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Learnscapes on Kaua'i : education at a Hawaiian-focused charter school, a food sovereignty movement,… Gugganig, Mascha 2016

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     LEARNSCAPES ON KAUAʻI:  EDUCATION AT A HAWAIIAN-FOCUSED CHARTER SCHOOL,  A FOOD SOVEREIGNTY MOVEMENT,  AND THE AGRICULTURAL BIOTECHNOLOGY INDUSTRY  by  MASCHA GUGGANIG    A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY  in  THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES  (Anthropology)   THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA  (Vancouver)      September 2016    © Mascha Gugganig, 2016  ii Abstract This dissertation interrogates the different forms that education takes in regards to land across three different settings on the Hawaiian island of Kauaʻi: a Hawaiian-focused charter school, a food sovereignty movement, and the agricultural biotechnology industry. As ethnographic researcher, I approached Kauaʻi about 15 years after three seemingly parallel developments had commenced: the establishment of Hawaiian-focused charter schools to educate Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) students on their culture, language and history, a “New Economy” resulting among other changes in a shift in agriculture to research and develop genetically modified organisms (GMOs), and a burgeoning social movement concerned about the impacts of GMOs. Following these developments, I argue that education as a term and transinstitutional practice has populated social, cultural and scientific discourses beyond the school. In effect, and at times in overlapping ways, I show that education was firstly a means of self-determination and sovereign right for Indigenous educators to move teaching and learning into the public sphere and onto the ʻāina, land. Secondly, education emerged as democratic right for consumers, environmentalists, and food producers, who practiced self-education – by “educating yourself” – on contested food technologies. Thirdly, among scientists and industrialists, education was both a corrective effort of public misconceptions of biotechnology – by “educating the public” - and a process of community building as to demonstrate a legitimate presence in Hawaiʻi.  I further probe what it means for high school students at a Hawaiian-focused charter school to learn to be young Kānaka Maoli while learning about ʻāina (land), aloha (love, affection), andʻohana (family). Through the concept of learnscapes, I indicate that these knowledge ways are not assessed in school education. Rather, the students learned in often inconspicuous ways how to navigate remediation and recovery for land and people, which in times of the “New Economy” and in the colonial aftermath remain pressing issues. Situated in the anthropology of education and science & technology studies (STS), this dissertation furthers scholarship on everyday expertise by elucidating how young Kānaka Maoli as much as citizens concerned with GMOs are knowledge-able social experts, who gain often tacit forms of expertise on their lived-in worlds.      iii Preface This research was approved by the UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board: Certificate Numbers H11-01418, H11-01194, and H12-01019; Principal Investigator, Dr. John Barker.   This research was financially supported by the Bottom Billion Fieldwork Fund from UBC's Liu Institute for Global Issues, in the amount of $3,000. This research was further supported by UBC' Arts Graduate Student Research Award in the amount of $750.  Publications arising from this thesis: Parts of chapter 5 and 6 have been published in a single, online journal article. I conducted all research and wrote the entire manuscript. The information for this publication is below: • Gugganig, Mascha (2015) The Ethics of Patenting and Genetically Engineering the Relative Hāloa. Ethnos, Journal of Anthropology April. 1–24. Doi: 10.1080/00141844.2015.1028564    iv Table of Contents   Abstract........................................................................................................................................... ii Preface............................................................................................................................................. iii Table of Contents........................................................................................................................... iv List of Figures................................................................................................................................. vi Glossary.......................................................................................................................................... viii Acknowledgements......................................................................................................................... x Dedication....................................................................................................................................... xii 1  Introduction................................................................................................................................ 1      1.1 Enquiring into learning and education.................................................................................. 14      1.2 Situating the field – methodologically..................................................................................      1.3 Positiong myself – anthropological work in Hawaiʻi 28 34      1.4 Structure of thesis.................................................................................................................. 39 2  A history of land-landscapes and educational landscapes in Hawaiʻi................................... 43      2.1 In the beginning, there was darkness.................................................................................... 44      2.2 Readying the islands for sugar, remedying the islands from it............................................. 50      2.3 Normalizing Hawaiʻi as part of the United States – in law, education, and agriculture…... 63      2.4 Hawaiʻi's school system and Hawaiian-focused charter schools.......................................... 68 3  Kanuikapono: a “school without walls”................................................................................... 78      3.1 Situating Hawaiian education: Kanuikapono Public Charter School................................... 80      3.2 Building a “school without walls”....................................................................................... 91      3.3 On preference and discrimination…..................................................................................... 103      3.4 On Hawaiian education and academic rigour ...................................................................... 110 4  The high school, learnscapes, and education as experimental system................................... 120      4.1 Ethnographic engagements: on wearing many hats.............................................................. 121      4.2 The high school, and youth – a neglected child?.................................................................. 128      4.3 Learning as land-ing and emergent learnscapes.................................................................... 137      4.4 Sacrifice, guinea pigs, and education as experimental system.............................................. 155 5  Agricultural biotechnology: the Hawaiian forms of life of a global industry....................... 164      5.1 Regulating Biotechnology the US-American way................................................................ 166      5.2 Realigning Hawaiʻi with the United States: the case of biotechnology................................ 170      5.3 Hāloa – genetically engineering an elder brother................................................................. 183      5.4 Industrious Objectivity.......................................................................................................... 191      5.5 'Filling the void' and embedding biotechnology...................................................................  197  v          6  “You are choosing GMO by default if you don't educate yourself” – Kānaka Maoli and       food sovereignty activists' call to mālama ʻāina...................................................................... 204      6.1 Anti-GMO activists and Hawaiian sovereignty activists' get together – or not?.................. 206      6.2 “Speaking from the heart” - Kanaka Maoli youth voice their opinion................................. 223      6.3 Bill 2491: “a discussion of science in a very emotional place”............................................ 239 7  The communal life of agricultural biotechnology, and how to “educate the public”.......... 259      7.1 The feasibility of 'unbiased' education  – ideal or idealistic?................................................ 264      7.2 Situating science - agricultural biotechnology as “good neighbor”...................................... 274      7.3 How to “feed the world”: Globalizing the local................................................................... 278      7.4 localizing the global.............................................................................................................. 283      7.5 Faith in progress, locating expertise, and how to “educate the public”................................ 288 8  Conclusion................................................................................................................................... 300 Epilogue…………………………………………………………………………………………... 325 Bibliography……………………………………………………………………………………... 328  vi List of Figures Figure 1 Contemporary life of pineapple: Advertisement for Dole plantation tours for tourists, Honolulu Airport, January 2013........................................................  60 Figure 2 Map of Kauaʻi, indicating Anahola in the Moku (district) of Koʻolau. Clockwise, the other districts are Puna, Kona, Mānā, Nāpali, and Haleleʻa....  81 Figure 3 View of the school from the main entrance on the northern side of campus... 82 Figure 4 View from the oceanside with the main hale on the right and the yurts on the left.  In the background is Anahola's iconic mountain Kalalea..................  84 Figure 5 Drawing of kalo as the elder brother of Kānaka Maoli, Hāloa, in the main hale at Kanuikapono.........................................................................................  85 Figure 6 WeeklyʻŌlelo Noʻeau are also displayed also on school boards..................... 90 Figure 7 Newly planted ʻulu trees with the help of organic fertilizers, mulch, and children's oli (chant), November 2012.............................................................  92 Figure 8 Remnants of a close-by dump field dug up during an ʻOhana Planting Day at the school, November 2012..........................................................................  93 Figure 9 Hawaiian volcanic soil is characteristically red due to its high level of iron. This, the toxic compounds of past planting industries and the nearby dumb, as well as the windy, dry location makes plant growth on campus challenging. November 2012, before the (rainy) Makahiki season.................    94 Figure 10 High school students catching Heʻe (octopus) with the stick at Kē‘ē Beach, August 2012.....................................................................................................  138 Figure 11 Kalalau Lookout (incidentally I took this picture after a Hula Hui (Hula group) danced and their kumu had asked outsiders not to take pictures), October 2012....................................................................................................   144 Figure 12 Cornfield close to Polihale, sacred place where Hawaiian chiefs were sent to the next sphere. Mānā, West Kauaʻi............................................................  164 Figure 13 Sign-making for an anti-GMO march, with a displayed taro plant, April 2013.................................................................................................................  211 Figure 14 Back of a truck on Kauaʻi................................................................................ 216 Figure 15 Kaua'i Council member Gary Hooser speaking to a crowd opposing GMOs, pesticide & herbicide poisoning and supporting GMO labeling or the Idle No More movement. January 2013..................................................................   217 Figure 16 Hawaiian charter school students holding signs “END THE OCCUPATION OF HAWAIʻI” and “GMO”. Others also read “ABOLISH THE PLDC.” January 2013....................................................................................................   219 Figure 17 Governor Abercrombie's dished-up cake at a meeting to gather public input for the Public Land Development Corporation (PLDC). September 2012.....  224   vii Figure 18 A “GMO Free Kauai” sticker altered by a student, Kanuikapono school........ 232 Figure 19 Kanuikapono high school students give their speeches welcoming Vandana Shiva at the War Memorial Convention Hall, Lihue, January 17th 2016.........  235 Figure 20 “GMO Free Kauai” sticker altered by a student to decorate her booklet, Kanuikapono school.........................................................................................  237 Figure 21 Street graffiti painted over – at least attempted to - by local authorities. Poʻipu, South Kauaʻi........................................................................................  239 Figure 22 In order to accommodate the hundreds of testifiers, the council meeting was moved to the Kauai Veterans Center, Lihue. Proponents of the bill wore red while opponents –primarily workers of biotech companies – wore light blue shirts. July 2013................................................................................................    245 Figure 23 Discontent visualized in one students' feedback on the Pioneer field trip. May 2013..........................................................................................................  268           viii Glossary  aʻo   instruction, teaching, learning, instruction book, advice, counsel; to learn,    teach, advise, instruct, train, tutor, coach, prescribe, admonish. ahupuaʻa  land division, wedge akua       god, goddess, spirit, divine aloha   love, affection, compassion, sympathy, kindness, greeting ʻāina   land, earth, “that which feeds us,” kin and ancestor hale   house, hall, institution Hāloa   “long, trembling stalk,” taro, elder brother of Kānaka Maoli, son of sky    father Wākea. haole    white, foreigner; can be used as descriptor (“the haole over there”) but    also describing a derogatory term or behaviour. ʻike    to see, know, feel, greet, recognize, perceive, experience, understand  ʻike Hawaiʻi   Hawaiian knowledge kahea   call, invocation, greeting. Kānaka Maoli  Native Hawaiians, Indigenous people Kānaka ʻŌiwi  Indigenous people, Native Hawaiians kalo   taro plant kapu    religious system of ancient Hawaiʻi pre-Cook times. Also, taboo keiki    children, offspring konohiki   headman of an ahupuaʻa, land division, under the chief kumu   teacher, source kupuna  elder, ancestor kūpuna  plural of kupuna mahiʻai   farmer mālama ʻāina  care for the land, land stewardship moʻokūʻauhau  geneaology ʻohana   family, related, kin group ʻōlele noʻeau   Hawaiian proverb pono   righteous, good, proper, moral qualities, excellence, well-being wiwoʻole  fearlessness  Acronyms ADC   Agribusiness Development Corporation APHIS   Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service BIO    Biotechnology Innovation Organization BOE   Board of Education  DOE   Department of Education CTAHR   College of Tropical Agriculture and Human Resources  DBEDT  Department of Business, Economic Development & Tourism DHHL   Department of Hawaiian Home Lands DLNR   Department of Land and Natural Resources  ix EPA   Environmental Protection Agency FDA   Food and Drug Administration GE   genetically engineered GMO   genetically modified organism HAC   Hawaii Advisory Commission  HARC   Hawaii Agriculture Research Center HCIA   Hawaii Crop Improvement Association HCPS   Hawaii Content and Performance Standards HDOE   Hawaii Department of Education HDOH   Hawaii Department of Health HFCS    Hawaiian-focused charter schools HSA    Hawaii State Assessment HSPA   Hawaiian Sugar Planters' Association Kanu   short for Kanuikapono KCC   Kauaʻi Community College KKCR   Independent radio station on Kauaʻi KS   Kamehameha Schools OHA    Office of Hawaiian Affairs OSTP   Office of Science and Technology Policy PLDC   Public Land Development Corporations S&T   science and technology STS Science and Technology Studies; Science, Technology & Society Studies UH    University of Hawaiʻi USDA   United States Department of Agriculture                       x Acknowlegdgements If one was to break down ethnographic research to more basic terms it would be social relations. No ethnographic research is possible without people willing to participate, to open their doors, to offer an opportunity to learn, or to sit down and talk. Likewise, there are those who are willing to talk with you about your findings, read your drafts, correct mistakes, point to new approaches, or to simply lend an ear. As is not unusual for a document of this size, too many people are to be thanked for, and the following are by no means exclusive.             First and foremost, mahalo nui loa to Kanuikapono Public Charter School for their students', teachers' and staff's willingness to let me be part of their lives. Getting up at 6am was my personal challenge yet no less an opportunity to learn each day that I came to school. In particular, I thank Ipo Torio-Kaʻuhane and all her ʻohana. Mauli ʻOla Cook enthusiastically welcomed me into the school without knowing much of what I intended to do. Katie Capadouca was always willing to collaborate, no matter the stress level. Mahalo nui loa to Mealoha Montgomery, Delton Johnson, Tiare Mata, Andy Capadouca, and all other staff and teachers. Kamealoha D. Forrest was never too tired to explain the Hawaiian language, and Palala Harada always opened the doors to his classes. Kapule Torio and Lorilani Keohokalole-Torio provided many insights within and beyond the school. Mahalo to Kū Kahakalau, who took time for an extended interview, and Kurt Last, who facilitated our school trip to Vancouver/BC. No less, I want to thank all the high school students that endured my oftentimes insistent nature to learn about filmmaking and research. Without you this dissertation would not exist. I also want to thank many others on Kauaʻi that have sat down and talked story with me and let me participate in their daily activities. Special thanks go to the many hard-working people at the Waipā Foundation whose Poi Day on Thursdays always allowed me to meet new people and old-time kūpuna that never stopped correcting the way I clean taro. Your work is important, and will hopefully continue to allow many more generations to learn to practice aloha ʻāina. GMO Free Kauai, the Kauai Food Forest, Regenerations Botanical Garden, and the many people loosely connected to these organizations gave important insights to issues this work deals with. My thanks go particularly to Mi-key, Felicia Cowden, Bryna ʻOliko Storch, Jeri di Pietro, Paul Massey, Jill Anderson, Rob Cruz, Mark Olson and Paul Belson. Many more have been ʻohana for me on Kauaʻi: Jean and Bob Green, Bill Hooker and Robin Erickson, as well as Mauli's hula sisters. Mahalo nui loa to you all. Even though we have never met in person, I want to thank taro farmer Penny Levin, who has taken ample time to comment on this dissertation. I hope to soon get to meet in person. Thanks also go to Sarah Styan and Ryan Oyama for having taken time to explain their perspective on agricultural biotechnology. At UBC, my thanks go to my supervisor John Barker, who always patiently corrected my convoluted English sentences as failed attempts to contain my German thoughts. I thank Candis Callison, who introduced me to the world of Science & Technology Studies (STS). Candace Kaleimamoʻowahine Galla was open and willing to coordinate the school visit of Kanuikapono at UBC, and to connect with many Kānaka Maoli in the Pacific Northwest. My  xi thanks also go to Felice Wyndham, who gave valuable insights to the work with children, youth and ecology in the early stages of this research. I could not have asked for a better committee on this journey. Writing these lines while revising the dissertation, I extend my thanks to my reviewers Patrick Moore and Michelle Stack at UBC, and to Ty Kāwika Tengan at the University of Hawaiʻi, who reminded me of the crucial question who we write for as researchers. My hope is that these lines will find interest among the people on Kauaʻi, Kānaka Maoli scholars and beyond, across anthropology, education studies, STS and related fields. I want to thank my incredible cohort, particularly in the first two years of the PhD program. My experience of transitioning into a new country and academic culture would not have been the same without you. My thanks go to Vishala Parmasad, Dada Docot, Lauren Harding, Diana Marsh, as well as Denise N. Green, Shayna Plaut, Jenni Schine, Rachel Roy, Martina Volfová, Oralia Goméz-Ramírez, Tal Nitsán, Clayton Whitt, Kamal Arora, and Brenda Fitzpatrick. Some of you have been part of the Dissertation Writing Group, which saved my life (and sanity), particularly in the last stretch of writing. The Liu Institute for Global Issues has supported this research with the Bottom Billion Fund, and has been an engaging space, not least in the form of the Lobby Gallery where art becomes an inclusive aspect of research.  Part of this dissertation was also crafted throughout my time as Fellow of the Program of Science, Technology and Society at Harvard University in 2014/15. My special thanks go to Sheila Jasanoff for allowing me to learn about STS and share my work in the interdisciplinary setting she has created. I received not only a crash course in this interdisciplinary field but have since learned that building community is no less important in academia. I want to thank Maximilian Mayer, Joakim Juhl, Sebastian Pfotenhauer, Gili Vidan, Barry Cohen, Gabriel Dorthe, Aleksander Rankovic, Sam Vanderslott, Rachel Douglas-Jones, Zoe Nyssa, Lydie Cabane, Amy Hinterberger, Margo Boenig-Liptsin, Zara Mirmalek, Anna Agathangelou and all other Fellows that have helped me think through my work. DeAnne Dupont, David Landskov, David Goméz, Susi Kimm and Maximilian Kasy created a home away from home.  Finally, my thanks go to my family and friends in Vienna, who never stopped believing that I could do this. My mother, who taught me that nothing is impossible (especially as a woman), my siblings Lena, Roman and Katja, who always opened their doors when I came home. My niece Maya and my nephew Nicola, whom I witnessed growing up via Skype and missed most during my times away from home. You all reminded me that there is a life outside of writing day in and day out. My late father, Otto Alfred Schell, who was not able to witness this moment of completing my PhD, and his wife Helene. Just when I moved away we came closer together for which I am forever thankful. To Daniela Schadauer, who is proof that friendship can be eternal. Lena Stadler, Agnes Müller, Janos, Margerita Piatti, Ursula Kermer, Kathrin Salzman, Sophia Hagen, Max Leimstättner, Uschi Schadauer, and Lily Stadler: you have all contributed by supporting me and keeping me sane throughout the manifestation of this work. I also want to express gratitude to places that have been significant on this journey between Vienna, Vancouver, Kauaʻi, and Cambridge. They were, perhaps, my personal learnscapes: das Gänsehäufel, der Böhmische Prater, Trout Lake, Pacific Spirit Park, Kalalau Valley, Polihale, Deer Island and Revere Beach.   xii              Für Maya, Nicola und Otto  1 Chapter 1: Introduction  ʻAʻohe pau ka ʻike i ka hālau hoʻokahi. All knowledge is not taught in one school  (ʻŌlelo Noʻeau, Hawaiian Proverb).  Derived from the Latin educere (from ex, “out,” plus ducere, “to lead”)1, education was a matter of leading novices out into the world rather than, as commonly understood today, of instilling knowledge in to their minds. Instead of placing us in a position or affording a perspective, education in this sense is about pulling us away from any standpoint—from any position or perspective we might adopt. In short, as the philosopher of education Jan Masschelein (2010a: 278) has observed, it is a practice of exposure (Ingold 2014: 388).  One February evening in 2013, about half way into my fieldwork on the northernmost of the eight main Hawaiian Islands,2 Kauaʻi, I joined a well-attended community meeting that Kamehameha Schools had set up regarding its 2015-2030 Strategic Planning. Kamehameha3 Schools (KS), a private K-12 school for Kānaka Maoli4 students established by virtue of Princess Pauahi Bishop's last will in 1883, today forms the wealthiest K-12 school in the United                                                 1   educate (v.) mid-15c., "bring up (children), to train," from Latin educatus, past participle of educare "bring up,         rear, educate" [...], which is a frequentative of or otherwise related to educere "bring out, lead forth," from ex- "out" (see ex-) + ducere "to lead" (see duke (n.)).Online etymology dictionary: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=educate&allowed_in_frame=0 [acccessed October 6th 2015]. 