"Asian settler colonialism" calls attention to the simultaneous denial of Kanaka '& Omacr;iwi dispossession and the celebration of descendants of Asian immigrants as industrious members of Hawai'i's multicultural middle class. While we acknowledge the importance of confronting settler colonialism, we argue that Asian settler colonialism reinscribes an inaccurate understanding of Hawai'i Asians today and over time. Tracing Hawai'i history from the Kingdom era to the present, we show that Hawai'i Asians are not inherently settlers by virtue of being non-natives living and working on Indigenous land; rather, many Hawai'i Asians hold a generational responsibility and political affinity within the nation of Hawai'i. Further, as Hawai'i's hierarchies have evolved amid economic restructuring, the privilege and power held by some Asians have been incorrectly attributed to the native-settler binary of settler colonialism while overlooking the interplay of race, class, global economic shifts, and political dynamics reinforced by military action.

Maui residents are reckoning with tourism in the aftermath of the 2023 fires. Drawing from historical sources and popular media reports, we argue that beyond the island's strained relationship with the tourism industry, residents are contending with the slow emergency of plantation disaster capitalism. We draw from Naomi Klein and Kapua'ala Sproat's (2023) concept of plantation disaster capitalism which identifies the plantation industry's domination of resources as the basis of tourism's untethered control of land and water on the island. These crisis-driven industries perpetuate dependence through ongoing cycles of accumulation by dispossession. The concept of 'slow emergencies' further accounts for how, while the Maui fires rapidly destroyed lives, over a century and a half of settler colonial, racial, and capitalist relationships had already restructured landscapes and livelihoods and set the stage for the 2023 disaster. In critically addressing calls for tourism's resurgence, this conceptual paper contributes to emerging scholarship on plantation disaster capitalism in tourism destinations.

Hawai'i faces a crisis of homelessness due to the high cost of housing across the islands. Many without formal housing establish interdependent communities unsanctioned by property regimes and refer to themselves as "houseless" because intimate relations with place and expansive practices of care provide an adequate home. Attending to the experiences of Hawai'i's houseless, I unpack the meanings and practices of organized abandonment while proposing that some face structural neglect by "living with abandon." I argue that the rupturing of life-giving relations entwined with particular places serve as a foundation of organized abandonment. Devolution, state retrenchment, the intensification of land use for revenue-oriented development, and a punitive carceral state layer upon this foundational rupture to propel the continual abandonment of shared resources. This enables the ongoing circulation of capital through the environment. In response, people live with abandon by rejecting, or holding an ambivalent relationship with, aspirations to thrive within capitalism. Living with abandon is a form of creative improvisation that cultivates connections in the face of broken relations, yet remains defined by uncertainty and heartbreak. It both invokes the fullness of time and space and mourns the losses that have produced the tenuous present.

This article approaches "ea"-a Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) concept meaning life, breath, and sovereignty-as a vital mode of abolition ecologies, and proposes accompaniment as a methodology for mutual collaboration toward this endeavour. Research draws from ethnographic fieldwork on the Wai'anae Coast of O'ahu in Hawai'i, a predominantly Native Hawaiian community, and reflects upon the author's positionality on Wai'anae's insider-outsider borderlands. The argument is multifold: Carceral geographies inscribe racism by cleaving humans from the environment and each other, depriving life-giving resources from populations deemed a threat to a dominant socioenvironmental order. At the same time, abolition ecologies entail worldmaking predicated on the interdependence of all life forces, employing syncretic practices that join disparate struggles, people, and places to generate possibilities greater than the sum of its parts. Accompaniment works against racism's practices of criminalisation and containment while contributing to radical, syncretic placemaking as part of an expansive liberatory practice.

Carceral Conservationism:Contested Landscapes and Technologies of Dispossession at Ka‘ena Point, Hawai‘i Laurel Mei-Singh (bio) “Don’t turn your back to the ocean,” Kaula Crawford-Kapanui warned me on a morning visit to Ka‘ena in March 2014 as we climbed down wet rocks between sets of bone-breaking waves to gather hā‘uke‘uke, brilliant purple, sun-shaped shells thick with salty meat. While we gathered, our friends “threw net” to catch moi, manini, kala, and other fish in reefs they had known their whole lives. One of the fishermen, Al Sabagala, returned the first he caught, a tradition in Hawai‘i and other places where fishing is a way of life. “It’s all about the universe,” he told me, smiling. “That’s how it works, give back and expect nothing in return.”1 Throughout the day, Sabagala and his fishing partner caught a large cooler full of fish. We saw a monk seal swimming in tide pools and an eel’s head resting in a cove, its jaws wide open and the rest of its body torn off by a predator. Perhaps because of the abundant life and isolation of Ka‘ena from the parking lots, highways, and malls that shape the rest of the island of O‘ahu, people affectionately refer to Ka‘ena as “in the back.”2 As in, when I ran into Sabagala’s cousin at a takeout in Wai‘anae, he told me: “Al went fishing in the back last weekend,” indicating that Ka‘ena exists as a space somewhat outside the relentless forward motion of what capitalist developers consider “progress.” At the same time, Ka‘ena’s landscape reflects the geographies of colonial modernity, exemplified by a 630-meter fence constructed in 2011 that wraps around the westernmost tip of the island from shoreline to shoreline. It is two meters tall with aluminum posts connected by wire mesh with caged gates for people to pass through. To get there, one walks over rocky footpaths to reach the fence, and it imposes a jarring presence amid the sand, rocks, and boundless sky. The State of Hawai‘i Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) oversaw fence construction, with the stated purpose of keeping out predators such as mice, rats, mongooses, cats, and dogs to protect wedge-tailed shearwater birds, Laysan albatrosses, and three species of endangered plants.3 [End Page 695] Sabagala and others who have fished at Ka‘ena for generations see the fence differently: as part of a strategy to displace fishers with ancestral ties to the place to make space for tourists. Sabagala explained bitterly that the fence is meant to keep out “dog, rats, and us.” “Us” refers to lawai‘a, a Hawaiian term describing people who fish who are Hawaiian as well as nonnative locals.4 During fence construction from November 10, 2010, to March 30, 2011, Sabagala and other fishers received $300 fines because of increased enforcement against camping in the area.5 In response, they joined together as the Lawai‘a Action Network and successfully fought their tickets in court.6 William Aila, the chair of the DLNR at the time, explained that State policies have never prohibited fishing and that the citations targeted homeless people.7 While the fence and its related mechanisms manage the behaviors and lifestyles of fishers and people who live outside, it produces a secure space for hikers and recreational environmentalists to visit, take pictures of birds and seals, then leave. The fence also stands as an element of a vastly militarized region fashioned by the confluence of fencing and environmental conservation. Figure 1 depicts Mākua, five miles south of Ka‘ena Point, where a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounds the valley that is now a military reservation. The US military displaced its residents and seized this land after the Pearl Harbor bombing. As the army previously used this land for target practice, the community group Mālama Mākua initiated a lawsuit that has prevented live-fire training since 1998. Further, to protect the over forty endangered species in the valley and ensure compliance with the Endangered Species Act, the military now...