Healing Through Aloha ʻĀina: Reflections on Kahoʻolawe, Cultural Resilience, and the Power of Land Connection in Trauma Recovery

Abstract

Once scarred by decades of military exploitation, Kahoʻolawe has become a symbol of resilience and cultural healing for the Kanaka Maoli, Native Hawaiian. Through Kahoʻolaweʻs ongoing restoration, the island has emerged as a cultural kīpuka (an oasis of life within a barren landscape), offering pathways for Kanaka Maoli to reconnect with their ancestral roots and foster resilience in the face of historical and contemporary trauma. Grounded in personal experiences and cultural reflections, this essay explores how reconnecting with Kahoʻolawe as a place of cultural resurgence can deepen one’s understanding of the restorative power of land connection. Aloha ʻāina, a deeply held Kanaka Maoli worldview that emphasizes a sacred, reciprocal relationship with the land. By engaging in cultural protocols and land stewardship practices on Kahoʻolawe, practitioners of aloha ʻāina contribute to the healing of intergenerational trauma rooted in colonial dispossession and ecological degradation. Thus, traditional practices, such as oli (chant), mālama ʻāina (land care), and kūkākūkā (deep discussions/processing) on Kahoʻolawe facilitate a powerful process of healing that connects individuals with ancestral knowledge and cultivates resilience across generations. These practices serve as an alternative to Western trauma healing modalities by asserting a culturally specific framework that validates the inseparability of land and identity for Indigenous healing.

1. Introduction

Kanaka Maoli, Hawaiian, has a history that is deeply intertwined with the trauma of colonization, which has had lasting impacts on both the cultural identity and health of the Kanaka Maoli. The illegal occupation of the Hawaiian Kingdom from 1893, followed by the annexation and statehood of Hawaiʻi, severed Kanaka Maoli from their ancestral lands. This resulted in a profound sense of disconnection and cultural loss. As a result, this traumatic event contributed to a cascade of health disparities, including mental health issues, substance use disorders, and chronic diseases (Masunaga 2023). However, the restoration of cultural practices offers a path to recovery for many Kanaka Maoli. Central to this healing process is the practice of aloha ʻāina, a worldview that emphasizes the sacred, reciprocal relationship between the land and the people (Morse 2015).

This reflective essay explores how the sacred island of Kahoʻolawe, once scarred by military exploitation, has become a symbol of resilience and cultural healing for Kanaka Maoli. Through the island’s ongoing restoration, Kahoʻolawe has emerged as a kīpuka (an oasis of life within a barren landscape) that offers opportunities for the Kanaka Maoli to reconnect with their ancestral roots and cultivate resilience in the face of historical and ongoing trauma. As a land-based site of cultural resurgence, Kahoʻolawe has played a critical role in the process of healing, particularly through the practices of mālama ʻāina (land stewardship), oli (chant), and Kūkākūkā (dialogue). These traditional practices serve as a framework for confronting intergenerational trauma, which is rooted in colonial dispossession and ecological degradation.

By engaging in cultural protocols on Kahoʻolawe, Kanaka Maoli are able to further heal from both personal and collective trauma. Through the process of return and reclamation, individuals experience empowerment, affirming their cultural identity and reinforcing the resilience that has carried Kanaka Maoli through generations of hardship (Barger et al. 2024). Ultimately, this essay contributes to the ongoing discourse on Indigenous resilience and trauma recovery by advocating for the recognition of culturally grounded approaches to healing, offering a more effective pathway for addressing the health disparities faced by Kanaka Maoli today.

2. Cultural Resilience

The forced dismantling of the Hawaiian Monarchy in 1893 marked a tragic turning point in history. This act of war severed the Kanaka Maoli from their land, their sovereignty, and their cultural practices, creating a ripple effect that has lasted for generations, leading to psychological challenges; including feelings of alienation, loss, and disempowerment (Trask 1999). The Hawaiian diaspora, triggered by the political and economic impacts of Hawaiʻi’s contested annexation, further deepened this trauma as many Kanaka Maoli were forced to leave their ancestral homelands, perpetuating a sense of disconnection and loss of cultural practices (Browne and Braun 2017). The decline of traditional health systems and subsistence practices, coupled with the introduction of Western diseases, lifestyles, and political structures, led to a significant deterioration in both physical and mental health among Kanaka Maoli, conditions that persist today (Mokuau 2011).

