“ there is no region in the world that we consider more vital than the asia pacific region.”
president obama, apec 2011, honolulu
BRISBANE MELBOURNE SYDNEY
VANCOUVER
HONG KONG SHANGHAI SHENZHEN
BENGALURU DELHI MUMBAI
BALI JAKARTA
FUKUOKA KYOTO OKINAWA OSAKA TOKYO
BUSAN JEJU SEOUL
KUALA LUMPUR ULAANBAATAR SINGAPORE
AUCKLAND CHRISTCHURCH
MANILA TAIPEI BANGKOK
HONOLULU LAS VEGAS
LOS ANGELES SAN DIEGO SAN FRANCISCO SAN JOSE SEATTLE
HANOI HO CHI MINH CITY
Carissa Moore & Luke Untermann
"We’ve been banking with Central Pacific Bank since 2020. And it couldn't have been a better decision for us. If there’s one word to describe CPB, it’s 'dependable.' They're going to have your back and show up for you. We’ve never felt as much of a priority as we do now.
Our private banker Laura is really just lovely. She's had some great ideas of how we can grow our money and set ourselves up better for the future.
The CPB app has also been a game changer. All the information is right there…it's just way easier than other bank apps we’ve tried. There have been times when we've had to pay bills and we're like in Tahiti halfway across the world. And, just like that, we’ve got that taken care of.
CPB has also really believed in our nonprofit Moore Aloha. We so appreciate all the ways they help give back to the community." For more, go to
14
Kathy Matsui shares insights into the startup economy and the state of “womenomics” in Japan.
MPower Partners | Tokyo
22
Nuttapong Kunakornwong provides a lay of the land on sustainable development, his company’s ambitious projects, and Bangkok’s evolving future.
SC Asset | Bangkok
36
72
Sara Kehaulani Goo offers a primer on the Indigenous wisdom behind traditional Native Hawaiian society.
Kuleana: A Story of Family, Land, and Legacy in Old Hawai‘i | Honolulu
Shan Liljestrand tells the story of the Liljestrand House, a masterful example of the design philosophy that made Vladimir Ossipoff a legend of Hawai‘i Modernism.
Liljestrand Foundation | Honolulu
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Mike Peng and Eri Tsutsumi reflect on life after IDEO, building new homes, and soulful Japanese words.
Moon Creative Lab, Muji | Tokyo
images courtesy of: open space series (above) + sc asset (below) on the cover: josiah patterson, tommaso riva, and courtesy of open space series and polynesian voyaging society
18 28 42 38 58 64 52 86 100
Twenty years in the making, a forward-thinking hub for students stepping into a new frontier of digital media takes shape.
Academy for Creative Media | Honolulu
Within the barrack walls of a military base on O‘ahu is the United States Department of Defense’s only seed bank. The team behind it has been tasked with a beautiful challenge.
O‘ahu Army Natural Resources Program | Honolulu
Another bold voyage is underway for Hokule‘a and Hikianalia as the famed canoes set out to unite the Pacific.
Polynesian Voyaging Society | Honolulu
Brands take inspiration from Filipino craftsmanship to drive the movement against fast fashion.
Jos Mundo, Filip + Inna | Manila
On Coconut Island, scientists are engineering “super corals” resilient to rising ocean temperatures.
Hawai‘i Institute of Marine Biology | Honolulu
Dedicated to ensuring public access while conserving Hawai‘i’s cultural heritage and environment, the Na Ala Hele program is a treasure trove of intel on the state’s many glorious hikes.
Nā Ala Hele | Honolulu
When we see parallels between the events portrayed in mo‘olelo and Hawai‘i’s modern-day issues, it may be wise to listen to what the stories have to say.
Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative | Honolulu
Innovators throughout the Asia Pacific support native ecosystem restoration by finding creative applications for local building materials.
The Albizia Project, Ibuku, Kengo Kuma, Tzannes | Honolulu, Bali, Sydney
Jasper Wong comments on the origins of World Wide Walls and uplifting communities through public art.
World Wide Walls | Honolulu
chief executive officer
Jason Cutinella
general manager, hawai‘i Joe Bock
editorial director
Lauren McNally
managing designer Taylor Niimoto
client services director
Kristine Pontecha
contributing editors
Matthew Dekneef
executive director Raj George
director of operations
Karen Ng
hibiscus.foundation
aloha@hibiscus.foundation
contributors
Mia Anzalone
John Bilderback
Brett Boardman
Martha Cheng
Eunica Escalante
Ronit Fahl
Raj George
Sara Kehaulani Goo
Ben Guthrie
John Hook
Lenny Kaholo
Leilani Marie Labong
Shan Liljestrand
Martin Mischkulnig
Wayne Levin
Jackie Oshiro
Jim Ouk
Josiah Patterson
Kenna Reed
Tommaso Riva
Timothy A. Schuler
Patrick Sisson
Rae Sojot
Louis Solywoda
Meagan Suzuki
Lori Teranishi
Peter Keali‘i Thoene
Lindsey Vandal
Indra Wiras
Jasper Wong
Welcome to the inaugural issue of the hibiscus journal, a publication dedicated to exploring innovation, sustainability, and design across the world’s most dynamic region. As global influence increasingly shifts to the Pacific, hibiscus journal aims to highlight the stories and perspectives of the innovators reshaping business, culture, cities, and our connection with the environment.
We take a city-focused approach to the region, spotlighting metropolises like Tokyo, Seoul, Sydney, and Los Angeles, alongside emerging hubs such as Fukuoka, Busan, Hanoi, and Brisbane. At the heart of hibiscus is Honolulu—our home and a city uniquely positioned, both culturally and geographically, to serve as a bridge between Asia, the Pacific, and the United States.
We chose the name hibiscus because the flower can be found throughout the Asia Pacific, acting as the state flower of Hawai‘i and the national flower of both South Korea and Malaysia. The hibiscus also reflects our deep connection to nature and the environment—a driving force behind our organization—and represents a blossoming of creativity that we hope to inspire through our programs and initiatives.
The hibiscus journal is not just a publication; it is a platform for our community. We invite you, our readers, to engage with us through events like our annual hibiscus summit, our forthcoming digital platforms, and our partnerships. Whether you are an entrepreneur, CEO, investor, policymaker, or simply someone passionate about building a brighter future, we welcome your input, ideas, and participation.
With aloha,
Raj George Executive Director hibiscus foundation
“It ultimately comes back to understanding people. Once we comprehend their varied behaviors and beliefs, it leads to designing spaces, services, solutions, technologies, and standards that enable harmonious living, fostering a truly vibrant community.”
—Nuttapong Kunakornwong, CEO of SC Asset
Kathy Matsui shares insights into the startup economy and the state of “womenomics” in Japan.
The serene, contemplative world we all long for feels more elusive than ever. Clashing ideologies, fierce economic competition, armed conflict, social upheaval, and global warming threaten our hopes for a future where everyone prospers. Fortunately, there are leaders dedicated to social and economic change for the better. Kathy Matsui is a standout in this regard. Current co-chair of the U.S.Japan Council and co-founder of MPower Partners, Japan’s first ESG-focused venture capital fund, she previously served as vice chair of Goldman Sachs Japan and chief Japan equity strategist from 1994 to 2020. Matsui was ranked No. 1 in Japan equity strategy by Institutional Investor magazine multiple times, chosen by The Wall Street Journal as
one of “10 Women to Watch in Asia,” and named to Bloomberg Markets magazine’s “50 Most Influential” list.
For decades, Matsui has worked to unlock the full economic contribution Japanese women can make to the nation’s economy, a concept she refers to as “womenomics.” Her leadership at the U.S.-Japan Council supports the organization’s belief that the relationship between America and Japan—two democratic, open-market nations that believe in human rights—is critical for global security, stability, and prosperity.
While disruption has a negative connotation to many business people, it can also describe sudden positive change for the better, as happened with mobile phones, the internet, social media, and now AI. In many countries, a key driver is the startup economy. Is that true of Japan?
KM: While it has grown exponentially, I think the state of the innovation or startup ecosystem here in Japan is still relatively nascent when compared with similar ecosystems in other developed economies like the United States. Japan’s aggregate number of venture investments has increased tenfold in the last decade, but that was coming off a very small base. In absolute terms, its total amount of venture funding is only 1/35th or 1/40th that of the United States’, despite its phenomenal growth.
From an outsider’s perspective. this is puzzling because Japan has talent, technology, and capital— the three ingredients necessary to create a thriving startup ecosystem.
KM: You’re pointing out the million-yen question. Why is it so small despite possessing these ingredients? Japan does have high-quality human capital, but most of the best and the brightest young people finishing their studies have tended to go to very large, established blue-chip and other companies. Only over the past three years or so has the startup option been seen as viable.
This seems to be decades behind what we experienced in America. Why is that?
KM: Talented workers are willing to take risks they weren’t willing to take before because the job market is suffering from more acute shortages of talent than was true five, ten, and 20 years ago. So, young people, if they’re talented, have many options in front of them. This has presented them with the ability to take more risks.
The University of Tokyo did a survey of its undergraduates and asked them, “What’s your preferred path?” Almost 40 percent said that they would like to pursue a career in startups.
Let’s say you are working for a large, established company, and a friend from college, who is launching a startup, asks, “Will you do this with me?” Before, if you did agree to join him and the venture failed, that was sort of the end of your life, so to speak. But now you figure, well, if I fail, I can always go back to my normal, comfortable life working for a large, established company.
Today Japanese workers from big companies, investment banks, consulting firms, and other kinds of businesses are flowing into the startup ecosystem. You typically would not see that in the past.
And government policies have changed in helpful ways as well, right?
KM: I lived in Japan for nearly three decades before I saw the Japanese government put a huge spotlight on the need to develop the startup ecosystem for the first time in 2022. It issued a slew of policies, starting with the ambitious goal of increasing the number of startups by tenfold in five years. So now the clock is ticking on this very ambitious goal of expanding the amount of public funding that is directed to startups, to expand accelerator programs, incubator programs, and all sorts of initiatives.
Are all the elements for a startup economy now in place?
KM: What’s still probably missing is a global mindset. Japan is sort of blessed and cursed with a relatively large domestic market. It’s large enough that you don’t have to go global from day one, whereas that is a requirement for founders in countries like South Korea or Israel. But this means some Japanese founders lack global ambitions, and therefore set out to create smaller-scale businesses.
You have been a proponent of womenomics for many years. How much progress has been made, especially in Japan?
KM: There are a record number of Japanese women working outside the home, and that’s defined in economic terms as a labor force participation rate. That’s the highest rate among the G7, when, a decade ago, it used to be among the lowest. It’s higher than comparable numbers for the U.S. and for Europe.
Another important development in Japan is that there is much more transparency around the state of diversity within companies. For instance, companies are now required to disclose female manager ratios and are encouraged to set targets for those ratios. There are pay-gap disclosure requirements. While not a legal requirement, it’s very strongly recommended by the stock exchange to have at least one female director on a corporate board, so everybody’s scrambling to fill those seats.
Now those are the good things. The not-so-good thing is that about half of Japan’s working women are working part-time as opposed to full-time jobs. Also, we still don’t have enough women in leadership or decision-making positions, whether it be the private sector or the public sector.
Since you’ve got to start somewhere, and Japan is at least getting many women working outside the home, the next area of focus is converting those in part-time jobs to full time, while also working hard to get more women in leadership positions.
Lori Teranishi is the founder and CEO of iQ 360, a Honolulu-based strategic advisory firm that works with business, government, academic, and nonprofit leaders to help them address their greatest challenges and opportunities. Her firm delivers counsel primarily to American and Japanese clients based on business and cultural insights honed in Hawai‘i.
The Conversation weekdays 11am on HPR-1
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Twenty years in the making, a forward-thinking hub for students stepping into a new frontier of digital media takes shape.
Establishing the first industrystandard digital media production center for students in Hawai‘i was always part of Chris Lee’s master plan to create a pipeline for homegrown industry talent. But first, he had to convince the University of Hawai‘i’s board of regents that the state needed something much bigger than a typical film school.
In 2002, UH hired the ‘Iolani School graduate and former president of production for Columbia and TriStar Pictures to create a filmmaking degree program at its Mānoa campus. Lee, a prescient thinker, hoped to extend that vision toward a system-wide academy with state-of-the-art facilities and tech that looked to the future of media in order to diversify Hawai‘i’s economy and create
living-wage jobs.
With that in mind, he proposed leveraging existing resources from the university’s 10 campuses across the islands to launch the filmmaking program at Mānoa, then gradually adding additional creative media programs with complementary curriculum at other campuses. Eventually, the academy would offer training in all facets of production, including short-form media already emerging as a result of smartphones and social media.
After a year of getting feedback on his concept from everyone from motion picture and TV industry players to policymakers and local high school students, the Academy for Creative Media got the green light from the board in
December 2003. “From the start, [the academy] was designed as a catalyst for developing 21st-century jobs in the global creative marketplace right here in Hawai‘i,” Lee says, “and a platform for our Indigenous stories to be told to the broadest possible audience.”
