographs by Piliāmo‘o carry the elevation of Figure Complex 1: The Cost of the Laundry He Has Done , 2024.
Bottom, the photographs by Ed Greevy carry the back of Figure Complex 5: Nā Maka o ka ‘Āina and Ho‘omau Nā Maka o ka ‘Āina , 2024. Courtesy of Seoul Museum of Art. Images by Suin Kwon.
Sung Hwan Kim, Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia 우아 아오 이아 오 이아 에 이아 (book), Seoul: Seoul Museum of Art, Rasun Press, 2025, pp.140–141.
Rooms One, Two, Three, at SeMA.
From exhibition guide for Sung Hwan Kim: Ua a‘o ‘ia
2024–2025.
These films were made during Covid. So the people who are interviewing are literally in a different space than the people who are answering. This difference, or separation, also serves as a metaphor for the gap created by time and space in which each party is naturally situated. The new generation learn about the history of their place through books, oral histories, and evidence they can see, and as well as by talking, such as in this film, by asking questions. And these questions can often be grand. By questioning, you want something wise to be revealed to you. You’re guessing what might have happened in the past that you didnʻt go through. What is great about this particular conversation is that Joan Lander’s answers are practical. It’s demystifying. Artists often make something out of a situation that is not the most ideal. It’s not like they are celebratory events, a lot of the subjects that they deal with. In a manner somewhat like a kōan, Lander’s answers demonstrate the craft of cultivating a response to the questions that are already poised to become culture. In this way, this film can reach beyond those who are already familiar with and interested in the subject of Hawaiʻi. For that reason, I put Korean subtitles on these Artist Conversation films. That means that it’s newly targeting an audience who may otherwise never see them — the language creates an invitation. The second example of intervention is the inclusion of the Piliāmo‘o photographs. In one instance, I took a picture of a photograph in an open copy of Ē Luku Wale Ē and printed that image on the wall. When I spoke with Piliāmo‘o, they agreed that I could present the photograph in a frame on the wall, but I became more interested in how to show that this work endured the over time particularly because of the distribution of Ē Luku Wale Ē. I want the viewer to think about printed matter and its ability to transcend time, passing information to the next generation, while also highlighting Drew’s emphasis on this in his own exhibition. So I took a picture of the photograph in a spread that shows a dividing
line of the page, then I composited the higher-resolution image onto it. The final print showed that the book was a medium where the photograph existed.
DC: It also respects the boundary of the artists’ work. In some way, you could think, “Oh, you’ve made a new artwork out of this other person’s artwork,” but in another sense, it’s about respect. You look at a book of somebody’s work and you’re framing it through that experience. You made a really large vinyl piece out of it. Of all the ways that you brought in other artists’ work, which initially I wanted to question, or took me a minute to understand through being in the space, I found this most interesting.
SHK: It was a very slow conversation, I had lived in Hawai‘i by then for about four years, but I didn’t have a close relationship with Piliāmoʻo. It’s a very delicate situation because artists’ main goal may not always be to distribute their work worldwide. It has to be done properly by respecting the way that each artist wants their work to be presented. I’m not a curator. As I’m working on another artistʻs work, I’m testing the boundaries. The process went organically, step by step, by asking questions when I’m ready to ask a question, when I’m given a platform to ask a question. I knew that I was very interested in their book, what it means for their photographs to have found a place in a book. I was also interested in their [Kapulani Landgraf’s and Mark Hamasaki’s] relationship, where they come from, the fact that they come from different places, and that they met in a school context as teacher and student, and all that.
The third example is the inclusion of the works by Ed Greevy and HaunaniKay Trask. Around the time Drew and I were talking during the lead up to HT22, I showed my interest in being shown next to Ed Greevy’s photographs from the book Kūʻē: Thirty Years of Land Struggle in Hawai‘i. I didn’t demand this, but it turned into a conversation between Drew and me. I learned about the history of
evictions that happened on Hawaiian land. In Greevy’s photographs, I was looking at the details in the photograph of Terrilee Kekoʻolani; the microphone and the hair blowing the wind; and what does it mean to have wind? What does it mean to a person to stand and make a speech to another person and the voice to be recorded by a microphone? So we talked about that. Meanwhile, Drew was interested in showing the Haunani-Kay Trask texts from Kūʻē in response to the photographs, almost like a diptych of a photograph and text. He eventually displayed it as didactic text on the wall next to the photograph. The photograph and the text were separate. But we were still talking about this idea later, about how maybe they could be presented together in the way that he was thinking, and in a way that I was interested in, too.
So there were two parts in this intervention. One was to merge the text and photograph with an agreement from Ed Greevy; we got permission from him. And I bought his photographs, and then put the text together juxtaposed with the corresponding photograph in one frame. The two are shown together within a frame in this exhibition as they have been in three other venues around the world since then.
So I was interested in how to show a historical context that is not fully controlled by me, as one artist, but through another person, from another generation, from another place. But by working in a very... I mean, I want to say intimate, but I cannot because I didn’t know at first my relationship to Hawaiʻi would be intimate. One cannot fully plan intimacy. There’s a medium, there’s a person, Drew, who is in between these relationships and this network, this grammatical structure, the space where they are taught by them. So we were in this space of action between the two parties that we created, and that whole thing could be the work.
DC: Super important part of it the last sentence says everything. It was really beautiful to hear about the hair. It gave me chicken skin, the hair of Terrilee Kekoʻolani floating on the wind, and the
way that translated into the videos that you started making of David and of your niece [Yoon Jin Kim] on Wilhelmina Rise [Lanipō], that this was another point of entry to place. Do you want to say anything about the way that the context of Room One speaks to the connection between the histories of Korea and the histories of Hawaiʻi?
SHK: In Room One, which was the first, located on the lower floor in the exhibition space, I made these works collectively called Figure Complex. So the Hawaiʻi landscape was present in images, because Piliāmoʻo’s photographs were there, and the actual physical books, Ē Luku Wale Ē, were also exhibited. So people knew where these images were coming from, but they didn’t see the photographs in the physical books, only the reference pages. However, in the same space on the wall, there were big vinyl prints. So these became like a landscape, which people immediately saw as they entered, but they didn’t yet see the violence done to the landscape. They needed to read the information in the references in the vitrines to know that this is a document of violence, these photographs by Piliāmoʻo of the H3 project.
Then opposite of that, there are these Figure Complex works, which are on a human scale. They are these multidimensional, almost architectural, sectional structures. There are some photographs and relationships between the subjects. I chose these five examples that connect the landscape or the culture of Hawaiʻi to some subjects or information that Korean people might be familiar with. So either these people are Hawaiian or went through Hawaiʻi or are connected to some of the themes connected to Hawaiʻi. For instance, Figure Complex 3 is called Cultivating a Land of Others. What does it mean for people who are not originally of that land to die on that land, to be part of the land by dying and becoming ash? In Hawaiʻi there are people who are not from Hawaiʻi cultivating the land of Hawaiʻi. Figure Complex 5 is about
Nā Maka o ka ʻĀina, and Hoʻomau Nā Maka o ka ʻĀina. People who are familiar with the work will read that as “ the eyes of the land, and to continue them.” In Korean translation, the title says, “If the land had eyes, the experience that the eyes want to return to the land.” So I’m reinterpreting what Nā Maka o ka ‘Āina means to me and also what the “hoʻomau” means in the work of Sancia Miala Shiba Nash, Joan Lander, and Puʻuhonua Society. So these figures are set against the landscape of the Piliāmoʻo work.
DC: In addition to the Figure Complex works, there are many more architectural forms — that’s what I think of them — that serve as a way to orient the viewer, to connect multiple floors of the space, the museum, and then also to create intimate spaces for the viewer to experience certain works, really like honoring certain works by creating space. Do you think of all of those structures, which are extensive, as artworks? Or do you see them as exhibition design?
SHK: I think they change throughout the process of the exhibition. I said that my exhibition began with a sentence from another language that is a space between a deliverer and a receiver: Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia. The exhibition, the whole space, the artwork and the audience has that same transaction. So I wanted to touch all these parts of it during the exhibition process to see how much of it I can use, because I know that the information is very dense, even though the research I did before Hawaiʻi, within Hawaiʻi, and during the process of the exhibition, is much more than what I showed.
An exhibition space is not a book or a school where information is laid out throughout time, in terms of a semester or a year. So you have to also think about whether this is an exhibition that people will revisit. Most people don’t. And when they do, they’re in for 30 minutes, an hour, or two. What are the things that they experience? So the space becomes very important — the colors or the way that they walk around becomes import-
ant. As I was designing this exhibition, I wanted to emulate a history museum. You are learning about certain types of learning. I wanted to intervene with the design of the exhibition in which people learn about a story that they’re used to, but in a different way.
Room Three presents the problem of dealing with Summer Days in Keijo— written in 1937, a separate work that was made in 2007. The film is about a situation where a medium that had recorded the history is no longer relevant or valid. Subject-wise, it has nothing to do with the [more recently made] work. It was a film that I made visiting a text that was written in 1937 by a Swedish ethnographer, Sten Bergman, traveling in Korea to collect animals for the Swedish Natural History Museum. And I had my friend, Mieke Van de Voort, who’s a photographer, play a character based on the text, visiting these places. Obviously, these places looked very different in 2007 than they did in 1937. It was a travelogue that I used as a text to make a film. There are some
Installation view of Room Two. Seoul Museum of Art, Korea. Sung Hwan Kim: Ua a‘o ‘ia ‘o ia e ia , 우아 아오 이아 오 이아 에 이아 , 2024–2025. Courtesy of artist. Image by Suin Kwon.
problems with films like that. And I had always known that there is a problem for any artist to make a film like that. At the same time, the film had been shown a lot around the world. I had always wanted to one day deal with the problem of making a film like that about colonial history, and present the result together with the film.
Room Two is a tongue. I want to design a tongue that speaks these stories. So what does it mean to think about a structure where ideas are being developed? So it’s not the ideas being delivered; instead we’re looking at how ideas are being formed, which is different. I didn’t want to show process. It’s not about showing the process of an unfinished work — I want to show the machine that spins out stories.
DMD: The way that I understood that was also that the tongue is, like you say, not necessarily showing the process. You are observing the apparatus of delivery. You’re not only seeing what is delivered, meaning that room and the architectural
and textual elements that manifest themselves in different ways in relation to the five videos and sound in Room Two, but also you’re observing the machine, as you say, that has somehow created it.
DC: From my perspective, Room Two seems to look back on the first video that was presented here in Hawai‘i, Hair is a piece of head, as this expanded multiverse of those ideas come to life. Your most recent piece, By Mary Jo Freshley 프레실리 에 의(依)해, — which was first presented in Hawai‘i Triennial 2025 — I don’t know if you would consider it as a continuation of Hair is a piece of head, but it really expands on ideas presented in the Figure Complex works. You present a lineal connection to Halla Huhm, via her apprentice, Mary Jo Freshley, whom you now study traditional Korean dance under. Mary Jo Freshley, as a character, becomes this very unlikely connection to your own culture via that history and that migration to Hawai‘i. Sancia Miala Shiba Nash appears in that video, dancing
under Mary Jo, and in turn evokes Halla Huhm. Can you speak to that and your process in working under Mary Jo? And then the connections you make between Halla Huhm, Mary Jo Freshley, and your own experience in that. You also connect Aunty Joan Lander and Puhipau [Nā Maka o ka ʻĀina], whom Sancia now works with to perpetuate their legacy. It’s a beautiful connection in that video. There’s one quote in the SeMA exhibition guide that says, “The unifying entity that connects these individuals, transcending differences of generation, gender, nationality, and race, is Hawai‘i.”
SHK: As I said in the beginning, the process is very organic and sensitive. You don’t just say, “This is what I want to make. Do you want to do this?” You have to figure everything out. And what I also realized in Hawai‘i is that everybody who I know is already busy with their own existing and continuing projects. People are willing to collaborate and help out as much as they can, but it’s not
Sung Hwan Kim and David Michael DiGregorio at SeMA.
Top, production still, By Mary Jo Freshley 프레실리에 의 ( 依 ) 해 , 2023. Courtesy of artist.
Bottom, Kim performs Chun Hung Kim Kībon ( 기본 ) at SeMA.
like they can put the whole time in one project or under somebody’s scheme, in this case, mine.
So, it was interesting because when I was making By Mary Jo Freshley 프레실리 에 의(依)해, Drew said, “Oh, so this is about Ho‘omau Nā Maka o ka ʻĀina.” He was seeing it allegorically and metaphorically. And this is about the way that Sancia is dealing with her relationship with Joan Lander. Because it is about what it means to see a person who’s invested in a culture that they’re looking at, but not necessarily from where they’re from. But in a way, you can say that even everybody who is from that culture is also a foreigner, because they are born without any knowledge of their own and they start to learn either from family, school, and so on, and thus a history is learned. So one is learning a lot about who one is and where one is from, the same way the people who are not from that place could learn about that place. So that aspect is present in my film. While they’re engaging in that learning, they could become a master, a professional, or somebody who has expertise, knowledge of that culture space. And then there’s a new one coming, a student or a young person or another foreigner from another place, another field, another genre. Then they are looking at it and they think about what to do with this that they are looking at. What do you do with this? Do I belong here, or can I touch this? They become engaged to the questions while solving them.
