I learned about the new Netflix documentary Shark Whisperer when my social media blew up with notifications. People tagged me in posts accusing me of being anti-shark and anti-environment. I was confused until I saw the film.
I was portrayed as the bad guy.
I was Chair of Hawaii’s House Committee on Ocean, Marine Resources and Hawaiian Affairs, the committee featured in the documentary for holding hearings on shark protection legislation. The film leaves out that I was one of the earliest and strongest supporters of banning shark fishing. I called for a hearing when others were hesitant. I moved the bill to a vote despite resistance from House leadership. I worked hard to get the support needed to pass it.
But in the documentary, Native Hawaiians like me—lawmakers, kūpuna (elders), and local researchers—are reduced to obstacles. We are either superficially included or demonized, while a single outsider (social media activist Ocean Ramsey) is presented as the story’s hero. This is more than a misrepresentation. It points to a larger problem in how mainstream documentaries frame their stories: who is the subject, and who is the object? Whose knowledge is valued, and whose is ignored.
I grew up freediving off Maui, spearfishing for fish and heʻe (octopus), and regularly encountering manō (sharks). These were not just thrilling stunts; they were sacred experiences. In our tradition, the shark is not something to be made into a human or used for profit. It is our aumākua, a family guardian. We don’t chase them, name them, or treat them as pets. We show respect. We let the manō approach us.
Later, as a young lawmaker representing my community, I saw how depleted our waters had become. Fish populations were decreasing, coral was dying, and ocean commercialization was pushing native species to the brink. I didn’t advocate for shark protection because it was easy; it wasn’t. Many commercial fishermen opposed it. Colleagues warned me against it. But I proceeded because the ocean raised me. I owed it that much.
Shark Whisperer claims to celebrate marine life, but it often confuses reverence with control. It turns wild, sacred beings into characters in a human-centered narrative, mistaking closeness for connection. But in our culture, true respect often means maintaining a sacred distance. Not everything powerful needs to be controlled. Every creature has its own essence and role in the ecosystem, whether or not it mirrors us. To honor them is to release the need to dominate or display, and simply allow them to be.
That’s what makes the film’s focus on Ramsey so concerning. Not only does it elevate her as the sole protector of Hawaii’s sharks, but it also blurs the line between advocacy and exploitation. In a recent Instagram post, Ramsey mentioned the honor of receiving ʻuhi, a sacred tattoo ceremony traditionally reserved for Native Hawaiians. She called it a “symbol of her kuleana and heritage,” claiming a cultural connection that she doesn’t have.
Furthermore, her academic background is unclear. Her origins are often vague. What is clear is that she lacks the trust of the local community. Many advocates believe her involvement actually slowed the passage of the shark protection law. Her presence cast doubt on the broader coalition’s credibility. And some supporters were hesitant to participate, worried their advocacy would be associated with what many saw as her disrespect towards Native Hawaiians and local fishers.
And now, with a bigger platform, her example may be copied. And if others imitate her methods, our voices, rooted in generations of lived experience and cultural knowledge, may be drowned out.
The truth is, Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) ocean protectors have been doing this work for generations. They’ve done it with fewer followers, without sponsorships or stunts, and without turning our aumākua into content or cash. Our true Kahu Manō (shark whisperers) may never get a documentary deal or millions of views, but they possess the knowledge that sustains life in our waters and our communities. They are who we turn to. They are who we trust.
Netflix had the chance to highlight their voices. Instead, it followed a familiar pattern.
In The White Helmets, Western filmmakers created a humanitarian story in Syria that largely ignored local organizing and failed to contextualize the complex geopolitical forces at play. In The Rescue, Thai cave divers were highlighted over the Indigenous local volunteers who led much of the initial effort. And in The Ivory Game, African anti-poaching leaders were overshadowed by European conservationists with camera crews and sponsorships. These films may have had good intentions, but they reflect a pattern: the white outsider as savior, the local or Indigenous people as backdrop or obstacle.
This kind of framing doesn’t just distort the truth; it disempowers communities. It reinforces a system in which those closest to the problem are furthest from the platform, and those furthest from the culture are given the microphone.
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
Good allyship starts with humility. It means showing up in solidarity, not for recognition. It means knowing when to speak, and when to step back and amplify those with lived experience and ancestral ties—especially when the work involves sacred beings, sacred practices, and sacred places.
We’re not asking to be centered in every story. We’re asking not to be erased from our own.
We are not the villain. And neither is the manō.
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