2  The eight main Hawaiian Islands include: Hawaiʻi (Big Island), Maui, Oʻahu, Kauaʻi, Molokaʻi, Lanaʻi, Niʻihau, Kahoʻolawe. 3 The name derives from King Kamehameha I, who united all Hawaiian islands in the early 19th century, and whose direct descendants inherited land, such as Princess Pauahi Bishop. 4 This dissertation primarily refers to Kānaka Maoli (“true, real people”) rather than Native Hawaiians (regardless of whether lower or upper case “n,” indicating the biological marker of blood quantum for 'Hawaiianness,' see Kauanui 2008). There are three main reasons for that: First, taking into consideration that many do identify as Native Hawaiians, Kānaka Maoli is a people's self-definition in their own language. Second, it evades the problematic accentuation of people as “[N]native” that implies a taken-for-granted colonial and post-colonial world order. Third, the usage is a response to the still widely spread unfamiliarity of the term. Poet and teacher Rajiv Moheb from the University of Hawaiʻi expresses this common unease: “The constrcution (sic) of the “indigenous” person is a colonial appelation and measure. This may very well be the case—the word for a Hawaiian person is Kanaka Maoli. Say it. Kanaka Maoli” (Moheb 2015). I occasionally also use Kānaka ʻOiwi (Indigenous People).  2 States. Kamehameha Schools is also the biggest private landowner and trust in Hawaiʻi. Accordingly, the accountability that Kānaka Maoli have posed towards the trust to act in a pono (righteous, good) way relates to both education and land stewardship. After scandalous decades of mismanagement and nepotism (see King & Roth 2006), KS shifted its policy to increased community input in its decision-making process, and implemented a strategic plan for 2000 - 2015. As 2015 neared, KS representatives toured the Hawaiian Islands to gather input from community members, including Kauaʻi.   Two large posters greeted the participants entering the dining hall of Wilcox Elementary School in Līhuʻe this February evening: one read “ʻāina”, commonly translated as “that which feeds us” or land, the other “education.” People were invited to choose one of the topics and join a respective working group. In that set-up, KS managed to condense what I had struggled with for the good first part of my fieldwork: how to stake out my ethnographic field between land and education, and more specifically, between land-based education at the Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS) Kanuikapono and a wider public concerned with land use specifically in the light of the locally operating agricultural biotechnology industry. While education and land were so neatly and manageably distinguished in these posters, I was uncomfortably conflicted, as I now had to choose which one of the working groups I should join. As I tried to cope with this fieldwork mini-crisis, perusing nervously through the handout to find some cues that would take the burdening decision from me, with a warm smile a KS representative invited me to get food at the back of the room. I was relieved for a second, and thankfully took a Hawaiian plate.5 Eventually, I reasoned that I should join the education table,                                                 5  Hawaiian plates usually consist of white rice, laulau (pork meat wrapped in taro leaves), lomi salmon (salmon and tomato salad), poi (pounded taro paste), and haupia (coconut pudding), which were served in a styrofoam  3 as I was mainly a film class instructor at Kanuikapono charter school during my fieldwork. While the general discussion revolved around how KS should offer more educational initiatives to Kānaka Maoli children on the island, a few others from the 'ʻāina' tables shared their respective frustrations. A woman stood up saying that she and other people at her table had lived on the island for a long time, between five and 37 years, that they considered it their home, and that many were concerned with what was happening to the island. When she mentioned “GMO” (genetically modified organisms)6 I overheard another woman on my 'education' table whisper “Uh, oh...” The woman went on to say that GMO farming needs to stop on the island, and that KS could play a big role in this case. The KS representatives attempted to calm the discussion by directing it back to the 'safer' issue of education and ʻāina.  This community event forms a knot of several strings that run through this dissertation, which is concerned with education directly and indirectly related to land or ʻāina,7 and how it comes to be understood in settings within and beyond the school. In detail, I trace education across three different sites or social groups, namely (1) the Hawaiian-focused charter school Kanuikapono, (2) the enunciatory community (Fortun 2001) that has sprung from an emergent, socio-culturally diverse movement opposing agricultural biotechnology operations, and (3) the agricultural biotechnology industry. I approach education in these diverse settings as trans-                                                                                                                                                     container at the event. See Okamura (2008) and Vowell (2012) for a critique of the Hawaiian plate as romantiziced plethora of Hawaiʻi's ethnic diversity. 6 Throughout this dissertation, I primarily speak of genetically engineered (GE) rather than genetically modified organisms (GMOs), as the former comes closer to humans' deliberate attempt of changing the genetic makeup of an organism than 'modification' does. During fieldwork there where also more critical voices that saw genetic engineering as more accurate, such as during the interview with Pioneer DuPont scientist Ryan Oyama (IV_100913). Still, GMO was a common vernacular that I acknowledge by refering to it in respective contexts. 7 “Land” and “ʻāina” were vernacular terms often used interchangeably, both by Kānaka Maoli and other ethnic groups. When ʻāina was used it usually connoted a stronger connection to Hawaiian epistemologies of what could be described as environment, including the ocean, but in some cases also the people living on it. As Hawaiian Studies scholar Kamanamaikalani Beamer notes,ʻāina is distinct to the Euro-American concept of nature, which is seen as an entity separate from people (2014: 13).   4 institutional practice, which resonates with Ingold's etymological elaboration of education cited above as a process of moving out (2014: 388). By this, I alude both to moving out of the physical space, and out of taken-for-granted conceptions of “education” as inherently institutional, deliberately instructional endeavour bound to a school classroom. My dissertation thus aligns with those educational anthropologists who question the school as the default norm for education (Lave 1982; Lave & Wenger 1991; Levinson 1999). This dissertation also follows the work of scholars of science, technology & society studies (STS)8 on citizens' ways of reasoning over science and technology (Jasanoff 2003; Wynne 1996), and responds to the call for more research on the social relations of biotechnology as increasingly enmeshed with academia and the state (Haraway 1983; Stone 2010).  The order in which I consider these sites follows my trajectory of interest and interactions in the field. Ethnographic fieldwork started within the school while out-of-school collaborations and social networks, which I had fostered prior to starting fieldwork, expanded along the way, both in content and geography from the east (school) to the West side (biotech industry). Most centrally, I was a film class instructor and educational assistant at Kanuikapono, secondarily a participant observant and advocate of the movement, and peripherally a visitor to the biotech industry. My research then also reflects Kanuikapono's motto as “school without walls”, as I conceived of and followed education as reality in people's lived spaces. This is also reflective in the chronology of the upcoming three ethnographic chapters. Following my encounters with the high school students at Kanuikapono (chapter 4), I                                                 8 The more conventional translation of “STS” is science and technology studies, while I follow the more recent expansion that incorporates “Society,” such as the Harvard University's Program on Science, Technology & Society. See http://sts.hks.harvard.edu/about/whatissts.html [accessed January 14 2016].  5 move − along with the students − to the food sovereignty movement (chapter 6) and an agricultural biotechnology corporation (chapter 7). Listing the movement prior to the industry furthermore recognizes the stance in STS that 'society' does not merely respond to 'science and technology' and citizens are accepting of technoscientific feats (Irwin & Wynne 1996). Rather, I see members of the movement as active, knowledge-able citizens (Jasanoff 2003) that, as was the case on Kauaʻi, brought up their concerns over GMOs and pesticide use to which the biotech industry had to react.  Returning to the meeting, people brought their own knowledge to the conversation, and expressed expectations of Kamehameha Schools to act as role model. Here, education fused with activism, more specifically concerns over land – an ongoing and evolving discourse that I will explore in this dissertation. It is likely that the woman who brought up GMOs was referring to KS' lease of land to Monsanto on the island of Oʻahu where the company researches and develops genetically engineered crops, or genetically modified organisms, GMOs. Her firm insistence with those around her table to raise the issue at this event, the cautious reaction by the woman sitting next to me, and the abashed KS representatives displays not only how people attempted to keep education and ʻāina within their respective boundaries of definition, but also reveals how these two entities and related practices easily spilled over into each other's turf. In a larger sense, this thesis is thus concerned with these overlaps and interlinkages that people either conceived of as appropriate or as having to be impeded. I argue that these conceptions in turn shape competing definitions of land as a public good, a source of food production and/or continuously colonized space, just as much as they define diverse, often conflicting ways of being knowledgeable about land (see Cruikshank 2005; Jasanoff 2005b; 2006; 2012a; Visvanathan 1997).   6  After the event on my way home, I remained puzzled by how I had seated myself at the education table. This categorization into education and ʻāina reflected the content of my research while at the same time it deeply troubled this distinction. Somehow the two fields made sense in the chronology of my own encounter with Hawaiʻi. My first fieldwork conducted for my Magister in 2007 at a Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS) on Oʻahu focused on Kānaka Maoli youth's knowledge of cultural practices and language in comparison to their often less knowledgeable adult lived-in world (Gugganig 2009).9 Towards the end of my stay, the University of Hawaiʻi's research on genetically engineering the taro plant brought about a set of complex realities, also in regards to the students' role: the HFCS had involved the students in protests and in questioning the scientific appropriation of kalo (taro) that in Kānaka Maoli cosmogeny is an ancestor, elder brother, and embodied god Kāne. In more general terms, the students were encouraged to scrutinize how natural 'resources' were appropriated by state and private institutions. Hence, issues that were 'too political' were not kept out of the school, which begged the question as to where to draw the line between 'political' and 'educational' realms (see Candea 2011). On a brief visit to Kauaʻi, I learned about the presence of agrochemical companies growing not taro, but primarily genetically engineered (GE) corn. This posed new questions: What does this industry do to Kanaka conceptions of ʻāina? How does it feature in Hawaiian-focused charter schools' land-based curriculum? And how was it that there seemed to be much less concern over genetic engineering and biotechnology on Kauaʻi than on Oʻahu?                                                 9 Magister is a Master's equivalent that I received from the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Vienna. In my Magister thesis I argue that the ʻohana (family) concept in Hawaiian-focused charter schools challenges the distinction between 'formal' and 'informal' education and in consequence, the distinction between a student and a teacher. I show this primarily by analysing how students at a Hawaiian-focused charter school become distributors of culturally specific knowledge (language, chants, protocols, hula, etc.) to their parents, who become learners if they see themselves as such.   7  These questions brought me back to Hawaiʻi to do fieldwork in 2012/13, this time as a PhD student at the University of British Columbia and as volunteer film class instructor for the high school program at Kanuikapono Public Charter School. I had gotten in touch with the school the year prior and came for preliminary fieldwork in 2011 to talk with staff and teachers about possibilities for collaboration. Yet at an earlier visit in 2010 I had encountered Kauaʻi not through Hawaiian charter school education but anti-GMO activistis concerned with the local agricultural biotech industry. Coming from a country (Austria) where genetically engineered crops have been widely banned as a result of a referendum in 1997, GMOs were – and for the most part still are - considered by many an unsafe science-gone-wild. I was certainly no exception, and supported the work of GMO Free Kauai, a local non-profit organization raising concerns over genetic engineering in agriculture. Here I was, on the (almost) westernmost edge of this US Empire where GMO experimentation originated, more specifically, on the northwestern-most island of the main Hawaiian Islands.10 Passing by GMO cornfields against the backdrop of the majestic Waimea Canyon (see Fig. 12, p. 157) − that contrast struck me.  This experience posed a striking paradox to what I had learned at the Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS) on Oʻahu about ʻāina and caring for kalo (taro), the embodied elder brother of Kānaka Maoli, Hāloa. It also did not seem to reflect what the Waipā Foundation on the other side of Kauaʻi Island was promoting. Already in 2008, I had learned about this organization, and from then on I frequently drove up to the North shore on Thursdays for Poi Day.11 I started asking myself again: how do community members at organizations like Waipā                                                 10  Guam is in fact the westernmost territory of the United States. 11  Waipā is a non-profit organization that was founded in the 1980s to prevent the development of the valley on the North shore, which provides cultural education on land stewardship to school classes and different interested adults groups (http://waipafoundation.org/about/ [accessed August 30 2015]). Every Thursday,  8 think about this industry on the island? How did it relate to mālama ʻāina, care for the land? There were also other nonprofit organizations I got involved with, like Regenerations Botanical Gardens that promoted organic agriculture and permaculture practices. I saw many parallels to Hawaiian land stewardship practices, and Hawaiians and Non-Hawaiians often working side by side. When I returned two years later to commence fieldwork, I indeed encountered many people at Kanuikapono − teachers and parents – that I had previously known from these organizations.  At the start of my fieldwork I only had a vague idea of what issues I would be focussing on. This is where I situated myself: I was a film class instructor and ethnographer interested in what it means for high school students to be at a HFCS and learn about Hawaiian cultural practices and mālama ʻāina, while I continued to be engaged with people concerned with food production and land used for genetically engineered crops, who loosely connected through these organizations. It would only be towards the end of my fieldwork, in spring 2013, that I incorporated the agricultural biotech industry as another site, albeit one that I was less engaged with. I thereby follow Haraway's (1988) seminal call to situate myself in the knowledge production I create. More specifically, I follow Kim Fortun's notion of advocacy as ethnographic practice (2001). Fortun describes advocacy as a practice of disentangling divides and asymmetries, yet without an inherently expressed, overt argument or intentional action. Rather, she wishes to uncouple advocacy from modernist ideals, such as an intentional end result of advocacy work. In Fortun's words, advocacy is “a performance of ethics in                                                                                                                                                      Waipā hosts Poi Day where elders, community members and visitors to the island come together to clean taro for poi that is then sold at a cheaper than market price to community members (mostly elders) across the island. Poi Day is a unique space where oldtimers and newcomers come together and “talk story,” a common term that depicts a leisurely time spent together to chat.  9 anticipation of the future” (2001: 16). In other words, there is no guarantee in advocacy as there are no predictable outcomes in ethnographic research. Hence, while I advocated for Kanuikapono charter school and the anti-GMO/food sovereignty movement, there was no intentional outcome of my work, yet a strong desire to write along these divisions and asymmetries between a Hawaiian-focused charter school, the state, land and food sovereignty activists, science, and the industry.   Positioning myself in this way is also crucial for understanding my involvement and interventions, both at Kanuikapono and the movement. Throughout my fieldwork, I initiated what is akin to George Marcus' (2000) “para-sites”: deliberately created sites of interaction between researcher and informants to allow for collaboration and co-construction in the production of knowledge (see also Callison 2014: 281). These set up para-sites ranged from facilitating a meeting between Kanuikapono's high school students and a renowned international anti-GMO activist (chapter 6) to arranging a school visit to an agricultural biotech corporation (chapter 7). Not all of these created sites of interaction were fully collaborative but rather raised the important question as to where the line is between collaboration, providing service (i.e. as film class instructor) and research (as I will discuss in chapter 6).  I thus arrived on Kauaʻi in summer 2012 with a more profound interest in what was taught and learned about ʻāina and about being Hawaiian, particularly in the light of this new industry. It would not occur to me until much later, yet what I had anticipated was this: informed by my experiences at Kanuikapono as self-defined “school without walls” (Kanuikapono 2012), education and land/ʻāina were closely entangled in that the former had moved out of institutional settings into both the public sphere and onto the land. In that sense, Kanuikapono,  10 as much as other HFCS, countered the conventional conception of learning as cast into the mould of education in a school classroom, as well as conceptions of land in the form of industrialized agriculture. In other words, educators at HFCS countered different forms of colonialism. More specifically, they challenged that education is only conceivable in the form of Euro-American-style schools and ʻāina as ground for high-yielding, profitable crops for export.  In States of Knowledge, the scholar of science and technology studies (STS) Sheila Jasanoff describes the idiom of co-production, particularly in regards to science and social order, arguing that how we produce (scientific) facts and artifacts of the natural world cannot be disassociated from the devices we create to order society (e.g. laws, regulatory systems of genetically engineered organisms, expert committees, schools, political campaigns). In more simple terms, despite modernist efforts to keep these domains separate, co-production delineates how ontology – what a thing is – and norms – how a thing is ought to be – relate to each other (2004: 14ff; see also Latour 1993). Educators at HFCS thereby make explicit what Jasanoff describes:   [Co-production] calls attention to the social dimensions of cognitive commitments and understandings, while at the same time underscoring the epistemic and material correlates of social formations. Co-production can therefore be seen as a critique of the realist ideology that persistently separates the domains of nature, facts, objectivity, reason and policy from those of culture, values, subjectivity, emotion and politics (2004: 3).  In that sense, these educators make explicit that ʻāina or learning are not considered separate from culture, and thus from the moral and political contexts of life. Numerous Kānaka Maoli and other Indigenous intellectuals have likewise pointed out how the social and the natural are  11 interrelated (see Kameʻeleihiwa 1992; Kauanui 2008; Meyer 2003; Schlais 2007), just as anthropologists have questioned such ontology-epistemology separations (Descola & Pálsson 1996; Franklin et al. 2000; Ortner 1974; Strathern 1980, 1992).   As I will show in the course of this dissertation, protagonists in the school and the movement highlighted these co-produced dimensions by demonstrating how ʻāina, education, politics and/or science were treated as separate entities (see Latour 1993) while in everyday life they experienced them very much as interrelated. Indeed, as I will show in this dissertation, for Kanuikapono education emerged as an interrelated ethos and experience of aloha (love, affection), ʻohana (family) and ʻāina (land). Kanuikapono likewise accounted for and articulated these interrelations in the political realm, particularly when education focused on ʻāina, i.e. when their high school students gave testimony on the Public Land Development Corporation (PLDC) in fall 2012. Hence, at Kanuikapono, education implied that students learn not only outdoors from the ʻāina but also about Native Hawaiian rights, the colonial history of Hawaiʻi, and the state's appropriation of land − be it the PLDC or developing unregulated GE crops. In their idiosyncratic ways, the high school students also pointed out how education, politics and ʻāina were co-produced, as when the high school teacher and I initiated a school visit to an agricultural biotech corporation. Similarly, activists in the food sovereignty movement continuously pointed to the questionable ties between politicians and the biotech industry, thus shedding light on how science and politics are co-produced (Jasanoff 2004).   Such entanglements as much as attempted separations are of course historically grown (see Nowotny et al. 2001; Shapin & Schaffer 2011 [1985]; Visvanathan 1997). Education in an institutional sense left its mark earlier in the 19th century in Hawaiʻi, discernible not only in an education system that separated commoners from the elite but also in how land figured in these  12 schools – or not. Missionaries in common schools trained Kānaka Maoli in scheduled labour in school gardens, while separate schools trained the offspring of missionaries and Hawaiian royals the skills of rational thinking and leadership (Benham & Heck 1998; Dotts & Sikkema 1994). The separate schools reflected a hierarchical order between commoners and kings that concurrently prepared missionaries' offspring to eventually displace the indigenous aristocracy as sugar barons by using the labour of commoners to work the land (Kauanui 2008; MacLennan 2014). This occurred through a persistent effort to educate Kānaka Maoli in industrious, Christian ethics (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992; Schachter 2013). The increasing designation of land for high-yielding profit in sugarcane and pineapple (and later military and tourism) co-evolved with an education system training Kānaka Maoli and workers that were brought from Asia to work in the islands' fields, even after mission schools were converted into public schools (Benham & Heck 1994; Stannard 2000). In other words, the normative conception of land as extractable source for capitalist enterprise was co-produced with the social readying of the Indigenous People and other ethnic groups (Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Portuguese, etc.) in schools to serve as a working force.   