The film By Mary Jo Freshley 프레실리 에 의(依)해 is a work that has a title in multiple languages, and the use of these languages give varied information. In English, it says “By Mary Jo Freshley.” In Korean newspapers and other media, she is called by her surname, so in Korean, the title only reads her surname, plus the preposition in Korean that indicates an agent of cause or action: ~ui (~의). This particle in Korean is coming from a Chinese character that ideographically depicts a person and clothing (依). And this signifies “by,” which can unfold into the sense of “something is done by.” For me, this is
one essential meaning of medium: it has to do with a costume, a person wearing clothing. You become something by wearing something, by wearing clothes, by putting something on. I think that answered your question, maybe. (Laughs)
DC: Sure. I mean, it does in your way, it definitely does. So, not to close but to open the last part of what I wanted to talk about: I would love to hear both of your perspectives around the culmination of the workshops, of which I was able to experience. In one sense, bringing Halla Huhm’s work via Mary Jo Freshley back to Korea, which was then scored by David. It just completely activated the entire space, but really culminated when you danced.
Also, if you could speak to the Hawaiian sense of protocol and the closing of the exhibition by bringing a lot of those collaborators to Seoul with you. It’s a huge ball of wax, but I would love to hear from you both about that night and the closing of the workshops.
DMD: Before we made the work, Sung Hwan wrote in a project statement about Hair is a piece of head, “Often my subject, and myself, do not seem to be inside on a firm ground, having the option to venture outside. We are already implicated in ‘the outside’, without our knowledge…”
When I first was invited to come to Hawai‘i in many capacities, I had not expected that I would be so immediately thrust into a state of learning. To talk about “they learn by them,” to be invited, to have a plan with someone, to do research in Hawai‘i, to be invited to TRADES A.i.R., to be invited by Maile Meyer into a space to meet Kumu Auli‘i Mitchell, to meet Mary Jo Freshley. I had not expected that I would be back in a place of learning. In my work, song cycles began to emerge that were related to being in place in Hawai‘i and from working on Hair is a piece of head. Some of these cycles were inspired by historical research, others poetic. Then there was the music inspired by observing
rehearsals at the Halla Huhm Dance Studio in Honolulu. The piece that you hear at the very end of the final workshop we did at SeMA, a moment during which Sung Hwan was dancing, is my attempt to copy a piece of music that I repeatedly heard being played from a CD recording at Halla Huhm Studio. This is the music used for practice and presentation of Chun Hung Kim Kībon (기본), a dance of “the basics.” Halla Huhm invited Mr. Kim to Hawaiʻi, and Mary Jo Freshley calls him her Korean father. Sung Hwan was performing that kībon at the end of the culminating workshop at SeMA. And I, for a year, or two years, was trying to just make a copy of this music I heard, and I just could not understand the rhythm. I could not internalize it for the longest time until I learned to let go of expectations based on my prior knowledge and training — this was placing me outside the essence of the music. Part of my process of letting go involved understanding what Mary Jo Freshley described as a “hiccup” in the rhythm. There’s something, there’s a breath, a hesitation. This moved me to the “inside.”
What’s really interesting about this relationship to the workshop is that it once again threw me again into that place of learning while in Seoul. Tasked with making music for a workshop with a fluid form, I had to let go of the idea that I had to know everything precisely. It’s just like trying to remake that kībon music’s rhythm. An arrogant thought is, “Of course this should be easy because I’m just copying it.” But one of the most difficult ways to access it was to think like that. When we finally got to Seoul to prepare for the workshops, I realized the importance of being in place, at a site connected to so much of the history linked to the works in the exhibition. It again made me think of this notion of going between “outside” and “inside.” We were speaking of learning ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi and Ka Lei Haʻaheo, this textbook that Sung Hwan mentioned. We studied that book, and also studied the language in Honolulu under Ahukini Fuertes.
Ahukini came to Korea to translate and narrate the workshop in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. To witness somebody else speak in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi Sung Hwan’s poetic text that was a backbone of the workshop, to let go and sing witnessing fully formed elements of the workshop moving in parallel, while I myself not insisting on knowing perfectly everything that was inside, while still being inside — it was all very much a learning experience for me, again.
DC: Sung Hwan, speak to whatever you want, but I’m still interested in the idea of the protocol of closing, and then dancing Halla Huhm’s teachings in Seoul via that connection to Hawai‘i.
SHK: You talked about this ending. What I used to call a workshop now has a title. It’s called Movement Drawing. Drawing as in something you’re drawing, the movement, and the whole movement that you saw, the activity that you saw as a drawing, as a drawing in time, or “drawing in” as something that is like you’re gathering something, as if you’re catching fish. In the first Movement Drawing workshop, I gave the participants the prompts, the text that directed the movements of the participants, in Korean. They learned the movement as much as they could in two hours.
The second and final workshops were narrated in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi by Ahukini with English and Korean titles projected in the space. Most participants did not understand ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, but their movements seem as if they were directed by ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi because they have already learned the movements. Students moved as if they came before teachers who had directions to give. This was the structure of that workshop.
Like the undertow beneath every wave, there are two flows of teaching, of being taught. Here, learning is being delivered. One is a teacher. The other is a student, but that person eventually becomes a teacher. That circuit of learning has an infinite duration like waves, as the message of learning evolves as you experience it.
It’s interesting that you thought about protocol. When we opened the exhibition, Protected by roof and right-hand muscles, in 2023 in the Netherlands at the Van Abbemuseum, Kumu Auli‘i attended the opening and there was a performance by David. David sang a concert and the performance began with the audience lining up outside. Then I brought these groups of people, or individuals, and placed them in the exhibition space. I was thinking about what would happen in the performance, so David could move around without difficulty. Kumu Auli‘i thought that was just like how it is in hula. You do the kāhea. You ask the space if you may enter, and then you enter in order. Space is not just where you just go in and see things. If Kumu Auli‘i came to see the Movement Drawing at SeMA at the end, [I imagine] he might have felt very strongly in that way, too.
DMD: I remember now that after getting over the idea of the challenge of the workshop as a performer, as a singer, thinking, “How can I do this without knowing what precision moves have to be done? Why isn’t this just a composition? Why does it deconstruct itself? What to do? What to do?” I realized the thing that brought me back was hearing Ahukini speak. Thinking about some of the things that Drew had said to me. Then, also thinking that this is a locus of witness. When I started to lean on that idea, “Oh, this is about witness in all directions,” then it was a lot easier as a performer to understand where I stood.
SHK: I was reminded of another thing: We first met Kumu Auliʻi at an ʻohe kapa workshop. It was a two-day, all-day-long workshop. In the middle of the workshop, he told me about his hālau and invited me to come. Later, as I came to know him better, I learned that he doesn’t go around and advertise. I found out that in his teaching not all information is for everybody. When we were doing this workshop [at SeMA], we had the music already. I had practiced Mr Kim’s kībon for
years, and Aiala had already made the costume I could dance in. But I was not certain that I was going to dance in this exhibition. We had this very heated debate a few days before about whether I should dance this or not. When you’re standing in the space between what they consider to be performers in a museum context, the audience thinks that they deserve to be there. The information is provided and presented to them there. It can easily turn into a transactional experience: You go there, you pay for the ticket, or your time to be there, and the artist should perform for you, and you should understand it.
DC: You’re performing. You’re dancing. It’s not just because you learned it. It’s a culmination of this connection. It’s not the ending of this connection, but it’s sharing a very personal connection, which is tying all of your research together. You’re inviting these people to witness that part of the process. We begin to understand the process that both of you work through.
SHK: Some of the hula I was learning from Hālau ʻo Kahiwahiwa is hula kapu. We do dance for people when Kumu allows us to do it. Instead of being secretive or being cut off from the world, it’s about when and where to put out some of those things we learn in order for the form to exist and also to continue. Similarly, an artist can also decide whether something should be performed or not. Can it be performed? And does it function for some of the ideas that I’m trying to respect within this process? And in a way, a workshop or performance format is the best medium to decide to leave the decision-making until the end because you can actually do it or not do it.
DC: And what people don’t witness, they don’t know what they didn’t witness. But I think that’s a really wonderful way of making that connection to protocol through your own responsibility in the aspects of what you’ve learned and what you choose to perpetuate. A
“I didn’t want to show process. It’s not about showing the process of an unfinished work. I want to show the machine that spins out stories.”
_ sung hwan kim
FLUX _ FEATURE
THE GROWING NETWORK OF COMMUNITY LAND TRUSTS SEEK TO PROVIDE PERMANENTLY AFFORDABLE HOMES FOR HAWAI‘I’S PEOPLE — AND REDEFINE THE NARRATIVE ON HOUSING IN PARADISE TO EMPHASIZE COLLECTIVE, RATHER THAN INDIVIDUAL, WELLBEING.
Image courtesy Lahaina Community Land Trust
The Rise of Community Land Trusts in Hawai‘i
This story was originally published by Overstory, an online newsroom covering the systems and solutions behind Hawai‘i’s most pressing issues.
On Aug. 8, 2024, a new milestone was reached in the aftermath of the deadly Lahaina wildfire that destroyed 2,200 structures and displaced 12,000 residents: A Lahaina nonprofit secured its first residential parcel for community ownership.
1651 Lokia Street, which once held a fourbed, three-bath house, sits empty. But one day, the property will accommodate a new main house and two ‘ohana units, providing a stable, affordable home for an extended or multigenerational family.
That property will forever remain in the hands of Lahaina’s people under the Lahaina Community Land Trust, which will own the land and only sell homes atop to kama‘āina.
Lahaina residents have long pushed back against external real estate interests and were already dealing with displacement before the fire. But amid a worsened housing shortage, rising rents and speculators looking to cash in on the tragedy, securing Lahaina and safeguarding affordable homes for its community members has become more important than ever. A March 2024 report estimated that, without intervention, as much as 20% of Lahaina’s homes could change hands in the next three years.
“I can’t even begin to quantify the impact of securing one piece of property that until forever is going to house how many people,” said Autumn Ness, executive director of the Lahaina Community Land Trust. “You can’t be evicted. How many families are going to enjoy that and be better community members for it? Because they have a roof over their head, their kids will have present parents.”
The nonprofit is one of several Hawai‘i community land trusts that have been established in recent years as ‘āina experts, community organizers, real estate professionals and others look to combat Hawai‘i’s ever-increasing housing prices, keep more longtime residents
in their communities and preserve Hawai‘i’s culture and identity.
In 2023, Gov. Josh Green declared Hawai‘i’s affordable housing shortage an emergency. Hawai‘i has the highest median home sales price in the country and hasn’t been building enough homes for decades. The crisis disproportionately affects Native Hawaiians, who are overrepresented among the state’s houseless population and have a higher poverty rate than other major ethnic/race groups.
“What family in Hawai‘i is not worried about their children’s ability to be here, about their children’s ability to be close to them as they age, that they’ll be able to know their grandchildren?” said Carolyn Auweloa, chief operations officer of the Lahaina Community Land Trust.
With a high rate of out-of-state homeownership—in 2023, out-of-state buyers represented 21% of the single-family home transactions and 27% of the condo transactions—Hawai‘i’s homes are often commodified as tools to build individual wealth. The local community land trusts hope to change the narrative around housing in paradise by emphasizing collective, rather than individual, wellbeing.
That means embracing that stable, affordable housing can strengthen families and communities when residents don’t have to work two or three jobs to get by.
“The big paradigm shift that we try to bring people across is to stop thinking about real estate as a wealth-building vehicle and see it instead as a community asset,” Auweloa said.
“It doesn’t matter how much housing we create, there will always be this insatiable demand for it because it’s so desirable to be here.”
a form of collective stewardship
Community land trusts are one form of collective stewardship. Hawai‘i knows that model
RIGHT, KOHALA COMMUNITY
LAND TRUST HOLDS ITS FIRST ANNUAL MEMBERSHIP MEETING IN JANUARY. IMAGE BY RASCHA JELKS FOR KOHALA COMMUNITY LAND TRUST. OPPOSITE, LAHAINA COMMUNITY LAND TRUST STAFF, FAMILY, AND FRIENDS AT A WORKDAY ON 1651 LOKIA STREET, THE FIRST PARCEL THE TRUST ACQUIRED FOR COMMUNITY OWNERSHIP IMAGE COURTESY LAHAINA COMMUNITY LAND TRUST.
hawai‘i’s community land trusts
hhoc housing & land trust (nonprofit affiliate of o‘ahu-based hawai‘i homeownership center)
ho‘omaluhia community land trust (under kaua‘i based permanently affordable living hawai‘i)
kohala community land trust
lahaina community land trust
nā hale o maui
hale o hawai‘i
2025 legislation
sb 332, sd1 hd1
prohibits sellers of foreclosed homes from bundling properties at a public sale and allow community land trusts, tenants, families, city and state government, affordable housing nonprofits 45 days to match or beat the best public sale bid to buy the property.
hb 833, hd1
creates a five-year community land trust equity pilot program under the hawai‘i housing finance and development corporation to provide community land trusts with a line of credit.
well, given that all land once belonged to the highest-ranking chief and was collectively cared for by maka‘āinana, or commoners.
