Last Updated on March 18, 2025
It was a warm, clear day at Kailua beach on October 16, 2013. On such a beautiful day, one would expect to see one of the most popular Oʻahu beaches covered with flowery beach towels and Tommy Bahama lounge chairs; the water full of ABC store boogie boards ridden awkwardly by sunscreen soaked foreigners; the outer reefs and small islets cluttered with countless schools of brightly-colored kayaks rented by the hour; and the sky distorted by the kites of surfers speeding through the waves and launching themselves into the air. Unfortunately, when residents and visitors think of Kailua today, these are the images that usually come to mind. They do not typically think of Kailua as a site of Hawaiian resurgence, but on that particular afternoon in October that is exactly what I was a part of.
That Wednesday in 2013 marked the second time in history that the waʻa kaulua or Hawaiian double-hulled voyaging canoe Hōkūleʻa[1] sailed into Kailua (an ahupuaʻa or traditional land division in the district of Koʻolaupoko on the island of Oʻahu). As a kupa (Native) of this ahupuaʻa and a practitioner of traditional hula who received my hula training in this ahupuaʻa, I helped plan and oversee the hosting of Hōkūleʻa and her crew for several days by our Kailua Hawaiian community. The schedule of events began that day with an arrival ceremony at Kanukuokaʻelepulu (a portion of Kailua beach where Kaʻelepulu stream enters the sea). It was there on that clear, sunny day that a spontaneous exchange of aloha ʻāina (love for the land) oratory in Hawaiian langauge between two young Kānaka of Kailua took place. Their call and response only lasted about ten minutes, but the power of this everyday act of resurgence continues to echo and reverberate long after their initial words were spoken…ua pā i ka leo (to be struck by the voice). All of us who stood with them that day were immediately reminded of the power of our Native voices to enact and inspire Indigenous resurgence through our Native languages for the decolonization, re-culturation, and regeneration of ourselves and our communities.
With just enough wind to fill her sails, Hōkūleʻa sailed proudly into Kailua bay under her own power, around Mōkapu, passed Mōkōlea, through a natural channel in the reef, and close to shore where our group of cultural practitioners, community leaders, and school groups were waiting for them. After setting anchor, her crew was ferrried to the beach aboard canoes paddled by members of various Kailua canoe clubs and greeted with chant and lei by seven of Kailua’s kumu hula (hula teachers). But before our guests emerged completely out of the water, one of the Kanaka orators mentioned earlier, crewmember Kaleomanuiwa (Kaleo) Wong, called out to the kamaʻāina (Native-born Kānaka) of Kailua (whose presence is often forgotten or erased by locals and foreigners alike), asking their permission to come ashore. This is an excerpt from his speech.
E ke kamaʻāina, eia lā he waʻa, he kaulua i pae mai nei
He nonoi kēia e pae ka waʻa
E kamaʻāina ka waʻa iā Kailua
E kamaʻāina ʻo Kailua i ka waʻa
He welina, he leo aloha wale nō kēia[2]
On behalf of his hoa waʻa (crewmembers), Kaleo addressed the kamaʻāina of Kailua, including those Kānaka physically on the beach as well as the kūpuna (ancestors) of Kailua, seen and unseen, who were also there to bear witness to this historic event. He recognized their presence and depth of knowledge by delivering his words directly to them, speaking only in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language), and recounting the genealogies of both the waʻa kaulua who brought them there and the land who now welcomed them. He had no doubt that his hosts would be able to understand every poetic saying he referenced, recognize every ancestral name he honored, and appreciate the intention behind every word he spoke. And he was right. After listing the islands that Hōkūleʻa had visited just prior to arriving in Kailua, he proclaimed, “Noke i ka holo a pae mai i ke one o Kākuhihewa, ka heke o nā moku.” (Hōkūleʻa continued to sail until landing on the sands of Kākuhihewa (Oʻahu), the best of all islands). This passionate statement engendered exclamations of pride from throughout the crowd. When he recounted the names of Kailua’s sacred places and ancestors like Alāla and Kūaliʻi, Kahinihiniʻula and Hauwahine, Pāmoa and Kākuhihewa, shouts of “eō” erupted from all around. It was as if he was calling out to these kūpuna and inviting them to participate in the ceremony, their presence thus demanding excellence and accountability from us all as we moved forward.
Upon the conclusion of Kaleo’s eloquent address, one of the kamaʻāina of Kailua, Kahikina de Silva, responded with a speech of her own, welcoming Kaleo and the others to our kulāiwi (homeland, community) and inviting them to come ashore. This was not a pre-planned performance that she choreographed with Kaleo beforehand. It was a spontaneous interaction between two Kānaka who were reviving in that moment the cultural practice of Hawaiian oratory. In fact, this was probably the first time that this kind of exchange between guest and host in Hawaiian-language-only had been heard in public in Kailua for more than a century. Ua pā i ka leo—Kahikina was struck by Kaleo’s speech and was inspired to respond on behalf of the rest of us kamaʻāina of Kailua. The result was an intertwining of words, names, genealogies, and histories that created a lei around us all, a lei that celebrated our presence as kupa of Kailua, as ʻŌiwi of Hawaiʻi.
