Indigenous Perspectives on Sacred Natural Sites: Culture, Governance and Conservation 1351234900, 9781351234900

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Contributor biographies
1. Introduction: Indigenous voices and Indigenous sacred sites, promoting diverse perspectives in a global discourse
Placing Indigenous voices in the discourse on Indigenous sacred sites
The relevance of Indigenous voices in understanding Indigenous sacredsites
Potential areas of insight
The outline of chapters
References
Part I: Identity and embodying the sacred
2. Giving voice to the sacred black female body in takayna country
Introduction: black female body and sacredness in takayna country
Background: black female body and wilderness
Methodology: black female body and giving voice through kinship
Results: takayna country; more than a disembodied “she”
Discussion
Acknowledgements
References
3. Defending the sacred through plant knowledge
The ghosts of natural history art
Folklore as a framework for cultural prophecy in reconnecting with the natural world and insight into traditional ecological knowledge
Folklore and cultural prophecy in reconnecting with the natural world
Folklore and traditional ecological knowledge
The shift
References
4. Imagine Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe
In the time of old
Kanaloa as a training center for way finding
In the ocean of Kanaloa
History
Revitalization of a sacred island
Haʻina Ia Mai—tell the story
Notes
References
Part II: Resistance, advocacy and perseverance
5. Kondhs’ resistance movement to save sacred Niyamgiri, Odisha
Niyamgiri hills and the Kondhs in Odisha
Odisha and the Adivasis: a case study
Theoretical underpinning and methodology
Niyamgiri: the sacred abode of the Kondhs
Vedanta and bauxite mining in Niyamgiri
The conflict between the state and Dongria Kondh society
Kondhs affected by mining site
Resistance movement among the Kondhs
Bauxite mining and its impact on place and people
Present challenges to Niyamgiri as the sacred abode of Kondhs
Notes
References
6. Human rights law and the protection of sacred sites and territories: A case study of the Bethany Griqua community in South Africa
Introduction
Sacred sites of indigenous peoples under international human rights law
South African law and the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites
Griqua community and sacred sites
Dispossession of water groves of the Griqua in the light of human rights law
Conclusion and recommendations
Notes
References
Legal instruments
Case law
7. Taos Pueblo Blue Lake: A legacy of cultural perseverance
Foreign relations
United States legislation and American Indian Nations
The fight for Blue Lake
The Encebado fire of 2003
Definition of Indian Lands
Epilogue
References
Part III: The sacred in intangible heritage and education
8. The crocodiles of Fesawa: Sacred sites and rituals in a changing context in Southern East Timor
Introduction
Background: description and symbolic representation of Fesawa sacred place
Governance: the logic of management and site supervision
Analysis of threats to the site and problems with its management
Conclusion
Notes
References
9. Maghee: A case study of indigenous Tharu cultural heritage for democratic practice and STEM education
Introduction
Sociocultural nature of engagement
Marginalization of indigenous cultural heritage and knowledge in STEM education
Positionality of the authors
Case study approach
Methods of data collection and analysis
Maghee: a democratic practice fit for agentic STEM education
Maghee: environmental heritage, sites, and STEM education
Key implications
Notes
References
Part IV: Recognition and preservation of the sacred in place
10. Wirikuta: Sacred Heart of Mexico: Pueblo Wixárika (Huichol)
Methods
What is Wirikuta?
Who are the Wixáritari (custodians)?
Why is Wirikuta important?
Meaning for the custodians
How is Wirikuta organized and governed?
What is the problem in Wirikuta?
Challenges and prospects
References
11. Hongan di Pa’ge: The sacredness and realism of terraced landscape in Ifugao culture, Philippines
Introduction
Ifugao rice production
Continuity and change: maintenance of identity
Acknowledgement
References
12. Perpetuation is the key to preservation: Encouraging local development and valuing indigenous culture as the sole bastion against Bagan’s museification
Introduction: Bagan indigeneity and sacrality
The applicability of indigeneity to Bagan
Landscape analysis: a millennium continuity between earth and sky maintained by Bagan’s heirs
Bagan, a sacred site under threat from tourism development
Bagan as the legacy of generations over millennia
The dispossessed heirs and a site under threat
Conclusion: perpetuation is the key to preservation
References
13. Protecting our sacred water: Cenote conservation in the Maya area of Yucatan, Mexico
Introduction
Knowledge leads to action
Bridging knowledge for cenote conservation in Yucatan
Exploring the sacred cenotes of Yucatan: bringing indigenous knowledge back into the hands of my community
Guardians of the cenotes
Co-production of knowledge as a way to preserve cenotes
Conclusion and calls for the future
Notes
References
Part V: Conclusions
14. Indigenous perspectives in a global discourse on the conservation of sacred heritage
Introduction
Creating common ground, a personal note
Expanding the theoretical discourse
Creating common ground to bring change to conservation policy and practice
“Identity”, “knowledge” and “norms” across common themes and principles
Identity and embodying the sacred
Resistance, advocacy and perseverance
The sacred in intangible heritage and education
Recognition and conservation of the sacred in place
Lessons learned
References
Index

