Aunty Pua, or Uncle Eric Enos once said: “We need a Ka‘ala in every ahupua‘a.” They were referring to Ka‘ala Farms, one of the first ‘āina organizations, where Uncle Eric (in)famously broke a water pipe siphoning water away from their community to somewhere else. Uncle, and Aunty too, were (re)building something for the youth in their community, for themselves, for the lāhui. (Aren’t all these words, synonyms for kākou?)
These two rascals, their compatriots, and their generation were engaged in a deep recognition and reconciliation of themselves to land, self, culture, nation. They laid groundwork for reconciliation of Hawaiian people to our past, present and future. They inspire us, and work alongside us still yet to protect and preserve our places, piko, and practices. (PPP citation goes to No‘eau Peralto!)
In our ‘ĀINAVIS charrette talk story that took place this week, my co-conspirator Sean Connelly and I introduced our project to the first group of ‘āina organizations that we’ve been able to present to directly from our list. We had reached out to them to let them know that we are doing this community engagement project using mapping to help us contextualize the role of ‘āina in our wellbeing. The main dataset we’ve compiled includes nearly 300 ‘āina organizations, all of whom are linchpins in their community for abundance, culture, restoration, food, wellbeing, and more.
To introduce AV to everyone, I shared the quote about Ka‘ala Farm, and that the goal of this project in part is to help us understand the risks to ‘āina, ‘ō‘iwi, and kānaka. But also to see where we are thriving too. How can we tell the whole story of what ‘āina and Hawai‘i mean to us? Why this work is so important?
While we introduced ourselves in the chat, I read Aunty’s poem He Alo a he Alo, thinking about how important it is to get in the dirt to fight and build something together in order to be successful. Not from a distance, not judging from afar, but right here, digging the lo‘i deep. Together. I remembered how Aunty told us that the poem changes meaning when you change your tone. When she first wrote it, she was angry, but over the years, it changed and softened. Now as a reader, it’s up to you.
A few years ago we did a strategic planning process, and my dear colleague Kīhei Nahale-a provided depth and insight, as he usually does. We were talking about the work we do and how we can do it better, what the community is sensing and needing. He said “What are we saving the ‘āina for if there are no Hawaiians left?”—referring to something that has only increased in the zeitgeist since then, that more Hawaiians live outside Hawai‘i than inside, that we have become economic refugees, that our islands are becoming untenable and too expensive. In our charrette the other day, another dear colleague was sharing about their work in Hā‘ena, where there’s a concentration of billionaires. He and others in the circle discussed the need for living wages and workforce housing. If working on ‘āina, which is so fulfilling to many for many reasons, can only manage to pay a dishwasher’s salary, what are we to do? How long until we can’t afford to sacrifice any more?
This morning I went to my childhood beach. I noticed how from where I parked I could tell what kind of beach day it was just by hearing the waves hit the sand. My feet touched the water and I looked out onto a familiar horizon. A home sort of feeling—islands, shapes, colors, silhouettes, and cloud patterns—all ingrained in me, all reminding me who I am.
I think about Mahinui, where I grew up, and those sere yellow hills providing a long, low, backdrop for my childhood. Stretching across Kawainui, a fishpond that was a dump and a marsh when I was a kid (but now I know better) I think about Olomana, where I live now. I marvel at how you can approach this twisted mountain from nearly every angle and it looks different, so different from each one. Still recognizable, but completely different. Olomana, Paku‘i, Ahiki. Which peak is largest, tallest, longest? It depends on your perspective. I suppose life is like this.
The intractable thing that we are all working towards, many of us, that we need to solve together, is how we can live, work, and play well in the lands of our ancestors long-term. That our kids would know these places and their names as intimately as we do. This is a matter of our survival—not just us, but the ‘āina. That relationship of knowing and kinship between us and ‘āina—it’s what makes this place Hawai‘i. And that’s not just for Hawaiians—it’s for everyone who is deeply committed to this place.
I think of how my landlord, who is a friend, told me that the rent has to go up, because insurance is going up, and up and up into the stratosphere. That soon, single-wall homes won’t be insured; that because of fire and hurricane threats prices have quadrupled. That soon he might have to sell this place where I live.
I notice all of these things, and the dissonance and tension and the challenges. I think of my many friends, colleagues and mentors on all the islands who are mostly all riding the line, committed to Hawai‘i and making sacrifices to continue to be here and do the work. And I look at the horizon, I float in the ocean, I see the familiar silhouettes of my favorite mountains and their knuckles that reach towards the sky, and I feel home. Home is all these things, all of this. And I think about what it means, and I appreciate the creativity and innovation that comes from struggle, and I feel a sense of gratitude to truly be from somewhere.
I shared this poem back in March, but it’s so relevant to this topic.
Photo taken 2/16/22.