“Aia i hea ka wai a Kāne? The Red Hill Crisis, Emerging Fluidarities, and the Radical Relationality of Water” in “Aia i hea ka wai a Kāne?”
Aia i hea ka wai a Kāne?
The Red Hill Crisis, Emerging Fluidarities, and the Radical Relationality of Water
Kyle Kajihiro
E ui aku ana au iā ʻoe:
Aia i hea ka wai a Kāne?
Aia i lalo, i ka honua, i ka wai hū,
I ka wai kau a Kāne me Kanaloa,
He wai puna, he wai e inu,
He wai e mana, he wai e ola.
E ola nō a!
A question I ask of you:
Where is the water of Kāne?
Below, in the ground, in the gushing spring,
in the rising water of Kāne and Kanaloa,
A spring of water, water to drink,
Water to give strength, water to live,
To live indeed!
—Excerpt from “He Mele No Kāne” (Traditional)
On Saturday evening, November 20, 2021, 911 dispatchers in Honolulu received calls from residents of Foster Village and the Āliamanu Military Reservation reporting a strong odor of gasoline. Unable to locate the source, the responding firefighters chalked it up to nearby refueling operations and closed the case.1
Unbeknownst to the residents, deep beneath their neighborhood, in an underground access tunnel linking the Red Hill Underground Fuel Storage Facility with Pearl Harbor, a worker crashed their cart into a drain line that released approximately nineteen thousand gallons of jet fuel on the floor of the tunnel. This fuel, which was left over from a previous spill in May 2021, had been suctioned into the elevated drain line without anyone’s knowledge. Once liberated, the fuel escaped down a long-forgotten floor drain directly into the navy’s water system. The navy’s Red Hill Shaft water-pumping station then distributed the fuel-tainted water to ninety-three thousand people on the navy’s water system.2 Valerie Kaʻahanui, a resident of military housing reported, “My kids have been sick, respiratory issues, headaches. I’ve had a headache for the past week. . . . My kids have had nosebleeds, rashes, we’ve been itchy after we get out of the shower. It feels like our skin is burning.”3 But the navy continued to deny that there was a crisis. Captain Erik Spitzer, commander of Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam told concerned military families, “I can tell you at this point that there are no immediate indications that the water is not safe.”4
The deteriorating and leaking eighty-year-old Red Hill facility has been the target of protest, litigation, and political pressure since a leak in 2014 first raised public alarm. But the navy has maintained that the Red Hill facility was safe and vital to national security. The latest leaks in May and November 2021 contaminated drinking water for navy water users and threatened the water supply for all of Honolulu. The incident sparked intense activism and the emergence of new water-protectors groups that brought together a diverse coalition demanding that Red Hill be shut down. But the navy fought to keep the facility operating.
Then, on March 7, 2022, Secretary of Defense Lloyd J. Austin III directed the secretary of the navy, in coordination with the commander of the United States Indo-Pacific Command, “to take all steps necessary to defuel and permanently close the Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility.”5 After the State Department of Health rejected the navy’s incomplete defueling plan in July 2022, the navy submitted a supplemental plan on September 7, which projected completion of defueling by July 2024.6 As of this writing, approximately 104 million gallons of fuel remain in the tanks and pose an existential threat to ecosystems, aquifers, and residents of Oʻahu. Community groups and local government officials continue to apply pressure to ensure that the military follows through with the directive without delay. After adamantly insisting that Red Hill was crucial for national security, the Pentagon’s sudden about-face decision to close the facility came as a surprise to many observers. It was certainly an important win for the new water-protectors movement.
In the history of Hawaiʻi, there has never been such a diverse and broad front of opposition to the U.S. military. Even the pathbreaking Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana, which successfully stopped the bombing of Kahoʻolawe island after decades of struggle, often met strong opposition from veterans, business leaders, politicians, and even other Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiians).7 The military-industrial-political complex in Hawaiʻi has so thoroughly imbricated itself into the political-economic and social fabric of Hawaiʻi that it often makes opposition to military projects seem quixotic. The shut down Red Hill water-protectors movement helped to build an unprecedented political alignment of community activists, government officials, corporate figures, religious organizations, and labor unions, with members from a diversity of ethnic, class, and ideological positions. A Honolulu Star-Advertiser poll found that 80 percent of Hawaiʻi residents supported the permanent shut down of the Red Hill fuel tanks.8 What caused this realignment of political forces? What caused the military to reverse its position? Will this realignment of political forces hold in future struggles to confront military environmental impacts? Will the military-industrial-political complex be able to remake itself in the wake of Red Hill to reestablish its hegemonic political, economic, and ideological position in Hawaiʻi?
There are many factors shaping the social and cultural conditions of possibility and political forces that led to the Pentagon’s decision to shutter Red Hill. If only for a brief historical moment, the ruptured fuel lines created a break in the military-political-economic apparatus and their ideological hegemony in Hawaiʻi. The hubris and negligence of military officials, multiple cascading technological and bureaucratic system failures, growing activist pressure from different sectors, and the inexorable corrosive power and fluid properties of water and time all combined to unsettle what were previously relatively stable political-economic assemblages. Intersecting crises of environmental and public health, far-reaching economic fallout, and the erosion of political legitimacy created an opportunity for the formation of new activist relationships between Kānaka ʻŌiwi and settlers. A full discussion of these multiple factors, however, is beyond the scope of this article.
Instead, I examine the recent history of the Red Hill crisis and the emergence of two new groups that led the grassroots water-protectors movement: Oʻahu Water Protectors, a multiethnic group of settlers and Kānaka ʻŌiwi activists, and Kaʻohewai, a Kanaka ʻŌiwi coalition of organizations and individuals committed to protecting Oʻahu’s water. I draw upon my experiences as a yonsei nikkei (fourth-generation settler of Japanese ancestry) in Hawaiʻi who has worked on demilitarization issues since 1996, first as the staff person for a nonprofit peace and social justice organization and more recently as an activist-scholar and participant-observer in the organizing to shut down Red Hill. In this article, I consider how the assertion of Kanaka ʻŌiwi ontologies of water in framing the issue opened the political space for new political alignments to form. The basic biological necessity of water, its unique fluid physical properties, and the assertion of a Kanaka ʻŌiwi ontology of water as an akua (deity), or “elemental energies of the environment,”9 facilitated the emergence of what Oceania scholar Teresia Teaiwa calls “fluidarities.”10 The term fluidarity is an Oceanic play on the concept of solidarity. It refers to personal and political relationships of care, mutual aid, and collective political action across diverse and dynamic cultures, subjectivities, and positionalities, connected by the medium of water.
The first passage in the epigraph is a stanza from the chant “He Mele No Kāne,” which describes the many forms, transformations, and movements of the akua Kāneikawaiola (Kāne of the life-giving waters).11 This chant became a standard at different actions in the shut down Red Hill campaign. It is structured as a series of queries—“I ask you a question: Where is the water of Kāne?” Each stanza in response describes a different manifestation of Kāne, as heat and sunlight, atmospheric and oceanic phenomena, clouds, rains, rainbows, mists, streams, underground aquifers, and springs. The chant ends with an affirmation of water as a source of power and life. By returning to the question “Where is the water of Kāne?” the chant implies that Kāne is immanent in all things, including ourselves. The question forces listeners to search for and recognize Kāne within their own lives.
As Kanaka ʻŌiwi law professor Kapua Sproat observes, “Water is a connecting force. . . . If we look at things like the hydrologic cycle, all of us throughout this paeʻāina are connected through our freshwater resources.”12 Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio (Kanaka ʻŌiwi) examines how people and ʻāina are interrelated in what she calls an “‘upena of pilina” (a net or web of intimacies).13 I understand fluidarities and ʻupena of pilina to resonate with what Melanie Yazzie (Diné) and Cutcha Risling Baldy (Hoopa) refer to as “the radical relationality of water.”14 I argue that this radical relationality of water is a key factor in the emerging fluidarities between Kānaka ʻŌiwi and settler activists in the water-protectors movement on Oʻahu. A second claim of this article is that the Red Hill crisis brought to light and enabled a public denunciation of the hidden power, and violence, of military logistics and infrastructure.15 This has important implications for political praxis: in an age of catastrophic anthropogenic climate change, the prospects for life on this planet will hinge on our ability to form radical political relationships with and through water. And, since the U.S. military is the single largest fossil fuel consumer and greenhouse gas emitter in the United States and the world, addressing the climate crisis necessitates confronting the environmental violence of militarization.16
In the next section, I examine the ethics and politics of water as a trans-Indigenous conversation and describe the significance of wai, the Hawaiian word for fresh water, in the context of water protectors organizing on the Red Hill issue. Next, I provide a brief overview of the social and environmental impacts of U.S. militarization in Hawaiʻi, which are antithetical to wai. I go on to examine the unfolding chaos of the recent Red Hill crisis and consider how two groups—Oʻahu Water Protectors and Kaʻohewai—framed the issue by invoking the sacred life-giving properties of water. The insistence on a Kanaka ʻŌiwi ontological politics of water in the struggle to shut down Red Hill created new ways to conceptualize and organize around this environmental justice issue that are broadly inclusive while centering Kanaka ʻŌiwi claims. Throughout the article, I consider how Kanaka ʻŌiwi ontological politics of water expose and disrupt the hidden military infrastructures of U.S. imperial formations. I conclude with some preliminary thoughts about the future of (de)militarization in Hawaiʻi.
Toward a Trans-Indigenous Ontological Politics of Water
Ontological difference is a ground of political struggle. In this section, I consider different trans-Indigenous perspectives on the ontological politics of water. Enacting Indigenous ontologies through moʻolelo (stories, histories) and cultural practices has been an effective strategy in numerous Indigenous struggles, from Kahoʻolawe, Mākua, and Mauna a Wākea to Standing Rock and Red Hill.