Over the next decade, ACM built out the Mānoa program and helped start or enhance creative media programs at other locations, including UH Hilo, Maui Community College, and Kaua‘i Community College.
UH West O‘ahu in Kapolei, the only public university on O‘ahu’s leeward side, joined the ACM system in 2013. Students from any of the university’s seven community colleges could attend UH West O‘ahu ACM for their junior and senior years and
earn a concentration in creative media as part of a bachelor’s degree in humanities or applied science. While UH Mānoa ACM focuses on traditional filmmaking, the newer UH West O‘ahu ACM incorporates dramatic advances in the production and distribution of media. Coursework encompasses a wide range of emerging digital storytelling mediums, from video games and apps to podcasts and virtual reality.
In its first year, just nine students were enrolled, and they shared a cozy, multipurpose double classroom divided by a movable visual partition. Then, in 2016, the UH West O‘ahu ACM program was promised a quantum leap forward when Governor Ige approved $37 million in legislative funds for a cutting-edge student production center. The result was the Creative Media Facility, the
ACM student production facility at UH West O‘ahu, which was completed in 2020. One of the first design-build projects for the University of Hawai‘i, the 33,000-foot facility serves as a physical hub for the ACM System and provides students with the technology, equipment, and space they need to become competitive media professionals.
“Just one look inside and you know not to expect your typical education here,” says Sharla Hanaoka, director for UH West O‘ahu ACM. The structure’s three wings house spaces optimized for today’s digital learner, including a 3,000-square-foot sound stage for shooting films, a 100-seat theater with Dolby Atmos mixing capabilities for playback, Hawai‘i’s only Foley suite, editing suites for post-production, color grading, and sound mixing, and a mill shop to construct original film sets.
In the Create(x) Emerging Media Lab, students will experiment with virtual and augmented reality. In the esports room, students can build video games and invite players to test their prototypes.
“It’s exciting for them to have nonfriends play their games and give feedback,” Hanaoka says. The flex-classrooms and computer labs are outfitted with interactive teaching boards, remote learning equipment, and modular furniture that give instructors freedom to shape the learning experience.
At the building’s nexus, a lobby named the Roy and Hilda Takeyama Family Foundation Gathering Space, seating risers sit opposite an elevated 16-by9-foot LED Planar video wall ready to showcase student work, welcome visitors, and host esports tournament spectators. There’s also a café and an incubator space for coworking, collaboration,
“From the start, it was designed as a catalyst for developing 21st-century jobs in the global creative marketplace right here in Hawai‘i—and a platform for our Indigenous stories to be told to the broadest possible audience.”
chris lee, academy for creative media
and student- and alumni-run business ventures.
Designed to offer 24-hour access to its best-in-class media hardware and software for an anticipated 500 student majors, the hope is that the Creative Media Facility continues to help Hawai‘i retain local talent by offering a world-class education in the digital arts, and that it turns out graduates with skill sets deep enough to successfully navigate a dynamic and changing field. As the program evolves its digital content curriculum to meet the demands of emerging media, the goal is to see 100 percent of students procure meaningful jobs.
“We’re producing a new iteration of graduates by giving them the tools they need to go out in the world, then come back and take over,” Hanaoka says. “In the end, we’re building successorship.”
During the project’s research phase, the planning team visited vanguard campuses like University of Southern California, Emerson College, Chapman University, and Google’s YouTube Space.
The facility’s award-winning design, which integrates 33,000 square feet of production, learning, and gathering spaces, complements ACM’s suite of best-in-class media hardware and software.
Nuttapong Kunakornwong provides a lay of the land on sustainable development, his company’s ambitious projects, and Bangkok’s evolving future.
interview by: raj
george
images courtesy of: sc asset
Nuttapong Kunakornwong is CEO of SC Asset Corporation PLC., one of Thailand’s leading property developers. With degrees in architecture and business, he is passionate about creating vibrant, livable communities.
How do you see Bangkok evolving over the next five to ten years?
NK: Bangkok is expected to become more densely populated, with an increasing number of expats and tourists. Meanwhile, the Greater Bangkok area will see a rise in residents, driven by the completion of key infrastructure projects, including new BTS and MRT stations, expressways, and airport expansions. Government-led projects, such as entertainment complexes, will also play a significant role in attracting both locals and foreigners.
urban planning adjustments Zoning changes in several areas of Bangkok have primarily been made to align with the expansion of new mass transit routes. Examples include the Green Line (Ha Yaek Lat Phrao to Khu Khot), the Yellow Line (Lat Phrao to Samrong), and the Pink Line (Min Buri to Khae Rai), as well as future routes such as the South Purple Line (Tao Poon to Rat Burana) and the East Orange Line (Bang Khun Non to
Thailand Cultural Center). These developments are key drivers in accelerating urban expansion toward the city’s outskirts.
public transportation By 2030, more than 60 additional mass transit stations are expected to become operational, significantly expanding coverage across Bangkok and its metropolitan area.
airport passenger capacity and development plans According to Airports of Thailand Public Company Limited (AOT), passenger traffic is projected to grow by 8.71 percent to 78.61 million in 2025, with international flights increasing by 9.02 percent to approximately 453,750 flights. Key visitor demographics include tourists from China, India, Taiwan, Russia, Eastern Europe, the U.S., and the U.K. To meet this demand, AOT plans to invest 196 billion THB over the next decade (2025–2035) to expand six airports, including:
Suvarnabhumi East Expansion (2025–2028)
Don Mueang Phase 3 (2025–2029)
Chiang Mai Expansion (2025–2029)
Phuket Expansion (2026–2029)
South Terminal Construction (2027–2031)
demographic shifts
Bangkok will witness greater cultural diversity, encompassing a broader spectrum of generations, genders, and nationalities. The proportions of elderly residents and foreign nationals are expected to rise, reshaping the city’s demographic landscape.
urban development trends
The expansion of the city and its increasing cultural diversity will drive the development of self-contained communities, designed to meet the specific needs of each district. Connectivity between these communities will improve, supported by:
An increase in mixed-use developments that integrate residential, commercial, and recreational spaces.
Revitalization of deteriorated urban areas.
Enhanced public spaces to promote community engagement. More international joint ventures in urban projects.
challenges ahead
As Bangkok grows in size, population, and diversity, the city will face significant challenges, including:
Addressing social inequality and disparities in access to opportunities. Managing cultural differences among its increasingly diverse population. Tackling environmental concerns such as pollution and urban flooding, which remain persistent threats.
In summary, Bangkok is on a path toward becoming a more interconnected, diverse, and vibrant metropolis. However, proactive measures will be essential to address the associated challenges and ensure sustainable growth.
What is SC Asset’s long-term vision for Bangkok?
NK: At SC Asset, our vision is to grow by creating value for both people and planet. As a developer, we aim to be a future-forward solutions provider contributing to sustainable cities and communities. Our approach addresses:
direct customers (people)
As Bangkok continues to evolve into a vibrant and diverse hub, attracting locals, expats, and tourists alike, we provide a wide range of housing, hotel, and workspace solutions. Our offerings are thoughtfully designed to meet the unique needs of this multicultural community, fostering harmony and seamless integration across different cultures.
community engagement (people)
We enhance neighborhood quality by improving accessibility, revitalizing underutilized spaces, and fostering vibrant, connected communities. By upgrading local infrastructure, creating social amenities, and addressing residents’ specific needs, our developments seamlessly integrate into the local fabric, raising living standards and cultivating a strong sense of belonging for all.
environment (planet)
We are committed to sustainable growth by integrating green design, processes, and technologies that reduce emissions and energy use. This approach minimizes our environmental footprint while enhancing community well-being, creating a balance between progress and preserving the planet for future generations.
What are some recent trends that you are seeing in residential living and lifestyle preferences?
NK: Residential preferences are rapidly shifting, reflecting evolving lifestyles and values. Emerging trends like fluid living, living solutions, and sustainability reveal how people seek adaptability, convenience, and responsibility in their living choices.
fluid living
This lifestyle trend embraces a balance between the new and the old, emphasizing adaptability in modern living. It includes flexible living spaces designed to meet diverse needs at different stages of life. Even the concept of homeownership is evolving; it is no longer restricted to purchasing. Renting or subscribing to living arrangements have become increasingly popular alternatives, offering individuals greater flexibility and convenience.
living solutions
The demand is shifting beyond traditional products, as people increasingly seek comprehensive solutions that enhance their living experiences. It’s no longer just about providing a space; the focus is on delivering integrated services that cater to modern lifestyle needs. This includes both the living space and services that increase comfort and adaptability, tailored to the diverse needs of individuals.
sustainability
The younger generation believes, “We’re part of bigger things,” with a strong desire to make a positive impact on the world. If all options are priced equally, they are more likely to choose those that are better for the planet. While this trend is not yet as dominant due to the current purchasing power of younger people, it is expected to grow as both their awareness and spending capacity increase over time.
How do you leverage technology, including AI, to drive innovation across SC Asset?
NK: SC Asset’s mission, “Make every morning a ‘good morning’ for every customer. Every morning, life starts anew at home,” reflects our dedication to building thoughtful homes. Our philosophy of worry-free homes drives every decision, from design to technology.
innovations for health and safety
We integrate advanced technology like “Active Air Quality” systems to purify air and enhance oxygen levels, ensuring a healthier living environment. Complementing this focus on well-being, our comprehensive security features—such as double-entry gates, extensive CCTV coverage, and magnetic anti-theft systems with real-time alerts— provide residents with unmatched peace of mind. Together, these innovations reflect our commitment to creating homes that prioritize both health and safety.
empowering smart living
RueJai smart home technology allows residents to monitor and manage their homes remotely, providing real-time access through CCTV and smart home systems. Whether it’s
viewing live footage, locking doors, turning lights on and off, receiving instant alerts, and so on, these features ensure peace of mind and control from anywhere in the world.
Through these innovations, we redefine modern living, addressing daily concerns and enhancing security. Our commitment to integrating advanced technologies helps create a worry-free lifestyle, allowing residents to focus on what truly matters in their lives.
How does SC Asset address urban challenges in its planning and development, including pollution, traffic congestion, and affordable housing?
NK: SC Asset is committed to promoting community well-being through sustainable development, focusing on key urban challenges: pollution
resident impact We use technology to reduce pollution within residential spaces, improving air quality and ensuring a healthier environment for residents.
construction practices We implement eco-friendly strategies in procurement and construction, minimizing pollution. We also encourage proper waste disposal by providing necessary facilities and amenities in their projects, ensuring sustainable living practices.
traffic congestion
We develop residential areas in expanding regions to alleviate congestion and are currently exploring flexible financial packages as a solution for affordable housing.
affordable housing
Responding to changing lifestyle trends, SC Asset is preparing to transition from traditional homeownership to a subscription-based model. This innovative approach aligns with evolving consumer preferences for flexible and accessible living arrangements, offering alternatives that prioritize flexibility over ownership.
In your view, what are the key elements that contribute to fostering vibrant communities, especially in an urban context like Bangkok?
NK: I believe a vibrant community embodies liveliness and interaction within the community. It ultimately comes back to understanding people—their behaviors and beliefs. For instance, seniors from the same generation from two nationalities might require totally different amenities and services. A diverse mix of nationalities, generations, and genders will coexist in a city like Bangkok. Once we comprehend these varied behaviors and beliefs, it leads to designing spaces, services, solutions, technologies, and standards that enable harmonious living, fostering a truly vibrant community.
Does your architecture background influence your work with SC Asset?
NK: My background in architecture has significantly shaped how I manage the company. It has influenced the way we foster a solution-driven, customer-centric culture that is deeply embedded in SC Asset’s DNA. This mindset not only guides our team but also attracts talent who share these values and are eager to join us, drawn by the way we work and the opportunities we provide.
What do you enjoying doing outside of the office?
NK: Life at the office moves at a fast pace, but I find balance by slowing down outside of work: reading, appreciating coffee, and practicing mindfulness. These moments of stillness help me reflect, reconnect, and approach the world with a deeper understanding—starting from within and radiating outward. Life at the office moves at a fast pace, but I find balance by slowing down outside of work: reading, appreciating coffee, and practicing mindfulness. These moments of stillness help me reflect, reconnect, and approach the world with a deeper understanding—starting from within and radiating outward.
The trade winds so othe your sun-kissed skin. Your path weaves through lush gardens buzzing with life. You dip your finger in a jar of sweet, Hawaiian honey. The flavors transpor t you to a place you’ll long to return to
Discover KOHO in Waikiki at Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center or shop online
Within the barrack walls of a military base on O‘ahu is the United States Department of Defense’s only seed bank. The team behind it has been tasked with a beautiful challenge.
