logo
Office of Hawaiian Affairs team retrieves ancestral remains

Office of Hawaiian Affairs team retrieves ancestral remains

Yahoo04-05-2025

A team from the Office of Hawaiian Affairs and Hui Iwi Kuamoo is heading home to Hawaii after taking back five sets of ancestral Hawaiian remains during formal ceremonies from the National Museums of Northern Ireland—Ulster Museum.
Ethnologist Gordon Augustus Thomson of Belfast, Ireland, traveled to Hawaii island in 1840, found and removed the iwi kupuna from burial caves and donated them to the Belfast Natural History and Philosophical Society in 1857, according to OHA.
The items were included in a 1910 donation to the Belfast Museum and Art Gallery, a precursor to Ulster Museum and NMNI.
'With deep humility and reverence we witness the healing of a long-standing kaumaha (sadness ). The return of our iwi kupuna is about restoring dignity, healing generations, and reaffirming the living spirit of our ancestors, ' said OHA CEO Stacy Ferreira said in a news release.
OHA started the repatriation process in October 2021 with a claim for five iwi kupuna and five mea kapu (sacred objects ) believed to be at the museum in Northern Ireland.
After museum staff could not find three sets of remains, a team from Hawaii traveled to Ireland in April 2022 and retrieved two iwi kupuna plus the mea kapu. The museum staff found the missing remains in November.
Hui Iwi Kuamoo and OHA collaborated with the museum to make arrangements for a second repatriation.
The group has provided 'care for iwi kupuna ' and other sacred objects since 1989.
Hui Iwi Kuamoo founder Halealoha Ayau said in a news release that taking remains from Hawaii was 'illicit and a form of desecration, ' adding that the iwi will be reinterred on Hawaii island.
'We don't have to know who these people are, we just have to know they are Hawaiian, ' Ayau told the BBC News. 'The living have a responsibility to bring them back and to replant them into our land. They can continue their journey to decompose, become elemental again, and their spirit (s ) allowed to travel on.'
Kathryn Thomson, chief executive of NMNI said in a statement that the repatriation represents the museum's commitment to right wrongs of the past.
'Whilst the motivation behind the acquisition of ethnological material can appear strange today, it reflected curiosity about the wider world and a desire to represent diverse cultures. However, the European bias and power imbalances that often characterized this collecting have left a complex and sensitive legacy for us to address today, ' she said.
The repatriation team included Hale ­aloha Ayau, Halona Tanner, Mana and Kalehua Caceres, Kamana Caceres, Keoki Pescaia, Ulu Cashman, Koiahi Panua and Kalei Velasco representing Hui Iwi Kuamoo ; representing OHA were Kamakana Ferreira, OHA compliance archaeologist, and Kuike Kamakea Ohelo, director of oiwi well-being and aina momona.

Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

Why Alpine Cheese Is Disappearing — and What We Lose If It Goes
Why Alpine Cheese Is Disappearing — and What We Lose If It Goes

