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The New Life TIM WARREN E Three months in Hawaii under war restrictions and emergency conditions have brought to island residents a mode of living unlike anything ever before experienced in Hawaii. That’s natural, of course. Never before has Hawaii known a similar or paralleling situation. But, as has often been said, the miracle of it all is the willingness with which the residents have adapted life to these conditions. Our commanding general has said that discipline in Hawaii is better than what he observed in London. What are the changes? We’ll note a few. And we’ll start with the lei custom. Long, long ago public announcement of arrival and departure of steamers was prohibited. When war came, the army and navy took over these arrivals and departures completely—and the former colorful , aloha-singing, lei-bedecked crowds vanished. There are no more public demonstrations at steamer arrivals and departures. So the leiselling custom went into eclipse, and when it went into eclipse at the harbor, it began to fade elsewhere in the city. The lei-sellers are now employed in making camouflage for various defense outposts here and there on the island. Life, you see, has changed materially not only for the vendors of flower wreaths, but also for the public so closely associated with the custom. The ghosts of yesterday are seen no more in Iolani Palace. Life there is real, tensely real. In the halls where King Kalakaua and his queen and his chiefs, legislators, ministers, attendants, and servants once laughed, sang, and danced, we find today the uniforms of the United States Army and Navy, defense workers, defense bureau executives, an intricate telephone system, the military governor—and the hundreds who come and go. It is a different life in the Palace. Sober faces, serious faces, determined faces are the rule.They have supplanted the 49 First published March 1942. gay and smiling and holidayish faces of yesteryear. Out in the grounds are the air raid shelters—shelters that wind and zigzag beneath banyans, monkeypod, and other noted trees.At the entrance gates are sentries, guards . . . young fellows with orders; and at night, barbed wire entanglements aid the sentries. Downtown are the thousands who stroll along with a small duncolored bag dangling from their shoulders. It is a gas mask. There is a bit of grimness in the presence of this protector of life. The young chap who fitted a gas mask to my face and gave me instructions in how to use it ended his lesson by saying: “By having gas masks for everybody, the Japanese will be discouraged against using gas in Hawaii.” Perhaps, young man; but it is for a greater reason that we carry them with us. It is to protect life against the possible savagery of a savage enemy. There is no guarantee whatever that the Japanese would spare us; none whatever. So it is a master stroke in defense to be prepared for them, no matter what weapons they may use in an attack. They’ll bomb us, if they can—and hence the bomb shelters. They’ll machine-gun us, too, if opportunity presents; and hence the protection being provided against this form of ruthlessness. So, to successfully meet all possibilities, another phase of life in Hawaii has been altered. Blackout rules have aided materially in creating a different routine for all of us. We now go to the movies in daylight hours. . . . Public dances are held between the rising and the setting of the sun—any others, as was demonstrated at Punahou some weeks ago, will bring the police down upon patrons who have no passes for after-curfew prowling, strolling, or driving. More of us now remain at home during the evenings. Families are getting better acquainted with various members. The old-time luaus in the open or beneath thatched sheds, at schools, or at any big gathering are no more. . . . The highways are not clogged with pleasureseeking motorists. Strict gasoline rationing has halted the forays into the country and to the remote beaches on Saturdays and Sundays. . . . The holiday gatherings of months and years ago have, along with their gasoline supply, faded to a shadow. Your motorist, who once sped over the boulevards on his way to his office or store or shop, now sits in the bus or holds on to the straps, swaying to the rhythm of the rolling vehicle. We go shopping about as usual, except the stores close somewhat...

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