Citation preview

INDIGENOUS PERSPECTIVES ON SACRED NATURAL SITES

Much previous literature on sacred natural sites has been written from a non-indigenous perspective. In contrast, this book facilitates a greater self-expression of indigenous perspectives regarding treatment of the sacred and its protection and governance in the face of threats from various forms of natural resource exploitation and development. It provides indigenous custodians the opportunity to explain how they view and treat the sacred through a written account that is available to a global audience. It thus illuminates similarities and differences of both definitions, interpretations and governance approaches regarding sacred natural phenomena and their conservation. The volume presents an international range of case studies, from the recent controversy of pipeline construction at Standing Rock, a sacred site for the Sioux people spanning North and South Dakota, to others located in Australia, Canada, East Timor, Hawaii, India, Mexico, Myanmar, Nigeria and the Philippines. Each chapter includes an analytical introduction and conclusion written by the editors to identify common themes, unique insights and key messages. The book is therefore a valuable teaching resource for students of indigenous studies, anthropology, religion, heritage, human rights and law, nature conservation and environmental protection. It will also be of great interest to professionals and NGOs concerned with nature and heritage conservation. Jonathan Liljeblad is Senior Lecturer, Law School, Swinburne University, Australia, and a Steering Committee Member of the IUCN Specialist Group on Cultural and Spiritual Values of Protected Areas. He received his PhD and JD from the University of Southern California. Born under the name Nanda Zaw Win, he is a member of the Pa’oh people of Shan State, Myanmar. Bas Verschuuren is Associate Researcher at the Sociology of Development and Change group at Wageningen University, the Netherlands, Co-Chair of the IUCN Specialist Group on Cultural and Spiritual Values of Protected Areas, and Programme Coordinator for the Sacred Natural Sites Initiative.

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INDIGENOUS PERSPECTIVES ON SACRED NATURAL SITES Culture, Governance and Conservation

Edited by Jonathan Liljeblad and Bas Verschuuren

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Jonathan Liljeblad and Bas Verschuuren; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Jonathan Liljeblad and Bas Verschuuren to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Liljeblad, Jonathan, editor. | Verschuuren, Bas, editor. Title: Indigenous perspectives on sacred natural sites : culture, governance and conservation / edited by Jonathan Liljeblad and Bas Verschuuren. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018038176 (print) | LCCN 2018049497 (ebook) | ISBN 9781351234900 (eBook) | ISBN 9780815377009 (hbk) | ISBN 9780815377023 (pbk) | ISBN 9781351234900 (ebk) Subjects: LCSH: Indigenous peoples–Religion. | Indigenous peoples–Ecology. | Sacred space–Conservation and restoration. | Protected areas–Management. | Nature–Religious aspects. | Nature conservation. Classification: LCC BL380 (ebook) | LCC BL380 .I558 2019 (print) | DDC 203/.5–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018038176 ISBN: 978-0-8153-7700-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-8153-7702-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-351-23490-0 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Swales & Willis Ltd

CONTENTS

Contributor biographies 1 Introduction: Indigenous voices and Indigenous sacred sites, promoting diverse perspectives in a global discourse Jonathan Liljeblad

viii

1

PART I

Identity and embodying the sacred

13

2 Giving voice to the sacred black female body in takayna country Jennifer Evans

15

3 Defending the sacred through plant knowledge Susan Leopold

32

4 Imagine Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor

44

PART II

Resistance, advocacy and perseverance 5 Kondhs’ resistance movement to save sacred Niyamgiri, Odisha Annapurna Devi Pandey

59 61

vi

Contents

6 Human rights law and the protection of sacred sites and territories: a case study of the Bethany Griqua community in South Africa Lesle Jansen and Ademola Oluborode Jegede 7 Taos Pueblo Blue Lake: a legacy of cultural perseverance Vernon G. Lujan

90 106

PART III

The sacred in intangible heritage and education 8 The crocodiles of Fesawa: sacred sites and rituals in a changing context in Southern East Timor Brunna Crespi, Anacleto Amaral and Clementino Amaral 9 Maghee: a case study of indigenous Tharu cultural heritage for democratic practice and STEM education Bhaskar Upadhyay, Mahesh (Tharu) Chaudhary, Dinesh Gautam and Baliram Tharu

119 121

136

PART IV

Recognition and preservation of the sacred in place 10 Wirikuta: Sacred Heart of Mexico – Pueblo Wixárika (Huichol ) Anaid Paola Velasco Ramírez, Úrsula Garzón Aragón, Andrea Ulisse Davide Cerami and Santos de la Cruz Carillo 11 Hongan di Pa’ge: the sacredness and realism of terraced landscape in Ifugao culture, Philippines Marlon Martin, Stephen Acabado and Raymond Aquino Macapagal 12 Perpetuation is the key to preservation: encouraging local development and valuing indigenous culture as the sole bastion against Bagan’s museification Bérengère Boüan and Kathy Khine 13 Protecting our sacred water: cenote conservation in the Maya area of Yucatan, Mexico Yolanda Lopez-Maldonado