The lasting effects of historical trauma have affected not only Kanka Maoli, but also the ʻāina they spent generations sustaining. Water was diverted for sugar plantations, and land was seized for military occupation; all of which caused a disastrous ecological shift that is felt by today’s generation (Perez Wendt 2020). Kahoʻolawe, an island in the Hawaiian archipelago, holds deep cultural and spiritual significance for Kanaka Maoli. Kahoʻolawe is revered in Hawaiian cosmology and is linked to cultural beliefs, traditional practices, and ancestral lineage (Kanahele 1986). The island was historically seen as symbolizing the interconnection between people and the land, a foundational element of the Hawaiian concept of aloha ʻāina. This relationship reflects the belief that the land and natural elements are integral to personal and community identity, wellness, and spirituality (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992).

Kahoʻolawe during the 20th century was used as a military training ground and bombing site by the U.S. Navy, which led to its desecration and ecological degradation. For many Kanaka Maoli, this period represents a painful chapter in which cultural heritage, sacred sites, and natural resources were threatened (Kajihiro 2020). The Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (PKO), a grassroots movement established in the 1970s, catalyzed efforts to reclaim and restore the island, culminating in the Navy’s relinquishment of Kahoʻolawe to the State of Hawaiʻi in 1994. Today, Kahoʻolawe remains a focal point for cultural healing, ecological restoration, and community efforts to re-establish the sacred bond between Kanaka Maoli and their land. This cultural resurgence on Kahoʻolawe highlights the island’s role as a kīpuka where Hawaiian cultural practices, environmental stewardship, and traditional knowledge can thrive despite the ongoing violations enacted by its militarized history (Lum 2003).

Reconnecting with Kahoʻolawe offers a unique pathway for healing; care for the ʻāina and the ʻāina will care for you. Aloha is a reciprocal process and those who engage in aloha ʻāina do so without the expectation of reciprocity; however, aloha is often returned in many different ways. Through the restoration of the Kahoʻolawe and the practice of traditional protocols, Kanaka Maoli are able to reclaim their cultural identity, reconnect with their ancestral roots, and heal from intergenerational trauma. These land-based healing practices are not only essential for physical health but also for spiritual and cultural reconnection (Daniels et al. 2022). By engaging with Kahoʻolawe, the Kanaka Maoli are forging a path toward resilience, cultivating a renewed sense of belonging and empowerment that challenges the legacy of colonial dispossession and addresses the complex health disparities that persist today. Ultimately, the restoration of Kahoʻolawe through aloha ʻāina underscores the profound role of land connection in Indigenous healing. The healing practices on Kahoʻolawe serve as a counter-narrative to the historical and contemporary traumas that have shaped Kanaka Maoli health and identity, offering a path forward for the Kanaka Maoli to reclaim their place in the world and begin to heal from the deep wounds of colonization.

Kaho‘olawe: Aloha ʻĀina

Emerging from the larger Hawaiian Renaissance movement, PKO dedicated to ending military use of Kahoʻolawe, revitalizing Hawaiian cultural practices, and asserting Indigenous stewardship of the island through nonviolent advocacy and ongoing restoration efforts. (Osorio et al. 2014). The Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission (KIRC), a State of Hawaii agency established in 1994, maintains the ecological restoration, overseeing the removal of military remnants (UXO) and the restoration of native ecosystems while ensuring safe access to Kahoʻolawe. Due to the militaryʻs negligence during the Naval occupation of Kahoʻolawe, the environment on Kahoʻolawe is currently too harsh to support a permanent residential community.

PKO partners with KIRC to provide safe access to Kahoʻolawe for community groups, facilitating land stewardship, traditional ceremonies, and educational programs. This collaboration ensures that Kahoʻolawe’s restoration honors both its physical and spiritual significance, supporting the cultural healing and resilience of Kanaka Maoli. Through this partnership, KIRC and PKO participants can safely access Kaho’olawe, ensuring that future generations can connect to the land in meaningful ways (Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission 2021).