When Hurricane Lane threatened to hit O‘ahu, Kapua Kawelo and her team moved their living collection of endangered plants and trees from an adjacent greenhouse into their enclosed office. They packed in so many that in certain areas the foliage was impenetrable. In another room, almost 9 million seeds of 171 plant species—some that exist nowhere else—remained stored in refrigerators and a freezer set to minus 80 degrees Celsius. Facing the threat of disastrous flooding and wind, the keepers of Noah’s Ark of Hawai‘i’s endangered plants waited nervously.
This team belongs to the O‘ahu Army Natural Resources Program, which has been tasked with collecting, preserving, and propagating endangered
“Mainland things are endangered when 50,000 or 100,000 are left. Here, we’re lucky if we have five.”
kapua kawelo, o ‘ ahu army natural resources program
species found on Army lands in Hawai‘i. In a building deep within the Schofield Barracks Army base, they manage the only seed storage in the state that is backed up by a generator. It is also the U.S. Department of Defense’s only seed bank. Hawai‘i is known as the endangered species capital of the United States. Of the 1,280 endangered animals and plants listed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 557 are native to the Hawaiian Islands. Those that are endangered are critically so, “compared to mainland standards and even global standards,” Kawelo says. “Mainland things are endangered when 50,000 or 100,000 are left. Here, we’re lucky if we have five.” Now with the establishment of the Army Natural Resources Program’s seed bank, nowhere else in the country are so many plant species at risk of extinction.
In 1973, as President Nixon signed the Endangered Species Act into law, he said, “Nothing is more priceless and more worthy of preservation than the rich array of animal life with which our country has been blessed.” The act required federal agencies to consult with the USFWS to ensure their activities would not jeopardize endangered species. Two years after a slew of new plant species were listed as endangered in 1993, the Army Natural Resources Program on O‘ahu was initiated to conserve
those found on training lands in Hawai‘i. While it endeavors to preserve endangered animals and insects, including the ‘elepaio and native tree snails, much of the program is focused on plants, of which there are about 120 at risk of extinction on Army lands alone.
Since its debut, the program has grown from two employees to about 50. Its biologists have rescued a few species from extinction. This includes the hāhā, a tree that looks as if it emerged from a Dr. Seuss book, with a tall, spindly trunk that erupts into broad, green leaves and chandelier-like clusters of long, white flowers. In 1995, there were only five of these trees in all of Hawai‘i; by 2003, they were all dead. From saved seeds, the Army Natural Resources Program team grew new hāhā and then planted them across the Wai‘anae mountain range. Now, there are more than 1,500 of the trees growing in the wild.
To protect native forests, which are home to many endangered plants and animals, the biologists control invasive species—slugs, pigs, rats, and other introduced plants—through physical barriers and removal.
The team is tasked with collecting, preserving, and propagating endangered species found on Army lands in Hawai‘i.
For sometimes, saving cannot happen without killing. And sometimes, the field workers are intimately involved with each plant, hand-pollinating those that have lost pollinators like the endangered honeycreeper birds. They also collect seeds “which are destined for propagation or storage, a backup collection in case of hurricane or wildfire from Army training,” Kawelo says. Even when native forests are damaged without military involvement, the Army Natural Resources Program may step in, as is the case now: Kawelo hopes to reestablish a wiliwili forest that was annihilated in an August 2018 wildfire in Wai‘anae and Mākaha.
The seed bank’s biodiversity reveals itself in just a handful of seeds: the tiny black curlicues of ko‘oko‘olau; the bright orangered wiliwili shaped like small kidney beans; the tufted, wispy na‘ena‘e. The bank is also a living library of history. Through its collection of endemic plants, endangered and not, Kawelo relays how Native Hawaiians used plants such as ‘ākia, how they pounded its bark and mixed it with bait to daze fish, making them easier to scoop up and catch. Wiliwili, with its light wood, was fashioned into surfboards.
After Hurricane Lane spared O‘ahu, Kawelo moved the plants back into the nursery, where the biologists continue to keep watch. They will continue to save what is disappearing, to propagate what we have already lost, to preserve a biodiversity that will help our future in ways that we cannot yet know.
Ka mālama ‘ana i ka mo‘omeheu. I mea e ola ai mai kēia mua aku.
Preserving culture. So that there is life to come.
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February 22, 2025 82-6160 Māmalahoa HWY South Kona, Hawai‘i Island
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sustainability
“The Hōkūle‘a began as a kind of cultural renaissance, recovering traditions. Today it’s evolved into protecting what we learn and honoring our teachers.”
—Nainoa Thompson, president of Polynesian Voyaging Society
Sara Kehaulani Goo offers a primer on the Indigenous wisdom behind traditional Native Hawaiian society.
“Kuleana” is a Hawaiian word you don’t hear much as a visitor to Hawai‘i, but it is deeply woven into the fabric of local culture. It comes from Native Hawaiians’ close relationship with the land, which they saw as both their responsibility and privilege to take care of. In the ancestral tradition, each person was responsible for some part of society, from harvesting food to cultural practices. Some had kuleana for growing taro or taking care of the fishpond, others for teaching and practicing hula. Each person had an assigned role that they learned, practiced, and perfected with pride. Society depended upon them to fulfill their role so that it could function, and its members were dependent upon one another for survival.
Kuleana was the grounding principle behind this way of life, and it was essential for living on an archipelago surrounded by a vast ocean as far as the eye could see and with little contact with the outside world. Native Hawaiians had to develop ways to survive and thrive by making the most of what nature could provide. They were expert observers of the weather patterns and had numerous words to describe the different kinds of winds, rain, and behavior of the sea.
Today, as scientists measure the impacts of climate change and populations across the globe suffer from extreme weather, we yearn for a more utopian world built on self-sustainability and resilience. Island communities, and Indigenous people especially, understand sustainability perhaps
better than most because it was necessary for their early survival. In searching for answers, we can look to Native Hawaiian values and practices, which enabled them to grow their population to hundreds of thousands of people and sustain themselves over hundreds of years. Before Western contact, Native Hawaiians lived by a system of land management comprised of ahupua‘a, pieshaped pieces of land that each contain a section of waterfront as its base and the top of the mountain as its peak. Within each ahupua‘a, there were people who were responsible for fishing, for building canoes, for cultivating the crops, for making adzes or stone tools, and for building hale, or house structures, and household items.
There were also kāhuna, or priests, who were healers or overseers of the heiau, or temples. Thanks to American popular culture, you may be familiar with the term “the big kahuna.” But you may not know that kāhuna were specialists in spiritual wisdom and practice, or that they spent years training and descended from elite families. The ‘āina (land) was overseen by konohiki, or chiefs, whose job was to ensure that each ahupua‘a was producing enough food to eat; the hale were built with care; the canoes were skillfully fashioned; the fishponds were built with precision.
In Hawaiian, the word ‘āina means land, but it also means much more than land. It means “that which feeds.” Take care of the land—mālama i ka ‘āina—
and, it is implied, the land will take care of you.
By Western definitions, the word “responsibility” often suggests an obligation—a burden, even. But the Hawaiian word “kuleana” refers to a much deeper sense of responsibility. One’s kuleana is their privilege to uphold, passed down from one generation to another in a continuous line.
Today, kama‘āina (local residents) are searching for ways to return to the basic values and principles that guided Native Hawaiian society for centuries— to fulfill their kuleana to the land. They are pushing to grow more of their own crops, tired of paying high prices for imported food, which constitutes 90 percent of Hawai‘i’s food supply. They are fighting to restore water
streams that were diverted to irrigate sugar plantations and left other land dry and susceptible to wildfires, such as those that destroyed Lahaina and other parts of Maui. They are examining the impact of tourism on Hawai‘i’s beautiful, biodiverse environment, home to endemic plants and animals found nowhere else on the planet. They are finding purpose in their kuleana, looking to honor those who have come before them and those who will come after them.
Sara Kehaulani Goo is a journalist based in Washington, D.C., and the author of Kuleana: A Story of Family, Land, and Legacy in Old Hawai‘i, to be published by Flatiron Books in June 2025.
Another bold voyage is underway for Hōkūle‘a and Hikianalia as the famed canoes set out to unite the Pacific.
In Spring 2023, the Polynesian Voyaging Society launched one of its most extensive campaigns yet: a 41,000-mile, 42-month circumnavigation of the Pacific. Coined the Moananuiākea Voyage, sister canoes Hōkūle‘a and Hikianalia set sail on the ancient sea roads, an expedition taking them to 46 countries and archipelagoes, 100 Indigenous territories, and 345 ports over four years. The journey is a monumental undertaking, but a crucial one—an effort to engage with communities throughout the Pacific about the vital importance of our oceans, nature, science, and Indigenous wisdom. Here, three PVS members share personal voyaging stories from aboard Hōkūle‘a, reflecting on the lessons learned and the relationships forged along the way.
The Good Doctor
Kelly Tam Sing remembers the palpable excitement surrounding Hōkūle‘a’s maiden voyage from Hawai‘i to Tahiti. It was 1976, and Tam Sing was five years old. “Everybody was talking about Hōkūle‘a,” he recalls. “It was a huge deal.” For the young Tam Sing, who loved the ocean, Hōkūle‘a represented the stuff of dreams and adventure at sea. Nearly five decades later, Tam Sing now lives out a small slice of that childhood dream as one of Polynesian Voyaging Society’s volunteer medical officers. Tasked with handling any medical concerns that arise while voyaging, Tam Sing notes that his background and skill as an emergency medicine doctor comes in handy, saying, “You
have to be able to take care of anything that comes along.”
At sea, triage, treatment, and recovery all happen on deck without the accoutrements of a fully staffed and supplied ER center. The ability to think on one’s feet and do more with less is key. “You make do with what you have,” Tam Sing says, referencing the three cooler chests lashed to the deck. Inside, medical supplies are packed tight: gear for suturing wounds and abscesses, IVs for fluid resuscitation, chemical ice packs, and specialized medicine for pain and sedation.
The most common ailments include seasickness, sunburn, and constipation. “Constipation is an issue because there is no privacy on the canoe,” Tam Sing explains. “Everyone gets shy.”
Thankfully, Tam Sing adds, the more experienced the voyagers, the fewer hang-ups along the way.
Although practicing expedition medicine fulfills Tam Sing’s love for travel and adventure, his work with PVS strikes a deeper, more personal chord. Prior to joining the organization in 2007, Tam Sing, who is of Hawaiian descent, felt detached from his Native identity. PVS gave him a bridge and a meaningful way to contribute to his community. “I feel more connected to my culture because I am more connected to my community,” Tam Sing says. “I can give my services as a way to honor my ancestors.”
Tam Sing’s perennial focus is the health and safety of the crew. “I’m always looking to
preempt and prevent any kind of medical disaster,” he says. He humbly waves off any potential hero status that accompanies his role. Instead, Tam Sing notes this positive paradox: A successful journey is one where his expertise is never needed.
For Kai Hoshijo, teamwork really does make the dream work. In 2021, she and four other young crew members from PVS were selected to sail Hōkūle‘a to Nihoa, an island in the uninhabited Northwestern Hawaiian Islands. The journey—a relatively smooth two-day stretch across 280 miles—was known for one key navigational challenge. “The difficulty,” Hoshijo says, “is that Nihoa is so small.”
The opportunity to test their burgeoning voyaging skills without the use of modern navigational tools was both thrilling and nerve-racking, Hoshijo admits. Although the journey would include senior society members, the young crew members represented the organization’s next vanguard of navigators, and so the pressure was on. They spent hours poring over maps to create a sail plan, followed by hours of fine-tuning it. Once at sea, they rotated stations—from maintaining the steering blade and keeping the mark from the back corner, to scanning for cues from sea and sky. Sailing into the night, the young crew fell into a natural, easy rhythm. Lacking watches, they measured time by the stars. “We kept switching off every 15
At sea, Kelly Tam Sing performs triage and treatment without the accoutrements of a fully staffed and supplied ER center.
For Kai Hoshijo, wayfinding by traditional navigational methods is about more than successfully getting from point A to point B—it’s about teamwork and perpetuating generational knowledge and values.
minutes or so,” Hoshijo says. “We just got into a flow.”
Hoshijo and the others had pinned their hopes on the sunrise. Because Nihoa, measuring less than 1 square kilometer, is situated northwest of Hawai‘i, timing was critical. “The sun will rise in the east and then shine on the island,” Hoshijo explains, noting that the window, however, is small. “If you don’t have that, you might just sail past it and then you’re lost.”
But as night slowly crested into dawn, only a vast ocean surrounded them. Doubt crept in. Do we keep our line? Do we switch our line? None of them had ever spotted an island
on their own before. “It was like, ‘What are we looking for?’” Hoshijo says.