Yahoo

time4 hours ago

  • Yahoo

Why Alpine Cheese Is Disappearing — and What We Lose If It Goes

In Italy's Valle d'Aosta, I ducked into a tunnel carved into the side of a mountain. Once a copper mine, it now holds thousands of wheels of Fontina DOP, one of the Alps' most storied cheeses. The first thing that hit was the smell: wood smoke, moss, and the unmistakable savory tang of cheese as it slowly ripens. I had asked Massimiliano Accornero, sales manager for the regional producers' cooperative, to snap a photo of me in the cave. 'Wait until we get to the end,' he said with a smile. 'There's an amazing view of so much cheese.' Related: Worried About Your Cheese Budget? Here Are 5 European-Sounding Cheeses That Are Actually Made in the U.S. But when we reached the far wall, several shelves sat empty. Accornero shook his head. 'It's weird for me,' he said quietly. 'I've never seen it this way in my life.' The empty shelves are the result of a sharp drop in production across the region. Fontina producers are making significantly less cheese than usual, brought on by a perfect storm of challenges: climate shifts, rising costs, labor shortages, and changing consumer habits. For one of Italy's most iconic mountain cheeses, the ripple effects are beginning to show, not just in the aging caves, but on grocery shelves around the world. Alpine cheese is made traditionally in the mountains of Switzerland, Italy, France, and Austria, where cows graze on wild herbs and flowers. There's no official, regulated definition of 'Alpine cheese,' but many of the most iconic examples, like Le Gruyère AOP, Fontina DOP, and Comté, are protected by European designations that control where and how they're made. This isn't Gruyère-style cheese from Wisconsin, or generic 'Alpine blend' shreds from the grocery aisle. It's cheese that's rooted deeply in geography, culture, and seasonality, shaped by altitude and history. Fontina's story, for example, goes back more than 800 years. First documented in 1217, it's made only from raw milk produced by Valdostana cows that graze on steep mountain pastures on Italy's side of the Alps. Gruyère has an even longer lineage. It was first recorded in 1115 in what's now western Switzerland. These cheeses are more than just food — they are living cultural artifacts, made the same way for centuries in a rhythm dictated by the seasons and land."'We used to go up the mountain in early June. Now, we go in early May. The grass grows faster, but not better. There's less snow, which means less water. The cows have less to drink, and the grass is less nutritious. It looks O.K., but it's not.'"In the summer, cows ascend to high-altitude pastures, where the wild grasses, herbs, and flowers lend complex flavors to the milk. These alpages, as they are called in French, are the heart of Alpine cheesemaking. From June to September, families live and work in simple, often solar-powered chalets, where they make cheese in wood-fired copper vats and age them in stone-lined cellars. When the weather cools, cows and people descend the mountain in a celebratory désalpe or désarpa, sometimes accompanied by parades, garlands, and bells. This seasonal migration with the herd is both romantic and grueling, rooted in necessity and reverence. It's what gives Alpine cheese its soul, and it is now increasingly under threat. Every producer I spoke with agreed: the challenges facing Alpine cheesemaking are not singular. They are interwoven and mounting. The most urgent is climate change. Emma Fuchs, an Austrian cheesemaker who spends her summers in the Allgäu Alps, with her husband Richard, says that the season has shifted. 'We used to go up the mountain in early June. Now, we go in early May,' she says. 'The grass grows faster, but not better. There's less snow, which means less water. The cows have less to drink, and the grass is less nutritious. It looks O.K., but it's not.' The Fuchs make a cheese called Alpe Loche, which is matured for a year in a stone cellar underneath their home. The cheese bursts with layers of flavors from puckery guava to meaty broth. In alpine ecosystems, even subtle shifts have cascading effects. Fewer snowmelt-fed streams mean parched pastures. Hotter days dry up valleys faster. With less high-quality forage, milk yields decline and the resulting cheeses lose some of their complexity. In a place where each wheel represents a season's worth of effort, that impact is profound. Labor and generational succession are another challenge. 'The number one problem is that young people don't want this life,' says Accornero. 