153 155

167

180

193

Contents

vii

PART V

Conclusions

207

14 Indigenous perspectives in a global discourse on the conservation of sacred heritage Bas Verschuuren

209

Index

223

CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES

Stephen Acabado received his PhD and MA in Anthropology from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, and his BA in Anthropology from the University of the Philippines, Diliman. His archaeological investigations in Ifugao, northern Philippines, have established the recent origins of the Cordillera Rice Terraces, which were once thought to be at least 2,000 years old. His work revolves around agricultural systems, indigenous responses to colonialism, subsistence shifts, landscape archaeology, and heritage conservation. He is a strong advocate of an engaged archaeology where descendant communities are involved in the research process. Anacleto Amaral is one of the three most important “Masters of the speech” of the Fatisin hamlet. He is also the “Master of the speech” of the noble house Uma Ai Lasa’in and a teacher. Clementino Amaral is one of the three large “Masters of the speech” of the Fatisin hamlet, but that of the higher statute, most important of them. He is also “Master of the speech” of the noble house Uma Hae Molin and the guardian of the great house Uma Romalae. Raymond Aquino Macapagal is Assistant Professor at the Center for International Studies

at the University of the Philippines, Diliman, where he teaches undergraduate courses on gastronomy and cultural heritage. He received his first Master’s in Food Culture and Communication at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Bra, Italy, and did a second Master’s in World Heritage and Cultural Projects for Development under a program jointly offered by the Politecnico di Torino, Italy, and the University of Turin, Italy. For the past decade or so, he has been working to help restore Ifugao granary-houses, and to develop community-based tourism in the UNESCO World Heritage Batad Rice Terrace Cluster in the municipality of Banaue, Ifugao province. Bérengère Boüan is a French landscape architect passionate about living heritage sites, and

has developed a social project approach over time. Her thesis at the Versailles National

Contributor biographies

ix

School of Landscape Architecture, France, was about the preservation of the Bagan site and laid the foundation for a development plan to maintain the site’s landscape consistency and avoid museumification. Bérengère represents ICOMOS France as a Young professional. Santos de la Cruz Carillo is a member of the Wixárika people, Indigenous leader and an environment advocate. In recent years he has been a key player in the process of struggle that his people maintain to defend their sacred territory, called Wirikuta. Santos de la Cruz has organized and promoted within the Wixárika communities actions of peaceful resistance to demand the cancellation of mining concessions. Andrea Ulisse Davide Cerami is a Human Rights lawyer specializing in International Law from the University of Milan, Italy. Since 2009, he has lived in Mexico, working in Human Rights NGOs and from 2010 he has worked at Mexican Center for Environmental Law (CEMDA) on environmental rights of Indigenous and farmer people affected by development projects. Since 2014, he has coordinated the Human Rights Area in CEMDA. In 2012, the National Human Rights Commission of México published his article “Right to participate directly in decision making process on public items as a mechanism to environment protection.” In 2014, Yale University published his article “Indigenous people’s human rights and Mexican environmental impact assessment: The case of the Yaqui River.” Mahesh (Tharu) Chaudhary is an indigenous Tharu who is a Basic School (Primary

School) teacher at the Shree Jagadamba Higher Secondary School, Bardiya, Nepal. He has a high school degree and teaches mathematics and Nepali language at the primary grade level. He has been a primary school teacher for last 27 years at the same school where he received his high school diploma. He grew up in the nearby village where his current school is located. He is an active member of the Tharu community in preserving and sustaining the Tharu culture, language and knowledge. Brunna Crespi is a PhD candidate in Ethnogeography at the National Museum of Natural History, France. She has worked with Amazon rainforest local communities and her current research focuses in Southeast Asia and Pacific communities. She is interested in sacred landscapes, cultural identity in pluricultural areas and territorial representations. Jennifer Evans is a social and cultural geographer whose research is focussed on the valuing of natural environments, land use conflict, participatory GIS mapping and Indigenous methodologies. She is a Research Fellow with the Rural Clinical School at the University of Tasmania. Dr Evans is passionate about community participation and empowerment in decision-making processes for natural environments and understanding people’s attachment to place. Dr Evans is published in the fields of social change and the natural environment, visitor interpretation and public infrastructure design. She has authored several publications regarding the valuing of takayna country (the Tarkine). Dinesh Gautam is the principal and science teacher of Shree Jagadamba Higher Secondary School, Bardiya, Nepal. His ancestor migrated to this region three generations ago from the western hill regions of Nepal. He has been working at the school for the last 46 years and as the principal for almost 30 years. He has an undergraduate degree (B.Sc.) in biology and

