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A Gift of Dreams: For the Senior Class of Kanu o ka ʻĀina 2017

The following speech was delivered as a commencement address for the graduating class of Kanu o ka ʻĀina on May 26, 2017.

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The senior class of Kanu o ka ʻĀina New Century Public Charter School 2017

She had come seeking facts, things she could memorize, things she could forget when the test was over. She didn’t want to hear about heart and she certainly didn’t want to listen to her own.

“It takes a lot of effort to care about something you cannot change,” she said, looking at her own hand holding her favorite purple pen, ready to take notes on anything worth writing.

That day her paper remained blank.

I teach a class entitled Introduction to Pacific Islands Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi-West Oʻahu. In our attempt to move beyond “mundane fact,” as Samoan novelist and scholar Albert Wendt encourages, I push my students to not only examine the Pacific, but to explore their place in it [1]. I always hope that students will not only come to see themselves in the land, but to see the land in them, to not only seem themselves in the ocean, but to see the ocean in them, to not only see themselves in the sky, but to know the elements of the sky that exist in them.

Some call me a dreamer for having such high expectations. “It’s just a college class,” they say. But I’ve never viewed my role as “teacher” in the traditional sense. Rather, I believe I am there to inspire a deep engagement, a diving into the depths of our existence as Hawaiians, as Pacific Islanders, as indigenous people, so that we can, as Māori poet Hone Tuwhare once said, “Dream good dreams again.” [2] With dreaming comes the ability to heal: to heal past wounds inflicted upon us, inflicted upon the ancestors we carry, and inflicted upon the ancestors we are becoming.

Last semester, my class examined some of the most pressing issues in the Pacific, everything from climate change, rising sea levels, and dispossession; to military training, and bombing; to genocide in West Papua. Some of my students were introduced to these issues for the first time, completely disturbed at the not-so-“pacific,” or peaceful, nature of our ocean, a region that is sold to the rest of the world as a place of peace, a region that is advertised and exploited as a paradise.

Some of the students knew about these issues, but not the severity of them. Some were moved to act, enraged, sharing information on their social media outlets, making signs and taking pictures to increase awareness. And some, like my fact-seeker with her purple pen, did not want to care. It was horrible, she agreed. All of the injustice in the Pacific was terrible. However, to care so much about something she could not change was a waste of time, a waste of energy.

“What can I really do to change anything,” she asked.

I tried to answer by telling her my own story, about how I choose to do something, anything really, rather than do nothing at all. I choose to fight even if and when I may lose. “Doing nothing,” I said, “is not an option for me.” I quoted George Helm, my hero and a true aloha ʻāina who once said, “Call me radical for I refuse to remain idle.”

I told her that even speaking the names of places and peoples often forgotten, places and peoples often deemed too small or too insignificant for genuine care, was a conscious choice, a radical choice. I raised the names of West Papua, of Tuvalu, of Kiribati, of Bikini, of Mauna Kea and of Pōhakuloa. I spoke them, hoping to make them real for her, for all of us. “We need not see a place, or touch it physically,” I said, “to be impacted, to feel, to have our hearts shaken.”

Near the end of the semester, she wrote a final reflection about how injustice in the Pacific is indeed something to learn about, to talk about, to share. However, she maintained that since she could do nothing about any of these issues, that it was wrong of me to fill students with hope, or with what she saw as the unrealistic dream that they could inspire any real change.

With a heavy heart, I wondered: What happened that she had lost her ability to dream good dreams, to have hope, to be radical, to fight even if and when she may lose just because it’s the right thing to do?

I wanted her to dream with me, and call me radical, for I still hope that she one day will.

A few weeks later, I returned to Waimea and found myself sitting at a lunch table with a group of students, the senior class of Kanu o ka ʻĀina: bold and brave dreamers. We spoke briefly about their lives and goals, their reflections on education, their motivations. We even spoke about Pōhakuloa, the bombs that we could hear and feel that week, the bombs that shook our earth, and shook us with it. I saw pain in their faces, pain linked to caring. They did not need to be instructed on seeing the ʻāina in them or seeing themselves in the ʻāina, in their surroundings, in their universe.

They felt it.
They knew it.
They lived it.

And while it may sound odd to find comfort in witnessing their distress, their anguish, their heartfelt concern for land and nation, I left that lunch hopeful.

Yes, it does indeed take a lot of effort to care about something you may not be able to change: to stop sea levels from rising, to prevent destruction and desecration, to end genocide. But these haumāna were willing to care anyway: to care for the potential, for the possibility, for the chance of hulihia.

When I eventually returned to my job and my students on Oʻahu, I carried these haumāna with me. They are our dreamers for tomorrow, the ones brave enough to consider a better future, even if and when the world tries to kill their hope, the ones who know, unconsciously, that as Hawaiian epistemologist Manu Meyer once said, “conflict is the midwife of consciousness.” Conflict, in other words, provides the space and the time for us to grow, to learn, to rise.

