For generations, our ʻāina has been the source of life, identity, and strength for our people. It feeds us, shelters us, and grounds us in our history and traditions. Yet after the overthrow of our kingdom in 1893, vast tracts of Hawaiian land were taken, sold, and leased for purposes that have nothing to do with caring for our people or honoring our culture. Among the most troubling, is the long-term occupation of Hawaiian lands by the U.S. military.
Today, military installations in Hawaiʻi cover more than 200,000 acres of land and include wahi pana, wahi kapu, and lands zoned for agriculture or conservation. Even when no longer used for defense purposes, much of this land remains under federal or state control. The continued military misuse of Hawaiian land not only reflects the political legacy of the overthrow, but also the deep wounds of dispossession that Native Hawaiians continue to feel to this day.
The call to protect and return these lands is not simply a political demand – it is a moral and cultural necessity. When Queen Liliʻuokalani was overthrown, our government and our lands were taken without consent. The Queen’s message was always one of peace, dignity, and steadfast hope for her people. She trusted that justice would prevail. Today, we continue that legacy by asserting our right to protect our ʻāina and to use it for the wellbeing of Native Hawaiians and all who call these islands home.
Land formerly used by the military remains fenced off and forgotten. Reclaiming these lands could provide opportunities for Hawaiian stewardship as well as to address community needs. For example, the housing crisis in Hawaiʻi has reached alarming levels. Our young people — the future caretakers of this land — are being priced out of their ancestral homeland as thousands have been forced to leave for the continent in search of affordability, separating ʻohana and weakening our cultural foundation.
Reclaiming land from the military offers a pathway toward healing and rebuilding. Restored lands could be used for affordable housing, community-based agriculture, education, and cultural preservation. They could become places where Native Hawaiian families once again live close to the ʻāina, care for it, and draw sustenance from it — physically and spiritually. Imagine our keiki growing up in communities where they can learn their language, tend their own gardens, and walk the same paths their kūpuna once walked.
But protecting our lands also means holding the military accountable for the environmental damage caused by decades of abuse. From unexploded ordnance to contaminated water sources, the scars left behind remind us that the true cost of occupation is borne by the ʻāina itself. Restoration and cleanup must be a condition of any lands return, ensuring that what is given back is safe for our people and future generations.
The time has come for serious, transparent discussions about returning Hawaiian lands to Hawaiian hands. State and federal governments must work in partnership with Native Hawaiian leaders and communities to create a plan for restoration, affordable housing, and sustainable development grounded in aloha ʻāina.
Our kūpuna taught us that when we take care of the land, the land takes care of us. Returning Hawaiian land is not just an act of restitution — it is a promise to future generations that the heart of Hawaiʻi will remain Hawaiian. By protecting our ʻāina and restoring it to our people, we can begin to heal the wounds of the past and build a more just and thriving future for all who call these islands home.
