“Healing in Ashes, November 2023,” Essay, Kristin Mattson.
Hawaii is a paradise born of fire.
Rand McNally
You have risen from the ashes before. The only way to survive...is to believe you always will.
Samantha Shannon
The Hawaiian word for heal is Ho’ola, to give life or revive. In November 2023, Maui was our Hale Ho’ola, our life-giving healing paradise where I would recover from the deep brain stimulation (DBS) surgical ordeal. I put a lot of energy into planning my revival. Attending to the details distracted me from my worries. I imagined the healing powers of the island like a North Star guiding me through the trauma. And then everything changed.
I was forty-eight years old when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Almost ten years later, the disease had done enough damage to my dopamine neurons that it was difficult for me to take the medication needed to power my system without causing dyskinesia, wild, uncontrolled bursts of movement. Always in search of more effective treatments, in the spring of 2023 I completed a trial and was approved for DBS. For many, DBS is life changing. It does not cure Parkinson’s, but it can control both the symptoms of the disease and dyskinesia indefinitely. However, the process required to acquire DBS is daunting. The installation is grueling—two awake brain surgeries, followed by a third surgery in which the surgeon tunnels through your neck to connect the brain wires to the chest battery. And frightening—imagining the sound of the surgeon drilling into my skull, the prospect of being awake through hours of brain surgery, would I still “be me” on the other side?
My first surgery, on August 3, did not go smoothly. Among other things, I had an adverse reaction to some of the medications which greatly complicated both my physical and emotional recovery. Then on August 8, five days after my first surgery, my North Star went out—or rather, exploded. Sparked by downed power lines in dry and windy conditions, the town of Lahaina Maui burned to the ground, killing at least one hundred people. Travel to Maui was halted, and the governor asked people with immediate plans to visit the island to stay home.
My remaining surgeries were completed by late September, my current turned on in mid-October. On October 8, its economy in freefall, Maui (excluding West Maui) reopened to tourists. Immediately, a petition to delay the reopening garnered more than ten thousand signatures. Nonetheless, on November 1, West Maui, except for the charred remains of Lahaina, reopened. Absorbed in my own personal drama, I struggled for perspective. What role should I play in response to this larger calamity? I wanted to respect the community’s wishes but could argue that economics were important for community well-being too. If I’m honest, I also thought my situation might warrant some sort of special treatment. In the end I was persuaded by those who argued that tourist dollars were needed—we would try to spend our money in locally owned establishments as much as possible, volunteer if we could, and practice respectful tourism. I was aware this decision was self-serving. I didn’t know if it was wrong. I still don’t.
While in Hawai’i, I kept a journal to keep track of my own healing journey. I soon realized I was charting something entirely different, a trauma much larger than my own. Without an effective biomarker, Parkinson’s is diagnosed through clinical observation. Accustomed to measuring the ravages of my own disease in this way, I assessed the disorder I was witnessing with my eyes. I left behind my mainlanders’ cartoonish vision of Hawai’i as a healing island paradise and began to trace its scars, revealing a Hawai’i deeply shaped by its recent colonial past. My journal charted ways colonialism injured Hawaiian land, limited its economy, and endangered its people.
Currently, there is no cure for Parkinson’s. We can only mitigate the symptoms—and symptomatic treatment is made possible by understanding the relationship between the symptoms and the disease. Perhaps symptomatic relief is all Maui can hope for too, at least in the immediate term. But even that requires a fuller understanding of the ways the horrors of the Lahaina fire are symptomatic of the colonial relationship. An autopsy of Lahaina’s charred remains reveals the distinct pathology of Hawaiian colonialism and the particular damage it did to Native people and land. The particularities of the disease must inform treatment if we are to do more than mask the symptoms.
Live Wires
We landed in Kahului Maui in the late afternoon on November 12 and were welcomed by a huge double rainbow—a sign of good luck to ancient Hawaiians, we were told. We were staying in Ka’anapali in West Maui, the smaller of Maui’s interconnected spheres and home to Lahaina. After our errands in Kahului, we began our trek to the condo in the dark, joining the steady stream of traffic winding its way through the foothills of the West Maui mountains. About thirty minutes into our drive, flashing construction signs warned us that Lahaina town was closed and drivers who parked on the median to observe the damage would be heavily fined. We were rerouted around the town and soon after the detour, we arrived at our condo at the Whaler, a two-building multistory condominium complex located directly on Ka’anapali beach, less than a mile from the fire’s reach.
