Bret Nainoa Mossman spent two weeks in the summer of 2023 winding his way across Europe. On a shoestring budget, blowing through most of his vacation time from his job, Mossman tried to make every minute count—he knew it might be his only chance to visit these ancient cities. But the 28-year-old wasn’t a typical backpacker taking in tourist sites. Carrying a large black rifle case stuffed with camera equipment, Mossman spent his days in the dimly lit recesses of museums, taking pictures of more unusual relics: long-dead birds. From dawn to dusk, working mechanically as the day faded, he sat alone with the preserved species that had once lived in his Hawaiian homeland.
For hundreds of years, Western explorers, collectors, and researchers gathered birds from the Hawaiian Islands and scattered them across the world. Over time, thousands ended up as the property of museums—valuable for experts who study them, but otherwise hidden away. Mossman, a Native Hawaiian, is on a mission to find and photograph each one and bring them into public view. In the long run, he hopes to prompt a conversation about the decolonization of these research collections and set the table for the return of some physical specimens to the islands where they originated.
The quest might seem quixotic: a lone man, self-funded, chasing after relics. But his project is in step with a growing movement to reckon with the historical and scientific plundering of cultural artifacts and sacred items from Indigenous communities and colonized nations across the globe. Wildlife collections aren’t often part of those conversations, but Mossman believes they should be—particularly specimens from Hawai‘i, an island chain often dubbed the bird extinction capital of the world.
“To Westerners it’s like: They’re birds, and we love them,” Mossman says. But for Hawaiians, he says, the connection is deeper: “These birds are basically our grandparents. I have to do what I can to preserve their dignity.”
Growing up in Utah, Mossman knew he was different. Curious and goal-driven, he honed his naturalist skills as a child. He loved watching chorus frogs at a pond near his home and developed an extensive insect collection. By his teenage years, he was enthralled with birds. But beyond a set of interests that didn’t always align with those of his classmates, Mossman also had a distinct sense that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. His father had moved from Hawai‘i to Utah for college, got married, and stayed. “My dad always talked about how he wanted to go home, and Utah was never home for him,” Mossman says. “It’s always been Hawai‘i.”
In high school, Mossman merged his curiosity about his heritage and avian enthusiasm. He read anything he could find related to Hawaiian birds, from a 1990s pocket guide to a 300-page scientific report about endangered honeycreepers. In 2017 he moved to the islands to pursue a master’s degree in conservation biology at University of Hawai‘i in Hilo.
Today, the islands’ birds are, to Mossman, a single-minded focus bordering on obsession: a guiding force in his career, his hobbies, and his moral compass. A biologist for the Hawai‘i Department of Land and Natural Resources, he’s one of relatively few people of Native Hawaiian descent who work in the bird conservation field. In addition to serving as a board member of conservation organizations, he maintains popular Facebook, TikTok, and Instagram pages, called Birds Hawai‘i Past Present, where he advocates widely for the preservation of local birdlife and shares photos and videos with his followers.
By bringing rare wildlife into people’s daily lives, Mossman aims to help revive Hawaiians’ cultural connections to disappearing species and strengthen public support for staving off further losses. He also aims to show birds themselves that Hawaiians still care about them. Cataloging long-dead species, he says, is all part of that mission. But first he has to find them.
When British explorer James Cook first came to the island of Hawai‘i in 1779, the west side was populated by a small, short-tailed bird called the Moho. The ashy-brown creature, whose name translates to “small bird that crows in the grass,” had evolved away from flight over thousands of years, nested on the ground, and was so agile it could outrun dogs. Later called the Hawaiian Rail by Western scientists, the bird was Hawaiians’ companion on journeys across lava flats and a quarry for traditional bow hunters. On January 26, 1779, Cook’s landing party purchased two from local taro farmers.
That transaction, hardly noteworthy at the time, marked the beginning of a collection drive on the Hawaiian Islands that lasted into the 20th century. Driven by pride and competition as well as a desire to document the archipelago’s astounding biodiversity, wealthy collectors and institutions sponsored and embarked on extensive expeditions. Men like H.W. Henshaw, who later became chief of the U.S. Bureau of the Biological Survey (a precursor to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service), and Lord Walter Rothschild, heir to a banking dynasty, gathered a rich array of purportedly “new” and singular bird species that had evolved in this remote place.
Although this practice wasn’t unique to the islands, the scale was noteworthy. “Hawai‘i is probably the single most extreme example of collecting,” says Paul Banko, a U.S. Geological Survey research wildlife biologist at the Pacific Island Ecosystems Research Center.
By the early 1900s, Hawai‘i had experienced an enormous transfer of culturally significant native fauna. Birds are central to Hawaiian identity, according to Kekuhi Kealiʻikanakaʻole, a prominent Hawaiian educator and cultural practitioner. They are personal deities—the little gods of the islands. They help fishermen find the shore, and their plumage has been used in ceremonies, robes, and towering feather standards known as Kahili. A species of honeycreeper, the ‘Apapane, is one of the many birds mentioned in the Hawaiian creation chant. “Part of my responsibility as someone who lives here is to know who they are,” Kealiʻikanakaʻole says. “They are the ‘bird people.’”
Like the priceless art, instruments, and burial objects that Westerners took from Indigenous communities, many specimens landed in the care of museum curators. In the 1960s, Banko’s father, Winston, a federal wildlife biologist looking to understand the factors that caused Hawaiian avian extinctions, was the first person to try to figure out where all these specimens had gone. He mailed a survey to institutions across the world and published his findings. Though incomplete, they were extensive: 7,261 Hawaiian bird specimens in 37 museums from Christchurch to Cambridge.
“Hawai‘i is probably the single most extreme example of collecting.”
Collection was only a symptom of a colonial endeavor that had, by then, radically altered Hawai‘i’s society and ecology. Upon their arrival on some of the most isolated inhabited islands on Earth, Europeans had introduced new diseases that killed hundreds of thousands of Native Hawaiians, almost wiping out the Indigenous community. Missionaries discouraged cultural practices, and their influence led to the abolition of hula in public places in the 1830s. Decades later, non-native business interests led a coup that overthrew the Hawaiian government, and the new rulers banned the native language from being taught in schools. In 1898, the United States annexed what, in 1959, became the 50th state. Over these centuries, many Native Hawaiians left the islands—both to pursue better opportunities and to escape increasingly high living costs. Today, more than half of Native Hawaiians live in the continental United States.
Predictably, native wildlife also fared poorly during this period. Invasive predators like rats, mongooses, and feral cats that arrived on colonial-era trading ships devoured the Moho and other ground-nesting species. Mosquitos came, spreading avian malaria and avian pox, which decimated forest bird populations. Whole habitats were cleared for sugarcane and pineapple cultivation, while millions of sandalwood trees became one of Hawaii’s first cash export crops.
Less than a century after Cook purchased the two Moho, the species was presumed extinct. The same fate befell the ʻUlulū, also called the Laysan Millerbird, a honeyeater called the Bishop’sʻōʻō, and a honeycreeper, the ʻUlaʻaihāwane. By 1976, nearly 4,000 of the specimens that Banko had tallied in museums belonged to species already extinct or endangered. In total, the Hawaiian Islands have lost roughly two-thirds of their known bird species since humans settled there. Twenty-seven of their 38 remaining endemic species or subspecies are now listed as endangered or threatened. Three have not been spotted in the wild in decades.
Mossman’s photography project began on a whim during a birding trip to New York City. He applied to visit the American Museum of Natural History’s non-public archives to see an Oʻahu ʻōʻō, whose yellow feathers were used in ceremonies before it was last seen in the wild in 1837. After he was denied access, he learned that the Field Museum in Chicago also had an Oʻahu ʻōʻō, so he purchased a last-minute plane ticket.
There, almost 5,000 miles from Hawai‘i, he stared at a dead bird that had long held great significance to the islands. The experience was profound but also disturbing; he knew many other birds were facing the same fate. It left a deep impression—a piece of his heritage far from its home. “Growing up in the diaspora in Utah, it was always difficult to find my way,” Mossman says. “Seeing it happen to the birds, too, taken from the islands—that’s hard.”
Using Banko’s research as his guide, he reached out to museums to ask for permission to photograph their collections. Many curators have welcomed him, and Mossman tries to cultivate relationships (it probably doesn’t hurt that he often brings coffee and Hawaiian cookies). His home base has been Honolulu’s Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, which has given him wide-ranging access to document its diverse array of native birds. Molly Hagemann, the vertebrate zoology collections manager, says Mossman’s work can help advance the Bishop Museum’s mission of education and public outreach (though the institution is not a formal partner in the work).
So far, Mossman has taken some 14,000 photographs of about 3,000 specimens representing dozens of species, which he estimates is about a third of the way to completing his project. He endeavors to treat each bird as an individual, bringing it back to life in his mind’s eye—even when he’s racing to finish before catching a train or plane out of town. Eventually, he hopes to build a public database that writers, artists, educators, and scientists can explore and use.
Mossman’s idea arrives at an opportune moment. More museums and universities are digitizing their research collections, and they’re also more open to collaborations that expand access, says John McCormack, director of the Moore Laboratory for Zoology at Occidental College in California, home to one of the largest collections of Mexico’s bird specimens. “In general, institutions are becoming much less possessive about their projects,” he says. His team, for example, is creating 3D models of avian specimens collected long ago, offering a snapshot of what the biological world looked like before climate change and other human impacts. “When we started putting these models online, it wasn’t just scientists who were interested,” he says. “We got major attention from members of the public.”
For Mossman, a digital database would be just a first step. Although the Bishop Museum has the largest single collection of Hawaiian birds, it’s also missing many native species. Ultimately, he hopes to one day see at least one individual of each species find a home on the islands.
Museums worldwide have developed repatriation policies and are doing more to reckon with colonial histories.
That’s another aspect of Mossman’s project befitting the times. There’s a growing conversation surrounding the rightful place of Indigenous artifacts worldwide. In the United States, for example, regulations finalized last year aim to accelerate compliance with the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. While the 1990 federal law requires that museums protect and return human remains, funerary and sacred objects, and objects of “cultural patrimony,” its implementation had languished due to red tape, loopholes, and resistance from institutions.
Whether required or not, museums worldwide have developed repatriation policies and are doing more to reckon with colonial histories. In 2020, a New Zealand museum permanently returned to the Bishop Museum an intricately woven bird feather cloak and helmet—an ʻahu ʻula and a mahiole—given to Cook. The Bishop Museum itself is reportedly investigating and discussing the potential repatriation of artifacts taken from other Pacific Islands in the early 1900s, according to news outlets. Repatriations have even extended to dinosaur fossils that colonizing nations took from their original locations.
Museum professionals say they have not heard many people raise the question of returning preserved wildlife, though there is at least one recent example. In April, a museum in Scotland returned a 170-year-old extinct lizard to its native Jamaica where it will be used for research and education—the first time a natural specimen has been returned to the Caribbean. A University of West Indies official called it “a small but significant step towards laying the foundation for a regional and international discussion on repatriation.”
Still, it’s highly unlikely that museums are on the verge of returning wildlife specimens to their native countries en masse. The idea would raise practical considerations about safe stewardship of these scientifically valuable collections as well as more philosophical questions. For example, which nations or Indigenous cultures should have their animals returned? Can a culture rightfully claim an animal as its own?
Mossman has chosen to focus on digitization in part to avoid the complicated and at times tense conversation that surrounds the repatriation of physical objects. Yet with the growing recognition that Hawaii’s native birds and its culture are intertwined, Hagemann says she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where the discussion is headed: “It’s definitely a discussion worth having.”
Native Hawaiian filmmaker and journalist Anna Keala Kelly, who has written extensively about the ongoing effects of colonialism, says there should be no debate as to whether the islands’ birds are considered similarly to other cultural artifacts. For her, the loss of Hawai‘i’s local wildlife and the systematic dismantling of its people’s way of life go hand in hand. “If a bird has a Hawaiian name, it has a place in our world culturally, genealogically, and environmentally,” Kelly says. “We need them back.”
Mossman knows that giving life and memory to dead creatures won’t erase colonial legacies. His project is part of a broader drive to reclaim Hawaiian culture and move toward ecological and cultural healing—and others are also looking to birds in that effort.
Kealiʻikanakaʻole, for example, belongs to a group working to write an updated mele, or chant, that prominently features Hawaiian birds. And Noah Gomes, an ethnographer who lives in Hilo, has spent years researching lost Hawaiian bird names and advocating for their use by scientists and officials. Today, he says, many people are working to recapture and reintegrate Hawaiian language and cultural practices into modern ornithology and conservation.
As for Mossman, his quest is gaining more attention. Last November he shared several photos of extinct bird specimens, including a Black Mamo, or ʻŌʻōnukuumū, a striking dark honeycreeper with a preposterously curved bill that went extinct in 1907, and a Kākāwahie, a small red honeycreeper that blinked out in 1963. In another image, eight extinct birds lay side by side. “Extinction is forever and it’s happening right in front of us for some of our most important native species,” he wrote. “We can’t give up on them.”
Nearly 200 people shared the post. Tens of thousands follow his work online. Native Hawaiian bird populations continue to suffer, but it’s clear to Mossman and Gomes that people care more than ever. Is that enough? “The decline and revitalization of Indigenous cultures is connected to conservation,” Gomes says. “Education and outreach—it is making a difference. Is it making a difference fast enough to stop these extinctions from happening? That remains to be seen.”
To save Hawaiian birds on the brink, Mossman thinks both culture and science will need to play a role. The stakes are high and time is running out. Biologists estimate that the combined populations of the islands’ 10 most endangered bird species number only about 5,000 individuals. Climate change and sea-level rise pose existential threats. Meanwhile, conservationists are responding with bold efforts: moving nesting colonies to save them from flooding, reintroducing birds raised in captivity to boost dwindling wild populations, and combating avian malaria by releasing large numbers of mosquitos that are incapable of reproducing.
Conservation efforts won’t bring back the Moho. No one will ever again know what it’s like to trek across scrubland in the company of those speedy birds. But in a sense, the Moho lives on. There’s a Hawaiian proverb that roughly translates to “Nothing can blow him off course, like a Moho in the wind.” Somewhat satirically praising a flightless bird, it lauds people who refuse to give up, even against high odds. And these people persist, sometimes flying across the world, lugging heavy equipment, trying to build something new.
This story originally ran in the Fall 2024 issue as “Gone, Not Forgotten.” To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.
