Ke Ola

Photo: Lithograph (1819) by Jacques Arago depicting human sacrifice under the order of a kahuna in old Hawaiʻi.

Where we go when we die is determined by the last thought in our mind before death. The same is true for sleep—where we go when we sleep is shaped by the final thought we hold before drifting off.

Death and dying, from a modern perspective, are often understood only halfway. Many people see the death of the physical body as the end of one’s entire existence. Yet death is simply a transformation from one state of consciousness to another. We are souls living temporarily in physical bodies, much like spending a single year in elementary school. To believe that the body is the whole of who we are is an illusion. When we identify only with the physical form, we believe death is final. But death is the greatest release—liberation from a body that can feel like a prison. As free souls, we enter small human bodies and endure the aches and limitations of physical life. Death frees us from the illusion of form and returns us to unbounded spiritual energy.

Many of us have lived thousands of lives in many different bodies—sometimes as wahine, sometimes as kāne, and sometimes in entirely different realms. Each lifetime is an opportunity to grow spiritually by facing challenges, learning lessons, and experiencing the full range of human feeling. Our soul remembers these lessons, and this is how spiritual progression unfolds. Each life is a classroom; each lifespan is a single year in that class. A soul may attend this school for thousands of years. With each death, the soul moves to the next grade—unless it needs to repeat the lesson.

All souls eventually graduate. None fail; some simply take longer. Those who reach the kumu state become teachers and helpers for the next generation of haumāna. We have free choice in every lifetime. When we make harmful choices, we must face the consequences, sometimes across many future lives. A soul that is cruel in one life may choose to return as someone who suffers cruelty, so it can understand both sides of the experience.

Many people see the kahuna or skilled professional as the ultimate teacher, but this is not entirely true. Chiefs and kahuna of old Hawaiʻi possessed deep knowledge of their arts, yet being at the top brings its own challenges. With no one above them to hold them accountable, the temptation to manipulate or misuse power becomes strong. A chief with good values naturally becomes a great leader. A cruel chief—like Hakau, son of Līloa—was not shaped by others into cruelty; he chose that path to satisfy his own greed.

History holds many stories of chiefs, priests, and kupuna who abused their power over the makaʻāinana. They used gods, laws, and authority to justify their actions, but such behavior was never spiritually pono. This truth applies across all cultures.

Stories of truly just and pono leaders are rare. Those few may have lived many lifetimes, learning through experience the importance of serving others. Even today, honest and caring leaders remain uncommon. Among the few who embodied this ideal were Līloa of Waipiʻo, his son ʻUmi, and Kamehameha. Compared to the thousands of chiefs who ruled over thousands of years, such leaders are like a few drops of rain falling into the ocean. They succeeded because they cared for their people first; no one checks a high chief but himself.

People often speak of kupuna as if all are wise, fair, and all-knowing. But kupuna are human. Some are greedy; some are compassionate. Their difference from the young is that they have lived long enough to see much, learn much, and understand the consequences of choices.

Consider Kalaniʻōpuʻu, high chief of Hawaiʻi. Born into power, he became corrupted by it. Even in his eighties, he was abusive and greedy. As kupuna of the island and uncle to Kamehameha, he should have been a model of leadership, yet he mistreated his people, stole their food, and used his authority for personal gain. In the classroom of life, he had the chance to use his power for good, but his choices did not benefit his soul’s growth. He may choose to return as a poor commoner under a cruel chief—just as he once was—to learn the lesson of power and powerlessness. This is the gift of each new life: the chance to learn what we did not understand before.

If we learn quickly and retain our growth, we progress faster and spend less time in school. After roughly two thousand lifetimes, we graduate—we puka—and no longer need to return unless we choose to. We become ancestral spirits who guide and teach others.

Life’s classroom is built on experience. We learn from our mistakes and from the mistakes of others. Even in the realm of Pō, we are not all-knowing. Guides and ʻaumākua also seek higher growth, and by helping us, they advance themselves.

In some pa of lua, warriors were trained to prepare for death, for death was part of the art. Hawaiians of old understood how to elevate the soul into Pō. Warriors learned the steps, the signs that appear after the soul leaves the body, and how to recognize the path toward the light. They were taught what to expect in the realm between earth and Pō. These teachings are complex and will be shared another time.