We spent our first days in Maui focused on healing: soaking in the sun, playing in the waves, and eating amazing food. I protected my bald head and healing incisions with baseball caps and gobs of mineral sunscreen. We marveled at the new smoothness of my movements, relieved that the DBS had not erased the muscle memory that powers swimming, as we had been warned it could. Much of the food we ate was Asian inspired, a reflection of Hawai’i’s majority Asian American demographic, and it was delicious. We had a lovely lunch of chow fun and fried rice at Ichiban Okazuya in Wailuku and dined another night at the marvelous Kitoko in Kihei where we had Mahi Mahi and shrimp bento boxes which we savored at an outdoor table in a lush botanical garden.
But even those first days were not all sunshine and rainbows. That first evening we passed in the dark and only briefly glimpsed the angry wound that now marked Lahaina. A couple mornings later, I began to take in the enormity of the devastation when I walked the coastal path in front of our condo. It was very windy, and the National Weather Service had issued a red flag warning indicating a high risk of fire due to strong winds and dry air. About halfway up the path, Lahaina came into view. The damage was overwhelming, awesome. Entire neighborhoods were blackened shells. Charred palm trees and the skeletons of burnt buildings scattered across a long spit of land jutting into the sea. Unharmed sailboats anchored off the blackened coast bobbed in the waves. Surveying this catastrophe from a distance, I suddenly felt embarrassed and quickly headed back toward the condo. Incredible beauty marred by horror, dislocation, and death. My personal healing journey to a land whose new wound exposed centuries of injury, a body infinitely more in need of healing than my own.
November 14 Healing properties of Hawaiian land, water, herbs, stones. For many indigenous people, individual health is impossible without being in “right relationship” with each other, past and present, and the land. How to think about my own healing in the context of such catastrophic damage to this healing land? Hawaiian prayer of healing—Ho’oponopono—I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, I love you. What would it take to “Let Lahaina Heal?”
The irony of the fact that the fire sparked from downed power lines was not lost on me. Wires strung from my chest to my brain channel a current which smooths my movements and gives me a more natural energy. I must guard these wires—I am warned to avoid things that might cause my own wires to overheat and damage the neurons that they power. In Lahaina, when the power lines fell to the ground they overheated, the current escaped its channel, arcing and igniting the dry grasses below. I read that the civil defense sirens were not sounded, and many people did not know about the fire until they were warned by noxious smoke or by actually seeing the inferno racing their way. When they tried to escape the fast-moving flames in their cars, the vehicles caught fire and exploded. Many of those who died did so in their cars. Others headed for the sea, still dodging sparks and flames blown out over the water. The individual-level trauma is difficult to comprehend and impossible to fathom.
November 15 The power of electricity—to harm and to heal.
Healing Waters
I love to swim and learned about the therapeutic qualities of water from my mother. She and I could always swim longer and later in the season than most and it was from her that I learned of the power of water to soothe most ills. As a child, I had strep throat and chicken pox at the same time, the heat of the summer and fever making it hard to find a spot on my body not covered with crusty pustules. I remember she took me strawberry picking and I sat on the cooler in the shade while she picked, after which we waded in the cool, clear waters of a local creek. When her own mother died, she was far away, attending the birth of her first grandchild. She and I took an icy dip in a mountain lake, startling away the pain and the loss and the guilt. Years later, when my son died, water gave me a different type of solace. In search of water in the cold Nebraska winter, I became a frequent flier at local car washes. The water’s steady pounding drowned out ALL my thoughts, giving me some comfort in those dark days.
My mother died in 2016, but I feel her presence and care when I swim alone, especially in the early morning, which was our special time. In Maui I swam every day, often several times a day. When we rented snorkeling equipment I incorporated that into my daily routine too. I snorkeled by the Black Rocks at the end of Ka’anapali beach, farther up the road in Kapalua cove, and at Chang’s beach in South Maui. I saw three sea turtles and hundreds of fish. The coral was pretty where it was healthy, but a lot of it was greyish white.