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Contributor biographies

teaches science. He is the founder member of the Conservation Education group and works with students to link the Tharu community heritage on conservation to science teaching and learning. As a principal his passion is promoting sociopolitical awareness in the Tharu communities by linking cultural heritage, health, food justice and education. Úrsula Garzón Aragón specialist in environmental law and natural resources and attorney at

law at the Instituto Tecnológico Autónomo de México (ITAM). Prior to joining CEMDA, she had experience in litigation and injunction in criminal law and she worked at the Poder Judicial de la Federación (Mexican Court). As Defense Coordinator she coordinates the strategies for cases to defend the environment, natural resources and human rights such as information, participation, environment and health in national and international courts, and has participated in courses, seminars and publications. Lesle Jansen is a Khoisan African indigenous South African attorney. Before joining Natural Justice Lesle worked as a legal consultant with the Legal Assistance Centre in Namibia as part of their Lands, Environment & Development Project. She holds a Master’s degree in Indigenous Peoples in International Law from the University of Arizona, USA. She completed a second Master’s degree in the Rule of Law for Development from Loyola University (Chicago) in Rome, Italy, where she now serves as an external supervisor. She was appointed as an indigenous expert member to the African Commission’s special mechanism, the Working Group on Indigenous Populations/Communities in Africa. She is also a consultant to the law firm Chennels Albertyn Inc. Kathy Khine is a Myanmar Spatial Designer passionate about discovering different social and cultural identities in relationship to their respective neighborhoods. She mainly works with public spaces and socio-cultural spaces (where people can learn, express, share and exchange) to help in raising awareness of intercultural understanding among multicultural communities in Myanmar. She is currently working as a community researcher on the same theme. Her graduate study is French Language and she studied Spatial Design from 2014– 2015 in Boulle College of Fine Arts & Crafts and Applied Arts in Paris, France. Kathy Khine represents ICOMOS Myanmar as a Young Professional. Susan Leopold is an ethnobotanist and passionate defender of biodiversity. She is the

Executive Director of United Plant Savers, www.unitedplantsavers.org, and Director of the Sacred Seeds Project. She currently serves on the Board of Directors for Botanical Dimensions and the Center for Sustainable Economy, and is an advisory board member of the American Botanical Council. She is a proud member of the Patawomeck Indian Tribe of Virginia and the author of the children’s book Isabella’s Peppermint Flowers, teaching about Virginia’s botanical history. Yolanda Lopez-Maldonado holds a PhD from Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität in

München, Germany, with advanced degrees in Human Ecology and Geography. She has been a Young Research Scholar at The International Institute for Applied Systems Analysis and The Beijer Institute of Ecological Economics in Austria as well as at The Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. As an indigenous environmental defender and a systems thinker in integrative science for sustainability, she has worked for international academic and

Contributor biographies

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non-academic institutions at different levels combining natural and social sciences with traditional ecological knowledge and community conservation. Yolanda is a member of the IUCN WCPA Specialist Group on Cultural and Spiritual Values of Protected Areas, the Ramsar Culture Network, and the Global Diversity Foundation US Board. She has been a Delegate at the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. Vernon G. Lujan of Taos Pueblo speaks Tiwa fluently and has over 20 years of executive level experience working with tribal, local, federal and state government agencies in New Mexico and the United States. He earned a Master’s of Public Administration degree from the University of New Mexico, USA, and has managed diverse teams of professionals in developing cultural and educational programming for Pueblo governments. He serves on various not- and for-profit boards in strategic planning and economic development. He is happily married to Carmen Reyna Lujan, is a proud father of Audrey and Julian and grandfather of Jacob Jeremy Flores. Davianna Pō maikaʻi McGregor is a Professor and founding member of the Department of Ethnic Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, and the Direct of the department’s Center for Oral History. Her ongoing research endeavors focus on the persistence of traditional Hawaiian cultural customs, beliefs and practices in rural Hawaiian communities on the main Hawaiian islands. This work is featured in her 2007 UH Press book, Kuaʻaina: Living Hawaiian Culture which won the Kenneth W. Balridge Prize for best book in any field of history written by a resident of Hawaiʻi from 2005–2007. She lives in Kaiwiʻula on the island of Oʻahu and Hoʻolehua on the island of Molokaʻi. As a member of the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana she helps provide stewardship of the island of Kanaloa Kaho‘olawe. Marlon Martin works as a community development worker with the Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement (SITMo), a non-stock, non-profit NGO focusing its advocacies on community-led heritage management including indigenous peoples’ rights and culture-based sustainable livelihood. He co-directs the Ifugao Archaeological Project as the community counterpart of Dr. Acabado of UCLA. SITMo’s collaboration with the archaeological project gave rise to the establishment of the first community-led Indigenous Peoples Education (IPED) Center in Ifugao Province, a venue for indigenous education, local history and heritage management. Ademola Oluborode Jegede is a senior lecturer in law at the University of Venda,

Thohoyandou, South Africa. He obtained his LLM and LLD from the Centre for Human Rights, University of Pretoria, South Africa. He has been a research visitor at the Center for International Environmental Law, Washington DC and the Human Rights Institute at Abo Akademi, Finland. His research focuses on the interface of climate change with human rights of vulnerable groups and general international human rights law. Ademola is author of The Climate Change Regulatory Framework and Indigenous Peoples’ Lands in Africa: Human Rights Implications, Pretoria University Law Press, 2016. Annapurna Devi Pandey teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University of California, Santa Cruz, USA. Dr. Pandey holds a Ph.D. in Sociology from Jawaharlal Nehru University, India, and was a Post-Doctoral fellow in Social Anthropology at Cambridge. Her research interests are