Basecamp for the PKO on Kahoʻolawe is located at Hakioawa, a gathering point before engaging in restoration work and cultural practices. To access Hakio ‘awa, participants must transfer from a larger boat to a smaller zodiac boat. All packed items are waterproofed and tossed in the water where an assembly line is formed. This laulima, working together, has to be done to ensure all items make it to the shore. There is no dock for a boat to dock at. Kua are assigned to each access to the island. A Kua is a dedicated leader within the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (PKO) who plays a critical role in ensuring the safety, guidance, and well-being of all participants accessing the island. Kua undergoes rigorous and comprehensive training to develop the expertise needed to uphold protocols, maintain cultural integrity, and foster a supportive environment. This intensive preparation equips them to navigate the island’s unique challenges while embodying the values of aloha ʻāina, ensuring that all participants engage with Kahoʻolawe respectfully and responsibly.

Before setting foot on Kahoʻolawe, every participant is guided through an orientation steeped in respect and readiness. This includes essential water safety, awareness of unexploded ordnance, and the learning of oli—chants that resonate with reverence for the island. Among these are Oli Kahea, a call to respectfully request permission to enter; E Ho Mai, a plea for wisdom and guidance while journeying on the land; E Ala E, a chant to greet the sun and set intentions for the day; and Ke Noi ʻAʻama, a chant asking for release when the time comes to depart at the conclusion of the access. These oli and their significance are woven into the essence of each access, grounding participants in a spirit of humility, connection, and reclamation

Each person who comes to Kahoʻolawe is invited to forge their own unique bond with the ʻāina, and in turn, the ʻāina will impart a profound sense of purpose and meaning. This reciprocity often deepens the desire to remain connected to Kahoʻolawe, encompassed by its powerful embrace. Ke Noi ʻAʻama, in particular, provides a plea to be released, sustaining aloha ʻāina while preparing hearts and minds for the transition back to life beyond the island. Together, these protocols ensure that all who arrive do so with respect and leave with the spirit of Kahoʻolawe deeply etched within them.

3. Personal Reflection: Healing Trauma Through Aloha ʻĀina

During the time of my adolescence, I lived on the Waiohuli Homestead on the island of Maui. I lived with my grandparents, mother, and older brother. My parents recently divorced, and I was feeling displaced, lonely, and a deep sense of sadness. I attended King Kekaulike High School. I immersed myself in interscholastic sports to escape the challenges at home. I was invited to join the paddling (outrigger canoe) team, but I had to decline because it conflicted with softball season. Despite that, at the end of the paddling season, I was invited to join the team on a special trip to Kahoʻolawe. I initially jumped at the opportunity to have a weekend away from yard work and other household chores. However, I unknowingly agreed to an event that would simultaneously provide a deeper connection to my ancestors and waiver the depressive state I was in. I went to Kaho‘olawe with the wrong intentions. I did not know my oli, did not pack my bag well, and ignored the instructions. As a result, I cut my foot on the reef and water got into my bag, soaking my items.