Two more hours had passed when suddenly crewmate Nālamakū Ahsing spotted an irregular blur fixed on the horizon. Some 35 miles away, a small triangle had appeared. “Like a cloud that didn’t move,” Hoshijo remembers. It was Nihoa. A torrent of emotion washed over Hoshijo, first relief then sheer elation at what they had accomplished. On deck, the crew exploded into joyous celebration. “It was very powerful for us to have our teachers there to see how we came together and supported each other
through the process,” Hoshijo says. “I think it was powerful for them too.”
That moment left an indelible impression on Hoshijo and crystallized for her the myriad lessons Hokūlē‘a offers: the importance of generational knowledge, the power of commitment and hard work, the ability to trust oneself and others.
“To have five young people laulima (work together) to make something happen,” she says, “it’s more than just sailing. It’s values.”
Nainoa Thompson, exemplary Native Hawaiian navigator and PVS president, has always been drawn to the water. As a child the ocean was his refuge; as a man it has become the fulcrum of his life’s work with Hōkūle‘a But, when asked if he considers himself a “master navigator,” he is quick to disclaim the title. “Oh, I never say that,” he says, with visible embarrassment. “I’m a student, but thank you.” His words are sincere.
Growing up, Thompson struggled in school. His saving grace was an instinctual impulse to search for a teacher. “For me, it’s always been that if you need to learn something,” he says, “go find the person who knows.”
During Hōkūle‘a’s nascent years in the ’70s, this approach would be the linchpin in first recovering and then relearning ancient voyaging traditions. “We were trying to do stuff that no one was doing anymore, but we had no manual or blueprint to follow,” he recalls. So he did what he’d always done before: He sought out teachers.
Today, Thompson credits his own navigational success to a storied list of individuals who helped to revitalize the art of traditional wayfinding: PVS founder Herb Kane; big-wave surfer Eddie Aikau; his father, Myron “Pinky” Thompson; and Micronesian master navigator Mau Piailug. “The Hōkūle‘a began as a kind of cultural renaissance, recovering traditions,” Thompson explains. “Today it’s evolved into protecting what we learn and honoring our teachers.” That list of teachers continues to grow.
Now in his late 60s, Thompson shares that he sometimes contemplates a solo voyage from Tahiti to Hawai‘i, a feat that his close circle considers a crazy endeavor. The voyage is challenging enough for a full crew, but to sail Kealaikahiki, the ancient sea road to Tahiti, on one’s own? Thompson, a private man, offers a simple response: He wouldn’t be alone. “My crew would be my father,” he answers, “it would be Mau and Eddie too … We carry our teachers with us.”
Since 2022, the Philippines has been ranked by the World Risk Index as the country most vulnerable to the effects of climate change. Its archipelago, which stretches farther from north to south than the distance between the Great Lakes and the Gulf of Mexico, lies in the world’s most cycle-prone region. During typhoon season, an average of 20 storms traverse the waters that surround the islands. Up to nine make landfall each year, which threaten to inflict greater damage as rising sea surface temperatures impede the natural mechanisms that weaken oceanic storm systems. Battering rains, sweeping floods and landslides, and deadly storm surges have devastated communities, many of which lack the infrastructure to withstand
such powerful storms. A peerreviewed 2024 study by Climate Analytics found that climatelinked cyclones have reduced household incomes across the country by an average of 7 percent. In some provinces, that number is more than 20 percent. On the other end of the spectrum, extreme heat is on the rise. Average temperatures across the country are projected to see an increase of up to 35.96 degrees Fahrenheit by 2050. In April 2024, temperatures soared to 127 degrees Fahrenheit, the country’s highest on record, caused by a heat wave that scientists attribute to the climate crisis. The government called for widespread school closures, affecting 3.6 million students, and warned people against spending time outdoors. Six deaths and
36 illnesses were linked to the heat wave. Extreme heat events such as this are expected to be more frequent, according to the World Weather Attribution, which estimates that intense heat waves will occur once every 10 years under the current El Niño Southern Oscillation conditions. The effects of climate change are an everyday lived reality for Filipinos. As a result, industries have needed to shift, investing in renewable energy and sustainable practices. In order to meet its goal of reducing greenhouse gas emissions by 75 percent by 2030, one of the most ambitious climate goals in Southeast Asia, the government opened its renewable energy sector to foreign ownership, allowing foreign investors to hold 100 percent equity in the
exploration, development, and utilization of renewable resources such as solar, wind, and hydro. In 2024, 95 percent of total investments went to the renewable energy sector alone, totaling 1.29 trillion pesos.
In the apparel industry, homegrown change makers are redefining sustainable fashion on their own terms. Inspired by a rich heritage of Filipino craftsmanship, local brands are utilizing practices that harken back to the country’s roots in slow fashion as a more sustainable alternative to the global fast fashion industry, which is responsible for up to 10 percent of emissions worldwide. For these Filipino designers, sustainability is more than a marketing term—it’s a lifeline in the battle against climate change.
Jos Mundo
Creative director Karen Bolilia felt an instant affinity when she and her former business partner, Anna Canlas, first entered the workshop of master shoemaker Rico Sta. Ana. “Without either of us having a background in manufacturing, in shoe design, or in anything, we were like, OK, we’re doing this,” she recalls of the fortuitous visit that prompted her to begin designing shoes. Sta. Ana was a fourth-generation zapatero (shoemaker) who had been working in the heart of Marikina, the shoe capital of the Philippines, for over half a century, known just as much for his classic luxury styles as he was for eccentric designs. Throughout Sta. Ana’s career, Marikina had gone from a vibrant epicenter of the Filipino shoe industry to a casualty of globalized manufacturing. By the time Bolilia and Canlas visited his workshop in 2018, Marikana was far from its glory days as experienced zapateros aged out and the younger generation lacked an interest in the craft.
Despite this, Bolilia admits that the desire to collaborate with Sta. Ana’s brand, Josanna and Zapateria, was born less out of a feeling of duty than an “excitement about making something,” she says. “It was really more personal at the time, maybe a little vain, even.” A former stylist who spent a short stint as a fashion editor, Bolilia saw potential in Sta. Ana’s large
archive of vintage shoe patterns, which spanned the late 20th century to the early 2000s. As she grew to learn more about the craft and its connection to the country’s heritage, she began to see herself both as a designer and a custodian of more than a hundred years of shoe-making traditions.
Bolilia and Canlas began as Josanna, a contemporary offspring of Sta. Ana’s brand, remixing archival styles into au courant designs. Early cult favorites included the Estafa Thong—a square-toed, block-heeled throwback to the early 2000s, puka shells and all—and the Fettucine Sandal—a breakout hit among the Philippines’ young fashion set, with its low-slung heels and gladiator-esque straps. They rebranded as Jos Mundo in 2019, when they began developing their own shoe patterns with the help of Rene Santos, a master shoemaker they met while working with Sta. Ana. Today, the brand is known for footwear that channels a distinctly Filipino sense of grace and sensuality, conceptualizing designs seen on the likes of Filipino influencer Bretman Rock and Japanese model and actress Kiko Mizuhara.
Despite its steady growth through the years, the brand still prioritizes craftsmanship. They source materials locally, avoiding import emissions. They continue to work closely with Santos, who now heads a small factory in
Marikina and is Bolilia’s first call when prototyping a new design. Collections are produced in small batches by its small team of skilled craftsmen, which range from leather suppliers to wooden heel fabricators.
As a result, the brand is pricier than other Marikina sellers—especially compared to fast fashion offerings—but Bolilia knows that’s a price her audience is willing to pay, knowing that the artisans who crafted their shoes are making a living wage. It was an accidental side effect of starting the brand, Bolilia says, realizing “you’re a custodian, you’re an ambassador, you’re an envoy for the modern Filipino.”
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draw from their homeland’s proud craft heritage to create sustainable fashion that is distinctively Filipino.
Filip + Inna
Born in the Lanao provinces of Mindanao, the archipelago’s southernmost major island, Filip + Inna founder Lenora Luisa Cabilli always had a deep appreciation for her country’s native traditions. Mindanao, home to about 60 percent of the country’s Indigenous population, nurtured in her an early awareness and appreciation for Philippine culture. She would often see tribes like the Maranaos dressed in their resplendent regalia, and summers spent in her mother’s native province of Basilan exposed her to a different set of Indigenous groups, such as the Yakan and the Sama. Later, as a dancer for the Bayanihan Dance Company, she donned traditional dress for performances, instilling further appreciation for the craftsmanship inherent in traditional garments. “That opened up the rest of the country for me,” she says. “It was
really that love for culture and also love for fashion—these two things coming together.” It would be years, however, before those two interests would intersect.
Motivated by a lifelong dream of building houses, Cabilli went to college to pursue architecture. Deterred by the astronomical tuition fees, she heeded her older sister’s suggestion to study fashion design instead. Then, on a serendipitous trip to Lake Sebu in 2009, she met with the Tboli, an Indigenous group famous for their embroidery and beadwork, and for their tradition of weaving extravagant patterns inspired by divine dreams. She visited a cooperative store operated by Tboli weavers to commission embroidery on five pieces of clothing: “I basically gave it to them and told them, do whatever you want with it.”
Their collaboration became the prototype for Filip + Inna, a clothing brand featuring works by
“From the start, I was very sure about working directly with the artisans.”
lenora luisa cabilli, founder of filip + inna
traditional artisans from across the Philippines. There are linen dresses hand-embroidered by the Tboli; silk tunics featuring the beadwork of the Gaddang; and a blouse hand-woven by Kalibo artisans from piña, a traditional Philippine textile crafted from pineapple leaves. “From the start, I was very sure about working directly with the artisans,” Cabilli says, a decision that has dictated all aspects of the business, including eschewing seasonal collections in favor of capsule wardrobes and educating customers about its longer production schedules. Rather than expediting products to appease consumer demand, garments are handcrafted over weeks or even months, enabling artisans to balance their work with other aspects of village life, such as taking care of the children or tending to the farm. Artists are paid by the stitch— projects could take upward of
a thousand stitches—a rarity in an industry notorious for unfair wages and working conditions. It’s practices such as these that have made Filip + Inna one of the most sustainably operated brands in the country. It’s easy to champion sustainability, Cabilli says, but you have to “start doing it until it really becomes a part of who you are as a brand.”
On Coconut Island, scientists are engineering “super corals” resilient to rising ocean temperatures.
The Hawai‘i Institute of Marine Biology occupies several bland, bunker-like buildings near the center of Coconut Island, which sits a quarter mile offshore of Kāne‘ohe. To reach the institute, which is home to a series of research laboratories affiliated with the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, you take at least two shuttle rides: the first in an aging, gray Honda CR-V, which ferries you from a parking area near Windward Mall to Lilipuna Pier; the second via a skiff that collects you from the end of the pier and takes you the rest of the way.
On a recent spring day, I made the multi-leg journey to Coconut Island to visit the Coral Resilience Lab. Founded in 2003 by marine biologist Ruth Gates, the lab has produced some of the world’s most
are predicted to become more frequent.
Dead coral. Scientists are still in the process of understanding how bleaching and coral dieoffs work.
important coral research. Gates gained international recognition when she issued a clarion call for the underwater organism— Earth’s coral reefs were in serious trouble, Gates insisted in interviews with National Public Radio and National Geographic. The oceans were warming, and
corals couldn’t keep up.
Like most living things, corals are capable of adapting to environmental conditions, but the Earth’s oceans are warming too rapidly for most coral species. In 2013, Gates experimented with something she called “assisted evolution.” The idea was to
artificially accelerate the process of natural selection and engineer “super coral” that could withstand the predicted increases in ocean temperatures. The work consisted of old-fashioned selective breeding, the same technique used to create everything from golden delicious apples to golden
doodle puppies. Gates’ team took samples of reef-building corals found in Kāne‘ohe Bay that exhibited higher than average thermal tolerance and bred them with other corals, with the goal of producing more resilient offspring.
Gates’ work made international headlines. The Economist and
Netflix produced documentaries about her research, and she was a fixture on Hawai‘i Public Radio. Then, on October 25, 2018, at the age of 56, Gates died of complications related to surgery for diverticulitis. The scientists at the Coral Resilience Lab, known then as the Gates Coral Lab,
grieved the loss of their leader, even as they endeavored to continue her groundbreaking research. Taking over as principal investigator was Crawford Drury, whom everyone calls Ford.
When we first met outside the lab, Drury wore shorts and sunglasses and a backwards
Initially developed as a private retreat during the 1930s, Coconut Island is now home to the Hawai‘i Institute of Marine Biology, where coral researchers are working to reverse engineer the future through “assisted evolution.”
baseball cap. Neither he nor the institute were what I expected. I had imagined someone older, maybe wearing a white lab coat. And the island, well, it felt less like a place that produced world-class research than a science experiment that had gone awry, a Frankenstein of dredged earth and mysterious ruins held together by fossilized bags of Quickcrete.