One day my older sister, Keomailani Case, explained this to me using the land as her guide, her teacher. We need only look at our environment to see this in action, she said. “Change and challenge prompt evolution.” Plants and animals adapt to survive. Thus, like our rooted and winged relatives, we too can evolve and thrive when faced with obstacles, with anything that threatens our existence. These students seemed to know this innately, ancestrally, at the naʻau.

Unlike my university student who has been so jaded by the world, so impacted that she would rather be numbed by pain then live through it, these haumāna recognized the beauty in caring. With each fall comes the ability to rise; with each stumble, the ability to reexamine your path; with each step back, the potential to learn from the past, to harness the power of all of the kūpuna before you, and carry them into the present once more. Caring, amidst all of the challenges, makes this possible. It is only when we lose hope that we will begin to perish. The ultimate bomb of colonialism, as one of my favorite scholars Ngugi Wa Thiongʻo once explained, is when a people begin to lose faith in their capacities, their power, their unique customs and ways of articulating the world, and ultimately, in themselves. [3]

These seniors, as well as all of the haumāna at Kanu o ka ʻĀina, are the medicine for that pain, the recovery, the healing, the source of new light. They have not lost faith and hope. When I left them after our lunch, I thought about the fearless ones they resemble, the bold and brave ancestors whose hopes still make our hearts beat, our passions take shape, our minds imagine better futures. They are the descendants of the courageous, those brave enough to care and to act upon that concern even when the world tried to kill them: mind, body, spirit.

Kāula, or prophets, were one such people. They lived with the knowledge that their words, their visions, and their dreams, could result in change, in upheaval, in reversal, and sometimes, even in death. They gave voice to their visions without the fear of consequence, living with a certainty that many of us hide, or worse, that many of us try to get rid of. They lived knowing that “inā make, make nō; inā he ola, ola nō.” [4] If the were to die, they would indeed die; but if life was their fate, they would indeed live. They were divinely guided, telling of the future. Sometimes their words spoke of blessings, of victory, of triumphs. At other times, they spoke of doom, of unavoidable chaos and change. And on some occasions, they spoke of an indefinite time, their words being given endless life and relevance, still penetrating our existence today.

One such prophet was a man named Kapihe. In an era referred to as “Kanīʻaukani”—or the “Sounding of Coconut Ribs,” a time named for when the great chief Kamehameha I returned to the island of his birth after living on Oʻahu, a time when his kāhili moved and sang in the wind—Kapihe uttered what has arguably become one of the most famous wānana, or prophecies, for our people today:

E iho ana ʻo luna
E piʻi ana ʻo lalo
E hui ana nā moku
E kū ana ka paia

What is above shall come down
What is below shall rise up
The islands will unite
The walls will stand

Despite being criticized, and at one time even being called a “kanaka wahaheʻe,”[5] or a man with a slippery and slimy mouth like an octopus, a man of lies and deceit, he stood before Kamehameha I and declared these words, words that we still chant today, words that tell of the ultimate reversal:

What is up shall come down.
What is below shall rise.

In other words, there is always the possibility of change, even when you think you are helpless, even when you think your people are doomed, even when you think that your efforts and energies are wasted on dreams. His words teach us to dream anyway.

When I attended Kanu o ka ʻĀina, we chanted Kapihe’s words to close each and every school day, reminding ourselves that we were, and will never be, powerless. As long as we remember that our kūpuna stand with us, at our sides; as long as we continue to use their words and their wisdom to give expression to our lives; and as long as we forward with hope, and act, always, from a place of aloha, then we will never be hopeless.

When we look at the genealogy of Kapihe’s prophecy, and track its journey through time, we see that his words were not always interpreted positively. Some found his declaration offensive, predicting the eventual fall of Kamehameha. In later generations, some saw it as a prophecy that foretold the fall of our gods, our people, our ways of life. Some saw it as an affirmation of occupation. Some believed that it accurately predicted the coming of foreigners, foreign governments, foreign powers, and of spiritual and psychological colonization. Some even believed that these things were pono.

Generations later, however, we use it as a chant of promise, one that predicts yet another reversal, a restoration of justice, a resurgence of pride, a revitalization of spirit, a return to ea, to true sovereignty—mind, body, and soul. We have the power to make that choice, to use his words for good, to interpret them to speak to our existence, our struggles, our dreams and hopes today. We make the choice to chant in anticipation of better, to work towards better, to ensure that the world our children and grandchildren walk in will be one in which they can continue to be indigenous, one in which they can continue to carry us in their hopes, one in which they can dream good dreams again, for their families, for their people, for their nation, and for the world.

