The Voice of Our Ancestors

He hears them. They speak to him constantly. No, not in his head. The voices speak to him in the breeze, the creeks, the leaves, the rocks, the soil, and everything all around him. Sometimes, they speak to him through the eyes of the elders of the community. These are voices that never stop for him.

Once, they were but unintelligible whispers. They were as unobtrusive as the rustle of leaves. Now they are clear. Their message is clear.

They told him to start the Maka Forest Villa.  

This journey began for architect Ronnie Yumang one fateful November in 2013. No one was expecting it. Typhoon Haiyan, a once-in-a-lifetime super typhoon, ravaged the Philippines. Haiyan had claimed 6300 lives and left thousands more homeless. Entire cities were leveled. It was the costliest typhoon in the country’s history. More than PHP 122 billion (US$2.2 billion) in damage was recorded.

Architect Ronnie, like many Filipinos, was horrified by the aftermath of the typhoon. The damage to infrastructure was catastrophic. And it was around that time when he heard the quiet voice. “Why was this so devastating for an advanced, urbanized section of the country yet, in Batanes, a tiny island in the topmost northern section of the country, where people lived in far less sophisticated homes and are constantly hit by the worst typhoons, you never hear of this? Destruction was always reserved for the most modern of cities,” the voice asked him and observed. 

The voices explained that the typhoons never stopped passing through the islands of the Philippines. The voices had seen them ever since they first settled the islands. It was just part of the nature of the Philippines. At that point, architect Ronnie realized that our ancestors had been building based on the natural environmental conditions that surrounded them. To this day, the people of Batanes continue to build in the “old ways.” These traditions have been deemed primitive by the modern world we live in. Yet, it is these old ways that have kept them safe from the onslaught of typhoons.

This old, antiquated method of design and construction, which his modern architectural schooling and society looked down on, could stand the test of time and even the harshest of conditions. It was this realization that made him question all he had been taught.  

As a child of poor beginnings, architect Ronnie worked his way up from poverty to finish in a top local university with a degree in architecture. He was taught that the best buildings and houses were those made of concrete and other modern materials. These were sophisticated, expensive and viewed as classy. This was what he, along with generations of students and local people, were made to believe.

The conversations he has had with our ancestors told him that these modern methods were not necessarily the best. Millenia of experience using local regenerative materials were far better, they insisted. It was that shift in thinking that led architect Ronnie to learn more about what they call TEK or Traditional Ecological Knowledge. 

TEK is a building and engineering method that uses the best practices of indigenous and local cultures. The premise is that these pre-fossil-fuel-era practices had evolved based on the collective experience of the community. While they tend to utilize renewable energy and resources, they make use of generations of understanding of the behavior of the natural environment. Thus, they tend to be better suited for the local settings rather than transplanted methods or technologies. Western systems try to control the environment while indigenous ones see themselves embedded into ecosystems.

As he learned more, his eyes were opened to the fact that modern, Western building materials like concrete were not normally recovered. After they had been deemed old, they  were merely discarded. There is so much discussion on conserving water, electricity and other natural resources. However, architect Ronnie reveals, “85% of extracted resources like cement, sand, gravel and steel” are overlooked. In fact, Leed-certified sustainable buildings,  he claims, are built from 85%-90% non-renewable materials. 

Taking it a step further, he goes beyond sustainability and pushes for regenerative practices. These are like what is advocated in the TEK philosophy. He said the learning point from Typhoon Haiyan was to create a model where “instead of us keeping giving donations, we’d rather help people become more sustainable.” This can be done through TEK building techniques like those used in Batanes where they experience the same typhoons but experience very little damage and practically no casualties. This led him to his advocacy of only using regenerative building techniques. Architect Ronnie’s entire Maka Forest Villa and future communities for like-minded nature-respecting people are built around this theory. There he hosts people to see how regeneration can work. 

To date, he claims that his method is not only cheaper but it also reduces the negative impacts on the environment. This has led him to secure clients who now opt to build this way.

His regenerative spaces eliminate the need to utilize electricity-draining appliances as he uses the environment to provide the natural water and cooling required for the warm tropical weather. He rejects building materials that are non-regenerative to stay true to his vision. 