Not surprisingly, such social and natural ordering strongly correlates with political interests. As in other parts of the world, the use of Hawaiʻi's land to cultivate sugarcane and pineapple was a major enticement for imperial expansion, in this case the white oligarchy's push for US statehood (MacLennan 2014; Mintz 1985). Since the 1970s, Kānaka Maoli have adamantly objected to the illegal annexation of the Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893, and with it the subsequent politico-legal and cultural normalization of Hawaiʻi as part of the United States. Learning about the land became a crucial part of resisting these processes. As Kanaka Maoli political scientist Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua's points out, education and struggles over land  13 were intrinsic to the Hawaiian sovereignty movement in the 1970s (2013). In the early 2000s, she and other Kānaka Maoli educators emerging from the movement took advantage of the state institution of charter schools to establish Hawaiian education programs, such as Kanuikapono Public Charter School (Kahakalau 2003; Meyer 2001).   In the last decade of the 20th century the sugar industry gradually moved operations to Southeast Asia, and soon after, local politicians heralded the conversion of former sugarcane and pineapple fields into profitable grounds for agricultural biotechnology. In a larger context, the new millennium's “New Economy” was to be based on scientific and high-tech advancements in IT, biotechnology,12 medical technology, and earth/ocean/space sciences (DBEDT 2000: 23; PMP 1999). This technoscientific-economic shift has in the recent decade provoked public resistance within both Kānaka Maoli and wider communities: from contestations over genetically engineered taro to Kamehameha Schools' lease to Monsanto, to attempts at regulating the agricultural biotech industry at the County level.  With regards to these contemporary issues, I engage the following questions that I explore in this dissertation: How does land or ʻāina shape the notion of education across the three sites? What does land/ʻāina mean for 21st century articulations of Hawaiianness, particularly among high school students at a Hawaiian-focused charter school? How does the school operate within a western education system while fostering a Hawaiian worldview?  How does the socio-culturally heterogeneous anti-GMO movement on Kauaʻi counter techno-scientific orderings of land to “feed the world”? What does this mean for articulations of Indigenous Peoples (Clifford 2001) and to related sovereignty claims over ʻāina? How does                                                 12 In the context of this dissertation, I focus on agricultural biotechnology. For a discussion on marine biotechnology, see Helmreich (2009: 106ff).  14 Hawaiʻi as a crucial hub for research and development of novel genetically engineered crops speak to this pressing global issue? Finally, in what forms do people of these different settings make knowledge claims, and how do these articulations define Hawaiian civic epistemologies (see Jasanoff 2005)?  In the following section, I outline the theoretical framework and methodological approach of this dissertation within the anthropology of education and science and technology studies (STS). I conclude the introduction with an outline of the dissertation's chapters. 1.1 Enquiring into learning and education  The subfield of the anthropology of education has taken on different shapes in different countries, most centrally in regards to the notion of “education.”13 Particularly in Anglo-American countries, the subfield descends from the anthropology of childhood, which in turn originated in developmental approaches by psychologist Jean Piaget.14 He countered evolutionary models of child development, and argued that children are actively involved in constituting their lived-in worlds. In the United States, Piaget influenced anthropology's Culture and Personality School in the 1940s, which represented the thesis that in cultural contexts where formal education is not prevalent children take on adults' personalities. While scholars criticized the simplistic equation of personality with culture, the deterministic approach was adopted a decade later in socialization theory. Socialization theory largely sees children as passive recipients of knowledge, which to this day has shaped the prevalent thinking                                                 13 For instance, in countries like Germany, Austria or Denmark the concept of “Bildung” and “dannelse” comprises a broader field of learning (Wright 2005). Levinson et al. (1996; 2000) and Spindler & Spindler (2000) provide a good overview, also of the United States. 14 Piaget's lack of concern for cultural context and social life later drew critics among both anthropologists and psychologists. If not otherwise stated, in this paragraph I refer to Peggy Froerer's lecture “Anthropological and Psychological Perspectives on Learning” at Brunel University, spring term 2007.  15 of mechanized social roles replicated over generations. Pierre Bourdieu's theory of practice with its attention to practices, body and actions (1977; Bourdieu & Passeron 1977) gave researchers interested in socio-cultural dimensions of learning more appropriate tools to position subjects as agents of their lived-in world.   There has since emerged a rich literature delineating the cultural constructiveness of the 'child,' 'youth,' or 'adult,' as anthropologists understand distinctions between these categories as matter of cultural expectations and less of intrinsic psychological characteristics (see Bucholtz 2002; James & Prout 1990; Toren 1993). Furthermore, particularly as a result of anthropologists' work in non-western societies, the concept of learning has been expanded from bounded institutions to include much messier parts of 'informal,' everyday life settings (see Akinnaso 1992; Strauss 1984). For instance, Levinson et al.'s edited volume The Cultural Production of the Educated Person (1996) collects ethnographic essays that interrogate social, political and cultural dynamics that shape how education comes to be. Another influential work is Jean Lave's widely adapted social theory influenced both by Bourdieu's practice theory and Cultural Studies approaches that moves beyond institutional settings (Lave 1982; 1990).   A Hawaiian-focused charter school that sees itself as a “school without walls” (Kanuikapono 2012) by moving class instruction onto the land - i.e. the taro patch – and into the public sphere - i.e., a political rally - exemplifies crossing such institutional boundaries (Indeed, as I will show in chapter 3, education at Kanuikapono was not defined by infrastructure per se but by how education and land emerged as a constantly shifting terrain in the connecting infrastructure of a built campus). Fundamentally, in Hawaiian epistemology there is no distinction between learning and teaching, and there is no word-for-word translation for “education.” The word a‘o comes closest as encompassing both learning (a‘o mai) and  16 teaching (a‘o aku), which rests upon receiving and giving (Chun 2006). Candace K. Galla et al. (2014) describe the six Rs of Indigenous Ways of Knowing, Being, and Doing,15 and specify that Reciprocity in Indigenous education is paramount (2014). Following other Indigenous scholars, they counter the western educational practice of students being recipients of knowledge through the Hawaiian concept of  a‘o: “an exchange of expertise and wisdom as a shared cyclical experience [which illustrates] the principle of reciprocity or teaching and learning as an exchange between the kumu (teacher) and haumāna (student)” (2014: 200). Hence, a‘o does not delineate a one-directional process of knowledge dissemination but continuously moving forms of expertise and wisdom.  During my fieldwork among the food sovereignty movement, boundaries in regards to where education starts and ends also got fuzzy. In this more informal setting, citizens encouraged their fellows to “educate yourself” on the unresolved consequences of genetically engineered (GE) crops and biotechnology more generally. Agricultural biotechnology proponents grappled with education again differently, having detected the industry's and scientists' longstanding failure to “educate the public” on biotechnology's feats to alleviate world hunger. Hence, education in the different settings similarly moved and was moved between institutions as trans-institutional practice. These different yet interlinked conceptions of education counter the commonly shared notion of an allegedly neutral, acultural or apolitical endeavour. People often inadvertently redefined epistemologies of education in conjunction with issues that were commonly seen as 'outside' of education. For instance, students giving                                                 15   Galla et al. hereby extend Kirkness and Barnhardt's Indigenous conceptual ideas with the 4Rs - respect, responsibility, relevance, and reciprocity (2001; quoted in Galla et al. 2014: 198) and Carjuzza and Fenimore-Smith's added relationality (2010; quoted in ibid.) with resiliency by strengthening the presence and practice of Indigenous epistemologies (2014: 200).   17 testimonies on the land development act PLDC (Public Land Development Corporation) was seen by Kanuikapono as part of education while authorities reminded the school to stay away from public, 'political' debates (chapter 4).   In this dissertation I thus argue that education has expanded institutions, in other words that it has moved out – in the sense of educere as ex- (out of) and ducere (to lead) - of institutitonal settings. Put differently, education has taken on new, emergent forms of life (see Fischer 2003). By emergent forms of life anthropologist and STS scholar Michael Fischer refers to technoscientific innovations (i.e. agricultural biotechnology) and with it to legal, institutional, and socio-cultural shifts, since traditional ethical and moral guidelines are “outrunning the pedagogies in which we have been trained” (2003: 37). These shifts, he argues, bring about new, emergent forms of life that people negotiate and renegotiate on ethical plateaus, “where often incommensurable frames of references come into play, involving irrational passions and fundamental commitments, as well as rational calculations” (Fischer 2005: 56). Fischer also acknowledges that the nature of pedagogy has changed due to the changing nature of technologies. He refers here both to how social theory has outrun people's experiences as well as to how university curricula have shifted, with the increasing presence of IT and communication technologies, interdisciplinary collaboration, and overall flattened hierarchies between teacher and student (ibid: 363). I extend this point to argue that it is these pedagogies themselves that emerge in different forms of life. That is, common pedagogical conceptions have outrun conceptions of what education has come to be, as it has embraced current issues and thus populated social, cultural and scientific discourses beyond the school. Hence, education is not innocent; neither simply an act of liberation nor of indoctrination.  18 Rather, it is deeply shaped by – indeed, co-produced with – politico-legal, socio-cultural and technoscientific realities that are of concern for respective social groups.  In effect, across the three field sites, and at times in an overlapping fashion, education emerged firstly as means of self-determination and sovereign right for indigenous educators, who insisted on moving teaching and learning onto the ʻāina and into the public sphere. Secondly, education was a means of a democratic right for consumers, environmentalists, and food producers that practiced self-education - by “educating yourself” - on contested food technologies. Thirdly, among scientists and industrialists, education was both a corrective effort of public misconceptions of biotechnology - by “educating the public” - and a process of community building to become a legitimate “good neighbour” in Hawaiʻi.   Recognizing this multivalent character of education sets the stage for another level of analysis where I elaborate how the very practice of learning correlates with and gets defined by the social. The work of educational anthropologists like Jean Lave proves useful here. Lave argues that since emerging knowledge is always embedded in sociality the human mind does not merely reflect on the world but interacts with it, a thesis that also problematizes cognitive psychology's conceptualization of the individual as locus of ingeniousness (1982; 1990). Similarly, as Ray McDermott argues in case of the “genius” – perhaps the most pivotal expression of the knowledgeable subject in western thought – this individualistic concept is rather one of a collective social process than a property of an individual mind (2006). Christina Toren similarly states that the “mind is a function of the whole person that is constituted over time in intersubjective relations with others in the environing world” (2011: 24). Jean Lave and Etienne Wenger's seminal work Situated Learning (1991) expands the thesis that any learning is a social act and vice versa by reference to “communities of practice.” This communal notion  19 also underlies the emergent forms of life that Fischer speaks of when he describes technoscience's specific appearances and articulations (2003; 2005). Put differently, just as the accumulation of knowledge through learning practices, science and technology are never not (part of) social acts. Lave & Wenger further that “newcomers” (i.e. students in a classroom) do not merely learn taught facts but also what other actors are involved, their activities, how they behave, engage with, and learn from each other rather than directly from the master, the “oldtimer” (1991: 95). Mastery then resides not in the master but in the larger organization of a particular community of practice (ibid: 94) where “identities of mastery” form novices for a world outside (1991: 41).16  Here is another parallel to an approach in science, technology & society studies (STS), the second central theoretical framework of this dissertation. As an interdisciplinary research field, it is concerned with the nature of scientific knowledge production and technological advancements; in other words, with what it means to know 'scientific facts' and for society to 'progress' via such advancements. STS scholars study knowledge regimes, what impact science and technology (S&T) have on society, as well as how people reason that S&T should be governed. In regards to the nature of mastery described above, STS scholars similarly interrogate how expertise is embedded in a system recognized by key players. They establish a regime of knowledge production, such as the public display of experiments like the air pump (Shapin & Schaffer 1985) ,17 or ethics and expert committees (Jasanoff 1995; 2004). Just as                                                 16 Applying this concept in my Master's thesis, I argued that students at a Hawaiian-focused charter school form mastery around Hawaiian cultural knowledge that many in their adult lived-in world had not been exposed to, and thus act both as “oldtimers” and “newcomers” in multiple communities of practice (Gugganig 2009).  17 Shapin & Schaffer's seminal work Leviathan and the Air Pump (1985) interrogates Thomas Hobbes' and Robert Boyle's debate in the 17th century over the effectiveness of the air pump. The authors demonstrate that the experimental method was contingent on a particular upper-class, male circle as witnesses that would give legitimacy to the air pump's effectiveness (rather than Hobbes' absolute certainty of mere demonstration).  20 mastery in the apprenticeship of smiths is defined by its social organization (Lave & Wenger 1991), so do experts assert and maintain expertise according to these established and recognized institutions.   Lave contends that everyday thought practices are also expert thoughts (1988). This resonates with educational scientists Melissa Freeman and Sandra Mathison, who write about children as co-researchers, arguing that children are “competent social actors with different competencies, perspectives, and experiences” (2008: 62; see also Christensen & Prout 2002). Likewise, educational scientist Leif Gustavson asserts that the commonly assumed importance of “[s]pecialization makes it difficult for teachers to believe that youth are creatively intelligent human beings”, who, as he argues, are “mathematicians, historians, writers, and scientists in their lives” (2008: 102; 103; emphasis original).   Related to opening up the notion of expertise is the interrogation of the formality/informality distinction, as it both defines and delegitimizes expertise. When recognizing that learning and formed expertise occur in any social setting, it becomes obvious how ambiguous and often inadequate the category of 'informal' places of learning is (Strauss 1984). Even in more recent elaborations in the anthropology of education, such as Bekerman et. al.'s Learning in Places: The Informal Education Reader (2006), the 'informal' still remains an encapsulated, static entity. While educational anthropologists such as Peggy Froerer and Anne Portisch make the important step of socially contextualizing learning and education (2012), I cannot help but discern a still prevalent anthropological theorization of education with an inherent reference to the 'mother ship' that is school education. A significant number of authors in anthropology and STS studies have likewise moved beyond institutional settings when elaborating expertise by integrating wider social group's knowledge practices into their  21 analyses (Benjamin 2013; Cruikshank 2005; Epstein 1995; Jasanoff 2003, 2005b; Silverman 2012; Wynne 1996). This dissertation aligns with these authors' works, which offer a more radical socio-symmetrical approach to expertise. It further extends this body of work by focusing more particularly on learning as matter of any social interaction, which turns any social loci into loci of learning.  Hence, children, youth, and humans of any age or profession, are capable of building and articulating an expertise that is shaped by their lived experiences, social settings, desires, fears, and expectations (see Lave 1988). As I will show in this work, in the different settings I investigated on Kauaʻi, a respective mastery and expertise did not always correlate with what was expected by key players. For instance, teachers at a Hawaiian-focused charter school often had different expectations of what students' mastery is supposed to be once they graduate. Yet, as I will show in this dissertation, students learned their ways around their culture, their island, the histories and the contemporary faces of colonialism, be it gawking tourists or the agricultural biotech industry. By doing so, I argue that the students develop tacit forms of expertise that may neither be registered in a standardized school curriculum nor in common conceptions of what Hawaiian education should look like. Similarly, politicians' and scientists' models of citizen's understanding of S&T often enough diverged from citizens' own sets of knowledgeability. In that sense, I argue that frictions that emerged between and within these communities of practice – a school, the Hawaiʻi Department of Education (HDOE), a concerned public, the County of Kauaʻi, the biotech industry, etc. - bring about different forms of expertise.  In distinction from the ubiquitous term of knowledgeable subjects, I refer to these teachers, students, mothers, farmers, and others not formally recognized by institutional entities  22 as knowledge-able social experts (see Jasanoff 2003; Wynne 1996), who in and between these communities of practice created their own, often tacit forms of expertise. By referring to expertise I do not attempt to raise lay people's status to that of otherwise recognized policy/ethics/science/law experts, and thus to impose a distinctly institutionalized, perhaps upper-class valuation of professionalism. Knowledge-able social experts rather level out, and perhaps 'pull down' the conception of expertise to wider socio-cultural settings that are not intrinsically linked to committee meetings, laboratories or court rooms. In that sense, expanding the meaning of education beyond institutional thinking resonates with these diverse forms of expertise, and puts expertise where it rightly belongs, and always has been: in people's everyday lived-in worlds. Indeed, it is instructive to point to the parallel between education and expertise. Etymologically, both terms entail the prefix ex- (out of): education as in ex- and ducere (to lead), and expertise, which is rooted in experience: ex- and peritus (experienced, tested). In more colloquial terms, both education and expertise has always been 'out there.' Most central for this thesis is the recognition that learning consists of a constant shifting of positions – from apprentice/newcomer to master/oldtimer (Lave & Wenger 1991) - and is thus not only a social but a spatial process. In consequence, I argue that learning as intrinsic to any social practice cannot be disassociated from notions of education and expertise. Here is where the work of educational anthropologists correlates with the concept of emergent forms of life (Fischer 2003). Both approaches are fundamentally about communality, as the social is essential for learning and for Fischer's emergent forms of life. Indeed, Fischer derives this notion from the term form of life as used by Ludwig Wittgenstein who argues that the social is essential for learning language; a “sociality of action” (Fischer 2003: 37). In other words, the social and education do not occur in a vacuum but are inherent to each other.   23  To accommodate these interspaces between different loci of learning, I propose the concept of learnscapes. This concept captures the intricate forms of learning about, fighting for, connecting to, or mere thinking of a place – here,ʻāina (or land) – and processes of identity formation that come with it. It aligns with sensory knowing in Hawaiian epistemology that Kanaka Maoli philosopher Manulani Meyer explains “is not only mediated by one's living resources, but by a whole host of historical and metaphorical images that continue to explain, educate, and inspire” (2003: 107). With its malleable, spatially and temporally overarching properties, learnscapes futher closely relates to sociologist Henry Lefebvre's notion of space: a thinking of place and practices together as lived space by capturing perception and conception put in practice (1991), with a closer focus on learning/social processes. Arjun Appadurai's work Modernity at Large (1996) on global “flows” and the five related “scapes”18 come to mind, yet learnscapes more specifically attends to the personal and/or communal intersection of place and learning. I thus recognize that knowing is being and doing and interrelated to any place, even if considered 'out-of-place,' such as the commonly shared view that learning at school takes place outside of 'real life' (Lave & Wenger 1991); or the conception among many Hawaiian educators that learning only happens 'on' the ʻāina. I return here again to Tim Ingold's elucidation that education is not locked in the 'inside' – whether a classroom or a (young) person's mind - as much as it is not locked in the 'outside' (see 2014: 388).  The concept of learnscapes also relates to indigenous epistemologies of landscapes as holding memories (Feld & Basso 1996, Cruikshank 2005, Oliveira 2014), as places from which people learn. Beyond this, I also point to more immediately created spaces as reference points of learning. This relates to the etho-ecological perspective postulated by Isabelle Stengers, as it accounts for “the inseparability of ethos, the way of behaving that is peculiar to a being, and                                                 18 These are ethnoscapes, technoscapes, financescapes, mediascapes, and ideoscapes.  24 oikos, the habitat of that being and the way in which that habitat satisfies or opposes the demands associated with the ethos [...]” (2005: 997). In other words, a person or collective negotiates over and over again how their ethos aligns or does not align with a certain landscape/place/habitat. It is this wider scope that aims to address the range of engagements; more broadly with a created space and more particularly with land/ʻāina as sacred, as relative, as extractable, waste dump, place of (tourist) recreation, or industrial source.  If the notion of learnscapes is concerned with the overall dynamics of place, learning and practice, I propose the concept of learning as land-ing, which emerged out of close ethnographic attention to these practices. To return to the case of the high school students, recognizing their learning processes as forming trajectories and moving away from different positions (Ingold 2014; Lave & Wenger 1991), I argue that in these processes they crafted their own ways of learning as land-ing. The concept of land-ing reflects not only the immediate association of arriving somewhere, perhaps at a new terrain of insights, but also depicts the social situatedness of learning, an objectivity that is founded in situated knowledge (Haraway 1988). Hence, while learnscapes describes the overarching socio-spatial dimension of acquiring knowledge, learning as land-ing is concerned with the more minute, socio-cognitive dimension where knowledgeability intersects with the social. In case of Hawaiʻi, this encompasses what Kanaka Maoli literary scholar and author hoʻomanawanui refers to as place-based learning practices from and about the land,ʻIke ʻĀina (2008). Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua similarly describes land-centered literacies: “writing ourselves into the landscape by drawing water through irrigation ditches to loʻi kalo [taro patches] and then back to streams” (2013: 34). This is also akin to what geographer Katrina-Anne R. Kapā‘anaokalāokeola Nākoa Oliveira  25 calls performative cartographies – hula, chants, reciting moʻolelo, genealogical chants, etc. (2014).   Here I wish to expand these practices to ways of knowing with and about land that defy a common (often positivist) conception of affectionately planting trees or cleaning the beach. I pose that such knowledge-making practices also need to include how people satisfy or oppose in more immediate situations “the demands associated with the ethos” (Stengers 2004: 997). In people's conscience that things ought to be a particular way, learning as land-ing accounts for the not always 'proper' ways of connecting to the land, i.e. the at times unfocused student chanting to the akua (god) when entering a forest, or littering the beach while knowing that this is not an act of mālama ʻāina (care for the land). It is these moments 'in-between' – the expected learning goals from the teacher and the student's learning trajectory, the classroom and the beach, etc. – that become most evident through ethnographic research. The concept of learning as land-ing thus attempts to account for this interplay between the youth's activities, formed identities and identifying places without essentializing any of these components. Hence, land-ing incorporates different situated knowledge practices, which not every actor agrees are the best forms to engage with land. This was also the case among food sovereignty activists opposing how scientists in the agricultural biotech industry related to land as a source to maximize food production in order to 'feed the world.'  This does not mean that learning as land-ing is per se tied to land but it is often the case in Hawaiʻi where due to its colonial past,19 land relations remain a highly political matter.   In reflection of this complex history, and the ethnically diverse population that emerged                                                 19 See Kehaulani Kauanui  (2008) and Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua (2013; 256f, fn. 59) on discussions on whether Hawaiʻi is an illegally annexed, independent Kingdom could be described as “colonized.”  26 as a result of the sugar and pineapple industry in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, learning as land-ing and learnscapes in Hawaiʻi also centrally encompass boundary work around cultural identity. This requires a closer look at how Hawaiian culture and Hawaiianness get articulated (Clifford 2001) in a place that has captured a plethora of new arrivals - plants, animals, missionaries, sugar barons, sugarcane field workers, shipped goods, new settlers,20 etc. − and concurrently expelled many others (see Helmreich 2005). Food taboos, pollution fears and environmental risk are crucial markers, as they are grounded in a group's symbolic classificatory system (Douglas 1966; Douglas & Wildavsky 1982) and serve to align with or distance oneself from other groups. How one stands towards organic food − as a statement of 'returning back' to Hawaiian ways of eating, and/or as alternative to an industrialized food production system −, and how one stands towards fields of GE crops − as means to “feed the world,” as continuation of the United States' illegal annexation of Hawaiʻi, and/or as inhibition to create small-scale farmer operations − are all conceptions that are not merely shaped by ideals of eating healthy or doing the proper thing for the ʻāina. In the heightened awareness among concerned citizens of the biotech industry during my fieldwork, these articulations brought to sharp relief what it means to be Hawaiian in the 21st century, to mālama ʻāina, or to know what are GMOs. Furthermore, they revealed how education, activism, alternative and alterNATIVE (Nakanishi 2000) ways of knowing and being, industrialized agriculture and captitalism, as well as science took on shape in the early 21st century in Hawaiʻi.  Related to the finding that knowing is socially mediated and shaped by articulations of                                                 20 I refer to arrivals of roughly the last four decades as new settlers. In the 1970s, the so-called Taylor Camp on Kauaʻi (Wehrheim 2010) attracted many young hippies and other 'society dropouts' that found a refuge from the 'mainland's' police brutality, campus riots, and later also attracted draft dodgers from the Vietnam war. The legend of Kauaʻi as antidotal paradise to the industrialized mainstream (mainland) society continues to captivate newly arrivals to this day, who primarily do work-trade on farms or work in the tourism industry.  27 cultural identity, across the different field sites there also emerged shared and contested epistemologies. More specifically, epistemologies were defined by diverse claims of bodily ways of knowing whose source people located in the mind, the heart or the naʻau21 (guts, as the seat of both intelligence and emotion). Anthropologists and STS scholars have likewise turned their attention to sensual, bodily ways of knowing (see Ingold 2000; Myers 2008; Sahlins 1995; Silverman 2012). Donna Haraway's call to take sensory systems of vision seriously and to pose what other sensory powers we wish to cultivate (1988: 587) attends researchers to this multiplicity of sensorial ways of knowing. In the case of Hawaiian epistemology, Oliveira succinctly refers to sense abilities of sight, listening, taste, touch, and smell, as well as connecting to one's naʻau, to a place and ancestry (kulāiwi), ancestral ways of knowing (au ʻāpaʻapaʻa), and lineages of insights and traditions (moʻo) (2014). During fieldwork, these forms of knowing, but especially to listen to one's naʻau, formed a central aspect of knowing, such as when Kānaka Maoli claimed to speak for the ʻāina and against the controversial practices of the agricultural biotech industry. The naʻau was also often equated with another bodily source of knowing, the heart, such as in “speaking from the heart.” Yet such ways of knowing did not remain uncontested. Following anthropologist Sabine Deiringer's findings, non-Hawaiians were quick to frame Kānaka Maoli as “demented” or “radical” when expressing outrage over desecrated burials (2009). In a similar vein, during my fieldwork on Kauaʻi, proponents of biotechnology often dismissed countering arguments as 'irrational,' 'culturally-biased' or 'un-scientific.' Yet workers of agricultural biotech firms likewise gave 'emotional' testimonies when it came to the alleged loss of jobs should the industry be more strictly                                                 21 “Intestines, bowels, guts; mind, heart, affections; of the heart or mind; mood, temper, feelings” (Wehewehe online dictionary).  28 regulated. These public ways of knowledge-making, a sense of objectivity in data, the āina, and the kinds of expertise that different groups consulted shape what Sheila Jasanoff calls civic epistemology (2005a) .22 Besides these different facets that I will analyze in this work, I propose to include bodily ways of knowing, which likewise constituted a Hawaiian civic epistemology. I therefore outline in this work that cerebral reasoning was only one among a plethora of bodily-derived ways of knowing. In sum, I argue that expertise of knowledge-able social experts is defined by specific processes of learning as land-ing that shape learnscapes, which are informed by one's socio-cultural context, as well as claims of bodily sources of knowing (see Myers 2008; Prentice 2007).   1.2 Situating the field - methodologically In the late 1980s, the call for multi-sited ethnography in anthropology attempted to counter meta-narratives by paying closer attention to intersecting locations that constitute cultural formations (Marcus & Fischer 1986; Marcus 1995). The ethnographic research at hand could be called a 'local' multi-sited endeavour, albeit with different emphases on the three sites. My prime research site was Kanuikapono charter school, secondarily I engaged in the food sovereignty movement, and peripherally, I followed the agricultural biotechnology industry on Kauaʻi.23                                                  22 Jasanoff outlines six dimensions of civic epistemology: styles of public knowledge-making, methods ensuring public accountability, practices of public demonstration, registers of objectivity, expertise, and visibility of expert bodies (2005: 259). I will here focus on styles of public knowledge-making, registers of objectivity and expertise, as these aspects were most relevant in the described educational forms. 23 This was also due to my geographical location, as the school is in East Kauaʻi and most of the movement's initiatives took place on the East side and North shore. The biotech industry is located primarily on the West side and parts of the South side, an approximate car drive of 1 1/2 hours.  29  From August 2012 to May 2013, I spent 3-4 days a week with the high school program, which included a cultural camp, public speeches and events regarding land regulation, a school trip to Vancouver/Canada with the senior students in April 2013, and numerous filming trips across the island. Prior to my fieldwork, I had offered Kanuikapono charter school a collaborative film project with students, teachers and community members, which morphed into a film and research methods class for the high school. I taught basic techniques in filming, editing film, photography composition, film analysis, as well as audiovisual and interviewing practices. Besides the film class, I helped the high school teacher Katie Capadouca as educational assistant for her language arts and social science classes, which often entailed brainstorming topics and crafting student assignments. Sometimes I would do participant observation in middle school, join school trips across different grades, drive the school van or supervised lunch breaks. Besides that, I offered to visually document events at the school for a film about Kanuikapono that eventually turned into a short film about senior students' visit to Vancouver/BC24 and an internal short film on senior students' reflection on their time at Kanuikapono. Out of 14 high school students, nine participated in the research project, as well as eleven teachers, staff and volunteering instructors, and the principal. I conducted semi-structured interviews with all the participants, (except for three students and a teacher), which lasted on average 1-2 hours.25 I interviewed six high school students in groups of three and two, and one individual interview.   Outside of the school I conducted participant observation at different public community events and gatherings that were organized by individuals more or less closely related to the                                                 24  Kuʻu Home ma ka ʻĀina ʻĒ: A Home away from Home. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWizfViloj4 [accessed January 5 2014]. All material is under Kanuikapono charter school's copyright (2013). 25 All students have pseudonyms or are anonymized.  30 food sovereignty movement. I interviewed four educators (one on Hawaiʻi Island), two educational consultants, one great-grandmother of a student at Kanuikapono, as well as three activists, one journalist, one politician, and four scientists. From 32 conducted interviews I transcribed and analyzed 29. I chose to interview all my interlocutors at the end of the school year, respectively towards the end of my fieldwork. This was primarily due to past experiences where people tended to be more willing to share their points of views – and contest mine − as they learned to get to know me better as person, rather than merely as researcher. In daily practices and the interviews, I looked closer at and listened to what people meant by education and mālama ʻāina.   A central approach that shapes the analysis of this dissertation, and to that extent resonates with the method of multi-sited ethnography, is that of symmetry in STS. As sociologist David Bloor asserts, analysts should stay impartial to the truth and falsity of knowledge practices in order to address them symmetrically, irrelevant of whether they are considered 'true,' 'false,' 'rational' or 'irrational' (1991 [1976]: 7). My situatedness to different degrees in these 'sites' - as class instructor and advocate of citizens concerned with GMOs - is testimony to what could be called an 'asymmetrical symmetry' between the school, community events, and one biotech firm. As Marilyn Strathern details, “[t]he anthropologist's contexts and levels of analysis are themselves often at once both part and yet not part of the phenomena s/he hopes to organize with them” (1991: 75). In other words, this ethnographic research is shaped by my primary position at the school and different land-related non-profit organizations, and the eventual consideration of the agricultural biotech industry as a third field site.   My ethnographic fieldwork on Kauaʻi constituted a daily criss-crossing between different settings, which entailed a constant counter-checking of such accustomed norms. In the  31 words of Michael Fischer, attention to different field sites is an attempt to create a space that is never neutral or 'outside' others:  [Anthropology's] formation has increasingly been a third space between the desires of empire (of control) and the defense of the oppressed (of subaltern voices, interests, values, and perspectives), a third space of helping evolve new multicultural ethics, with translation and mediation tools for helping make visible the differences of interests, access, power, needs, desire and philosophical perspective (2003: 8).  In this sense, impartiality does not suggest that colonial, post-colonial, and other entangled power relations are set aside, least ignored. Rather, it means recognizing that there is no place of retreat despite or exactly because knowledge is situated (Haraway 1988; Lave & Wenger 1991). When scholars both of STS and anthropology inquire into the make-up of science, and culture respectively, they question the dichotomy between the social and the natural (Wynne 1996), the modern and traditional (Brandt 2007; Henze & Valett 1993; Latour 1993), yet without denouncing the significance of such norms for social actors. Following this line of thought, my methodological approach was to look at how people mobilized such norms through different modes of education.   This local multi-sited ethnography also speaks to Fischer's clarification that reflexivity is not so much about personal reflexivity than about juxtaposing “cultural, moral, or social discourses as socially situated [...] that require further scrutiny of their formation, efficacy, and place among contesting perspectives” (2003: 12). The engagement across the different sites helped to contrast and complement how people thought together and separated education from land and Hawaiian issues, and where and when science - in the form of agricultural biotechnology – entered the picture. STS scholar Candis Callison succinctly describes this as a “jeweler's eye view” with an emphasis on locating (and relocating) as verb, which recognizes  32 the relations between power, knowledge, history and difference (2014: 31ff). For instance, on an island with a population of 65,000 inhabitants, I was surprised that whenever I told people about Kanuikapono or the Kauai Food Forest on the North shore, many did not know of their existence. It spoke to the island's socio-culturally diverse communities that often existed parallel to each other, which for me often felt similar to urban anonymity and gated communities. The switching between different sites threw into relief the politics of movement (necessitated via a car); the choice, lack thereof, and 'luxury' to move, and related hereto that people often did not know (or did not feel they had to know) other people's histories and epistemologies, particularly those of Kānaka Maoli.    Yet locating and relocating did not end with the last day of fieldwork. Rather, it was a constant mode of revisiting my fieldnotes, not least by moving between different places (universities, conferences, and engaging conversations with research fellows in cafes or pubs), and different power relations over knowledge production (particularly in educational institutions like universities). Ethnography is thus a constant mode of (re)orientation, a mode of educere, moving out, forward, sideways, any ways.26 I am reminded of an incident at Kanuikapono when the high school teacher and I proposed to Kanuikapono a school visit to the biotech company Pioneer Dupont to get a perspective on GMOs “from the other side.” When I later interviewed teachers on this visit, the Hawaiian language teacher Kamealoha D. Forrest shared the following:                                                  26 I experienced some of these steps through the STS Program at Harvard University with Professor Sheila Jasanoff and the many fellows that have provided invaluable feedback on this research project and beyond.  33 I told [incomprehensible] the students that was totally against going, that they should have went!27 That you don't have to accept everything they're saying but in order to have a good argument of why you don't like it, if you don't even understand their side of the argument, you can't have just one side. […] If you're going to argue a point you need to be able to know all viewpoints. And that is, even in Hawaiian, in ancient Hawaiʻi they had this thing called hoʻopapa, and the best hoʻopapa person, or the one, they banter and battle with words and poetry. The one that knew the most things about all types of other aspects of life was the winner!   Kamealoha's account shows that the highly cherished virtue of bantering among ancient Hawaiians (and at present, as I will show) implies at the basic level the virtue of knowing different perspectives. While this outlook guided my personal morals and research ethics, as I will show in this dissertation, it was also a problematic endeavour that often belied the neutral, apolitical virtue of education.  Hence, the described findings in this dissertation suggest that ethnographic research on different forms of education in and around contested issues reveal often overlooked ways of knowing that go beyond dichotomous framings of education as either indoctrination or liberation. In other words, close ethnographic and analytical attention is essential to comprehend how education becomes a significant knowledge device that people increasingly adopt to bring to the forefront imperative issues of cultural identity, sovereignty, democratic citizenship, and science and technology. In the case of Hawaiʻi, these issues emerged and continue to emerge on the contested terrain of ʻāina.   Educational scientists' and anthropologists' works are not only crucial for expanding conceptions of learning and education. Connecting concepts of knowledge production in                                                 27 People that speak Hawaiian Pidgin often mix singular and plural forms, as well as tenses. This is indicative of the fact that in Hawaiian in singular and plural form words tend to be the same. Often kahakō – letters with macron – indicate a plural form, such as nā kūpuna (the elders), rather than ke kupuna (the elder). I will therefore not indicate these instances as “[sic]”.  34 anthropology of education with those in STS, as well as a methodology of (a)symmetry in local multi-sited ethnography, promised to be fruitful engagements. The approaches I have described in anthropology of childhood, youth and education counter conceptions of young individuals as passive knowledge recipients from their adult lived-in worlds by recognizing their own forms of expertise. Similarly, several STS scholars counter deficiency-driven paradigms of citizens as allegedly passive recipients of science and technology, who are measured against predefined standards of what such knowledge constitutes (Jasanoff 2005b; Wynne 1993). This is not to say that young people's perspectives are void of adults' expectations, nor that citizens do not also consult scientific studies, quite the contrary. As actors in a social world they never can be. The tacit expertise of youth and citizens thus emerge in conjunction, parallel, and counter to adults or authorities in policy and science. Just as children and youth actively shape their lived-in worlds, so do citizens competently engage in knowledge controversies over scientific and technological advancements (Callison 2014; Stengers 2005; Whatmore 2009) as knowledge-able citizens (Jasanoff 2012a: 27).   1.3 Positioning myself – in anthropology in Hawaiʻi The list of Indigenous Peoples whose lives have been disrupted through colonialism is a dire and long one, and anthropologists not uncommonly contributed to its exploitative endeavours. Kānaka Maoli are no exception to this (ongoing) experience of structural violence. Anthropologists Geoffrey White and Ty Kāwika Tengan (2001) hold that the relationship between anthropologists and Kānaka Maoli has often been conflictual, since anthropological research conducted in Native Hawaiian communities was rarely of any profit for the latter. They chronicle the history of anthropological studies of Kānaka Maoli moving from early  35 salvage ethnography to acculturation studies of Hawaiians becoming Americans, with the exception of the Nānakuli Project (1965-68), which studied life conditions in Hawaiian homestead communities, and resulted in the Kamehameha Early Education Program. As one of its first kind, this program used anthropological and psychological research for developing an education program for Native Hawaiians, yet there still remained a gap between the observer and the observed (ibid: 393).28 Conflicts between (white) anthropologists and Kānaka Maoli voyagers in the Polynesian Voyaging Society (Hokule‘a) in the 1970s served as a caution to future researchers that cultural practices could not be separated from indigenous struggles (p. 394). These tensions came to full expression in the by now famous debate between anthropologists Roger Keesing (1989) and Jocelynn Linnekin (1985) working to deconstruct “invented” traditions, and Kānaka Maoli political scientist Haunani Kay Trask (1991). Trask accused anthropologists doing work in Hawaiʻi to be “part of the colonizing horde” by misrepresenting Hawaiians, and thereby taking away their power of self-definition (1991: 163).   When I first came to Hawaiʻi in 2007 for a four-month research project for Master's thesis at another Hawaiian-focused charter school, I was slow to realize what impact my skin colour and European origin would have on working in a Hawaiian community (yet, the individualized, commercial-driven US-American culture was just as strange to me). I further learned that acting as a mere sponge soaking up information by asking questions without revealing myself was not only one-sided, but also quite boring. At a rare AAA panel on                                                 28 Other ethnographic research on education in Hawaiʻi includes Gallimore et al.'s Culture, Behavior, and Education (1974), Watson-Gegeo & Boggs' From verbal play to talk story (1977), and Bogg's Speaking, Relating, and Learning (1985). Further ethnographic work includes Karen Ito's Lady Friends (1999), and on embodiment Tengan's Native Man Remade (2008), as well as McMullin's The Healthy Ancestor (2010) and Marshall's Potent Mana (2012) on health and healing. This dissertation follows the genealogy of these educational ethnographies while it departs from their preponderant psychological analyses. It relates to the ethnographic details Ito pays towards daily acts of interaction (though with less focus on language) and to the practice of embodiment (though with a stronger focus on space and place).  36 ethnographic studies in Hawaiʻi in 2008, Tengan reminded the audience that researchers need to display not merely their methodological and theoretical genealogy, but also the genealogy of their personal ambitions for conducting research in a foreign place.29 As Hawaiian philosopher Manulani Meyer notes, in Hawaiian epistemology knowledge is defined through its roots in the personal (2003). Only upon sharing a personal story at this Honolulu-based Hawaiian-focused charter school in 2007 did my interlocutors (and me) understand why I was interested in Hawaiian students learning about their culture and language. My genealogy of personal ambitions to come to Hawaiʻi goes far back to my childhood growing up in a German-speaking city (Vienna) where my siblings and me attended a semi-private Czech-immersion school. To most people, this is a very unusual education and immersion, and many do not even know about this school.30 Growing up in Vienna fifty years after the Holocaust meant that as a white Austrian I got used to a sense of otherness and racism that taught me not to speak my own, second language in public. Further, my generation grew up with a strong sense to “Never Forget” the Holocaust31 when witnesses started to come to our schools to talk about the atrocities of xenophobia before their generation would die. Twenty years later, I remain hopeful when I sit in a bus in Vienna and see ten-year-old boys lacking the shyness I grew up with, and                                                 29  Paper presentation “Genealogies: Articulating indigenous anthropology in/of Oceania”, at the annual AAA Meeting in San Francisco, November 2008. See also Ito on proper conduct of asking questions (1999: 12f). 