Moʻokūʻauhau (My genealogy):
Aloha nō kākou. ʻO Kalikoonāmaukūpuna Kalāhiki koʻu inoa. No Kahaluʻu, Maui, a me Hawaiʻi mai koʻu ʻohana. ʻO John Halemano Kalualiʻi Kalāhiki ke kāne, ʻO Kainuwai Ailaau ka wahine. Noho pū lāua a ua hānau ʻia ʻo Herman Halemano Kalāhiki. ʻO Herman Halemano Kalāhiki ke kāne, ʻO Rose Kapualahaʻole Yuen Sai ka wahine. Noho pū lāua a hānau ʻia ʻo Edward Kalāhiki. ʻO Edward Kalāhiki ke kāne, ʻO Louise Leilani Burns ka wahine. Noho pū lāua a ua hānau ʻia ʻo Wendall Kalāhiki. ʻO Wendall Kalāhiki ke kāne, ʻO Karin DeMelo ka wahine. Noho pū lāua a ua hānau ʻia ʻo Keone Kalāhiki. ʻO Tiffany Shintaku koʻu makuahine. ʻO Keone Kalāhiki koʻu makuakāne. Noho pū lāua a ua hānau iaʻu.
ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi is my mother tongue. I am a proud māhū Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian). I share seven generations of Hawai’i in my genealogy. I carry my ancestors' names and bring their presence into this writing because they are the ones who have made my life, and consequently my work, possible. They are the reasons I fight for sovereignty not only for Kānaka but also for all Indigenous peoples. Without them, I am truly nothing. With them, I have the power to help shape the next seven generations after me.
As a senior at Brown University who is part of the inaugural class in the Critical Native American and Indigenous Studies concentration, I look to Palestine as a compass. Palestine has revealed to and within me profound lessons on Indigenous survivance, empathy and joint struggle. From my classes, I’ve learned of the violent histories Indigenous peoples of Turtle Island and my home community have endured: genocide, cultural erasure, dehumanization, and displacement. The parallels between these histories and those that continue in Palestine are unnerving. They are all, after all, based in the same European setter ideology that converts Indigenous peoples into subhuman caricatures of colonial fantasy.
From Columbus’s so-called “discovery” of the “new world” in 1492, to Captain Cook’s invasion of Hawai’i in 1778, to the Balfour declarations greenlighting of Zionist settlement in Palestine in 1916, histories of invasion are plentiful and abound. From the Indian Removal Act of 1820 to the overthrow of Queen Liliʻuokalani and the Kingdom of Hawaii in 1893, to Palestine’s Nakba of 1948, histories of conquest are constant. As Omar Jabary Salamanca, Mezna Qato, Kareem Rabie, and Sobhi Samour write in Past is Present: Settler Colonialism in Palestine: “the Nakba in 1948 is not simply a precondition for the creation of Israel or the outcome of early Zionist ambitions; the Nakba is not a singular event but is manifested today in the continuing subjection of Palestinians by Israelis.” These histories are ongoing as occupation continues not only in Palestine, but in Turtle Island, Hawai’i, and across geographies of Indigenous life. Despite structures of settler colonialism that transcend our homelands, we as Indigenous people still exist and fight against the systems that aim to eliminate us. Kumu J. Kēhaulani Kauanui describes this active resistance as “enduring indigeneity.” As a Native person, my allegiance is to Indigenous peoples globally as we practice enduring indigeneity by collectively fighting against invasion by and structures of settler colonialism.
I look to Palestinian resistance and see reflected back the resistance of Kānaka Maoli, past and present. I see sumud (Arabic for steadfastness), what Lena Meari describes as a praxis of active refusal “to cooperate,...[to] surrender” which in turn “destabilizes the colonial order and its power relations,” and find what Hawaiians call kūʻē (resistance and protest). As Mary Baker writes in her dissertation, “kūʻē encompasses acts of political resistance to dominant authority over land…Landing on Kahoʻolawe while the island was still under the occupation of the U.S. Navy is an act of kūʻē. Refusing to let bulldozers onto the sacred Mauna a Wākea is an act of kūʻē.” Sumud and kūʻē are articulations of enduring indigeneity and reveal that to be Indigenous is to be a protector of the land and all Her children. Indigeneity is a political orientation that, within the context of occupation, requires direct resistance to erasure and defense of life at all costs.
I see Palestinians as a model for Indigenous survivance: we are not merely surviving this colonial world, but thriving and defying it all at once. When I look to Palestine, I see the possibility of liberation for all Indigenous peoples, the dismantling of violent systems of power that create injustice, and the rebuilding of community for a more just future. It is for these reasons that I have become an active participant in the student protests calling for divestment from Israeli occupation and apartheid in Palestine. I believe that settler-colonialism anywhere is a threat to decolonization everywhere. It is a moral imperative to do all that I can to destabilize the colonial order and help to build a future where we are all liberated. More than an ethical prerogative, I am fulfilling and continuing on the tradition of my own ancestors.
