Encounters Around the World Archives | Page 2 of 2

The Iolani Palace in Waikiki is a beautifully restored building where old Hawaiian royalty used to live. Surrounded by towering monkeypod and banyan trees that have been growing for generations, the palace was built by King Kalakaua and passed down to his sister Queen Liliʻuokalani. The atmosphere is somber and respectful; the Hawaiian flag ripples high in the sunshine.

Yesterday I visited the Iolani Palace in Waikiki for the first time. Hawaii’s history is long and complicated, and the people here really connect with it. THEIR history, not necessarily American history in the broader sense. The inscription outside the palace says: “Iolani Palace is a living restoration of the official royal residence for the Kalakaua Dynasty that ruled the Kingdom of Hawaii from 1874 to 1893. King Kalakaua, who reigned for 17 years, built the palace in 1882 as a symbol of Hawaii’s civilized and enlightened leaders as well as its sovereignty.”

There were some interesting books for display at the museum gift shop, which has been converted from the palace barracks. Among other Hawaiian memoirs, historical fiction and non-fiction, there was a book titled: “The Betrayal of Queen Liliʻuokalani, Last Queen of Hawaii 1838-1917: A woman caught in the turbulent maelstrom of cultures in conflict.”

Homi Bhabha, a professor at Harvard University and an expert in post-colonial studies, suggests that crafting a perfectly fashioned history of a nation is “gained at the cost of those ‘others’ – women, natives, the colonized, the indentured and enslaved – who; at the same time but in other spaces, were becoming the peoples without a history.”

I have lived here in Hawaii for a little over 2 years and I’ve had many encounters with local Hawaiians: at the grocery store, my son’s preschool, doctor’s appointments (Auntie’s going to take your temperature!) Most encounters range from very friendly, especially to my son, to quiet passiveness. Being from the Pacific Northwest, this is comfortable for me.

Drivers tend to be relaxed here and often seem to be in no hurry – aloha time, all the time. Someone will often let you in while driving in traffic, and if you get cut off the driver usually throws up a shaka to show his thanks (or in some cases an apology). In my experience, the fastest way to piss off a local Hawaiian is to be in a huge rush to get something done, and make a big fuss of entitlement for the urgency. I asked local Hawaiian Chalynn Domingo-Panoke (21) if she agreed with that statement and she laughed and nodded her head yes. “It’s hard to explain, but sometimes they just act like they think they’re better than people here.”

I have heard stories of local Hawaiians being less than kind to non-locals (especially white people), being aggressive and calling them names, among them “haole,” which has varying definitions, most of them derogatory. This has never happened to me, and maybe that’s why I don’t have any negative feelings towards local Hawaiians. Perhaps they have called me haole behind my back, but I wouldn’t deny them this harmless way of feeling connected to each other as a culture, as long as they aren’t actually mean to me.

Being the last state to join the union in 1959, many of the older generation here in Hawaii have the unique perspective of being able to remember Hawaii’s status as a U.S. territory that held on to many of its customs. I recently spoke with a 27 year old white male (who wanted to remain anonymous) who has married into a Hawaiian family. His in-laws are in their early 50s and he says, “They don’t hate all haoles, but mainly military, white people have come here with entitlement and give all haoles a bad name.”

Domingo-Panoke, whose family has lived in Hawaii since well before the time of Hawaiian royalty and sovereignty, recently answered a few questions for me:

Jamie: How do you feel about the Kingdom of Hawaii being taken over by the US?

Domingo-Panoke: Well, I don’t know the whole story, but I don’t know why they did that, why they locked the Queen in her room.

Jamie: What are your thoughts on Hawaii becoming its own nation?

Domingo-Panoke: Only native Hawaiians want that.

Jamie: But you ARE native Hawaiian! Did you grow up somewhere else?

Domingo-Panoke: No, I grew up here. I guess I just meant the HAWAIIAN Hawaiian people want that.

Jamie: Do you indentify with HAWAIIAN Hawaiian people or no?

Domingo-Panoke: I kind of identify with them. I wasn’t raised that way.

Jamie: “Raised that way” as in it’s a bad thing?

Domingo-Panoke: No, my parents just never really talked about it. They aren’t into Hawaiian politics.

There seems to be a divide between the younger and older generations of Hawaiians. Some older local Hawaiian’s feel anger towards the U.S. for essentially taking over. Although there was no bloodshed as with many Native American take overs, it was a group of mainly American and European businessmen that overthrew the monarchy in 1893, imprisoning Queen Liliʻuokalani in her own home, the Iolani Palace, for months until the provisional government was established. What if the Hawaiians that were loyal to the monarchy had fought? Every choice, whether that of an individual, or of an entire society can affect the course of history. But that choice created their history, their choice of being peaceful.

