Huliau - The Return Voyage

The Setting

The very first American Court House erected on the Island of Kaua’i was built with full awareness and intention on the top of the bulldozed ruins of what was the oldest hei’au on this Island.

Hei’au were (and those that remain, are) sacred stone enclosures for Native Hawaiian ritual and spiritual practice, prayer and cultural ceremony.  Every hei’au was built in alignment with the planets and the stars–with an ancient people’s sophisticated awareness of the night sky.  Each hei’au sat within full view of the ocean horizon.

These sacred stone walls, built without mortar,  and standing tough for thousands of years were deliberately destroyed to make way for  an American claim on another nation–Hawai’i.

That oldest of hei’au is where the first Calvinist missionaries and their offspring planted their first American Court House:  Where they enforced laws that denied Native Hawaiians the right to speak their native language, the right to name their children a Hawaiian first name, their right to use herbs and plants for healing, their right to any cultural practice attached to their way of life, Huna–for 150 years.

Since 1972, Native Hawaiians may legally speak and name, plant and heal, dance and pray.  They may do these things–but they no longer can.  Cannot, because of  colonial dishonoring and outright destruction of  hei’au,  fishing beds, forests–land and ocean.  And , of course, because of a 150 year gap in genealogically transmitted knowledge.

The imposed government outgrew their first Court House many times over.  And in August, 2005, the county of Kaua’i dedicated a new and extravagant $42 million “Judiciary Complex,” housing the United States court rooms.

When we arrive, now, by airplane to this tropical Island, and we leave the lovely, open-air, welcoming airport–we encounter first, this bulwark of the American judicial system.  Before we see the ubiquitous ocean, mountains, or banana trees, we see this way-out-of-scale “Judiciary Complex.”

‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani said succinctly of the huge investment of much-needed  public money:  “For some people, this building is reassuring–it makes them feel safe.   And for others, it is the death of a culture.”

Thursday, February 10, 2010. 10:00 a.m

It was to this building that ‘Iokepa drove our 1998 Subaru from the Northwest edge of the Island to its center–an hour drive–with no drivers license. It was in the doorway of this building that ‘Iokepa and I passed through security gates,  temporarily relinquishing my purse and his belt, and made our way to the District Court for  ‘Iokepa’s trial.

Thirteen years ago, on the heels of an incredible spiritual epiphany, ‘Iokepa was reminded: The time had come to fulfill his promises.  Promises made, outside of memory, when he took on life–and, perhaps, before that.  ‘Iokepa’s ancestors reminded this successful businessman that it was time to return home.  That he must surrender every scrap and morsel he’d worked for all his life–and embrace instead the original culture of his ancestors.

In two weeks, he relinquished that house on the lake, seven cars and a hot rod and $1,620,000.   He arrived at the airport and deposited the last of it:  His social security card, drivers license, and every single bit of identification that tied this aboriginal to an identity other than Native Hawaiian.

For thirteen years, he has flown on airplanes, and driven the streets of  Hawai’i and America with a flimsy, laminated, computer generated picture ID that connects him only to a specific Kaua’i hei’au that he maintains.  This particular hei’au marks the true-North for the Island.

Last November, while driving to the post office, ‘Iokepa was stopped by an police officer.  He was driving a car, he did not own, with an expired registration.  He was ticketed:  For that–and for having no  motor vehicle license.   Read the back story, on this page:  “Part I:  Free My Husbands Nation…” (November 26, 2009);  “Part II:  Free My Husband’s Nation…” (December 12, 2009); “Part III:  Much Ado About Automobiles…” (December 30, 2009).

In December, he appeared before a District Court hearing, and requested a trial.

Today was that trial.  ‘Iokepa’s argument has been consistent:  “I’m not an American;  I am a Hawaiian, in my culture, with my people, on my Island.” That is precisely what he told the judge.  Consistently, he has said:  “There is law, and there is justice.  I am asking for justice.”

Oh there were warnings aplenty, from sidewalk lawyers and real ones.  His, was an argument, they said, that, “Could not be made in an American courtroom. There could be no precedent.”

But it was an argument that innumerable friends and supporters prayed would be heard.  Dozens of phone messages filled our usually quiet cell phone in the 24 hours before the trial.  Dozens of emails filled the Return Voyage box.  They sounded much the same:  “Tell me the hour of the trial–I will be with you.”  Truly we felt that safety net of affection and faith.