'They don't want to work every weekend and every holiday. They want jobs that pay better and offer more time off.' That sentiment is echoed in Gruyère, where herds are consolidating, villages are shrinking, and many in the next generation choose other paths. Related: This Is Officially the No. 1 American-Made Cheese, According to This Year's U.S. Championship Cheese Contest 'It's not just about being born into it,' says Fuchs, who has three generations under one roof. 'You have to be in harmony with the cows, the mountains, the rhythm. If it's not in your body, it's not the right life.' Economics and trade also complicate the picture. Tariffs, currency fluctuations, and rising production costs have made small-scale cheese operations harder to sustain. In Italy's Aosta Valley, for instance, Fontina DOP production has declined from 4,006 tons in 2021 to 3,814 tons in 2023."'Milk prices used to go in cycles. But now, the pressure is constant. Small and medium farms are closing. If we don't make this profession respected — and viable — we'll lose it.'"Feed costs have surged due to supply chain disruptions and poor harvests linked to extreme weather. Energy expenses have spiked due to fuel price volatility, especially for producers who rely on heat and refrigeration in remote, mountainous regions. Retail prices for cheeses like Le Gruyère AOP and Comté have seen noticeable increases. Some varieties cost up to 40% more than they did a few years ago. 'Milk prices used to go in cycles,' says Michele Buster, co-founder of Forever Cheese and creator of Save the Shepherd. 'But now, the pressure is constant. Small and medium farms are closing. If we don't make this profession respected — and viable — we'll lose it.' Buster started Save the Shepherd in 2022 to combat a decline in the region's farms and shepherds. Her initiative highlights the stories of aging shepherds and cheesemakers who fear there's no one left to take over. 'We need to stop picturing cheesemakers as mountain men with walking sticks,' says Buster. 'There's incredible technology and innovation happening. This work can be modern. It can be cool. But we need to show that.' At Alpe Loche, Fuch's nephew, Florian, has taken up the torch. Rather than scale up, he invested in better infrastructure: a small milking parlor to replace hand-milking, a free-stall barn that gives cows more space and comfort, and modest mechanical upgrades to make the work more humane. 'They didn't do it to make more cheese,' says Sigfried von Frankenberg-Leu, who stayed with the family during a cheesemaking apprenticeship. 'They did it to make life better — for the animals and the people.' Last September, I stepped onto the farm of Le Gruyère AOP milk producer Nicolas Jotterand, and into what felt like The Sound of Music, in the countryside outside of Biere, Switzerland. Jotterand's farm is perched on a hilltop north of the Alps, in the foothills of Mount Moléson. The hills were alive that day with regal Holstein cows. Their large bells rang in the gentle breeze as they munched on grass and wild herbs. In every direction, the sun shone generously on bright green hills. At Jotterand's farm, innovation meets stewardship. Solar panels line the roof. Manure is composted and reused as fertilizer. Methane emissions are tracked and mitigated with essential oils. 'It's not one thing that makes our milk high quality,' says Jotterand. 'It's all of it: how we treat the cows, the land, the air. Everything matters.' Related: 5 Surprising Facts You Should Know About Cheese, According to an Expert Even the supply chain is evolving to meet the moment. Jonathon Richardson of Columbia Cheese described how their team builds long-term relationships with Alpine producers. 'We don't get as much cheese as we want, but we get what we can,' he says. 'We bring them American whiskey. We check in. That connection [is] part of the sustainability, too.' Alpine cheeses like Fontina and Gruyère are nutty, grassy, silky, and complex. But that's not all. They are the sum of landscapes, people, practices, and time. Each wheel carries the imprint of a place and season: the grass that grew that summer, the hands that turned it, the cellars that aged it. If these traditions fade, we don't just lose flavor. We lose a worldview. A way of living close to the land. A model of slow food, intentional work, and intergenerational knowledge. We lose the bells on the cows' necks, the stories passed down at the vat, and the alpages that dot the mountains like time capsules. But we don't have to lose it, at least not yet. These cheeses are still here. People still believe in them. They're still climbing mountains in May, making two wheels a day by hand (on a good day), braving steep pastures, erratic weather and low pay to bring something extraordinary into the world. All they ask is that we pay attention. That we pay a little more. That we care. And when we taste a sliver of these alpine cheeses, that's incredibly easy to do. Read the original article on Food & Wine

