Art of Resistance, Art of Resilience

Art as an Act of Aloha ʻĀina – The Visual Language of Sovereignty

While the murals of Kakaʻako express a bold cultural pride, a more pointed and urgent talk is happening in the work of artists who directly engage with the Hawaiian sovereignty movement. This is art as aloha ʻāina—love for the land—in its most politically charged form.

It is a visual language used to articulate the ongoing struggles for ea (sovereignty, life, breath). To protest the desecration of sacred sites. To heal from the wounds of colonization.

This same spirit fueled the powerful visual culture of the Protect Mauna Kea movement. Where art became a critical tool for global communication and solidarity.

Artist Spotlight: Lehuauakea

No artist embodies this intersection of art, identity, and activism more deeply than Lehuauakea. A māhū (a third gender identity, often translated as non-binary or transgender) and mixed-Native Hawaiian artist. They use traditional media to speak to the most pressing contemporary issues.

In our talk, Lehuauakea explains how their māhū identity informs their kapa practice. Historically, kapa making was often divided along gender lines. But māhū, who embody both masculine and feminine energies, could move between these roles.

This is powerfully visualized in their piece "Mana Māhū." A kapa that reinterprets the Pride flag using natural earth pigments and plant dyes. Creating a uniquely Hawaiian celebration of queer identity.

Their work is a bridge between worlds. Addressing cultural erasure, environmental degradation, and Indigenous strength. A current project, "E Hoʻāla Ka Lupe: To Awaken the Kite," seeks to revive the lost craft of making traditional Hawaiian kites.

The Weight of History at Pearl Harbor

To fully understand the passion and urgency behind the art of resistance, one must confront the history that fuels it. I spend a solemn afternoon at Pearl Harbor. Standing on the memorial that floats above the sunken hull of the USS Arizona, I am overwhelmed by the deep sense of loss and the immense gravity of the historical shift that occurred here.

The attack on December 7, 1941, was a key moment that plunged the United States into World War II. For Hawaiʻi, it was also a catalyst for an unprecedented wave of American militarization and federal control over the islands.

My visit is not a historical detour. It is a moment of essential grounding. It provides the somber context for the bright, defiant, and hopeful art I have been witnessing across the islands. The silence here makes the loud, colorful assertions of identity in Kakaʻako and the determined, rhythmic beating of kapa in Mākaha feel that much more necessary and that much more alive.