For his “Crime,” ‘Iokepa faced:  Thirty days in jail, several thousand dollars in fines, and abundant court fees.

There were seven trials on the court docket this day.  Everyone–except ‘Iokepa–was represented by an attorney.  ‘Iokepa’s case was called fourth.  He followed a child mauled by a dog, and a kid who skipped out on his first court date.  I don’t remember the third.

‘Iokepa said afterward, that when his name was called:  “I felt shot out of a rocket…the adrenaline.  It was like the song you’ve never sung before, but you know the words.”

He looked it and he sounded it.

When the judge asked if he wanted to hear the maximum punishment, he answered “I’d rather hear the minimum.”  When ‘Iokepa spoke of the thirteen years of unpaid community service that he and I have lived here, and the judge said, “Yes I believe that its everybody’s duty.  I walk the beaches and pick up trash.”

‘Iokepa answered:  “That’s a good thing.  But when I speak of the community service, it is this.  My wife and I lived in tents in the public parks for ten years among the alcoholics and drug dealers, the spousal and child abuse–the results of oppression.  We did not get out of the tent and lecture people–we live so as to offer an alternative.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t drink, and I don’t use profane language.

“I have stood in the middle of two men about to fight, and I have insistently reminded them that this is not how their ancestors would have handled it.  And you know, these men no longer fight, no longer drink.

“We’ve done thirteen years of community service.  I’ve never taken a paycheck.  That is the culture I represent, taking responsibility for all people in all circumstances.  This is our walk of faith.  And, that will continue whatever happens here today.”

‘Iokepa told the judge, “I didn’t walk in  here alone.  My ancestors are here, and your ancestors are here.”

‘Iokepa did not dwell on the Hawaiians as victims of oppression. He spoke personally because, it seems, the personal touches hearts–the political closes them.  The Hawaiian culture–that which they have to teach the rest of us–is purely spiritual.

Later, ‘Iokepa told me:  “I  felt like I was holding the floor and that everything was mine.  I felt that the building needed something from the ancestors.”

He spoke his last words to the prosecuting attorney during their mandated conference:  “I know that you’ll do the right thing.”

It’s a funny thing about those words that I’ve heard ‘Iokepa speak before–even to a K-Mart manager about a defective, past-warranty beach chair.  He says:  “They make a person responsible.”

From those words spoken in a doorway, to the table 25 feet away, the Prosecuting Attorney, with shaking voice, recommended that the judge drop all charges other than the absent driver’s license–and  for that offense, he asked 21 hours of community service, plus court fees.

The judge grinned.  When ‘Iokepa said:  “I don’t think that I can do better,” the judge prodded ‘Iokepa to continue the trial, “Because the prosecutor might miss something, and I can dismiss this case.”

In sum, this courtroom was full of folks whom ‘Iokepa had won over.  He had touched each of them with his transparent sincerity, passion, and adherence to his aboriginal culture.  But ‘Iokepa saw it differently:  “It was the Grandmothers.”

In the end, the judge (Who looked a great deal like the new U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor) said:  “Thank you.  I wish there were more people who felt like you.   I appreciate your statement.  I apologize…I don’t have a way…”

And in the end, when the clerk reminded her that the mandated minimum $77 court fees could be reduced in this case for some legal reason.  The judge laughed, looked at ‘Iokepa and said:  “We just saved you $40–the court fees will be $37.”  And ‘Iokepa answered:  “Give that to me in cash, and we can all go to lunch.”

Not one soul in that courtroom suggested or implied that he should get a license…that he should discontinue driving until he had one.  Not one, not once.

Afterward

Afterward, a dear friend who warned us of the impossibility of  ‘Iokepa entering the lion’s den and exiting unscathed, expressed his awe:  “You entered their turf–a U.S. courtroom–on your terms.”

My husband and I sometimes disagree–vigorously.  For the past three months, I awaited with anxiety the results of this trial:  None of which I could foresee would be to our advantage.  My anxiety deeply annoyed and distracted my husband, whose faith in the protection of his ancestors is bullet-proof.  One week before the trial, I surrendered that anxiety, and agreed that, whatever the outcome, it would be purposeful.  It would raise the consciousness about these people and their devastated homeland.

After a full three months of  anticipation, I am struggling to let Thursday’s events sink in.  Hence, my delay in writing this–and my uncertainty, still, about which are the essential words among so many, to be reported here.