Nicole J. Wilson and Jody Inkster (Kaska Dena [Wolf Clan] and Tahltan) observe that many water conflicts between Indigenous and settler societies are “rooted in ontological differences” between radically different human–water relationships.17 In settler societies, water has typically been regarded as a resource or commodity for human consumption, exploitation, and accumulation. Conflicts have arisen when settler capitalist projects threaten to harm or deplete waters that Indigenous peoples rely on for their lifeways and regard as kin. For example, in the Očhéthi Šakówiŋ resistance to the Dakota Access Pipeline at Standing Rock, the expression “mní wičóni” (water is life) was raised as a rallying cry, connecting the #NoDAPL struggle to a much larger constellation of trans-Indigenous water-protectors movements, with stakes that exceed conservation, law, property claims, or finances. When water and land are regarded as kin, it opens the political field to different ethics of respect, reciprocity, and care. Glen Coulthard (Yellowknives Dene) and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg) describe this sense of mutual respect and responsibility as “grounded normativity,” ethical frameworks based on “Indigenous place-based practices and associated forms of knowledge . . . based on deep reciprocity, that are inherently informed by an intimate relationship to place.”18 Mary Tuti Baker (Kanaka ʻŌiwi) argues that the Kanaka ʻŌiwi concept of aloha ʻāina (a deep love for the land, seas, and skies) is a form of “grounded normativity expressed in the Kanaka Maoli political context.”19 This deep reciprocity with a place moves with and through the fluid actions of water.
In many Kānaka ʻŌiwi schools of thought, all emergent forms of freshwater are revered as manifestations of Kāneikawaiola, the procreative principle that moves through hydrological cycles. In some moʻolelo, Kāne and his sibling/companion, Kanaloa, the deity of “deep consciousness of the sea,” who is associated with underground forms of water, travel through the Hawaiian Islands to find new sources of wai.20 In order to quench Kanaloa’s thirst for ʻawa, the ceremonial drink extracted from the root of the ʻawa plant (Piper methysticum), Kāne thrusts his ʻōʻō (digging stick) into the ground to create new springs.
Drawing on the work of the Kīhoʻihoʻi Kānāwai research group, Candace Fujikane describes the kānāwai (laws) governing the vertical relationships between different wao (stratified realms) of the Kanaka ʻŌiwi cosmos.21 Three in particular pertain to the underground realms traversed by water:
- Kānāwai Pahulau—the edict of 400 chambers; concerning the care of aquifers and their relationship to ocean health & reef ecosystems
- Kānāwai Pahukini—the edict of 4,000 chambers; concerning the care of aquifers, water tables, glaciers, snow caps, caves, watersheds; recognition of all manner watersheds in all stratums
- Kānāwai Kānemilohae—the edict of passage; ability for groundwater & underground water to have uninterrupted passage; for the health of ocean creatures in the freshwater areas; for health of island as fresh cool waters deter hurricanes from decimating islands.22
The kānāwai governing these wao suggest a profound appreciation for the pilina (relationality) of water between and across realms.
In a recent Red Nation Podcast, Shelley Muneoka (Kanaka ʻŌiwi), a leader with KAHEA: The Hawaiian-Environmental Alliance, a kiaʻi (protector) of Mauna a Wākea, and a member of the Oʻahu Water Protectors, marveled at the “nature of the aquifer and the water itself. . . . It’s like porous rock below, and water, which I think is really beautiful, which is an akua for us, a god for us. This akua can move through rock. But we cannot move through the rock.”23 Muneoka conveys a sense of awe and respect for the miraculous powers and agency of water. As Marie Alohalani Brown (Kanaka ʻŌiwi) notes, “Water is a shape-shifter.”24
In addition to Kāne and Kanaloa, the genealogy of wai includes a multitude of other akua. According to Brown, “In the Keaomelemele tradition, Mo‘oinanea is sister to Kāne and Kanaloa, and she and Kāne are indicated as nā mākua (parents) of the mo‘o clan and their large family.”25 Moʻo akua are powerful reptilian water deities who can assume different forms and can protect, as well as destroy, life. Fujikane opens her book Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future with a vivid account of the great migration of moʻo akua from their home islands in the clouds to the Hawaiian Islands as told in the moʻolelo of Keaomelemele.26 Moʻoinanea, the matriarch of all moʻo akua, arrives first in Waialua, Oʻahu. She summons legions of moʻo, who, marching in pairs, cover the lands of Oʻahu with their gigantic bodies, an image suggestive of Oʻahu’s topography of long serpentine ridges.27 The procession of moʻo reaches all the way across the island to Kapūkaki, where the Red Hill facility is located. One of Moʻoinanea’s offspring, Kānekuaʻana, is the moʻo akua associated with the fishponds and resources of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa (also known as Pearl Harbor). Moʻoinanea herself comes to reside on Mauna a Wākea at lake Waiau, along with other water deities:
Poliʻahu, the woman wrapped in the snow mantle of Mauna a Wākea; Līlīnoe of the fine mist that gently meanders across the mauna; Waiau of the swirling waters; and Kahoupokāne, master kapa maker who beats the brilliant snow-white bark cloth.28
When we think about wai through Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio’s understanding of pilina as intimacies, other water relationships come to mind: the exchange of wai in sex; pregnancy and birth as life emerging from wai; waiū (milk) exchanged between mother and infant.29 Her figure of an ʻupena of pilina (a net or web of intimacies) suggests a matrix of relationships, interactions, accountabilities, and collaborations that forms a map of relationalities.
The image of water and procreation also compels us to consider Haumea, the great female akua whom Fujikane describes as “the consciousness of the earth.”30 Haumea can transform herself into multiple kinolau (many body forms) and is reborn in each generation of her progeny, like the unbroken chain of maternal mitochondrial DNA. One of her kinolau is the akua Papahānaumoku (the foundation who births islands). As discussed in Fujikane, Kalei Nuʻuhiwa describes Haumea as potentiality, who weaves a hei (to ensnare or a string figure) to map space and time, past and future events, in order to secure desired outcomes.31 According to Nuʻuhiwa, the hipuʻu (knot) in Haumea’s hei (or Osorio’s ʻupena of pilina) “is the imagery of potential . . . the honua [earth] that’s being created for the proper thing to happen.”32 In other words, Haumea’s potentiality is realized through the creation (and manipulation) of relationalities.
Drawing on the work of Indigenous feminists, Yazzie and Baldy conceptualize radical relationality as “a vision of relationality and collective political organization that is deeply intersectional and premised on values of interdependency, reciprocity, equality, and responsibility.”33 In this view, “water is a relative with whom we engage in social (and political) relations premised on interdependency and respect.”34 Yazzie and Baldy argue that an Indigenous politics of water requires “a struggle for decolonization premised on the accountabilities we form in lively relation to each other. The act of (re)making our accountability in relationship to water and (re)claiming our relational theories of water culture remind us that we are water based, that we have water memory.”35
The praxis of “inter-reflexivity” requires adopting a “water view,” engaging in political action not simply for people but also for water.36 It means that one’s ethics and actions should align with “how water views the world, or even how water views us.”37 Crucially, the authors argue that in addition to individual practices of cultural reclamation and healing, a radical relationality of water calls on Indigenous peoples to “build the kind of mass movements that are necessary for staging a serious counterhegemonic challenge to the status quo of death that currently structures our existence.”38
If, as Annemarie Mol insists, realities are not given but rather are enacted and, therefore, multiple, then choosing which realities to enact is inherently political.39 Mol’s concept of ontological politics offers a way to think about the ethics of choosing between settler and Indigenous ontologies. In the Hawaiʻi context, the politics of water pivots on the ontological difference between water and wai. After the U.S. occupation of Hawaiʻi in 1898, and gradual transformation of Hawaiʻi by Western law, water came to be governed as a property right, which led to the exclusion or termination of many traditional practices. In contrast to water-as-commodity, wai refers to a vital elemental force that structures and orients much of Kanaka ʻŌiwi sociality. Doubling the root word produces waiwai, which means wealth or abundance. Kānāwai means law or rule and derives from the management of water.
The ʻEwa district, where Kapūkaki/Red Hill is located, fans out like a broad-veined leaf around the waters of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa. Over millions of years, wai carved the Koʻolau and Waiʻanae volcanoes into deep valleys converging at the shores of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa. Kānaka ʻŌiwi named many of the ahupuaʻa (a type of land division typically extending from the mountaintop to the edge of the reef) for their waters: Waiau, Waimano, Waimalu, Waiawa, Waipiʻo, Waipahu. These place-names speak to the importance of water in the creation and vitality of these landscapes. Wai condenses as mists, clouds, and rain on mountaintops. It settles as precipitation, saturates the spongy ground of the cloud forests, runs down waterfalls into deep valleys and streams until it arrives at the sea or slowly percolates through layers of rock, soil, and sand, and, after twenty-five years or more, finally reaches the aquifer. Wai bubbles up as punawai (springs) to create biologically generative wetlands. As it flows downstream, wai carries nutrients into the shallow estuaries of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa, where sunlight energizes limu (algae), the foundation for an entire web of life, including crustaceans, mollusks, fishes, and humans.