Lesley Lokko is on a mission to transform architecture, fostering a new generation of ‘more dynamic thinkers'
Lesley Lokko is on a mission to transform architecture, fostering a new generation of ‘more dynamic thinkers'

Yahoo

time8 hours ago

  • Yahoo

Lesley Lokko is on a mission to transform architecture, fostering a new generation of ‘more dynamic thinkers'

When Lesley Lokko was a young student in 1990s London, architecture was a place of openness and experimentation. And yet, she felt the discipline was incapable of thinking beyond European concepts of space. 'We were being taught… in a very predominantly Eurocentric way, about the difference between inside and outside, between privacy and publicity, or even simple things like a family structure,' said the renowned Scottish-Ghanian architect, now in her 60s. She noted the difference between her experience growing up around extended family and the small 'two-up, two-down' homes common among nuclear families in the UK. Even her way of thinking about building materials was at odds with the curriculum: in the tropics, concrete rots and metal rusts. 'The way you think about weather and materials and circulation and ventilation is very different,' Lokko told CNN over a video call from Ghana's capital Accra. Fast forward three decades and Lokko is now the educator leading the classroom. Her initiative, the African Futures Institute (AFI), is an effort to radically re-imagine what a design education should look like for younger generations. The institute, based in Accra, was initially going to be an independent post-graduate school of architecture. But Lokko soon realized the logistics and resources needed to start an entirely new school might be out of reach. 'Also, I'm not sure that the world needs another architecture school… what it needs are more ambitious, more creative, more dynamic thinkers and makers,' she said. Instead, the AFI will host the Nomadic African Studio, a series of annual studio sessions offering new ways to think about architecture and design as they relate to pressing global issues, like climate change and migration. Over half of the first group of participants are from Africa, with another 25% from the diaspora. Part of the project aims to turn narratives about Africa on their heads. Echoing post-colonial thinkers like Frantz Fanon, the West Indian psychiatrist and philosopher, Lokko laments how the continent has long been 'positioned as the recipient of knowledge.' 'We're the producer of raw materials, but we are the recipients of finished products — whether that's intellectual products or cars,' she said, expressing her desire for the project to demonstrate that Africa is also 'the generator of ideas… and knowledge.' Last year, Lokko became the first African woman to be awarded the Royal Institute of British Architects' Royal Gold Medal in its 176-year-history. The year before, she became the first Black architect to curate the Venice Biennale, with her program widely celebrated as one of the most politically-engaged, environmentally aware and inclusive in the event's history. (Her attempts to stretch the boundaries and reach of the discipline were not without criticism, however: architect Patrik Schumacher, principal of the late Zaha Hadid's firm, lamented that the event from his perspective did 'not show any architecture.') Lokko's achievements signal a breakthrough for diversity in the discipline (in the UK, nearly 80% of registered architects are White). But how does Lokko feel about being the 'first' to receive these prestigious accolades and appointments? 'The constant refrain, the first Black, the first woman, the first African, they've always seemed to me to be other people's descriptions. It's not how I would describe myself,' she said. 'The 'first' only really makes sense when you're not living here,' she added, referring to her home in Ghana. 'When I left Accra, I was half-Scottish, half-Ghanaian,' she said of leaving the country at 17 for boarding school in England. 'When I arrived in London the next morning, I was Black.' But she acknowledges the monumental achievements are a 'massive leverage' enabling her to pursue projects like AFI. 'Whatever the descriptions are, they give you access to supporters, donors, funders, philanthropists, in a way that you probably wouldn't have without it. It's a bit of a double-edged sword,' Lokko added. The future — and preparing younger generations for it — are at the forefront of Lokko's practice today. When she curated the Biennale, the average age of participants was 43 (significantly younger than previous editions). Half the practitioners on the program hailed from Africa or the African diaspora. The Biennale also centered the continent through its central exhibition theme: Africa as the Laboratory of the Future. 'It was an attempt to say that so many of the conditions that the rest of the world are now beginning to face, Africa has been facing those for 1,000 years and, in some ways, we're ahead of the present,' said Lokko, who used the word 'laboratory' to convey the continent as a workshop 'where people can come together to imagine what the future can look like.' The Nomadic African Studio appears to take a leaf from the same book. The first of its annual month-long programs will launch in Fez, Morocco this July. Around 30 participants under the age of 35 were either chosen from an open call or invited by a nomination committee to join the free program. (Lokko admitted there was pushback about the age limit but she wanted to use the inaugural studio to address Africa as 'a continent of young people.') Working in small groups, participants will be given a topic — like city-making or cultural identity — to interpret and produce a model, design, film, or performance around. The focus, for Lokko, is not on the outcome. She is critical of architectural education for its tendency to fixate on finished products. The point here is not about producing speedy outputs, it's about 'teaching people how to think.' 'You can have a huge impact on the way someone thinks about really important, difficult topics,' said Lokko, who hopes that after five iterations, hundreds of people will have benefitted from its rigorous, exploratory environment. 'Maybe, eventually, a new form of school will emerge,' she said. Lokko herself had no plans of becoming an architect. She studied Hebrew and Arabic for a term at the University of Oxford before studying sociology in the US. She considered becoming a lawyer, and was working as an office manager when an offhand comment set her on the path to becoming an architect. While helping a colleague sketch countertops for his side businesses (a restaurant and dry cleaners), he became struck by her drawings. He told her: ''You're mad. Why do you want to be a sociologist or a lawyer? You should be an architect,'' Lokko recalled. 'It was literally the first time it had ever occurred to me.' At 29, she found herself back in the UK and enrolled in an undergraduate degree program at University College London's famed Bartlett School of Architecture. Lokko felt 'fortunate' to study there at a time of what she called great experimentation and academic open-mindedness — though the field remained male-dominated and lacking in diversity. 'I think there were maybe six or seven women in the class… there was only one other person of color,' she recalled. Beyond the demographics, aspects of the discipline felt restrictive and didn't reflect the experiences Lokko had with built spaces growing up in Ghana. 'The rules seemed to be that you conformed to architecture, rather than architecture conforming to what you might have known,' she explained, referencing ways of learning about space that didn't account for the world outside of Europe. 'I was very conscious all the time of having to forget all that in order to excel at what I was being taught,' said Lokko, adding that those first few years pursuing her degree were a matter of 'suppressing my instincts and experiences.' In the early 2000s, Lokko decided the architecture field wasn't for her and left a teaching job in the US to become a writer. For 15 years, she worked full time writing novels that explored themes of racial and cultural identity through romance and historical fiction. It was an unorthodox move that ended up broadening her perspective as an architect. '(Fiction) allowed me to develop certain ideas around identity, around race, around belonging, around history that I think I would have really struggled to articulate in architecture,' she explained. After so much time away from the discipline, she was called back when she was asked to be an external examiner for the University of Johannesburg's graduate program. It was at a time when South Africa was undergoing profound change with the Rhodes Must Fall and Fees Must Fall movements, when university students demanded the removal of 19th century colonist Cecil Rhodes' statue at the University of Cape Town and refused tuition hikes — eventually securing a freeze on their fees. The student activist movement also called for the 'decolonization' and 'transformation' of higher education institutions across the country, where academia was a predominantly White space. (In 2012, White academics made up 53% of full-time permanent academic staff despite White people making up 8% of South Africa's population.) Lokko stayed on, becoming an associate professor in the university's department of architecture, which she remembers as having low enrollment and little diversity. The opportune timing meant the atmosphere was ripe for change, leading her to found a new graduate school of architecture at the university in 2014. 'Suddenly, the flood gates opened, and Black students started pouring into the school,' she said, the experience allowing her to develop a way of teaching that was relevant to Africans and post-colonial identities. But what made all these Black students enroll in a discipline that had been dominated by White students for so long? 'At a really basic level — having role models, having professors of color,' said Lokko. 'Female students would say to me: 'We'd never encountered somebody like you before.'' The enrollment numbers were also bolstered by her efforts to center the curriculum around student interests and the cultural context they were approaching architecture from. It was all part of a broader ethos Lokko uses to approach education, the job of which is, she said, to 'dream about possibilities for a future that's not yet here.'