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Contributor biographies

women’s activism and leadership in the context of State and Multi-National Corporations, their economic and political empowerment in rural and tribal India; and women’s identity-making in the Odia Diaspora in California. She is the author of numerous essays on Indian Women’s activism, agency, entrepreneurship and empowerment in India and Indian diaspora. Dr. Pandey just completed a senior Fulbright U.S. Scholarship (2017–2018) working in Odisha, India. Her research project focused on the impact of skill training on everyday life of rural and tribal women in Odisha. She is an accomplished filmmaker (Homeland in the Heart; The Myth of Buddha’s Birthplace (with Prof. James Freeman) and Road to Zuni). She was President of the Orissa Society of the Americas (2011– 2013), the oldest socio-cultural organization of diasporic Odias in North America. Baliram Tharu is an indigenous Tharu. For the last ten years he has been the sports teacher at the Shree Jagadamba Higher Secondary School, Bardiya, Nepal. He has an undergraduate degree in education (B.Ed.). He recognizes that the Tharu culture and the struggles for Tharu success are important aspects of his teaching. He is passionate about Tharu culture, knowledge, and heritage and wants to see them valued and represented in the sports and other areas such as the sciences, history, and culture. He has represented the Bardiya District in the javelin in the National Games and won medals. He is an official javelin coach for the district who is committed to increasing Tharu participation in sports, academics and nature conservation. Bhaskar Upadhyay is an Associate Professor of science education at the University of Minnesota, USA. His research and teaching focuses on the issues of social justice, equity, race and democracy in science education. He specifically explores questions surrounding agency, sociopolitical consciousness, sociocultural connections and participation of individuals from underrepresented and indigenous groups in science and STEM in general. His research has mostly focused on how students, parents and teachers from underrepresented groups make sense of teaching and learning of science drawing from their heritage, lived experiences and cultures. Currently he is exploring the connections between indigenous heritage and science education in Nepal. Anaid Paola Velasco Ramírez is an environmental lawyer and member of the Commission

on Environmental Law of IUCN. Since 2005 she has worked in environmental law, right of access to information, right to participation, right of access to justice and the human right to environment and water in the Mexican Center for Environmental Law (CEMDA). Author of publications in Mexico for the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights: Indicators on the right to a healthy environment in Mexico and Indicators on the human right to water in Mexico. Since 2012 she has been the Manager of the Research Area in CEMDA where she works on projects related to the implementation of environmental human rights.

1 INTRODUCTION Indigenous voices and Indigenous sacred sites, promoting diverse perspectives in a global discourse Jonathan Liljeblad

The assembled contributions in the present volume present various perspectives by Indigenous voices regarding sacred sites. The collective motivation involves a convergence of two elements: 1) to address the historical and present marginalization of Indigenous cultures by offering a space in book form that supports the expression of Indigenous perspectives, and 2) to direct attention to Indigenous sacred sites, which hold a particular significance to Indigenous identities and play a critical role in protecting Indigenous cultures from marginalization. This volume looks to the notion of a sacred site as something defined by its Indigenous custodians. As such, sacred sites can be natural or human-made, can be situated in any geographic location, can be closed or open to non-Indigenous visitors and can exist inside or outside of international or national designations such as protected areas or conservation zones. The primary interest of the volume is to provide a platform for Indigenous custodians to explain how they view and treat the sacred through a written account that is available to a global audience. Indigenous views about the sacred may differ from those held at the international level. At the international level, sacred sites are defined in different ways. For example, the ICOMOS Quebec Declaration of 2008 uses the term “spirit of place . . . made up of tangible (sites, buildings, landscapes, routes, objects) as well as intangible elements (memories, narratives, written documents, festivals, commemorations, rituals, traditional knowledge, values, textures, colors, odors, etc.)” (Quebec City Declaration, 2008). In contrast, the IUCN Guidelines for Protected Area Managers on Sacred Natural Sites define the term “sacred site” as “an area of special spiritual significance to peoples and communities” and the term “sacred natural site” as “areas of land or water having special spiritual significance to peoples and communities” (Wild and McLeod, 2008: 3). This volume seeks to allow expression of Indigenous views of the sacred in order to illuminate similarities and differences of Indigenous ways from existing international perspectives in both definition and approach.

Placing Indigenous voices in the discourse on Indigenous sacred sites In gathering a body of chapters on the topic of Indigenous sacred sites, the present volume builds upon the growing literature on sacred sites management represented by works such as