‘Iokepa, on the other hand, is nothing but excited to be used, as the court intimated, in those 21 hours–speaking,  to and for those most in need of his words.

In truth, for both ‘Iokepa, and for me, this small victory for human decency is just that–small.  The morning after, he awakened and reminded me,  “We have a prophecy to fulfill, and it speaks to freedom–and responsibility–for all people.”

I could say more, but I won’t.

Very soon, ‘Iokepa and I will both be able to enter movie theaters at a discounted rate.  And then too, at the family-owned grocery on Kaua’i called “Big Save,” we will be qualified to save still another five percent on Senior Mondays.

Can it be forty years since I traveled throughout Europe on an International Student Identification Card that guaranteed me lowered rates of entry to museums, rail travel, and more?  All that was required then to earn the discounted entrance fee was  enrollment in an institution of higher learning.

That felt considerably easier to me than what is required now.  Now, I must confess to being sixty years old–sometimes, tortuously,  to sixty-two.  Like uncounted others,  I weigh whether the admission of age is worth the $2 savings.

I notice that absolutely no one “Cards” me as they did back when.  I offered my proof to a ticket seller at a local cinema and she waved it away.  She rightfully conjectured “No one lies to make themselves older.” (At least, at this end of the continuum.)

I remember that my parents began reading the obituaries in their fifties–expectantly.  My mother still thrives at 98; my father saw his 91st birthday. But the odds have shifted.  When someone we know dies in their sixties, the world does not mourn that, “She died so young.” (Only those of us clustered near her age console ourselves in that way.)

Here’s the truth of these past few months:  One very good girlfriend is enduring chemo for advanced uterine cancer;  another just had a tumor lifted off her brain; another struggles through a recurrence of breast cancer.

Oh, how we rationalize to cover the fear.  “How can I have cancer!?!” the first among these pouted.  “I eat organic and I do yoga.”

And so, we hear the still healthy around these suffering women trembling and trying to nail down blame–to explain.  “Well, she’s too intellectual–not in touch with her real feelings.”  Or, “She shouldn’t have used estrogen supplements.”  Or, “She has a family history of…”  We say and do anything and all things to distance ourselves from the possibility of death.

We refuse red meat.  We swallow fist-fulls of  vitamins.  We reject caffeine, alcohol, milk, wheat, acidic and/or alkaline vegetables.   We walk, jog, stair-step.  We run our hearts out to distance ourselves from our friends who seem to be losing the race.  We make them the, “Other” with our carefully reasoned words.  And still, we die.

And still, we die.

And yet, this story is not, for one single moment, about death.  Quite the contrary.  But here is the link:  We are born, we live, we die.  Those are the inescapable, non-negotiable givens.  It never has been, “Life or death.”  It has always and forever been, “Life and death.

Yet too many times–too much of the time–we never live at all.  Afraid of death, we refuse to engage life.  Our lives are circumscribed by negation:  I don’t  risk hurt, eat pork, take chances that may harm my health, wealth or general well-being.  Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple computers advised the Stanford University graduating class, a few years ago:  “Stay hungry; stay foolish.”

Stephen Levine said it a long time ago in his book: Who Dies? which I always thought should be titled Who Lives? That while our lives are defined by the insurmountable fear of dying, we refuse to take risks, we refuse to follow our hearts, we refuse…to live.

‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani has often said of admirable friends or acquaintances who die at an advanced age:  “He died too soon.”  For these celebrated lives–engaged, conscious and fearless–he is absolutely right.  For the rest of us, I’m not so sure.

Very few days pass, when ‘Iokepa and I are not asked to recommend books about Native Hawaiian history, spirituality, or culture.

‘Iokepa always answers:  “Inette has written the book, Grandmothers Whisper.  It’s circulating to publishers now.”  My husband refuses to see that as self-serving because, “It’s her memoir, not mine.”  Nevertheless…

When he and I get down to the brass tacks of recommending a written path into authentic Hawaiian history, it is not easy.  To date there have been only three major books written by native historians that refute the skewed take of the missionary accounts–that European, Fun House looking-glass.

Now there is a fourth.  ‘Iokepa was the first in our local library system to read it.  We renewed it; I was the second.  It is powerfully well written, flawlessly researched, and totally original.

Hawaiian Blood by J. Kehaulani Kauanui, published by Duke University Press tells a heartbreaking story of the arrival of racism, greed and unbelievable cruelty to these Islands.  Who–you will ask when you read it–were the “barbarians” here?

