Hula is a hallowed – and healing – tradition for dancers from Fremont

As the women built a thrumming rhythm from their drums and began to chant while others danced, the Hula Halau ‘O Nalua and ‘Ote’a ‘Api School of Polynesian Dance seemed to teleport from the interior of an industrial park in Fremont to a Hawaiian island.

It was a Wednesday evening, and a class of about 25 students had gathered in this halau, or hula school, to practice their dances.

At the front of the room, some students played ipu heke, or double-gourd drums, and performed oli, an ancient Hawaiian chant. Facing them, a collective of women of diverse ages danced in rows, each gliding gracefully through their routines in seamless synchronicity, moving as one. Their hands and hips swayed like ocean waves, graceful, aligned and precise.

They performed their moves in rows, cycling from back to front, where the school’s instructor, Katrina deJesus, observed and gave instruction. At the back, a mural of a volcano looming across the horizon helped make the space feel even more Hawaiian – as did the collections of bright regalia, some with hibiscus prints, and dancing gear lining the walls.

DeJesus is the daughter of the halau’s founder, Ruth Nalua Manaois, known as Auntie Nalua, and the halau is a family enterprise – deJesus’ son Noah also teaches drumming at the halau. Nearly 50 years ago, Manaois began offering instruction in both traditional Hawaiian hula and Tahitian dances.

They practice two types of hula – Kahiko, or ancient hula, features chanting and traditional instruments like the ipu heke, while hula ‘Auana, or modern hula, features more Western-influenced instruments like the guitar, ukulele or bass. In addition, the school teaches Ote’a, a Tahitian dance style characterized by faster rhythms and hip movements, in which dancers wear grass skirts.

The school recently returned from a tour in China and regularly travels to perform and compete in Tahiti. Many of the participants started practicing hula as a way to connect with their heritage – but they went on to find community, a form of artistic expression and much more.

On the younger side are dancers like Malie Sood, 19, who says she started dancing about six years ago because she’s Hawaiian and wanted to learn about her culture. The dance tells a story, she says, tying practitioners to their ancestors and “back to where we came from.”

The group is flexible enough to provide not only competition opportunities around the world but also a dose of aloha spirit amid life’s stressors for longtime practitioners, some of whom are also parents to a next generation of hula dancers.

Lynn Velles is one of a number of Fremont dancers who have danced with the halau for most of her life. She started dancing at age 8, inspired by her older sister joining the halau. Today, she’s 56 and a teacher there. She and her sister continue to dance together, and she also brings her twin daughters to the halau. Dance practice is her safe haven, a way to escape the stressors of everyday life, she says.

“It’s my time to be with my hula sisters, let everything go and get away from the daily grind,” she says. “It’s very healing.”

Another longtime halau member is Marinell Lum, who grew up in Oahu before moving to Fremont. She’s been a hula practitioner almost her whole life, leaving the Fremont halau as a young adult to attend college before coming back to learn a dance for her wedding. Now, she’s a parent whose daughter dances with the halau, too. While she’s raising her daughter away from Hawaii’s “aloha” atmosphere of warmth, culture and community –  having access to this community helps to bridge that gap, she explains.

Additionally, the practice itself is a mindful one that blends words and movement to connect to nature, she explains. “You connect the environment to yourself,” she says.

There’s also a sense of stability that comes from participating in this dance community for a long time – the halau is set to turn 50 in 2026. Leilani Graves, who’s Hawaiian and has been dancing since she was 4 years old, says, “They have watched me grow up. I don’t know where my life would be without this halau.”

People’s participation ebbs and flows based on their availability at a given phase of life, but “the halau will always be here,” she says.

Put simply, the halau is a source of friendship, too: Many of the dancers stay in close contact via group chat, and a few of them had made plans to go see the new “Wicked: For Good” movie together that night.

Whenever she’s faced some of the hardest moments of her life, she says, “I go to hula, and I feel better.”