The first day we were orientated about safety protocols and boundaries. The schedule for the next three days was outlined: a day dedicated to work projects, followed by a hike holo mauka–to the summit of the island-, and finally, our departure back to Maui on the fourth day. The sound of the pū, the conch shell, would serve as our call to gather throughout our time there. The first day on Kahoʻolawe was long. My wet items were finally dry by bedtime. Sleeping was more delayed on the first day, due to the mix of laughter, kani ka pila -playing of music- and ʻawa amongst the group. We were finally encouraged to go to sleep and once I laid down, I fell right to sleep. The sound of the pū alerted us that it was time to wake up and prepare for the day. Before breakfast, we walked up to a bluff that housed a mua, Kahualele, erected in the early 1990s that provided a space for a powerful healing ceremony on Kahoʻolawe (Aluli et al. 2012). As our kūpuna did before us, we chanted E Ala E. As the first rays of sunlight stretched across the horizon, we gathered in unity, voices lifted in oli. The chant carried our intentions, grounding us in purpose and reverence for the sacred land beneath our feet. After our oli we were ready to start our day. We were divided into different groups for different working projects. My assignment was to the ala loa, trail, maintenance. Equipped with tools and gloves, we made our way to our worksite. As we were walking, I could see the overgrowth on the trails. We stopped and our Kua gave the directions of our work project. With our tools and gloves handy, we went to work, pulling weeds to the root and replacing the rock formation that outlines the trail.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, marked only by the progress unfolding beneath our hands. When we paused to survey the stretch of trail we had cleared and restored, a profound sense of accomplishment filled the air. Our Kua spoke words that etched themselves into my heart: The work we do here matters. Once you give your aloha (work) to this land, you become part of its moʻokuauhau, genealogy. At that moment, I understood the depth of our kuleana. This was more than trail maintenance—it was a continuation of the relationship between kanaka and ʻāina, a legacy of aloha ʻāina. The effort we poured into the ʻāina today would ripple forward, benefiting the next seven generations. As we walked back, weary yet fulfilled, I carried with me the truth that this work connects us to the ʻāina and its future.

There was no kani ka pila or ʻawa for me on the second night. I fell asleep, excited about the all-day hike that was planned for the next day. The sound of the pū, once again, alerted us awake. We began the hike before the sunrise over the horizon. As I hiked, I could see more of the barren landscape of Kahoʻolawe. There was little vegetation, minimal native plants, and a lot of kiawe trees, invasive trees with thorns.

After three hours, we made it to the base of Moaʻulaʻiki. We were told the importance of Moaʻulaʻiki for not just Hawaiians but any Pacific Island navigator. This was the piko, center, of Hawaiʻi and many ancient navigators studied celestial navigation for generations at Moaʻulaʻiki. This is also a place where offerings are given to Lono, god of peace, fertility, and rain, during Makahiki ceremonies. We were encouraged to take off our shoes for the walk to the summit of Moaʻulaʻiki. I could not get out of my shoes fast enough. My feet were sore from the hike and needed to breathe. One of the Kua stated that we take our shoes off not only to walk the path of our ancestors, but to feel the pain the ʻāina has felt during the many years of naval bombing. The first step I took was painful, the rocks were small and sharp, but not sharp enough to penetrate the skin. The heat from the sun exemplified the pain. The wind was strong and was knocking me off balance. I persisted through to get to the summit. I began to tear at the pain from my feet. I pushed through when I saw the peak of Moaʻualʻiki was close. Once at the summit, I paused when I saw the clear image of Moaʻulaʻiki, the surrounding islands, the lele for Lono, and the bell stone. I began to choke up at what seemed a familiar image to me. Without warning, the wind ceased and a gentle mist of rain came down and as the droplets hit my body I began to cry from the feeling of being embraced with love. The path was treacherous, but the sense of enlightenment I felt at the summit revealed a deeper lesson in aloha ʻāina—one I could never have learned elsewhere. It taught me to keep moving forward and trust the lessons that will come. Through it all, the ʻāina and my ancestors will always be here to love, support, and carry me on.

For the rest of my time on Kahoʻolawe, I felt a lightness and joy I hadn’t known before. I looked forward to returning home, no longer burdened by feelings of abandonment. In my deepest loneliness, I realized I was never truly alone—my ancestors were there, ready to guide me. I just needed to learn how to listen. The colonial idea of the nuclear family had once deafened my ability to accept the love and strength of my extended ʻohana, my ancestors, and the ʻāina, but now I could finally accept the aloha that was always offered.

Throughout my life, I returned to Kahoʻolawe many times, each visit deepening my connection to the island and myself. By 2017, I felt ready to become more involved with PKO and was entrusted with the role of Kōkua, a helper on accesses, with the intention of eventually completing Kua training. However, a traumatic event interrupted my journey—I found myself in an abusive relationship that led to a divorce. Unable to give my best to Kahoʻolawe, I had to step away from the island that had been such a source of healing for me. The trauma left me feeling worthless, unwanted, and uncertain of my own abilities. I moved through life almost on autopilot, yet with the unwavering support of therapy, friends, and family, I slowly began to rebuild my sense of self and reclaim my strength.