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Jonathan Liljeblad

Elazar Barkan and Karen Barkley’s Choreographies of Shared Sacred Sites (2014); David Carmichael, Jane Hubert, Brian Reeves and Audhild Schanche’s Sacred Sites, Sacred Places (1994); Gloria Pungetti, Gonzalo Oviedo and Della Hooke’s Sacred Species and Sites (2012); Bas Verschuuren, Robert Wild, Jeffrey McNeely and Gonzalo Oviedo’s Sacred Natural Sites (2012) and Bas Verschuuren and Naoya Furuta’s Asian Sacred Natural Sites (2016). Book-length treatments provide space for comprehensive analyses of specific topics in terms of depth and breadth of study on various aspects of chosen subject matter. The above volumes are consistent with such expectations, engaging in commentaries of broad scope that use findings in relevant scholarly and policy literature to identify or synthesize over-arching trends regarding relevant laws and policies for governance of sacred sites. Such works, however, deal with sacred sites as a larger subject, with efforts involving general frameworks meant to be applicable across different countries, cultures and geographies. As a result, they tend to overlook the particularities of Indigenous perspectives on sacred sites. Hence, while perhaps unintentionally, they leave open the question of potential value of contributions from marginalized voices of Indigenous peoples. The present volume is a response to such a question, and endeavors to illustrate the value of Indigenous voices in the discourse on sacred sites by presenting an array of works involving Indigenous authors of diverse backgrounds from different locations presenting respective viewpoints about the treatment of Indigenous sacred sites. It should be noted that there is a growing scholarly literature on Indigenous sacred sites, with contributions from diverse disciplines spanning fields such as anthropology, art, business, history, Indigenous or aboriginal studies, international relations, law, policy, politics and religion. The reach of empirical cases spans the globe, with current or recent scholarship covering locations from the various regions of the world. For example, in Africa there are studies from scholars such as Philip Aniah and Augustine Yelfaanibe regarding the Bongo District of Ghana (2016); Runyambo Irakiza, Minani Vedaste, Bizuru Elias, Brigitte Nyirambangutse, Nsengimana Joram Serge and Ndimukaga Marc on sacred forests in Rwanda (2016); Lilian Siwila on the Gwembe Valley in Zambia (2015); Folaranmi Dapo Babalola, Ibraheem Lawal, Egbe Opii, and Abiodun Olusesi Oso on sacred forests in Nigeria (2014); Kristian Metcalfe, Richard Ffrench-Constant and Ian Gordon regarding sacred caves in Kenya (2010); and Fadhili Hamza Mgumia, Gufu Oba and Michael Sheridan about sacred groves in Tanzania (Mgumia and Oba, 2003; Sheridan, 2009). Taking North America as inclusive of Canada, the United States and Mexico, a representative sample can be seen in works from Canada regarding Gustafson Lake by Nicholas Shrubsole (2011) and Canadian Indigenous sacred sites as a whole by Natasha Bakht and Lynda Collins (2017); from the United States on the San Francisco Peaks by Michael McNally (2015), Heart Mountain by Mary Keller (2014), the Great Plains by Gregory Campbell and Thomas Foor (2004), and Indigenous sacred sites in general in the United States by Alex Tallchief Skibine (2012) and Roxanne Ornelas (2011); Indigenous sites along the border between the United States and Mexico by Angelique EagleWoman (2008); and Baja California by Rafael de Grenade, Gary Nabhan and Mechiline Olvera (2016). Taking Central and South America together, examples of scholarship include works by Bruno Ferronato and Giselle Cruzado on the Pichis Valley in Peru (2013); Stella Nair in the Peruvian Andes (2007); and Michelle Wibbelsman regarding the highlands of Ecuador (2005). For Asia-Pacific, there are representative contributions on Indigenous sacred sites in East Timor from Judith Bovensiepen and Frederico Rosa (2016); Uluru by Hannah Hueneke and Richard Baker (2009) and Australian Aboriginal lands in general by Michael Blakeney (2013); sacred groves in

Introduction

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India from Alison Ormsby (2011, 2013); eastern Himalayas in Nepal by Jan Salick, Anthony Amend, Danica Anderson, Kurt Hoffmeister, Bee Gunn and Fang Zhendong (2007); and sacred forests in Indonesia by Reed Wadley and Carol Pierce Colfer (2004). For Europe, examples include Siv Ellen Kraft’s study on Sapmi and northern Norway (2010), Nadezhda Shutova’s work in the Udmurt region of northern European Russia (2006), and Gail Osherenko’s more general commentary on Indigenous lands in Russia (2001). As a collection of disparate perspectives, however, these various works do not provide the comprehensive overview available from book-length volumes with respect to observations on trends and distillation of principles. As a result, they call for insights with more general application regarding treatment of Indigenous concerns, particularly with respect to the relationship between non-Indigenous perspectives and Indigenous sacred sites. The present volume seeks to address this issue, drawing upon a body of current empirical work involving Indigenous voices regarding Indigenous sacred sites to provide a broad scope to highlight generalizable implications to make the governance of Indigenous sacred sites more inclusive of Indigenous concerns. The collective sum of these various works, both in books and individual journal articles, offer a body of analysis relevant to the study of sacred sites. Each one covers a different aspect of the subject presenting various calls for further work. The books serve as comprehensive efforts addressing the broader topic of sacred sites, leaving open the more specific issues of Indigenous viewpoints and Indigenous sacred sites. The journal articles, while individually directed to the topic of Indigenous sacred sites, present a disparate panoply of analyses complicating the distillation of general lessons for larger audiences. The present volume contributes to the literature by addressing both of these challenges. In providing a book-length presentation focused on Indigenous perspectives on Indigenous sacred sites, the present volume directs its attention to 1) promoting Indigenous voices and 2) generating generalizable insights about trends and principles regarding Indigenous perspectives on Indigenous sacred sites. The relevance of Indigenous perspectives and Indigenous sacred sites can be demonstrated in several ways: 1) Indigenous perspectives on sacred sites are of unique value to the existing discourse, and 2) they help to redress the continuing marginalization of Indigenous voices tied to the lingering legacy of colonialism. With respect to the value of Indigenous perspectives, there have been debates over romanticized claims that Indigenous cultures have a sacred relationship with the natural world (see for example Harkin and Lewis, 2007; Krech, 1999; Ross et al., 2011), but despite the opposing arguments in the literature the international community has proceeded to adopt instruments recognizing a unique relationship between Indigenous peoples and nature that gives rise to identifiable Indigenous sacred sites (Butzier and Stevenson, 2014; Gilbert, 2011). The United Nations Declaration on Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) proffers a non-binding assertion of rights of Indigenous peoples to “maintain, protect, and have access in privacy to their religious and cultural sites” (UNDRIP, 2007: Art. 12(1)) and to “maintain and strengthen their distinctive spiritual relationship with their traditionally owned or otherwise occupied and used lands, territories, waters and coastal seas” (UNDRIP, 2007: Art. 25). The International Law Organization’s (ILO) Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention 169 makes binding upon ratifying countries the duty of respecting “the special importance for the cultures and spiritual values of the peoples concerned of their relationship with the lands and territories . . . they occupy or otherwise use” (ILO, 1989: Art. 13(1)) and the duty of protecting the rights of Indigenous peoples to access traditional lands (ILO, 1989: Art. 14(1)). On a

