It was a warm summer day on July 7, 1898, when the United States Congress passed the Newlands Resolution, formally annexing the Hawaiian Islands. On the surface, it was a simple geopolitical move—one more strategic acquisition by a rising global power. But beneath that official signature and the strokes of ink lay the ashes of a once-sovereign kingdom, the broken legacy of a native monarchy, and a complex web of sugar interests, missionary ambition, racial prejudice, and strategic militarism. For Hawaiians, that date marks not celebration, but loss. It was the day their nation was claimed—not by war, not by democratic vote, but by a foreign legislature thousands of miles away, under the pressure of colonial ambition and with no say from the people whose land it was.
To understand what happened on July 7, 1898, one must first understand what Hawaii was before. Long before it became the 50th U.S. state or a tourist paradise, Hawaii was an independent and internationally recognized kingdom. It had treaties with major powers like Britain, France, and the United States. It had its own constitution, government, and proud monarchs. The Kingdom of Hawaii, unified in 1810 under King Kamehameha I, was a vibrant and unique civilization rooted in Polynesian traditions and enriched by global diplomacy. It was also a place increasingly influenced—and ultimately undermined—by outside economic and political forces.
Much of this influence came in the form of American missionaries who arrived in the 1820s, bringing Christianity, Western education, and capitalist enterprise. Over the decades, the children of these missionaries transformed into businessmen and plantation owners. By the mid-19th century, sugar had become Hawaii’s most lucrative export, and the wealth it generated gave rise to a powerful class of American-descended elites—sometimes called the “Big Five”—who dominated the islands’ economy. With this wealth came political leverage, often exerted at the expense of the native population and their rulers.
One of the critical turning points came in 1887, when King Kalākaua was coerced into signing what became known as the “Bayonet Constitution.” This constitution, forced upon him by an armed militia composed largely of white settlers, stripped the monarchy of much of its power and disenfranchised many native Hawaiians. It shifted control into the hands of wealthy, foreign-descended landowners. When King Kalākaua died in 1891, his sister Liliʻuokalani ascended the throne. A proud and educated monarch, Queen Liliʻuokalani sought to restore the power of the native Hawaiian monarchy and rewrite the constitution to favor her people again.
Her efforts, however, provoked fierce resistance from the foreign elite. In 1893, a group of American businessmen and sugar planters, with support from U.S. Minister John L. Stevens and a contingent of U.S. Marines from the USS Boston, staged a coup and overthrew the queen. They established a provisional government led by Sanford B. Dole, cousin of the Dole pineapple empire, and immediately sought annexation by the United States. Queen Liliʻuokalani, who believed in peaceful resistance and diplomacy, yielded under protest, stating, “I yield to the superior force of the United States of America… to avoid any collision of armed forces, and perhaps the loss of life.” She expected justice to follow.
At first, it seemed she might get it. President Grover Cleveland, who succeeded Benjamin Harrison, condemned the overthrow, calling it an act of injustice and urging the restoration of the monarchy. He even sent a special envoy, James Blount, to investigate. The resulting Blount Report confirmed that the coup had been carried out with improper support from the U.S. military and without the consent of the Hawaiian people. Cleveland tried to reinstate the queen, but Dole’s provisional government refused. As political tides shifted back home and American interest in expansion deepened, Cleveland’s efforts were ultimately abandoned.
Then came 1898—a year of wars, treaties, and territorial ambition. With the outbreak of the Spanish-American War, the United States suddenly found itself fighting on multiple fronts, including the Philippines. Hawaii’s location—smack in the middle of the Pacific—became militarily invaluable. It was the perfect coaling and supply station for U.S. naval operations. Strategic necessity trumped moral hesitation. President William McKinley, a pro-expansion Republican, took office in 1897 and revived the annexation effort. Though the treaty failed to pass the Senate by the required two-thirds majority, Congress pushed through the annexation via a simple joint resolution: the Newlands Resolution.
On July 7, 1898, President McKinley signed the resolution, and Hawaii was officially annexed as a U.S. territory. There was no vote by the Hawaiian people. No plebiscite. No popular mandate. Just a decision made by people in Washington, D.C., based on military strategy and economic benefit. The royal family was cast aside. Queen Liliʻuokalani would spend the rest of her life advocating for her people and recording her memoirs, but the kingdom was no more. In a deeply personal act of resistance, she composed “Aloha ʻOe,” a haunting farewell song that endures to this day as both a lullaby and a lament.
For native Hawaiians, annexation was not simply a change in government—it was an erasure of nationhood. Generations later, the trauma persists. The loss of land, language, and political agency was accelerated under American rule. The Hawaiian language was banned in schools, the land was divided and sold off, and the native population, once the overwhelming majority, dwindled due to disease, displacement, and assimilation. The cultural scars are deep and lasting.
Yet Hawaii’s story is not one of total defeat. Over the decades, the resilience of its people has preserved much of what was attempted to be taken away. In the 1970s, the Hawaiian Renaissance brought about a revival of native language, hula, voyaging traditions, and political consciousness. Today, debates around sovereignty and self-determination continue, driven by a younger generation that seeks to reclaim their identity and history. The memory of July 7, 1898, is not forgotten—it is observed each year by those who remember what was lost and what must still be reclaimed.
The annexation of Hawaii also tells a broader story about American imperialism at the turn of the century. The same year saw the acquisition of Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines following the Treaty of Paris. The U.S. had transitioned from a continental empire to an overseas one, and Hawaii was part of that transformation. Unlike the others, Hawaii would eventually become a state in 1959—but not before decades of territorial governance, racial tension, and second-class treatment for native inhabitants. Statehood brought benefits, but also new waves of migration, development, and military presence that continued to marginalize indigenous voices.
It’s important to remember that legal ownership does not equate to moral rightness. The annexation of Hawaii, while technically lawful by U.S. standards, lacked the legitimacy of consent from those it affected most. In 1993, a century after the overthrow, the U.S. Congress passed the “Apology Resolution,” formally acknowledging that the overthrow of the Kingdom of Hawaii had been illegal and that native Hawaiians had never relinquished their sovereignty. President Bill Clinton signed it into law. While it did not undo history, it at least admitted to it.
But apologies alone do not restore a kingdom, nor do they necessarily change the present. The economic, social, and spiritual impacts of annexation still ripple through Hawaiian life today. Issues like land rights, native education, and environmental degradation are all tied to the legacy of that fateful day in 1898. For some, July 7 is just another date in the American calendar. But for many Hawaiians, it’s a reminder of what was taken and what still must be fought for.
As tourists walk the beaches of Waikiki or sip cocktails on hotel balconies overlooking Diamond Head, they are often unaware that the land beneath their feet was once the seat of a proud and sovereign kingdom. The palace still stands—ʻIolani Palace, the only royal palace on American soil—but it is more museum than home. Its halls echo with silence and remembrance, not royal proclamations. But the spirit of Hawaii endures—in its chants, in its hula, in the mana of its people.
So as the sun sets over the Pacific each July 7, it’s not just a horizon that glows red and orange—it’s a memory. A torch passed from one generation to the next. A story that refuses to be forgotten. Because the annexation of Hawaii is more than a historical footnote. It is a lesson. About power. About identity. And about the price of empire.