I finally uncovered the courage to reach out to the PKO, expressing my desire to rejoin the community. With aloha, I was welcomed back as a Kōkua with the PKO. October 2024 marked my return to Kahoʻolawe, where I participated in the Kapu Kai ceremony. We formed a half-circle, holding hands, leaving an open space for our spiritual kūpuna. Together, we chanted E Ho Mai, asking for guidance and safety while on Kahoʻolawe. We drank from an ʻapu—a cup filled with wai, paʻakai, limu, and ʻōlena—and ended the ceremony by immersing ourselves in the ocean. I was positioned at the end of the half-circle, with a Kua on my left and my right hand open, I felt a presence as we began to chant. It was as though someone, unseen, held my hand and whispered, “Welcome home.”

Emotion overwhelmed me as I realized, though no one physically stood beside me, I felt a powerful presence calling me back to this place that holds so much meaning. After drinking from the ʻapu, I entered the ocean, and as I submerged, I felt the weight of pain and hurt drain away, leaving me feeling light and free. I longed to remain in the ocean’s embrace. Then, I heard the voice again: “Let us take this pain from you so you can serve our people. Now go”. The waves nudged me gently back toward the shore, and I understood it was time to return and fulfill my kuleana.

This access was all about healing. Compared to my first time, I could see so many native plants thriving, and pueo—the Hawaiian short-eared owls—circled above us as we holo mauka together. When we reached the base of Moaʻulaʻiki, our Kua, again, invited us to remove our shoes and walk in the footsteps of our ancestors, to connect with the deep pain of the ʻāina. This time, as I walked the familiar path, I didn’t feel pain. Instead, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. With each step, I whispered mahalo to this ʻāina for helping me heal from my own trauma. Reaching the summit of Moaʻulaʻiki, I could see the growth all around me. The land of Figure 1, once barren, was now covered in new vegetation. That familiar wind swept over me, carrying a sense of transformation and resilience. I realized that just as the land was healing with time and the aloha given by those who care for it, I, too, had been healing. I needed this time to recover from my trauma to become who I needed to be—to embrace my kuleana and serve my community.

4. Pilinahā Framework

Kahoʻolawe resonates deeply with the Pilinahā framework, developed by Kōkua Kalihi Valley to understand health and wellness through interconnected relationships (Odom et al. 2019). This framework centers on four essential pillars: Place (ʻāina), Community (kaiāulu), Past, Present, and Future (kuleana), and Self (naʻau). Each of these connections is woven into the healing I’ve experienced on Kahoʻolawe.

• Place (ʻāina)—Returning to Kahoʻolawe has strengthened my relationship with the ʻāina, allowing me to walk its soil and witness its journey of healing. Seeing native plants thrive and watching pueo circle around us reflected a shared path of resilience and renewal, as the land I hold dear transforms alongside my own healing.
• Community (kaiāulu)—Reuniting with the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana welcoming me back into a nurturing community, committed to this land and to each other. Through cultural protocol like the kapu kai ceremony and the honoring of my own journey, this community has provided a powerful support network. I feel the strength of my extended ʻohana, both on the island and in spirit, grounding me and lifting me up.
• Past and Future (kuleana)—During the kapu kai ceremony, my spiritual connection to Kahoʻolawe and my ancestors was unmistakable. The presence I felt as I held my hand open and heard the words, “Welcome home,” reminded me of the support and guidance offered by my kūpuna. This spiritual bond has been central to my journey, anchoring me in a profound sense of belonging and purpose.
• Self (naʻau)—My healing on Kahoʻolawe has involved a deep engagement with my emotions—from facing past trauma to releasing pain in the ocean’s embrace. Every step I took in gratitude for the land was a conscious affirmation of the growth I’ve achieved. The healing I witnessed in the ʻāina mirrored my own internal transformation, empowering me to reclaim a sense of self-worth and purpose.