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regional level, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights asserted in Kichwa Indigenous People of Sarayaku v. Ecuador (Sarayaku) that the American Convention on Human Rights recognizes that “Indigenous people cannot be denied the right to enjoy their own culture, which consists of way of life strongly associated with the land” (Inter-American Court of Human Rights, 2012). Similarly, the International Law Association recognized that Indigenous land rights are “a prerogative with a primarily spiritual purpose . . . functional to the safeguarding—through ensuring the maintenance of the special link between Indigenous peoples and their traditional lands” (ILA, 2012: 540). The recognition in international law of the unique nature of Indigenous sacred sites calls for consideration of Indigenous voices to help inform understanding of their relationship with such sites. Hence, on legal grounds alone there is justification to include Indigenous viewpoints as a matter of furthering the ends of existing international legal instruments. With respect to redress, there are lingering legacies of colonialism that have marginalized Indigenous peoples from discourses affecting their welfare. The history of Indigenous peoples encompasses colonial experiences which subordinated their status beneath imperial powers. In the post-colonial era, such subordination continued as states assumed the power previously held by imperial authorities and consolidated their control by modifying or suppressing Indigenous cultures in service of non-Indigenous elites (Battiste, 2011; Coates, 2004; Kirkby and Coleborne, 2010; Lenzerini, 2011). As a result, the exclusion of Indigenous voices from subjects that affect Indigenous interests echoes a colonial legacy of marginalization. Mitigation or prevention of such a legacy calls for dedicated effort to promote Indigenous perspectives in areas involving Indigenous interests. Hence, apart from a utilitarian consideration of value, there is a normative concern for the consequences of history that justifies the inclusion of Indigenous voices as a means of averting perpetuation of past wrongs.

The relevance of Indigenous voices in understanding Indigenous sacred sites From a scholarly perspective, it is possible to provide a theoretical basis for the relevance of Indigenous viewpoints by appropriating concepts from Foucault’s notions of discourse. Foucault’s ideas describe the nature of power relations between different actors, and so are helpful in clarifying the contestation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous actors over identities and interests. Foucault has been used in Indigenous studies with scholars employing his concepts to identify the mechanisms of domination and resistance affecting the outcomes of Indigenous issues (see for example Batty, 2005; Brigg, 2007; Howard-Wagner, 2010; Kulchyski and Tester, 2007; Kurkiala, 2002; Lindroth, 2011). Foucault conceives of “discourse” as “practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak” (Foucault, 1972 [2010]: 49). Discourse can be speech, writing, acts or symbols that generate frameworks within which people interact (Hunt and Wickham, 1994). Within a discourse Foucault sees “discursive formations,” which are the stable elements at the centre of discourse (Foucault, 1972 [2010]; Hunt and Wickham, 1994: 9) that reflect an “episteme,” which is a worldview comprised of postulates and modes of reason (Foucault, 1972 [2010]: 191). Through these components a discourse directs the substance of information to include or exclude actors and ideas, and thereby dictates the distribution of power—and thus the outcomes of actions—between them (Hunt and Wickham, 1994: 8–9).

