Credits to my graduating friend, Retno Ningrum
Caption: In Hawai‘i, ‘wai’ means water, and ‘waiwai’ means wealth. If health is wealth, then the Kinihapai stream in ʻIao Valley is a living embodiment of both. Public health isn’t just about hospitals and clinics—it flows through the landscapes that sustain us, the traditions that connect us, and the shared spaces where communities gather. At the stream, we watched as people embraced the water’s vitality—teenagers soaring into the pools via a rope swing, an uncle silently reshaping the riverbed by moving huge rocks with practiced hands, and reminders posted for visitors to mālama ʻāina (care for the land) and be mindful of their ʻōpala (waste). Each interaction speaks to the deep ties between environmental stewardship, cultural practice, and community well-being. Water is life, just as public health is life’s quiet guardian.
Caption: Birdwatching is fairly new to me – a hobby I picked up during the pandemic years. Since then, it has been vital for my mental well-being. In a world where attention feels like a scarce resource, each birding exploration helps me reclaim and strengthen my capacity for focused, mindful engagement—an essential foundation for mental and emotional health. As I observe endemic birds like the ʻiʻiwi and common ʻamakihi feeding on the māmane, I’m reminded of the delicate balance of ecosystems and food webs. Similarly, public health sustains not only individuals but entire communities, environments, and shared futures. Just as nature’s interconnections shape the health of species, public health’s invisible networks support our collective well-being. Years on, I have kept up the practice of birding—and regained greater personal capacity for attentiveness. This act of mindful observation mirrors the heart of public health: observing, understanding, and caring for those connections that sustain life.
Caption: These celebrity otters represent a rare case of returned migration as we cleaned Singapore's network of waterways up, which encouraged the otters' population (re-)establishment and eventual flourishing that is shared by few other native species in Singapore. The otters were now hunting in dammed rivers and making holts in concretized waterways, urban planter boxes, peripheral spaces such as storm drains... It's really testament to their remarkable ability to adapt and exploit the 'suboptimal'/ human-made water bodies in Singapore. To me (and many others), our otters represent a difficult and critical bridge between urban development and biodiversity conservation. But this bridge is at best a tenuous one. With otters nearing carrying capacity (almost 200 in the city!) and rising rates of human-wildlife conflicts, education and awareness to manage 𝒐𝒖𝒓 reactions to their wildness is more critical than ever.