Twenty years ago, I was mired in graduate school at UH Mānoa, trying to figure out a whole lot more in life than just what I’d write for my MA thesis. As luck would have it, I’d stumbled into an internship with The Nature Conservancy’s (then) brand new Marine Program. With TNC, I began supporting the Miloliʻi community—learning a whole lot more than I was giving—in an effort that continues to this day (recently celebrating an CBSFA designation!). Thanks to mentors like Scott Atkinson, Sara Peck, and Hannah Bernard, I was professionally reared in the school of community-based management. Thanks to additional mentors like Mac Poepoe, Gil Kahele, and Walter Paulo, I was also immersed in the ocean of what that meant from and for communities in Hawaiʻi.
Uncle Mac had been working with his group, Hui Mālama O Moʻomomi, for decades to manage and monitor their place in Hoʻolehua among the cliffs of north shore Molokaʻi. Perhaps no one knew better than him how difficult community efforts could be—both in the challenges of perpetuating them as traditional Hawaiian culture and practice, and the frustrations in applying them with the State of Hawaiʻi as effective sustainability measures. But from the struggle comes resilience—it was his idea to bring together communities from around the state that were wrestling with similar challenges and working toward common goals.
So, there I was, a bright-eyed, hopelessly idealistic intern for The Nature Conservancy, feverishly trying to take notes while legends in our space shared their struggles and successes and ideas for how to forge on. Presentations were full and unhurried. Frustrations were heartachingly vulnerable. The calls thundered to carry on with our collective efforts and continue these convenings. Thinking back 20 years, even then I could sense that I had a front row seat to something very special taking place.
In our togetherness, similar challenges became shared. Common goals became collaborative. From a project grew a program. From a program was born a standalone grassroots non-profit organization, Kuaʻāina Ulu Auamo (KUA), expressedly established to help carry the weight of the work, together. When E Alu Pu began, communities holding on to their ways and their ocean resources were struggling to be heard. Now insitutions and agencies don’t make a move without first consulting with them. At first, they wanted a seat at the table. Now, they’re setting the menu.
In looking back it’s clear that first meeting spawned more than a program, more than an organization, even. It spawned a powerful movement. Today over three dozen communities from across the state comprise E Alu Pu. Their numbers, their efforts, their voice, and their impact continue to grow. Mahalo to our founding members, many of whom are no longer physically with us. What began as their vision continues as their legacy. Mahalo to their kūpuna, who guided them and all of us to that moment that catalyzed so much since. Mahalo to the communities who continue those efforts to this day for all of our benefit, and those of our future generations. Mahalo, too, for the KUA staff who continues the support of these good people and their good work. Mahalo to you all for keeping me hopelessly idealistic.
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