Kauanui is an Associate Professor of Anthropology and American Studies at Wesleyan University.  We do not know this woman.  But we do know this work.  ‘Iokepa cried, and felt his stomach grip at what he has already lived and known. Now we can read it.

This book is more than history.  Kauanui steps up and describes the racism that defines, infects, and impedes the Kanaka Maoli (aboriginal Hawaiian) struggle for freedom– right now.

Those of you who have followed this website know that ‘Iokepa acts always and only at the behest of his ancestors.  These Grandmothers–long gone–direct his footfalls and his word choice.

For ten years, he and I lived on the beaches of these Islands without any source of income, among his often homeless people, in the face of an oppression that the Native Hawaiians experienced from the moment the first Calvinist missionaries wrote laws that created ownership where none ever existed (with the undisguised intention that this fertile Hawaiian land become their cash crop)–an oppression that continues to this moment.

For those ten years–and in these past two, when we have traveled and spoken of the Native Hawaiians, of their transcendent cultural gifts, and of their extreme suffering–print journalists have asked ‘Iokepa for interviews highlighting his choices and his life.  The first to ask was Paul Curtis, here on  Kaua’i, five years ago.

At each request, the Grandmothers have told him:  “It is not the time.” ‘Iokepa  listened.

That changed a few weeks ago.  And on the day after Christmas (the first day of our thirteenth year together),  Paul Curtis’ interview of ‘Iokepa appeared in the Garden Island newspaper, here on Kaua’i.

It was long:  A forty inch story, with a fifteen inch sidebar.  Below are the links to both stories.  Enjoy.  Let us know what you think.

http://www.kauaiworld.com/articles/2009/12/26/news/kauai_news/doc4b35cab04757f660855711.txt

http://www.kauaiworld.com/articles/2009/12/26/news/kauai_news/doc4b35cbbead606976439963.txt

The Somewhat Distant Past:

For the first 46 years of his life, cars and driving played a central role in ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani’s life.  When he relinquished, “Everything that I worked for all my life,” to answer to his ancestors’ call to return home to the Hawaiian Islands 13 years ago, and live a life of service to his people and his land, he owned, “Seven cars and a hot rod.”

Professionally:  He ran a business that featured heavy construction machinery–”Kenworth dump trucks, John Deere road graders, Barber-Greene paving machines, Komatsu excavators, Caterpillar loaders and bulldozers…”–a language, all its own.  Over his long career, he lay 108 inch water pipe for Seattle’s watershed; he paved freeways throughout the Northwest.  He ran forests of  of enormous machinery.  He was proud of his hand-eye dexterity, his physical skill, and his overwhelming organizational responsibility.

For fun:  He raced cars, motorcycles, and boats.  He had a pristine driving record of thirty years.

The Less Distant Past:

On January 30, 1997, ‘Iokepa experienced his epiphany.  His Grandmothers came, reminded him of his “Promises,” and required that he relinquish “Everything that I worked for all my life” to take this walk of faith on behalf of his people and his homeland.

Thirteen years ago he returned to the Hawaiian Islands with  a small Nike duffel in hand and $100 in his pocket–nothing else–no cars, no credit cards, no phone, no family photographs.  Within two weeks, he had given “Everything I worked for…” away (and sold nothing).

Central to the Grandmothers’ admonishments and guidance:  “You will carry no identification, and claim no identity other than your native Hawaiian one.” He dropped his hard-earned, 26 year old, flawless commercial driving license in the trashcan at the Kaua’i airport.  He tore up his social security card, and never again used that number.

He met me, on my brief vacation to Kaua’i from Portland–ten months into his walk of faith.  Six months after that meeting, my son and I joined lives with ‘Iokepa and his people.  I too relinquished a lifetime of possession–but somewhat more slowly.

In the year and a half since ‘Iokepa had arrived, Nike duffel in hand, he had walked at least ten miles daily.  It was his meditation.  If necessary, he hitchhiked.  When son Daniel and I arrived, we brought with us my 1991 Toyota Camry.  It was registered and insured in my name.  I have no Hawaiian grandmothers, I am not kanaka maoli and I do not pretend to be one.  I carry an American driver’s license.

‘Iokepa and I lived in that car for ten years (several of those with teenage Daniel).  It was our home.  It held almost all of our worldly possessions.  We camped in tents out of it–and we slept in it.