UN launches a rescue operation after 8 migrants die off Djiboutian coast
UN launches a rescue operation after 8 migrants die off Djiboutian coast

Hamilton Spectator

time8 hours ago

  • Hamilton Spectator

UN launches a rescue operation after 8 migrants die off Djiboutian coast

NAIROBI, Kenya (AP) — The U.N migration agency said Wednesday that eight migrants died and 22 others were missing after they were forced off a boat near the Djiboutian coast. The International Organization for Migration, or IOM, in a statement said the migrants were part of a group of 150 others who were forced by smugglers to disembark a boat and swim to shore on June 5. The migrants were found in the desert by IOM patrol teams and taken to a migrant response center. The IOM and authorities in Djibouti are continuing with a search and rescue operation to find the missing migrants. 'Every life lost at sea is a tragedy that should never happen,' Celestine Frantz, said IOM Regional Director for the East, Horn and Southern Africa. Frantz said that the migrants were 'forced into impossible choices by smugglers who show no regard for human life.' Thousands of migrants from African, Middle Eastern and South Asian countries seeking a better life in Europe attempt irregular migration every year . Smugglers pack vessels full of desperate people willing to risk their lives to reach continental Europe. Most of the vessels get migrants across the Red Sea to Gulf countries before they proceed further to European nations. Yemen is a major route for migrants from East Africa and the Horn of Africa trying to reach Gulf countries for work, with hundreds of thousands attempting the route each year. Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into the world of global news and events? Download our app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store