The final resting place of Aunty Muriel “Puni” Ioane’s ancestors lies at the Mākua Protestant Cemetery, just makai of Mākua Valley on Oʻahu’s leeward coast.
A large yellow gate blocks the road to the cemetery, where a warning sign reads: “Danger. This area is a munitions response site. Munitions may be present.” Beyond the yellow gate is a bridge that collapsed during the Kona Low storms earlier this year, making the cemetery inaccessible by car.
Ioane is a direct lineal descendant of Mākua. She grew up on Mākua Ranch, in ʻŌhikilolo, the neighboring valley. Two generations of her family are buried at the cemetery, and for more than two decades, she has been unable to visit the grave sites.
Whether the barrier stems from military restrictions, decisions of the private caretaker of the cemetery, or a combination of both, has been unclear to Ioane.
The author reached out to the U.S. Army multiple times for comment, and no one responded.
While visiting cemeteries is a common tradition in many cultures to honor loved ones, Ioane cannot access the graves of her own ancestors whose ties to Mākua span generations.
In moʻolelo, Mākua (meaning parent) is where Papa (earth mother) and Wākea (sky father) meet, making Mākua a place of deep cultural and spiritual significance.
Before the military’s presence in Mākua was established, it was home to many Hawaiian and immigrant families.
Ioane was born in 1950. Her father, William (Willie) Pali Enos, was born and raised in Mākua, where he grew up with his father, mother and seven siblings. She remembers stories her dad used to share of him riding a donkey or taking an old truck to get to Waiʻanae Elementary School in the late 1920s.
“On days when the kids wanted to play hooky from school, they would do something to the truck, so no one would have to go,” Ioane laughed.
Ioane recalled her dad sharing memories of taking the train to Kawaihāpai to visit his grandma and packing food in burlap bags to share with everyone. Back then, there was no electricity, running water, or telephones.
Her father eventually met her mother, Miriam Akama Enos; she first noticed him while riding the train through Waiʻanae.
“She said that she never thought she’d meet him,” Ioane recalled. “But back then, all the cowboys used to have a night out and go into a rest camp for dancing. My mom said that’s where she saw him again.”
The two married in 1949 and raised their family in Mākua.
Growing up on Mākua Ranch in the 1950s, Ioane learned to fish, hunt, ride horses and raise her own pigs. “My dad taught us how to go up in the forest,” Ioane said. “He was a hunter, and my mom’s thing was the ocean.”
Her mother made her own throw nets to catch fish, taught Ioane and her siblings how to catch and clean eel, and kept a vegetable garden that helped feed their family.
Ioane’s dad was the ranch foreman at McCandless Ranch in Mākua and a true paniolo. He slaughtered cattle and pigs, hunted goats, and even made his own saddles, ropes, and chaps.
The Enos family lived a subsistence lifestyle, growing and gathering what they needed to feed themselves, their family, and even sharing with other families in the village.
When some Hawaiʻi residents began living at Mākua Beach, Ioane said that her parents would always take care of them.
“We don’t call them homeless; they were just living on the beach,” she explained. “But they didn’t have food or any place to go, so my dad and mom used to bring them home to the ranch because we had small houses around they could live in.”
They would get their water from wells in Mākua but still did not have any electricity. Ioane said that they had lanterns and kerosene stoves.
During summers, Ioane and her two sisters would work for 32 cents a week helping with the charcoal holes their dad built and they looked forward to saving their money together so that they could visit a store in Māʻili to buy one can of sardines, one loaf of bread, and one big bottle of strawberry soda.
The military first began using parcels of land for training in the 1920s but seized control of Mākua Valley in 1941. A year later, the military evicted everyone living in the valley. The Army promised those families that their lands would be returned six months later, but that promise was never fulfilled.
In 1964, the Army signed a 65-year lease with the State of Hawaiʻi for Mākua Valley that is set to expire in 2029. It cost the Army $1.
Ioane said her father would speak about how Mākua was taken away and never returned. While some families left for different valleys, others had nowhere to go but into the bushes, she recalled him sharing.
Ioane grew up after the evictions, and she recalled the military’s presence in Mākua.
She explained that the military had no relationship with the local families. Even as military exercises, live-fire training, and bombing took place in the valley, there was no communication or concern for the damage being inflicted on the land.
Ioane and her family remained on Mākua Ranch. After her father died in 1966, they stayed four more years and later moved to their relatives’ property in Waiʻanae.
Friends have tried to help Ioane make arrangements to visit the cemetery, but confusion over who controls access has made the process difficult.
“According to state park staff, there is another entrance on the north side of Mākua, but access through this entrance has also been compromised by the storm (damaged culvert),” Hawaiʻi Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) Communications Specialist Ryan Aguilar said in an email. “Currently, the only way to gain access is to walk along the beach.”
The Division of State Parks is handling repairs for the damaged bridges, though a start date has yet to be determined. Aguilar said designs and plans are required first.
For kūpuna like Ioane, who is 75, accessing the cemetery on foot via Mākua Beach is not ideal. The route would require going down a steep, rocky drop-off, walking up from the beach, and locating an unmarked path.
A chain-link fence surrounds the cemetery, with the entrance secured by a dial combination lock. At least 25 burial plots are enclosed. Although access is restricted, the cemetery appeared well maintained.
The caretaker likely keeps the cemetery locked to protect the graves from disturbances and vandalism. However, this also keeps lineal descendants of those buried there, including Ioane, from accessing it.
DLNR did not comment on restoration efforts, though they connected Ioane to the cemetery’s private caretaker. She is now one step closer to visiting the cemetery.
“The caretaker of the cemetery called me,” Ioane said. “He said anytime I want to visit the cemetery, to give him a call.”
The cemetery’s presence serves as a reminder of the families who once called the valley home. For descendants like Ioane, it is a connection to generations of her family, history, and place. Ultimately, returning to Mākua, and the cemetery, means returning to her parents.
“When I see Mākua, I see my dad,” Ioane said.
This story is an adaptation of an article originally published on July 15, 2026, by “Hawaiʻi Public Radio” under the title “Returning to Mākua: A lineal descendant’s journey to revisit her family.”
This article is reprinted with permission from OHA's Ka Wai Ola newspaper: "Returning to Mākua" by Hannah Kaʻiulani Coburn, in its August 2026 issue, Vol. 43 No. 8. Read more at kawaiola.news.
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