Together, these interconnected relationships have guided my personal transformation on Kahoʻolawe, embodying the holistic wisdom of Pilinahā. They affirm that true health and healing are realized through deep connections to land, community, spirit, and self. Each of these pillars has given me a clearer understanding of how intertwined my own well-being is with the well-being of the ʻāina and those, seen and unseen, around me. Through these bonds, I’ve come to understand that my journey is not a solitary one; it is woven into the fabric of the ʻāina, my ancestors, my community, and my own naʻau.

The Pilinahā framework has revealed that healing is, in many ways, a journey of return—a return to the land, to the people who nurture and support us, to the wisdom of those who came before, and to the core of our own being. This journey on Kahoʻolawe of Figure 2 has been transformative, allowing me to see that healing is not a linear path but a circle, where each aspect of life continuously strengthens and supports the others. Through reconnecting with Kahoʻolawe, I have rediscovered parts of myself I had left behind and unearthed new layers of resilience and purpose.

This experience has also shown me the power of kuleana and the responsibility we each hold, not only to protect and heal the land but to carry forward its story and legacy. As I reflect on the lessons of Pilinahā, I realize that my relationship with Kahoʻolawe is an invitation to live in deeper alignment with aloha ʻāina—to honor this land as a living part of myself and as a source of strength and wisdom. In the same way that Kahoʻolawe has endured and begun to heal from trauma, I, too, am finding the strength to transform my wounds into growth.

Pilinahā has taught me that healing is a process of weaving together the threads of our lives—our connection to place, community, spirit, and self. Through this journey, I have found a sense of belonging and grounding that extends beyond Kahoʻolawe. I carry this understanding with me, knowing that the spirit of aloha ʻāina, nurtured on this sacred land, will guide me in all I do. The journey has shown me that true healing lies in these interconnected relationships, where honoring the ʻāina, supporting each other, listening to our ancestors, and nurturing our inner selves allow us to realize and achieve our fullest potential. In this way, Kahoʻolawe has not only taught me about the resilience of the land but also the resilience within myself and my community. Through Pilinahā, I am reminded that my own healing contributes to a much larger story—one that connects generations, crosses oceans, and binds us all to each other and to the land.

5. Conclusions

In connecting with Kahoʻolawe through my own experiences of aloha ʻāina, I am exposed to a transformative pathway that not only strengthens cultural identity for Kanaka Maoli but also offers a powerful avenue for healing intergenerational trauma and fosters resilience. This journey has underscored the vital role of land in Indigenous healing practices, reminding me that Kahoʻolawe is more than a physical place—it is a source of spiritual grounding and cultural revitalization for our people. The sacred relationship with the land of Figure 3 nurtures a sense of purpose and belonging, reinforcing our ties to ancestral knowledge and reaffirming that true healing stems from honoring and restoring our bond with ʻāina.

The collaborative efforts of organizations like the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana illustrate the potential for community-driven restoration to support both environmental and cultural renewal. While this journey has highlighted the healing possibilities within Indigenous frameworks, it also raises essential questions for future research. More studies are needed to explore how land-based practices can be integrated into public health frameworks, particularly for Native Hawaiians and other Indigenous communities. Approaching this through indigenized holistic and ecological frameworks—such as Pilinahā and aloha ʻāina—offers a culturally grounded understanding of the interconnected relationships between people, land, and spirit. These frameworks provide a pathway to attend to population health in ways that honor Indigenous worldviews, emphasizing the restoration of cultural identity, community resilience, and ecological balance. This research must be pono, righteousness, and only for the benefit of the Indigenous communities. Also, this research must be led by Indigenous researchers who long for or practice a profound connection to their culture, land, and kulenana to their community. Such research would deepen our understanding of how land connection could be used more broadly to address health disparities, support cultural identity, and provide pathways for trauma recovery.

Ultimately, this reflective journey on Kahoʻolawe affirms that aloha ʻāina is a profound, dynamic practice that connects us to our identity, our ancestors, and a collective strength that guides us toward healing and resilience. Continued exploration and support for land-based healing helps us further realize these benefits, ensuring future generations can connect with Kahoʻolawe and sustain this essential practice of aloha ʻāina.