Any time we speak ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi it is an act of resurgence because we are consciously choosing to give ea (life, breath) to the words of our kūpuna in our contemporary time. These words are intimately tied to our land- and water-based practices as well as the contexts in which these practices were developed. Our Native languages are a reflection of who we are, what we value, and how we understand and engage with the world. They are “animate and animating, [express] our living spirit through sound and the emotion with which we speak”[3], and their survival is intimately tied to the survival of our people.[4] The ability of the two orators to speak exclusively in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi and the ability of most participants in the ceremony to understand their words with no English translation was also a powerful testament to the wealth of knowledge still held in Kailua and our steadfast commitment as cultural practitioners of Kailua to put this knowledge into practice. It actually set the tone for the rest of the weekend where crewmembers were engaged with members of a variety of Hawaiian organizations from Kailua who are working to fulfill their kuleana (responsibility, obligation) to our community through the stewardship of our sacred places, the cultivation of our Native foods and medicines, the restoration of our Native forests and wetlands, and the perpetuation of our many other cultural and spiritual practices.
This brief exchange of words between guest and host, a Kānaka from the sea and a Kānaka from the land, created a piko or convergence of ea—the life, breath, and sovereignty of the people and the land of Kailua—which required everyone there to ask themselves, “What is my relationship to this piko and how does my positionality define my kuleana to it?” The coming together of these two Hawaiian voices created “a space of storied presencing, alternative imaginings, transformation, reclamation—resurgence”.[5] It was a celebration that, in spite of the invasion and occupation of our lands and waters by foreigners, we are still here. But we are not just present but thriving, ready to steward our lands and lead our community in envisioning a healthy and prosperous future for Kailua. Their actions that day and those they inspired in the weeks and months that followed directly challenge the settler narratives that discredit the current leadership, capacity, and integrity of the Kailua Hawaiian community.[6] We are not just ready to take care of our own lands and make decisions about how they should be stewarded; we are already doing so.
Right after Kaleo and Kahikina’s oratory, as we all still stood in the sand and surf, my hula sisters and I presented a hula to the crew of Hōkūleʻa as a way to affirm and remind us all of this reality. The hula we offered, ʻŪlei Pahu i ka Moku, is a prophecy chant of loss, warning Hawaiians that if we do not holdfast to the steering paddle of our canoe [E ku i ta hoe uli], others will take it from us and the result will be, A he mea/A he mea ʻoe, translated by premier Hawaiian scholar Mary Kawena Pukui as, “You are nothing/You Hawaiians will be as nothing.”[7] However, Patience Namaka Bacon (daughter of Tūtū Pukui who taught this hula to my kumu, Māpuana de Silva) gives us hope when she told my kumu that these final lines can also be interpreted as a question instead of a statement—Who are you? Will you let someone else define who you are and the direction your “waʻa” (canoe, community, etc.) will take you or will you take hold of the “hoe uli” (steering paddle), and navigate your own paths to ea (life, sovereignty, self-determination)? It is our choice. As exemplified by the words and actions of Kaleo, Kahikina, and the rest of us who participated in the hosting of Hōkūleʻa and her crew in 2013, there is no doubt that the Kānaka of Kailua have our hoe uli firmly in our hands and are navigating our waʻa towards a distant yet visible shoreline where our presence in Kailua is real, recognized, and resurging.
[1] Hōkūleʻa was born from the sands of Hakipuʻu, Koʻolaupoko, Oʻahu and launched into the waters of Kāneʻohe bay on March 8, 1975. She became a symbol of Hawaiian excellence and hope for the future of our lāhui (nation) since the success of her first voyage from Hawaiʻi to Tahiti in 1976 using only the ocean swells, stars, sun, moon, clouds, and birds to guide her way. Before Hōkūleʻa, no double-hulled voyaging canoe had been built or navigated in the way of our ancestors for a few hundred years due in large part to centuries of occupation and colonization by American missionaries and their descendants. Since her first voyage in 1976, Hōkūleʻa has successfully traveled over 150,000 nautical miles and bridged over one hundred islands in the Pacific using non-instrument navigation. These traditional methods of navigation are rooted in the teachings of our ancestors but went unpracticed in Hawaiʻi for centuries until Pwo Navigator Pius Mau Piailug from the island of Satawal in Micronesia agreed to teach Hawaiians to sail like our kūpuna once again. Hōkūleʻa is currently on a voyage around the world to connect with other Indigenous communities and spread the message of Mālama Honua, caring for island Earth. Her continued success in the Pacific, and now across the globe has inspired the births of numerous waʻa throughout Hawaiʻi and Polynesia as well as the training of a new generation of voyagers and navigators, ensuring that the art and science of deep sea voyaging will never go to sleep again.
[2] My translation of this excerpt of Kaleo’s speech:
To the children of this land/the native borns of Kailua/our hosts, here is a canoe, a double-hulled voyaging canoe that has just landed
This is a request to come ashore
The canoe shall become familiar to Kailua
And Kailua shall become familiar to the waʻa
This is a greeting, a voice of aloha
[3] Gregory Cajete, Native Science: Natural Laws of Interdependence, Clear Light Publishers, Santa Fe, NM, 72.
[4] A reference to 1) the wise saying, “I ka ʻōlelo nō ke ola. I ka ʻōlelo nō ka make. In language there is life. In language there is death.” (Pukui, 1983, p. 129) and 2) a newspaper article in the Hawaiian language newspaper Puuhona o Na Hawaii (January 26, 1917) about link between language and national identity.
[5] Leanne Simpson, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, Stories of Nishnaabeg Re-creation, Resurgence and a New Emergence, Arbeiter Ring Publishing, Winnipeg, Manitoba, 2011, 96.
[6] For example, the Kailua Neighborhood Board and other loud settler residents of Kailua are trying to block a plan (HHF/DLNR Kawainui Revised Master Plan) that will allow Hawaiian cultural, spiritual, educational, and environmental organizations to have a permanent presence around Kawainui fishpond in the center of Kailua to fulfill our kuleana to our people, places, and practices.
[7] Kīhei de Silva, Merrie Monarch Hula Festival Fact Sheet, Unpublished Manuscript, 2004.
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