Prior to the U.S. occupation of Hawaiʻi, Kanaka ʻŌiwi leaders implemented a legal and a land title system that attempted to codify Indigenous values and practices related to ʻāina, wai, and kai (sea water).40 The first Western-style constitution of the Hawaiian Kingdom in 1840 included strong public trust provisions, establishing that the monarch did not own all of the land but was instead a steward of the land. It specified that when farmers diverted wai from a stream for agricultural use, they must return the water to the stream after it had flowed through their fields, thus sharing wai with other users downstream and maximizing the system’s ecological services.41
After the U.S. occupation of Hawaiʻi, Western capitalist property relations dictated land and water use. Plantation owners exploited water as if it were their property and diverted much water from wet regions to irrigate their sugar plantations in the dry leeward plains. Springs, streams, and fisheries dried up as a result of this enclosure and contributed to the displacement of Kānaka ʻŌiwi, who could no longer sustain their food production.42
Ironically, it was only after Hawaiʻi’s admission as a state in 1959 that locally selected judges replaced federal appointees and brought a deeper appreciation of Hawaiʻi’s historical, cultural, and political context to their interpretation of the law.43 The Hawaiʻi Supreme Court under Kanaka ʻŌiwi Chief Justice William S. Richardson ruled in McBryde Sugar Company v. Robinson (1973) that private water users may have certain use rights to water but did not have property interests in water.44 Reaching back to precedents in Hawaiian Kingdom law, the court affirmed that wai is a public trust under the stewardship of the government. While this legal definition of water as a public trust may reference certain Western legal concepts, in Hawaiʻi, the practice also has roots in the traditional Kanaka ʻŌiwi management of wai as a shared and sacred resource.45
“Fuel Is Death”
The Red Hill crisis is a story of two liquids. One is essential for life. The other, an extract of death. In a personal communication, Shelley Muneoka shared these reflections:
The phrase “ola i ka wai” . . . is often translated as “water is life” or “in life there is water” or “life is possible through water.” . . . This phrase points us to another—fuel is death. . . . While we need to drink water to live, guzzling fuel will plainly kill you. . . . Fossil fuels themselves are the fossilized remains of plants and animals that lived and died millions of years ago. Wars are fought, people killed, countries invaded over access to the crude oil that becomes jet fuel. And once secured, that fuel goes into planes and boats and tanks that bomb and occupy “enemy territory.” . . . And the emissions from such missions are huge contributors to global warming that is hurtling us toward a climate crisis which threatens to make this planet increasingly uninhabitable. Fuel is the antithesis to life.46
Muneoka’s quote resonates with what Neta C. Crawford calls the “deep cycle” of imbricated military policies, war, fossil fuel dependency, and environmental consequences.47
The Red Hill crisis is also the story of the military partitioning, enclosure, containment, and weaponization of land and people.48 During a contested case hearing on the navy’s application for a permit to continue operating the Red Hill facility, deputy assistant secretary of the navy James B. Balocki was asked whether he would prioritize water over fuel in a humanitarian crisis. He replied rather smugly, “There are times when water is certainly the most important thing. There are times when fuel is essential as well. So I don’t choose one over the other.”49 His response, which was derided on social media, seemed to express what Deborah Cowen calls “the deadly life of logistics.”50 It is a political order collateralized by the instrumental disposability of human and nonhuman lives.
The Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility is located on the island of Oʻahu within Kapūkaki, a ridge of the Koʻolau mountain range dividing the Moanalua and Hālawa ahupuaʻa. Numerous moʻolelo and wahi pana (legendary places) are associated with this area. One of the most sacred sites in this vicinity, Leilono, is said to be located on the upper rim of the Āliamanu crater. Kānaka ʻŌiwi consider it to be a leina a ka ʻuhane—a leaping site for spirits of the deceased to enter Pō, the primordial darkness.51
Fujikane describes southern Oʻahu as a landscape shaped by a subterranean network of caves and lava tubes connected by wai.52 Kānemilohae (also known as Kānemilohaʻi) and Kūhaʻimoana are brothers of the volcano akua Pele. According to Pualani Kanakaʻole Kanahele, they represent the vertical and horizontal tunneling of magma underground and breaking through the earth.53 Taking the form of sharks, they join other manō akua (shark deities) who navigate through underground karst caverns, lava tubes, and water caves of southern Oʻahu, including Kaʻahupāhau, the famous shark guardian of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa.54 Fujikane describes the construction of the Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility as the invasion of “subterranean monsters” that “violates the Kānāwai of Pahulau, Pahukini, and Kānemilohae concerning the protection of aquifers and watersheds, as well as the free passage of underground waters to the sea.”55
In 1938, during the tense years preceding the U.S. entry into World War II, planning began for an underground fuel storage facility at Pearl Harbor that would be hidden and protected from attack.56 According to navy legend, the Red Hill tanks “began as a crude sketch on a cocktail napkin and evolved into one of the most remarkable engineering feats of World War II.”57 Construction of the tanks began in 1940 and was completed in 1943. “Shrouded in secrecy and constructed during the darkest days of World War II, it was known simply as ‘the Underground.’”58
Constructed during a wartime state of emergency, Red Hill is an example of the state of exception becoming permanent.59 In February 1941, the federal court approved the navy’s condemnation of 344.91 acres of land from the Samuel Damon Estate and the Queen Emma Estate.60 Approximately 3,900 workers worked around the clock in shifts to complete the project within three years. Even after the Pearl Harbor attack, during the three-year period of martial law, work continued. Seventeen people died in the construction of the facility.61 After the war, Red Hill became a strategic fuel reserve for the U.S. military.
Red Hill consists of twenty enormous underground storage tanks constructed within cavities excavated from the solid rock. Each tank is 250 feet tall by 100 feet in diameter and has a capacity of 12.5 million gallons.62 The facility can hold a total of 255 million gallons of fuel. Underground tunnels, pipelines, and rail tracks connect the tank farm to the pump house and distribution points at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, 2.5 miles away. The tanks are constructed out of welded quarter-inch-thick steel plates clad in concrete and are aligned vertically in two parallel rows. The vertical orientation was an engineering innovation that expedited its excavation and construction.
However, this supposed engineering marvel was built a mere one hundred feet above the Pearl Harbor Aquifer, which supplies 77 percent of the drinking water on Oʻahu. The location of the tank farm was selected for the suitability of its rock structure, its proximity to Pearl Harbor, and its favorable elevation. But navy engineers apparently did not anticipate challenges due to the complex hydrogeology. The navy used the same access tunnels as the fuel tanks for constructing its Red Hill Shaft water-pumping station, a mere 2,500 feet away and hydraulically downgradient from the fuel tanks.
For a top-secret facility, Red Hill received a surprising amount of media coverage over the years. In its utter banality, this massive logistic infrastructure was “hidden in plain sight.”63 A Honolulu Advertiser article in 1947 announced that the “exact location of the ‘Underground’ cannot be disclosed because of military security restrictions, but giant pipes run from it to the center of Pearl Harbor, so that Pacific Fleet vessels can be quickly refueled.”64 It was as if the navy wanted to draw attention to the site’s secrecy in order to enhance the mystique surrounding the national security state. This secrecy, which shielded the navy from public scrutiny and regulatory oversight, continued long after the facility was formally declassified in 1995.65
The Red Hill crisis is the inevitable result of the U.S. transformation of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa—desired for its protected bays, deep channels, and strategic location—into “Pearl Harbor,” the center of U.S. military power. The disfiguration of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa first began in the imperial imagination. General John Schofield, who in 1873 led a secret military survey of the Hawaiian Islands masquerading as a tourist, reported, “The value of such a harbor to the commerce of the world and especially to that of the United States is too manifest to require discussion. It is the key to the Central Pacific Ocean, it is the gem of these islands.”66 Yet, in the same passage, he dismisses the sophisticated Kanaka ʻŌiwi food system at Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa as “valueless.”67 This devaluation of Kanaka ʻŌiwi lifeworlds in order to expand the logistic infrastructure of imperial formation is at the heart of the Red Hill conflict. As Max Liboiron (Red River Métis/Michif) argues, “Pollution is not a manifestation or side effect of colonialism but is rather an enactment of ongoing colonial relations to Land. That is, pollution is best understood as the violence of colonial land relations rather than environmental damage, which is a symptom of violence.”68
After the 1887 Bayonet Constitution, the United States acquired exclusive rights to use Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa as a coaling station.69 In 1893, when Queen Liliʻuokalani attempted to rescind the Bayonet Constitution, U.S. troops intervened to support a settler coup d’état. It was the first regime change by the United States of another sovereign country.70 Despite successful organizing by Hawaiian independence organizations to defeat two treaties of annexation, the Spanish–American War in 1898 provided the justification and opportunity for U.S. imperialists to seize the Hawaiian Islands as a wartime military necessity by a simple joint resolution of Congress.71 Boiled down to its essential logic, the United States occupied Hawaiʻi in order to have a fuel depot in the Pacific with which to build its empire.
The U.S. military has created an enormous toxic footprint in Hawaiʻi. There are approximately one thousand military contamination sites at 115 installations and former installations in Hawaiʻi, including the Superfund site at Pearl Harbor.72 Today, most of the productive ecosystems and abundant fisheries of Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa have been destroyed. In place of the pipi (Hawaiian pearl oyster, Pinctada galtsoffi) which once thrived there, today visitors are greeted by fossilized oyster shells and signs warning the public not to eat the toxic marine life.73
According to Captain Kenneth Epps, commanding officer of the Fleet Logistics Center at Pearl Harbor, Red Hill is “the primary gas station for the Pacific.”74 The U.S. Indo-Pacific Command (USINDOPACOM), which is headquartered at Camp Smith, overlooking Ke Awalau o Puʻuloa, is the oldest and largest of the United States’ unified commands. Its area of responsibility covers half the surface of the earth and a majority of the world’s population. If USINDOPACOM is “the core of the nation’s global power,” then Red Hill represents its sclerotic, failing mechanical heart, pumping the petroleum death-blood of the U.S. war machine.75
The Red Hill Water-Contamination Crisis
“Three Small Holes”: The 2014 Spill
The recent history of the Red Hill crisis began in January 2014, when twenty-seven thousand gallons of jet fuel leaked from the newly repaired Tank 5. The culprit: three small holes. Despite a history of chronic leaks, this was the first time that a fuel-release incident was publicly reported. It sparked widespread concern from residents.