Coconut Island is traditionally known as Moku o Lo‘e, or the land of Lo‘e, named after one of four siblings who, stories say, traveled from Wai‘anae to make their home on O‘ahu’s windward shore. In the early 20th century, the island was purchased by entrepreneur Christian Holmes, who for much of the 1930s, used the island for a tuna cannery as well as a private retreat. He dredged the bay to expand the island, cutting trenches in the reef and building long, spindly fingers of land that stretched out as if to touch Kāne‘ohe. He added a house, a bowling alley, a shooting range, even a saltwater swimming pool.
Everywhere I looked, Holmes’ follies peeked through the foliage: large lava rock walls, stairs that led to nothing but jungle. Just inland from the now-abandoned swimming pool, a low-slung building housed a series of guest rooms, one of which was being cleaned by a young woman. She said the rooms were used by visiting researchers. When I mentioned all the strange ruins, she explained that the island used to be a zoo. “The elephant ponds were down there,” she said, pointing over the hill.
Indeed, Holmes had a thing for animals. He imported monkeys, a giraffe, a baby elephant. When he died in 1944, the animals became some of the first residents of the Honolulu Zoo. For a few years following, the island was used for R&R for Marine officers, which is how the barracks came to be built. A group of five oil and gas executives bought the island in 1947, after which one named Edwin Pauley became the sole owner. Pauley hosted renowned guests including, presidents Harry Truman and Richard
Nixon, on Coconut Island, and he also helped establish a marine research lab there. The facility eventually evolved into the Hawai‘i Institute of Marine Biology, an independent research station of UH Mānoa’s School of Ocean and Earth Science and Technology. In 1995, Pauley’s family donated $2 million to the University of Hawai‘i Foundation to help it purchase the island outright.
Coconut Island was still a menagerie of sorts when I arrived, though one with more scientific purpose than Holmes had in mind. Its most dramatic residents were the sharks, which cruised a small pond on the east side of the island, their tails flicking in a way that seemed almost feline. Just down the road was the lab, with its hundreds, if not thousands, of corals.
Drury explained that when coral reefs are subjected to abnormal temperatures for extended periods of time, the corals expel their zooxanthellae, a type of symbiotic algae, which turns the reef a ghostly white. This is what’s known as coral bleaching. Without the zooxanthellae, which provide corals with food and oxygen in exchange for shelter, the organisms are far more susceptible to disease and stress. It was something the scientists had seen firsthand. Between 2014 and 2015, more than half of Hawai‘i’s reef-building corals bleached. It was unprecedented. And it endangered not only Hawai‘i’s reefs but also the many hundreds of marine creatures— and human livelihoods—that depended on them.
Coral reefs are vital not only to the health of the marine ecosystem—single-handedly supporting 25 percent of all ocean life—but to coastal communities around the globe, including in Hawai‘i. A coral reef is a natural defense against large waves and storm surges, which could otherwise destroy beaches, houses, and coastal infrastructure. When a reef dies, it doesn’t take long for the underlying structure to degrade. If it collapses entirely, any coastal protection provided by the reef goes with it. Surf
breaks could disappear, along with beaches. Rising sea levels would become all the more menacing.
In lieu of any meaningful action taken by U.S. lawmakers, scientists were being forced to take the lead on averting a climate catastrophe, Drury said, and there had been a noticeable shift in how researchers approached a subject like coral bleaching. Historically, scientists simply wanted to know how things were. Increasingly, they advocated for how they should be.
Drury’s team didn’t know why some corals were more thermally tolerant than others. But on some level, it didn’t matter. If they could build coral reefs that would survive the coming conditions, that was what they were going to do.
In 2018, less than a month after Gates’ death, the Gates Coral Lab received $1 million from the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation to test some of the researchers’ ideas in situ, in the water. The restoration effort is unique, one of the first to use corals selected specifically for thermal tolerance. “We might not be putting out the most biomass of any restoration project,” Drury said. “But what we are putting out, we hope is still going to be there in 75 years.”
Dedicated to ensuring public access while conserving Hawai‘i’s cultural heritage and environment, the Nā Ala Hele program is a treasure trove of intel on the state’s many glorious hikes.
At any given time and place in Hawai‘i, it is almost impossible not to know where the mountains and ocean are. This is especially true in Honolulu, a concrete city nestled between the looming green Ko‘olau mountain ridges and the dazzling blue, seemingly limitless Pacific Ocean.
When it’s time to relax or play, Honolulu urbanites head either mauka (inland) or makai (seaward). Those, such as myself, who crave the shade of a canopy often migrate to a mountainous area nicknamed Tantalus, where a web of trails offers anything from a short walk in the woods to an all-day adventure.
The three pu‘u (hills) that make up the region—‘Ōhi‘a, Kākea, and ‘Ualaka‘a—represent some of the last eruptive activity of the Ko‘olau volcano about 100,000 years ago. After hundreds of millenia of quiescence, Ko‘olau awakened and magma came bursting forth from numerous points. When the rock settled, what had been birthed were the pu‘u that form modern-day Tantalus. Other iconic features formed during this rejuvenated stage of volcanic activity in Honolulu are Lē‘ahi (Diamond Head), Kohelepelepe (Koko Crater), and Hanauma Bay, to name a few.
Such explosive origins laid fertile groundwork. Around 1,000 CE, the most competent seafaring society the world has ever seen discovered the islands and found them teeming with flora and fauna. They settled and
farmed crops like ‘uala (sweet potato) on top of Pu‘u ‘Ualaka‘a and kalo (taro) in Mānoa Valley. Eventually European explorers found Hawai‘i. Livestock was introduced, and without fences, ungulates roamed freely through the forests. In these forests, the prized native ‘iliahi (sandalwood) was logged for trade. By 1870, the once forested pu‘u were barren. Water wells dried up and streams filled with dirt runoff. The wisdom of the Native Hawaiians, “Hahai no ka ua i ka ulu la‘au” (Rain always follows the forest), seemed to have fallen to the wayside. In response to the water crisis, Hawai‘i’s government passed legislation between 1876 and 1880 codifying the protection of the forests from further development. A massive reforestation effort began.
In 1988, the state of Hawai‘i created Nā Ala Hele, a trail and access program, in response to concern about loss of access to trails winding through the forests and threats to trails from development. Today, the program manages 77.5 miles of trails on O‘ahu. Nā Ala Hele trails are well documented and legal, which means you don’t have to scour blogs or worry about getting ticketed to enjoy an afternoon hike.
One Nā Ala Hele trail I turn to often is Mānoa Cliff Trail. When I want a forest adventure, it’s simple enough to park on the shoulder of the road next to the trailhead, and within 15 minutes of hiking, I am peeking off the edge of the steep trailside into the quiet neighborhood streets of Mānoa Valley.
At first, on this hike, I see mostly plants that were introduced to O‘ahu to save the watersheds. At the peak of reforestation efforts in the 1930s, nearly two million trees were planted annually. Unfortunately, the trees chosen were fastgrowing non-natives such as the albizia and varieties of ficus, resulting in sparse forests containing fewer species. Then I arrive at a gate designed to protect native plants from invasive feral pigs. Stepping through, I notice a dramatic change in vegetation. The forest beyond
The Nā Ala Hele trail and access program manages 855 miles of trails and access roads statewide. In 2005, volunteers secured a permit through Nā
to
on a
is a multi-layered, species-rich habitat. A group of dedicated volunteers has been working since 2006 to remove alien species and plant natives. Hiking here, I can imagine being one of the first humans to step foot on O‘ahu.
The trail splits in the middle of the restoration area, and I take the upper Pu‘u ‘Ōhi‘a trail. Heading out of the gated native habitat, I enter a bamboo thicket. After a short climb, I find myself on the top of Pu‘u ‘Ōhi‘a, next to a modern cellphone tower that now adorns the peak and makes it hard to imagine fountains of lava shooting skyward. Continuing along the Pu‘u ‘Ōhi‘a trail, I descend for a time before arriving back at the road I parked on.
The transition back to the human landscape can be jarring. City life can take a toll on my psyche, and I feel lucky that Honolulu has greenspace to escape to. These forests were exploited, replanted, and then protected again. Today, beyond being a mechanism to recharge the islands’ aquifers, forests are spaces to connect with what the
Native Hawaiian people continue to recognize: Forests are divine. They are wao akua, the realm of the gods. We dive into the forest to feel what it means to be a human on this planet.
When we see parallels between the events portrayed in mo‘olelo and Hawai‘i’s modern-day issues, it may be wise to listen to what the stories have to say.
Before the internet, before books, before libraries, there were oral traditions maintained through storytelling, song, and dance. The knowledge necessary to live a healthy life and build a thriving society was made memorable and transmissible, a sort of mobile library of a society’s knowledge. For Hawaiians, one form of this was mo‘olelo, or oral stories, containing knowledge gained from observing the surrounding environment and learning how to thrive among the elements for over a thousand years.
In “The Gift of Kū,” a mo‘olelo documented by historian Mary Kawena Pukui, the god Kū decided to live among the people of Hawai‘i. He married a woman, had a family, and lived as a commoner for several years before a terrible famine hit. Unable
to bear watching his children suffer, Kū decided to give up his earthly body to feed his family. He sunk into the ground, and his wife wept upon that spot every day until, one day, a shoot came up. It rapidly grew into an ‘ulu tree teeming with fruit. The young family then had plenty to eat and plenty to share with neighbors, though the tree would only let the family of Kū pick from it. But soon, sprouts started to appear around the base of the tree, and the family broke them off to share with others. This was how ‘ulu spread throughout Hawai‘i.
The lessons contained within Hawaiian mo‘olelo are not generalizations or platitudes. These stories held information so astute that many of their explanations for natural phenomena have been confirmed by science in recent
years. Volcanologists attempting to explain an event in Kīlauea’s geologic past, for example, went through several hypotheses before settling on the current theory within the last 30 years. This scientific explanation mirrors the stories told by the Hawaiians recorded 200 years ago, which were disregarded by scientists at the time. These stories also offer rational explanations and actionable advice, honed over countless generations, for the specific conditions of life in the Hawaiian Islands—the same conditions we live in today. Today, as in the mo‘olelo, Hawai‘i has a critical food problem. Every year, we spend $3 billion to import as much as 90 percent of our food. According to the Hawai‘i Emergency Management Agency,
we are so reliant on imports that there is only a five- to sevenday supply of food in the state at any time. If anything were to happen to the Port of Honolulu, the only port in Hawai‘i capable of receiving the large container ships that bring our food, we could very quickly find ourselves with a severe food shortage.
The problem has nothing to do with our capacity to grow enough food. According to a 2019 study, precontact Hawaiian agricultural systems were able to grow up to 1.12 million tons of food per year— enough to feed a population of 1.2 million people—using just 6 percent of Hawai‘i’s land. In comparison, today, 22 percent of Hawai‘i’s land is actively used for agriculture. Despite that, only 166,450 tons of food are grown for local consumption—enough to feed just 180,000 people. The rest of that land is used to grow export commodities like seed corn and coffee.
The problem is not one of ability but of approach. Dana Shapiro, general manager and founding member of the Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative, believes we should listen to the lesson of the mo‘olelo and look to ‘ulu as a multifaceted solution to our food crisis. “The stark metaphor that the mo‘olelo paints of ‘ulu
as a savior, as the tree of life, is relevant today in so many different ways,” she says. The most obvious is food production. ‘Ulu are extraordinary producers with yields up to 800 pounds of fruit per tree per year for more than 50 years. And because the fruit is extremely versatile, adding ‘ulu to our diets wouldn’t require any real change to modern eating habits. At different points in ripeness, ‘ulu can be used anywhere you might use potatoes, mashed to make pizza dough or tamale masa, dried and ground to make a gluten-free flour, or eaten raw as a custardy dessert. Theoretically, we could significantly offset our food imports by increasing local ‘ulu production.
Equally important, however, is the need to extricate ourselves from the perspectives that got us into this situation in the first place. ‘Ulu could also play an important role in ensuring we don’t continue to make the same mistakes. “Modern life [rests on] the Western complex of us versus nature and us above nature,” Shapiro says. “But in the Indigenous perspective, we are part of nature. If we change the way we look at our natural resources, we could have so much more abundance and sustainability than we do now. I think ‘ulu really embodies that.”
Brought to the Hawaiian Islands tied to the hulls of Polynesian voyaging canoes, ‘ulu was the staple crop in areas unable to support water-intensive lo‘i or nutrient-hungry ‘uala fields. While scattered ‘ulu trees were common throughout the islands, on the geologically younger islands of Maui and Hawai‘i, ‘ulu production was highly systematized and highly productive. One spot on the slopes of Hualālai, for example, is estimated to have produced up to 64,000 tons of ‘ulu per year.
To achieve this harvest, Hawaiians followed the rules of nature to build resilient systems that encouraged abundance. ‘Ulu were not grown in monocrop orchards but in complex, multispecies food forests resembling natural forests in their mixture of ground cover, understory, and canopy crops. ‘Ulu were grown alongside other useful plants such as kukui, ‘ōhi‘a ‘ai, and dryland kalo, and the diversity within these systems created conditions that could withstand outlier weather events and were largely free from pests and disease.