For those ten years ‘Iokepa drove this car.  (And continued to walk each of the Hawaiian Islands as part of his work.)  There has never been a scratch, nick, or fender bender.

Only Two Years Past:

Two years ago, the Grandmothers made clear that it was vital to, “Take all that you’ve lived these ten years on the Hawaiian Islands to the United States and speak of it.”   ‘Iokepa has driven in these two years, 50,000 car miles from Maine to Arizona, Florida to Minnesota, Louisiana to New York.   The car that he drives in these Return Voyage speaking tours is a 1998 Camry–on loan to Return Voyage from a friend.  It is insured and registered. There has never been a nick, scratch, or fender bender.  I gave away my 1991 Camry (then 16 years old) when we left the Islands for the first Return Voyage tour.

For thirteen years now, ‘Iokepa has flown on airplanes and driven the continent with no official federal or state government issued identification.  He carries a card that identifies him with a Hawaiian heiau that he clears and serves.  A friend printed the card on his computer.  It is laminated.  (See “Identity” on this blogsite:  March 7, 2009).

The Present:

Between the first and second Return Voyage tours, we came home to Kaua’i for just four months.  We had no car.  Some friends bought themselves a new car, and gave ‘Iokepa their old one:  a 1998 Subaru Legacy wagon.  It had an active registration through September, 2009.  We left the car and Island just after Christmas, 2008.

When we returned this September, the car’s registration and insurance had expired.

Let me make this as clear as possible:  For thirteen years, ‘Iokepa has identified himself solely and fully as a native Hawaiian.  He has lived and worked so as to restore that cultural heritage, and the freedom to practice that heritage to his people.

Without a U.S. driver’s license, it is impossible to buy car insurance.  Without car insurance, it is impossible to register an automobile.  So, on November 10, when ‘Iokepa was stopped and ticketed for:  Expired registration, no insurance, and no driver’s license–’Iokepa felt the time had come to speak his words on behalf of his nation and his people inside the courtroom.

Well-meaning, intelligent folks have challenged ‘Iokepa’s responsibility for driving uninsured, or have feared that the insurance issue poses a distraction from the more important issue at hand.  Because my husband lives a life for which “Responsibility” for one another and for every part of Creation is his heart’s blood, and because he agrees with respondents to my last Ever Changing page essay–this week, he has taken some actions to help keep all eyes on the ball here.

The car he was driving when he was ticketed is now insured and registered.  It is no longer ‘Iokepa’s.  He will continue to drive as needed, without a license that asks him to define himself by a nationality that he does not accept as his own.

He will appear in court on February 11 to state his case.

Again, I repeat:

He enters court, less to challenge American law, than to defend his people’s right to their cultural and spiritual identity.  He enters court to try to press past that fence that separates spectator and accused, to speak of a culture that, “Welcomed every guest here with open arms, open hands, and open heart.”  He enters court less to oppose, than to embrace.

“Justice and law are two different things,” ‘Iokepa said.

“American law is this wide.”  (He holds his hands inches apart.) ” It takes care of a few.  My culture is  larger than that; it takes responsibility for every soul, and every part of Creation.

“There remain laws that require that I carry identification with a nation that is not my own, that ask me to obey laws that remove me from my cultural practices and my identity.  I cannot.”

He enters court:  The living embodiment of God’s plan for the kanaka maoli–the Native Hawaiians.  He enters court asking nothing for himself, and everything for his people.

For the first time ever, ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani walked into a United States courtroom in Hawai’i.

He was just another, “Traffic offender” among  dozens:  Violators of the mandated speed limits, folks who’d innocently let their car registration lapse, those who simply could not afford to pay car insurance premiums, and drunk drivers.

When his turn came:  ‘Iokepa walked through the gate that separated spectator from accused.  He stood with his back to the seats behind;  his shoulders squared;  his waist-length silver hair shining under the fluorescent lights; his light brown eyes riveted on the judge.  He articulated his full name clearly– because even in Hawai’i (especially in Hawai’i) Hawaiian names are most often mispronounced.

‘Iokepa said:  “I am not guilty of all charges,” and he asked for a jury trial.  He was denied one.  Instead, he will be tried on February 11, 2010, at ten in the morning, before this judge.  He will be permitted to, “Offer witnesses–and present evidence.”

