On the volcanic slopes of Hawaiʻi Island, something extraordinary is happening. It’s not just the island’s dramatic geography that’s drawing global attention, but a revival—of ancient knowledge, forgotten crops, and a more intimate relationship between people and plants.
At the heart of this movement is a cast of educators, researchers, farmers, and native knowledge-keepers, all working toward a single, quietly revolutionary goal: to restore the bio-cultural systems that once sustained these islands for centuries. Three of those visionaries came together May 19 on the opening day of the National Association for Plant Breeding (NAPB) meeting in Kona.
The Soil Scientist Who Thinks Like a Plant Breeder
Dr. Bruce Matthews, a long-serving educator and now county administrator at the University of Hawaiʻi, isn’t a plant breeder. But he’s one of its fiercest advocates.
“The University of Hawaiʻi has experiment stations across the islands,” Matthews explains, “and they’re not just relics—they’re living laboratories of adaptation.”
Hawaiʻi’s agricultural legacy stretches back over a century. The College of Tropical Agriculture and Human Resources—founded in 1909—was once a hub for global crop innovation, from sugarcane and papaya to rice and anthuriums. While the number of professional breeders has waned, Matthews sees renewed promise in students, even those outside traditional ag majors.
“My own son worked for a seed company,” he says. “He was a finance major, but those mornings in the field—and the business forecasting in the afternoon—used every skill he had.”
Matthews is also quick to point out the challenges: lost germplasm collections, shrinking funding, and debates over biotechnology. But at the intersection of science and society, he believes, is where real opportunity lies.
A Star Map for the Future
For Dr. Kawika Winter, a Native Hawaiian bio-cultural ecologist, the path forward is ancient—and written in the stars.
“Our ancestors navigated the largest ocean on the planet using the constellations,” he told the audience, gesturing to a map of Austronesian migration. “That wasn’t just about seafaring. It was about systems thinking—about integrating ourselves into the natural world.”
Winter, who directs the Heʻeia National Estuarine Research Reserve, believes the West’s dominant ecological narrative—that humans are separate from and harmful to nature—is a cultural myth. In Native Hawaiian worldviews, there is no separation.
He points to the Ahupuaʻa system, the traditional land divisions that ran from mountain ridges to coral reefs. These weren’t just political boundaries—they were ecological units, where agriculture, water, and forest were managed as one. “When you live as part of a system,” he says, “you take care of that system. Because it’s part of you.”
And he draws from science fiction, too. Holding up images from Star Wars, he compares Coruscant—a planet consumed by city—to Yavin 4, a forested moon. “Which trajectory are we on?” he asks. “And which star do we want to follow?”
Nowhere is this cultural philosophy more tangible than in the crops themselves. Kalo (taro), ʻulu (breadfruit), and kō (sugarcane) aren’t just food—they’re ancestors.
“In Hawaiian genealogy, taro was born before humans,” Winter says. “It’s our older sibling.”
Every variety of taro once had a name and a purpose. Where there were once over 300 traditional cultivars, only about 70 remain in regular cultivation. Losing one, Winter argues, is like losing a library, a ceremony, a song.
Plant breeding here becomes more than a science—it’s a way of remembering.
Agronomy on Lava
Dr. Noa Lincoln, an agroecologist and cultural historian, is helping to translate this ancient agricultural wisdom into modern practice. With his team, he digs through layers of Hawaiian history—literally.
On the slopes of Kohala, they unearthed a 15-foot soil pit showing the entire arc of land use: native forests, early agriculture, fire-clearing events, and even the erosive mistakes of over-cultivation. But what stands out is the course correction.
“We saw evidence that Hawaiians didn’t just recognize their mistakes,” he says. “They adjusted. They diversified. They restored forest belts.”
Lincoln’s work reveals that pre-contact Hawaiʻi supported over a million people—roughly today’s population—without fossil fuels or fertilizer imports. The secret? A diverse set of agro-ecological systems that spanned climate zones, crop types, and cultural values.
Re-breeding Relationships
This renaissance of place-based agriculture isn’t just about restoring the past. It’s about rethinking the future. And it starts with asking better questions.
“What are we really selecting for in our breeding programs?” Lincoln asks. “Is it just yield? Or is it resilience, cultural meaning, nutritional value?”
His studies of Hawaiian heirloom sugarcane revealed not just beauty, but function—varieties that captured mist, fixed nitrogen, and held meaning for generations. In modern trials, when placed in traditional systems, heirloom varieties often outperformed industrial hybrids.
“There’s this myth that heirlooms are inferior,” he says. “But it’s not the crops that are failing—it’s the system they’re forced into.”
What unites these voices is the conviction that plant breeding is not just technical—it’s relational. It’s about designing crops, yes—but also societies.
In a time of ecological upheaval, climate migration, and food insecurity, Hawaiʻi is offering more than tropical scenery. It’s offering a model—of integration, adaptation, and humility.
“We’re not here to dominate the land,” Winter reminds us. “We’re here to be in kinship with it.”