30  During the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, numerous ethnic groups had lived in its capitol, Vienna, making it, for a early 20th century Europe, an exceptionally multicultural city. The Czech people formed the largest ethnic 'minority,' and Czech was taught at numerous public schools. After WWI in 1918, when the monarchy collapsed and its constituent countries gained independence, many people moved back to their countries of origin, or their lives exacerbated through the pure Arian culture promoted by the Nazi regime. While we did not grow up with any Czech relatives, our father had wished for us to attend the last remaining Czech school Komenský in order for us to experience the city, somewhat romantically, as this past, multicultural and multilingual place.  31  In German the slogan is “Niemals Vergessen.”  37 speak in their (Polish) native tongue. Twenty years later I am also fearful when I witness that Austria has the most voted right-wing party (Freedom Party) per capita (35%) within Europe.  These two experiences expose both similarities and differences to what I offer to study in this dissertation: what it means for young Kānaka Maoli to learn about their cultural heritage and language despite devaluation, and how to negotiate adults' expectations to maintain and cultivate that knowledge, and to 'not forget' and deal with the atrocities of colonialism. I then also recognize the differences, namely that as a white person my arrival to and presence in Hawaiʻi has been facilitated through a long history of imperial white supremacy that led to the cultural and ecological exploitation of this place. White & Tengan note that in the present era of decolonization, categorizations of “separate outsider” researchers as “antagonistic” by native scholars is only to dissolve once the discipline creates stronger social, political, and intellectual ties to communities (2001: 400). It was the practice and experience of aloha, aloha ʻāina and ʻohana that I was offered that facilitated such ties. As White and Tengan further note, for Native scholars, who question the dichotomy between academia and local culture, fiction writing, theatre, and video are preferred research tools, as they resonate with indigenous storytelling and performance (ibid: 403). This motivated my research endeavour at Kanuikapono charter school, namely exploring filmmaking  and storytelling (by teaching high school students interview techniques) as ways of doing research. I thus aimed to reciprocate this shared aloha and ʻohana by offering my skills as researcher and filmmaker to youth, which the principal of Kanuikapono saw to be was an asset for her school. I thus recognize the privilege that was given to me to work in a Hawaiian-focused charter school, and the difficulties that came with following a trajectory of “outsider” teachers coming to Hawaiʻi, often merely for a year at a time.   38 The difficulty, yet concurrent opportunity for (foreign) anthropological researchers working on Hawaiian issues is that notions of “fieldwork”, “anthropology”, “indigenous culture,” are not fixed but negotiable (p. 404). Kanuikapono's strong focus on multimedia techniques for storytelling allowed such collaboration in the planning stage. As I will elaborate in this dissertation, executing collaboration cannot be planned, particularly in settings of dire shortages of means and personnell. As an ethnographic work conducted by a foreign anthropologist in a Hawaiian community, its contribution is then to take serious what collaboration should be for the community, and to recognize that it may take on new, unexpected forms due to unforeseen circumstances. In other words, collaboration may mean serving as a film class instructor, recognizing that projects demanding strong teamwork among teachers will fail, and that senior students may go on a school trip to Vancouver not originally planned. I follow, again, Kim Fortun, who describes advocacy as ethnographic practice that cannot, and should not, lead to the modernist ideal of an intentional end result, but to an openness for new practices and ethics (2001: 16). At this point, it is pertinent to state the limitations of my methodological approach. While I was fortunate to have taken Hawaiian classes with Kamealoha D. Forrest in the second term of the school year, and sporadic one-on-one classes with Susan Rowland, I am not proficient in the Hawaiian language. Beyond key words that often came up in daily interactions, and others I elaborate here more, such as aʻo, this dissertation is not a linguistically informed analysis, and it is not informed by a rigorous archival research into Hawaiian language documents. This means that some concepts, such as education, experimental systems, and Hawaiian civic epistemology, are far from complete, and that a scholar fluent in the Hawaiian language would doubtlessly find additional and deeper  39 connections than is the case here. In that sense, this work is an invitation to find conceptual inspiration that is built on scholarship of Kānaka Maoli researchers, anthropologists of education and science and technology studies scholars. It is my hope that this work will show Kānaka Maoli and Pacific Islander students the value of ethnographic research, in their own or other communities, not least to deconstruct the notion of anthropology as the invading “outsider” (White & Tengan 2001: 397). Further, it may serve comparative research studies on indigenous cultural revitalization efforts in education as well as studies of agricultural biotechnology, where ethnographic insights can provide relevant insights.   1.4 Structure of thesis This dissertation is roughly divided into two parts. Part I (Chapters 2-4) describes interlinkages between land and education with a focus on Kanuikapono charter school. Part II (Chapters 5-7) focuses on agricultural biotechnology and different modes of education in regards to land and world hunger.   In the introductory chapter for Part I, A history of land-landscapes and educational landscapes in Hawaiʻi, I approach the historical setup of education and land as interrelated landscapes. I start with a brief overview of the Hawaiian creation story Kumulipo and go on to outline the changing natural and social order through the sugar industry, which enticed the white oligarchy to push for annexation. The project to Americanize Hawaiʻi took shape in a co-evolution of the Hawaiian school system and agriculture that was defined by a Protestant work ethic. This ethic, I suggest, eventually got inscribed into both the land-landscape and educational landscape. The establishment of Hawaiian homesteads demonstrated the extent to which the white oligarchy secured prime agricultural land and cemented a politics of ethnic  40 identity coupled with Native Hawaiians' crumbling sovereignty. I end the chapter outlining emergent forms of Hawaiian cultural education programs since the 1980s, which includes Hawaiian-focused charter schools.   In chapter 3, Kanuikapono: a “school without walls”, I portray this Hawaiian-focused charter school, and describe the obstacles that came with operating within the context of a US-American educational system. These obstacles took shape (1) in creating a “school without walls” by building foundational walls; (2) by giving preference to Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) students as a public school; and (3) in forming a Hawaiian education program while debunking the stigma of not being academically rigorous. People's deliberation over these incommensurabilities emerged in the form of an ethical plateau (Fischer 2003), which in turn formed contested terrains of ʻāina and education.  The final chapter of Part I, The high school, learnscapes, and education as experimental system, is where I describe in more ethnographic detail the everyday life at the school. I start with my own position as film class instructor and ethnographer, my methodological approach, and then zoom into the school's relatively young high school program. I then delineate the program's 'odd child' status as in between child-oriented Hawaiian education and adulthood on the island, and describe how the students conciliated the double bind between adults' expectations as young Kānaka Maoli and daily experiences by learning as land-ing, which in turn formed their idiosyncratic learnscapes. I show how as a result they created tacit forms of expertise through their sensibilities towards social and spatial marginalization. The teachers likewise fostered tacit forms of expertise in their attempts to conciliate the above mentioned double binds in the form of experimental forms of teaching.   41 Similar to Part I, Part II begins with a background chapter - Agricultural biotechnology: the Hawaiian forms of life of a global industry - on agricultural biotechnology in Hawaiʻi, I discuss how, after the sugar industry left the Hawaiian islands in the 1990s, the fields were opened up to global agricultural biotechnology corporations to research and develop genetically engineered crops. I further delineate how Hawaiʻi is not only interesting for the agricultural industry as part of the United States regulatory system, but also how biotechnology functions as institution of governance and discourse of (national) progress (Jasanoff 2006: 283f) that reaffirms and realigns Hawaiʻi as part of the United States. This conflated history of settler colonialism reverberated in the patenting and genetic engineering (GE) of the sacred plant kalo (taro) at the University of Hawaiʻi while GE taro opponents spoke of biotechnology countering Hawaiian epistemologies. I end this chapter with discussing the questionable narrative of the biotech industry having 'filled the void' left behind by the sugar industry by comparing it to that in religion 170 years earlier. As I argue, such framing suggests a seamless transition from sugar to GMO crops, from the kapu system to Christianity, and, as well as from teaching to being taught.   In chapter 6, titled You are choosing GMO by default if you don't educate yourself: Kanaka Maoli and food sovereignty activists' call to mālama ʻāina, I follow my own and the students' trajectory of encounters: firstly the movement (in chapter 6), and later the biotech industry (in chapter 7). Chapter 6, then, describes a wider public concerned with agricultural biotechnology where several incidents brought Kānaka Maoli and non-Hawaiian activists together in rudimentary ways. As enunciatory communities that responded to the paradox of these criss-crossing incidents (Fortun 2001), there was also an underlying Hawaiian civic epistemology that was defined by contentious deliberation and bodily ways of knowing. I argue  42 that some high school students were “speaking from the heart” when testifying on the PLDC or welcoming anti-GMO activist Vandana Shiva, which once again formed their learnscapes and tacit forms of expertise. Here I will also discuss my role as deliberate facilitator of quasi para-sites (Marcus 2000). Finally, I will discuss how education took on a form of life in “educating yourself” as imperative among activists to distrust the government's stance that genetically engineered crops are safe, and to instead research alternative sources. These ways of knowing formed knowledge-able social experts where those truths and facts were considered valid that came from socially close and trusted sources.  The final chapter, The communal life of agricultural biotechnology, and how to “educate the public”, I open with an ethnographic account of a school visit at the agricultural biotech firm Pioneer DuPont throughout which the students questioned the feasibility of 'neutral' education. I then continue to discuss more broadly the forms of life of education in and around agricultural biotechnology: how “education,” expertise and trust manifested itself in how the industry sought legitimacy as “good neighbours.” Narratives of biotech proponents often shifted between localness/rootedness and globalism/universalism, which was most prominently articulated in their work efforts to help “feed the world.” Education here functioned in two ways: as a community building effort by aiding to the operation of local organizations and institutions, and as sociotechnical corrective in the appeal to “educate the public” on the benefits of biotechnology.   43 Chapter 2: A history of land-landscapes and educational landscapes in Hawaiʻi  How are land relations and educational systems in Hawaiʻi connected? How did land ontologies change from pre-Cook times to the present, and how were they co-produced with social institutions, such as law, policies, land management and schooling? What effects did these major shifts have on the current agricultural and educational system in Hawaiʻi?  This historical background chapter tackles these questions by providing a binocular focus on education and land in Hawaiʻi as separated yet concurrently intricate issues. The chapter begins with Kānaka Maoli's creation story, the Kumulipo that characterizes interactions with ʻāina as “that which feeds us,” and as kin and ancestor. Secondly, this chapter deals with the changing socio-political system that followed James Cook's arrival in the late 18th century. The increasing presence of foreigners had long-lasting impacts on the islands, most profoundly in the severely diminished Hawaiian population and the establishment of a foreign concept of land ownership. The Great Māhele - Land Division – in 1848 set in motion an ontological shift from ʻāina as “that which feeds us” to land as extractive property, and thus changed the natural and social orders that would eventually set up Hawaiʻi for the sugar industry. This was also a major enticement for the white oligarchy to push for annexation by the United States. The establishment of Hawaiian homesteads was an additional land allocation project that secured prime agricultural land for sugar and concurrently bound Kānaka ʻŌiwi both to arable land and a blood quantum-defined notion of Hawaiianness (Kauanui 2008).   Looking through a binocular on land and education throws into relief how Protestant ethics were co-produced both with an efficacious educational system − readying Kānaka Maoli 44 to become industrious workers – and efficacious land management – readying land to become most productive through sugarcane and pineapple cultivation. The third part of this chapter will focus on this parallel ordering, which was legally facilitated by Anglo-American politicians who were both in charge of the Hawaiian Kingdom's Board of Education and sugar plantation owners. This served their purpose to Americanize Hawaiʻi. A hundred years later, the vision of the US government to improve education by running schools like businesses still parallels the efficiency-driven land management as continuously revenue-producing source. I end this chapter by describing how land and education were thought together in a different way in the early days of the Hawaiian sovereignty movement, when Kānaka Maoli activists' educational practices were immanent to claims of the ʻāina, (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013). These public education initiatives lead to more institutional ones, such as Hawaiian-focused charter schools (HFCS).   2.1 In the beginning, there was darkness The Kumulipo, “beginning-in-deep-darkness” (Beckwith 1972 [1951]) is the cosmogonic creation chant of Hawaiian chiefs, which traces relations to the ocean, animals, plants, stars, heavens, Hawaiian gods, and their descendants, the Kānaka Maoli or Kānaka ʻŌiwi, Native Hawaiians. This moʻokūʻauhau (geneaology) describes in sixteen time periods, or wā, the birth of the world from the female night, who gives birth to a male night, Kumulipo, and a female night, Pōʻele. The first eight wā are those of Pō, the darkness, the night from which life comes and where all plants and animals of the sea, land, and sky are born. The latter eight eras are the time of the Ao, the daylight, where human-like gods and hundreds of generations of their 45 human descendants were born, up to the great chief Kalaninuiʻīamamao.32 In the twelfth era, Wākea, the male god of light and heavens, and his sister Papahānaumoku (Papa from whom lands are born) had a daughter, Ho‘ohōkūkalani, the heavenly one that made the stars, and whose desire Wākea could not resist, and thus impregnated (Beckwith 1940: 294; Kameʻeleihiwa 1992: 24). Their first child was a stillborn who they buried and out of which grew kalo, taro, that they named Hāloa-nakalaukapalili, long trembling stalk. Later, Ho‘ohōkūkalani gave birth to a human child that was named Hāloa, who became the ancestor of humans, and who was taught to honour his elder brother.33 The chiefs, the land and taro are to feed and shelter their younger siblings, the Kānaka ʻŌiwi, who in turn are to care for their elder siblings, the chiefs, the land and taro (Kame‘eleihiwa 1992; Yuen n.a.).  In the 1880s, under King Kalākaua's tutelage, the Kumulipo was written down as an act of anti-colonial nationalism to affirm both the Hawaiian kingdom's system of governance and his leadership as descendant of Hawaiian chiefs and the land.34 In recent times, it has become not only a source of Kānaka self-determination but also a window into Hawaiian history.35 The mō‘ī (kings), aliʻi (chiefs), and maka‘āinana (commoners) all descend from the same ancestors, with the exception that the two former can recite their ancestry (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992). What distinguishes maka‘āinana from aliʻi is that the latter commonly moved from land to land (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 17). In contrast, the former, as kamaʻāinana, “children of the land,”                                                 32   Keaulumoku composed and chanted this Pule Hoʻolaʻa Aliʻi, a prayer that sanctifies the chief, at the birth of Kalaninuiʻīamamao, also named Lonoikamakahiki after the god of fertility, agriculture, and peace (Liliʻuokalani 1978 [1897]; see also Kameʻeleihiwa 1999; Oliveira 2014). 33 In everyday language Hāloa is used to describe the plant.  34 Silva (2004). In 1897, a year before the US military's illegal annexation of the kingdom, King Kalākaua's sister and heir Queen Liliʻuokalani translated the Hawaiian version into English (Beckwith 1972 [1951]: f7).  35 Other cosmogonic genealogies trace lineages from before Wākea and Papahānaumoku's mating (Malo 1951 [1827]). Hawaiian scholar Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa speculates that before the massive depopulation at the end of the 1700s and early 1800s many more genealogies were drawn, asserting that their ancestors enjoyed debating these lineages (1999; see also Oliveira 2014). 46 dwelled on the āina more permanently – yet with the right to move to different districts (Sahlins 1985). ʻĀina as “that which feeds us” is etymologically linked to both kamaʻāinana and makaʻāinana, people that attend the land that had the status of a person, ancestor or progenitor. Commoners' songs not only captured the love to their chiefs but to the beauty of the valleys, seas, forests, and familiar homes, which reveals that earthly sites “represented a sociality rather of kinship than celestial power” (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 17).  Moku describes both islands and larger land districts with their own politico-ritual structure and ecological coherence (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 18). These are further divided into ahupuaʻa (land division), which stretch like wedges from the peak of a mountain to the ocean along streams or mountain ridges.36 Thus, they encompass an ecological diversity that allowed for a vast range of resources and agricultural practices, and exchange between coastal and inland communities (Kirch 2010: 186).37 Each ahupuaʻa had a konohiki (headman). Among commoners were the mahiʻai (farmers) who had an astute knowledge of land cultivation and water management, constructing irrigation systems, ʻauwai, that fed taro patches and other fields.  When Captain James Cook and George Vancouver first arrived to the islands in 1778, they were most impressed by these outstanding land management skills.38 Kānaka Maoli                                                 36 The term relates to the boundaries marked by a heap, ahu, of stones with an image of a pig (puaʻa; also payment to the chief) where the God of harvest Lono would receive tributary offerings during his annual procession at the Makahiki festival (Malo 1951 [1827]).  37 These exchanges were still practiced in the 20th century (and partly today), as for instance my interviewee Hanakaʻulaneʻokamamalu Kawahiʻokaloʻopele Montgomery, who grew up on a sugar plantation on Kauaʻi, shared with me: „My dad had his vegetables, his animals, and he would share with the neighbors. They in turn would bring fish over because they did the ocean, he did the farming. And then those in the mountains would bring what they had, so we always had plenty of food, we never starved!“ (IV_100613). 38 Some fifty years later this was also noted by one of the earliest sugar barons William Ladd, who calculated that forty square feet of pondfield could keep one person in taro for a year (1838; quoted in Kirch & Sahlins 1994: 30). As a result, an irrigated tract of one square mile could feed 15,151 people while not more than one-twenty-fifth - 600 people - would be needed for cultivation. Ironically, this estimate was well suited for the plantation 47 maintained a relationship to natural phenomena, objects and creatures as bodily forms of gods, kino lau (see Handy & Handy 1978: 23). Polynesians' relations between 'natural' ancestral phenomena and social persons, such as between taro and humans, are neither metaphoric nor metonymic but synechdochic (Sahlins 1985: 81). As such, a specific part, taro refers to the whole, to Kāne, god of running water, springs and fishponds, male procreative powers, as well as brother Hāloa. Nī‘aupi‘o (chiefly incest), a formula for recreating divinity, and kalo, taro, was a transformation of akua, gods, into a wondrous food (Kame‘eleihiwa 1992). In ancient times, taro was a daily food staple while tributes, customary offerings (hoʻokupu) or levies (ʻauhau) from more remote holdings included pigs, dogs, salted fish, barkcloth, canoes, nets, mats, and feathers. Particularly wetland taro production was a highly developed skill, which was a dominant cultivation practice on the older western islands, Oʻahu and Kauaʻi (Handy & Handy 1972). Kauaʻi's farmers have always grown the most taro of all the islands (see Kirch 2010). In Anahulu: the Anthropology of History in the Kingdom of Hawaii, Kirch & Sahlins discern three main eras beginning with Cook's arrival: the conquest era (1778 – 1812), the sandalwood era (1812 – 1830), and the whaling period (1830 – 1860) (1994:3). The subsequent plantation era included sugar and pineapple production, while there were regional differences, as the latter figured more prominently on Kauaʻi than for instance cattle did.39 The authors' categorization correlates with the different political transformations (kingship, oligarchy of the aliʻi, constitutional monarchy) as well as the different commercial interests of Europeans. For Kirch and Sahlins, it is not a determinist categorization from abroad but an acknowledgement                                                                                                                                                      owners' task of depriving Hawaiians off their land (ibid.).  39  Cattle raising was more prevalent on Hawaiʻi Island where Captain Vancouver introduced cattle as a gift to Kamehameha I (Hackler & Speakman 1989).  48 that the “World System” and with it global trends were both mediated by the Hawaiian system while concurrently being a system of the world: “Imperialism is historicized in and as Hawaiian structures of commerce, Christianity, and state” (1994: 2). They elaborate further that “Haole [white, foreigner] interfered in Hawaiian politics as a means to their economic ends, whereas the Hawaiian chiefs were entering the Haole economy as a means to their political ends” (ibid: 3). The kinship system changed to an archaic state when domestic modes of production (Sahlins 1972) shifted to political economies, as chiefs demanded more than commoners could produce, resulting in tensions and ultimate war affairs (Kirch 2010: 183).40 The increasing import of muskets, powder and ball, and later naval goods and ships served King Kamehameha I well, for it allowed him to unify an already existent Polynesian hegemony into one kingdom (Kirch & Sahlins 1994). The unification of the islands (conquest period 1778 – 1812) reorganized power relations through Kamehameha's land allocation to favoured chiefs. Kauaʻi stands out, not only as geographically most distant island but also politically. While Kauaʻi became a tributary part of King Kamehameha I's Hawaiian kingdom, he was not able to take the island by force, and in fact never set foot on it (Joesting 1988). In addition to Kirch and Sahlins' focus on shifting commercial interests, Kame‘eleihiwa asserts that the dissipation of the traditional system was due to the abolishment of the kapu system (1992). This was enacted when the heir to King Kamehameha, Liholiho, broke the ‘aikapu, eating taboo, in 1819 by eating with his father's favourite wife Kaʻahumanu, which                                                 40 Archaeologist Patrick Kirch argues that Hawaiian society, unique within Polynesia, had become an archaic state before European contact, tracing back the transformation from a classic chiefship organized by kinship to a society with ruling elites (2010). The “development of class stratification, land alienation from commoners and a territorial system of administrative control, a monopoly of force and endemic conquest warfare, and […] formal priesthood” all point to Hawai‘i as archaic state (ibid: 27).  