Witnesses to what?  To his identity as a Native Hawaiian who carries his ancestors’ DNA in his blood, who embraces and lives his culture daily.

Evidence of what?  That for 13 years he has relinquished all claims to American identity, and every imaginable perk that goes with that, to fully live the authentic culture of his ancestors.

Let me step back a moment here, and set the stage

For 150 years–until 1972:  At the behest of the Calvinist missionaries and their sugar cane baron offspring, American-imposed law forbade the practice of the  13,000  year old aboriginal culture on any of these eight inhabited Hawaiian Islands.

For 150 years–until 1972:  Native Hawaiians were forbidden by Hawaiian territorial and state law from  naming their child a Hawaiian first name; it had to be Christian.  This wasn’t as purposeless as it seems:  Within Hawaiian culture, the child’s name (given by the ancestors, often in dreams) identified his or her destiny.

For 150 years–until 1972:  Native Hawaiians were forbidden by law from dancing the kahiko–the original hula.  Hula was prayer (never entertainment)–and if you were blessed, when the dancer transcended, she took the community with her.

For 150 years–until 1972:  Native Hawaiians were forbidden by law from using their traditional plants and herbs for healing.  Only in recent years, has the western world acknowledged the powers of the Hawaiian Noni plant, the Kalo plant, the Kawa root .

For 150 years–until 1972:  Native Hawaiians were forbidden by law from practicing their ancient way of life because it conflicted with the European missionary ideal of imposed Christianity, and because the assumption (solidified into a brutal legal system) assumed that the Hawaiian people, who lived their connection to every thread and breathe of Creation, were inferior.

For 150 years–until 1972:  Native Hawaiians were shamed and punished for speaking their own poetic, metaphoric language in public.

Since 1972, when these punitive, culturally genocidal laws were lifted, these sorely oppressed people have struggled to find their way home.   Return Voyage is the work of that return.  It is impossible for ‘Iokepa’s people to forget that which had been surgically removed by law.

‘Iokepa’s grandmothers insisted thirteen years ago that in order to fully claim the life that his ancestors bequeathed him, on the land that was his inheritance, he must never again carry identification that speaks to allegiance to any land other than his own.  Dutiful mo’opuna (grandchild) that he is, he has complied.

He enters court, less to challenge American law, than to defend his people’s right to their cultural and spiritual identity.  He enters court to try to press past that fence that separates spectator and accused, to speak of a culture that, “Welcomed every guest here with open arms, open hands, and open heart.”  He enters court less to oppose, than to embrace.

“Justice and law are two different things,” ‘Iokepa said.

“American law is this wide.”  (He holds his hands inches apart.) ” It takes care of a few.  My culture is  larger than that; it takes responsibility for every soul, and every part of Creation.

“There remain laws that require that I carry identification with a nation that is not my own, that ask me to obey laws that remove me from my cultural practices and my identity.  I cannot.”

He enters court:  The living embodiment of God’s plan for the kanaka maoli–the Native Hawaiians.  He enters court asking nothing for himself, and everything for his people.

Thanksgiving Day.  Ironic, at the very least.

Within a few short days of writing my most recent, Ever Changing Page essay:  “What Would You Do With Your Freedom?”–my husband, a Native Hawaiian spokesman for his indigenous people, is threatened with jail.

The Return Voyage, always and only moved by ancestral guidance, steps up a notch.

To all of you good folk who have attended Return Voyage gatherings during the past two years in Sarasota, Winona, Roanoke, Sedona,  Santa Fe, Baton Rouge, Milwaukee, Farmington, Los Angeles, New York City, and so many towns and cities between:  To each of you who asked, What can I do to help?  To each of you to whom ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani answered:  “When you hear of the changes on the Hawaiian Islands, I ask  that you  offer a prayer for my people.”

Friends:  We now ask  that you step up a notch as well.

In the long, deep, ubiquitous story of freedom denied, of national identity obliterated, of oppression institutionalized:  There have been wars waged, anger and violence righteously uncorked against oppressors.

But there has always been yet another way.  The brave, singular acts of  civil disobedience of  Mahatma Gandhi, who ripped India’s freedom from the British stranglehold without fist or sword.  Nelson Mandela, who freed his South African indigenous people with his hands and feet in chains.  Martin Luther King staged sit-ins–those illegal acts of defiance–against the established laws of  his land.

