More Than Paradise: A Home

Sun setting on Lāhainā beach. Photo: Sophia Liang.

Tropical beaches. Golden sunsets. Lush rainforests. Blue oceans. Endless waves. These promises draw millions of tourists a year to the Hawaiian islands, and they painted a picture-perfect image of paradise in my mind as I stepped off the plane and onto the island of Maui. After having just finished submitting my college applications in January 2023, I was beyond excited to start a week-long vacation with my family.

As we drove under mountains and along the coast, the dryness of the landscape surprised me. There were vast stretches of land covered in brown grasses and dry shrubs, a result of the rain shadow effect. The island’s mountainous geography creates a climate pattern in which the eastern side receives abundant rainfall as moist trade winds rise along the mountains and condense into rain clouds. By the time the air passes over and descends down the mountain, it loses its moisture, leaving the western side much warmer and drier.

ʻĪao Valley State Park. Photo: Sophia Liang

The week flew by, with a bus tour taking us through the rainforest valleys on the east side and up the famous Haleakalā volcano, along with visits to a locally recommended beach—Lāhainā beach—where we returned most evenings for a sunset swim.

As I reached down to pick up a volcanic rock on top of Haleakalā, our tour guide warned us not to take anything from the island back home with us. Otherwise, we would be cursed with bad luck until we returned it. Every year, tourists mail back hundreds of packages of rocks to return them in an effort to break the curse, she explained. Sufficiently scared of what could happen to my college decisions, and realizing that taking from these sacred Indigenous lands would not only disrespect the natural ecosystem but also Hawaiian culture, I quickly put the rock back where I found it.

It wasn’t long before I returned home, finishing my last semester of high school. Months passed in a blur of graduation celebrations until my first year of college was just around the corner. Then, on Aug. 8, a news notification appeared on my phone: wildfires were rapidly consuming western Maui. A video of Lāhainā residents floating atop bits of debris in the ocean, holding onto each other and hugging children, facing a wall of smoke and fire that engulfed the entire shoreline along the beach—a beach that I recognized from just a few months ago—spread across social media. I was heartbroken for the people of Lāhainā and for their land, their home.

The more I learned about Maui and the fires, the more I realized how little I had understood when I first visited. Hawaiʻi seems like paradise, a peaceful island escape through the eyes of visitors. But to see Hawaiʻi only through that lens erases its long history of colonial conflict and control. First an independent kingdom with its capital in Lāhainā, the islands were invaded and annexed to the United States in 1898. Sixty years of colonial rule that silenced traditional Hawaiian identity and customs followed, until a movement began in the 1970s to restore Hawaiian language and culture. The tourism industry further displaced Native Hawaiians by raising housing costs, introducing monocropping, and taking land ownership away from local residents. Understanding this history is a necessary reminder that these islands are not just vacation destinations, they are home to generations of memory, struggle, and resilience.

Banyan tree in Lāhainā, 2023. Photo: Sophia Liang.

Climate scientists pointed to unusually extreme drought conditions, strong winds, and warm ocean temperatures as factors that contributed to the rapid spread of the wildfire, which started from dry grass igniting under a blown down power line. But climate change alone cannot explain the years of plight that followed. Maui’s economy is largely dependent on tourism, and after the fire, 4,444 people lost their jobs. Local families not only had to cope with the loss of loved ones, but also the loss of income and housing security.

I didn’t understand the depth of this damage until I revisited Maui three years later. The once lively, crowded town of Lāhainā, centered around the enormous 150-year-old Banyan tree spanning over a block, was empty. Silence greeted us as we walked through the streets until we reached a fenced off square where what remained of the Banyan tree stood. A few houses were beginning to be rebuilt, but the town carried a heaviness that reconstruction could not erase.

Banyan tree in Lāhainā, 2023. Photo: Sophia Liang.

I felt overwhelming grief for the community that had called this place home. Survivors of the fire have described the pain they carry with them, honoring their loved ones while being forced to leave and feeling like they don’t belong anymore. As I stood behind the railing facing the ailing Banyan tree, there was nothing I could offer except my promise to continue speaking out against the climate injustices that devastate communities like this one.

Wildfires continue to spread across the world, with environmental loss increasingly becoming a lived, permanent reality. Time and time again, the burdens of climate change are felt most deeply by those who have faced historical inequality. Environmental loss is never just environmental, it’s personal and cultural. It’s not just a statistic of acres burned and lives impacted. It’s communities hurt yet still standing, supporting one another through recovery. Towns like Lāhainā are a testament to the fact that places that hold histories, relationships, and identities can never be lost.

I am often reminded of that moment on Haleakalā when our tour guide warned us not to take anything from the land. It meant not only preserving and protecting this beautiful ecosystem that Native Hawaiians have always called home, but also to not practice an extractive mindset as a tourist. To not just come to these places, take photos and memories, and leave without considering what we as visitors owe in return to the communities sustaining those places. We owe them a commitment to centering Native Hawaiians’ voices during this years-long recovery process and beyond. To look at Maui only as a paradise is to overlook the people who continue to love it as a home, even through grief and hardship.

Sophia Liang

Sophia Liang is a rising senior at Duke University studying Economics and Mathematics, with a minor in Environmental Sciences & Policy. She grew up near Washington, D.C., developing her passion for environmental advocacy as a student leader for the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, where she testified before the Maryland Senate in support of public school environmental education funding. At Duke, she collaborates with local non-profit law firms as a project manager, leading research initiatives focused on water quantity protection in North Carolina.