49 signalled to commoners that the belief system of kapu was abolished.41 Kame‘eleihiwa further proposes that Hawaiians had observed foreigners prospering despite them breaking the ‘aikapu. Into this 'religious void' came the Protestant missionaries, who preached their own gods (1992).42 The missionaries came in 1820 as part of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, the ABCFM. The conquest and unification of the islands contributed to the rise of a class of powerful chiefs with large estates, who were mostly “absentee landlords” parcelling out their holdings to subordinates (konihiki), which resulted in a bigger segmentation of land (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 27). Traders and seamen from Europe, the United States and Canada arrived around the time as the first missionaries (Daws 1968; Kameʻeleihiwa 1992). The ruling chiefs dominated the relationships with these merchants, and supplied them with Hawaiian goods (sandalwood, sealskin, sea cucumbers, firewood) in exchange for haole commodities. Through sandalwood trade (1812 – 1830), the “short but brilliant career [of aliʻi and their] conspicuous and invidious consumption” resulted in an exhaustion of sandalwood as much as in a crumbling legitimacy among their commoners, who were forced into sandalwood cutting with poor remuneration (ibid: 3). Merchants awaited payments, which ultimately entangled Hawaiʻi even more in the global political economy. In 1826, in the US Navy's presence, the King had to sign an agreement of repayment, which unleashed monetization and codified law, and ten years later prompted Kamehameha III to get immersed further in a western political economy through foreign advisors (MacLennan 2014: 58). The Protestants with their evangelical zeal and                                                 41  Many Hawaiian scholars argue that Kaʻahumanu's religio-political agenda, which later included her conversion to and propagation of Christianity, was instrumental in the transformation of the political system in Hawaiʻi (see Kameʻeleihiwa 1992; Osorio 2002: 114; Silva 2004: 29). 42 I will return to the notion of the 'void' in chapter 5 where I will provide a comparative analysis with the agricultural sector, more specifically, of the biotech industry having 'filled the void' that was left behind by the sugarcane industry. 50 contempt of Hawaiian practices did not share the interests of merchants and businessmen, who rather preferred to maintain good-time drinking friendships and business partnerships with the kings (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 7).  2.2 Readying the islands for sugar, remedying the islands from it After the first missionary schools aimed to instruct Kānaka Maoli “in the Bible and elevate them spiritually through teaching about individual salvation and morality”, in 1840, Protestant missionaries continued their work by establishing common schools (Benham & Heck 1998: 9). Education was now institutionalized, in classrooms and in scheduled labour in school gardens, where before it had been a matter of learning from elders, kupuna, ancestors, gods, and the ʻāina (see Chun 2006). The early exceptional keenness in learning to write and read not only led to 1,100 schools in the early 1830s but also to numerous community settings where Kānaka Maoli learned reading and writing from other Kānaka Maoli instructors.43 Missionaries in common schools trained commoners while in separate schools the offspring of missionaries and Hawaiian royals learned the skills of leadership and rational thinking (Benham & Heck 1998; Dotts & Sikkema 1994).44 What followed was a persistent effort to educate Kānaka Maoli in                                                 43 Chun (2006), Daws (1968). Political scientist Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua makes the point that histories of schooling have focused almost exclusively on missionaries' role in introducing literacy and shaping the education system (2013: 14).  44 Indigenous People being delegated to work the land at missionary schools was also common across the United States, and indeed Kānaka Maoli students were brought to schools in New England to teach such work ethics (see Okihiro 2009). MacLennan compares the curriculum of a school for missionaries' children, Punahou (a century later attended by the 44th president of the United States, Barack Obama), and the Royal School, which was reserved for Hawaiian royals' offspring. The taught texts were the same, yet at Punahou preparation for professions in law, medicine, science, and agriculture differed from the Royal School where future Hawaiian monarchs were expected to learn the ways of genteel western culture: reading, writing, and generally academic skills. MacLennan doubts that the Hawaiian royals' children were prepared for the new political and economic society in Hawaiʻi, while Punahou graduates went to Yale, Williams, Harvard, etc. in order to then return to Hawaiʻi as lawyers, businessmen, agriculturalists, or engineers, some of them leading Hawaiʻi's illegal 51 industrious, Christian ethics, and to eventually become US-American citizens (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992; Schachter 2013).   The impact of the newcomers was devastating: Hawaiian people's population dropped 83 percent in the 45 years after first contact (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992). The kings became aware of these changes and formed alliances with missionaries. When the ABCFM terminated their support for missionaries in Hawaiʻi, as the islands were deemed Christianized in 1845, instead of returning to Boston many pursued lives as political advisors with an interest in land ownership (Hasager & Kelly 2001; Kameeleihiwa 1992; Silva 2004). One of the missionaries' legacy is the conception of property as 'natural' right, which originated in New England politician Francis Wayland's text Elements of Moral Science (1835; quoted in MacLennan 2014: 54ff) that describes the Hobbesian and Lockeian notion of property as means of possession and liberal democracy. Missionary William Richards taught Wayland's text to the Hawaiian royalty, and upon the King's request translated it into Hawaiian, which eventually found its way both into missionary schools and the Hawaiian kingdom's Declaration of Rights of 1839 (ibid.). Teaching Kānaka ʻŌiwi how to become members of a “civilized” capitalist nation was a convenient business, as foreigners made money “while doling out enlightenment” (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992: 305). The doctrine of free trade capitalism was also worked into the Constitution of 1840 that made Hawaiʻi a constitutional monarchy, albeit with the stipulation that land belonged to the chiefs and commoners while the King would function as their trustee (Hasager & Kelly 2001; Osorio 2002).45 Yet many foreigners in the kingdom's office                                                                                                                                                      overthrow in 1893 (2014: 59). 45 There was also the motive of forming a nation similar to European ones and the United States with the hope that nineteenth-century Great Powers would recognize Hawaiʻi's national sovereignty (Silva 2004: 9).  52 configured the kingship as “subtropical caricature of European royalty” (Kirch & Sahlins 1994: 3) while wrapping themselves in foreign flags to claim immunity from the Hawaiian Kingdom (Daws 1968).   With the introduction of land ownership through the Great Māhele (land division) the 1850s brought the most severe changes to Hawaiʻi. The Board of Commissioners to Quiet Land Titles that was established in December 1845 under the Organic Act started an “experimental sale of lands” to commoners right after, in January 1846. Eighteen months later, the legislature allowed foreigners to claim possession of land they had held - albeit with a prohibition to sell their properties to anyone but Hawaiians (Osorio 2002: 45f). Gradually, foreigners would sell such leased land to other foreigners; a circumstance that contributed to missionaries' hint to King Kauikeaouli that privatized land cannot be seized by foreign powers (Hasager & Kelly 2001: 193). In 1848, the King, the 251 chiefs and konohiki (lesser chiefs) separated their lands, and informed commoners that they were now entitled to land they lived on and cultivated. King Kauikeaouli willingly gave up over nearly one million acres to the government, about half of the land he had claimed. Hence, he eventually possessed more than one million acres – the crown lands - of Hawaiʻi's 4.2 million acres. Chiefs and konohiki received about a million and a half acres, and the rest was to go to the population. The Kuleana Act of 1850 gave the government authority to award claims that the Land Commission had approved; however, it received merely 14,195 claims from commoners, leading to 8,421 fee simple awards on 28,658 acres (Osorio 2002: 46). Yet in July 1850, about a month before the Kuleana Act was passed that guaranteed Makaʻāinana (commoners) rights to land, foreigners were allowed to own and sell lands in fee via the Act to Abolish the Disabilities of Aliens to Acquire and Convey Lands 53 in Fee Simple Title (ibid: 50).46 The majority of commoners' land was subsequently sold or leased to foreigners while konohiki and commoners were left with less then one percent of the land (see Hasager & Kelly 2010: 193).  Kameʻeleihiwa argues that the reason for the low number of land claims was due to the foreign concept of ownership to Kānaka Maoli, who did not conceive of the need to make a claim, as many were not familiar with the new economic and political system (1992). Kanaka historian Jonathan Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio states that as the King and the legislature aimed for commoners to accommodate this new system, it was only when the (exclusive) Native Hawaiian tenant right was removed that the Great Māhele became disastrous for the Native population (2002: 44f). What emerged was an increasing ontological shift from ʻāina as “that which feeds us” to land as property that is bound to labour as means of possession and liberal democracy. The Great Māhele also led to an immense loss of swidden lands and natural resources (Kirch & Sahlins 1992), and the increasing demand by the United States for sugar steered Hawaiʻi's economy towards this crop production. The King founded the Royal Hawaiian Agricultural Society in 1850, which consisted primarily of foreigners who were interested in developing agricultural resources on the islands for trading exports to California.47 As environmental anthropologist Carol MacLennan argues in Sovereign Sugar, these shifts ignited a rhetoric that would forever link agricultural wealth through export with the financial health of                                                 46 Kameʻeleihiwa (1992; quoted in Osorio 2002: 50) further elaborates that prior to the Māhele in 1848 makaʻāinana had already made land claims, and that these also included foreigners that had sworn an oath of allegiance to the king. For Osorio, this indicates that the debate was not about whether haole/foreigners should own land, but that land ownership was to be linked to Hawaiian citizenship (2002: 50), which has remained a central argument of the Ka Lāhui grassroots initiate in debates on Hawaiian sovereignty.  47 Additionally, the Civil War (1861-1865) resulted in Northern states boycotting Southern sugar producers, making Hawaiʻi even more attractive (Wilcox 1996: 2). 54 the Hawaiian nation (2014: 62), an idea promoted in early Hawaiian language newspapers (Silva 2004: 34f). Indeed, MacLennan describes the sugar plantation era commencing in the mid 18th century as the third wave of ecological change that most profoundly impacted the Hawaiian landscapes. Counter to the prevalent categorization of the Pacific's environmental change into two waves – Polynesians' dispersal across the Pacific, and the arrival of Europeans in the late 1700s - MacLennan argues for third wave, which was much more profound in Hawaiʻi than on other Pacific islands (2014: 16).  The sugar baron's push for duty free export to the United States was framed as either establishing a treaty with or annexing to the United States - the only viable market they conceived of48. This eventually led to the Reciprocity Treaty in 1875 that established duty free export of sugar to the United States (Daws 1968; Wilcox 1996). By 1886, foreigners obtained two thirds of the land in Hawaiʻi that was used for sugar (Silva 2004: 43). Yet knowledge of sugar growth, technological equipment and irrigation ditches only slowly translated into productive, industrial agriculture. Further, Kānaka Maoli largely refused to undertake the neck-breaking work required on the plantations, which fed into the stigma of the Hawaiian as idle, lazy workers (Beechert 1985: 40). This was coupled with the argument that the white race was incapable of performing labour under the “difficult” conditions of the tropics (ibid.). Hawaiian monarchs' belief that their people needed to be maintained by intermarrying with a cognate population, such as Japanese, resonated with planters' call for a pool of docile, cheap and hard working people.49 As against other sugar-producing countries at the time, the Hawaiian                                                 48 Crucially, the success of this new economy depended on the tariffs that the United States put in place against foreign sugar.   49 Beechert (1985: 60f). In 1852, Chinese workers started to get shipped in to chop sugarcane, followed by Japanese workers after 1868, and Filipinos after WW II, who then also worked in the pineapple industry 55 Kingdom had a comparably just legal framework, since imported workers were regarded as citizens (Beechert 1985: 43ff). Regardless, masters still had authority to discipline their workers (ibid.). Eventually, in the 20th century labour unions on sugar plantations held numerous strikes, which led to stronger health protection and better wages (ibid).50 Plantation camps housed workers according to their race, yet concurrently, inter-ethnic marriage became increasingly common. To this day, a certain nostalgia of this time resonates, for instance, the annual Kōloa Plantation Days festival on the South side of Kauaʻi.51 In 1893, Hawaiʻi was illegally overthrown by American settlers, and two years later Queen Liliʻuokalani was put under house arrest in the kingdom's Iolani Palace.52 In 1897, US President McKinley signed a treaty of annexation that was enforced by the white oligarchy in Hawaiʻi, the representatives of the Republic of Hawaiʻi (Silva 2004: 146). Yet Kānaka Maoli did not observe the loss of sovereignty passively. The same year, and at a time when the Hawaiian population counted about 40,000 people, the Hui Aloha ʻĀina (the Hawaiian Patriotic League) that protested the annexation collected over 21,000 signatures of Kānaka Maoli (Tate 1965, quoted in Silva 2004: 124). Meanwhile, Hui Kālaiʻāina, which fought to restore the monarchy and thus free Queen Liliʻuokalani, represented over 17,000 more people. The two petitions thus totalled 38,000 votes −	95% of the Hawaiian population − that were presented to President McKinley and the US Congress, and which were aimed to kill the Annexation Treaty                                                                                                                                                      (Kehlor 1992: 148; quoted in Larsen et al. 2010: 418).  50 In the 1940s, some 7,000 were intentionally recruited to break the sugar strike that was organized by the International Longshoremen's & Warehousmen's Union, the ILWU (Sharma 1984: 337; Larsen et al. 2010: 418). However, a successful eighty-day strike in 1946 also led the pineapple industry to sign its first contract with ILWU (Larsen et al. 2010: 419).  51 The Kōloa Plantation Days take place every July and celebrate the “many ethnic groups that came to Hawaii to work on sugar plantations, and the Hawaiians who welcomed them” with music, dance, food, etc. http://koloaplantationdays.com/about.html [accessed May 1st 2016]. 52  See Sai (2008) and Silva (2004) for a more in-depth account on the illegal overthrow of Hawaiʻi.  56 in Congress (Silva 2004: 157ff). Yet the commencing Spanish-American War in 1898 was enough reason for American settlers to declare Hawai‘i United States Territory, and further, Hawaiʻi was seen as a central Pacific army post for the United States (ibid). Meanwhile, Hawai‘i had contributed over one billion dollars to the US treasury while it was not allowed to vote for the president of the United States, a circumstance that seemed to make statehood inevitable (Daws 1968). Besides this economic discordance, the 'threat' of communism and concurrent debates of Alaska joining the US were other major factors that turned the Territory of Hawaiʻi into a state of the United States in 1959 (ibid). As mentioned above, New England-style agriculture was a component of missionaries' school education. The idea of homesteading suited this pedagogical purpose as well. In the early 1900s, authorities sought 200,000 acres to 'bring back' Kānaka ʻŌiwi to their soils to rehabilitate the dwindling population (DHHL 2014). Prince Kuhio eventually spearheaded this through the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act (HHCA) (ibid.). By instilling the notion of property as a 'natural' right, homesteading was sought to raise Hawaiians out of poverty and degradation, and likewise suited the US Congress' efforts to Americanize, and respectively 'democratize' Hawaiians as a counter measure to the monarchy (Hasager & Kelly 2001: 199). Furthermore, plantation owners saw the HHCA as a welcome opportunity to secure prime agricultural land. Indeed, the HHCA did not find fruition until 1920 when the planter elite held titles for the majority of Hawaiʻi's prime agricultural land (Hasager & Kelly 2001). Their proposals were included to limit Hawaiian Homesteads to lands not already under cultivation, and to require a 50 percent blood quantum for Kānaka Maoli to be allowed to live on Hawaiian Homesteads (Kauanui 2008).  57  The establishment of Hawaiian homesteads was thus a convenient land allocation that secured the white oligarchy's prime resources for sugar production and concurrently bounded Kānaka Maoli not only to barren land53 but also to an increasingly common notion of Hawaiianness defined by blood quantum. American studies and anthropology scholar Kēhaulani Kauanui points out that the racially defined 'need' for land through the blood quantum marked a “shift from a reparations and entitlement framework to one formulated on the basis of welfare and charity” that ultimately undermined Kānaka Maoli sovereignty claims (2008: 8f). According to Kauanui, the unilateral, reductionist blood quantum definition “works to deracinate (uproot), whereas genealogical connections are inherently about rootedness by putting the recognition of ancestors back in 'ancestry' – and, therefore, connecting Hawaiians to the ‘āina (land)” (ibid: 41). In effect, marginal homesteads lands led many beneficiaries to lease their lands illegally to pineapple companies (Hasager & Kelly 2001: 207). This was also advantageous for growing pineapple, which is a plant that prefers acidic soil (Siper 2000). As a result, the commission did not deal with lack of water access, climate of marginal lands or pests, and thus promoted pineapple, and in some instances sugarcane, as the basis for the economy (Hasager & Kelly 2001: 207). In 1990, 70 years after HHCA was passed, the appointed Hawaii Advisory Commission found that due to the department's severe mismanagement a mere 17.5 percent of the designated Hawaiian Homesteads land was in fact homesteaded (HAC 1991: 1). Furthermore, over 62 percent of the land was being used by non-Hawaiians (ibid.).                                                 53 The approximate 200,000 acres, whose location had never been specified in the HHCA, included a mere 10 percent of prime agricultural land (Hasager & Kelly 2001: 200). 58  At the peak of its production in the 1920s, the pineapple and sugarcane industry cultivated 250,000 acres of Hawaiian farmlands (HDOH 2009: 465). By then, the second generation of missionary descendants headed the 'Big Five' corporations - Castle & Cook, Alexander & Baldwin, C. Brewer & Co., American Factors (later Amfac), and Theo H. Davis & Co. In 1933, they controlled 96 percent of sugar crops.54 The Hawaiian Sugar Planters' Association (HSPA)55 report of 1915 describes that while the mainstay of sugar production in Cuba was cheap land, and in Java cheap labour, Hawaiʻi (having neither) must maintain efficiency in applied science and technology for establishing water irrigation systems (MacLennan 2014: 46ff). Sugar plantation owners founded private water companies that essentially built the surface-water collection system in Hawaiʻi, and thus laid a foundation to this day (Wilcox 1996: 17). Indeed, had it not been for the immense movement of water, the sugarcane industry - and with it the lasting sociocultural changes bringing workers from Asia to Hawaiʻi - would not have occurred. In 1835, with the Koloa Plantation, Kauaʻi became the birthplace of the first sugar plantation. While at first sugar sales fluctuated, investment in water was a safe and lucrative business (Wilcox 1996). In the 1940s, military, tourism and a growing urbanization started to slowly edge aside sugar as main economic drive. In 2009, landowner and operator Gay & Robinson ended Kauaʻi's legacy by closing the island's last sugar plantation.56                                                  54  Daws (1968), MacLennan (2014). Sugar exports rose from 260 million pounds in 1890 to 2 billion pounds in 1932 (Wilcox 1996: 20). 55 The HSPA was formerly the Planters' Labor & Supply Co that was established just after the Reciprocity Treaty. It coordinated the recruitment of foreign labour and served as platform for plantation owners to share scientific and technological advise (MacLennan 2014: 45). In 1996, it changed its name to Hawaii Agriculture Research Center (HARC) as to reflect its expansion to other crops and its specialization on “agronomy and plant nutrition, plant physiology, breeding, genetic engineering and tissue culture, and […] integrated pest management” (HARC 2014). I will return to HARC in chapter 5. 56 In January 2016, HC&S (Hawaiian Commercial & Sugar) on Maui, with the last sugar plantation in Hawaiʻi, 59  From an ecological point of view, sugar and pineapple plantations left a bleak legacy of contaminated soil as a result of almost 50 pesticides that were used over more than a century (HDOH 2009: 493ff). Due to the tropical soils' higher levels of iron oxide and the large adsorptive surface area, herbicide use for sugarcane in Hawaiʻi has been higher compared to the continental US (Santo et al. 2000). Only since the 1960s have pesticides and other contaminants been recorded systematically, and even though many pesticides, such as DDT, were banned after stricter regulations, it is likely that such pesticides were still applied later using up existing supplies (HDOH 2009: 468). Atrazine and glyphosate are two prominent herbicides, as is 2,4-D (ibid.), a 50 percent component of Agent Orange (Extension Toxicology Network 1993). A century of agricultural management, both in sugarcane and pineapple cultivation, turned fields into open-air labs for chemical testing. In the case of pineapple, mealy bugs and ants carrying wilt were persistent pests. Even though the in the 1970s recently established Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) ruled out several pesticides as toxic, when the formicide Mirex was banned and the ant problem worsened, the EPA allowed the likewise banned Heptachlor “to be used as soon as practicable” (EPA; quoted in Larsen et al. 2010: 325ff). The pesticides could have been dumped in the soil, and – literally - under the surface of public debate were it not for dairy farmers, who had been encouraged to use pineapple leaves as cheap cattle feed. When traces of Heptachlor were found in human breast milk this prompted a statewide scandal.57                                                                                                                                                        announced that it would close operations by the end of the year (Gomes 2016). Thus, this ended the 180-year-old, third wave of ecological change (see MacLennan 2014). 