Each of these men men disobeyed  unconscionable laws; each were imprisoned as a result.  Their actions spoke for them:  “I cannot recognize a law that enslaves my people”.

‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani honors their heroic example.

It has always seemed so small, the substance of the specific disobedience:  A seat in a Woolworth luncheonette; a swim in the local pool.  ‘Iokepa’s  lapse from adherence to the law of the land appears no grander.  The issue at hand is small; the significance of the freedom call is enormous.

For my husband, it is this.  For thirteen years, he has refused to carry any identification that ties him to the United States.  His Grandmothers instructed him:  His sole identity must be Native Hawaiian–a descendant of a 13,000 year lineage that binds him to his aboriginal roots.  His nation is Lahui–the authentic name of these Islands.

When you are Native Hawaiian and your Grandmothers (who died long before you were born) ask this of you, apparently you do not refuse.

Not refusing has meant this.  ‘Iokepa does not carry any official American document:  Driver’s license,  car registration,  car insurance, or social security number–each one of these concessions contingent on accepting the former one.  For thirteen years he has not.

Don’t make this mistake:  ‘Iokepa admires and supports the United States and yearns to see it live the fullness of its potential.  But his Hawaiian blood and  DNA  makes its prior claim.

Two weeks ago, ‘Iokepa was driving his unregistered, uninsured, clean-as-a -whistle, 1998 Subaru station wagon on the streets of Kaua’i–without a government issued driver’s license.  He was stopped (by the rare officer who didn’t know him), ticketed, and summoned to court.

On December 9, he will go, plead not guilty, and ask for a trial by jury.  ‘Iokepa, though faced with fines he cannot pay and with jail he does not seek, calls this,  “An opportunity to raise the consciousness and change the consensus.”

When my brother asked:  “What if he loses?”  I answered for both of us:  “He cannot lose.”

And by that I do not mean that he will not be jailed.  I do not mean that I want my husband shackled–or that my husband wants that for himself.  We are not masochists. We very much prefer sleeping curled together. We savor our freedom.

But when I met ‘Iokepa 12 years ago, he warned me:  “This is not about us.”  And it  is not.  This is about a captive land, an oppressed people–and their freedom.

This small act of civil disobedience is a clarion call from a mountain-top to every one of us.  Nobel Prize winning, author Toni Morrison once wrote:  “The function of freedom is to free someone else.”

Friends, supporters:  Let your imagination be your guide;  please share this small act; retell this oldest of stories–the freedom of a people to live their own culture, to steward their own land, and to speak their own language to the ears of their Creator.

Let the Native Hawaiians teach the rest of us what is meant by Aloha.

“What would you do with your freedom?”

This is the insistent (not often kindly spoken) challenge that ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani is issued whenever he dares to speak of the future of the Native Hawaiian people–or of their nation. The implied criticism is:  These people would not know what to do with their sovereignty.  The implied solution: Deny them that choice.

‘Iokepa answers the question in a larger way.

He begins here:  Reminding me of a single moment last May.  We sat–just the two of us–snug inside our Toyota Camry at a bed and breakfast parking lot in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware.  We were six months into our second Return Voyage tour, with perhaps three more to go.

We had $100 in our pockets (our access closed, to a Bank of Hawai’i checking account that had been raided with our stolen debit card).  In that single moment we asked one another and the universe:  “Where to next?”

‘Iokepa focuses on that moment of possible anguish and uncertainty to make his point:  “In that parking lot in Delaware, we were free.  There were absolutely no demands made of us. We could go anywhere we wanted to go.”

In that parking lot moment, I chose to go to Maine.  We’d never before been to New England; we knew not a single soul; it simply felt right.  I could not have offered a rationale that would have satisfied anyone–except ‘Iokepa, who like me:  Asks out loud, and then listens. We honor the answer we hear in our heads, our hearts, our guts.

From my impromptu decision to drive onto the Interstate and head for the northernmost state on the Eastern seaboard, with just the barest possibility of gas money, and none for lodging–life delivered abundance.

Oh, the stories I could tell of Maine and beyond:  The out-of-the-blue  cell phone call from Hawai’i–”Maine, my biological family lives there–let me call them”; the dentist who repaired my broken tooth, gratis;  the clarity of purpose that unfolded from this freely-made choice; the satisfaction in fulfilling that transparent purpose.

‘Iokepa says:  “People don’t believe that kind of freedom is possible. They  can’t imagine it for themselves. They can’t fathom that anyone can live a life without external demands limiting their choices. They don’t believe it’s a reality.”

