Words can heal, they can also destroy
I recently watched the series Sandokan and was drawn in by the richness of its storytelling … the landscapes, characters and language, but at the end of each episode, when a barely readable disclaimer briefly appears, I found myself pausing.
“The characters and symbolism used are fictional and not intended to represent or replicate the sacred tribal practices of any specific Indigenous peoples. We acknowledge and respect the cultural, spiritual, social, and historical significance of such symbolism and the communities to which it belongs.”
At first this seems responsible; but within lies a contradiction. It claims fiction, while acknowledging that its inspiration is real – the places, the languages, the struggle. And the symbolism, while altered, is unmistakably familiar – particularly for those grounded in Indigenous cultural knowledge systems.
From my perspective, informed by Pacific cultures, these elements feel close to something lived. For many viewers, that distinction shapes understanding. It informs what is believed to be authentic. And that is where the disclaimer falls short.
It appears quietly after the story has already done its work. It does not interrupt the narrative; it happens afterwards, functioning as a shield – acknowledging significance while distancing legal or cultural responsibility.
This reflects a deeper issue: how intellectual property is understood … Western intellectual property versus Indigenous cultural intellectual property.
In capitalist systems, intellectual property is individual and can be owned, transformed, monetized. Cultural intellectual property is different. It is collective and tied to genealogy, place, and ʻike. It carries kuleana. It is not available without relationship or consent.
Disclaimers satisfy legal requirements, but not cultural ones.
Projects like Chief of War show what storytelling looks like when Indigenous voices lead. From its first frame that is clarified: “Based on True Events.” Written and directed by Native Hawaiians, with cultural experts guiding language, arts, and traditional knowledge, it places Native Hawaiians not just in front of the camera, but at the center of the creative process.
Unlike productions that cast non-white actors disconnected from the culture or place, Chief of War is grounded in the people, places, and expertise of the community it portrays. This is powerful and it proves that storytelling can move beyond cultural extraction toward genuine relationship, responsibility, and accountability.
The question is not whether one project gets it right, but whether the film industry is willing to embrace this as a standard, not an exception.
For Indigenous communities, this is the challenge. If we only resist, we risk being left out of these storytelling spaces. But if we engage on our terms, we can reshape them and move from being referenced to being recognized, from being consulted to being trusted, from being a story’s subjects to its authors.
Pono storytelling is not just about avoiding harm, it is about restoring balance. It is about ensuring that our ʻike is presented with integrity. It is about honoring kuleana to our ancestors, communities, and the generations who will inherit these stories, now and in the future.
The stories we tell matter. The way we tell them also defines what is real and what is fake and what endures generations into the future.