Grassroots efforts to close Red Hill began in 2014, with the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi leading litigation, education, and organizing efforts on Red Hill. The Sierra Club has a checkered history with racism. Its founder, John Muir, disparaged Black and Indigenous peoples and initiated the preservation model of “wilderness” without people. Many of the organization’s earliest leaders were notorious proponents of eugenics.76 Unlike the national organization, which has only recently begun to confront its racist past, the Sierra Club chapters in Hawaiʻi have been engaged in environmental justice campaigns with Kanaka ʻŌiwi and people of color, such as efforts to protect Mauna a Wākea, water-restoration cases on Maui, and the campaign to shut down Red Hill. Despite a growing chorus demanding that Red Hill be permanently shut down, the navy, the chamber of commerce, and powerful politicians killed numerous attempts to legislate stronger regulations for the Red Hill Underground Fuel Storage Facility, according to Marti Townsend, an attorney with Earthjustice and the former executive director of the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi.77
Instead, an administrative order on consent (AOC) was initiated in 2014. The AOC, which includes the navy, the Defense Logistics Agency, the State of Hawaiʻi Department of Health, and the Environmental Protection Agency as signatories, is a regulatory agreement that requires the navy to improve inspection and repair procedures, complete a comprehensive study of tank upgrade alternatives, develop better groundwater flow and contaminant models, and produce a risk/vulnerability assessment.78 The AOC gave the navy twenty-two years to implement a secondary containment solution. The crisis became a technical matter for experts to solve without public involvement or transparency.
Senator Brian Schatz praised the AOC as a “pragmatic step forward to protect Oahu’s drinking water.”79 However, it has proven to be a weak instrument for holding the navy accountable. The navy’s tank upgrade alternative plan in 2019 proposed to keep the existing single-wall design with periodic inspections while funding research and development of a new tank liner solution by 2045, completely ignoring the AOC deadline of 2037. The proposed fix would not even satisfy the double-containment design required by regulators. And the technology proposed by the navy was purely speculative. Furthermore, the navy required all parties to the AOC to sign nondisclosure agreements.
In 2014, as a political pressure-release valve, the Hawaiʻi State Legislature established a Red Hill Task Force consisting of representatives of various federal, state, and county entities.80 In 2016, the legislature amended state law and created a Fuel Tank Advisory Committee to succeed the Red Hill Task Force.81 However, both of these entities are merely advisory and lack the power to make decisions or enforce regulations on the navy.
Despite the navy’s intransigence on Red Hill, since the rise of the environmental movement in the 1970s, the U.S. military’s culture of sovereign exceptionalism has come under pressure to change. The military’s environmentalism is more than simply “greenwashing.”82 While the military as a whole has been a bad environmental actor, it would be a mistake to write off military environmentalism as simply cosmetic. At some military sites, such as Mākua and Pōhakuloa, military conservation programs follow a logic of counterinsurgency, which aims to pacify dissent and exercise biopolitical control of “nature and natives alike.”83
These environmental reforms within the government began to produce cracks in the navy’s wall of sovereign exceptionalism at Red Hill. In 1984, the Hazardous and Solid Waste Amendments Act required federal agencies to comply with state and county regulations on underground storage tanks and delegated some federal regulatory authority to state and county governments. In accordance with federal law, Hawaiʻi Revised Statute Chapter 342L, passed in 1992, required the Hawaiʻi Department of Health (DOH) to regulate the safe operation of underground storage tanks. However, the DOH excluded large field-constructed underground storage tanks from the rule, an exemption designed specifically for the benefit of Red Hill.
In 2018, the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi successfully sued the DOH to compel the agency to amend its rules to include Red Hill within their scope.84 Under the new rules, in May 2019, the navy submitted an application to the DOH for a permit to operate the facility. At that point the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi and the Honolulu Board of Water Supply (BWS) petitioned to intervene in a contested case proceeding.
Through the contested case proceedings, the navy was forced to release documents that revealed shocking facts about the dangerous condition of the facility. We now know that the Red Hill tanks have leaked from the start. In their lifetime, the navy has documented approximately seventy-three leaks, resulting in the release of an estimated two hundred thousand gallons of fuel into the environment. Nineteen of twenty rock cores taken from beneath the tanks were stained with petroleum.85 An invasive examination of the steel plates revealed extensive corrosion on the back side; what was once quarter-inch-thick steel had corroded to the thickness of a dime in some spots.86 The navy’s own 2018 risk analysis study predicted that the probability of a leak of between one thousand and thirty thousand gallons is 80.1 percent over the next five years, and 96 percent over the next ten years.87 Revelations of the shockingly poor condition of the tanks intensified the community opposition. On November 19, 2019, hundreds of people packed a hearing on the navy’s proposed tank upgrade alternative study, with the majority of testimonies calling for complete closure of Red Hill.
A System-of-Systems Failure: The 2021 Disaster
The long-awaited contested case hearing for the navy’s Red Hill permit application took place in February 2021. Around this time, an oil sheen appeared on the water near Hotel Pier in Pearl Harbor, but the navy withheld key information about the spill during the hearing.
A few months later, around May 6–7, 2021, an “operator error” at Red Hill caused a pressure surge to burst a pipeline in the lower access tunnel. The navy initially reported that 1,618 gallons of fuel were released, all of which it claimed to have recovered. But, as Oʻahu residents learned several months later, the fuel spill was much larger than initially reported.
By September 2021, the contested case hearings officer issued a proposed decision and order that the Department of Health should issue a five-year permit to the navy for operation of the Red Hill facility on the condition that the navy inspect and repair all tanks to specified standards by December 31, 2024. It was a controversial half-measure that left no one satisfied.
Emails leaked by a whistleblower and reported in October 2021 revealed that the navy had covered up the Hotel Pier spill during the contested case hearing.88 The navy also withheld other crucial information about tank corrosion studies.89 In light of these new revelations, the state considered reopening the contested case proceedings.
Oʻahu Water Protectors
In addition to the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi, another group peripherally involved in the Red Hill issue was Hawaiʻi Peace and Justice, an organization based in Honolulu that engages in research and education, organizing, mobilization, and international solidarity on a range of peace and social justice issues, with a particular concern for the environmental and social impacts of militarization.90 As an organization of settlers and Kānaka ʻŌiwi working in the context of a settler colonial state, Hawaiʻi Peace and Justice practices accompaniment in solidarity with Kanaka ʻŌiwi organizations and struggles. It functions as an activist and organizing center, offering political education and training, supporting local groups engaged in active campaigns, and occasionally initiating and incubating new groups.
On September 25, 2021, Hawaiʻi Peace and Justice and the Sierra Club of Hawaiʻi jointly embarked on a more systematic organizing effort to shut down Red Hill. They convened an initial organizing committee of key leaders and activists from different parts of the island, representing different organizations and sectors, including Kanaka ʻŌiwi, environmentalists, labor, interfaith, and peace and social justice groups. This organizing committee became the Oʻahu Water Protectors (OWP), which initially united around three points of unity: water is life; Red Hill is a threat to Oʻahu’s water and must be shut down; and public officials must take urgent actions to protect Oʻahu’s water.91 Centering their politics on the life-giving qualities of water enabled the group to move fluidly between decentralized and flexible tactics without losing focus.
Fluidarities form in the swift currents of social change. The November 2021 accident mentioned in the introduction triggered a chain of events that prompted OWP to step up actions. On November 24, OWP held a press conference and rally at the Board of Water Supply building calling for the shutdown of Red Hill. At the time they did not know that contaminated water was silently coursing through the navy’s water system. The navy had claimed that the November leak was contained and that the drinking water was safe to consume. But by November 28, residents of military housing began complaining on social media that their homes smelled “like a gas station” and that they were experiencing severe rashes, headaches, diarrhea, and vomiting from drinking or bathing in the tap water.92 Some were hospitalized with severe reactions. Pets vomited, and one dog died. Videos on social media showed tap water with an oily sheen or foamy film. In one video, a flame put to the water’s surface sparked and crackled. The contamination threw schools, businesses, and the lives of thousands of families into turmoil as their water turned into poison. For five months, more than four thousand military families were displaced to temporary housing. At a December 6, 2021, press conference on the Red Hill crisis, secretary of the navy Carlos Del Toro set Twitter ablaze with the remark, “It’s not the fuel itself that’s making them sick, it’s the fuel in the water that’s making them sick.”93 The comment epitomized the callousness of top navy officials toward the victims of the water-contamination crisis.
The conflict between the navy and the state over regulatory authority tore apart the normally aligned interests of the state, the military, and businesses. The poisoning of military families changed the political dynamics of the situation, generating a crisis of authority and trust. Suddenly, the hypothetical disaster that water protectors had warned about became a reality, with survivors dramatically confronting officials. The coolly bureaucratic and defensive responses from military leaders came across as gaslighting and stoked public anger. Military family members organized through social networks to share information, solicit aid for those in need, and organize themselves into a political force.
As these families searched for information, they found activist resources from the Sierra Club and the Oʻahu Water Protectors to be more helpful than the navy’s information resources. The impact on affected families was a stark reminder of the fragility of life on these islands and a warning about the much larger catastrophe looming over Oʻahu. Through the realization of our shared vulnerabilities, new fluidarities emerged.
