Scientists tell us that the Wai'anae Mountains are among the richest botanical sites in the archipelago, with more than a hundred species of native plants, many of them rare and endangered, and found only at that one location.

But we are not just talking about endangered Hawaiian plant species here, but the living kino lau, the physical manifestations of our ancestors, who believed they were directly related to the plants and animals that shared their world.

We mourn the loss of important cultural and historical sites, but here are the living manifestations of every Hawaiian's family lines, burning up in senseless fires, sometimes set in ignorance by their very descendants.

It is a symptom that, as a society, we have lost connection with our surroundings and the land on which we live.

In Nanakuli, so many fires have burned on the slopes of Pu'u Heleakala and the upper valley that most of the natives have long ago been destroyed, but a few patches remain — vital remnants of an ancient world that was known and loved by Hawaiians, providing resources such as medicines, dyes and tools.

Even the cultural elements of chant and dance are to be found in this dryland forest. Those of us who have hiked into Nanakuli Valley and seen the large na'u trees, the native gardenia, fear for their survival when we read about fires, because we are aware of their connection to the past.

The noted Hawaiian historian John Papa 'I'i, who grew up in the court of Kamehameha I, recorded the first line of a chant that was taught to him by the children of Nanakuli, a chant that mentions the na'u tree and the bright orange dye of the same name that was made from its seed pods and matches the rays of the setting sun:

Na'u, na'u, ke kukuna o ka la ...
Bright orange, bright orange, are the rays of the sun ...

The late Bruddah Iz, who made his home on the Leeward Coast, sang about what his ancestors would feel if they returned today:

"Could you imagine if they looked around and saw highways on their sacred ground?"

Certainly they would cry if they looked into Nanakuli and saw scorched earth where the groves of native wiliwili and lama grew, and the famous na'u of Nanakuli were no more.

The beautiful na'u were spared in the recent fire, but they might not be so fortunate next time. When we set fire to the land, we are destroying the foundation of our cultural heritage — of who we are. Instead, we should be replanting and re-establishing the connections between our communities and our ahupua'a. If every child on the Wai'anae coast truly appreciated what was burning in those fires, there might be far fewer of them.

Then there could be hope for the land and its people.