Note: Translations of ʻōlelo are provided for accessibility and quick reference. Indigenous words carry layered meanings that English cannot fully capture. These translations are not meant to convey their full depth or significance, and meanings may vary depending on context.
An hour north of Seattle, in a casino ballroom filled with the hum of conversation and the soft fragrance of lei, 1,300 Hawaiians await something they’ve never seen before.
A video begins, but it’s not showing images of Hawaiʻi. As “ʻŌiwi Ē” booms through the speakers, footage of Hawaiians from Nashville to D.C. to Seattle fill the screen. The kūpuna (elders) beside me mouth the words to the song, as the video shifts between Kumu (cultural teachers) on the islands to Hawaiians across America.
Ten minutes into the opening ceremony, and I’m in tears.
The Native Hawaiian Convention, the largest gathering of Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians), opens with a groundbreaking message. For the first time, the conference is centering on the Hawaiian diaspora.
This four-day event, held this year October 6 to 9 at the Tulalip Resort Casino, marks the first time the convention has taken place outside Hawaiʻi on Native land, though it was once in Las Vegas. In the days ahead, cultural workshops, policy panels, community celebrations, and kanikapila (jam sessions) will fill Tulalip with the beauty of our lāhui (people). Fresh, tropical flowers (yes, they’re real) line the hallways as we hug, talk story, and reunite with those who live thousands of miles away. We’ve come from every corner of the United States, and here, for a moment, we feel at home.
The term Hawaiian diaspora has been gaining more attention in recent years, but for many, it remains an unfamiliar concept. What does it mean, and why should we care? In 2024, a startling statistic from the U.S. Census revealed that more than half of Native Hawaiians no longer live in Hawaiʻi. This marks a significant shift. Since the U.S. Census in 2010, there has been a 29% increase in Hawaiians moving to the United States. For many Hawaiians, it brought forth questions we had long feared: Could cultural erasure in our homeland happen in our lifetime? How do we stop it?
At its core, the Hawaiian diaspora refers to the movement of Native Hawaiians away from Hawaiʻi. This isn’t a new phenomenon. But in recent decades, it has been driven by factors like sky-high housing costs, grocery bills, and job pay so low that families cannot cover their basic needs.
It is no surprise that with these challenges, generational families are forced to make the choice to move so that they can provide a better life for their children. The sad truth for those who stay: Hawaiʻi is now ranked as the most expensive place to live in the United States.
Historically, these factors are tied to the complex history Hawaiʻi has with the U.S. The illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom and lack of ancestral land rights make the diaspora painful to carry. If one looks under the microscope, the web begins to make sense: our food insecurity, housing crisis, and modern-day diaspora are all connected to colonization.
For many Hawaiians, the economic necessity of leaving comes with a loss we have only begun to identify with the word diaspora. The deep connection between Hawaiians and our land and water is the soul of our identity.
I was invited by the Hawaiian Council to screen my film Dear Aloha and speak on Diasporic Storytelling. My own ‘ohana (family) moved to Washington State in the 90s, a heartbreak I’ve only begun to heal. I’m one of the tens of thousands kānaka that have experienced displacement, and at the Native Hawaiian Convention, I am seeing in real time a dream of mine being realized: the acknowledgement that we exist and our narratives matter in Hawaiian history. In this time, our healing as a lāhui (community) feels necessary.
The Digital Lāhui breakout session shares how we are actively building pilina (connection) for our displaced kānaka, featuring those at the forefront of this movement: Adam Keawe, Ipo Alkhaldi of Hawaiian Diaspora, and Daniel Aipa of Kū Project.
“You are as kanaka as kalo,” Keawe reminded the tearful audience.
Hawaiian Language in the Diaspora, presented by KALO Hawaiian Civic Club, offered a gentle approach to begin the journey of learning ‘ōlelo in a space where many have felt shame for not knowing or understanding.
The truths of our displacement is revealed in the numbers. Rebecca Soon, President of Ward Research, created a mo’olelo (story) to guide our future:
- While the majority of Hawaiians now live on the continent, we are underrepresented in Hawaiʻi stories.
- Population projections estimate that the number of Hawaiians will grow by 800,000 over the coming decades.
- 78% of Hawaiian and Pacific Islander college students are studying outside of Hawaii, and report significantly less cultural support.
The message of unity is one much needed for many Hawaiians, including myself. As a filmmaker, I like dreaming up the possibilities. But I recognize the deep work needed to make this happen. Throughout the conference, I’ve heard a question echoing: are we in the midst of a second Hawaiian Renaissance? The first Renaissance happened in the 1970s, remembered as a golden era of activism and cultural revival. That story is too long for this article, but one Iʻll be sharing in my next film.
There is still much talk about using the word diaspora, and if there is a better word to describe what we are going through. Some people do not like using this word. I will offer my own thoughts:
It wasn’t until the 2020 pandemic that I fully began to understand my familyʻs heartbreak of leaving home. I had finally heard the word diaspora in a conversation. Afterward, I went down a Google rabbit hole. The word was a portal into a new beginning, and little did I know that this would begin my 4 -year journey into making a film that would change my life.
In this way, the term gave power and meaning to something I couldn’t define my whole life. There are many diaspora communities around the world: Asian, African, Jewish, etc. Historically, it is a word that has helped us frame an experience. In this word, there are nuances and complexities that exist within our narratives. Finally being able to define it after carrying the weight of generational trauma felt like freedom.
The Hawaiian Council, a very influential organization, has now turned towards the diaspora, wanting to understand our experiences. The impact of four days together have made clear: we need each other if we are to reclaim and move together as one Indigenous power.
ABOUT: Cris Romento is a Native Hawaiian and Mexican filmmaker whose work focuses on healing through storytelling. Decades after her family was “priced out of paradise,” she returned to Oʻahu to create the award-winning documentary Dear Aloha. Her sold-out, trauma-informed screenings at Native venues, including the Duwamish Longhouse in Seattle, provided vital mental health resources for Pacific Islander communities. For this work, Cris received the Seattle International Film Festival’s Courageous Filmmaking Grant. You can catch Dear Aloha on PBS’ YouTube channel, or at the Wing Luke museum’s DISplace exhibit.
Watch Dear Aloha here:
