Weapons of Old Hawaiʻi
Once central to battle, mea kaua now teach story, balance and identity in today’s islands
by Savannah Dagupion
photographs by Daniel Sullivan
Kekai Kapu has been making mea kaua – traditional Hawaiian war weapons – for decades, understanding the history, creation and practicality of each piece. One of his favorites is the leiomano, a wooden paddle laced with niho manō (shark teeth).
War does not wait. When conflict gathered on the horizon in wā kahiko (old Hawaiʻi), each koa (warrior) had one to three months to create their own mea kaua (weapon) that would save their life by the time the first blow fell. There were no manuals or teachers – only their natural instincts.
The process was personal and meticulous. Guided by pule (prayer), their kūpuna (ancestors) and their na’au (gut), they disappeared into the mountains or the ocean, separating themselves from their ʻohana (family) as they gathered wood, stone, fibers and oil. Their relationship with nature was built upon a foundation of respect, which deepened their connection with its mana (divine power).
Over time, they forged wood with gritty stones, then smoother stones to refine the surface. Then came the coconut or kukui nut oil, seeping into the grain and adding a layer of beauty and protection. When the mea kaua was complete, it was wrapped in kapa (cloth made from bark) and hidden until the day it was called to war.
A warrior’s mea kaua was never to be seen otherwise – bringing it home meant they would not return from battle. If a warrior died, their mea kaua would be destroyed, or in rare instances, it would be brought to the family home, never to be touched. If a warrior lived, their mea kaua was hidden again.
Mea kaua were not passed on or inherited – it was between the creator and the ʻuhane (spirit) of the mea kaua. All the resources that gave it form live on through the mea kaua, carrying the mana of all it once was.
That ancestral rhythm still lives today. On Maui, cultural practitioner Kekai Kapu disappears, separating himself into the uplands with the same reverence – offering oli (chant), prayer and thanks before he even begins to work. His practice ties the islands’ warriors of the past to the keepers of knowledge now.
“There’s a saying of who we are: ‘Nā koa kau i ka meheu o nā kupuna,’ or ‘We are the warriors who walk in the footsteps of our ancestors,’ ” Kapu said.
In Waiohuli, Upcountry Maui, Kapu works from his sense of place of sustainability of life, making, creating the beauty of mea kaua as his ancestors once did. He shapes wood with coarse stones, braids natural fibers into cordage and devotes time to each piece, sometimes crafting into the quiet hours of the night.
“Everything was done by hand, mana limalima,” he said. By doing it the same way today, he said, you keep the moʻolelo (story) and the pieces alive. Protocol is as important as process – when gathering materials, he’ll kāhea (invoke), offer pule and leave a gift in return.
“You can’t just take – it’s ʻaʻole pono (not right),” he said. “What you take, you put back, but more respectfully. There’s mana in everything we do.”
This waiting, watching, listening mirrors the instincts of old. Once he has all his materials, he doesn’t start. He waits until the time comes when there’s a need to create. The making begins long before the first scrape of stone – with relationship and reciprocity.
Kapu has been making mea kaua for years, working with an index finger that has grown numb after being poked and prodded many times, especially when he started.
Kapu makes everything by hand, keeping the tradition, moʻolelo (story) and mana (divine power) of the pieces alive. He shapes wood with coarse stones, braids natural fibers into cordage and devotes time to each piece, crafting into the quiet hours of night.
He received the ahi (fire) that drew him to mea kaua in his early years, when he got deep into the art of lua (a Hawaiian martial art), as well as Nā Papa Kanaka o Puʻukoholā (a group of cultural practitioners that perpetuates and defends traditional practices associated with Puʻukoholā Heiau on the Big Island of Hawaiʻi).
Kapu connected with kūpuna (elders) who instilled in him mana, inspiration and invaluable cultural wisdom. Notably, a kupuna in Waimea Valley on Kauaʻi greeted Kapu by standing in his doorway holding an ʻihe (spear) in his hand, representing himself as Na Kupuna O Manokalanipō (an elder of Kauaʻi).
However, just like nā koa (the warriors) in wā kahiko, before even thinking about mea kaua, Kapu embraced the art of lua for years, which revolves around hand-to-hand combat.
As with warriors of old, the body itself was the first weapon. Training in lua meant grappling, striking and throws that could break an opponent’s bones before a tool was ever lifted. “When you enter into the lua pā (a school for lua), you need to know your identity, who you are, where you come from because you’re carrying the mana of your ancestors with you,” Kapu said. “You get more ʻike, more knowledge, by utilizing their ʻuhane, their spirit.”
He also needed to learn the lineage of his kumu (teachers), tracing who taught who as far back as time allows, as well as anatomy – not just how to break, but how to heal. Of all the lessons, the greatest was balance.
Aside from mea kaua, Kapu makes traditional Hawaiian fish traps
“Kanaka (Hawaiian people) live a balance of life. That’s what lua is all about. That’s what mea kaua is all about. Everything has to be nalu, to flow, like the ocean,” he said.
In Hawaiian thought, balance is often described through the paired forces of Kū – god of war, strength and action – and Hina, goddess of the moon, healing and restraint. “If you come in too hard, with too much Kū inside of you, somebody is going to get hurt – or you will.”
Kapu’s own lessons align with those instincts. In wā kahiko, everything was self-taught, meaning kanaka hinged upon balance and spirituality, or what was innate, to determine their lifestyle. Warriors followed their instincts on whether it was the right time to make mea kaua, what materials they’d use for their mea kaua and how many pieces they’d prepare. It was about using what they knew and what resources they had.
In Kapu’s experience, the most common battlefield tools were ʻihe, newa (stone clubs) and pāhoa (daggers). He said Maui warriors were known for ʻihe and for the maʻa (sling) that cast stones shaped by river and surf – football-like for heft and quick release.
He added that women fought, too, often favoring maʻa and tripping weapons such as ʻīkoi (or pīkoi) that could bind legs, arms or neck. “They always hit their target,” he said. “You get many women in battle, who also practiced and knew the art of lua, you lucky you get out of there alive.”
Head shots were preferred. Training could include time without sight, so a fighter learned to sense an approaching body. Lua itself – meaning “two” – points to a second strike that finishes a fight.
Among the most sacred tools was the leiomano (paddle with shark teeth), often in aliʻi (chief) hands. A leiomano connects the spiritual balance of male and female – what is from the upland forest and niho manō (shark tooth) from the sea, bound with braided cordage. Niho manō are set into wood like a saw’s smile, each lashed to withstand shock.
When crafting, balance is a consistent value – not just in the way the weapon can attack and defend, but in the way of approaching mea kaua with a protocol and care. Kanaka have a relationship with nature built upon a foundation of respect to its mana.
Kapu sees mea kaua as a place where land and sea meet – and where a maker becomes one with the tool because of the bond that grows with the materials and the mana that lingers. Many makers named their weapons after the places where materials were gathered or in honor of their aliʻi.
That respect for moʻolelo ties directly to the values he repeats most – safety and kuleana (responsibility). In half a century of making, he hasn’t seen or heard of a weapon used in a fight.
Before anyone touches a piece – even family – he walks through protocol and the story behind it. “When it comes to the generation today, what I pule for is that they understand the ʻike that’s already innate within them and how they can utilize it. More important is [knowing] what is right and what is not right,” he said. “You gotta learn to control the mana inside of you. Mana is very strong and powerful.”
In old Hawaiʻi, nā koa stepped away and worked alone so they could return. Today, a maker steps toward the community to keep the knowledge alive – then steps back again because some things remain kapu (sacred).
The hand still remembers the sequence: rough stone, smooth stone, oil. The mind still checks for balance – Kū and Hina, pule and kāhea, work and create, push and release, action and restraint. And the naʻau still does as it did in wā kahiko: it prays, then works.