Hunger Strike
I was first tapped to learn more about the prospects of a hunger strike for Gaza over the winter break following the Fall 2023 semester. I needed to be a part of this action. I felt it in my naʻau – –in my gut, my ancestral intuition. After learning more about the strike from the first meetings with the head organizers in January and getting a mental and physical well-being assessment, I was assured that I was able to participate. Before it began, I meditated on the hunger I would be experiencing. I reflected on how I was willingly choosing to starve myself, but thousands — if not millions — of Palestinians in Gaza are starving without access to clean water or reliable food sources. I reflected on the demands we set forth for this action and if they could tangibly support Palestinians realize an end to the current genocide and achieve their long-overdue freedom. I reflected on if this action would make any difference at all. I couldn’t find resolutions to these questions, but I found comfort in knowing that there was an entire movement supporting us.
The day we announced our strike was nerve-wracking. We funneled our way into the student center and took up space within Leung Gallery. We were perched on the balcony above where students normally study. That day, no studying would be done. A rally was being held outside of the center and we watched anxiously as the crowd slowly moved into the building. We heard protesters shouting “FREE PALESTINE” through the stairways. We screamed at the top of our lungs for Brown to “DIVEST NOW” while the protesters gathered below us. As I looked below at the ocean of faces and keffiyehs yelling back at us in unison, all my anxieties washed away. I knew definitively that we were building a movement, and no matter the outcome, we were forcing the university to talk about Palestine.
The biggest takeaway I have from the week that followed was witnessing the attention we received. As the days dragged on, more students showed up to our daily rallies, more people were talking about us on social media, more national and international news outlets were covering our story, and most importantly, more attention was being brought to Palestine and the colossal impact of the genocide on her people. One of the challenges that I experienced was contending with the fact that, for whatever reason, the world stopped and listened to college students hunger striking at an Ivy League university in the heart of empire rather than listening to the cries from the millions of Palestinians being subjected to this genocide. The paradox was one riddled with contradictions: still our voices, bodies, and beings were given more worth than Palestinians. The cognitive dissonance I felt was shared, but we collectively needed to accept that we were being given a bullhorn to talk to the world and communicate a message being suppressed everywhere. It was our responsibility then to refocus the conversation on Palestine, on Palestinian truth and voice, and conveying how working toward divestment at Brown was one small thing we can do in defense of Palestinian life.
The best way I’ve been able to describe the divestment movement at Brown is that we, as organizers, protesters, comrades, encampers, strikers, and supporters, are part of a larger ecosystem. We each have different functions within this living and ever-changing set of relations. Whether it is leading chants, marshaling rallies to ensure the safety of the protesters, organizing programming to educate and inspire participants, strategizing how to negotiate with administrator, and so forth; every person is an essential part of this ecosystem and breathes life into the movement. It is this sense of community that defined the hunger strike for me. While I was physically starved, I did not feel hungry. I was fed by the energy everyone gave to the movement. I was fed by the hugs from fellow strikers, the affirmations from our support team, the conversations with professors, the calls with family and friends, the rallies, the growth of the movement throughout the week, and the belief that I and my student comrades were at least trying to do our small part.
Despite this, I held an anxious hope. I knew that what we were striking for mattered greatly. However, I didn’t know if our demands would be met. On one of the later days, I opened my journal and wrote a poem I titled, In a Moment of Anxious Hope. It reads:
A tear escapes the well building in the bottom of my eyes.
Hope now is palpable, but uncertain.
I stop any more tears from falling for I fear this happiness will be met with disappointment.
Will this win find its way through the shadows or will it die without anyone knowing?
The days will now turn to weeks as my hunger grows.
I hold on to my hope, but I know its risks.
During the Brown corporation meeting, a crowd of seemingly hundreds of protesters gathered with the hunger strikers outside of where the corporation members were having lunch. These meetings are incredibly important because it is when the corporation members––the people who make decisions on how to spend the University’s money––convene in one place to discuss various items regarding the university’s operations. I was chosen to call out to any corporation member who passed by me. We all waited patiently and quietly. Finally, I saw that their lunch meeting had adjourned and every corporation member, including the president of the university, began filing out toward us. I took the opportunity and yelled out, “All we are asking is to present to the corporation the divestment report that you have in your hands. What will it take for you to end our strike so that we can start eating again?” Their response? They looked down and didn’t acknowledge me or the huge crowd of students holding banners calling for divestment.
In the end, our demands were not met. Yet, when we broke our fast, all of us rejoiced. We felt that we were an undeniable presence that had to be reckoned with. We knew that the corporation was talking about us. We knew that the world could hear our demands. What mattered most was that we pushed the movement forward toward divestment. While I began the hunger strike thinking I was doing it for Palestine, I realized how much I had gained personally. Like striking Palestinian prisoners teach us, when the body withers under torture or from an empty belly, the soul is only strengthened.
To future student movements, I want you to know that the university will never love you. These institutions are integral to the exact structures of power you seek to dismantle. You will often be met with heartbreak if you try to find hope in the institution. Instead, look to the co-strugglers working beside you. They are your community. They are the individuals who will give you the life and energy you need to push through the burden, the hardship, and the dehumanization. Your power comes from each other, so make sure you are taking care of one another and yourself. Follow your Naʻau –– your gut feeling –– for the reward is more often than not, greater than the cost. As Queen Liliʻuokalani said, e kūlia i ka nuʻu. “Strive for the summit.” It is through your collective vision of a liberated future that you will see that peak. E mālama pono. A hiki i ke aloha ʻāina hope loa.
Me ke aloha,
Kalikoonāmaukūpuna Kalāhiki
