Uncle came by our table with the handmade “Admin” sign. We conversed easily as I stuffed breakfast bentos into his bag. “We have 6 people,” he said. I put 8 bentos in his bag, and then stuffed a bunch of granola bars inside. Uncle had a loud t-shirt with a red white and blue striped suit printed on it, and a striped bow tie, all reflecting the US flag.
“It’s better when my son is with us,” he said. “He can speak English.” While Uncle’s English was pretty good, the complex language of flood relief, the language of “we lost everything” is quite a barrier in any tongue. Although he and his wife were cheerful and grateful for support they received, their story was difficult to hear, and it was clear they’d need much more help.
They grew betel leaf on their farm plot—also okra, squash, and other veggies that are popular locally. He shared with us which veggies grew best, and which weren’t as profitable. Joe asked him about his land and what had been lost, and figured out they had a friend in common who is helping coordinate support for farmers in their area. Joe offered support. Joe always offers support.
While down in neighborhoods folks navigated quickly rising waters, up in the backroads and in the fingers of valleys, so many farmers all over rural O‘ahu have been hard hit. The news and our Instagram feeds tell us of lost crops and fields buried in several feet of new mud. It’s going to be months before they can replant. And months more before they can sell another crop. In our neighborhoods, what will happen to our families? On the backroads, what will happen to our farmers? And our farmers have families, too.
It’s wonderful how so many folks have sprung into action. In the bathroom I started talking story with a friend who works for the City. She’s a lovely compassionate woman who’s a forward thinking innovator, a kind of description you don’t always associate with government. Navigating through your own stuckness, the freeze of systems, the silos, the blame and the credit that can emerge when trying to move quickly isn’t easy. It takes a certain kind of leadership to lead during disaster. You kind of have it, or you don’t.
Aunty Kela, my uncle’s kumu hula, a kupa o ka ‘āina from this side had opened up the morning with a pule and oli to welcome folks in. She was bedecked with several lovely lei puakenikeni. That the folks who organized this, who are community first responders, took the time to have or make lei is remarkable to me, considering all the kuleana they carry. A bit later, Aunty Lynette Paglinawan glided in, in her ever so graceful way, joining the lomi crew and making herself available to talk stories with anyone who needed her listening and lovely heart, her grounded na‘au. She too, was bedecked with fat and fragrant lei upon arrival.
I noticed official-looking men with FDNY caps on and others with South Carolina Incident Response Team polos on. They had flown in to help with the response, and were with us all day. They were curious, and the South Carolina guys talked stories with us a bit. I asked one man about the differences he saw between Hawai‘i and SC. He’s from Charleston, a historic old city. His first comment was our similarities. “You have this thing you say—talking story? We do that too. It’s really important to us.” About our differences, he said: “You really revere your elders here. We don’t have that. We don’t have our elders any more. And…that—prayer—(referring to Kumu Kela’s oli) was so beautiful. I wish we had something like that.” He had been working in a basement in town all week, every day since he arrived. They weren’t allowed to take days off, and would need to leave as soon as their work is pau. I thanked him for coming to help. I asked him about the next storm predicted for this coming week. “Surely you must know,” I asked. “It’s supposed to be bad,” he admitted. “It doesn’t look good.” And I thought of all the folks coming through the center for help, folks on the spectrum of having lost everything and trying to rebuild and everything in between, and my voice hitched in my throat.
All kinds of officials stopped by to assess, offer help, consult, shake hands, and go on their merry way. Rainbow, ED of KEY Project, had her beautiful pūpuka new baby with her, sometimes on her breast, often passed to loving aunties all over the room. Welcoming everyone, she said to the assembly of 30 service providers (mostly from town): “Don’t worry. I know you may have had a hard time finding this place, but the community knows. They know exactly where we are.” Rainbow leads with the surety of being a girl from Ko‘olauloa, a kupa o ka ‘āina from this place.
Just before the community came in, Atalina of Lāhui Foundation opened up the day. Tears fell as she reminded us that the community has been through so much. “Be kind, she said. “Smile.” She and Rainbow reminded us that the Ko‘olauloa community often gets overlooked. “Waialua is far,” Rainbow said. And it is. Later, one woman shared—“It’s so helpful to have everyone here in one place. I’ve been trying to get help but the offices are all over the place.” Now without a car, how would she have gotten to the Community Response Center in Waialua? Or to the many scattered offices around town, an hour or more away?
When not coordinating with officials, Rainbow shared brief anecdotes of different folks who came by. How they had been affected. How they sprang into action to help. These are her people, her place, even her family. The fact that KEY Project expanded their mission up the coast and began serving the rural community more directly and deeply several years ago means that they have relationships to come in and support now, during crisis, with trust and networks already in effect. It makes all the difference. They are also able to stick up for the community and advocate in really important ways. Folks like the Uncle and Aunty we met who lost everything on their farm plot needed this, here, now.
The clouds are already sitting low on the mountains today. It rained off and on as I made my way back and forth between Kailua and Hau‘ula. On my long drives I had time to reflect. The complexity and beauty of our community—in pain, in suffering, coordinating to help each other, moving in response to something so overwhelming, is remarkable. I hope that we can all hold tight and stick together as we weather what’s to come.
As folks are saying, “The federal government isn’t coming to save us.” When I look around, what I see is the efficacy and aloha of folks banding together to support each other, against all odds. And maybe, even though it’s going to take a long time, maybe one day that will be enough.
Aloha nui,
Dawn
Moonset over Waihe‘e, O‘ahu 4/5/26.