Hawaiian law forbids private ownership of the beach, making Hawaii’s healing waters accessible to all, unlike the guarded coastline of most of the continental United States. We accessed beautiful Oneloa beach from the grounds of a private resort. We hiked down black lava rocks to a deep beach with white sand and a good-sized surf. Another day we lazed at Makena Beach, a huge, open beach where the swimming is very good. The island of Kahoʻolawe was visible just off the coast. No one lives on Kaho’olawe, and only Native Hawaiians are permitted access to the island.
After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941 and the United States declared martial law in Hawai’i, the U.S. military began to use the island of Kaho’olawe for target practice. The United States attacked the already depleted land with such ferocity that it cracked the island’s water table. Rendered uninhabitable, the battered island was returned to Hawaiian control in the 1990s. Since then, the Kaho’olawe Island Reserve Commission has been tiptoeing around unexploded bombs in land and water to slowly restore the islands’ natural habitat. Their slow successes in the face of the toxic and near-total destruction of land has led some to wonder if Kaho’olawe’s recovery might help guide Lahaina’s. However, Kaho’olawe’s lack of development and inhabitants greatly limits its relevance as a model.
Hazard signs posted on Maui beaches warn swimmers of waves that break close to shore and currents that will drag you out to sea. Naturally cautious with the ocean, I was careful to heed those warnings, not swimming out beyond the Black Rocks on Ka’anapali beach on my sunrise snorkeling adventures. Later I wondered though if those signs focused my attention on the wrong threats—was I carefully avoiding shore breaks while swimming in a toxic sea?
November 18 I can’t see Lahaina’s burnt carcass when I stay close to shore, but I know it is there. If I swam out beyond the Black Rocks, would it come into view? When all those toxins seep into the ocean, what happens to them? What is downstream in an ocean? With so many hotels still closed, no one appears to be offering the sunrise hau wai/ saltwater cleansing ritual. Would it help?
The fire melted a town less than a mile from where I swam, leaving behind an immeasurably toxic brew ready to spill into the Pacific Ocean. Despite best efforts to block its flow, scientists studying the fire’s effects worry about the futility of their efforts, both to contain the toxic sludge and to predict its ultimate impact—on coral, on fish, on swimmers, on the entire ecosystem. This is a danger much too complex and catastrophic to be depicted on a hazard sign.
November is supposed to be the start of the rainy season in Maui, increasing the threat posed by the runoff. But I found West Maui dry, particularly the hills that compose the backdrop of its beachfront communities. Part of this lack of moisture is attributable to climate change, as Hawai’i’s annual rainfall totals have been declining for years and, at the time of the fire, 36 percent of Maui County was in moderate to severe drought. The dehydrating effect of climate change is compounded by the ways colonialism reshaped this land. In the mid-nineteenth century, Hawai’i’s sugar barons rerouted the island’s watersheds to quench their thirsty crop. When agriculture declined in the late twentieth century and wide stretches of farmland were abandoned, invasive plants filled in the space left behind—tinder for the coming conflagration.
I’m sorry, please forgive me
On one of my morning walks down Ka’anapali beach, I stopped at the fish-in being staged by Native Hawaiians in front of the closed Westin next door to the Whaler. Signs read Lahaina Strong, and several Hawaiian flags flew upside down, signifying distress. About 8–10 large tents were amassed in protest. Protesters said they were there to make tourists aware of the suffering still going on after the fire. The vast majority of those placed in short-term housing remained. Maui’s stock of affordable housing was already critically low; when the fire increased demand and decreased supply, the effect was catastrophic. The environmental contamination of Lahaina is so complete that efforts to rebuild the town that housed almost thirteen thousand people are not likely to begin for at least two years. And although the governor reassured the public that none of the displaced would be unhoused by tourism, many were being bounced from one hotel to another to make room for tourists.
The protesters wanted tourists to see the depth of Lahaina’s wounds and to take responsibility for exposing and addressing the deep damage done by the colonial sickness. They wanted an apology, repentance. Not the toothless repentance of the 1993 U.S. apology resolution which acknowledged the role it played in the illegal overthrow of Hawai’i’s legitimate government without making any real policy change. Rather a righteous repentance, one that moves from “I’m sorry” to love—taking real steps to restore pono (balance). Colonialism built the extractive tourist economy in Maui. A healthy Lahaina breaks with this colonial past. It is zoned to encourage smart development and affordable housing with buried power lines to minimize fire danger and clear solutions to environmental and infrastructure challenges. It supports a variety of industries offering a range of employment opportunities. It addresses the inequality wrecked by colonialism. It is incredibly difficult to achieve, yet it is the only path to wellness for Lahaina.
