Aloha kakahiaka kākou.
There is a story I want to share with you about Iosepa Kahoʻoluhi Nāwahīokalaniʻōpuʻu—a man who understood something we are still learning: sovereignty is not granted to us. It is something
we practice, even when the systems around us try to make it impossible.
It was December 20, 1892. 28 days before the overthrow. Nāwahī had just been reelected to represent South Hilo in the Hawaiian Kingdom’s legislature. He was one of the most eloquent and steadfast defenders of Hawaiian self-governance—a man whose words carried weight and whose convictions inspired the people. Those in power knew this. And some would do whatever they could to keep him from taking his seat.
Rumors spread that the inter-island steamship Kīnaʻu might leave Hilo early—before Nāwahī could board. If that happened, he would not arrive in Honolulu in time to be seated for the
opening of the legislative session. His voice—and the voice of his constituents—would be silenced, at least for a time.
But Nāwahī did not wait to see if the system would correct itself. With the Kīnaʻu already preparing to depart, he secured a waʻapā, a small ferry boat, and crossed the channel to Honolulu
himself. By December 24, he was there—present, ready, and unshaken.
This was not the first time Nāwahī refused to let obstacles define his kuleana. He was a teacher who educated Hawaiian children when others sought to erase our language. A self-taught lawyer who defended our people against dispossession. A legislator who stood against treaties that would surrender our independence, earning the name “The Cannon of the Legislature” for the power of his words. With his wife Emma, he founded Ke Aloha ʻĀina, a Hawaiian-language newspaper that became a voice of resistance. After his death in 1896, Emma co-led the effort to gather over 21,000 signatures on the Kūʻē Petitions opposing annexation—representing more than half of our people.
Nāwahī did not wait for sovereignty to be restored. He lived it—in the classroom, in the courtroom, in the legislature, in the pages of Ke Aloha ʻĀina, and yes, in that waʻapā crossing
the Alenuihaha Channel when the easy path was blocked.
In times of deep uncertainty, when systems try to silence us or shut us out, we must ask ourselves what true leadership looks like—how we face the unknown with courage, not fear. And this
morning, like Nāwahī, we must ask ourselves: What now?
Over the last half century we have done the hard work of remembering. We restored our language, reinstituted our protocol, revived our traditions, and reconnected to ʻāina. This journey
of reclamation—carried by the legacies of many in this room—was necessary, and it continues.
But memory looks backward. It tells us where we came from, but it cannot chart where we must go.
What does it take to build something new?
Not just to reclaim, but to construct.
Not just to remember, but to create.
Our aliʻi, our kūpuna, knew this. When they governed the Hawaiian Kingdom, they did not try to recreate what existed before. They learned new systems—law, diplomacy, economics, governance—and wielded them with skill. They negotiated treaties, built institutions, and met the moment they were in, not the one they wished they still had. That is how they protected our people and claimed our place among the nations of the world.
Hawaiians are a people of resilience. From the ashes of decline, we rise again. We see it in the renaissance of ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi.
In the sails of Hōkūleʻa. In the chants of our hula and the voices of our musicians.
In our immersion schools and Hawaiian focused non-profits, in OHA, in the Hawaiian Council, in our Aliʻi trusts, and in the corridors of Courts, County Councils, and the Legislature where
native voices are no longer silent.
Our people have risen before, and we are rising again. But resurgence alone is not enough.
The question before us now is not whether we can rise, but what we will build once we have risen.
So, we must ask ourselves: What future do we aspire to create?
A future where Native Hawaiians are not living on beaches or encampments.
A future where health and education gaps are closed.
A future where our ʻohana thrive—in body, mind, and spirit.
A future where Native Hawaiians no longer represent the highest rates of incarceration in our
states jails and prisons.
A future where our ʻāina is cared for, our wai protected, and our culture not just surviving—but
flourishing.
And yes—a future where our mountains, valleys, and islands are no longer scarred by live-fire military training; where Pōhakuloa, Mākua, and Kaʻula are no longer treated as expendable, but
as sacred. Because to speak of aloha ʻāina without confronting the desecration of that ʻāina is to miss the very soul of who we are.
As we look beyond Hawaiʻi’s shores, we must recognize another truth: we are everywhere.
And that is not a weakness—it is a strength.
Diaspora is not exile; diaspora is expansion.
The ocean never separated us—it taught us how to move.
From Tahiti to Aotearoa, from Hilo to Las Vegas, our people carry Hawaiʻi in their hearts.
If we are serious about building a nation that lasts, we must build a nation that travels—a nationthat holds its people no matter where they are.
Whether in Waiʻanae or Washington D.C., Kona or Seattle—Hawaiians are still lāhui.
The diaspora is not outside our future. It is part of our shape. Part of our destiny.
And yet, we are not naïve. We know the forces arrayed against us.
Courts still tell us who can vote in our elections and who can serve as Trustees.
On the continent, powerful organizations work to dismantle Hawaiian institutions—
even Kamehameha Schools itself—questioning a 141-year-old trust devoted to uplifting our native Hawaiian children through education.
And across our islands, fear is used to convince us that the condemnation of Hawaiian Crown Lands for military use is not merely possible, it is inevitable.
This is not rhetoric. This is happening now. The forces working against us are organized, well-resourced, and patient. They know that you don’t need to overthrow a people in a single dramatic act—you can simply erode the structures that sustain them, piece by piece, until there is nothing left to stand on.
As Chair of the Office of Hawaiian Affairs Board of Trustees, I want to speak directly to what we are building together. OHA is evolving into a new iteration—one guided by integrity, humility, and a deep commitment to future generations.
We are reshaping governance structures to meet this moment with courage. We are stewards of
resources that belong to the lāhui, and we must wield that kuleana with wisdom.
But OHA cannot do it alone. None of us can.
We need warriors and kiaʻi. We need visionaries who will not grow weary. We need allies—Hawaiian and non-Hawaiian alike—who understand that justice for Hawaiians builds a just
world for all.
So, what now? How do we live sovereignty today?
How do we assert self-determination in a modern world?
I offer five charges for our lāhui:
Imagine a Hawaiʻi where sovereignty is not an argument, but a lived reality.
Where ʻāina thrives, wai is abundant, and culture flourishes.
Where every Hawaiian has a home in their homeland.
Where the diaspora is embraced as voyagers carrying Hawaiʻi into the world.
That is the future we aspire to—and the gift we can leave for the generations we will never see.
But the truth is, that future will not arrive by proclamation.
It will be built by the daily choices of our people—
in classrooms and fishponds, in courtrooms and kitchens, in the quiet work of kuleana.
Nāwahī understood that living sovereignty was not a single act of courage—it was a way of life:
teaching our keiki, defending our people, standing firm in the legislature, speaking truth in Ke Aloha ʻĀina, and refusing to be silenced.
He did not wait for permission. He practiced sovereignty every day, in every way available to him, until his last breath.
That is what we are called to do now.
Not as individuals seeking recognition, but as a lāhui exerting our collective agency in every sphere of life – through the ʻāina we heal,
the institutions we build,
the relationships we sustain across distance,
and the hope we pass forward.
We make ourselves too rooted to be removed.
Too practiced to be erased.
Too alive to be dismantled.
This is how we strengthen the foundations of who we are—not through a single act of defiance, but through the steady, collective embodiment of the nation we are becoming.
Mahalo nui loa & e ola ka lāhui Hawaiʻi.
