Echoes of Displacement: Development's Toll on Manu o Kū and the Parallel Struggle of Native Hawaiians

 

A year ago, I came to understand the importance of the Manu o Kū to our community. This bird, which ancient voyagers used as a sign, an hoʻailona, guided our ancestors to the land we now cherish. It was a message from our Akua that a homeland was near. At Honolulu Community College, my colleagues, including Jacob Haʻuoli Lorenzo-Elarco, a Kumu of ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, delved into the origins of the Manu o Kū’s name and its connections to Kū, one of our main deities. Kaʻiulani Murphey, a kumu and skilled navigator of the Hokuleʻa and Hikianaliʻa, shared how the Manu o Kū was instrumental in traditional voyaging, guiding navigators as they sailed across Moananuiakea, the Pacific Ocean. This practice, which we call “kilo,” showcases the profound knowledge and skill of our ancestors in reading the natural world around them.

It was a revelation to me that the Manu o Kū, once endangered, is now thriving, even right here on our campus. My curiosity piqued, I set out to find them. One day, to my astonishment, I discovered a mother and her chick perched just outside the ladies bathroom window. My excitement was palpable as I spent the next half hour to 45 minutes documenting their presence with my camera.

This began a daily tradition among my colleagues and me. We watched over the baby Manu for the next few months, our protective instincts kicking in whenever the mother left to forage. We would take turns, ensuring the chick’s safety. Over time, I expanded my search and found many Manu o Kū families residing in the Kamani, Shower, Kukui, and Monkey Pod trees all throughout our campus, and forming unexpected friendships with those curious about my daily observations.

As the months passed, I learned to discern the sounds and sights of the Manu o Kū amidst the urban clamor. Even when driving through Honolulu, I found myself scanning the skies, now attuned to the nuances of their flight patterns and behaviors.

A poignant moment came when a fallen chick was rescued, thanks to the connections we made with Rich Downs of the Hui Manu o Ku, who works tirelessly to protect these birds. Our little hui of protectors  had come together in stewardship, but this unity was soon tested.

The encroaching construction of the new Honolulu Rail System necessitated the felling of ancient Kamani trees, one of the many habitats to our Manu o Kū. Witnessing the devastation of their century-old homes left us heartbroken and questioning the cost of progress. I remember that morning vividly, overcome with despair I walked down the now barren and lifeless sidewalk with my camera in hand, wanting to run into my office and cry.  I didnʻt realize then how much it would affect me and Iʻm sure I was not alone in this feeling.

As I grappled with the stark reality before me, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the weight of our actions. The birds—the fledglings, the venerable trees that had been their sanctuary for a century—were ruthlessly obliterated in the span of a single night, their sanctity defiled. Hidden under the veil of darkness, the trees were felled, a cruel surprise despite the forewarnings we had dismissed; the pain of the deed was like daggers to my heart.

I found myself consumed by thoughts of their displacement: where had the birds sought refuge? My eyes scoured the remaining trees, searching for signs of new nests, wondering about the potential conflicts with other territorial birds. This act had surely thrust them into a social turmoil, unwelcome and searching for shelter.

In the days that followed, the skies seemed unsettled, as birds swirled in confusion over their changed world. Yet, with each passing week, sightings of the Manu o Kū grew rarer. The mother and chick that once graced the view from our bathroom window were gone. Our friends on the ground, those who joined in our watch, reported occasional glimpses of the birds. But now, when I venture out in hopes of a sighting, I count myself fortunate to spot even one or two. The once vibrant presence of the Manu o Kū had faded into a silence that still hangs heavy over our heads today.

Despite the upheaval, we continue to advocate for these birds.Watching, always watching.

 They are not just the official avian symbol of Honolulu, but a reminder of our intrinsic connection to nature and the legacy of our ancestors. The irony is not lost on us that the rail, named "Skyline" and symbolized by the very creature it displaces, challenges us to reconcile our city's growth with the guardianship of our natural heritage.

As development looms over the remaining trees, a baby Manu o Kū clings to what may soon be a lost sanctuary. 

We stand witness, questioning if this is the future our ancestors envisioned when they followed the Manu o Kū to these islands. Our struggle is a testament to our respect for the winged messengers that once led our forebears home, as we strive to protect their place in our shared world.

PROTECT THE MANU O KŪ