While publicly claiming that its water was safe, the navy had quietly shut down its Red Hill water shaft on November 28 without informing the Board of Water Supply or the public. On December 3, when navy officials finally revealed that after detecting contaminants, it had stopped pumping water from the Red Hill Shaft, the BWS immediately shut down its Hālawa Shaft and two other nearby wells as a precautionary measure to prevent drawing the contaminated groundwater toward its wells. This effectively shut down the largest sources of drinking water for four hundred thousand residents of Honolulu, placing a strain on other aquifers where pumping was increased to compensate for the loss of the Hālawa Shaft and precipitating a water shortage on Oʻahu. At a press conference to announce these actions, BWS chief engineer Ernie Lau choked back tears as he said, “We cannot wait any longer. The water resource is precious. It’s irreplaceable. It’s pure. There is no substitute for pure water.”94 The water in Lau’s eyes and the emotion in his normally measured voice raised the affective intensity of the crisis.95
As the crisis unfolded, the ranks of OWP began to swell. On December 3, 2021, with a day’s notice, several hundred protesters gathered at the Prince Jonah Kūhiō Kalanianaʻole Federal Building chanting, “Ola i ka wai! Water is Life! Shut down Red Hill!”
As each day brought horrifying new developments, on December 6, 2021, the Hawaiʻi Department of Health and Governor David Ige issued an emergency order calling on the navy to immediately suspend operation of the Red Hill facility, implement drinking water treatment measures, safely defuel the tanks, and conduct an independent investigation and certification of the system’s integrity before operations may resume.
This emergency order coincided with the eightieth anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Secretary of the Navy Carlos Del Toro was in Hawaiʻi at the same time to dedicate a new warship and participate in the Pearl Harbor commemorative events. But Pearl Harbor was completely overshadowed by the Red Hill crisis. When asked about the state’s emergency order, Del Toro blithely dismissed the state’s regulatory authority: “It’s not an order. It’s a request that’s being made.”96 Again, the navy’s hubris helped to stoke public anger.
While the navy suspended operations of the tanks and attempted to flush the contaminated water from its water system, it requested a contested case hearing to challenge the Department of Health’s authority to issue the emergency order to suspend operations of the facility. This move may have been calculated to prevent any legal precedent for a state having the authority over military fuel operations. During the contested case hearing on the emergency order, Assistant Secretary of the Navy James Balocki was asked whether he considered the Red Hill situation to be a crisis. He replied, “An urgent and compelling situation perhaps. Not a crisis.”97 The condescension in his response sparked a backlash on social media. The gaffes by Balocki and Del Toro exemplify the arrogance of the navy in its efforts to maintain control of the situation. One can hear echoes of Schofield’s contempt for “valueless” Indigenous land use practices in Del Toro’s and Balocki’s casual disregard for the urgency of the disaster.
On December 27, 2021, the hearings officer for the emergency order contested case issued a scathing proposed order in which he described the tanks as a “ticking time bomb” and an imminent threat to Oʻahu’s water. Based on these findings, the Department of Health affirmed the emergency order, which prompted the navy to appeal in state and federal courts. These cases were later dropped after Austin issued his order to permanently close Red Hill.
The Red Hill crisis exposed a central contradiction of the military’s presence in Hawaiʻi: contrary to the dominant national security discourse that the U.S. military protects Hawaiʻi and the Pacific region, Red Hill epitomizes the military occupation of Hawaiʻi that threatens people and the environment. The crisis also gave the lie to the image of the power and infallibility of the U.S. military. Military power depends in part on a complex assemblage of relations, including environmental relations, social relations with local communities, the support of political and economic elites, and complex and surprisingly fragile logistic and infrastructural systems, all of which can come apart in moments of crisis. Because of the “operational arrogance and lackadaisical management” of the military leadership in Hawaiʻi, a national security writer warned, “the underpinnings of America’s Indo-Pacific strategy are coming apart.”98
Kaʻohewai: The Bamboo Water Carrier
While a number of prominent Kanaka ʻŌiwi activists were visible in the growing Oʻahu Water Protectors movement, Andre Perez, a Kanaka ʻŌiwi cultural practitioner and organizer with the Hawaiʻi Unity and Liberation Institute (HULI), felt that the movement needed stronger leadership and cultural grounding from Kānaka ʻŌiwi.99 He reached out to several key Kanaka ʻŌiwi leaders, “people who got people.”100 After scouting suitable locations and drawing up plans under tight operational security, their first action was a nonviolent direct action to confront military power and reframe the debate through the Kanaka ʻŌiwi ontological politics of wai.
Before dawn on December 12, 2021, a group of approximately eighty kiaʻi, most of them Kānaka ʻŌiwi from different parts of Oʻahu, gathered in a parking lot near the Aloha Stadium. After receiving initial instructions from the organizers, they proceeded by car caravan to the entrance of the Pacific Fleet Command headquarters about a mile away.
Before the military police and security guards knew what was happening, large pickup trucks, loaded with pōhaku (stones), rolled up on the grassy area fronting the base. In a circle of car headlights, the group formed several lines to pass pōhaku, hand to hand, to the designated area. The pōhaku came from all parts of the island, brought by participants from their ʻāina.
Kalehua Krug, a Native Hawaiian public charter school principal, led the construction of the koʻa (a type of shrine) and serves as its main caretaker. Large, well-formed pōhaku were set down first to anchor the structure. Then subsequent pōhaku were fitted to form interlocking stacks. Smaller pebbles and sand were poured into the crevices to stabilize the structure. They erected a kiʻi laʻau (carved wooden image) of the akua Kāne carved by hui Kūpāʻaikeʻe. Pieces of coral and small pebbles finished the paving on top, and a carved stone basin was set on the structure to receive offerings of wai. Koʻa is also the word for “coral,” one of the first forms of life to appear in the cosmogonical creation chant “Kumulipo.” The presence of koʻa on an altar typically signifies the sacred function of the structure. Hinaleimoana Wong Kalu, Mehana Hind, Vicky Holt Takamine, and other kumu hula (hula masters) held vigil and recited Kāne chants during the entire construction process, which took about an hour. A men’s ceremonial group led by Kamanaʻopono Crabbe conducted an ʻawa ceremony, which involved preparing the ʻawa and propitiating Kāne and Kanaloa with their sacred drink. A procession of groups recited oli (chants) and performed hula to consecrate the koʻa. Many brought hoʻokupu (offerings) of wai from different water sources around the islands, which they fed to the koʻa from diagonally cut segments of ʻohe (bamboo).
According to Perez, in a planning meeting days before the action, Krug recommended that the structure be a koʻa instead of a kuahu (religious shrine). A koʻa is a type of shrine with a specific function of attracting resources, such as fish. Krug envisioned this koʻa as an attractor for the clean, healing waters of Kāne. Perez imagined it to be an aggregator for the lāhui (the nation). The structure embodies this “dual connotation, the spiritual and the political side.”101
According to Perez, the core group that planned the action decided that they needed to form an entity. They chose the name Kaʻohewai—the bamboo water carrier—for their new coalition. The choice of ʻohe (bamboo) is significant because bamboo is one of Kāne’s kinolau. Sometimes, young ʻohe stalks may contain wai within their segments. This water is considered especially sacred because it has not yet touched the ground. On the Island of Hawaiʻi, the ahupuaʻa in which Mauna a Wākea is located is named Kaʻohe (the bamboo), which suggests that the mountain is a vessel for water. Importantly, the segmented form of ʻohe suggests the visual motif of moʻo—a succession of connected segments, a lineage or genealogy.102
Kaʻohewai leaders announced that the koʻa would remain as a site for ceremony and other gatherings for as long as it was needed, until the Red Hill tanks were no longer a threat to the wai. While organizers of the action anticipated possible arrests, the police never intervened. In their reconnaissance, organizers had learned that the land where the koʻa was to be built was actually city-owned land. Since the Red Hill crisis was adversely affecting the city and county of Honolulu, Kaʻohewai organizers correctly wagered that the city would be sympathetic, or at least neutral, to the activists.
By the end of the first day, the base commander Admiral Samuel Paparo contacted Perez and asked to meet with Kaʻohewai leaders to open a line of communication. After Kaʻohewai leaders educated the commander about the history of U.S. military abuses in Hawaiʻi, Paparo promised that the navy would not disturb the koʻa and that people could use the parking lot across the street to visit the site. The navy’s outreach to Kanaka ʻŌiwi leaders is quite remarkable and indicates the level of concern the military has about the radical potential of Kānaka ʻŌiwi protest. Kānaka ʻŌiwi have historically been the most militant in confronting militarization in Hawaiʻi, for example in Kahoʻolawe and Mākua.
The koʻa is a concrete cultural statement about Kanaka ʻŌiwi responsibilities to mālama i ka wai (care for the water). As Perez explains, “We have to put the ecosystem before humans. It’s not just about our health and well-being. It’s about the health and well-being of the ʻāina, of the kai, the birds and the bees and the fish, ’cause they’re all going to be impacted too. And that’s the priority.”103 The koʻa also demonstrates the value of militant nonviolent direct action, within a repertoire of tactics, for its ability to expose and disrupt the military’s sovereign power and create kīpuka (openings, oases, islands) of Kanaka ʻŌiwi countersovereignty. Kaʻohewai and Oʻahu Water Protectors began to meet together to strategize. The emergence of Kaʻohewai changed the political dynamics of the struggle. The assertion of Kanaka ʻŌiwi leadership enabled others to realign their strategies in ways that unequivocally supported an ontological politics of wai.