This school was the result of a dream, of a vision, of a refusal to believe in less, a refusal to settle for less, an ultimate refusal to believe that the energy expended advocating for something others didn’t believe in—whether language revitalization, cultural and spiritual awakening, or soul centering—was not worth it. The education of these students was made possible because someone, one of the most influential dreamers and mana wahine I know, was radical enough, was motivated enough, was driven enough to imagine change, to picture it, and then to work tirelessly for it. She was and is proof that the effort is always worth it, that believing in change, even when we are taught that it is impossible, is the first step towards breaking through those structures of power and domination that seek to keep us down. It is the first step towards reversal: towards the rise, towards the restoration of ea.

Today, I chant the words of that famous prophet, Kapihe, the man once called slippery and slimy because he dared to be bold and brave, because he dared to dream something different. I chant his words because they remind me that I can be like the kāula, or the prophets and soothsayers of the past. I may not be able to predict the future. I may not be divinely guided. I am directionally challenged and sometimes lack common sense. But, I maintain, despite every single challenge, despite every single injustice, that change is always, always possible, that caring is always, always necessary, and that dreaming of a better future even if and when history has taught us not to, is my kuleana; it is my responsibility. It is what it means to be indigenous: to exist continually, to survive, to persist and to insist on place, on purpose, on the life of our storied lands, seas, and skies.

I look at these haumāna, these students who have grown up with the words of their ancestors, with the prophecies of their kūpuna, who’ve chanted their hopes, who have recited their dreams, who have closed their days with calls for change, and I am awakened through them. They have known no other time. They have never known a time when it was not okay to be Hawaiian, to dance, sing, chant, write, speak and even shout in defense and in praise of who they were, who they are, and who they will be. And I can think of no better people to be our future dreamers, to envision and work towards a better world.

So, to the papa ʻumikūmālua, this year’s senior class of Kanu o ka ʻĀina, to you I give the gift of dreaming. I dream of a life of purpose for you, one in which you walk with us, hands turned to the earth, hands feeling the land, hands connected to Papa; one in which you sing with us, eyes cast on the sea, eyes scanning the horizon for the space that connects us to our past, to the voyaging ancestors who brought us here from Kahiki, the strong and wise navigators and sailors whose names and legacies we still celebrate; one in which you hope with us, hearts lifted to the sky, never losing your connection to the realm of Wākea, never letting the world convince you that to care is to waste your energy. I hope you never lose your concern, or that knowing of what it means to be a kanu o ka ʻāina, a native of this land: connected, caring, dreaming.

Be like the prophets, the “poʻe makaʻu ʻole,” or the fearless ones. Hope; be radical. Dream; be bold. Chant, sing, and dance to tell the world of your existence. Fill your pages, write your stories across the land, draw and paint your dreams across the sky, send your voices out across the ocean. Use the tools you have to inspire revolution.

Kapihe taught us that change is always possible and that there is always the potential for reversal . Therefore, take up the task to maintain hope. Carry kuleana across your back; shoulder the burden and the privilege with us. Learn, grow, and evolve with time. And never forget the kahua, or the foundation, you stand upon, here, at Kanu o ka ʻĀina.

When that which is above starts to come down, be there to witness and encourage our transformation.

E piʻi nō kākou!! Let us experience the rise together.

 

Footnotes

[1] (Wendt, 1976, p. 71)

[2] (Wendt, 1976, p. 74)

[3] (Thiong’o, 1986, p. 3)

[4] (Lionanohokuahiwi, 1916, p. 2)

[5] (Laʻanui, 1838, p. 83)

References

Laʻanui, G. (1838, 14 March). He manao hoakaka wale no keia no ko’u hanau ana, a me ko’u kamalii ana, a me ko’u hookanaka ana, a me ka ike ana i kekahi mau mea oloko o ke aupuni o Kamehameha, Ke Kumu Hawaii, pp. 81-84.

Lionanohokuahiwi, Z. P. K. (1916, 9 June). Haina o na ninau a ka anela o Mekiko, Ka Nupepa Kuokoa, p. 2.

Thiong’o, N. w. (1986). Decolonising the mind: The politics of language in African literature. Portsmouth: Heinemann.

Wendt, A. (1976). Towards a new Oceania. Seaweeds and Constructions, 7, 71-85.

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Stop the Noise: An Open Letter to the U.S. Army Garrison-Pōhakuloa

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Pōhakuloa (photos by Hāwane Rios)

To the U.S. Army Garrison-Pōhakuloa (USAG-P),

Thank you for the opportunity to submit this letter of concern regarding your military training.

You opened up this space for community members to express their concerns related to “noise.” Therefore, I’d like to take a moment to comment on the noise and hope that these words will not be met with silence but with a swell of voices and actions, chorusing together for justice.