57 Smith (1982). Farmers and the general population were not informed about the dangers of these chemicals even when legislation prohibited further use. Studies are still conducted on the long-term effects of heptachlor in breast milk fed to infants (see Miller 2013).  60    In more recent times, the federal Brownfields Program by the EPA has provided funds for management of contaminated land to clean up and 'reinvest' into so-called “brownfields” (EPA 2014). Around 2011, the Hawaiʻi Department of Health (DOH) recorded more than 1,700 sites of potential contamination due to toxic waste of which half were determined worth cleanup (Hollier 2011). On Kauaʻi, in 2004 the County's Office of Economic Development (OED) received an EPA grant to remedy past plantation lands damaged by harsh chemicals, i.e. DDT, Chlordane, heptachlor (County of Kauai 2004; 2012). Recognizing a shift from an agricultural to a tourism-based economy, the OED assured that abandoned properties will be put “to higher uses, thus increasing our tax base, creating more jobs and reducing the pressures to develop open or prime agricultural lands” (County of Kauai 2004). The work plan called for Figure 1: Contemporary life of pineapple: Advertisement for Dole plantation tours for tourists, Honolulu Airport, January 2013.  61 State and County agencies, agribusinesses, private landowners, non-profit organizations and interested parties to submit proposals for brownfield cleanups. For this, “Evaluation Criteria” were set to select “top” 4-5 sites for consideration (ibid.). The proposal accumulated to 91 sites of which two former sugar mills and the Anahola Bike Path were selected among the “top 4.”58    Under this scenario, responsibility of plantation owners or other contaminators to return leased lands in the condition they received it has vanished (see County of Kauai 2012; EPA 2014) – their responsibility, literally, dumped into the ground. This is further evident in that the Hawaiʻi Department of Agriculture's (DOA) responsibility is the enforcement of “sale, distribution, and use of pesticides”, and not soil remediation.59 While the federal law of 'joint and several' keeps anybody associated with contaminated land - previous contaminator and current landowner - responsible for cleanup, matters get complicated when land undergoes several different ownerships, which is not uncommon in Hawaiʻi (Hollier 2011). Acknowledging “uncertainty and risk” in this “joint and several” regulation (ibid), EPA's programs - Brownfields Program, Superfund Removal Program – are, as I suggest, reactive solutions to the often elusive legal steps that come with land ownership transition. This concurrently eases responsible contaminators' way out of trouble. Such solutions celebrate the mastery of collaborating across different governmental agencies. For instance, the EPA                                                 58 County of Kauai (2007). One of the 91 sites was the Wailua Agricultural Station under University of Hawaiʻi's management, with “Agent orange by-products, storage drums, dioxins” (ibid.). In 1968, UH partnered with the US Army to test the effectiveness of Agent Orange that was subsequently used in the Vietnam War (Deepe Keever 2005). Despite the US administration's and UH scientists' knowledge of its adverse health effects, the tests were conducted without warning employees and local residents. After the testing, over five 55-gallon drums of Agent Orange were buried above a reservoir in Wailua, and only in the mid 1980s a reporter's investigation led to their removal to a hazardous waste facility out of state. Yet they were merely moved into a Matson shipping container in Kauaʻi's Nawiliwili harbour where they remained unnoticed for another decade. In 1997, the EPA and Hawaiʻi's Department of Health fined UH with $1.8 million (including another infraction on Hawaiʻi Island). Only in the year 2000 were the barrels finally shipped off (Deepe Keever 2005; DOH 2011: 8). Needless to say, the Wailua Agricultural Station site did not 'make it' into the “top 4.”  59   DOA Pesticide Program Manager Thomas Matsuda (quoted in Gibson 2014: 226). 62 describes the clean-up of 814 tons of arsenic- and dioxine-containing soil from a former sugar plantation in Kilauea (Kauaʻi) as a “joint effort [of county, state, and federal level that] is an example of the success achieved by the state's program targeting old pesticide areas that have the potential to harm nearby communities” (2012).60 Success here means reducing risk by mastering bureaucratic hurdles across governmental agencies rather than reducing risk of contaminated soil for any affected community. It is also noteworthy that in an etymological sense 'brownfields' entails brown, a colour commonly conceived to be less desirable and with dangerous, un-pure connotations of 'dirtiness' (see Douglas 1966). Ironically, soil is often brown. In a twisted way, the terming of land as brownfields creates a soon-to-become neutral space, a terra nullius that is to turn become productive. Such chromatic framing, I suggest, establishes a manageability of risk where land finally is to awake in its destined, economic life.  As Karl Marx famously elaborated, real property that generates greatest economic value is favoured due to its capacity to circulate - by transforming still, 'idle' land into moveable money (2015 [1867]). By this logic, as Sheila Jasanoff elaborates for the United States, “[u]ndeveloped land offends U.S. law's predisposition toward use and commerce”, as it favours the rendering of land as fluid to overcome its inert, bounded condition (2012b: 157). In Hawaiʻi, prime agricultural land was liquidated for the commercial production and export of sugar just as brownfields are now freeing and freed to become developed. In that sense, brownfields also become new spaces of colonial land appropriation.61 For Hawaiian                                                 60 Circulation did not stop here either, as the soil from the affluent North shore (Kilauea) was disposed of at the Kekaha Landfill on the - socio-economically lower standing, predominantly Hawaiian – West side of Kauaʻi. Thus, economically high-value property is cleaned off its economically low-value (contaminated soil) which is subsequently moved out of sight - a “Bag it and tag it” tactic (Hollier 2011). Kekaha residents contested the disposal, arguing that the landfill is near groundwater sources and flood plains (LaVentura 2012).  61 Dené scholar Glen Coulthard makes a similar argument about Vancouver's often patholigized Downtown Eastside (DTES), which houses the highest concentration of drug addicted, homeless people in Canada, and 63 Homelands, in the past this was the case for sugar and pineapple while at present such liquidation occurs in the form of agrochemical corporations like Monsanto, obscurely able to lease Hawaiian Homesteads land (Perez 2013). Similar to the original project of homesteading Kānaka Maoli, brownfields on Hawaiian Homelands become re-appropriated to house them or to function as entrepreneurial space (see chapter 3).62 In this sense, land is also a conglomeration of several strata that lay on top of other histories and epistemologies: the Kanaka Maoli conception of ʻāina as kin, ancestor and feeder that is buried just as are plantation owners' responsibilities as previous contaminators. Concurrently, land is kept fluid wherever government agencies contribute to washing away traces from such past: from the illegal annexation of a sovereign nation, over regulations (joint and several) not being enforced, to current agencies like the Department of Health not being responsible for clean-up. The paradox here lies in washing away such histories while only the longterm aim of commodifying land momentarily unearths its toxic particles. In other words, knowledge about contaminated soil is often only available when the respective land is destined to be transformed into an economic asset, which subsequently buries such contamination.  2.3 Normalizing Hawaiʻi as part of the United States – in law, education, and agriculture As much as Haole policymakers were also plantation owners, they were likewise involved in designing the Hawaiian education system. One instrumental person was Charles R. Bishop,                                                                                                                                                      also includes many First Nations people (2014). Coulthard states that supporters of gentrification of the DTES argue that they improve a place that used to be a wasteland. In that sense, he continues, the DTES is becoming the same Terra Nullius created through early colonial processes that legitimized conquest of ‘discovered’ land (ibid).  62 Another example is the previously contaminated Kakaʻako, Hawaiian Homelands on Oʻahu (HDOH 2011; Hollier 2011), part of one of the biggest redevelopment projects of the Department of Hawaiian Homelands (see also HDOH 2009: 182ff). A former pesticide container disposal in Kilauea/Kauaʻi is now a public housing area (HDOH 2011: 7). 64 who not only held investments in the sugar industry but served as the president of the Board of Education, and later as minister of foreign affairs (see Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2013: 20f). As president of the Board of Education from 1874 to 1893 (Benham & Heck 1998: 95), he warned that the rising generation of Native pupils, particularly those educated in “higher schools and in the English language” had become less industrious than their ancestors (Bishop 1874: 18; quoted in  Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2013: 20). He thus recommended manual labour of 2-3 hours per day on “Government lands lying contiguous to common school houses, now unemployed”, while “avails of the labor would […] furnish the pupils with means to pay for books” (p. 17f).63 The cluster of motives for such manual labour complemented each other in that government land having become “unemployed” - foreigners promoting Kānaka Maoli to leave their taro fields and seek labour in urban settings - was turned into training grounds for Natives to become industrious Christians. How social and natural orderings were co-produced (Jasanoff 2004) becomes most evident in how Protestant ethics were inscribed both into the land-landscape and educational landscapes: Kānaka Maoli were trained at missionary schools' gardens to prepare them for labour on sugar plantations. Education in its peculiar coalescence with land has thus left its mark early on in the 19th century.   Charles R. Bishop's marriage to the great-granddaughter and heir to Kamehameha I, Princess Pauahi forms another noteworthy dimension in land-education relations. Princess Pauahi inherited vast amounts of land that, together with some of Bishop's estate was to serve a                                                 63 This vocational education in agriculture was common in other missionary schools across the United States where working the land was delegated to “Indians” and “Negroes,” and Kānaka Maoli students were brought to in order to teach such work ethics. Missionary Richard Armstrong's son Samuel founded the Hampton Normal Agricultural Institute in Virginia, which was inspired by the Hilo Manual Labour School that his father had operated, and which was founded by the Lymans, a missionary couple. Pupils' agricultural labour at the Hampton Normal Agricultural Institute was even more crucial, for it financially sustained the school (Okihiro 2009: 103). 65 Protestant school after her passing. Bishop was a leading trustee to implement her last will, which was to provide “support and education [to] orphans and others in indigent circumstances, giving the preference to Hawaiians of pure or part aboriginal blood”64 – Kamehameha Schools. She further held that the estate trustees “use the land to educate her people” (KS 2015: 3).65 In the meantime, Bishop the politician passed a measure to allocate seven times more funding to select English-medium schools as compared to Hawaiian-medium common schools (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013: 21f). Kānaka Maoli students were taught in Hawaiian in common schools until 1896 when it was banned as medium of instruction (Silva 2004: 46), and remained so until 1986.  In 1900, the Organic Act established a government for the territory of Hawaiʻi. As a result, the public school system was further centrally administered, as the superintendent and commissioners of education (later the Board of Education, or BOE) were appointed by the governor. This is a pattern that Dotts and Sikkema see as not vastly different a century later (1994), as the current 291 public schools are still centrally administered. Yet, as the authors argue, there was a tension between sugar planters and certain government officials and advocates for free public education, the former eventually pushing through the argument that education would pull the young generation away from vocational training in agriculture, woodworking or lace making (ibid: 43ff). As Scottish plantation manager Watt assured: “Every penny we spend educating [plantation workers'] kids beyond the sixth grade is wasted” (quoted                                                 64 http://www.ksbe.edu/about_us/about_pauahi/will/ [accessed December 7 2015]. There has been much debate on how Pauahi's last will should be interpreted (King & Roth 2006: 283ff.; Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2005). It can be stated since preference should be given to Native Hawaiians, and KS is far from serving all Hawaiian students, admitting Native Hawaiian students may be a logical consequence of these demographic circumstances, and not an exclusive policy, as often argued. 65 Today, the “Bishop Estates” comprise about half of Hawaiʻi’s farmland (11 percent of all land in Hawaiʻi), thus making KS the largest private landowner across the Hawaiian Islands (see Voosen 2011). 66 in  ibid: 54). The paradox was then that Kānaka ʻŌiwi and ethnic minority groups were expected to “Americanize” while being socially isolated from settlers' everyday practices (ibid.: 46). This structural segregation and institutionalized racism eventually lead to the conversion of select schools into private schools and common schools into public schools (Benham & Heck 1998: 21; Stannard 2000). English-only instruction subsequently guaranteed the illiteracy of many generations of Hawaiians in their language, cultural practices (such as hula), and value system (Kahakalau 2003, Silva 2004, Trask 1993). This led to Hawaiians growing up in post-statehood Hawaiʻi to speak English in order to adapt to an increasingly western lifestyle (Maunupau 1994: 47).  Yet since the late 19th century, efforts of Kānaka Maoli to remain sovereign addressed the sore ramifications of such 'lost' generations. Newspapers were essential in communicating issues of Hawaiian sovereignty, and thus operated as crucial tool of public education (Silva 2004). “Aloha ʻāina” showcased in many names of early newspapers (ibid.). It reappeared in the 1960s and 1970s in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement - and with it its educational mandate. When the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (PKO) and its leader George Jarrett Helm Jr. raised the issue of US military bombing of the island of Kahoʻolawe, he appealed to his fellows “to do their 'homework' – to do the research and reading that would put their activism on solid ground” (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013: 38f). Political scientist and co-founder of the Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS) Hālau Kū Māna Noelani Goodyear-Kaʻōpua points out that these and other initiatives had one thing in common:   Kānaka ʻŌiwi have arguably invested more time and energy into designing and implementing educational initiatives than in any other aspect of our movement in the poststatehood era. Late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century Hawaiian social movements have been consciously and explicitly pedagogical, including popular-67 consciousness raising, community-based educational programs, and formal school-based reform initiatives. (2013: 49).  Education in political theory, via study sessions, popular education campaigns, school visits, and more recently engagements around genetically engineered and patented kalo in the form of publicly pounding poi (paste made of taro), all display an interrelatedness of education and activism. This sentiment reverberated in experiences of one of my interlocutors, Lorilani Keohokalole-Torio, a fierce community activist and mother of four, when she attended University of Hawaiʻi in the 1980s. As, in her own words, “one of a small handful” of Kānaka students, she recalled that she “wasn't really there to learn” but “that there was an awakening that was off campus as well, and that was amazing to be part of” (IV_250413). Education for her thus took place in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement more than in the state's learning institution.   In Goodyear-Kaʻōpua's words, on a policy level the illegal annexation of Hawaiʻi worked to “fracture the historical precedent of recognizing Hawaiʻi as an autonomous nation-state” while ideologically Kānaka Maoli's collective understanding was to be transformed “to a small and relatively powerless racial minority domesticated by the United States. These dual forces,” she argues, “have shaped public education in the islands ever since” (2013: 22). To this I add the socio-cultural and environmental transformations through the science and technology pursuant to sugar and pineapple production, and those of the “New Economy,” including agricultural biotechnology (see chapter 5), which has − following MacLennan's categorization (2014) − inaugurated a fourth wave of socio-ecological change in Hawaiʻi.  68 2.4 Hawaiʻi's school system and Hawaiian-focused charter schools A characteristic of the public school system in Hawaiʻi is its single school district − the Board of Education – that people often compare to locally funded school districts common in the continental US. The initial idea for this centralization was to provide a more democratic distribution of resources from a general fund rather than property taxes, particularly to students in rural areas. Demographically, Hawaiʻi is also unique in that it does not have a clear majority of one ethnic group.66 Instead of a desired democratizing effect, critics argue that this hierarchical structure has retained existing colonial and political power structures where Haoles and Japanese-Americans dominate state institutions (Dotts & Sikkema 1994; Fujikane 2002: 39; Kahakalau 2003). Japanese-Americans often maintain political power through their support from large public worker unions, such as the Hawaii State Teachers Association.67 The majority of public school teachers are Japanese-Americans (34%) followed by Caucasians (27%), Native Hawaiians (10%), Filipinos (6%), etc. (see Fujikane 2008: 25). Teachers face a student body comprised of Native Hawaiians/Part-Hawaiian (26.9%) and Filipinos (20.4%), Caucasians (13.6%), Japanese (9.8%), etc. (OHA 2011). These factors are joined by the worrisome statistics of Kānaka ʻŌiwi: higher rates of poverty, substance abuse, criminal activities (particularly among youth), teenage pregnancy, poor educational outcomes, etc. that reflect the mismatch of needs versus provided facilitation.68                                                  66 “White, race alone or with other races” account for 43.4%, “Asian, race alone or with other races” are 56.3%, “Native Hawaiians and Other Pacific Islanders, race alone or with other races” make up 26.1%, “mixed population (two or more races)” are 23.1%, and “minority population” account to 77% (DBEDT 2013). These high numbers indicate that people increasingly intermarry and, as I argue, point to the difficulty, even dubiousness of census according to race. 67 Okamura (2002: xii). As Tamura (2002) argues, settler colonialism in Hawaiʻi has been beneficial for Japanese-Americans, who did not seek to change the social and economic system but rather aimed to fit in to succeed in the 'American way of life.'  68 See Blaisdell & Mokuau (1994), Tibbets (2002), Kahakalau (2003), Kana‘iaupuni & Ishibashi (2005), and 69  This is not unrelated to Hawaiʻi's peculiar ratio between public and private schools. The State of Hawaiʻi spends the least amount of per-pupil expenditures in public education, ranking 50th across the nation (see DOE 2013). Yet as University of Hawaiʻi education professor Ann Baker argues, the low quality reputation of Hawaiʻi's public schools is rather connected to the common perception that goes back to missionary and plantation days when elites were sent to other schools than commoners were (quoted in Wong 2014). Dotts & Sikkema also observe that “communications media [continue] today to reflect the view that many people in the United States, including Hawaii, regard public education as preparation for a job” (1994: 56). Settler epistemologies have forged a status quo of land management with a co-evolving public education system that is questionably close to the military,69 and more recently the biotechnology industry (see chapter 5). Out of this historically grown hierarchy, as a state Hawaiʻi is now home to most private schools in the nation, serving almost 16 percent of all students, and thus twice as much as the US national average.70    Among them is Kamehameha Schools, the private Protestant school71, and at a market value of $11 billion (KS 2015) the wealthiest K-12 school in the United States. While students receive a widely acknowledged, academically rigorous education, Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua – a KS alumni – critiques the school's lack of cultural sensitivity in curricula and its complacency with dominant US-American liberal discourses (2005; King & Roth 2006).72 Recent controversies                                                                                                                                                      Stannard (2000). 69 Besides the Hawaiʻi Board of Education's three representatives at large, six representatives of the main islands, and one student representative, it also encompasses a “military” liaison representative (BOE 2014). 70 It should also be noted that the span of tuition fees among private schools is as great as reaching from $3,300 (Kamehameha Schools) to $27,600 for a special-education school on Maui (Wong 2014).  71 It should be noted that students often are of various religious background, and Kamehameha School does not overtly advertise itself as “Protestant” school.   72 See also Kamanamaikalani Beamer (2014), who describes how his well-known grandmother and cultural practitioner Nona Beamer was expelled from Kamehameha Schools as student in the 1940s to subsequently be 70 over the trust's lease of agricultural land to the agrochemical company Monsanto has sparked anew grounds for mistrust, and poses the question how the trustees interpret Princess Pauahi's last will to use “land to educate [her] people” (as I will discuss in chapter 6).  KS thus forms another nodal point where education and land are inextricably linked.  Largely due to Kānaka Maoli educators' efforts, in 1978 cultural and educational practices became legal in required Hawaiian Studies classes in public school curriculum. Under the Hawaii State Constitution Article X regarding Education, subsection 10.4 “Hawaii Education Program”  The State shall provide for a Hawaiian education program consisting of language, culture and history in the public schools. The use of community expertise shall be encouraged as a suitable and essential means in furtherance of the Hawaiian education program (State of Hawaii 1978).  In 1984, the first public elementary indigenous language immersion class in the United States, the Hawaiian language immersion program Pūnana Leo opened its doors (DOE 1994; quoted in Benham & Heck, 1998: 200). Their educators' activism led to the passing of a bill in 1986 that eventually established Hawaiian as language of instruction at public schools. While doing pioneering work, Hawaiian education programs, such as public Hawaiian immersion schools, have also been criticized for their underlying western curriculum (see Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2005; Kahakalau 2003). Hawaiian scholar Julie Kaomea further points to the ineffective, underfunded implementation of Hawaiian Studies in public schools that, as she demonstrates, results in a                                                                                                                                                      hired by the school as instructor of Hawaiian music and culture a decade later. Her activism in the 1990s also led to structural changes of KS including more rigorously Hawaiian Studies (ibid: 11f).  