After the Great Māhele of 1848 began implementing private landownership, some Native Hawaiians and other Kingdom of Hawai‘i citizens formed land huis to collectively purchase and steward land. In 1869, a hui of 71 Native Hawaiians and other Kingdom citizens purchased almost the entire 15,000-acre ahupua‘a of Wainiha on Kaua‘i, according to a 2012 article in the University of Hawai‘i Law Review. Six years later, 38 Native Hawaiian Hā‘ena families jointly purchased the neighboring ahupua‘a of Hā‘ena.
“The community land trust and the hui are just two examples of how our society has grappled with this broken system that has never really worked—of private property ownership and that private property ownership equals the right for someone to use property to build their individual wealth,” Ness said.
Community land trusts are powerful mechanisms for preventing communities of color from being displaced. The first community land trust in the U.S. originated in the southern U.S. Civil Rights Movement in the late 1960s to create a new form of land tenure for Black farmers.
Community land trusts are nonprofits that own land on behalf of a place-based community and sell or rent the homes on top. They are generally governed by a board of land trust residents, broader community residents and public representatives.
They make their land available to homeowners through renewable ground leases that typically last 99 years. By owning the land and limiting the price at which homes can be sold for, they make the cost of homeownership more accessible to a wider segment of the community, including those with limited means, and protect the properties from speculation.
There are 314 community land trusts across 46 states, D.C. and Puerto Rico, according to a 2022 census by the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, a nonprofit think tank, and the Grounded Solutions Network, a national nonprofit that advances permanently affordable housing solutions. These community land trusts hold nearly 44,000 permanently affordable housing units.
Jason Webb helps community groups around the country start community land trusts as a community and technical assistance principal at the Grounded Solutions Network. He said community land trusts are a growing model that tends to follow hot real estate markets where lower-income individuals have been priced out.
More community land trusts are also being created in Indigenous communities and in the wake of natural disasters.
And whereas many of the country’s earlier land trusts were started by community activists and organizers, he’s now seeing many be started by professionals, such as those working in real estate, business and foundations.
Taylor Kaluahine Lani, chief operating officer and co-founder of Kaua‘i nonprofit Permanently Affordable Living Hawai‘i, said community land trusts are a culturally competent model for homeownership in Hawai‘i because they redefine wealth as family and community wellbeing.
Lani grew up on the island’s North Shore and became a real estate agent upon returning after college. Locals, she said, tend to stay in place once they’ve found their piece of property, building additions if they need more space, and embrace having a long-term home base where their families can have security. That’s a different mentality than using their homes to move to different neighborhoods, counties or even out of Hawai‘i to climb the economic ladder.
“We still can build wealth without contributing to that displacement,” Lani said. PAL Hawai‘i launched its Ho‘omaluhia Community Land Trust in 2024 and has so far placed five homes under construction in its Kauhale O Namahana project into that trust. The Kīlauea project will eventually contain 11 homes. PAL is also building projects in Kalāheo and Waipouli.
permanently affordable housing
Carrie DeMott was teaching in West Maui when she heard about the Nā Hale O Maui community land trust from a fellow educator. She was renting and decided to go through its four-step qualification process because she felt she “needed to be doing something towards getting stable housing” for her young son.
About seven years ago, sewage from her shower overflowed throughout her rental. Seeing her son trying to pick up a
sewage-covered book he had been gifted from his nana was a wake-up call.
“I scooped him up, and I was just like, what? Oh, my God. Like, how am I here?” she said. “I did everything right. I went to college. I paid off my loans. I’m working as a teacher. I’m giving my heart and soul to the community, and here I am, and I’m in this horrible house, and my kid’s books are covered in sewage.”
She was ecstatic when she was selected to purchase a home from Nā Hale O Maui and went on to serve as a resident member of the organization’s board to help be a voice for homeowners. She’s now the nonprofit’s interim executive director.
Founded in 2006, Nā Hale O Maui is the longest-running community land trust in the state and has 50 homes in its trust. Dave Ward, a founding member and current board member, said the community land trust stemmed from a diverse group of individuals—including real estate professionals, an attorney, a county council member, a planning commission member and others—who wanted to address the island’s growing housing affordability gap. The Great Recession began shortly after the organization was formed, so its early years were spent acquiring and rehabilitating empty, foreclosed homes. It’s continued to buy existing homes, in addition to building on empty lots. A few of those already-built homes were donated in-kind from the county, and the county has also donated lots for the land trust to build on.
Nā Hale O Maui has sold leasehold homes in Kīhei, Kahului, Wailuku, Lahaina and Makawao at below-market prices, and, like many land trusts, its resale prices are determined using a formula to preserve affordability for low- to moderate-income households in perpetuity.
That formula considers the initial purchase price, the homeowner’s share of appreciation, any capital improvements that the homeowner did, and whether the home has suffered excessive damage or neglect. The homeowner’s share of appreciation ranges from 25% to 50%, depending on how long the homeowner stayed in the home.
“It’s like if you were going to invest money in a money market, maybe a highyield savings account, or something like that,” DeMott said. “You’re not going to pop out of this with a windfall.”
DeMott and Ward acknowledge that this model is not for everyone, but it has helped two families move into market-rate homes. According to Webb, homeowners stay in a community land trust home for an average of 10 years, though many organizations encourage homeowners to stay longer, even for several generations.
it’s about the people of a place
In the northwestern corner of Hawai‘i Island, Kohala is renowned for being the birthplace of King Kamehameha I and a training center for his army. It’s also famous for its plantation roots, which brought in the Filipino, Japanese, Chinese and Portuguese families that, along with Native Hawaiians, have long made up the community.
Ashton Dircks is a seventh-generation taro farmer, former archaeologist and current high school teacher who was raised in Kohala. He recalls the days when everyone knew each other and how he couldn’t go down the road without waving at almost every car. That wasn’t
the case when he returned home about eight years ago.
“I didn’t recognize any of the cars on the road or the people driving those cars,” he said. “I go to the post office, and I felt like I was a minority in the town I grew up in.”
Now the chair of the Kohala Community Land Trust’s board, he hopes to give Kohala residents a chance to stay and thrive in the community. “It’s the people who make the place, and without those people who are Kohala, Kohala is just not the same,” Dircks said. “And this land trust, I saw this as a vehicle to try to get Kohala people back.”
Kohala residents had been searching for a community-led housing solution since 2000. The Kohala Community Land Trust was originally formed in 2003, but a lack of funding caused it to dissolve in 2006. The land trust’s current iteration was born in 2023 from conversations among the 2008 North Kohala Community Development Plan’s affordable housing group.
Kohala has seen limited affordable housing development. One challenge is that most of Kohala is zoned for agriculture and requires that building sites be at least 20 acres, said Beth Robinson, board secretary of the Kohala Community Land Trust and one of eight North Kohala residents who helped revitalize the nonprofit.
The organization hopes to acquire plantation-era homes on smaller lots of about 10,000 or 15,000 square feet, rather than building new ones. Robinson, who is also a real estate broker and director of conservation and legacy lands at Hawai‘i Life, said that of the 203 homes sold for under $400,000 between 2009 and 2024, 73% went to Kohala or nearby residents and 27% went to outsiders.
“While it wasn’t as bad as we all thought, because we’re saying that almost three-quarters of the homes did not go to outsiders, 55 homes did,” Robinson said. “So that’s where we kind of came up with this model of every home that we don’t lose to an outsider is a home that we don’t have to build.”
The land trust received its 501(c)3 status in August. It spent the fall getting input from community groups and held its first annual membership meeting in January. Its committees are now helping the trust determine what properties to acquire and what policies it should follow, and it hopes to secure its first property by the end of 2025.
born in the aftermath of a disaster
The Lahaina Community Land Trust aims to purchase destroyed parcels from Lahaina residents who don’t want
to rebuild but still want to see the land remain with the community. “What the community land trust solution offers is a big ‘and,’ ” Auweloa said. “They can get what they need to move on, if that’s their choice, if that’s what they need to do. And they can commit their land in a way that is good for the future and is good for the community, and it can even include them in the future.”
Auweloa grew up in Lahaina and spent 22 years working with the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Much of those years were spent on Hawai‘i Island, where she would work on conservation and agricultural easements.
“It was that perspective and that experience that inspired, in the wake of the fire and the fear of the land grabs, that there must be some way that we could put some kind of protection on land that would preserve it for a community, for people,” she said.
Lahaina was once the capital of the Hawaiian Kingdom. It became a global whaling and trading center before transitioning into a quiet sugar plantation town and then a major tourist destination. As a result, Lahaina residents were already seeing their community transform long before the 2023 fires as more and more newcomers, especially wealthy retirees, moved in and working-class residents moved out.
Auweloa said it was important to the organization’s founders that its executive and advisory boards be intentionally composed of individuals with deep Lahaina roots, given Hawai‘i’s history of stolen lands and unmet promises to provide affordable housing. Many are ‘āina experts—individuals who have long histories of protecting water, ‘āina and Hawaiian culture.
“We’re intentionally different,” she said. But she noted that she is seeing more community members who used housing for wealth generation understand that it’s about family and community wellbeing.
The sellers of the Lahaina Community Land Trust’s first acquisition, for example, returned to the continent and sold their property to the land trust because they didn’t want to contribute to the further displacement of Native Hawaiians and exploitation of Hawai‘i’s lands by outside interests.
The trust has so far secured five parcels and is looking at 12 others. In addition to acquiring land, it also plans to use perpetual “kama‘āina easements” to require that properties it assists in other ways be sold only to Lahaina residents if they change hands. And the land trust will be offered the property first.
The kama‘āina easements will be used for the organization’s insurance
gap pilot program, which will help Lahaina residents rebuild their homes. Ness, the organization’s executive director, estimated that the average gap for underinsured residents is about $400,000.
Ness previously worked in housing policy and said that Maui County’s average per-unit subsidy over the last decade was about $350,000. But because those homes only stay affordable for five to 10 years, they only help one homeowner. In comparison, the land trust’s investment of $400,000 will result in a permanently affordable home.
selling affordable homes on o‘ahu and hawai‘i island
The Hawai‘i HomeOwnership Center (HHOC) provides education and information to help residents become first-time homeowners. It created its nonprofit affiliate, HHOC Housing & Land Trust, to help create and preserve affordable homes.
The original intent was for the community land trust to buy affordable homes that have resale or buy-back restriction periods under local government agencies, said Reina Miyamoto, executive director of HHOC. HHOC Housing & Land Trust is the buyback agent for the Hawai‘i Community
THIS PAGE, 1651 LOKIA STREET WILL REMAIN WITH LAHAINA’S PEOPLE UNDER THE LAHAINA COMMUNITY LAND TRUST, WHICH WILL OWN THE LAND AND ONLY SELL HOMES ATOP TO LAHAINA RESIDENTS. IMAGE COURTESY LAHAINA COMMUNITY LAND TRUST. OPPOSITE, RENDERING FROM PERMANENTLY AFFORDABLE LIVING HAWAI‘I FOR A PROJECT SERVING HOUSEHOLDS EARNING 120% OF THE AREA MEDIAN INCOME AND BELOW. IMAGE COURTESY PAL HAWAI‘I.
Development Authority (HCDA), but it hasn’t acquired HCDA units yet.
Miyamoto said the community land trust has so far purchased eight homes on the open market and then subsidized the resale costs to keep the prices affordable to first-time homebuyers with household incomes up to 120% of the area median income. For example, its first home was a two-bedroom condo in the Waipahu Plantation Town Apartments, which it acquired for $298,000. After renovations, the community land trust sold it in 2019 for $285,000. Miyamoto said it makes a difference when the organization can acquire properties at discounted prices or receives cash donations to help it offset expenses.
Pete Hoffmann, board president and co-founder of HALE O Hawai‘i, echoed a similar statement. It’s much more cost-effective on Hawai‘i Island to build new homes on empty lots instead of buying and reselling existing homes.
The community land trust, which was created in 2018, targets households with incomes between 60% and 140% AMI. Many don’t have the ability to qualify for a mortgage for a home over $400,000, so the goal is to find land as affordably as it can and then sell a newly built home at-cost.
