Living Hawaiian Traditions

Burying My Piko at Birth: How This Ritual Rooted Me When I Was Homeless

The salt-stained cardboard box under the Līhuʻe overpass wasn't much of a home. But even there, in that cold concrete space where the trade winds couldn't reach, I carried something that no one could take away. Buried somewhere in the red dirt of Hanalei, my piko—my umbilical cord—connected me to this land in a way that went deeper than any address, any deed, any government paperwork.

My grandmother had performed the ritual when I was born. She took that dried piece of what once connected me to my mother and placed it carefully in a carved hole in an old pohaku stone, then sealed it tight. "This makes you part of the ʻāina forever," she told my parents. "No matter where life takes him, he belongs here."

The ʻAha That Cannot Be Broken

In Hawaiian tradition, the ʻaha is a cord made from sennit rope. Each strand represents a genealogical line, and when braided together, they create something stronger than any single thread. This cord connects past, present, and future in an unbroken chain.

Hawaiian traditions work the same way. They're not static artifacts from some distant past. They're living, breathing practices that adapt and survive because they serve real purposes in real lives. Every time someone buries a piko, performs a hula, or practices mālama ʻāina, they add another strand to this ʻaha.

But these practices carry extra weight in Hawaiʻi. Here, tradition is resistance.

When the Hawaiian Kingdom was overthrown in 1893, the new government tried to erase Hawaiian identity. They banned ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi from schools in 1896. They suppressed cultural practices. They tried to break the ʻaha.

They failed.

The 1960s and 70s brought the Second Hawaiian Renaissance. Hula schools reopened. The Hōkūleʻa sailed using ancient navigation. Protesters stopped the military bombing of Kahoʻolawe Island. Each act said the same thing: We're still here. Our culture lives.

Today, when a kumu hula teaches proper protocol or a family performs traditional healing, they're not just preserving culture. They're asserting sovereignty. They're saying Hawaiian knowledge has value. They're keeping the ʻaha strong.