Noise, as you are well aware, refers to sounds: loud and sometimes-disturbing sounds, confused and sometimes-violent sounds.

Noise disrupts.
Noise destroys.

Noise, also has origins in Old English, in the sense that it was applied to quarreling. And in Old French and Latin, it comes from the word “nausea,” meaning seasickness.

Noise causes disagreement and argument.
Noise causes sickness.

In Hawaiian, we refer to noise as “hana kuli,” something that makes us deaf, something that can make us close our ears, our eyes, and eventually our minds, to injustice.

I’m afraid that so much noise may result in the loss of an ability to listen, to really hear us, to hear the earth, to hear our collective cries. I’m afraid that so much noise will result in silence, your silence…

…or the ultimate tragedy: our silence, our complacency, and our ultimate demise.

Last night I lay awake listening to the noise, feeling the noise. Each bomb shook my body. Each bomb shook my heart. And my thoughts shifted to my two-month old nephew, sleeping “peacefully.” I wondered about “peace.”

What kind of world is he growing up in? What kind of world am I to introduce him to when there have been more bombs than days he’s been alive and he cannot sleep without feeling them: his tiny body being impacted by the noise, his future being destroyed by noise, his home being bombed by your noise? When did his life, and the life of all of our children, become so un-important, so un-significant, so un-valuable that you would dare to bomb his home, threatening his resources, his livelihood, his chance to live in true peace?

As I write this I watch him drink, sucking at the source of sustenance that feeds him and I wonder, what about his mother? The earth? What about her? Who will feed him when she is too tired to deal with the noise, the disruptions, the desecration, the sounds that make us deaf?

Our mother lays exposed at Pōhakuloa. And you rape her; you take advantage of her, penetrating her with your phallic bombs, as if trying to show off your own masculinity, your own power, your own control. And all the while, I hear her screaming. I feel her screaming.

There. Is. So. Much. Noise.

And we are expected to be quiet, to be quiet-ed by the noise. We are expected to cower in the face of your supposed strength and force. We are expected to be rendered deaf, blind, and heartless.

We are expected to forget:

To forget that you seized 84,000 acres of our land at no cost.
To forget that Pōhakuloa is larger than the islands of Kahoʻolawe and Lanaʻi combined.
To forget that bombing any piece of land is unjust, but that bombing land that people live on is an act of war.
To forget that you used Depleted Uranium on our mother, letting it seep into her skin, our skin.
To forget that you destroyed historic sites, attacking the physical and spiritual center of our livelihood.
And to forget that you threatened—and continue to threaten—our health in every imaginable way.

But you forget. You forget that we are connected to our mother, to Papa, to the very land that we call home. And as long as she makes noise—voicing her discontent, voicing her anger, voicing her pain—we will be here to listen and we will speak, chant, shout, pray and sing until you hear us.

Do not feign deafness. This noise, our noise, cannot be ignored.

I will continue to be noisy: to speak noisily, to type noisily, to raise my voice with volume and intensity until you can hear me, until you can hear us, until you can hear the earth, and until you are moved and shaken enough to care.

Like a bomb to your heart, you will feel this. You must feel this and act.

So, I ask, what will you do to stop the noise?

Hear us and do not respond with silence.

Sincerely,
Emalani Case (making noise for all the protectors of this land)

Here are some of them:


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Spiritual Action

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It’s time for “spiritual action,” he said.

Spiritual Action!

I stood back thinking about what an incredibly deep yet profoundly simple concept this was. “This is a year for prayer,” he declared, a soft feather hanging from his neck, dancing across the center of his chest. “Last year was a year for outreach, for education. This is a year for spiritual action.”

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t experience one of those, “Is he speaking directly to me?” moments. Perhaps some things are destined for our ears. Or perhaps sometimes we arrive at points in our lives when we are ready to not only hear certain things, but to truly listen to the messages that they have to teach us. I suppose I was ready for his ideas; or maybe, just maybe, I was ready for him to remind me how act upon my spirit.

A little over two weeks ago, I left Aotearoa and returned to my beloved Hawaiʻi for a visit. What I assumed would be a “normal” trip home, however, turned out to be so much more. I visited the same places: the farm, the hillsides, the valleys, the mist. Yet, something had changed. But the more I looked outward, searching for the difference, the more I had to go inward, realizing that what had changed was me.

One day, I found myself standing on the outskirts of a classroom, listening to his deep voice speak of prayer, and I realized that to pray is an action, one of recognizing connection and responsibility. It is far more than a solemn request or an offer of thanks. It is something that acts upon our relationships to the land, sea, and sky; to the past, the present, and the future; to ourselves and to one another. To pray, I realized, is to know our place in the world.