HALE O Hawai‘i is also exploring the potential of sub-leasing lots from the
state and county in existing developments, which would lower the amount of funds it spends on land. “I’m open to any reasonable strategy that would allow us to get land that we can put a home on,” Hoffmann said.
expanding hawai‘i’s community land trusts
There are six active community land trusts in Hawai‘i. State Rep. Tina Nakada Grandinetti said with Hawai‘i experiencing so much displacement, many residents are hungry for a sense of control over what happens to their homes and neighborhoods.
This legislative session, she introduced two bills that aim to encourage the expansion of community land trusts and prevent the loss of foreclosed homes to second homebuyers and residential investors.
HB 833 would create a five-year pilot program under the Hawai‘i Housing Finance and Development Corporation to provide community land trusts with a line of credit to help them provide affordable homes. And HB 467 would prohibit sellers of foreclosed homes from bundling properties at a public sale and allow
community land trusts 45 days to match or beat the best public sale bid to buy the property. HB 467 is dead for this session, but its Senate Companion, SB 332, is still moving forward.
In the meantime, Nā Hale O Maui has sold homes to 57 families—directly impacting well over 100 children. DeMott said she knows quite a few teachers who are still teaching on Maui because of the organization, and the most recent families included police officers and firefighters.
“It keeps the people that do community service-based work here,” she said. And the organization’s homebuyer education has helped many families become more knowledgeable about affordable housing and what resources are available.
In Lahaina, the Lahaina Community Land Trust is developing a weighted lottery system that it’ll use to choose homeowners for its homes. The plan is to prioritize Lahaina community members based on how long they lived in the town, to ensure the homes go to those with deep ties to the community. Maui County already allows for workforce housing applicants—both for ownership and rental units— to be selected by lottery and then be ranked by the total
JEN, KŪMOANAĀKEA, RICHARD, AND KEOLAONĀKAI’ELUA AT THE KEY PRESENTATION OF THEIR NEW WAILUKU HOME. NĀ HALE O MAUI HAS SOLD 50 SINGLE-FAMILY, LEASEHOLD HOMES TO 57 FAMILIES SINCE IT WAS FOUNDED IN 2006. IMAGE BY RYLEE SPARLING, KSM 2026, FOR NĀ HALE O MAUI.
length of time each has been a resident of the County.
“We can actually make a system that favors our community, so hopefully it’ll normalize the conversation a little bit as we do it,” Ness said. She and Auweloa said every property that the Lahaina Community Land Trust finds a solution for is a win that they are proud of. The land trust’s goal is to protect 20% of Lahaina’s homes.
“I’d written off ever being able to live here,” Auweloa said. “… I’m stoked that we’re starting something here that’s only going to gain momentum and is going to mean a new outcome for many families for Lahaina.” a
Growing up in the Bay Area, Noelle Fujii-Oride’s interest in journalism started from her elementary school days. It was the nuts and bolts of reporting that hooked her: the research, the questioning, the conversations, and compiling it altogether. These beginnings have evolved into her time studying at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, reporting at Hawaiʻi Business Magazine, and now serving as chief editor of Overstory, an independent newsroom dedicated to community-driven journalism. Prior to the publication’s launch, Fujii-Oride implemented a community listening project to gather input from community members, calling it one of the most fulfilling projects” of her career. The project provided her with the backbone for all of the articles she’s written for the platform thus far.
FLUX Hawaii: Tell me about Overstory.
Noelle Fujii-Oride: It’s a little bit different from other journalism organizations. We’re organized under a broader nonprofit called The Kūpaʻa Network. The Kūpaʻa Network was created first
The Story Beneath the Overstory
to help with civic engagement. That group felt that people need information to know how to civically engage or to know what to get involved with, so Overstory is an editorially-independent program under that nonprofit. When I joined I knew I did not want to work for another predominantly Oʻahu-focused organization. We knew from the get-go that Overstory would be statewide. What we did was that we worked on a six-month community listening project before our website went live. So I worked with a group of 10 community listening ambassadors, folks who were interested in journalism or storytelling. Many of them grew up in the communities they spoke with. Altogether, we engaged with more than 200 Hawaiʻi residents. Our purpose with this listening project was to build meaningful relationships with the communities that we’re covering, understand what they want to see from us as a new local newsroom, and how they want to see local journalism done differently. Many of these conversations took place in one-to-one settings. We did have an online survey for convenience that didn’t get many responses, but I was cool with that. We heard from a mix of people: educators, community organizers,
WRITER AND EDITOR NOELLE FUJIIORIDE CHOSE TO BASE HER JOURNALISM ON KAUA‘I. THE ONLINE NEWS ORGANIZATION OVERSTORY ADDRESSES THE IMBALANCE IN THE TYPES OF STORIES REPORTED ABOUT HAWAI‘I.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY
_ ALYSSA FRANCESCA SALCEDO _ ELANA TOUGH
AN INTERVIEW WITH JOURNALIST AND EDITOR NOELLE FUJII-ORIDE.
students, volunteers, business owners, retirees, policy makers, the whole gamut. These conversations were what really informed our approach, and that’s how we launched with our three initial coverage areas: housing, environment, and health.
You said that you noticed a disconnect between news organizations and the neighbor islands. Can you expand on that?
This happens for a lot of the newsrooms. Those organizations are based on Oʻahu. Their staff is all on Oʻahu. Naturally, what’s going to occur is they’re going to do the stories that are in their communities that they can access, so on Oʻahu. For me, living on a neighbor island, I really saw how the neighbor islands were being left out of these important conversations happening on Oʻahu and maybe also on a statewide level. This was one of the themes that came up during our community listening project. Neighbor island community members would tell us they felt left behind by Oʻahu news organizations, just because the only stories that would get covered about their communities were natural disasters, when something bad happened. That’s a resource issue too for these newsrooms. Not saying they’re at fault or doing it maliciously or anything, it’s just the nature of how things are. I felt like being based on Kauaʻi that’s a huge advantage, right?
What are other issues you noticed while working at other newsrooms?
I felt like there was an imbalance regarding the types of stories that have been reported in Hawaiʻi. This was also something that came up during our community conversations. When you look at a lot of the reporting here, a lot of it does tend to be about conflict, right? So maybe it’s about protest or opposition to development projects. That one comes up a lot. You also have other news that just
talks about things that suck — basically, like, all your home prices are just rising and rising; interest rates are rising and rising; more people are leaving Hawaiʻi. During our community listening project, some people would tell us that the local news they got was so negative that they disconnected from the news entirely. So, for us, we were already thinking of a solutions-oriented approach. But that just really affirmed that we were on the right track because we felt that we need more stories that don’t just talk about how things are bad and that’s the end of it. We need more stories that look at how things are bad and what is being done to address it. Our mission at Overstory is to explore the systems and solutions behind Hawaiʻi’s most pressing issues. The stories we pick tend to be ones that generate deeper understanding about systemic challenges affecting Hawaiʻi’s communities or examining responses to those challenges. We especially want to highlight the community solutions and community voices too.
What did you expect people were going to say during the Community Listening Project?
I already suspected that the neighbor island community members were going to say something about the lack of coverage or decreased coverage in their communities, as the daily newspapers on their islands have shrunk over the years. I don’t know if we have that many expectations going in. I just know I really wanted to just focus on building relationships. Because, I mean, this is a challenge for any newsroom, and just being any type of journalist. When you’re always having cycle after cycle of deadlines, you don’t have that time to go out and you know, build those relationships. Or even with your sources, continue following up with them, checking in on them, and doing more than just trying to get a story out of people.
This listening project definitely took us a lot longer than I thought it was
originally going to take us, but it was just so nice to be able to focus on the relationship aspect and just learn what people wanted us to know about their communities. We learned about efforts to restore a watershed on Maui. We heard about community gardening or community farming efforts and various ‘āina restoration initiatives. And some folks would talk with us about some of the nuances of talking about their communities. I remember one person we spoke with. She was reflecting on coverage after disasters and who you ask to speak on behalf of a community. And she was just saying, be careful about this, because it’s not always the loudest voices that are actually representative of a community. And I think about that a lot. I think about who the voices that Overstory is including in its reporting are and if we are being careful to make sure that we are not trying to make it like someone is representing a whole community. And we’re trying to make sure that we have a diversity of perspectives in the article, and that local perspectives, in particular, are elevated too.
How does Overstory’s solutions-based coverage help grassroot efforts?
I know that our articles have either sparked or contributed to existing conversations around a given topic, but I think one of our strengths is that we connect the dots between breaking news and initiatives across different islands. You don’t see a lot of that in Hawaiʻi’s existing media landscape.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity. Read the full unabridged version at fluxhawaii.com.
OVERSTORY EXPLORES THE SYSTEMS BEHIND HAWAI‘I’S MOST PRESSING ISSUES.“WE ESPECIALLY WANT TO HIGHLIGHT THE COMMUNITY SOLUTIONS AND COMMUNITY VOICES TOO,” SAYS FUJII-ORIDE.
IMAGES BY _ SHILOH PERKINS
LIVING WELL
“We zoom by everyday in our cars, and we
don’t stop to check in on our lands. We’re always in a rush.” — Miki‘ala Pescaia
Look to the Source
KAAE FARM PROVES TUBEROSE CAN THRIVE IN A DUST BOWL. ON THEIR HAWAIIAN HOMESTEAD, A MARRIED COUPLE WITH A LEI-MAKING LINEAGE AIMS TO MAKE ITS FAMILY PRACTICE MORE SUSTAINABLE, FROM SEED TO STRING.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ JEANNE COOPER _ NANI WELCH KELI‘IHO‘OMALU
Tuberose may not be native to Hawai‘i, but like many kama‘āina of long standing, its heritage intertwines several cultures and continents. Aztecs are thought to have cultivated the fragrant wildflower from Central Mexico which they called omixochitl, the Nahuatl word for “bone flower,” employing its heady scent in funereal ceremonies, along with chocolate, another indigenous creation that 16th-century Spanish conquistadors were only too happy to introduce to Europe. By the 18th century, the intoxicating aroma of tuberose, so named for its “tuberous” or swollen, bulb-like root, was wafting through Louis XIV’s gardens at Versailles and scented Marie Antoinette’s signature Parfum de Trianon. Although the date of its arrival on Hawaiian shores has not been definitively documented, it’s possible the vaqueros of Alta California who planted paniolo culture in the mid-19th century also brought agave amica , tuberose’s modern botanical name. In 1894, a year after the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy, Queen Lili‘uokalani noted tuberose among other gifts of exotic and native flora for her newly planted garden, Uluhaimalama, in Pauoa. Whatever its origin story in the islands, tuberose quickly found its way into the deft hands of lei makers and thus around the necks of arriving steamship passengers, bridal couples, and high school graduates. Today’s lei creators continue to thread long white tuberose petals into single and double strands, sometimes dotting them with colorful roses, orchids or lantern ‘ilima for contrast, or weaving them with tī or maile as an additional marker of admiration and respect. But ubiquity sadly does not signify local availability.
AT KAAE FARM, PENNY KAAE AND KAHIKINA KAAE-WHITTLE’S EFFORTS ARE LARGELY SELF-TAUGHT
“It’s the same story as food. When they are talking that we were 70 to 80 percent reliant on imports 10 years ago and we’re at 95 percent now, flowers are exactly the same, in terms of how much imports we bring in,” says Penny Kaae, whose great-grandmother Sophie started the family’s first Honolulu lei stand in the 1920s on Maunakea Street. Her grandmother, Charlotte, later convinced Sophie to move the business to the airport, where her aunt Ku‘ulei Kaae continues to operate it as Pua Melia Lei Stand. Knowing she will take
over the business one day, Penny Kaae worries about its sustainability on several levels.
“When you talk to florists and lei sellers, they don’t want to buy products from Thailand or South America, because when you get the box and you open it up, you don’t know if it’s good or bad,” she notes. “You’re already spending so much money on this product and you don’t even know if it was picked yesterday or three weeks ago.”
In 2018, Kaae says, she and her wife Kahikina Kaae-Whittle, who also works at a nonprofit in food sustainability, decided
to generate “a circular economy.” Together, they regenerated the land, starting a tuberose farm on Hawaiian Home Lands in Pu‘ukapu, above Waimea on Hawai‘i Island. Their current 11-acre lot, which includes a 1.5-acre tuberose field and their home, is Kaae Farm’s fourth location in the windswept former ranchlands. At 11,000 acres, it forms the largest Hawaiian homestead community. The land was once home to native forests of ‘iliahi, māmane, and wiliwili before the sandalwood trade and Parker Ranch spurred their clearing in the early 19th century.
This fragrant bloom is a staple in the craft of lei-making. “Tuberose is like the bread and butter in the lei-makers’ palette,” say kapa artist Ruen Hufford.