At the ceremony to build and dedicate the koʻa, a reporter asked Kalehua Krug what he would like to say to military families poisoned by the navy’s fuel. Krug’s reply captures the radical relationality that becomes possible with and through kinship with water:
Join us. I feel for them. Our aloha is for everyone and everything. Our teachings from our ancestors is that everything, human and non-human, gets a place in the ecosystem. Everybody has mana. Everybody has spirit. Everybody deserves respect. For them, drinking the water, we’re sad for them. We feel for those ʻohana. Join us. Come be a part of our ʻohana, our family.104
The koʻa has become a gathering place for different groups of water protectors to meet and build pilina.105 On Wednesday afternoons, Kaʻohewai members lead Kanaka ʻŌiwi ceremonial pule (prayers) at the koʻa for anyone interested in learning these cultural protocols. A group of military spouses began to attend these and other activities. Another group of local Okinawan women who call themselves Shimanchu Wai Protectors have participated in nearly every action and outreach activity. Mikey Inouye, an independent filmmaker and member of Oʻahu Water Protectors, reached out to some of the affected military families and civilians. He organized the Shut Down Red Hill Mutual Aid collective to solicit donations and distribute mutual aid to affected communities. Friendships formed between these different communities. Some of the affected military families engaged in acts of solidarity, such as participating in cultural access activities at Mākua Valley and drafting a statement in support of Hawaiian sovereignty and demilitarization.106
From July 1 to 10, 2022, Kaʻohewai organized an action called the Anahulu at the Koʻa to gather the kiaʻi and maintain pressure on the navy. An anahulu is a ten-day period of time, often to focus on a specific purpose. Planned to coincide with the navy’s Rim of the Pacific (RIMPAC) multinational naval exercises held in Hawaiʻi every two years, the Anahulu at the Koʻa attracted about one thousand participants over the course of the week. There were information tables, arts and crafts activities, workshops and presentations on various topics, films, and concerts by some of the hottest Kanaka ʻŌiwi musical artists. Donations of water were collected at the anahulu and distributed to affected families. Many military personnel and family members attended the anahulu, where they were welcomed, fed, and shown compassion.
In September 2022, a group of affected military families and a delegation of Oʻahu Water Protectors joined a series of actions in Washington, D.C., to demand that the Environmental Protection Agency “do your job!”107 They visited with members of Congress to request more pressure on the navy to expedite the defueling and decommissioning of Red Hill.
Conclusion
Due to the complex volcanic hydrogeology of the Hawaiian Islands, the movement of groundwater is difficult to detect, predict, and control. The navy has historically hidden behind this uncertainty when externalizing environmental risks, but with the actual poisoning of families, uncertainty has turned against them. The subterranean movements of Kānemilohae and Kūhaʻimoana have broken through the navy’s wall of secrecy and forced us to respond.
Residents of military housing remain skeptical that their water is safe to use. After months of flushing the navy’s water system, the Department of Health gave approval for residents to return to their homes in March. But military water users still complain that they can smell, taste, and see foreign substances in their water; the human nose can detect fuel even when levels are below the environmental action levels. Dozens of families have filed lawsuits seeking damages from the military and their private housing contractors.
Fluids, like water and fuel, resist containment. The navy’s rigid stance could not contain the shifting political currents of fluid events. As the crisis spread, it became impossible for politicians and civic leaders to avoid having to choose water over fuel. Many politicians who previously blocked attempts to shut down Red Hill scrambled to be first in line to pose for the media as champions of the water. John David Waiheʻe III, the former governor of Hawaiʻi from 1986 to 1994, observed, “At this point I think everybody is coalescing around the same message. . . . It’s clear that the status quo cannot continue to exist.”108
Although Secretary of Defense Austin’s decision to permanently decommission the Red Hill facility may be considered a significant win, the struggle is not over. The decision may have been calculated to defuse growing protest and reorient its base logistics strategies in the future. The navy fired Captain Albert Lee Hornyak, the commanding officer of the Naval Supply Systems Command Fleet Logistics Center, for failures in leadership and oversight. But Hornyak, who was new in his position and who raised concerns about the condition of the tanks when he first arrived, seems to have been a fall guy for leadership failures higher up the chain of command.
Meanwhile, Hawaiʻi’s congressional delegation reported that it secured $250 million for defueling Red Hill, while the Pentagon requested another $1 billion for this task. It is clear that the military-industrial-political complex is still robust and able to benefit from military appropriations, whether it be for the closure of a military facility or the construction of a new one.
As the Oʻahu Water Protectors and Kaʻohewai continue to pressure the navy and regulators to defuel the tanks, activists are working to draw connections between the Red Hill crisis and other military environmental impacts in Hawaiʻi. Growing trans-Oceanic networks are challenging the environmentally destructive RIMPAC exercises. Groups are also preparing to fight for the return of more than thirty thousand acres of Hawaiian trust lands, leased by the military for one dollar for sixty-five years, which expires in 2029. Whether a water-protectors coalition will hold together and take on other military-affected sites depends on how members have embraced the radical relationality of water as it connects these different struggles.
On December 10, 2021, the Oʻahu Water Protectors and Kaʻohewai staged a die-in demonstration at the state capitol. Instead of holding signs, chanting, and picketing, or even engaging in a disruptive direct action, organizers decided to dramatize the future tragedy they hoped to prevent and model the care and responsibility water requires. It was street theater as prophesy, a hei to secure a desired outcome. At the designated signal, the crowd of over a hundred people dropped to the ground, our bodies splayed out around the statue of Queen Liliʻuokalani. The chilling symbolism of “dead” bodies surrounding the queen made the stakes of the struggle immediately recognizable. The same forces that overthrew the queen in 1893 have poisoned Oʻahu’s drinking water and threaten everyone on Oʻahu.
As a flock of Manu-o-Kū (white terns, Gygis alba candida) circled above, Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio sang a hauntingly beautiful a cappella rendition of “Aloha ʻOe,” one of the queen’s most beloved songs. After several minutes of stillness and silence, Kamanamaikalani Beamer (Kanaka ʻŌiwi), a professor of Hawaiian studies at the University of Hawaiʻi, stood up and began to chant, “Ola i ka wai! Ola i ka wai!” gesturing for others to rise. One by one, we stood up and joined in the chant. “Ola i ka wai! Ola i ka wai!” As the entire crowd rose to its feet and our voices reached a crescendo, I and others felt a wave of goose bumps move across our bodies. In our shared vulnerability and our collective power, we experienced fluidarity as the embodied potentiality and radical relationality of wai. Ola i ka wai. Indeed, living because of water.
Kyle Kajihiro is assistant professor of ethnic studies at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. His work focuses on processes of militarization and imperial formation in Hawaiʻi and the Pacific region and the decolonial social movements that arise in response. He is active with a number of groups seeking the return of Hawaiian lands from the U.S. military and leads the Hawaiʻi DeTours project.
Notes
1. Sophie Cocke, “Odor from Red Hill Fuel Release Sparks 911 Calls,” Honolulu Star-Advertiser, November 23, 2021, https://www.staradvertiser.com/2021/11/23/hawaii-news/odor-from-red-hill-fuel-release-sparks-911-calls/; Honolulu Fire Department Incident Report 2021–71784, November 20, 2021; 911 Dispatch recording 19:44:10, November 20, 2021; 911 Dispatch recording 19:44:39, November 20, 2021.
2. “About Red Hill Fuel Releases,” U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, accessed December 10, 2023, https://www.epa.gov/red-hill/about-red-hill-fuel-releases.
3. Christina Jedra, “State Tells Pearl Harbor Navy Families Not to Drink or Use Tap Water,” Honolulu Civil Beat, November 29, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/11/navy-investigating-chemical-smell-in-military-housing-drinking-water/.
4. Wyatt Olson, “Complaints of Tainted Tap Water Flow from Residents at Joint Base in Hawaii,” Stars and Stripes, November 30, 2021, https://www.stripes.com/theaters/asia_pacific/2021-11-29/water-quality-joint-base-pearl-harbor-hickam-hawaii-3800222.html#.
5. Lloyd J. Austin III, Memorandum to Senior Pentagon Leadership, Commanders of the Combatant Commands, Defense Agency, and DOD Field Activity Directors, “Immediate Actions to Permanently Close the Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam and to Redistribute Fuel in Accordance with INDOPACOM Plans for Strategic Fuel Storage in the Pacific Region,” March 7, 2022, https://media.defense.gov/2022/Mar/07/2002951821/-1/-1/1/IMMEDIATE-ACTIONS-TO-PERMANENTLY-CLOSE-THE-RED-HILL-BULK-FUEL-STORAGE-FACILITY-AT-JOINT-BASE-PEARL-HARBOR-HICKAM-AND-TO-REDISTRIBUTE-FUEL-IN-ACCORDANCE-WITH-INDOPACOM-PLANS-FOR-STRATEGIC-FUEL-STORAGE-IN-THE-PACIFIC-REGION.PDF.
6. On May 16, 2023, the navy announced that it would move up its timeline to begin defueling operations as soon as October 2023. U.S. Department of Defense, Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility, Oahu, Hawaii—Defueling Plan Supplement 2—May 15, 2023, May 15, 2023, https://s3.documentcloud.org/documents/23814532/dod-red-hill-defueling-plan-supplement-2.pdf.
7. Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor, “Kahoʻolawe: Rebirth of the Sacred,” Amerasia Journal 28, no. 3 (2002): 68–83; Jonathan Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, “Hawaiian Souls: The Movement to Stop the U.S. Military Bombing of Kahoʻolawe,” in A Nation Rising: Hawaiian Movements for Life, Land, and Sovereignty, ed. Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, Ikaika Hussey, and Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright, 137–60 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014).
