Hōlanikū i ke Alaula

By Hāwane Paʻa Makekau

The sound of the western shores of our eldest atoll, Hōlanikū, whispered the creation stories of our language to me on her tides every sunset. I was embraced by the sound of our earth, where the human world is so quiet that I could finally hear her heart.

The call of the birds taught me that our ancestors listened with all of their senses. They named the birds in reflection of the sound of the birds’ voices. I thought of the moment they received their names and what it felt like to speak it out loud for the first time. I thought of what it felt like to honor their existence in this way. I thought of what it felt like to listen in this way.

Fourteen years ago, I made the journey into the realm of Pō (ancestral realm) to meet my grandmother lands of Papa- hānaumokuākea. I didn’t know it then, but the seven months I spent with Hōlani-kū would set the foundation for my life and purpose in ways that are still being revealed to me on the tides.

I was the first fluent language speaker and cultural bearer to return for a full restoration season in a very long time. I knew there was a reason that the pathway opened for me to be there, and I trusted it.

One day I woke up to a brilliant sunrise and felt the deep calling to gift place names to the land that loved me home to myself and my own mana. The names began to travel on the Waialoha winds on the wings of Kaʻupu and Mōlī (albatross). As the birds do, names land in their own time too.

I returned with my sister, Kapulei, two years ago to come full circle and to complete what I set out to do all those years ago. It took me that long to continue to deeply and intentionally cultivate a relationship with my language, with our stories, and with my identity as a Kanaka. It took me that long to prepare for this sacred offering. I needed to live. I needed to love. I needed to grow. I needed to find the fullness of my voice. I needed to land too.

And land indeed I did, back on the western shores of Hōlanikū that I named Wehenaalaula, in honor of the brilliant glow of sunlight on her vast ocean. She looked so different from the last time I saw her.

The land was healing, and the birds were coming back by the thousands. I saw our native plants and animals thriving and taking their rightful place on their homeland. It was at that moment that I knew why the names took their time. She needed a chance to reclaim herself and by the grace of the matriarch islands, so did I.

I spent time with the land in ways that I know in my soul my ancestors once did. I observed her and invited her to reveal to me who she is. I asked the ʻāina in ceremony and prayer what they yearned to be called. I listened with all of my senses and said their names out loud to each place for the first time. I now know what it feels like to honor their existence in this way, and it is the highest, most sacred offering I have ever given. I will spend the rest of my days in this realm singing and chanting their names to life and into remembrance across the currents of time and space.

E ola mau nā inoa ʻāina o Hōlanikū
May the names of Hōlanikū live on