Penny Kaae’s aunt Ku‘ulei Kaae operates the family’s lei business, Pua Melia Lei Stand at Daniel K. Inouye International Airport. The family’s lei stand first started on Maunakea Street in the 1920s.
“There is such a need for this flower, because there’s not a lot of growers. On O‘ahu, there’s one big tuberose grower and, in Waimea, there’s another small farm, but they also do veggies, so it’s not their main focus, and then there’s us,” Kaae says. “There are a lot of florists and lei makers that don’t have access to these kinds of flowers.”
Roen Hufford, daughter of the late expert lei-maker, author, and Waimea flower grower Marie McDonald, says she appreciates the labor involved at Kaae Farm — and its role in keeping the cultural traditions of lei-making alive. Before she became renowned as a kapa maker who grows her own wauke, Hufford owned a flower and lei shop in Kailua in the 1980s that relied on multiple farms and backyard growers of flowers such as pua kenikeni, ‘ilima, and tuberose that are much rarer today. “I’m pleased there’s somebody young who has a lot of energy who can do it,” Hufford, 80, says. “Tuberose is like the bread and butter in the lei-makers’ palette.”
At Kaae Farm, the couple’s efforts are largely self-taught, since Waimea’s other flower farms — famed for roses and other cool-weather blossoms — typically lie in the lusher, lower-elevation Lālāmilo Farm Lots, another Hawaiian homestead tract.
“It’s really trying to change the narrative of how valuable this land is, and not necessarily trying to make a model project, but just trying to do something positive,” Kaae explains. “There’s absolutely no flower farms up here.”
Historically, Pu‘ukapu was considered
too dry and dusty for agrarian activities, except for maybe ranching. Even now, farming can be tough, especially without relying on sprays or chemical fertilizers like Kaae Farm does to realize its vision of being a fully regenerative operation. Over time, through trial and error, the pair had to learn how to work the land in a way that suits its unique conditions.
“We don’t want to mess it up,” Kaae continues. “We want to leave it better than we got here, which takes a lot more effort, but in the end, it’s worth it, one million percent.’”
In off-grid Pu‘ukapu, their pursuits include planting everything by hand, putting in a solar system to brew “compost tea” with containers from a former limu aquaculture farm in Kona, and fabricating a subsurface irrigation system to avoid evaporation. Although Kaae is still in the process of transplanting tuberose plants from a previous farm site higher up the mountain, the long-blooming plants allow her to pick flowers every other day and deliver them mostly to lei makers in Waimea.
“They’ll keep going until they say, ‘I’m good, I need to take a break,’” Kaae says, laughing, in reference to her perennial blooms, which like their grower appear unruffled by the strong breeze. “They take a break for a couple of months and then they’ll start producing again. We can have tuberose year-round. When this guy’s resting, this one’s going to start coming up. We’ll always have product, although it’s really hard to dictate the weather. You just try to do your best.” a
KAAE AND HER WIFE BEGAN BUILDING A “CIRCULAR ECONOMY” BY REGENERATING LAND AND STARTING A TUBEROSE FARM ON HAWAIIAN HOME LANDS IN PU‘UKAPU, HAWAI‘I ISLAND.
The Strength of Makahiki
ON MOLOKA‘I, THE RESURGENCE OF THE MAKAHIKI GAMES IN THE EARLY 1980S SPEAKS TO A POTENT HISTORY OF HAWAIIAN ACTIVISM STILL BEING LIVED TODAY.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ JACK KIYONAGA _ PF BENTLEY
On Moloka‘i, less is more — less cars, hotels, people, jobs, airlines — but, mo’ bettah. While having less by conventional standards, Moloka‘i has become the reborn center and beating heart of the ancient Hawaiian festival which celebrates and revels in communal abundance: Makahiki. Every year in late January, the Moloka‘i community comes together to commemorate the end of the season known as Makahiki, a traditional time of peace and prosperity to honor Lono, the Hawaiian deity associated with fertility and agriculture. The four-month period is marked by the rising of Makali‘i, or Pleiades, in October or November, signifying the advent of the rainy season. Thousands of people — likely the majority of the 7,400 who call the island home — gather annually at Kaunakakai Ball Park on the southern coast to witness the famous Ka Molokai Makahiki, a two day festival where one’s physical skills and knowledge are put to the test through traditional Hawaiian games.
In the current iteration of the Molokai Makahiki games, adults have their chance to show off their skills in the ‘ano koa ki‘eki‘e, or adult decathlon, held on
MORE THAN JUST GAMES AND FESTIVITIES, MAKAHIKI SERVES AS AN IMPORTANT TIME TO ASSESS THE RESOURCES AND WELL-BEING OF EACH AHUPUA‘A.
Thursday night. Other contests include hukihuki (tug-of-war), uma (prone arm wrestling), ‘ulu maika (bowling with stones), moa pahe‘e (bowling with darts), 100- and 400-yard kūkini (sprint running) and hākā moa (also known as “chicken fighting,” where competitors hop on one leg and pull their opponent’s arm). The following day, students from Moloka‘i’s schools compete in their own contests, representing their districts with pride. While modern renditions of the Makahiki games have gained popularity statewide, this ancient celebration almost faded away entirely if not for the efforts of a few visionary Hawaiian men and women hailing from small-town Moloka‘i.
“Growing up, I didn’t know anything about Hawaiian things,” admits Walter Ritte, a Hawaiian activist from Moloka‘i who has been at the forefront of Native
Each Moloka‘i elementary school, clad in their unique color, escorts an elder from their district to the field and offers ho‘okupu.
Hawaiian causes for over 50 years. It was Ritte, along with eight others including Richard Sawyer and the late Emmett Aluli and George Helm, who led the first occupation of Kaho‘olawe to protest the U.S. military’s bombing of the island in 1976. In the decades since, Ritte has remained a protector, provocateur, and fierce advocate for his beliefs and Hawaiian causes.
Ritte’s passion for athletics (he was offered a walk-on-basketball scholarship to the UH Mānoa), combined with his evolving ideas about Native Hawaiian identity in the late 1970s are what ultimately led him to Makahiki. For Ritte, the games symbolized a return to ideas of “how and why we should be Hawaiian.”
The games are, for Ritte, a depiction of Hawaiian sovereignty and self-sufficiency, of ‘āina momona also. Literally meaning “fertile land,” ‘āina momona represents the healthy collaboration between land, sea, and people. Makahiki has long been a way of combining these concepts for Hawaiians. Beyond just the games and festivities, Makahiki has served as a critical check-in on the resources and vitality of each ahupua‘a. According to cultural practitioner Kalei Nu‘uhiwa, the original Makahiki games are a byproduct of this annual community assessment.
“It’s really about healthy abundance and communal abundance,” says Nu‘uhiwa. The festival and games are “a function for
leadership to see how healthy his or her community is or isn’t.”
This overview of communal health was done via a ka‘ahele, or procession, through each ahupua‘a where a ho‘okupu, or offering, of produce or animal was given. By examining what kinds of ho‘okupu were presented, and the health of these offerings, the ali‘i could determine which fish to continue fishing and which to put a ban on, which vegetables to plant and where, essentially engaging in sustainable food practices, explains Nu‘uhiwa. It is this promise of true sustainability, this enduring, vital relationship between man and land which Ritte and his friends were examining as they began to kick off a new and reborn Makahiki.
Through the mid- to late-20th century, Makahiki games still existed in pockets statewide. Ron Kimball, one of the original Ka Molokai Makahiki committee members, remembered learning about the ancient festival and games from Donald Kilolani Mitchell at Kamehameha Schools in the early ’70s. As a boarder at Kamehameha, Kimball recalled even playing some of the games in informal matches. But the idea of reviving a full, island-wide Makahiki celebration had yet to be realized.
Before its resurgence, Moloka‘i’s last Makahiki games were held in 1919, according to Miki‘ala Pescaia, whose
MOLOKA‘I’S LAST MAKAHIKI GAMES WERE HELD IN 1919, AS REMEMBERED BY HARRIET NE, WHO WAS AMONG THE LAST KŪPUNA TO REMEMBER THE ORIGINAL GAMES IN THE FIELDS OF NĀ‘IWA.
grandmother, Harriet Ne, was one of the last kūpuna to remember attending the original games taking place in the fields of Nā‘iwa. But, in the early 1900s, as the population on Moloka‘i declined dramatically to about 1,700, including the Hansen’s disease settlement on Kalaupapa, and the area was developed for more profitable ranching endeavors, the tradition ceased.
Over 60 years later, Ne, along with other Moloka‘i kūpuna who had supported Ritte during earlier Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana efforts, helped him reconstruct the festival. Armed with a new mission, Ritte joined fellow Moloka‘i boys and Kamehameha Schools grads John Sabas and Clayton Hee in the early ’80s. They were soon joined by a youthful generation of Moloka‘i leaders,
including Kimball, Karen Holt, Barbara Kalipi, Zachary Helm, Glenn Teves, and others. “We were all activists,” says Ritte. “We knew how to organize.”
In this way, Makahiki on Moloka‘i has always been a form of political activism. But rather than as an overt act of resistance or of refusal, the games offered a chance to build, to create, and to think in terms of abundance. “We did a damn good job at stopping stuff. We were one of the best out there,” says Sabas. “We would do it in the streets or in the courts. But you can’t just
stop, you need to find ways for our young people to stay.”
The hui’s efforts materialized in January 1982 with the first modern Makahiki games on Moloka‘i taking place at One Ali‘i Park. The festivities started off small and with a homemade feel. Families and businesses donated food to cook beef stew and pork adobo, the games’ rules were explained to the crowds for the first time, and black chicken feathers were draped over the crossbeam of the banner of Lono because they couldn’t find the traditional
THE MAKAHIKI FESTIVITIES BEGIN IN FULL FORCE WHEN THE BANNER OF LONO IS CARRIED INTO KAUNAKAKAI, MARKING THE MIDPOINT OF ITS JOURNEY TO KALUAKOI.
bird feathers in time. Ritte himself won the 400-yard kūkini. Suspenseful storm clouds gathered, but the weather held until the games were finished, after which the skies opened up and poured. “It was a miracle,” says Sabas.
Encouraged by the success of the ’82 games, Ka Molokai Makahiki’s committee hit upon their best idea yet: integrating the games as part of school curriculum islandwide. A representative would go to each grade, teaching them the rules and strategies of the games like how to balance on
one foot during hākā moa or corner your foe in kōnane.
The kids, of course, loved it. Pescaia was in kindergarten at the time and one of the first cohorts to go through the Makahiki curriculum. She remembers those first years with pride and amusement. “We never knew what we were doing,” she says, laughing. The first games held traditional Hawaiian contests as instructed by kūpuna like her grandmother, but also modern sports like basketball. What Pescaia remembers most about those early games is that “we got together and celebrated being Hawaiian.” Now, she and her husband, Keoki, are part of the next generation perpetuating the tradition’s legacy.
One event that Pescaia has recently introduced to the Molokai Makahiki celebrations is the ka‘ahele, a procession of the ki‘i of Lono from Hālawa, the most eastern end of the island, to Kaluako‘i, the western extreme.
The six-day ceremony was started on Moloka‘i during the coronavirus pandemic in 2021 as a way to celebrate Makahiki without the large group gatherings. Pescaia explains that she had participated in smaller ka‘ahele in previous years across specific parts of Moloka‘i, but that the idea of crossing the whole island was a new concept, which she drew on from Makahiki traditions on Kaho‘olawe. The 40-pound ki‘i of Lono is constructed of amber-colored wood, with lei draped
across its white, fluttering banner. Hoisted in Hālawa, the banner is walked amongst 20 or so Moloka‘i community members for up to 10 miles per day. And while anyone can walk along with the procession, Pescaia explains that typically the honor of carrying the banner of Lono is reserved for Kānaka alone. As she puts it, “Lono is Hawaiian, so his legs should be Hawaiian.”
As they travel the winding road, the group will call out the name of each ahupua’a along with its defining features. It’s a chance to experience Moloka‘i at a slower, extended pace, explains Pescaia. “We zoom by everyday in our cars, and we don’t stop to check in on our lands,” she says. “We’re always in a rush.”
As the group walks, they accept ho‘okupu from over 100 Moloka‘i residents. These offerings of ʻōlena (turmeric), kalo, squash, squid, fish, and deer are “almost like a bio sample,” says Pescaia, providing insight into the health of each ahupua’a. “We’re starting to use this traditional data collection methodology to inform policy and political advocacy,” she says. “That’s how the ali‘i used that tool.”