8. Sophie Cocke, “Shut Down Red Hill Fuel Facility, Most Hawaii Voters Say,” Honolulu Star-Advertiser, February 7, 2022, https://www.staradvertiser.com/2022/02/07/hawaii-news/shut-down-red-hill-fuel-facility-most-hawaii-voters-say/.
9. Kuʻulei Kanahele, “Ka Papakū Makawalu: He Inoa No Hiʻiaka” (PhD diss., University of Hawaiʻi at Hilo, 2021), ii.
10. Teresia K. Teaiwa, “Solidarity and Fluidarity: Feminism as Product and Productive Force for Regionalism in the Pacific” (presentation, Gender, Globalization, and Militarism Conference, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, February 5, 2005); Teresia Teaiwa and Claire Slatter, “Samting Nating: Pacific Waves at the Margins of Feminist Security Studies,” International Studies Perspectives 14, no. 4 (November 2013): 447–50; Margaret Jolly, “Epilogue,” Oceania 74, no. 1–2 (September 2003): 134–47.
11. This refrain comes from a Kanaka ʻŌiwi chant, “He Mele no Kāne” (Song of Kāne) as compiled and translated by Nathanial B. Emerson, Unwritten Literature of Hawaii: The Sacred Songs of the Hula (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1909), 257–59, available at Project Gutenberg, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/20299/20299-h/20299-h.htm. The chant poetically describes the many forms of wai (fresh water) that are manifestations of Kāne, one of the major akua in Kanaka ʻŌiwi religious traditions. The term helps to evoke the fluid properties of water, which, in the case of Red Hill, helped to connect diverse constituencies into a political force. In the epigraph, I excerpt an alternative orthography and translation by Kealohi Reppun, Runners website, accessed December 10, 2023, https://2027runners.weebly.com/uploads/2/9/3/5/29351789/he_mele_no_kāne.pdf.
12. McKenna Maduli, “Talk Story: Ola i Ka Wai,” posted on Facebook by K5, December 26, 2021, https://fb.watch/oOcoWqhaWr/.
13. Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio, Remembering Our Intimacies: Moʻolelo, Aloha ʻāina, and Ea (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2021), 10.
14. Melanie Yazzie and Cutcha Risling Baldy, “Introduction: Indigenous Peoples and the Politics of Water,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 7, no. 1 (August 31, 2018): 3.
15. Deborah Cowen, The Deadly Life of Logistics: Mapping Violence in Global Trade (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014); Keller Easterling, Extrastatecraft: The Power of Infrastructure Space (New York: Verso, 2014).
16. Neta C. Crawford, The Pentagon, Climate Change, and War: Charting the Rise and Fall of U.S. Military Emissions (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2022).
17. Nicole J. Wilson and Jody Inkster, “Respecting Water: Indigenous Water Governance, Ontologies, and the Politics of Kinship on the Ground,” Environment and Planning E: Nature and Space 1, no. 4 (December 2018): 517.
18. Glen Coulthard and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, “Grounded Normativity / Place-Based Solidarity,” American Quarterly 68, no. 2 (2016): 254.
19. Mary Tuti Baker, “Gardens of Political Transformation: Indigenism, Anarchism, and Feminism Embodied,” in Anarchist Developments in Cultural Studies, ed. J. Kehaulani Kauanui (Victoria, B.C.: First Choice Books, 2021), 153.
20. Candace Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future: Kanaka Maoli and Critical Settler Cartographies in Hawaiʻi (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2021), 146.
21. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 145.
22. Pualani Kanakaʻole Kanahele et al., Kīhoʻihoʻi Kānāwai: Restoring Kānāwai for Island Stewardship (Hilo, Hawaiʻi: Edith Kanakaʻole Foundation, 2016), 16, available at ʻO Maunakea, He Piko Kamahaʻo, accessed December 10, 2023, http://nomaunakea.weebly.com/uploads/1/0/2/2/102246944/kanahele_kihoihoi_kanawai_final.pdf.
23. David Uahikeaikaleiʻohu Maile, “Shut Down Red Hill, Ola I Ka Wai w/Shelley Muneoka,” December 11, 2021, in Red Nation Podcast, podcast, https://therednation.libsyn.com/website/shut-down-red-hill-ola-i-ka-wai-w-shelley-muneoka.
24. Marie Alohalani Brown, Ka Poʻe Moʻo Akua: Hawaiian Reptilian Water Deities (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2022), 42.
25. Brown, Ka Poʻe Moʻo Akua, 50.
26. Moses Manu, The Legend of Keaomelemele: He moolelo kaao no Keaomelemele, ed. Puakea Nogelmeier, trans. Mary Kawena Pukui (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 2002); Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 1–2.
27. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 1–2.
28. Fujikane, 88.
29. J. H. Osorio, Remembering Our Intimacies.
30. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 147.
31. Fujikane, 148.
32. Kalei Nuʻuhiwa, “Haumea: Establishing Sacred Space, Female Ceremonies and Heiau,” ʻŌiwi TV, February 13, 2012, https://oiwi.tv/oiwitv/haumea-establishing-sacred-space/.
33. Yazzie and Baldy, “Introduction,” 2.
34. Yazzie and Baldy, 2.
35. Yazzie and Baldy, 2.
36. Yazzie and Baldy, 2.
37. Yazzie and Baldy, 2.
38. Yazzie and Baldy, 2.
39. Annemarie Mol, “Ontological Politics: A Word and Some Questions,” Sociological Review 47, no. 1_suppl (May 1999): 75.
40. For further reading about the evolution of Hawaiian Kingdom law, see Jonathan Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, Dismembering Lahui: A History of the Hawaiian Nation to 1887 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002). For further reading about the Māhele, see Donovan Preza, “The Empirical Writes Back: Re-examining Hawaiian Dispossession Resulting from the Māhele of 1848” (master’s thesis, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, 2010); Jon M. Van Dyke, Who Owns the Crown Lands of Hawaii? (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008).
41. D. Kapuaʻala Sproat, “A Question of Wai: Seeking Justice through Law for Hawaiʻi’s Streams and Communities,” in A Nation Rising: Hawaiian Movements for Life, Land, and Sovereignty, ed. Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, Ikaika Hussey, and Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright, 199–219 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014).
42. Sproat, “A Question of Wai.”
43. Sproat.
44. McBryde Sugar Company, Ltd. v. Robinson 504 P.2d 1330 (1973).
45. Lawrence H. Miike, Water and the Law in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004), 127–29.
46. Shelley Muneoka, personal communication, April 20, 2022.
47. Crawford, Pentagon, Climate Change, and War, 9–14.
48. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 164; Laurel Mei-Singh, “Accompaniment through Carceral Geographies: Abolitionist Research Partnerships with Indigenous Communities,” Antipode 53, no. 1 (January 2021): 74–94, https://doi.org/10.1111/anti.12589.
49. Hawaiʻi State Department of Health, “12/20/21 Part 2 of 2—Evidentiary Hearing, DOH v. Navy, Docket. No. 21-UST-EA-02,” December 22, 2021, YouTube video, 1:35:44, https://youtu.be/IqXYFovQTHA.
50. Cowen, Deadly Life of Logistics.
51. Kelley L. Uyeoka et al., “Hālau o Puʻuloa: The Many Breaths of Puʻuloa—ʻEwa ʻĀina Inventory” (Kamehameha Schools, 2018), 53, available at University of Hawaiʻi System Repository, https://dspace.lib.hawaii.edu/server/api/core/bitstreams/9eb2b2b1-3ada-4cba-84c7-ec16ae8d12b3/content.
52. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 160.
53. Pualani Kanakaʻole Kanahele, Ka Honua Ola: ʻEliʻeli Kau Mai—The Living Earth Descend, Deepen the Revelation (Honolulu: Kamehameha, 2011), 6.
54. Fujikane, Mapping Abundance for a Planetary Future, 161–62.
55. Fujikane, 163.
56. Historic American Engineering Record, National Park Service, “Historic American Engineering Record U.S. Naval Base, Pearl Harbor, Red Hill Underground Fuel Storage System,” 2015, available at Library of Congress, https://tile.loc.gov/storage-services/master/pnp/habshaer/hi/hi1000/hi1016/data/hi1016data.pdf.
57. Historic American Engineering Record, “Historic American Engineering Record,” 4.
58. Historic American Engineering Record, 4. See also David O. Woodbury, Builders for Battle: How the Pacific Naval Air Bases Were Constructed (New York: Dutton, 1946).
59. Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998).
60. “Navy Takes Red Hill Site to Store Fuel,” Honolulu Star-Bulletin, February 14, 1941. The United States has utilized eminent domain to take tens of thousands of acres of land in Hawaiʻi for military purposes. Military landholdings swelled to their greatest extent during World War II.
61. Historic American Engineering Record, “Historic American Engineering Record,” 12.
62. U.S. Fleet Forces Command, “Red Hill Video Referred from Adm. J. C. Harvey’s BLOG,” December 12, 2011, YouTube video, 14:39, https://youtu.be/lIz8IstwnWU?si=drivV-DztoYxcYSL.
63. Kathy E. Ferguson and Phyllis Turnbull, Oh, Say, Can You See? The Semiotics of the Military in Hawaiʻi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999).
64. “Red Hill Gives T. H. A-Bomb Proof Plant,” Honolulu Advertiser, August 27, 1947.
65. Grace Gibson, “Hawaiʻi’s Red Hill Water Crisis Isn’t Over,” Georgetown Environmental Law Review (blog), April 28, 2022, https://www.law.georgetown.edu/environmental-law-review/blog/hawai%ca%bbis-red-hill-water-crisis-isnt-over/.