Having just completed an academic course of study, I wondered if there is any institution that can teach us this. We can write about prayer and the spirit; we can talk about it and even analyze it. Yet, to live it, or to act upon the guidance of the spirit, is an internal journey, an individual one. Perhaps that journey is what had changed my view of the external world, what changed the way I treat it, or the way that I greet it, each and every day.

I learned much from his speech, standing near a classroom of children, thinking about how fortunate they were to receive his words. He and his friends, affectionately known as the “Oak Flat Boys,” had come to sing on our mountain, to offer their prayers and blessing to our land and people. Coming home with no agenda, no set schedule or expectations, I opened up to the possibility of anything and everything, and on one breathtakingly beautiful day, I found myself on the summit of Mauna Kea, witnessing them lift their voices into the wind, sending it to the Piko o Wākea and beyond. They knew their place as defenders of the earth, as guardians of the spirit, as the singers of stories, the composers of hope, the choreographers of history. I stood alongside them, offering my own song, realizing that although we sang in different languages, and although our foundations lay in different lands, that we were standing for the same things: connection and responsibility.

We understood that to stand on the Piko o Wākea, on the summit of our tallest mountain, was to stand to protect it. It was to stand for all that it represents, to stand for the relationship that the land shares with the sky, that connects ancestors to descendants, that connects the people with their stories. We understood that origin and ethnicity did not matter in prayer, neither did language, for we recognized our shared responsibility to the earth, a responsibility that we were born to carry, that we are all born to carry. We understood that to guard the soils that we stand upon, the oceans that we sail upon, the skies that we gaze upon, and the histories that we build upon, is to stand strongly, shoulder to shoulder, nation to nation. That was spiritual action, using prayer—whether sung, spoken, or even meditated—to cultivate and motivate change.

We stood in the wind, a strong wind that carried our voices and our prayers on its currents, sending them floating and flowing to different realms: different lands, seas, and skies. And when we were finished, I knew that to act upon my spirit is to recognize my connections and my responsibilities daily, in both the small and seemingly mundane moments as well as the large and profound. We need not stand on mountains everyday, in other words, in order to stand for mountains. We need not be physically present on each sacred landscape in order to speak for them, in order to sing for them, in order to hope and pray and work for their protection. We need only recognize that to be of the earth is to be connected to it in the same way that a child will always be connected to its mother, long after the umbilical cord is severed. Physical distance never separates us from responsibility, from being guardians of the earth, protectors of the sacred, creators of history.

In spiritual action, I have learned, there is little room for hesitation and much room for courage: courage to stand, courage to act, courage to sing and dance. These are not new lessons or new insights. In fact they are old, incredibly old. I believe that my ancestors, as well as other indigenous people of the earth, understood this. They understood how to act upon their connections and to use that to motivate and inspire change. Therefore, perhaps all that is “new” is my being able to finally explain to myself what I always knew inherently but could never describe. It is quite simply and yet quite profoundly, spiritual action! It is the courage to act upon my spirit, to let it lead, to let it influence, to let it cultivate thought and to motivate action, to let it live.

I thank my Oak Flat teachers for this reminder: shoulder to shoulder, nation to nation, we will stand, our voices lifted into the wind.

Resources:

For more information on Oak Flat, visit: http://www.apache-stronghold.com


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Ka Lanakila o Hawaiʻi: The Victory of Hawaiʻi

Ka Lanakila o Hawaii

In 1893, just two short months after the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom, a voice sang out from the pages of a newspaper. Rather than mourning or speaking of defeat, as may have been expected, however, it celebrated “Ka Lanakila o Hawaiʻi,” as if declaring that we would be victorious, that our people would continue to rise and stand for what was pono, for what was just.

This voice belonged to Ellen Kekoaohiwaikalani Wright Prendergast, a friend of the deposed Queen Liliʻuokalani and a composer of mele lāhui, or songs for the nation. Although perhaps more famously known for her proclamation that we would rather eat stones than be annexed by the United States, she wrote other songs and shared them openly. She was a true aloha ʻāina, a true patriot, who used her compositions to not only resist, but to also insist that we maintain hope. I ka ʻōlelo nō ke ola. There was indeed life to be found in her words.

Over one hundred years later, I found her mele in a newspaper at a time when I needed hope, when I needed to be reminded of the resilience of our people. “ʻAʻohe kupuʻeu o Kahiki nāna e hōʻoniʻoni mai,” she said, “Ua ēwe, ua malu, ua paʻa. Eia i ka Piko o Wākea.” She taught me that no one from afar could ever shake us as long as we remained rooted and steadfast in the teachings of our kūpuna. There was protection and guidance to be found in their wisdom, in the ancestral knowledge that kept us connected to our ʻāina, that taught us to view it, and treat it, and safeguard it as an ancestor. I found her words while living in another country, physically separated from my home, and as if speaking directly to me, she reminded me that no matter where I was in the world, that I could always find whatever I needed at the “Piko o Wākea,” at the summit of our highest mountain, connecting kānaka to the realm of our akua.