For example, when Covid-19 struck, Pescaia noticed that many Moloka‘i residents were offering medicinal plants and teas as offerings. Along with being a way to celebrate something that you’ve enjoyed that year, ho‘okupu can also represent something that you are asking for more of, she notes. Seeing all the medicinal
MOLOKA‘I NATIVE MIKI‘ALA PESCAIA RECENTLY INTRODUCED THE KA‘AHELE, A PROCESSION CARRYING THE KI‘I OF LONO FROM HĀLAWA TO KALUAKO‘I, TO THE MAKAHIKI CELEBRATIONS. SHE AND HER HUSBAND, KEOKI, ARE PART OF THE NEXT GENERATION PERPETUATING THE TRADITION’S EVOLVING LEGACY.
remedies in the ho‘okupu told Pescaia that “our community is staying home and keeping themselves healthy.”
When the banner of Lono is walked into Kaunakakai, midway on its journey to Kaluakoi, that’s when the big day of Makahiki festivities begins in force. Each Moloka‘i elementary school, clad in their unique color, escorts an elder from their district to the field and offers ho‘okupu. After the opening protocol, the kids race, arm wrestle, and cheer for their classmates. Long queues for coveted vendors selling local favorites like chicken hekka, pork lau lau, and chili bowls snake the ballpark. Trucks line the outfield fences. Informal matches of hākā moa break out amongst the students. Amid the swirling colors and screaming kids, stands Ritte, peering over the referees to check out the latest champion’s arm-wrestling technique. He’s the last of the founders still on the field, that “lonesome warrior,” as Kimball calls him. “I wouldn’t miss it,” says Ritte. “I’m going to go until I can’t walk.”
For Pescaia, the cultural celebration is equally essential to her and to Molokaʻi as a whole. “It’s not a novelty and it’s not pageantry. We are doing actual ceremony,” she says. “My hope is that we continue to reclaim our ability to provide and meet our own needs, building abundance — that’s aloha ‘āina, when everybody is working together to sustain the land so the land can sustain us.” a
KARLYN LAULUSA AIMS TO REFRAME THE CONVERSATION AROUND PAKALOLO AS A NATURAL REMEDY, ALIGNING NOA BOTANICALS’ PRACTICES WITH HAWAIIAN VALUES.
Cultivating ‘Ohana
AS CEO OF NOA BOTANICALS AND A STEADFAST ADVOCATE FOR CANNABIS REFORM, KARLYN LAULUSA IS NURTURING A CULTURE ROOTED IN COMPASSION.
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Growing up in Kalihi on Oʻahu, Karlyn Laulusa always saw pakalolo (the Hawaiian word for cannabis) as medicine. “The adults in my life, my protectors who kept me safe, were partaking in this positive routine,” she recalls. “It made my grouchy uncles relax, and my anxious or anti-social cousins come out their shells.”
When helicopters flew over their neighborhood as part of Operation Green Harvest, the federal government’s DEA-led initiative to eradicate Hawaiʻi cannabis farms in the late 1970s, Laulusa’s reality was upended. “I couldn’t understand why these big, brave men were suddenly panicking and running to cover their plants,” she says. “It contradicted what I knew to be true: that good people grew and consumed pakalolo.”
Nearly a quarter century after Hawai‘i became the first state to legalize medical cannabis in 2000, Laulusa was appointed to lead Noa Botanicals on Oʻahu, one of eight licensed producers and retailers in the state. After joining in 2020 as Production Director, she rose the ranks and became CEO in
_ LINDSEY VANDAL _ JAMES EDENS
September of 2024, thanks largely to her open, aloha-driven approach to relationships. “Growing up I was fortunate to have so many influences around from different cultures, and incredible mentors who always made me feel seen and heard,” she says. “I learned that everyone has something to teach.”
As the first and only woman of Native Hawaiian and Samoan descent to lead a medical cannabis company in Hawai‘i, Laulusa is championing cannabis as a critical tool of lā‘au lapa‘au, the indigenous practice of using plants for healing. By aligning the company’s seedto-sale enterprise with the Hawaiian values of aloha (compassion), kuleana (responsibility), ha‘aha‘a (humility), and pono (integrity), and introducing product lines that honor Hawai‘i’s native culture, she is aiming to make the therapeutic benefits of cannabis more accessible.
“Lā‘au lapa‘au is the perfect way to describe what we grow, produce and what we believe in because it means ‘plant medicine,’” Laulusa explains. “Reframing the conversation in terms
of a natural remedy can help people who are new to cannabis, or who grew up with the wrong information, let go of any stigma around using it.”
Striving to create a climate of belonging and respect within Noa Botanicals, Laulusa holds personal check-ins with her 50-plus employees and spends time at the cannabis farm, production center, and four retail locations to better understand each department’s unique challenges across all levels of operation. She has launched new policies and pathways supporting purpose driven work, professional development, and cultivating ‘ohana throughout the company, its partners, and its patients. “When people feel how much they are valued and appreciated, it trickles down,” she says. “Everything we’re doing behind the scenes translates to a higher quality plant and happier patients.”
Amanda Lenhart, Noa Botanicals’ Director of Sales and Marketing, has witnessed a powerful shift in the team dynamic since Laulusa stepped into the driver’s seat. “There’s a feeling of genuine connection and inclusion now, where people don’t just show up to do their job,” she says. “They show up for one another, and for what we’re
building together.” It’s a culture rooted in mentorship: Lenhart’s mother, Lauren Moder, guided Laulusa early on, and now Laulusa is doing the same for Lenhart.
While Noa Botanicals is enjoying a new internal synergy, Laulusa stresses there is much work to be done to build a medical program that serves Hawai‘i and her people. Facing overregulation and prohibitive rules in current cannabis law and by the state’s Office of Medical Cannabis Control and Regulation, she is rallying other medical cannabis licensees, local growers, and cannabis advocates in search of creative solutions. “We all benefit from a cannabis industry that supports local economic development and provides safe, accessible, and affordable cannabis to patients.”
In July 2025, Hawaiʻi passed HB 302, expanding medical cannabis eligibility to any condition providers deem the benefits outweigh the risks. HB 302 also expanded access by enabling certifications via telehealth, allowing hospice participation, capping the cost of a 329D card at $115.50 per year, and finally allowing medical dispensaries to carry cannabis accessories. Currently, Laulusa and other advocates are backing an adult-use bill
WITH FOUR DISPENSARIES ACROSS O‘AHU AND PRODUCT PARTNERSHIPS ON KAUA‘I AND HAWAI‘I ISLAND, NOA BOTANICALS OFFERS EXPERT GUIDANCE, PREMIUM MEDICAL CANNABIS, AND WELCOMING SPACES TO EXPLORE YOUR OPTIONS.
that would legalize recreational cannabis for ages 21 and older. If it passes, “Hawaiʻi will be the last Democratic state to move,” she notes, referring to similar non-medicinal cannabis laws currently greenlighted in 24 states, Washington D.C., and three territories including Guam, Northern Mariana Islands, and the U.S. Virgin Islands.
In the meantime, Laulusa will continue her leadership at Noa Botanicals and advocacy within the greater community to shift the collective consciousness beyond borderline tolerance to enthusiastic embrace of plant medicine.
“If we’re going to create a thriving cannabis industry, we need to be pono, to look around and accept that things have changed, and transform the program and the way we write the laws,” she says. “The people of Hawaiʻi deserve quality, safe, regulated, cannabis — period.”
“This is one canoe. The world is a
canoe.” — Ua Aloha Maji
Roots of Recovery
TWO YEARS AFTER THE FIRES, WEST MAUI’S COMMUNITY SPIRIT REBUILDS — AND VISITORS MUST REORIENT THEMSELVES AROUND ITS NATIVE STORIES.
BY IMAGES BY
From its highest, rain-catching peaks, Mauna Kahālāwai’s ridges and valleys spill toward the coast, ringed with brilliant seas and long dashes of blonde sand. West Maui’s landscape was sculpted by eons of flowing water that fed flourishing communities from Honokōhau to Olowalu. Over the last 200 years, however, West Maui has endured near-constant change. Once abundant with native forests and irrigated agriculture, the landscape has been altered by the commodification of its resources. First, the sandalwood trade and whalers. Then, the plantations that left the land dry and fallow. And now, tourism. All have left their mark on West Maui, as well as the people and water that sustain it.
However, no change in recent memory has been as profound as the wildfires of August 2023. Most of Lahaina—the former capital and historical hub of the Hawaiian Kingdom—was leveled by wildfire in a matter of hours. Two years later, the town is showing signs of life, but the grief is still present. West Maui remains a community in mourning, and those who visit here must do so with reverence and understanding.
_ SERENE GUNNISON
_ RACHEL OLSSON
OUTFITTERS LIKE HELEWAI ECO TOURS IMMERSE HIKERS IN THE COMPLEX RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN WATER, PLANTS, AND PEOPLE
Yet, the soul of this place endures. In the valleys, on the ridges, and even on Front Street, steadfast community members keep West Maui’s traditions, mo‘olelo, and spirit alive. Despite the fire, displacement, and a long history of disruption, the people of West Maui continue to embody true resilience.
nahele
Helewai Eco Tours
Just mauka of Kapalua’s resorts and golf courses, rich valleys stretch towards Pu‘u Kukui, the highest peak of Mauna Kahālāwai. Untouched by development, this fertile expanse is part of the Pu‘u Kukui Watershed Preserve. At 8,600 acres, it’s the largest privately owned nature preserve in the state and one of Maui’s most vital watersheds. When visitors turn on the tap in their hotel room, do they know their water
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comes from Pu‘u Kukui? If they’ve ever hiked with Helewai Eco Tours, the answer is yes. This locally rooted excursion offers a rare chance to hike a remote trail in the preserve, providing a commentary that weaves together cultural insights with Maui’s history, ecology, and water resources.
Founder Kevin Schenk grew up roaming the forests of West Maui. As an adult, he entered the tourism industry, working his way up to a department head position at a hotel. Yet, being part of the corporate resort world wasn’t personally fulfilling. Schenk’s heart was in the watershed. He began helping field managers at Pu‘u Kukui Watershed Preserve design a tour that would connect visitors with the forest. When that plan fell through, they encouraged Schenk to run the tour on his own. His experience in the tourism industry gave him the tools
to launch the tour successfully in 2019. More importantly, it revealed to him the disconnect between visitors and Maui’s environment. “I felt like it was important to offer an activity that connects people to Maui through the native forest because that’s the best way to learn about this place,” he says. “I want to give them an opportunity to understand why it’s so important, give them a reason to respect this place.”
Helewai Eco Tours has exclusive vehicular access to the Honolua Ridge Trail in the Pu‘u Kukui Preserve. Tucked behind two locked gates at the top of Kapalua Plantation Estates, the only other way to reach the trail is via a strenuous 17-mile round-trip hike from D.T. Fleming Beach Park. Today, we’ve hitched a ride with Jason Ramero, a four-year Helewai veteran and a walking encyclopedia of Maui’s ecology.
“Before, this area was a cattle ranch,” Ramero explains as our group gathers around the trailhead. “But before that, this was filled with sandalwood forest, ‘iliahi. When you lose native forest, it changes the ecology, the way plants share sunlight and water.” As we trek up the ridge, the 2-mile trail carries us through the full continuum of Hawaiian forests, including experimental forestry plots introduced by early arborists, sections riddled with invasive plants, and ultimately to a pristine native environment.
Helewai Eco Tours’ approach goes beyond just showing visitors a scenic hike. It opens their eyes to the complex relationship between water, plants, and people. “Where you guys are staying, out in Wailea, your water is actually coming from this mountain range out here, in West Maui,” Ramero tells a group of
guests from Dallas. At least 60 percent of Maui’s potable water is supplied by Mauna Kahālāwai. “It’s a super important resource.”
At the top of the ridge, the trail opens into a rare pocket of native Hawaiian forest. ‘Ōhi‘a trees stretch out above a thick understory of uluhe, framing views of Pu‘u Kukui Preserve and the West Maui coastline 1,700 feet below. The rain collected by this forest seeps into the aquifer, feeding the homes and hotels downhill.
For Schenk, this venture has never been about money. It’s about nurturing connection and protecting West Maui’s water. “My whole philosophy is to put people and place before profit,” he says. “If people are more inclined to understand the impacts of water usage, that’s where the ticket is. Ola i ka wai, water is life.”
start asking what you want to do with your future,” he says. “I guess cooking was always easy.”
From my vantage point on the lānai at Coco Deck, a familiar view takes shape on Front Street. A steady flow of traffic, mostly Toyota Tacomas and rental Jeeps, steams by. Catamarans bob gently at their anchorage just offshore. Across the street, diners clink glasses beneath a towering 60-foot kiawe tree at Māla Ocean Tavern. “This place is starting to feel alive,” says Coco Deck co-owner and executive chef Alvin Savella. “Just a few months ago, you couldn’t even drive through here.”
Immediately north of the restaurant lies an expanse of lumber, vacant lots, and invasive weeds. Two years ago, the Lahaina wildfire obliterated this strip of Front Street, sparing only Coco Deck and the residence behind it. Just south, Lahaina Cannery Mall, Mala Ocean Tavern, Honu Oceanside, and Old Lāhainā Lū‘au also survived the blaze.