Today, the Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative aims to make ‘ulu mainstream again by supporting systems similar to those of precontact Hawaiians. The co-op buys ‘ulu from its member farms,
processes it into products such as frozen cubes and flour, and is responsible for marketing and sales. For small farmers, ‘ulu can be a tricky crop, as its seasons are fast and abundant, and the fruit ripens quickly once picked; unless a farm has a lot of trees and the means to process the fruit, growing ‘ulu can sometimes be more trouble than it’s worth. The shared resources of the co-op enables small, diversified farms with few ‘ulu trees to earn money from them and contribute to the market supply. It also encourages members to remain diversified by reducing the need for farms to scale up production unsustainably just to cover the costs of processing and distribution.
Since its founding in 2016, the co-op has made sizable inroads with this model. Not long ago, it was difficult to find ‘ulu if you didn’t know someone with a tree. Today, ‘ulu is on more local restaurant menus than ever before. Frozen ‘ulu and flour produced by the coop are available in numerous grocery stores throughout the islands. Booths sell ready-to-eat products like ‘ulu hummus and ‘ulu chips at every farmers market. And as the people of Hawai‘i begin to eat ‘ulu again, the increasing demand supports the growth of a fully local industry.
With this growth, we begin to move toward the second lesson of the mo‘olelo: Rather than only picking from the parent tree, planting the offshoots will ensure more food for all, allow the parent tree to thrive, and provide greater resilience in the face of disaster. Our current system relies far too heavily on one tree. By diversifying our food economy, including building up an ‘ulu industry, we can ensure the continued well-being of the people of Hawai‘i.
“We listen to what the material wants to do. If it wants to dance, we let it.”
—Lucas Schlueter, senior architect at
Shan Liljestrand tells the story of the Liljestrand House, a masterful example of the design philosophy that made Vladimir Ossipoff a legend of Hawai‘i Modernism.
Something my dad used to say, and that Ossipoff liked to say, from a Sri Lankan architect named Geoffrey Bawa, is that the perfect structure is an umbrella. It protects you from the sun and the rain, and beyond that, it shouldn’t do anything more than what is absolutely necessary. Being here at the Liljestrand House, you’re protected underneath this big, sweeping roof but very much connected to the outside. It’s really nice when it rains—you hear it on the roof, and then when the sun comes back out and the roof heats up, it snaps and pops. It’s positioned in such a way that the rain doesn’t come in, so you can be totally out in the open and in the jungle but still totally protected at the same time.
The house belonged to my grandfather, who grew up in
Western China, in Chengdu. After coming back to the United States for medical school, meeting my grandmother, and getting married, he got an internship at Queen’s Hospital in Honolulu. They had planned to return to China but ended up building a life here—falling in love with this place, as a lot of people do—and stayed. When they were looking for a piece of land to build on, they knew they wanted to live up in the mountains. It wasn’t what a lot of people moving to Hawai‘i at the time would have wanted. Everyone wanted to be down by the ocean. But my grandfather had really fond memories of summers up in the mountains outside Chengdu and loved how cool and shady it was. They were hiking around this mountain
range when they came down a trail where the driveway is now. My grandparents began looking around for architects to develop the site, and when they were at a party, someone mentioned Vladimir Ossipoff.
Ossipoff spent his entire career in architecture here in Hawai‘i, mainly on O‘ahu. He mostly did private commissions, and he also designed a lot of public spaces throughout Honolulu. When he and my grandparents met, they got along and saw a lot of similarities. My grandparents came in with their ideas and what they wanted, but they also really trusted him. It seemed to be a very good client-architect relationship, and they were able to work together well. My grandparents acted as the general contractors and were
involved as much as they could be in the construction process.
The house was built by Japanese craftsmen. Japanese people were immigrating to Hawai‘i at the time, and they needed temples, so temple woodworkers from Japan immigrated as well. A lot of the woodworking practice here is like temple woodworking. Ossipoff grew up in Japan, so his design tended toward Japanese sensibilities and philosophies.
One of the things Ossipoff was really good at was understanding a site and placing the house on that site to best take advantage of the climate and the views. He understood that the wind generally came from the mountain and went down toward the ocean, and that you can create a natural air conditioning effect by positioning the openings of the house in such a way that the air slowly moves through it. The house can be open to the outdoors, and it can be windy outside, but it’s not windy in the house.
The house was completed in 1952, but Ossipoff didn’t decide that it was completed for another five or six years after that because he was still selecting furniture and designing a lot of the built-ins. The bed in the master bedroom was designed by Ossipoff. My grandfather lived here until he passed away, and he refused to change the bed or raise it to make it easier for him to get out of bed in his old age. I think he appreciated everything Ossipoff did with this house, and they were such good friends throughout their lives that he didn’t want to change anything out of respect for Ossipoff.
The house was built with the most common building materials in Hawai‘i at that time. So it’s not the materials that made the house, it was the intentional, thoughtful design that really elevated it.
To me, one of the most impactful parts of the house is how Ossipoff transitions you into the space. He hides as much as possible until he wants to reveal where you are. When you come down the driveway, you’re completely surrounded
by trees. The house is long and wide, and it pretty much covers the whole horizon. There’s a fence and landscaping off to the left that hides more of it, too. The entrance is low and dark and winding, in keeping with a philosophy in Japanese architecture of making the entrance dark and mysterious. When you step inside, there’s this mass that blocks the view. It’s only once you step into the living room and the ceiling rises up that you see the view of Lē‘ahi, or Diamond Head. Ossipoff planned that really well—taking advantage of the emotional reaction you get from seeing the view, and now you’re associating it with the space.
After my grandfather passed away, the house went to my dad, my uncle, and my two aunts, and they all came to a decision that the house was too special to sell. They wanted to do something better with it, or at least make it open to the public, rather than lock it away in private hands.
So they worked together to create a foundation, and then gifted the house to the foundation. The mission of the foundation is to preserve the Liljestrand House and to make that preservation beneficial to the community. So not just maintaining it up here and letting it sit, but making sure it’s open to the public. We’re constantly trying to come up with more ways to reach out to the community and offer the house for free to certain organizations that we align with, and to promote the work of architects and good, sustainable design. We host speakers, such as architects, architectural photographers, artists, and designers, and we do lecture series about the art in the house and architects around Hawai‘i. We host people from other places as well. We try to make it a little bit of a clubhouse for the design community at large while keeping the house open for people to tour and share the feeling that we get from being here.
One of the most important things about preserving a house like this, and making that preservation beneficial to the
“Built with the most common building materials in Hawai‘i at that time," Shan Liljestrand says, "it’s not the materials that made the house, it was the intentional, thoughtful design that really elevated it.”
community at large, is opening that experience up to people. Architecture students may know the “how” and the techniques— all the stuff that I don’t know—but when they come here and see those techniques put into place and feel the emotion behind them, I think that’s a really important experience—to understand the “why.” As someone who appreciates good design and architecture, I’ve slowly started to learn the technical details, but it was always the emotion—why I feel a certain way in the space— that mattered.
My father passed away a couple of years ago, and a lot of what I say now about the house is a continuation of things I’ve heard him say. He was a good storyteller, and I’d hear him repeat and refine the way he would deliver a message about the house. I think being here helps people understand why good design matters—how working with a site, instead of against it, can make a house more sustainable and enjoyable and capture the benefits of the site.
It’s been a really amazing experience working with the Liljestrand Foundation and seeing the house come alive through this design community we’re growing here on O‘ahu. One of the ways I remember the house is from coming here for parties— it was always a place that people would come together in. And now that my grandparents and my dad have passed away, and a lot of my other family members are
gone too, it’s been really beautiful to see this community come together and flourish. Not only does that community provide a lot of the means for us to continue to preserve the house, but they also provide themselves, which is what makes that preservation worthwhile. Preservation is important—not only does it honor the designers who worked on the project, the materials that went into making the house, and the craftsmen that worked on the house, it’s ensuring their work can be seen and appreciated by future generations.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity from a video produced by Open Space Series, which is dedicated to preserving and portraying the essence of architecture through the medium of film. View the video at openspaceseries.com.
In a fast-paced, ever changing, and fluid world, we believe students must cultivate the character, capabilities, and the will to contribute to a bright future.
St. Andrew’s Schools challenges the young women of The Priory to think deeply and critically about how the world works, what problems it faces, and how we can contribute to making the world more humane and just.
Through the Stevens Global Leadership Initiative, our Upper School students in grades 7-12 learn to:
Investigate the world beyond their immediate environment, deeply engaging in inquiry about significant global issues that affect peace.
Recognize, articulate, and explain multiple perspectives, aware and respectful of how religious, cultural, geopolitical, and historical backgrounds shape individual viewpoints, including their own.
Communicate and engage with audiences of diverse backgrounds, recognizing and overcoming linguistic, ideological, cultural, and geographic barriers.
Take action through networking, collaboration, negotiation, and/or compromise, seeing themselves as positive, powerful agents for peace – locally, regionally, and globally.
International travel opportunities further broaden student perspectives. In Spring 2023, the theme of a trip to Japan and South Korea was “STEM and Cities of the Future.” In the months leading up to the trip, high school students studied United Nations Sustainable Development Goal 11, “Sustainable Cities and Communities,” and began designing action projects focused on Oʻahu. To complete their projects, the students took inspiration from visiting science museums, research labs, space agencies, and robotics facilities in Tokyo and Seoul.
The educational experience at The Priory also aligns with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals through the Global Action - Global Girls and Model United Nations courses, participation in the Pacific and Asian Affairs Council, and our Distinction in Global Leadership pathway of study.
In these and many other ways, students at St. Andrew’s Schools discover and grow their capacity for courageous, compassionate leadership.
Mike Peng and Eri Tsutsumi reflect on life after IDEO, building new homes, and soulful Japanese words.
When Mike Peng sat down with Eri Tsutsumi for a recent Zoom date, they realized just how much their lives have changed since working together at the global design consultancy IDEO Tokyo.
“Remember when we still had our in-person work date nights, where we would go explore the hottest new restaurant in Tokyo?”
Tsutsumi asked. Peng remembered: It was pre-COVID, when they still lived in the center of the Asian metropolis and before they transitioned to new roles in the world of design: Tsutsumi as director of lifestyle at Muji, Peng as chief creative officer at the design-led venture studio Moon Creative Lab. Fast-forward almost five years later, Eri is now living with her son in the quiet beach town of Hayama, and Mike is hunkered down in the woods
with his partner, Mark, and furry friend, Finn, in the quaint town of Mill Valley, California. Ahead, the two reminisce about “the good old days” in Tokyo, catch up about their new lives surrounded by nature, and consider how they want to live in the years to come.
MP: Eri! I can’t remember the last time it was just you and me chatting about life.
ET: I know! What was the last restaurant we went to? Was it that cute Italian restaurant in Yoyogi-Hachiman?
MP: It must have been. I hope it’s still around—that was such a cute little place.
ET: Right? I need to find a reason to go back!
MP: Speaking of going back, I can’t believe we’ve been away from IDEO for so many years already.
ET: Funny enough, I don’t think any of us will ever truly leave IDEO. I mean, Ryo and I work together every day, and just last week, I met up with Kei and Mio.
MP: You’re right. I text Davide pretty much on a daily basis, and I’m officiating Tomoya and Maho’s wedding in a few weeks.
ET: It’s like we’re all still working on the seventh floor of One Omotesando!
MP: Seriously! But outside of our work family, how has life been for you post-IDEO?
ET: It’s been really good. As you know, my new role is looking after all of Muji’s hospitality business—Muji Hotels, Muji Base—which has been exciting. And while transitioning to a new job, I also decided to transition my life. I’m talking to you from my newly built house in Hayama.
MP: I can’t believe you designed your entire house from scratch! I’m currently going through some minor renovations of my own place, and I find it so hard to make decisions because I have so many ideas about what I want to do.
ET: I think because we come from creative backgrounds, we’re good at divergent thinking. But when you’re working with an architect to create a master plan, you realize just how little you know. I feel so irritated that I didn’t know more! I’ve had to really educate myself every day.
MP: I feel the same. Just the other day, our architect told me that one of our walls is not “plum,” and I had to secretly look up the word in Google because I had no idea what it meant. So embarrassing.
ET: Haha! That being said, I’ve always wanted to build my own place. When you’re living in an apartment in Tokyo, sure, you can choose the furniture, but ultimately, what you can do is very limited. I wanted to choose everything. I wanted the place to feel truly myself.
MP: And there’s no better learning experience than having to do things on your own. I mean, I complain a lot in the moment about all these little decisions and things I don’t know, but looking from a 10,000-foot view, I’ve grown so much as part of this process. I know so much more than I did before.
ET: Exactly. This is all part of having a growth mindset.
MP: What made you want to move to Hayama?