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That’s where I found it, whatever “it” was that I needed, whether strength or guidance, whether inspiration or motivation, or whether just a push to continue to stand and rise even when it was difficult. Her words reminded me that we are only ever defeated if we allow our minds to believe it, if we allow our hearts to feel it, and if we allow our mouths to speak it. Her words reminded me that just maintaining hope for a better future is in itself a victory. Why? Because it motivates us to act. Being Hawaiian, I have learned, is not just a state of existence; it is an action. It is a constant, never-ending dedication that is acted upon, lived, breathed, and shared. Her words taught me that.

Ellen Kekoaohiwaikalani never gave up hope. She continued to fight despite the state of their nation, the overthrow of their Queen, and the possibility that they would lose their kingdom. Thus, I read her words and realized that I need to be more like her; I need to give my descendants a legacy of hope simply because they will deserve nothing less than that. They will deserve strength and guidance and protection. They will deserve my action and my dedication. That is the only way that Hawaiʻi will continue to be victorious despite the circumstances, despite the struggles, and despite the people who will attempt to shake us.

After coming home for a visit, I have witnessed many actions, many expressions of genuine love for the lāhui, many victories:

Last week, a young, Hawaiian man stood in court and defended himself ma ka ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, entirely in the language of his ancestors. He stood for kuleana, for fulfilling his responsibilities to the land and to his kūpuna. He stood as a protector and won. He won! He lanakila nō ia!

Last weekend, I went to the Piko o Wākea with a group of grounded and incredibly brave Native American men. They sang their songs and reminded us that protecting the land, the sea, and the sky is not just a Hawaiian issue or even an indigenous issue. It is a human one. We lifted our voices and prayers for the earth, nation to nation. He lanakila nō ia!

Two days ago, I sat in a circle of dancers and chanters, practicing a hula that honors our Queen. Guided by the woman who first introduced me to hula as a young girl, I was then asked to teach a chant. I humbly accepted, knowing that to teach was to honor those who taught me, who prepared me, and who guided me. He lanakila nō ia!

Yesterday, I stood before the students of Kanu o ka ʻĀina Charter School, listening to them open the day with chant, greeting the land and sky, and I thought about the woman who started this school, how her dreams for a better Hawaiʻi become a reality each time another student is allowed to learn in a school that honors his or her heritage. He lanakila nō ia!

And as I sat down to write this, my nephew came into my room asking to practice a chant with me. He closed the door, sat at my side, and chanted the very words that I found in the newspaper, the very words that Ellen Kekoaohiwaikalani once wrote for her Queen and her nation. We chanted together, two generations, celebrating all past and future victories for our people. He lanakila maoli nō ia!

Both large and small, these triumphs push us forward. They motivate us. But more than that, they remind us that no matter the circumstance, there always has been and will always be an opportunity to rise above, to look to a time when things will change, when they will be better, when we will lanakila. That hope is in itself a victory.

 

Works Cited:

Kekoaohiwaikalani. (1893, 31 Mar.) Ka lanakila o Hawaii. Ka Leo o Ka Lahui, p. 4

 


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Write, Write, and Right On!

“There lies your hope. Hope to rage and write. To rage and dance and stomp-shake the ground… laugh and rage and write, write, keep on writing, don’t stop till you get there.”

Epeli Hauʻofa, “Write You Bastard”

My niece, ʻĀkōlea, sign-waving for Mauna Kea and bringing me along with her.

My niece, ʻĀkōlea, sign-waving for Mauna Kea and bringing me along with her.

My skin can’t comprehend the cold. It’s bitterly cold, painfully cold. At times, my skin freezes, dries, even seems to stop breathing. I’m caught still. So I search for sources of warmth, anything to bring relief to my skin born out of warmer soil.

Today, I retreat to my desk and watch my fingers dance across the keyboard. I feel a small heat begin to spread slowly: from my fingertips, to my palms, to my wrists, arms, chest. It touches my heart. I rage and write, write, and right on, dancing, and shaking the ground. I find warmth in rage, not an angry rage, but a poetic one: an ardor, a fervor, a passion, a raging poetic passion.

“Poetry…is not what we simply recognize as the formal ‘poem,’” says Robin Kelley in Freedom Dreams, “but a revolt: a scream in the night, an emancipation of language and old ways of thinking” (9). I write for freedom, the freedom to dream and hope for a better future, even if I don’t know what that future will be. Perhaps that is radical: “What makes hope radical,” Jonathan Lear reminds us, “is that it is directed toward a future of goodness that transcends the current ability to understand what it is” (103).