Sheena Iyengar’s TED talk brings up interesting differences in how Americans and other cultures view choice. She says: “When it comes to choice, we have far more to gain than to lose by engaging in the many translations of the narratives. Instead of replacing one story with another, we can learn from and revel in the many versions that exist and the many that have yet to be written” (19:16).

There has been a growing movement since Clinton’s 1993 apology to the Hawaiian people for taking over, that is trying to make the kingdom of Hawaii an internationally recognized nation state again. this movement seems to be more popular with the older generations of local Hawaiians. My anonymous source said emphatically that his in-laws “are all about it.” But clearly not all local Hawaiians feel the same way. With the younger generation feeling somewhat disconnected from the past wrongs that the U.S. committed to their people, I wonder how much longer the movement to regain Hawaiian sovereignty will last?

Bhabha suggests: “The scraps, patches and rags of daily life must be repeatedly turned into the signs of a coherent national culture” (145). It seems that a new Hawaiian culture is emerging, one that may not mind being American, but still honors the traditions of its ancestors.

In May of 2003, I went on a three day camel trek through the Sahara desert in southeastern Morocco. My camel was called Jimi Hendrix—my tour guide said the camel was wild and hard to contain, and because I was the shortest, I had the honor of riding him and being in the front of the caravan. It was over 110 degrees in the shade and there was sand in my ears, and my eyes burned from the heat. We had a limited supply of water that we shared with the camels and it was carried in large plastic bottles. It tasted like plastic-flavored, hot tea.

We were about four kilometers from the Algerian border and the only thing around besides the sand dunes were the dung beetles – about the size of half a baseball, cut right down the middle. Dung beetles get their name by using camel dung as their playground, rolling it into balls and then in completely straight lines to safety in order to feast and lay eggs in them.

On the last night of our trip we camped under the stars and our generous hosts offered fresh coffee they made on the fire. Having been without coffee for 3 days, I happily accepted, even though the sun had already set. I slept under the North African sky that night on the mat that also served as my camel saddle. About 30 flies buzzed around my face as I tried to sleep and dung beetles waddled all around the camp. I had no desire for poo residue from their little feet to get all over me while I slept, so one of my friends tried to ease my mind by using some extra blankets to make a sort of protective wall around me about six inches tall. I hoped that it was steep enough for the little turtle-like bugs to lose their footing quickly on the incline.

The ancient Egyptians believed that dung beetles were sacred and associated them with Khepri, the god of the rising sun. The dung beetles use polarization patterns of the moonlight to chart their path, and in the same way they roll their balls around the desert, the ancient Egyptians believed that Khepri renewed the sun each day by rolling it over and above the horizon. They drew its hieroglyphic sign on the ceiling of royal tombs to signify rebirth in the form of the sunrise.

It was one of those nights I’m not sure I slept at all. Because the idea of them crawling on me while I slept was terrifying and because of my strong, evening cup of coffee, I arose at about 3am and took a walk around the dunes. As I was sitting atop the highest orange sand dune I could find, I could see for miles across the Sahara desert. Soon the adrenaline wore off and fatigue set in. I was somewhat frustrated with myself for not enjoying and appreciating this hot and exhausting event as much as I should. I closed my eyes to enjoy the silence and the coolness of the roaring wind.

Seemingly without a sound, an old Bedouin man and a small boy came walking up the dune. They both looked at me and seemed to absorb the absurdity of my presence, then sat down a few feet to my right. I said the Arabic greeting I had learned, but it was apparently the wrong and offensive dialect of Arabic to his people, because the old man scowled and stood up to leave. I apologized in French – Je suis désolé and tried again with Bonjour. The little boy looked at me and back at the old man with eyebrows raised – no comprehension. I had used up my only French words quickly. Maybe the old man understood, he glared into the horizon and looked thoughtful for a moment, sitting back down slowly. I attempted to communicate with exaggerated hand motions and smiles. At the least, they were both amused. I showed them a photograph of my family I had brought with me. The old man took out a miniature polaroid picture of a family from the Asian continent. He wanted to trade and I agreed, as you do when an old Bedouin is clutching your family picture greedily. Merci – thank you for this tiny picture of someone else’s family.

It felt peaceful sitting on top of that orange dune with the old Bedouin and little boy. After we exchanged photographs, we just sat there for a few minutes. As they stood up and walked away, the bright ball of the sun came rolling over and above the horizon. And it felt sacred.

Iolani Palace, Waikiki

Morocco – Camel Trek in the Sahara