The following editorial was originally published in the Honolulu Star-Advertiser on Sunday, September 7th as part of the “Raise Your Hand” column in the Insight section.
By: Janyah Momoe, Campbell High School Co 2025
When I first stepped into Puʻuhonua O Waiʻanae, a village of more than 250 houseless
individuals near the Waiʻanae Boat Harbor, I expected to see hardship. What I didn’t expect was
to find community, leadership, and above all, family.
Homelessness remains one of Hawaii’s most urgent social and political issues. While official
estimates place the number of houseless individuals statewide at around 6,000, anyone living
here knows that the real number, and the real stories, go far beyond statistics. We see
homelessness on our streets and in our parks, and too often, we dismiss it as an eyesore or a
threat, not a symptom of deeper social failures.
This summer, I interned at Puʻuhonua O Waiʻanae, a self-organized, houseless encampment led
by the late Twinkle Borge. My role was simple: immerse myself in the community, observe how
their leadership operated, and offer support where I could. But what I received in return was far
more meaningful — a complete transformation of how I see houselessness, kuleana and what it
truly means to belong.
Before the internship, I had never really interacted with houseless individuals, let alone worked
alongside a whole community. Like many, I had heard stereotypes that houseless people were
dangerous, unmotivated or beyond help. I thought encampments were places of violence and
dysfunction.
But through shared meals, long conversations and laughter around picnic tables, I began to
understand what this village really stood for. It wasn’t just shelter, it was structure, dignity and
love. Villagers looked after one another, held each other accountable and worked collectively to
address problems. The guiding principle of the village is this: “Kuleana awakens mana” — when
you give someone responsibility, you awaken their inner strength.
That mana was visible in every person I met, all of whom drew their power from Aunty Twinkle.
She wasn’t just a leader, she was the heartbeat of the village. With compassion and leadership,
she created a safe space for those who had nowhere else to turn. In doing so, she gave her people
more than a roof; she gave them a sense of purpose.
I’ll never forget what one villager, Billie Rose, told me during an interview.
“I used to be a shy person. When Mama needed me to step up, I did. This kuleana turned
me into a leader, and I’m finally understanding my purpose,” she said.
Puʻuhonua O Waiʻanae isn’t a perfect place. Like all communities, it faces real challenges. But
it’s proof that with support, dignity and leadership, transformation is possible. It taught me that
family doesn’t always come from blood. Sometimes, it’s built through shared struggle, mutual
care and a commitment to something greater than yourself.
Aunty Twinkle passed away in August 2024, but her legacy and kuleana live on. In many ways,
we all have kuleana in our lives: to our families, our communities, our dreams. And when we
recognize that, we also recognize that the people we see so often — the houseless, the struggling,
the forgotten — are not so different from us after all. If Hawaii is ever going to solve
homelessness, we must start by seeing the humanity in every person and listening to those who
have lived through it.
I saw firsthand how the villagers were not just surviving, but actively creating solutions to their
own challenges. Their experiences, insights and leadership are valuable in creating solutions in
not only Waianae, but in Hawaii. Moving forward, I plan to encourage community leaders to
actively listen to and involve those with lived experience in discussions about solutions to
homelessness. Community isn’t something you build for people. It’s something you build with
them.
How many times have you picked up your phone today? If you’re like most people, the answer is
roughly 96 times, or once every 10 minutes. For teenagers, the numbers are even more alarming.
Teens spend over seven hours on their phone per day on average, according to Common Sense
Media.
We all have something we just don’t get. Maybe it’s car maintenance or writing a decent
essay. Whatever it is, it often becomes an unnecessary source of shame. For many senior
citizens, that “thing” is technology. While this might seem like a harmless or inevitable
generational gap, the reality is more serious: Our kupuna are falling behind because they don’t
have the support they need to keep up in an increasingly digital world.
In an age of unprecedented access to technology and resources, we like to believe that support is just a click or call away. Countless hotline numbers, shelters, community centers, and mental health or emergency services help those who have fallen victim to the devastating experience of human trafficking. These resources are vital lifelines for many, pulling people from the grasp of a horrible situation. But the truth is, the most impactful support doesn’t come from institutions. Instead, it comes from the people closest to us — our friends, family and loved ones.
For many, the aloha spirit has been reduced to a brand. It’s something to be sold and
marketed to visitors who want to “live aloha” for a week before flying home. Others say
that modern distractions have left people too exhausted to show up for one another like
they used to. Generosity becomes difficult when you’re working long hours and barely
scraping by. With Hawaii’s high cost of living, continued housing crisis, and economic
uncertainty, people are stretched thin — and when your plate is already full, there’s little
room to consider the needs of others.