Savella opened his first restaurant, Duckine, an elevated Asian fusion spot serving such fare as roast duck and steamed kampachi, in this location just 10 months before the fire. It was the culmination of a lifetime in the kitchen. Growing up, Savella learned to cook from his family, often eating what they grew and caught. He always saw cooking as a potential career. “In high school, they
In 2003, Savella left Maui to attend culinary school at the Art Institute of California at Santa Monica. He stayed in Los Angeles for a decade, honing his skills at The Ritz-Carlton, Marina Del Rey. But all roads led back to Lahaina. Upon returning to Maui, he continued to sharpen his culinary resume, serving as chef de cuisine and executive chef in several high-profile restaurants before opening Duckine.
Then, the fire hit. Like many Lahaina residents, Savella’s first mission after the fire was to find his family. “Second day, instinct. Back to cooking,” he recalls. He broke “every rule” to get back into Lahaina. “Everything was already barricaded. I found out the restaurant was still here, and I saved, like, 2,000 pounds worth of food from our chest freezers.” Savella brought the food to University of Hawai‘i Maui College’s student kitchen, where a hui of Maui chefs had already gathered, preparing thousands of meals each day. Needing more hands, Savella put out a call. “You know who showed up when I asked for help?” he asks. “All the Lahaina guys. All the Lahaina guys who lost their houses, lost their businesses.”
If the fire proved anything, it’s that the Lahaina community shows up for one another. When it came time to reopen, Savella knew Duckine couldn’t return as
it was. “We felt like we needed a whole new place for the community, with a more approachable atmosphere,” he says. Savella and his business partner, Rob Farrell, scrapped Duckine’s high-end concept and instead outfitted the family-friendly space with TVs, couches, and a keiki corner. The menu features creative bites inspired by Asian and Mexican flavors—think birria ramen and poke donuts—plus a 20 percent discount for kama‘āina and a happy hour of $5 margaritas and $5 fish tacos. Lahaina still has a long way to go, but Coco Deck is a small beacon of comfort—and a way for Savella to give back to the place that has given him everything. “It’s such an honor to be here in Lahaina,” he says, “where I grew up, part of my community.”
mele
Slack Key Show
A light rain is tapping on the pavilion at the Napili Kai Beach Resort. Two of slack key’s greats, George Kahumoku Jr. and Ledward Kaapana are seated in the corner, greeting guests as they filter in. It’s a
‘ai Coco Deck
CHEF ALVIN SAVELLA TRANSFORMS A RESTAURANT INTO A WELCOMING COMMUNITY HUB IN LAHAINA. IMAGES BY ALANNA O’NEIL.
casual scene, aside from the Grammy Award gleaming on the folding table before them. Kahumoku, in his usual laidback style, chuckles as he gestures to the award. “We’re really lucky to have four of these,” he says.
Kahumoku founded the Slack Key Show in 2003 with creative partners Paul Konwiser and Wayne Wong. The concert series became a weekly celebration of legends of Hawaiian music. Three years later, the show found a permanent home at Napili Kai Beach Resort, where live recordings from its stage have gone on to win four Grammy Awards for best Hawaiian music album. Each show features a rotating lineup of slack key, ‘ukulele, and steel guitar masters. Tonight’s set is a who’s who of Hawaiian music, as Kahumoku, Kaapana, and ‘ukulele virtuoso Brad Bordessa hold court for the sold-out show.
Tonight’s setlist covers a wide scope of Hawaiian melodies, from contemporary hapa haole tunes to songs of prominent legends. The trio opens with “Ho‘okupu Kamapua‘a,” a mele that Kahumoku wrote in 1977, recounting Kamapua‘a’s romantic pursuit of Pele. Kahumoku leads the playful call-and-response tune, Kaapana and Bordessa echoing his lines. With each ‘Kamapua‘a,’ Kahumoku snorts like a pig, drawing laughter from the audience. Later, his light baritone breezes through tributes to Nāpili and Lahaina as the show’s hula dancer, Wainani Kealoha, glides on stage, bringing life to the music. Between numbers, the performers reflect on life in Hawai‘i and share personal anecdotes that give weight and context to the music. “We have to go back to the source,” Bordessa tells the audience, “which is Hawaiian people, Hawaiian culture, and those things that make this place special and unique.”
This sentiment echoes the foundation of the show. In a region where Hawaiian music and dance are often commodified for tourism, the show’s informal, talk story format offers a heavy dose of authenticity. Kahumoku believes music is a cultural conduit. Once people connect with it, it becomes a gateway to language, food, history, and values. Tonight’s lively crowd may be proof that Kahumoku’s approach resonates. Among the audience are students from the 27th Annual Slack Key and ʻUkulele Workshop, fresh off a weeklong immersion in Hawaiian culture. Founded by Hawaiian music enthusiast Ed Bigelow and hosted by Kahumoku and other cultural and musical leaders, the workshop holds classes in ʻukulele, Hawaiian cooking, hula, and lauhala weaving. On the final night of the workshop, the students and instructors took the stage at the slack key show to demonstrate their refined musical prowess.
MUSICIAN GEORGE KAHUMOKU JR. FOUNDED THE SLACK KEY SHOW, A WEEKLY CELEBRATION OF HAWAIIAN MUSIC AT NAPILI KAI BEACH RESORT, TO SHARE STORIES, SONGS, AND CULTURE IN A DYNAMIC, TALK STORY FORMAT THAT HONORS THE MUSICAL ROOTS OF HAWAI‘I.
Kahumoku’s workshop and show are part of a greater effort to preserve and share Hawaiian culture with those who are willing to learn, regardless of where they’re from. Growing up, Kahumoku’s entire family played kī hōʻalu, or slack-key guitar. However, access to that knowledge wasn’t guaranteed. “If you were paying too much attention, [my uncles] would turn their back to you to hide their fingers,” he recalls. “Everything was so secretive. So many things had been taken away from Hawaiians that even within our own family, they wouldn’t share the tunings or anything.” The Hawaiian Renaissance of
the 1970s began to shift that mindset. For Kahumoku, it inspired him to share his culture openly. “People like Aunty Edith Kanaka‘ole always said, ‘No, we’re going to teach our culture to whoever wants to learn. They don’t have to be Hawaiian,’” he says. “Her hālau included all nationalities, haole, Japanese, whatever, and it took off.”
That spirit of sharing is what has sustained the slack-key show for more than two decades. It’s not a flashy lūʻau production. Instead, the focus is on the connection between the audience and the performers and between past and present. “The music is the aloha,”
Kahumoku says. “It comes from a place of love. And when you share your food, your stories, your songs, you’re sharing your spirit. That’s what people really connect to. That’s what they take home.”
mālama Kipuka Olowalu
Tucked a mile mauka of Olowalu Store and Leoda’s Kitchen and Pie Shop, a young dryland forest of wiliwili, ‘a‘ali‘i, naio, and koa thrives in a small patch of Olowalu Valley. A stone’s throw away, beyond a shady tunnel of kukui and ‘ulu, four loʻi
ABOVE, ORGANIZATIONS LIKE KIPUKA OLOWALU SHOW THAT A HEALTHY ISLAND ECOSYSTEM THRIVES THROUGH THE EFFORTS OF VOLUNTEERS, COMMUNITY MEMBERS, AND PARTNERS WORKING TOGETHER.
and three mala beneath the beating sun. Here at Kipuka Olowalu, a 74-acre living classroom and restoration site, a small team works to restore a Hawaiian biocultural landscape, perpetuate traditional Hawaiian land use, and revive the spiritual connection between people and ʻāina.
Each Wednesday and Thursday morning, Kipuka Olowalu invites volunteers into the valley to assist in a variety of tasks, from planting trees to working in the lo‘i. Today’s focus: weeding. I’m on my hands and knees, ripping out koa haole and untangling glycine from ‘a‘ali‘i and ʻilima. Beside me, a gaggle of volunteers from as close as Waihe‘e and as far as Canada do the same. Kipuka Olowalu’s affable cultural practitioner, Ua Aloha Maji, points out native plants and cracks jokes as we work.
For Maji, the connection to Olowalu runs deep. Maji spent part of his childhood in Olowalu Village, often sneak-
ing up the valley to make mischief with his friends. He has been part of Kipuka Olowalu since it formally took shape as a nonprofit at the end of 2020. Though Maji is deeply rooted in this ahupua‘a, he welcomes visitors from near and far to seek connection in Olowalu Valley. “Instead of turning people away because you want to protect things, bring them in,” he says. “Invite them in to help them find their ecological memory, connect to their na‘au.”
While Kipuka Olowalu fosters restoration and spiritual connection on land, its impact reaches far beyond the valley. Directly offshore of Olowalu is a 1,000acre fringing reef, one of the oldest and largest in Hawai‘i. Like many reefs in the islands, sedimentation from flash floods and development runoff has long threatened Olowalu Reef. Kipuka Olowalu’s forest restoration and lo‘i work help
validate a long-held belief in Hawai‘i: caring for the land above sustains life below. “Everyone talks about lo‘i being a wonderful nature-based solution for sediment retention, but it’s really hard to quantify,” says Sarah Severino with the Coral Reef Alliance. Severino has been measuring sediment in the valley’s lo‘i and stream for the last year. Preliminary data suggests sediment settles in planted loʻi due to slower water flow, indicating that expanded loʻi could further reduce sediment reaching the reef.
Kipuka Olowalu makes it clear that a healthy island ecosystem relies on many hands, whether volunteers, community members, or partner organizations. “If we can work together, it’s a much cleaner and healthier mindset. If we try to compete with each other, we all lose,” says Maji. “This is one canoe. The world is a canoe.” a
As your bare feet sink into the soft, white sands of Waikiki Beach, and the melodic strums of a distant ukulele echo around you, you feel your spirit set free. Anchored on the legendary shores of Kawehewehe, the OUTRIGGER Reef Waikiki Beach Resort is your haven, where ancient Hawaiian healing traditions and the romance of an idyllic tropical escape intertwine.
Recently renovated, all the guestrooms and premium suites have been thoughtfully redesigned to evoke a modern Hawaiian residential feel. Each space serves as a serene retreat, offering plush comforts set against the backdrop of breathtaking ocean or city views that beckon from expansive windows.
More than simply a luxurious stay, the OUTRIGGER Reef Waikiki Beach Resort offers you a journey into the heart and soul of Hawai‘i. Explore the voyaging artwork of celebrated Native Hawaiian historian Herb Kane. Immerse yourself in the local culture through
The Shores of Aloha
A CONTEMPORARY BEACHFRONT RETREAT ROOTED IN HAWAIIAN MUSIC & CULTURE
Signature Experiences that include hands-on crafts and educational activities. And discover the island’s rich heritage at the Aʻo Cultural Center, a portal to Hawai‘i’s storied past.
Culinary excellence is central to the OUTRIGGER Reef Waikiki Beach Resort experience. The esteemed Voyager 47 Club Lounge offers unrivaled beachfront vistas alongside exclusive local dishes, creating a dining atmosphere that is both sophisticated and intimate. At the Monkeypod Kitchen by Merriman, select from a menu brimming with local farmto-table cuisine, all while enjoying stunning views of Diamond Head.
In the evenings, melodies float on the ocean breeze, emanating from the open-air Kani Ka Pila Grille. Revered as the Home of Hawaiian Music, this intimate venue showcases award-winning Hawaiian artists, offering live performances every night.
Families will delight in the newly opened Coral Kids Club, a supervised space where children partake in fun,
educational activities centered on ocean conservation. Meanwhile, fitness enthusiasts can enjoy the stateof-the-art fitness center, featuring Peloton and Technogym equipment and a variety of classes, including yoga. Adding to its allure, the resort is now home to the newly opened Kahawai Chapel, an oceanfront sanctuary blending modern elegance with Hawaiian heritage. Here, couples are invited to exchange vows in ceremonies infused with the timeless spirit of aloha, where the name Kahawai (“stream”) evokes the life-giving waters and enduring traditions of Hawai‘i.
At the OUTRIGGER Reef Waikiki Beach Resort, every stay is more than just a visit, it’s a place where your senses are awakened, and your soul rejuvenated. Infused with Hawai‘i’s spirited sense of place, you will leave spellbound, connected and forever eager to return.
Nature’s Web
ADAPTING TO HAWAI‘I’S DIVERSE ENVIRONMENTS ISN’T ALWAYS EASY, BUT THE ISLANDS’ CRAFTY NATIVE SPIDERS FOUND MANY ASTONISHING WAYS.