So I write because I have to, because “In the poetics of struggle and lived experience, in the utterances of ordinary folk, in the cultural products of social movements, in the reflections of activists, we discover the many different cognitive maps of the future, of a world not yet born” (Kelly 9-10). I imagine and dream of that world, the one that my children and grandchildren will one day live in, and I choose to picture a world better than this one.

Today, I choose to imagine a mountain free of telescopes. The chair of the TMT International Observatory Board, Henry Yang, recently announced that construction will commence this Wednesday on Mauna Kea. Like a chill and like the polar blast that’s settled into Aotearoa, his words sting. But I do not let them stop me from dreaming because I refuse to fight and stand against something without knowing what I am fighting and standing for.

So I rage and write, write, and right on for the future that I’ve pictured, imagined, and dreamt of: a future where my descendants will not have to fight against the desecration of their sacred sites. This includes every “site,” from their land, to their ocean, to their very bodies, minds, and hearts. I may be called radical; I may even be called naïve. But my body burns, heated with rage, and as I write, I can no longer feel the cold. I am warmed by movement, by social movements of hope, justice, freedom, and true aloha!

So these are my words, my poetic ragings. I will write, sing, shout, and dance them, taking my fingers from the keyboard and putting them to the sky, the sea, and the soil, as I choreograph a better future, my feet dancing, stomp-shaking the ground.

Whatever happens, continue to rage. Continue to write, write, and right on.

E kūpaʻa mau ma hope o ka pono.

Works Cited

Hauʻofa, Epeli. “Write You Bastard.” Wasafiri. 12:25 (2008): 67. Print.

Kelley, Robin. Freedom Dreams. Boston: Beacon Press Books, 2002. Print.

Lear, Jonathan. Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006. Print.


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The Light

Photo 2015-04-24 11 16 35 AM

My uncle and his family. Photo taken by the Puhi/Haʻo ʻohana.

“The light bulb came on,” he said.

 This is for my uncle.

I grew up around strong men, men who stood for something. They were the type of men whose hands were calloused, whose skin was darkened by the sun, who wore dirt like it was a part of them, their hats always rimmed in sweat stains. They were rough men who could inspire fear. But, oh their voices could soothe when I needed them to and their hands could hold my own when I wasn’t strong enough to stand. They taught me of strength.

I followed them in my youth: large rubber boots digging into rain-drenched forest floors. Silently stepping where they would step, I’d watch them not knowing if my feet would ever plant as deeply as theirs did or if my hands would ever be as steady. They were giants in stature with hearts to match. They’d give everything, even when receiving nothing in return. They taught me of sacrifice.

Yesterday, I spoke to one of these men: my uncle. Through the small screen of my phone, I saw him standing on the side of the road, a Hawaiian flag draped around him, tied securely on his right shoulder. His dark eyes seemed to look straight across oceans; his brow wore its usual wrinkle. He held a sign reading: “Stand for our Mauna!” Stand for our mountain.

He’s always stood for something and now years later, he stands for something still. No longer a child, I watch him and all of the other men who I grew up around. Like the ʻaʻaliʻi, they bend, but never break in the wind. They teach me of resilience.

Like a true uncle, he took a break from his sign waving, the sound of car horns filling the background, and asked me how I was, living so far away from home. Amazed at the wonders of modern technology that allowed me to be “there” without actually being there, he wanted to know what I’d be having for dinner, his voice full with the same humor that comforted my childhood, his feet still rooted in the ground.

“The light bulb came on,” he then said confidently. He had gathered with countless others, holding signs, showing their support and standing for Mauna Kea. He was dedicated. “We have to do it now,” he said, “or we’ll lose everything.” “I’m doing this for the kamaliʻi.” For the children.

I thought about his grandchildren, my little cousins, who I had talked to just before, their bright smiles giving me a spark of hope. And I realized that they’d follow him, their feet planted, their hands turned toward the ground, ready to tend and heal it. He’d lead them just as he and my own father led their children: by embodying those values that our kūpuna lived by.

I grew up around men who did not have to preach about aloha ʻāina because they knew of no other way to be: hands always soiled, feet always treading lightly, even while carrying the weight of generations. And I realized, as I looked at him wearing his Hawaiian flag and waving at cars as they passed by sounding their support, that his “light” had always been on and it had always shined brightly, guiding us, teaching us, illuminating our paths. However, he spoke as if he had just become a part of the movement. “The light bulb came on,” he said, as if he had not been a part of fighting, standing, and striving for the betterment of our people and our land all along.

But to me, he’s always stood for something, even when perhaps he didn’t realize it, and even when perhaps he didn’t receive any acknowledgement. Part of my childhood was spent watching him, my father, and countless other uncles stand for the life of our forests, for our livelihood, for our future. It often took them away from us; it sometimes brought hurt and anger. But it brought hope in equal measure. They taught me of responsibility. And they teach me still.