71 savage-oriented, racist, and exoticized interpretation of the Hawaiian past.73 Yet programs that implemented Hawaiian education were confronted with a persistent stigma, as the founder of the first Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS) Kanu ʻo ka ʻĀina, Kū Kahakaulau, shared with me:  [In the mid 1990s], when you said Hawaiian-focused, or even just Hawaiian programs, the stigma was always that those were remedial programs, that those were drop-out programs, alternative learning centre, special motivation […] designed for students who did not have the capacity to do the normal regular rigorous work in the classroom, and they would be sent into the taro patches (IV_100113).  This containment of Hawaiian education is reflected in legislative form as a subsection of Article X. Intended as conscious effort to make the unique role of Kānaka ‘Ōiwi education more explicit, it concurrently constitutes a framing of Hawaiian-focused education as alien, monolithic body within (or outside) Hawaiʻi's public school system. Similarly, KS educational analysts Kanaʻiaupuni et al. (2010: 3) discern that promoting cultural awareness for diversity has led to a practice of teaching about cultures rather than embedding education within a particular community's cultural framework. Education scholars Lomawaima & McCarthy describe such containment in regards to the US federal educational policy, which in their words has enabled zones of “safe” cultural difference as enclosed within certain regulation (2006). In adapting this concept to HFCS, Goodyear-Kaʻōpua describes that “[j]ust enough 'culture' is allowable, so long as it does not threaten or undermine settler-colonial relations of power” (2013: 8). This attribution is reflective in the subsectioning of “Hawaiian Education Program”                                                 73  Kahakalau (2003: 51) and Kaomea (2005) also criticize that implementation of Article X Section 10.4 was dissatisfactory, as lack of data collection could not show the actual impact of these public school programs. 72 and in that sense mirrors Hawaiian-focused charter schools' situated, bounded space within the wider Hawaiian schooling landscape.  The wider scoped Native Hawaiian Education Act (NHEA) in 1994 aimed to provide better access for Native people to education, medical, and economic benefits, and recognized that  Native Hawaiians have a cultural, historic, and land-based link to the indigenous people who exercised sovereignty over the Hawaiian Islands, and that group has never relinquished its claims to sovereignty or its sovereign lands (NHEA 1994).74  The same year, the Hawaii Charter School Law was passed, which allowed 25 schools to convert into charter schools (Kahakalau 2003: 16f). Charter schools are now legal in 42 US States and the District of Columbia. As public schools, they operate quasi autonomously in regards to curriculum, spending and personnel decisions, and in turn are accountable for both academic results and fiscal practices as set by states (National Center for Education Statistics 2014).75 Kū Kahakalau proposed a bill in Hawaiʻi to expand the existing law to include start-up charter schools (2003), and in 1999, the New Century Public Charter School Act allowed the creation of 23 additional charter schools. With the establishment of the first HFCS Kanu o Ka ‘Āina on Hawaiʻi Island, Kū inspired other educational political activists to create “spaces and dynamics of entanglement and possibilities for indigenization” (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2005: 12f). Nā Lei Naʻauao, the Native Hawaiian Charter School Alliance that was founded in 2000, was “to support models of education that are community-designed and controlled and reflect,                                                 74 The act formalized for the first time the role of the US government and its citizens in undermining Hawaiian sovereignty (Benham & Heck 1998: 219f).  75 It is crucial to note that the history of charter schools in Hawai’i is different to the contintental US, and that many Kānaka Maoli educators recognize the colonial and state-defined context of this institution (see Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013; Gugganig 2009; Dingerson et al. 2008).  73 respect and embrace Hawaiian cultural values, philosophies and ideologies” (Nā Lei Naʻauao n.a.). HFCS thereby aim to provide a culturally-based “alterNATIVE” (Nakanishi 2000) to regular public schools, with smaller classrooms, more individual care for students, and multi-grade classes. The perpetuation of Hawaiian language, practices and values based on a hands-on, family-oriented, and community-based education model, in the words of Kū an “Education with Aloha,” reflects the central value of aloha, love, affection, compassion, and ‘ohana, family (Kahakalau 2003). Learning activities range from planting kalo (taro) to sailing and paddling waʻa (canoes), and learning complex Hawaiian oli (chants), mele (songs and poems) and hula dances. Students visit wahi pana (sacred places) and are immersed in cultural protocols on a daily base. Of Hawaiʻi's initial 33 charter schools, 17 HFCS aligned with Nā Lei Naʻauao, and attract primarily Kānaka Maoli students, who make up about 90 percent of the student body (KS 2012).   Overall, the new legislation did not fundamentally improve charter schools' precarious financial situation, particularly in regards to land and facilities. In 2013-2014, public charter schools received a per-pupil funding of $6,127.61, slightly more than half the amount of regular public schools (HDOE 2014).  HFCS thus need to find other funds, primarily via the Office of Hawaiian Affairs, Kamehameha Schools76 and/or by leasing land from the Department of Hawaiian Homelands (DHHL). After Kū and other educational leaders secured $2.1 million in federal grants that were spent on a van, two full-time positions and a media lab for each HFCS, funding became an issue. As Kū explained:                                                  76 Through their non-profit organization Hoʻolalo Like, KS serves about 4000 students, across 34 HFCS (KS representative Wai‘ale‘ale Sosona, FN_300513), as well as public schools that have a minimum of 50 percent Native Hawaiian students (KS 2006).  74 Then we had a change in that [KS] came on board with supporting our schools by giving us one dollar for every four dollars that was being given by the State of Hawaiʻi. And with that one dollar became lots of strings. Including frequent meetings and lots of paperwork. And the time that we used to use to meet as Hawaiian-focused charter schools independently to do what we felt was important, all of a sudden we couldn't meet anymore because we had to meet to fulfill the requirements of that dollar. And so, from then on our communication amongst ourselves and looking for funding outside, etc., etc. diminished. And I want to say at this point there is still some communication going on but the intense relationships and friendships and aloha that was shared, I don't know that it's at the same place anymore that it was in 2001, and 2002, and 2003 (IV_10013).  While partnering with third parties interested in improving Kānaka Maoli students' education, this administrative burden has concurrently hindered educators to maintain relationships and exchange over innovative, experimental education models. The dependency of charter schools on other funding77 and a smaller budget than regular public schools is intrinsic to HFCS' 'freedom' for their 'choice' of curriculum, teacher allocation and school mission. In regards to land-education relations, Goodyear-Kaʻōpua points out that lack of funding translated to inaccessibility to land – as foundation for building schools, and as claimed right to such lands inhabited by Kānaka Maoli ancestors (2013). HFCS principals acknowledge the illegal annexation of Hawaiʻi by the United States, and the related circumstance that they do not receive a base – land – on which to build a school.78 The commonly framed binary between academic rigour and culture-based education succinctly illustrates a skewed polarization between education as standard- and test-driven endeavour, and education on, and lessons                                                 77 In contrast to other US states, Hawaiʻi's charter school law does not allow for-profit entities, so-called educational management organizations, to operate charter schools (see Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2013: 9). 78 These two claims are neither inevitably contradictory nor without friction, as many HFCS teachers shared ambiguity regarding the structural dependence on a fake political system's departments (see also Gugganig 2009). They see the model of charter schools as vehicle to perform what Goodyear-Kaʻōpua describes as kuleana, commonly translated as rights and responsibilities, which also implies genealogy and place (2013: 64). I will refer to this double bind in the following two chapters.  75 learned from the ʻāina. The resultant land epistemologies have contributed to an understanding of education as 'inside' the classroom, while anything ex-situ, 'outside,' in the environment and outdoors, is seen as vocational, recreational, thus non-rigorous practices. HFCS are thus also institutions fostering the decolonization of educational practices in this sense of moving out.  Education systems in democratic societies are often described as having undergone a neoliberal turn that is defined by market-driven competitiveness. This “neoliberal shift” often remains a blurry, unspecific term that is too often deployed as final explanation (Ball 1998; Boyles 2005; Giroux 2005; Molnar 1996; Weis et al. 2006). Standardized education in neoliberal politics serves in comparing places – i.e. students' grades between Alaska and Hawaiʻi – and times where an education system is envisioned as constantly progressing and 'evolving' from the past. One such policy is the educational standardization measure of No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB). Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua provides an excellent analysis of how NCLB has contributed to the reseparation of 'academic rigour' in the classroom from 'culturally-based education' in the outdoors due to demands of standardized testing at the HFCS Halau Ku Mana (2013). While I observed this tendency also at Kanuikapono, standardized learning per se was not seen as impediment. Rather, the challenge was considered in how best to prepare students for life as young Kānaka Maoli, and for a job (as I will discuss in the next chapter). If what defines Hawaiʻi's education system is neoliberal, it may not be standardization per se. Instead, it is this readying of society to support the system's 'production' of skilled individuals in a particular trait, which is coupled with a peculiar understanding of land as continuing basis of progression. This becomes apparent in the “New Economy” in Hawaiʻi (chapter 5), where the biotech industry demands schools, colleges, and the University of Hawaiʻi produce “high quality workers” (PMP Public Affairs Consulting 1999: 12) for their 76 purposes. It speaks to Dotts & Sikkema's assertion that in the United States and Hawaiʻi public education is often viewed as mere preparation for a job (1994: 56).79 By this, the industry and supporting politicians assure people that young generations are equipped for the future labour market in an increasingly insecure, unstable, and risk-defined world. This risk-awareness in turn shapes education into a form of continuously available and relatively stable source of workers for emerging industries, and with it, how land should figure in this calculation. It reopens the debate among educational reformers – from Antonio Gramsci (1971) through John Dewey (1929) to Paulo Freire (1972) - on where to draw the line between general education and specific vocational training. In other words, education is often argued to be either a tool of (individual and collective) liberation or a tool of outside indoctrination through a nation/economy/political system interested in a suitably trained labour force. Across the three field sites that I discuss in this dissertation, I will describe how these forms of education move within but also well beyond this binary..   In this chapter, I gave an overview of Hawaiʻi spanning from the Kanaka Maoli creation story Kumulipo to the transition of Hawaiʻi as both mediated and mediating “World System,” and the eventual and fateful normalization of the islands as part of the United States. I traced this shift back to an ontology of land as “that which feeds us” - ʻāina – to which people had a “sociality rather of kinship than celestial power” (Kirch & Sahlins 1992: 17). It increasingly transformed into a notion of land as property bound to labour as means of possession and liberal democracy. Through the interlinked ordering of land and education, this notion also found its way into the                                                 79 Indeed, as US Democrat candidate and supporter of the Bush Administration's NCLB Act John Kerry flippantly affirmed, NCLB “is really a jobs act when you think about it” (quoted in Torres 2008: n.a.). 77 Hawaiian kingdom's legal documents and missionary schools. I drew land and education together to think of Protestant ethics of industrious and efficacious work as inscribed into both the land-landscape and educational landscape of Hawaiʻi. One of the ramifications has been a land epistemology wherein education is seen as in-situ ('inside' the classroom) while anything ex-situ ('outside', environment, public sphere) has the stigma of vocational, non-rigorous activities. Hawaiian-focused charter schools challenge this separation by attempting to implement education as trans-institutional practices that have ʻāina at the core of learning. To these practices and challenges I shall now turn to, more specifically, to Kanuikapono public charter school on Kauaʻi. 78 Chapter 3: Kanuikapono: a “school without walls”  Back at Nā Pua Noʻeau80 we had this discussion. There was a few of us, there's probably about six of us. All around the same age, women who knew that we needed to start something alternative for kids, not only the enrichment program but for school! Because the schools do NOT teach the culture. You know, they do not touch on the subjects that are important to our kids. They don't go out and get their hands in the dirt. [...] We're surrounded by the best place on earth to learn, and the schools don't utilize it (Mealoha Montgomery, school staff, IV_070513).   Well, just like the way our school is, it's flexible, and nature, like with nature and the ʻāina, you never know what it's going to be, like you can't always depend on it to be sunny, [and] we need to come forth and be like nature and be flexible and not always have like want: Okay, we're doing this, and this, and this, and then with Kanuikapono it doesn't always work out cause like that room might not be available or whatever, so it's just about flexibility. And that's really important to have with life [...] you know, flexible, like bamboo! (18-year-old Caucasian student).    How does a Hawaiian-focused charter school (HFCS), such as Kanuikapono operate within a western educational system while fostering a Hawaiian worldview? What motivates educators to establish and work at such schools, and how do educators implement their visions in light of often unforeseen obstacles? How do the pragmatics of establishing a HFCS in turn define the school's teaching and learning epistemologies? In a broader sense, how do they influence more common definitions of “education” as both an accountable institution and a liberating endeavour?   Following these questions, I will commence this chapter by tracing my own encounter with the school, walking the reader through the school campus and describing the school's mission and values. This will lead me to describe practices and spaces that were created                                                 80 Nā Pua Noʻeau is a centre that aims to increase educational opportunities for K-12 Hawaiian students. It was started in 1989 at the University of Hawaiʻi and later continued across the islands' community colleges. 79 between the school's ethics and the lived reality of a construction site, depleted soil, and many new, non-Hawaiian teachers. I will commence by describing what it means to build a “school without walls” and to teach mālama ʻāina (care for the land) when soil is depleted and building materials – plastic or concrete – are considered unsuitable to the school's mission. I will then turn to tensions between what was envisioned in the mission and what everyday life presented. These tensions often manifested in collective double binds, where the school often faced contradictory obligations that could not be resolved in satisfactory ways. These double binds manifested in two prime ways: first, by aiming to give preference to Kānaka Maoli students while wanting and having to admit any student as a (non-discriminating) public school. Second, like many other Hawaiian-focused charter schools (HFCS), Kanuikapono aims to implement Hawaiian education and is expected to do 'academics,' which in turn is seen as diverging from Hawaiian education practices, such as mālama ʻāina projects. These are typical experiences for Indigenous Peoples operating “within established political, legal, and cultural frameworks” that bear often incommensurable contradictions (Fortun et al. 2010: 227). I use Michael Fischer's concept of ethical plateaus (2003) to describe these scenarios, particularly in regards to building a campus and forming a school ʻohana (family). By ethical plateau Fischer means a terrain where people's “often incommensurable frames of references come into play, involving irrational passions and fundamental commitments, as well as rational calculations.” (2003: 56). Hence, synergies and tensions among teachers, staff, students and the school leadership were often contentious – albeit articulated on the quiet - and formed what I refer to as contested terrains of ʻāina and education.  80 3.1 Situating Hawaiian education: Kanuikapono Public Charter School As described in the previous chapter, Hawaiʻi has the highest discrepancy between public and private schools within the United States (Wong 2014). Yet this is more reflective of the main island Oʻahu (with the capital of Honolulu) than the neighbouring island Kauaʻi. The northernmost island is also one of Hawaiʻi's least populated islands (ca. 65,000 people) and accordingly its school landscape differs from Oʻahu (with almost one million inhabitants).81 While in Honolulu alone more than 35 percent of students attend private schools, less than 7 percent do on Kauaʻi (Wong 2014). Besides ten public elementary schools, two middle and three high schools, in 2012/2013, Kauaʻi had five private schools, and four K-12 Hawaiian-focused charter schools (HFCS). Students oftentimes switched between public, charter, and private schools depending on location, willingness to commute, school type, and economic feasibility. For instance, in case of HFCS, many students at Kawaikini on the East side of Kauaʻi came from all over the island while on the more secluded West side Kula Aupuni Niihau A Kahelelani Aloha (also the smallest charter school in Hawaiʻi) and Ke Kula Niʻihau Kehaha had students residing in closer proximity.82                                                       81 To give a sense of proximity, the island of Oʻahu (“Honolulu County”) and Kauaʻi have about the same size (600 and 620 square miles respectively) while the former has a density of approx. 1,590 people/square mile and the latter has 108 people/square mile (US Census Bureau 2010). 82 These two schools are Hawaiian and Niʻihauan immersion schools serving also students from the island of Niʻihau while Kawaikini had Hawaiian immersion programs. Kanuikapono was the only HFCS on Kauaʻi with no Hawaiian immersion.  81  Figure 2: Map of Kauaʻi, indicating Anahola in the Moku (district) of Koʻolau. Clockwise, the other districts are Puna, Kona, Mānā, Nāpali, and Haleleʻa.   Anahola, a quiet town on the North-eastern side of Kauaʻi (see Fig. 2), with beaches frequented by local families, a few homeless people, and occasional tourists faithfully following their tour guide's promised 'hidden gems' of the island. Coming from south on Kūhiō highway (the only highway circling the island from Polihale in the West to Kē‘ē Beach in the north) driving down a dip, on the left hand side is Kamehameha Schools' (KS) Preschool,83 followed by a Baptist church, some tourist stands, a small post office, a whaler store, and a                                                 83 This is the only KS school admitting non-Hawaiian students, as it leases land from the Department of Education (Ipo Torio, pers. conversation). KS does not hold much land on Kauaʻi, which is not unrelated to the fact that King Kamehameha I never conquered the island, and thus less land there was passed down to Princess Pauahi Bishop (Kamealoha D. Forrest, pers. conversation). A significant estate is the 1,600 acres large Waipā ahupuaʻa on the North shore that is stewarded by Waipā the non-profit organization Waipā Foundation, which was founded in the 1980s to prevent the development of the valley (http://waipafoundation.org/about/ [accessed August 30 2015]). 82 burger stand that form the nodal point of Anahola.84 The town of 2,000 inhabitants is Kauaʻi's largest Hawaiian homestead community of mostly low-income and working class families,85 with most of the land undeveloped (DHHL 2010). Children playing at the Anahola Village Park, dogs barking, and infrequent cars driving by are the typical soundscape of Anahola. These sounds were also a significant part of my daily life, since I rented a room in a one-family house close to the Village Park. If one turns prior to the dip right, into Kukuihale Road, one passes residential houses, rusty cars and a dry grassy area until Kanuikapono public charter school emerges on the right.                                                   84 According to Kamealoha D. Forrest, Kanuikapono's Hawaiian resource teacher and composer, in the past the town was spelled “Anehola,” ane meaning breath of life, hola meaning the hour. The two words together translate as birth. Geographically, the town lies opposite Polihale on the other side of Kauaʻi, which is known to be the place were spirits are guided to leave the island. A rich, in-depth description of the town and its people can be found in Anahola: Kauai's Mystic Hawaiian Village (Marti-Kini 2009). 85 Kanuikapono's Accreditation Application for “Accrediting Commission for Schools” of the Western Association of Schools and Colleges (WASC) (pers. possession, and onwards referred to as (AA_WASC_301112). WASC is an accrediting agency serving public and private higher education institutions in California, Hawaiʻi, and the Pacific that the US Department of Education recognizes as “certifying institutional eligibility for federal funding” http://www.wascsenior.org/about [accessed Oct 6th 2015].  Figure 3: View of the school from the main entrance on the northern side of campus.  83 In summer 2011, I first visited the school to talk with the administrator Delton Johnson and Mauli Ola Cook, a kumu hula (hula teacher) and teacher of ʻIke Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian knowledge) about a potential collaboration for the following year. A few months earlier I had emailed the school with an offer for a collaborative film project with students, teachers and community members on kalo (taro) or another topic of interest. Arriving there this sunny day in August, I strolled around campus before meeting with the administrator. The campus consisted of several trailers; similar to many other HFCS I had visited before, which often depend on classrooms that are affordable and easy to set up. Yet Kanuikapono's campus had at its core something bigger, the main hale (house) that connected a trailer with classrooms and bathrooms through a large wooden platform. A sign between two large sliding doors of the hale read: “you can enter if your slippers are put together NEATLY.” So I did, entering this bright, high roof loft building with a central gathering room and four adjacent, smaller ones. In the front part was a small library where a young man was preparing teaching material. He enthusiastically introduced himself as the new high school teacher. After chatting about our potential collaboration next year, I strolled around further. A large cupboard housed books and instruments, prizes and acknowledgements, among them for the hula teacher (and school board member) Pua Dawson, for “Leader of the Year for Kauai.” In the back were the, for Hawaiʻi typical long, thin glass windows, allowing a nice breeze and calming eastward view of the campus and the ocean beyond. I learned later that after years on multiple campus sites in Anahola, the non-profit organization Kanu INK, which operates Kanuikapono, had only a year earlier secured a thirty-year lease from the Department of Hawaiian Homesteads Land (DHHL). The trailer that was connected through the platform housed, or rather crammed in, school administration, the principal's office, and two classrooms. Two yurts stood right next to 84 it on the south side, with an additional trailer on the other side of the hale. To the west, behind the administration trailer, was a small, deserted concrete