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ SHANNON WIANECKI _ ZACH PEZZILLO AND GEORGE RODERICK
I did not know what to expect the day I followed Dr. Rosemary Gillespie into the forest. The world’s authority on Hawaiian spiders had agreed to let me tag along on a field trip with her graduate students from the University of California Berkeley where she teaches. We gathered in the late afternoon at the edge of Waikamoi, one of the most pristine rainforests on Maui and a hotbed for native Hawaiian arachnids. We hiked single file through the fern-filled gullies. As the sun began to set, golden rays slanted through the moss-laden ‘ōhia branches. We stopped. We waited. Then, in the spreading darkness, I saw them: dozens of slender spiders swinging from silken thread like ballerinas.
These airborne weavers, no bigger than my pinky fingernail, crafted their webs in a matter of moments. Gillespie’s students excitedly called out each species by name, misting their webs with squirt bottles to render the geometric shapes more visible. Most of the spiders belonged to the Tetragnathidae family, members of long-jawed orb weavers that Gillespie knew well, as she had named nearly every one.
OPPOSITE PAGE, TETRAGNATHA GRALLATOR, KNOWN AS THE HAPPY-FACE SPIDER. IMAGE BY ZACH PEZZILLO. AT LEFT, TETRAGNATHA QUASIMODO IMAGE BY GEORGE RODERICK.
Originally from Scotland, Gillespie projects the same delicate tenacity as the invertebrates she studies. She came to Hawai‘i in 1987 to research the state’s most popular spider: Theridion grallator. Bright yellow and smaller than a pencil eraser, T. grallator sports red and black marks on its abdomen that resemble a smiley face. Christened the Hawaiian happy-face spider, or nananana makakiʻi in ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i, this wee eight-legger has tremendous cultural cache. One of the cutest embodiments of aloha in the forest, today you can find its cheery visage splashed on trucker hats, tote bags, and delivery trucks. Gillespie spent hours upon hours spying on happy-face spiders. She noted the differences in their markings — some had frowns, some had no
marks at all. She became intrigued by what this diversity revealed about the species’ dispersal and development over time. As it turns out, Hawaiian spiders aren’t just cute; they hold clues to how evolution works.
“Native Hawaiian spiders are entirely endemic,” says Gillespie. This means that at least 132 native species evolved here and exist nowhere else on earth. Even more impressive, she says, “most are unique to a single habitat within a single volcano within a given island. And they show fantastic and extraordinary adaptations to their environment.”
To fully understand this, we need to back up: How did spiders even get to the world’s most remote archipelago? It’s a story worth Disney’s attention. As the Hawaiian volcanoes emerged one by one from the fiery hotspot on the ocean’s floor, plants and animals migrated to the newly formed islands. The first spiders to colonize the island chain came from other Pacific Islands and the American continents, which means they had to cross more than 2,000 miles of open ocean.
Spiders have three ways of accomplishing this feat: hitching a ride on migratory birds; rafting on floating
vegetation; and something called “ballooning.” For reasons known only to themselves, some baby spiders are struck with wanderlust, letting out strands of silk that catch the wind, and off the little spiderlings go. Most of these intrepid ballooners travel just a few kilometers. Some, carried aloft by the jet stream, reach distant shores. As for spiderlings who landed in Hawai‘i, they stayed. They crept up the mountaintops and down into the valleys, filling all the niches in between.
To survive, these pioneers had to adapt to their diverse new environments. The
THIS PAGE, T. GRALLATOR (NANANANA MAKAKI‘I) SPORTS RED AND BLACK MARKS ON ITS ABDOMEN THAT RESEMBLE A SMILEY FACE. IMAGE BY ZACH PEZZILLO. OPPOSITE PAGE, ARIAMNES CORNIGER. IMAGE BY GEORGE RODERICK.
ancestor of the happy-face spider had to dodge hungry Hawaiian forest birds, who were adept at finding juicy spider snacks. This predation pressure caused the species to morph over time, resulting in its smiley face markings, which serve as camouflage.
Here’s where it gets really interesting: In Hawai‘i, spiders didn’t just morph into a single new species, but many. This process is known as adaptive radiation, a rapid evolutionary process prominent in the Hawaiian archipelago because of its remoteness. T. grallator is only one of more than a dozen Theridion species — all of which descended from a single ancestor
Tetragnathids, those long-jawed orb weavers, represent an even greater example of adaptive radiation: 60 species from one common ancestor. As Gillespie says, their adaptations are extraordinary. Elsewhere in the world, Tetragnatha spiders tend to be somewhat predictable (for example, emerging at twilight to build webs across streams and catch aquatic insects). Hawaiian tetragnathids, however, occupy all sorts of niches: some spin webs in patches of ‘uluhi ferns, others in lichen. Some don’t make webs. Some look like happy-face spiders, others can change color when scared. One species has such a distinct hunchback that Gillespie named it Tetragnatha quasimodo.
The Kaua‘i cave wolf spider (Adelocosa anops ) displays perhaps the strangest adaptation of all. Wolf spiders elsewhere typically have large eyes. Not the Kaua‘i cave wolf or pe‘e pe‘e maka‘ole. This endangered, reddish-brown spider has a pale abdomen, bright orange legs, and no eyes whatsoever. It simply doesn’t need
vision to stalk prey where it lives, deep within the lava tubes of the Kōloa Basin.
Hawai‘i’s diverse ecosystems prompted spiders to evolve into so many novel forms that scientists haven’t yet discovered them all. Nate Yuen, a beloved O‘ahu photographer who recently passed away, shared photos of spiders he snapped while hiking on Facebook in 2015 — they turned out to be a new lineage.
“People keep finding more spiders in different groups,” says Gillespie. As anyone with an interest in Hawaiian arachnids has discovered, if you look, you will find. “Hawai‘i is a place like nowhere else. You can see all stages of speciation playing out on these very young to older islands.”
To better understand what Gillespie was witnessing, she evolved from a field biologist and ecologist to a taxonomist and finally to an evolutionary biologist. One of her students is currently investigating the early stages of species differentiation, how things separate initially and what causes them to diverge. Another student is focused on how spiders move to better understand their “biomechanical niche,” or how their movements relate to their habitat. A third is researching how male and female spiders communicate using chemical signals and pheromones. “As humans, we focus so much on what we can see,” says Gillespie. “But with spiders, there’s a lot of communication through vibration and through chemistry.”
Hawaiian spiders serve as a metaphor for us all: adapt, evolve, and survive. Integrate into your environment and serve your community — not by muting your freakiest, most unique qualities but by giving them the fullest expression. a
OPPOSITE PAGE, ARIAMNES STICK SPIDER WITH VIVID RED AND GOLD SPECKS FROM MOLOKA‘I CAN BE FOUND THROUGHOUT THE HAWAIIAN ARCHIPELAGO. BELOW, TETRAGNATHA ANUENUE HAKALAU. SECTION OPENER, ARIAMNES UWEPA, A SPECIES OF WHIP SPIDER ENDEMIC TO O‘AHU. IMAGES BY GEORGE RODERICK.
A Binding Force
IN PAJU BOOK CITY, THE BUSY PUBLISHING HUB BRINGS MANUSCRIPTS TO LIFE THROUGH PRINTING PRESSES, DESIGN STUDIOS, AND “LITERARY TOURISM.”
TEXT BY IMAGES BY _ LINDSEY VANDAL _ DESMOND CENTRO
At its heart, Paju Book City is a cultural engine and a bibliophilic utopia, where books are said to outnumber people by a ratio of 20 to 1. Seventeen miles northwest of Seoul, South Korea, the community — officially Paju Publishing Culture, Information and National Industrial Park but better known as Paju Book City is faithfully churning out books, magazines and journals, newspapers, maps, catalogs, brochures, and any other printed materials one might peruse.
The cultural-industrial complex of Paju Bowok City lies within Paju in Gyeonggi-do, a province of South Korea. Founded by private publishers and supported by the South Korean government, the designated publishing hub unites all facets of producing the printed word in a single zone that spans about 215 acres, encompassing 250 publishing-related buildings with 925 book-related businesses.
The centralized microcosm stands in service to the business of bookmaking, employing around 10,000 industry staff. Anchored by Korean ideals of art, architecture, nature, and sustainability, the complex takes a unique approach to literary tourism — combining behind-the-scenes insight into the journey from manuscript to market with ample opportunities to lose oneself in a book or a magazine like the one in your very hands (Flux Hawaii has been printed in Paju Book City for nearly 15 years).
For Phase 1, completed in 2007, more than 50 national and international architects erected more than 100 low-rise buildings spread across a Publishing District, a Printing District, and a Support District. To fulfill the aim of a holistic media hub, the low-rise structures embody human-centric design principles that promote intimacy and interaction with green spaces.
Leveraging the Korean architectural concept of ma-dang — literally, “courtyard,” referring to the placement of intentional voids — the infrastructure integrates open spaces as pauses in the urban fabric. The city’s thoughtful layout promotes slow “vehicular and pedestrian” circulation and encourages appreciation of nature by connecting the built environment to ecological features such as the Han River and Simhak Mountain.
In 1998, visionary publishers Lee Ki-woong and Kim Joo-ho led a collective of industry veterans in founding Paju Book City, a place where the comprehensive publishing process — from planning and editing to printing, binding, and distribution — could coexist in harmony with the environment.
The collective guided the complex’s master plan and formed the Bookcity Culture Foundation to foster ongoing public engagement and international exchange efforts. The South Korean state maintains a vital stewardship role through land planning, grant funding, architectural oversight, and event facilitation.
To wander through Paju Book City is to immerse oneself in a narrative of form and function in which book cafes, themed libraries, and other dynamic spaces promote both introspection and interaction. Publishers, printers, design houses, software and movie companies, translators and editors offer rare glimpses into the industry through open studios, live demonstrations, and hands-on workshops. Aspiring writers, publishers, and illustrators can enroll in a Publishing Industry Class, attend the Book City Liberal Arts school, and engage in developing and publishing a short story.
Inside The Asia Publication Culture and Information Center, the city’s five-story cultural nucleus, the Forest of Wisdom displays 200,000 Korean and foreign-language books stacked floor-to-ceiling on 26-foot-high shelves, available for on-site reading. At the Jijihyang (“Home of Paper”) guesthouse, connected to the Forest of Wisdom, visitors can retreat to author-themed accommodations and read to their heart’s content. Adjacent to the Center, the Book City Letterpress Museum exhibits traditional letterpress production equipment, including 35 million metal character blocks, and showcases artisans at work pressing limited-edition poetry anthologies.
Though Paju Book City boasts an annual sales volume in excess of two million dollars and attracts more than 500,000 visitors annually, the city’s true measure of success lies in the surrounding community’s shared passion for reading and the pursuit of knowledge— embodied by people like Winston Park, CEO of international publisher OnGlobal Printing Company. “At home, more than half of our belongings are books,” says Park. “When my children see books with their eyes and touch them with their hands, it helps develop their senses and emotions.” Image from Shutterstock.
Paju Book City’s distinctive behind-the-book experience draws visitors from South Korea and abroad with cultural and educational events featuring literary luminaries, poets, and renowned publishing figures. During the nine-day Paju International Booksori festival each fall, the Korea Publishers Society hosts the Asia Book Awards to honor impactful stories and storytellers, designers, publishers, and editors working to advance Asian publication culture. In the spring, the annual Book City Festival for Children welcomes young readers to book-making workshops, puppet shows, concerts, and author meet-and-greets.
Situated a few kilometers south of the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, on the North Korea-South Korea border, Paju Book City is a place of peace, a source of national pride, and a symbol of South Korea’s reverence for the written word. During his opening ceremony speech at the 2001 Paju Booksori Festival, former South Korean Minister of Culture Lee O-young touched on the cardinal role literature plays in society, and the town’s advocacy efforts: “The value of the books are more powerful than any other weapons such as missiles and guns. I hope the festival would resonate not only in Paju but also in the world.”
Boeing 747-400 Nose Loader service and Ad Hoc charters on demand. Connecting LAX and HNL daily with daily connections to Neighbor Islands and weekly service to Pago Pago and Guam.
Formally managed by South Korea’s Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, Paju Book City is in the midst of its Phase 2 push to round out the creative ecosystem and evolve into a world-class publishing and distribution destination. In addition to offering lower rents than nearby Seoul, the city is wooing new film and television production, software companies, animation houses, and other multimedia businesses with modern, purpose-built workspaces and a supportive community rooted in the founding values of moderation, balance, harmony, and love. a
August Woman
They say to share a mango is to love someone.
I have been thinking about the season’s ripe fruit, pregnant with all that is sweet and tender and begging for relief.
The day’s heat pours, languid, over a world that grows without breath.
The fruit swells under the weight of the offering. Drags on, fixed, reaching desperately toward the very threshold of being— hands pressed urgently against glass.
Then, turns bitter in an instant.
I see myself, arranged neatly on the quiet shelf, heavy with the heat of a woman (a summer) unrealized— fearful for what goes sour inside of me now.
They say to share a mango is to know love from the inside. What of the fruit whose pulp will never pass to the gently open mouth of a lover by tender, trembling hands?