66. M. John Schofield to William Sherman, February 15, 1873, DSO-11472–49951-Hawaiian Islands (1872–93), Library of Congress.
67. M. John Schofield to William Sherman.
68. Max Liboiron, Pollution Is Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2021), 6–7.
69. J. K. Osorio, Dismembering Lahui.
70. Stephen Kinzer, Overthrow: America’s Century of Regime Change from Hawaii to Iraq (New York: Times Books/Henry Holt, 2006).
71. For further reading, see Noenoe K. Silva, Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004).
72. Lena Groeger, Ryann Grochowski Jones, and Abrahm Lustgarten, “Bombs in Your Backyard,” ProPublica, November 30, 2017, https://projects.propublica.org/bombs/.
73. Keoki Stender and Yuko Stender, “Hawaiian Pearl Oyster, Pinctada galtsoffi,” MarinelifePhotography.com, July 28, 2019, https://www.marinelifephotography.com/marine/mollusks/bivalves/pinctada-galtsoffi.htm.
74. Vicki Viotti, “Fuel Feud,” Honolulu Star-Advertiser, October 25, 2015, https://www.staradvertiser.com/2015/10/25/editorial/insight/fuel-feud/.
75. Bruce Cumings, Dominion from Sea to Sea: Pacific Ascendancy and American Power (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009), 420.
76. Michael Brune, “Pulling Down Our Monuments,” Sierra Club, July 22, 2020, https://www.sierraclub.org/michael-brune/2020/07/john-muir-early-history-sierra-club.
77. Marti Townsend, personal communication, September 23, 2022.
78. U.S. EPA Region 9 and Department of Health State of Hawaii, “Administrative Order on Consent in the Matter of Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility, Oahu, Hawaii,” EPA DKT NO. RCRA 7003-R9-2015-01, DOH DKT NO. 15-UST-EA-01, September 28, 2015, available at Hawaii State Department of Health, http://health.hawaii.gov/shwb/files/2015/09/Red-Hill-AOC_Final_29SEP151.pdf.
79. Anita Hofschneider, “U.S. Navy Has 20 Years to Fix Leak-Prone Red Hill Fuel Tanks,” Honolulu Civil Beat, October 1, 2015, http://www.civilbeat.com/2015/10/u-s-navy-has-20-years-to-fix-leak-prone-red-hill-fuel-tanks/.
80. Hawaiʻi State Senate, “Requesting the Director of Health to Convene a Task Force to Study the Effects of the January 2014 Fuel Tank Leak at the Red Hill Underground Fuel Storage Facility,” S. Con. Res. 73, H.D. 1, 27th Cong. (2014), available at Hawaii State Department of Health, https://health.hawaii.gov/ust/files/2014/08/SCR73_HD1_.pdf.
81. “2016 Hawaiʻi Revised Statutes: Title 19. Health. 342L. Underground Storage Tanks. 342L-61 Fuel Tank Advisory Committee; Established; Composition,” HI Rev. Stat. 342L-61 § (2016), available at Justia: U.S. Law, https://law.justia.com/codes/hawaii/2016/title-19/chapter-342l/section-342l-61/.
82. Robert F. Durant, The Greening of the U.S. Military: Environmental Policy, National Security, and Organizational Change (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 2007).
83. Kyle Kajihiro, “Kahoʻolawe Is Not an Island: Political-Ecological Assemblages, Spaces of Indigenous (Re)Emergence, and the Logic of Counterinsurgency” (PhD diss., University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, 2020), ix.
84. Sierra Club v. Department of Health, and Virginia Pressler, Director of Health, Order Granting Plaintiff’s Motion for Summary Judgement, 17-1-1350-08 JPC (Environmental Court Circuit Court of the First Circuit March 23, 2018).
85. Erwin Kawata, “Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility Briefing by the Board of Water Supply, City and County of Honolulu,” April 16, 2015, https://www.boardofwatersupply.com/bws/media/redhill/briefings/red-hill-ocr-briefing-bws-pearlridge-public-meeting-2015-04.pdf.
86. Erwin Kawata, “Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility Update,” September 24, 2018, https://www.boardofwatersupply.com/bws/media/Board/board-meeting-material-2018-09-24_1.pdf.
87. ABS Consulting, “Quantitative Risk and Vulnerability Assessment Phase 1 (Internal Events without Fire and Flooding) – Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility NAVSUP FLC Pearl Harbor, HI (PRL) (INTERNAL REPORT NOT FOR PUBLIC RELEASE),” Naval Facilities Engineering Command Pacific Division, November 12, 2018, https://www.epa.gov/sites/default/files/2019-06/documents/red_hill_risk_assessment_report_redacted-2018-11-12.pdf.
88. Christina Jedra, “Amid ‘Political Concerns,’ Navy Kept Quiet about Red Hill Pipeline Leaking into Pearl Harbor,” Honolulu Civil Beat, October 8, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/10/amid-political-concerns-navy-kept-quiet-about-red-hill-pipeline-leaking-into-pearl-harbor/.
89. Christina Jedra, “Whistleblower Says the Navy Gave False Testimony about Red Hill Fuel Facility,” Honolulu Civil Beat, November 10, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/11/whistleblower-says-the-navy-gave-false-testimony-about-red-hill-fuel-facility/.
90. The author is a board member of Hawaiʻi Peace and Justice and is active with the Oʻahu Water Protectors.
91. Oʻahu Water Protectors, “Ola I Ka Wai—Water Is Life,” December 8, 2021, in the author’s possession.
92. Sophie Cocke, “Military Families Living near Red Hill Blame Sickness on Tainted Water,” Honolulu Star - Advertiser, November 29, 2021, https://www.staradvertiser.com/2021/11/30/hawaii-news/military-families-living-near-red-hill-blame-sickness-on-tainted-water/.
93. Kevin Knodell (@KJKnodell), “I asked the SecNav if it’s a readiness issue if Red Hill, which fuels planes and warships in the Pacific, is also poisoning the water of troops the who operate them. He replied: ‘It’s not the fuel itself that’s making them sick, it’s the fuel in the water that’s making him sick,’” Twitter, December 6, 2021, 7:11 p.m., https://x.com/KJKnodell/status/1468085806061424645?s=20.
94. Sophie Cocke, “Honolulu Board of Water Supply Shuts Down Halawa Well to Protect against Navy’s Fuel Contamination,” Honolulu Star-Advertiser, December 3, 2021, https://www.staradvertiser.com/2021/12/03/breaking-news/honolulu-board-of-water-supply-shuts-down-halawa-well-to-protect-against-navys-fuel-contamination/.
95. Lee Cataluna, “Lee Cataluna: The Red Hill Water Crisis Is a Wake-Up Call for Oahu,” Honolulu Civil Beat, December 8, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/12/lee-cataluna-the-red-hill-water-crisis-is-a-wake-up-call-for-oahu/.
96. Christina Jedra, “Navy’s Opposition to Governor’s Red Hill Order Raises Question of State versus Federal Power,” Honolulu Civil Beat, December 8, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/12/navys-opposition-to-governors-red-hill-order-raises-questions-of-state-versus-federal-power/.
97. Hawaiʻi State Department of Health, “12/20/21 Part 2 of 2: Evidentiary Hearing, DOH v. Navy, Docket No. 21-UST-EA-02,” December 22, 2021, YouTube video, 5:10:06, https://youtu.be/IqXYFovQTHA.
98. Craig Hooper, “New U.S. Pacific Defense Crisis as Navy Missteps Threaten Hawaii Fuel Depot,” Forbes, December 7, 2021, https://www.forbes.com/sites/craighooper/2021/12/07/new-us-pacific-defense-crisis-as-navy-missteps-threaten-hawaii-fuel-depot/.
99. The acronym HULI means “to turn, reverse, or overturn.” It can refer to revolutionary social change or the overturning of a particular social order. In the 1970s, HULI was the name of another radical Kanaka ʻŌiwi organization that helped to lead the antieviction direct action protests at Kalama Valley, a struggle that has been described as the birth of the modern Hawaiian movement.
100. Interview with Andre Perez, September 23, 2022.
101. Interview with Andre Perez.
102. Nā Puke Wehewehe ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, s.v. “mo‘o,” https://wehewehe.org/gsdl2.85/cgi-bin/hdict?e=q-11000-00---off-0hdict--00-1----0-10-0---0---0direct-10-ED--4--textpukuielbert%2ctextmamaka-----0-1l--11-haw-Zz-1---Zz-1-home-mo%ca%bbo--00-4-1-00-0--4----0-0-11-00-0utfZz-8-00&a=d&d=D13733.
103. Interview with Andre Perez.
104. Mike Prysner, Michael Inouye, and Abby Martin, “Native Hawaiians Fight US Navy for Polluting Island’s Water,” Empire Files, December 30, 2021, YouTube video, 11:35, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mMsGi11F-U.
105. J. H. Osorio, Remembering Our Intimacies.
106. Families Affected by the Navy’s Red Hill Fuel Contamination Crisis, “Statement in Support of the Restoration of Hawaiian Sovereignty,” January 18, 2023, in the author’s possession.
107. “‘Do Your Job’: Families Sickened by Red Hill Fuel Contamination March on DC to Demand Clean Water,” Hawaii News Now, September 20, 2022, https://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/2022/09/20/dozens-affected-by-red-hill-contamination-crisis-march-dc-calling-clean-water/.
108. Nick Grube, “Red Hill Has Changed the Politics around the Military in Hawaii,” Honolulu Civil Beat, December 9, 2021, https://www.civilbeat.org/2021/12/red-hill-has-changed-the-politics-around-the-military-in-hawaii/.
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