The Hawaiian healing practice of Ho’oponopono teaches that healing of self comes from taking responsibility for everything that happens in your life. I was coming to see Lahaina’s healing and my own as linked. Sickness is life out of balance. Healing, the restoration of balance. But this healing process was not the peaceful retreat I had imagined. It was hard work that felt futile. It was painful and exhausting. I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. I love you.
November 20 The last day at the condo and we are both tired and burnt out. Part of that is because, in truth, while I love to swim, I’m not always a big fan of the beach—fair-skinned Scandinavian who gets prickly heat and canker sores from too much sun. More importantly though, as someone who considers herself politically progressive, I find the culture that grows up around beach communities depressing. Almost universally, poorer communities of color serve well-off whites in upscale resorts—Mexico, the American South, Hawai’i. This seems especially apparent in Hawai’i where the colonial past is relatively recent, and the cost of living is so high that class divisions are amplified. The isolation of Hawai’i adds to the feeling of separation. It makes me feel like an intruder, and like I’m lumped in with a group I don’t want to be a part of—White tourists. But I am in that group and the groups in Hawai’i seem particularly clearly drawn. The divide is great and feels unbridgeable. And this distance is exacerbated by the rawness of the Lahaina fire. In the end, I cannot escape the fact that I did choose to come to Maui (to West Maui even) when the wound was still very fresh. That is the lens through which I am viewed, and as much as I want people to understand my special circumstances, it is fair that I am viewed in this way. I am ready to go home.
Ho’oponopono
Our last full day in Maui, we checked out of the Whaler by 10, drove to Kahului and picked up lunch at Tin Roof, an excellent local daytime noodle house. The restaurant is only take-out, so we took our lunch to Baldwin Beach and ate it there.
Then we set out to Estabeni garden and cottage on the Road to Hana—slowly. The Road to Hana is blind curves, one-lane bridges and waterfalls for twenty miles, and it was pouring rain. It was still pouring when we arrived early for check-in, so we blew our horn as instructed and Terri came to meet us, umbrella in hand, and showed us around the cottage. It was lovely with sweeping views of the garden and the coast (when the clouds lifted).
Micheal, Terri’s husband, is a landscape architect from South Africa. He is the former director of the Honolulu Botanical Gardens. Estabeni garden is a showcase for roughly four hundred varieties of tropical plants, and when you stay at the cottage you can tour the garden as often as you like, which Carl and I did multiple times in the rain. The garden is marvelous, as are all the frogs, turkeys, chickens, cats, and other fauna we met along the way.
It poured most of the time we were at Estabeni, but I found the rain soothing. The cottage has a tin roof, so the rain was loud and playful. I was relieved to be out of West Maui, thankful to be on lush, healthy land fed by steady soaking rains. The moisture and cooler temperature felt good on my skin. It was tempting to find my healing here—uncomplicated, unmuddied but incomplete. Much of me wanted to forget everything the fire made me see.
But I cannot. Like it or not, my own healing story is now entwined with the island’s. Traditional Hawaiians believe that Mana, a spiritual energy and universal life force, connects us all to each other and to the universe, animate and inanimate alike. I have come to believe this too. In this story, I’m sorry. I ask forgiveness. I am thankful for the fire’s teaching and do not turn away from the lessons hidden in the muscle and bone that protrude from the wound it left behind. I recognize the universal life force that connects my scarred body to Lahaina’s scarred land. Healing will require acting with that connectedness in front of mind, attention to the restoration of balance. Aloha.
Kristin Mattson is the Assistant Dean of Arts and Humanities at College of Saint Mary in Omaha, Nebraska. She has a doctorate in American Politics. Her studies took a personal turn in 2014 when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease at the age of 48 and began to explore the fascinating and frightening world of neuroscience. Parkinson’s has been Kristin’s fiercest enemy and most engaging teacher. She recently published an essay, “Her,” in the online journal Medicine and Meaning, which reflects upon her fraught relationship with her female neurosurgeon during her recent deep brain stimulation surgery.