I hung up the phone wishing that I had told him how I felt, that it is because of him and the many other strong men in my life that I even know how to stand, firmly rooted, grounded in the wisdom of those who came before me. Men like him and my father taught me about aloha ʻāina before I even knew that it was a concept to learn. I wished I had thanked him. But I pictured him standing there, on the side of the road, our Hawaiian flag draped around him, with that same familiar smile that he always greets me with, and I knew that he’d be content just knowing that I will always stand with him, our hands turned toward the ground.


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An Open Letter to Governor Ige

mauna kea

Aloha nui kāua e Governor Ige,

I write to you not to restate what previous letters regarding Mauna Kea and the Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) have already made clear (like that submitted by the six Mauna Kea Hui Litigants and Supporters for the Protection of Mauna Kea). You know of the illegalities. You know of the wrongdoings. You know of why construction on our mountain should stop. I am sure you have heard of the growing commitment to aloha ʻāina currently spreading across our islands; it is a commitment to stand and protect our land at the risk of losing jobs, at the risk of affecting families, at the risk, even, of being arrested. News of this movement is spreading worldwide. In fact, I write this letter to you from New Zealand where news stations have reported on the issues, garnering support for our people and our land back home. Therefore, I write to you not to remind you of what you already know, and perhaps what you have already witnessed yourself, but rather to urge you to act. Now is the time. Now is the time to set a precedent for the future. Construction must stop.

What has taken me so far away from our mountain and our home is the pursuit of knowledge. Thus, as I sit here immersing myself in the words of great scholars and thinkers who have shaped my understanding of the world, I realize that those values and lessons being taught and embodied right now in Hawaiʻi—by those standing on the mountaintop, by those leading demonstrations on university campuses, by those holding signs on roadsides, and by those writing, singing, praying, and even dancing for our mountain—are those same values and lessons that revolutionary thinkers and agents of change have been preaching for decades. Therefore, it is time we listen.

One such influential thinker, Frantz Fanon, once said, “We are nothing on earth if we are not in the first place the slaves of a cause, the cause of the people, the cause of justice and liberty.” Our responsibility on earth is to stand for a cause that will ensure that our descendants have a future, that they have a life, and that they have the resources they need—whether physically, spiritually, culturally, or intellectually—to live fully. Thus, our cause is one of protection; it is one of protecting the life of our future. This same sentiment can be found in the words of so many world leaders. However, much closer to home, our people have a proverb: “He aliʻi ka ʻāina, he kauwā ke kanaka,” meaning, “The land is chief; man is its servant.” In other words, what you are witnessing in the islands right now is a strong commitment to that role and responsibility as stewards of the land.

What so many have seemingly failed to realize, however, is that to stand for the life of the land is not just a Hawaiian responsibility. It belongs to all of us regardless of race, status, or religious affiliation. That includes you as someone in the highest position of executive authority in Hawaiʻi. There have been many attempts to disregard the words of those opposing construction of the TMT, often through the use of language suggesting that they are simply a group of “Natives” protesting against the desecration of sacred ground. Such rhetoric was used to lessen our concerns and to take attention away from the actions of the University of Hawaiʻi, the Board of Land and Natural Resources (BLNR), and further, the issuing of the Conservation District Use Permit (CDUP), a permit that should never have been issued. It took attention away from the fact that this is not just a cultural issue, but a social and an environmental one as well.

While there are many Native Hawaiians at the forefront of this movement to protect Mauna Kea, and while many do honor the sacredness of our mountain, there are others standing with them who come from various backgrounds and beliefs. They are all pulled together, however, by one cause: “the cause of the people, the cause of liberty and justice.” To fight for Mauna Kea, in other words, is to fight for the future, to fight for our land and water, to fight for the life of our descendants. This is a human concern. It is a human issue. Therefore, it is time to listen, time to act, and time to halt construction on the very pinnacle of our existence.

I write to you as a fellow resident of Hawaiʻi. I write to you as an aloha ʻāina, as a protector of our land and resources. And most of all I write to you as a wahaʻōlelo, or a mouthpiece, for all of those who cannot speak, for all of those who cannot write, and for all of those who have not yet been born, those who will one day have to live with our choices. We will continue to stand for their futures. Stand with us. It is time.

Me ke aloha,

Emalani Case

For a link to the letter submitted to Governor Ige by the six Mauna Kea Hui Litigants and Supporters for the Protection of Mauna Kea, visit this website. You may also sign the petition to support their letter. It includes an informative list of the “Top Ten Reasons for Immediate Halting of TMT Construction.”

The Frantz Fanon quote featured in this letter comes from Fanon: A Critical Reader edited by L. Gordon, T. D. Sharpley-Whiting, and R. T. White, page 5.