ET: It’s actually a bit nostalgic. I grew up by the sea, in Hiroshima. When I was young, I could see the fireworks from Miyajima. The sea was part of Setouchi (Inland Sea), and so it was nice and quiet—there were no big waves crashing. Hayama is exactly the same. It’s not very wild. The atmosphere is calm. There are similar vibes. Streets are small, narrow, and winding. It really reminded me of Hiroshima.
MP: Sounds beautiful.
ET: It really is. But it’s not just the scenery. When I walk outside, the neighbors all say hi and are so friendly. I tell my son that he should greet everyone. But I can’t tell him to do that in Tokyo, you know? Here in Hayama, it’s just so comfortable, and this is where I want him to grow up. How about you? How has your life been in Mill Valley?
MP: I think most people are shocked that I would ever move to a place like Mill Valley. As you know, I’ve always been a city boy—always looking for inspiration in the form of fancy restaurants, new exhibits, urban experiences that really get my brain flowing. But transitioning to a place like Mill Valley has been fascinating. Instead of the endorphins coming from unique dishes, it now comes in the form of morning walks with Finn, my dog, or noticing the leaves slowly change color. I even have Snow White moments when squirrels will come up and talk to me. I kid you not. It’s a complete change from the go-go-go culture that I thought defined me. Living in the forest, you are constantly in awe of komorebi (sunlight filtering through the trees).
ET: Sugoi! Speaking of komorebi, have you been indulging your obsession with hard-totranslate Japanese words?
MP: It’s still a deep passion of mine! Any Japanese words or phrases that you’ve come across recently that you think I should know?
ET: Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about the difference between “kore de ii” and “kore ga ii.” The former means, “I’m good with this,” while the latter loosely translates to, “I only want this one.” Of course, there are occasions when you want things to be more “kore ga ii,” but the simple appreciation and gratitude inherent in “kore de ii” is something I’m striving for.
MP: Wow, that is so incredibly poetic. So much of the world we live in these days has that “pick me” energy that I feel is part of the “kore ga ii” philosophy—like nothing is ever good enough, and we always want more, more, more. I think there’s a lot to be learned from being more fluid and “kore de ii” in how we think about situations in life.
ET: Sometimes, “good enough” is truly best.
MP: Couldn’t have put it better myself.
Innovators throughout the Asia Pacific support native ecosystem restoration by finding creative applications for local building materials.
words by: mia anzalone, leilani marie labong, patrick sisson, and lindsey vandal
Where concrete and steel were once the picture of progress, innovators throughout the Asia Pacific are forging a return to nature. In Hawai‘i, the invasive and fast-growing albizia tree is reimagined as lumber for affordable homes, high-end design features, and performance surfboards. In Bali, bamboo brings organic elegance to otherworldly architecture projects. And in Australia, home to the world’s tallest hybrid timber building, the commitment to cross-laminated timber continues soaring skyward. With sustainability at the forefront, these efforts shine as beacons of place-based design, illustrating the many ways it can look to collaborate with the natural world. Mia Anzalone
images by: brett boardman and ben guthrie courtesy of tzannes, martin mischkulnig courtesy of kengo kuma, jim ouk, josiah patterson, brent rand, tommaso riva, louis solywoda, indra wiras, and courtesy of ibuku and mari beach club bali
In 2015, during his final year studying architecture at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, Joey Valenti visited Lyon Arboretum, a 200-acre botanical garden, to witness the removal of a few dozen invasive albizia trees from its grounds. Inspired by the design practices, building systems, and island vernacular he observed while studying abroad in Taiwan, Japan, Singapore, and Indonesia, Valenti, then a doctoral candidate, had been researching which local building materials might steer Hawai‘i toward a more self-sustaining economy.
But as he watched the stately albizia fall, Valenti lamented the loss of a wasted asset. “I went over there curious about albizia and discovered these 100-yearold trees wider at the base than I am tall,” he recalls, noting that some of them measured 150 feet tall and 10 feet in diameter.
Introduced to Hawai‘i in the early 20th century for reforestation efforts, the highly invasive albizia has since become the focus of multimilliondollar statewide removal initiatives. As one of the fastest growing trees in the world, albizia tend to drop their branches in a phenomenon known as sudden limb shear, a side effect of their height, which can clog streams and damage infrastructure. While others dismissed albizia’s potential as a construction material, Valenti saw diamonds in the rough. “This tree was put in front of us for a reason, so we may as well make use of it,” he says.
Lyon Arboretum agreed to let Valenti salvage the felled trees and offered to train him on the process of milling the logs. Following structural testing in the university’s engineering lab, he used the byproducts as test pieces for his doctoral thesis project: a scale model and fullscale mockup of a prefabricated housing prototype built entirely from albizia using an engineered wood system of glue-laminated panels. After graduation, a $10,000 grant from UH’s Office of Sustainability, along with other monetary awards, allowed Valenti to build out his proof of concept:
a 400-square-foot pavilion with exposed wood arches inspired by the solid timber dwelling styles of precontact Pasifika. He named the structure Lika, in honor of his mother.
The consensus among local timber experts, however, was that Valenti was wasting his time with the albizia, a wood considered too brittle for construction, often dismissed as “rubbish.” Valenti didn’t agree. After two years of research and development, he launched the Albizia Project, installing Lika on the UH-Mānoa campus. The media coverage of his work led to a blitz of albizia commissions, including an outdoor gym for 1 Hotel Hanalei Bay on Kaua‘i and a wavepatterned facade on the ceiling of the Honolulu office of Elemental Excelerator, a nonprofit investor in climate technologies.
In 2023, Valenti and his wife, Christine, co-founder and head of operations for Albizia Project, expanded their use of albizia to include surfboards. The duo opened Bizia Surf and Coffee Bar in Wahiawā, O‘ahu, showcasing “tree to sea” performance boards created with master woodworker Eric Bello and local shapers such as Dick Brewer and Carson Myers. While most modern surfboards are made with a polyurethane foam core topped with polyester resin, Bizia Surf’s quiver of longboards, twin fishes, and guns are crafted from discarded albizia wood, feature a chambered hollow core, and are glassed with a bio-based epoxy resin. “There’s a special bond, this connection to the natural material,” Valenti says. “You’re surfing a tree from Hawai‘i that was in the forest and made its way down to the ocean. It’s deeply symbolic of the origins of surfing.”
Valenti’s most recent designs continue spotlighting underutilized forest resources through “forest to frame” construction methods. In June 2024, Albizia Project was contracted by Architects Hawaii Limited to build a massive albizia installation for the 13th Festival of Pacific Arts and Culture held in Honolulu. Working with the Nation of Hawai‘i and Hawai‘i’s Department of Land and Natural
Resources, Valenti and his team constructed 28 Hawaiian hale inside the Hawai‘i Convention Center; the invasives cleared from forest lands were replaced with endemic koa and wiliwili seedlings, promoting biodiversity and restoring the ecosystem. Recently, Albizia Project has been in production on timberframe trusses for an Accessory Dwelling Unit crafted from pine wood cleared from Kōke‘e State Park on Kaua‘i, on public display at the Makiki Baseyard of DLNR’s Division of Forestry and Wildlife. In summer 2025, Albizia Project plans to centralize its efforts by opening Wahiawā-based Nāhele Lumber Co., a wood supply, design, and manufacturing facility that specializes in materials sourced from Hawai‘i-grown timber. “We’re building things to show the community the real potential and beauty of local woods, and that it can all be done by redirecting a waste stream,” Valenti says.
With the launch of Bizia Surf in 2023, Christine and Joey Valenti, co-founders of the Albizia Project, expanded their use of albizia from an architectural building material to a sustainable alternative for the surfboard industry.
The Albizia Project has successfully built a market around albizia in less than a decade. However, challenges remain in securing building code compliance, improving supply chain efficiency, and driving widespread adoption of locally grown wood. As innovative
construction reshapes perceptions of invasive trees as resources, Valenti urges people to rethink their choices. “Why import materials from overexploited regions abroad when we have abundant invasive and plantation trees right here in Hawai‘i?” he asks. “The Albizia Project is
working to bridge that gap.”
—Lindsey Vandal BAMBOO
In Bali, Indonesia, curious structures arc, undulate, and swerve amid thick jungle canopies. These otherworldly
forms bear only vague resemblance to what we may typically regard as shelter in the West, and yet that’s exactly what they are: more than 200 private residences, resorts, shared pavilions, and yoga studios designed by Ibuku, a sustainable architecture and design firm led
by Canada-born, Bali-raised creative director Elora Hardy.
If you’re wondering how on earth such graceful shapes—like the lotus petal-inspired roofs at Sharma Springs, one of the firm’s early residential projects, or the parabolic grandeur of The Arc, a new gymnasium at the
Green School, its world-famous sustainability academy—were coaxed out of wooden two-byfours, the answer is they weren’t: no lumber posts nor steel beams were used in the construction of these magical rainforest dwellings. Rather, they receive their sway, their swoop, and, quite frankly,
their swagger from bamboo, a wild grass endemic to the tropical and subtropical climates found around the Pacific Rim.
Hardy founded Ibuku (Indonesian for “my Mother Earth”) in 2010 as a kind of course correction for the soul. The former New York-based textile designer wanted to shift away from the “waste and toxicity” of the fashion industry and toward work with “good impact and significance.” Designing bamboo buildings back home in Bali—like her father, John Hardy, co-founder of the Green School, was already doing—just felt right, not only as a way to make innovations in sustainable construction, but also on a community level. Ibuku works with generations of local carpenters and craftspeople to bring its structures to life, beginning with 3D models made of hand-whittled bamboo sticks.
Bamboo achieves full growth in just four to five years. As a renewable resource, this material dramatically outpaces natural woods—oak trees, for example, can take up to 150 years to be lumber-ready.
Despite bamboo’s hollow interior, it has the tensile strength of steel and can bear four tons of weight upon a single pole. Of the 1,439 bamboo species on the planet, 145 are native to Indonesia. Ibuku uses just seven of those, including the strong and mighty Dendrocalamus asper, an evergreen commonly called “giant bamboo” for its ability to reach heights of 30 meters, and the more pliable Gigantochloa apus. To prepare bamboo for its imaginative transformation into shelter that surpasses the common beach shack, it’s treated with a nontoxic boron solution to ward off pests and a waterproofing coat of natural wax.
“We’re trying to break the stigma surrounding bamboo, which is that it’s an invasive weed, good for building simple rafts and huts,” says Lucas Schlueter, senior architect at Ibuku. “People still don’t understand what bamboo can actually do, or how strong and sustainable it actually is. We really want to show the world how beautiful the possibilities are.” So far, Schlueter, who is from Germany, has worked on Ibuku projects in bamboo-rich regions like Costa Rica and South Korea, where the material’s loveliest virtue proves to be the stunning sense of place it provides for
structures built in its native climates. After all, to inhabit a bamboo building is to align with its surroundings. “Isn’t it nice to be sheltered but not separated?” Hardy has mused.
An intentional lack of doors and windows provides a seamless connection to the “outside,” a loose term when it comes to any dwelling by Ibuku. Due to the porous nature of handwoven walls, the problem of soundproofing a bamboo building hasn’t yet been solved. But for every unwanted decibel, Schlueter offers an acoustic compromise: Bali’s rushing rivers, breezy foliage, and chirping, buzzing, howling wildlife. What’s more, bamboo’s flexibility offers a nurturing experience during Bali’s regular seismic events, especially if you’re in the upper reaches of Sharma Springs, which towers six stories above the Ayung River Valley, or at the treetop Aura House in Green Village, an Ibuku development of luxury bamboo abodes set in a grove of black palms.
“You’ll feel a nice, gentle sway, much like the way mothers lull their babies to sleep,” Schlueter says. “You feel really safe and protected.” Demonstrating such grace under pressure could be considered an aspiration for bamboo
buildings and humans alike. As an example, Schlueter points to the Alchemy Yoga and Meditation Center’s recently completed bamboo shalas, where yogis strike poses that resemble the crescents, bows, half moons, and lotuses manifested in the architecture. The design language that Ibuku has developed for working with bamboo is lyrical and intuitive. “We listen to what the material wants to do,” Schlueter says. “It’s the most logical way to get something really natural and organic from bamboo. If it wants to dance, we let it.”—Leilani Marie Labong
In a redeveloped harbor-front section of Barangaroo, a waterside precinct in Sydney, a seven-story mass timber structure lures in Sydneysiders with its sleek colonnade of recycled
ironbark beams. Recognized as the first engineered timber office building in Australia, International House ushered in the mainstreaming of mass timber across the country when it opened its doors in 2017, an example of ambitious architects pushing this sustainable style of high-rise construction.