But it is real–for every one of us.  The only demand that matters is the one that comes from deep inside of us.  Every choice is our own–it’s our human default setting.

We are free unless, and until, we agree to hand it over.  We are enslaved only when we give up that freedom on someone else’s say so.   Nelson Mandela may well have been the free-est man who ever breathed–in prison for half  a lifetime.  Alternatively, most of us walk the streets unchained:  We answer phones, take vacations,  and never breathe a free moment in our lives.

The challenge remains:  For the Native Hawaiians, sure–but no less, for every one of us who walk this good earth:  “What will we do with our freedom?”

We live in a noisy world.

We have coming at us in any given moment:  Telephones that no longer sit quietly next to our bed or on our office desks (Now they follow our every step into movie theaters, church, and romantic dinners with our lover); Mail that no longer comes once a day on the eagerly awaited footsteps of our postman (Now it beeps its electronic announcement night, day, and every moment between); News that no longer slaps at our doorstep at dawn, or arrives from Walter Cronkite’s lips at dusk (Now it comes at us 24/7, from so many contrary and irritating voices that it’s hard to know whom to trust).

Yes, we can turn off the cell phone, the computer, and cable TV.  But they remain a demanding, addictive call to arms.  We are sorely afraid that we will miss something.

There was a time when we missed nearly everything, and never felt the loss.  Never gave it a thought:  So fully preoccupied were we with our immediate human relationships and the unavoidable life in our faces.

I can almost hear my twenty-nine year old son laughing his head off at these thoughts, some 6,000 miles away.  He is mocking my words–calling them nostalgia, accusing me of being an old geezer.

But permit me to clarify (for son Sam, and for the rest):  Mine is neither a judgment nor indictment of the abundant gifts of technology, the miracle of instant communication, the  demanding world we’ve created.  That is not my intent at all.

Rather, it is this.  How can we discern?  How do we decide, among the Google of accessible information:  What holds water?

Twelve years ago, the Hawaiian Grandmothers told ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani:  “When you’ve heard all the lies, you will know the truth.”  Daily, in these twelve years he has been strenuously tested.

So much knowledge;  so little wisdom.  In every niche of the Internet, we find voices  of ignorance that will affirm our own.  There is no longer a need to be alone in our nightmares, fantasies, conspiracies, or falsehood.  Everywhere there is a chat room or a website to keep us from feeling the occasional, well-deserved loneliness.

In the early days of cell phones, when it still felt outrageously intrusive to have the person standing in front of you at Starbucks answering classified ads, or in the toilet stall next to yours arguing with a boyfriend–there was still the remaining hope of an agreed upon civility.

‘Iokepa used to laugh and say of that ubiquitous cell phone usage:  “Yes, we know you are not alone.  We know you have someone who will actually speak with you.”   And it did, at times, sound like the point of  it all.

So there is Rachel Maddow and there is Bill O’Reilly.  There is Wikipedia and there is Amazon.  Newspapers disappear but there is no escaping Google.  Publishers and bookstores fold; Netflix flourishes.  Choose your weapon.

We fill ourselves with endless trivia.  We have no protective sensory screen.  Infomercials pours into our ears and eyes, and then undigested, out of our mouths.  It is a terrifying national version of the childhood game of Telephone: So many distortions in the repetition.

We repeat what we hear.  But have no ability to explain what we repeated.   We are marionettes, and someone–many many someones–are pulling the strings.  We pass as literate when we are puppets.  We spout opinions that won’t hold up to challenge.  We heard it, we read it, it sounded true.  The plethora of source smothers any likelihood of  independent observation or idea.  How do we know,  What holds water?

Without exception,  my authentic thoughts and feelings (mine, not Keith Olbermann’s) emerge from complete silence:   In my walks along a beach, down a country lane, or in an urban forest–those places where my gut drowns out the stuff my mouth spouts reflexively.  My answers matter, it seems, only if they’ve traveled the full length of my looping intestine.

Yet I realize that even a walk in the park demands a certain confidence–and its corollary courage.  We must fully believe that we are capable of independent thought–and then we must exorcise the noise that passes for consensus and conventional wisdom, in favor of our quiet knowing.  ‘Iokepa says:  “We owe it to our soul.”

If it holds up alone on top of the mountain,  it will, very likely, hold water.