A woman holds a pallet of large mushrooms.
(Image courtesy of Maka Forest Villa)

It is architect Ronnie’s desire that more listen to what our ancestors have taught us and fewer to the noise of Western commercialism and modernity. In hindsight, having visited the Maka Forest Villa, one can say the quiet breeze that rustles the leaves does whisper a calm feeling into one’s ears. What harm can come from listening?

Sifting Through the Ashes

I thought it was strange that my mom called me so early in the morning. It was 7:30am for me, so it must have been 4:30am for her. 

It was Wednesday, August 9th.

“I wanted to call you before you saw the news. There’s a fire in Lāhainā, Kīhei, and Kula. Everyone in our family is safe and accounted for. I might go pick up grandpa from Kīhei today. Your cousin was in Lāhainā, but escaped to Nāpili. Aunty has not heard from him since last night. I will keep in touch.”  My cousin called my aunty the next day to check in. He was safe and helping with the boats looking for people and bringing in supplies.

We exchanged “I love youʻs” and “take care’s” before hanging up. I went to my social media (because I knew I would get news more quickly from the people I follow who still live on Maui) and saw the footage of the fire. My tears pooled as I scrolled through all of the unaccounted for posts, friends and classmates who hadenʻt heard from their loved ones since the fire. 

Keiki (children) and kupuna (elders) unaccounted for. 

The week was a blur of grief as I consumed the ongoing fires in Maui. Stories began to pour about people being trapped on Front Street, people jumping into the ocean to escape the fire, the alarm systems never sounding, and the realization that the fires swallowed more people than I could comprehend. 

Lāhainā holds moments of my life that are now just memories. Memories that I can no longer physically visit because Lāhainā is gone, in ash. So many of my people have lost their home, the place that their ancestors are rooted. I don’t have the words to fully describe the immeasurable loss that is shared in our community. Those who were able to escape the flames made it out with just the clothes on their backs, while others were swallowed by the fire. And within these same moments of Lāhainā disappearing, Kula was on fire too, adding to the lives lost and people displaced.

115 lives lost and over 1,000 people still missing. Nearly three weeks later, victims are being identified.  

The grief I feel is a collective grief, one felt by my Lāhui, Maui community. 

We are grieving for the lives lost, for the friends and family, the keiki, and the kupuna who did not have time to escape. 

We are grieving for our island, our ʻāina (land), the first capital of the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi. 

We are grieving for those who came before us and for those who will live after us. 

But in this grief, we come together to kōkua (help/support) each other. From compiling GoFundMe and Venmo accounts, to cooking and giving out free food, the mass share of information and kāhea (call) to help, our Lāhui was able to get people the supplies they needed to survive. 

Unfortunately, structures of colonialism make it difficult for Kanaka (Native Hawaiians) and Locals to continue their grassroots efforts to help those in need. Investors and realtors have already begun contacting the survivors of the devastating fires. Maui residents are pleading for tourists to cancel their trips and fly home,while the governor has opened the parts of the island not in ash to the tourists. Maui Electric Company is facing lawsuits that blame the company for the fire, and the man who was in charge of the alert system that never sounded has resigned.

First responders from Hawai’i and the continent are currently searching for remains with their cadaver dogs, while tourists take videos and photos of the devastation for social media clout and snorkel in the same waters our people jumped into to escape fire

We can not just grieve, but we must also fight for our ʻāina and lāhui. And it is exhausting.   

“We are Lāhainā Strong. Yes, but please allow us to also be, Lāhainā Sad. Lāhainā Tender. Lāhainā Worried. Lāhainā Messy.” – Uʻilani Tevaga 

If you feel called to kōkua, please consider monetary donations to these organizations:

Direct Aid for ʻOhana displaced by fires 

Hawaiʻi Peopleʻs Fund

Maui Mutual Aid

Council of Native Hawaiian Advancement, Alakaʻina and Kakoʻo Haleākalā

ʻĀina Momona

Maui Food Bank 

Maui Humane Society