Ask Alec Tzannes, architect and founder of the eponymous firm that designed International House, and you might be surprised to find the pioneering commercial wood building didn’t get a warm welcome from the wider finance and real estate world at first. “The investment and tenant market rejected the proposal,” he said, which prompted developer Lendlease to form a new company with other investors in order to indemnify the real estate company for five years’ worth of rent and permit construction to begin without an end buyer or tenant. “Only after
Global developers have called mass timber buildings “green magnets” that attract top tenants, especially during the worldwide lull in downtown office leasing.
[International House] was nearly complete, the quality and design was evident, and it leased very well, did it prove the viability of this type of investment.”
Australia is seeing a steady rise in new builds featuring mass timber and cross-laminated timber (CLT), a prefabricated and engineered wood panel, in place of steel beams and concrete. Beginning with the 10-story Forté apartment building in Melbourne—another Lendlease project—national developers, builders, and architects have embraced timber’s strength, sustainability, and aesthetics. International House, which wrapped a frame of minimalist wooden beams, braces, walls, and stairs in a crisp glass facade, radiates warmth, especially in the evenings, when interior lighting plays off the wooden edifice and makes the building glow like a jewel box.
In Sydney’s central business district, Atlassian Central, the $1.4 billion headquarters for software giant Atlassian, will bring that kind of permeable facade to a high-rise. Well underway and slated to open in 2027, the 40-story hybrid timber tower was conceived by architecture firms Shop Architects and BVN to mimic a bookcase, with four-story sections of mass timber resembling the shelves. These multilevel sections, or “neighborhoods,” will boast open-air parks and fully operable windows that enable office workers to touch grass and feel the breeze hundreds of feet in the air.
Australia’s timber revolution can be seen on both a commercial and residential scale. And it’s not just high-profile projects—like Melbourne’s Docklands library or The Exchange building designed by Kengo Kuma, which appears
like a spinning stack of plates— that stand as a testament to timber’s vast potential in the built environment. Goodman Group, the nation’s largest developer, will harness mass timber for a new industrial warehouse adjacent to the Moorabbin Airport outside of Melbourne. New homes, warehouses, offices, and government buildings across the nation have utilized the material and even introduced modular designs that accelerate the construction process.
The biophilic qualities of wood, including the exposed interior beams, natural finishes, and even the smell of the timber, have been shown to attract occupants. Global developers like Hines, which built the T3 Collingwood office in 2023, have called mass timber buildings “green magnets” that attract top tenants, especially during the worldwide lull in downtown office leasing. And such spaces come with the significant benefit of carbon sequestration. The embodied emissions of mass timber buildings can be up to 75 percent lower than conventional concrete-and-steel structures.
Despite the pace of development, many of the technical and personnel challenges of constructing with timber have only recently been overcome. International House, an untested commercial project, needed to import crews from the United States to help assemble the first few stores and give trade workers time to build up skills and experience with the material. Additionally, the push to build skyward and enhance sustainability creates new challenges. Atlassian Central, which plans to halve emissions from both the construction and operation of the building, lofted solar panels on its facade and repeatedly reformatted the design to achieve better carbon reduction; 55 carbon assessments were done over the two-and-ahalf-year design period.
Leveraging Australia’s success with CLT requires more ambitious building and the development of expanded, even domestic, supply chains. Both International House and Atlassian
imported timber from Austria, where the CLT concept was first popularized, and European firms like Theca and Hess Timber have Aussie architecture in their crosshairs. Even though the raw material is imported from overseas, mass timber structures still have a lower carbon footprint than buildings using domestic concrete. But there’s potential for Australian-sourced wood, and firms like Xlam, to play a larger role in domestic projects. Industry and government support has pushed the use of new products, such as building beams made from blue gum, a native eucalyptus.
“Austria has invested in environmentally sustainable forest farming and this CNCled prefabrication technology, creating a cost-effective supply and manufacturing industry serving the world,” Tzannes said. “Australia could have done this and still can but hasn’t had the vision or political will to do so.”
The domestic wood industry will have plenty of chances with new high-profile projects such as the Sydney Market redevelopment, which will use Italian spruce in its rooftops. Even the Atlassian tower will soon be looking up, so to speak, at another tower. In Perth, a 50-story residential hybrid timber skyscraper, C6, was approved in October. Its aim, said its developer, is to “cast shade” on Atlassian.—Patrick Sisson
A decade ago, I had a small idea—one that would forever change my life. It was centered around bringing artists together, pulling them from different corners of the globe and building bridges with local communities. It started in a warehouse with a small group of artists, and the intent was to open the exhibition space up to the public during the art installation process.
I always felt that was more interesting than the final product. Seeing the trials and tribulations of an artist at work and witnessing them overcome those obstacles is endlessly inspiring, and I knew it was something that needed to be shared.
I also knew the value of collaboration. We learn the most when we’re working alongside and with each other.
Experimenting and taking risks is always a little bit easier when you are with friends.
Finally, we wanted to remove the financial aspect of art making. The pressure to create pieces that will sell often leads to us painting ourselves into a corner. Removing these constraints can be exhilarating and gives us the freedom to try new techniques and concepts.
The biggest lightbulb moment came in 2011, when 123Klan, an artist duo from Montreal, proposed painting the wall in the parking lot of the warehouse. That act alone achieved a lot of our goals, plus it helped give art back to the people and beautified the community. We changed directions and became fully focused on public art.
The following year, we did
about 12 murals, and it kept growing from there. In more recent festivals, we’ve had 120 artists painting 100 murals in a week, complete with gallery exhibitions, block parties, and concerts. We even created schools for art, music, and photography. We now host festivals in more than 20 cities around the world, with all of them focused on the same goals. All the while, we built a family of passionate, like-minded individuals all over the planet.
A few years ago, I started teaching art classes at Pālama Settlement and saw an immediate need to support that community. I felt that beautifying the area with public art would uplift the entire neighborhood. We’ve seen it done not only in Kaka‘ako but around the world.
Most famous for its forward-thinking
One moment that’s stayed with me is when we painted public housing communities in Worcester, Massachusetts. A mother of two daughters came up to us during the festival and mentioned that her oldest daughter was always embarrassed to tell people where she lived. She felt there was a misconception and stigma that came from living in public housing. She then said that her youngest daughter told someone where she lived, and they responded by asking if that was where all the painting was happening. It meant everything to her for her kids to have a sense of pride in where they are from.
I’d like to bring this back to my own hometown as well. I spent a lot of time in Kalihi growing up—my mom had a frozen meat store and a bakery across from Farrington High School. We worked there for a lot of my childhood, so Kalihi is a part of my own personal history. It’s why, after more than a decade of beautifying walls in Kaka‘ako, we’ve shifted our focus to the Kalihi-Pālama district, where our mission to foster creativity and create positive impact through public art continues. As our network expands around the globe, we’re as dedicated as ever to our island community, using art as a vehicle to promote cultural exchange, inspire dialogue, and enrich neighborhoods, both abroad and here at home.
If you want to see the future, look no further than the Asia Pacific.
hibiscus summit 2025, designed as a “postmodern Davos in the Pacific,” brings together a new wave of innovative leaders from across the Asia Pacific who are reshaping business, culture, cities, and our connection with the environment.
This inaugural gathering in Honolulu, Hawai‘i, is envisioned as a catalyst for creative collaboration, driving social, environmental, and economic impact across the region and beyond.
The agenda for hibiscus summit 2025 is focused on Building Vibrant Cities and Communities in alignment with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals.
Start off 2025 with inspiring conversation, meaningful dialogues, and the warm hospitality of Honolulu, and leave with fresh ideas and insights to revitalize your business, city, and community.
Schedule
Sunday, January 5
Sunset Welcome Reception
Nightcap Conversations
Hau Terrace
Lewers Lounge
4:00pm–7:00pm 7:00pm
Monday, January 6
Sunrise Breakfast
Morning Session I
Delegate Lunch
Break
Afternoon Session
Après-Surf Sunset Cocktails
Shuttle Vans Depart Halekulani
Delegate Dinner Party
Nightcap Conversations
Garden Terrace
Hau Terrace
TBA
Hau Terrace
Hau Terrace Lanai
The Pacific Club
Lewers Lounge
7:00am–8:15am
8:30am–12:00pm 12:00pm–1:30pm 1:30pm–2:00pm 2:00pm–5:00pm 5:00pm–6:00pm 6:00pm 6:30pm–9:00pm 9:30pm
Tuesday, January 7
Sunrise Breakfast
Morning Session II
Delegate Lunch
Shuttle Vans Depart Halekulani
Afternoon Roundtable Discussions
Garden Terrace
Halekulani Ballroom
La Mer
Punahou School
Shangri La
Wednesday, January 8
“Sustainability in Action” Field Trip
Design Tour
Kōkua Learning Farm
Liljestrand House
7:00am–8:15am 8:30am–12:00pm 12:15pm–1:30pm 2:00pm 2:30pm–6:30pm 8:00am–3:00pm 9:30am–12:00pm
Meredith Artley
Hon. Richard Bissen
Bing Chen
Graham Hart
Shu Hung
Sunwoo Noah Choi Aftab Hussain
Celeste Connors Bill Ireton
Tim Donohue Melinda Joe
Josh Feldman Doug Johnstone
Sarah Kehaulani Goo Amelia Juhl
Hon. Josh Green, M.D.
Dr. Mike Latham Arnold Martines
Connie Lau Cristina Moon
Grace Haeun Lee
Carissa Moore
John Leong Peter Morley
Kūhiō Lewis
Dawn Lippert
Christopher Lord
Kid Parchariyanon
Peng
Pieters
president & ceo - hawaiian host group honolulu
chief operating officer - halekulani corporation honolulu Ed Schultz
Peter Shaindlin
2x olympic medalist, author, producer, photographer, and sports envoy los angeles
Alex Shibutani
2x olympic medalist, author, producer, and sports envoy los angeles
Maia Shibutani
faculty specialist - university of hawai ‘ i liaison - obama foundation honolulu
Dr. Maya Soetoro
cofounder - agency singapore
Lishan Soh
founding partnertod williams billie tsien architects | partners new york
Billie Tsien
incoming director - asia-pacific center for security studies honolulu
Suzanne Vares-Lum
senior lead - ideo san francisco
Natalia Vasquez
managing director & partner - boston consulting group new york
Jill Wang
ceo - kathmandu christchurch
Megan Welch
founder & ceo - iq 360 honolulu
Lori Teranishi
founder & lead director - world wide walls honolulu
Jasper Wong
director of lifestyle - muji tokyo
Eri Tsutsumi
cofounder & ceo - vietcetera media ho chi minh city
Hao Tran
cofounder - majordomo media cohost - the dave chang show los angeles
Chris Ying
Jason Cutinella
Cristina Moon founder
Dr. Michael Bruno Raj George
Mike Peng
Karen Ng
Arnold Martines Emily Stone
Peter Shaindlin
Hao Tran
Nohea Shozen
Thompson
Wang
Kim-Hee Wong
hibiscus summit 2025 is presented by the hibiscus foundation, a new Honolulu-based 501(c) (3) international nonprofit organization focused on accelerating economic growth, facilitating business and investment opportunities, and driving environmental and social impact across the Asia Pacific region in alignment with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals.
All proceeds from hibiscus summit 2025 support hibiscus foundation programs and initiatives, furthering our mission in Hawai‘i and across the Asia Pacific region.
Special Thanks
Rebecca Alderson
Hollie Amano
Anthony Aoude
Noe Archambault
Nelson Arlos
Jesse Arneson
Nancy Azeri
Cleo Berliner
Kristi Cardoso
Bryna Chang
Wendy Chang
Noelle Cornelio
Trudy Couillard
Aaron Crawford
Barbara Crutchfield
Brandi Cutler
Jeff Davis
Izumi Dresen
Tom Edwards
Brandt Farias
Zach Fetaru
Lyle Fujikawa
Emily Fukunaga
Linda Furuto
Robert Gelber
Simon George
Nikki Gibson
Leela Goldstein
Kamalei Grace
Silvia Greiss
Hannah Grundy
Raquel Guss
David Heenan
Christina May Ho
Tiffany Huynh
Kerry Ichimasa
Wendy Isbell
Kajsa Johnson
Brandon Kim
Melissa Kim
Josh Kopp
Ashley Lee
Scott Lee
Tiffany Lee
Darren Lerner
Eric Leterc
Denise Leung
Meredith Low
Dave Lu
Michelle Luo
Marine Marcus
Malia Mason
Lisa Matsuda
Debbie Millikan
Nahed Minawi
Bette Ng
Klara Ng
Patrick Ng
Scott Na‘auao
Taylor Niimoto
Kelly Perry
Natalia Pierre-Paul
Kristine Pontecha
Gavin Power
John Pumpa
Ana Reidy
Doug Rigg
Mahito Sakai
Tuda Sarian
Mark Sullivan
Mika Takemura
Patricia Tam
Ann Teranishi
Bailey Tolar
Jade Wang
Ben Weitz
Greg Wilcock
Randy Wong
Lori Yip
Jaymie Yonemoto
| Honolulu | January 11–13, 2026