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For Foucault, “power and knowledge directly imply one another” (Foucault, 1977: 27–28; Hunt and Wickham, 1994: 12). Following such theory, the literature on Indigenous sacred sites can be seen as a Foucauldian discourse in that it involves interactions between people using spoken and written communications, attendant actions and associated symbols regarding Indigenous sacred sites. It also involves discursive formations, since the interactions centre around a collection of stable elements in the form of concerns over the meaning ideas such as indigeneity, the sacred and locations that connect both. These elements reflect an episteme, in that they imply a worldview framing practices regarding the treatment of Indigenous sacred sites. To the extent that the discourse on Indigenous sacred sites excludes Indigenous voices, it furthers the act of exclusion that either denies the assertion of their interests or makes it conditional on the charity of non-Indigenous actors. Either way, it disempowers Indigenous perspectives from engaging in the discourse and thereby marginalizes them from the products of knowledge arising from the discourse. To the extent that decisions on the governance of Indigenous sacred sites are a function of such knowledge, the inability to influence the production of knowledge means an inability of Indigenous peoples to influence the treatment of locations critical to their spiritual identity. Foucault’s notions of discourse, however, offer ways for Indigenous actors to counter structures of domination, with a number of additional concepts that allow modes of resistance against power relations directing the production of knowledge (Lindroth, 2011). Foucault sees power and knowledge as things that “can be unmade, as long as we know how it is they were made” (Foucault, 1988b: 37). In addition, while a discourse may be a function of power it can also provide a “point of resistance and a starting point for an opposing strategy” (Foucault, 1978 [1990]: 101). Foucault discusses the nature of a discourse using concepts of “technologies of domination,” “technologies of the self” and “micro-politics.” Foucault sees power as constituted by the interactions conducted in a network of relationships between actors. Dominant actors work through “technologies of power,” which are mechanisms that allow them to objectify others and control their identities (Foucault, 1988a: 18). Control of identity affects knowledge about identity, knowledge guides decisions over treatment of identity and treatment produces outcomes for those defined by an identity. Hence, technologies of power allow dominant actors to maintain positions of power over subordinate identities. Against the technologies of power are “technologies of the self,” which are practices that enable actors to “to effect by their own means or with the help of others a certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves” (Foucault, 1988a: 18). Through technologies of the self subordinate actors are able manipulate their own identities and thereby work against technologies of power (Foucault, 1988a: 19). The interplay between the technologies of power and the technologies of the self constitute the “micro-politics” of discourse in power relations (Best and Kellner, 1991: 56), and their struggle over identity underlies the contest for the production of knowledge and the direction of decisions based upon such knowledge. These concepts describe the power dynamics in the discourse over Indigenous sacred sites. By communicating in institutions, forums, networks and media that exclude or control Indigenous voices, non-Indigenous actors in the discourse employ technologies of power that determine their conceptions of Indigenous identity. Those conceptions form the basis of knowledge regarding Indigenous sacred sites, which in turn influences the approaches taken towards them. Hence, a discourse dominated by non-Indigenous actors risks the subordination of Indigenous perspectives and the attendant adoption of laws and policies that

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marginalize Indigenous peoples. Such risks echo historical patterns of colonialism that denigrated Indigenous cultures as being primitive and savage (Sleeper-Smith, 2009). As much as non-Indigenous entities can attempt to alter such power relations by acting on behalf of Indigenous peoples, such scenarios depend upon the discretionary benevolence of dominant powers and so do little to alter the power inequalities in the discourse. Alteration of the power relations requires change in the micro-politics of discourse in terms of Indigenous actors acting on their own behalf. This means technologies of the self through which Indigenous actors can determine their own identities and assert their own knowledge regarding sacred sites. The exercise of technologies of the self, however, involves a predicate requirement for the existence of technologies of the self that are available for subordinate actors. As a result, there must be a means by which Indigenous voices can manipulate the discourse with respect to their own identities and knowledge. The present volume endeavors to serve that role with respect to one area of discourse, with the assembled contributions forming an overview offering identification of trends and principles offered by diverse Indigenous voices discussing their own perspectives regarding Indigenous sacred sites. In essence, the present volume functions as a technology of the self for Indigenous voices to present their own identities and forms of knowledge as an engagement within the discourse of existing comprehensive book-length works on Indigenous sacred sites that have been led by non-Indigenous authors. The notion of a space for Indigenous actors to work within existing discourses connotes a sense of Indigenous agency operating against non-Indigenous structures, making the present volume consistent with the arguments of other Indigenous scholars such as Alexis Bunten, Doreen Martinez and Amanda Stronza, who in their studies of Indigenous tourism highlight the need for greater agency by Indigenous peoples within the structure of their relations with a non-Indigenous world (Bunten, 2010; Martinez, 2012; Stronza, 2001).

Potential areas of insight In pursuing its goals, the present volume has sought to include Indigenous actors, both with respect to individual chapters and the edited book as a whole. Each chapter involves at least one Indigenous contributor, working either solo or in conjunction with non-Indigenous colleagues, with the hope that authorship serves as an opportunity to express Indigenous perspectives and thus facilitate the representation of ostensibly Indigenous views. For the book as a whole, the editorial team includes a non-Indigenous scholar (Bas Verschuuren) in collaboration with an Indigenous scholar (Jonathan Liljeblad, born Nanda Zaw Win and a member of the Pa’oh people of Myanmar), with the purpose of supporting the framing of the collected chapters in a way that engages the existing discourse on Indigenous sacred sites. By seeking out Indigenous authors, the book aspires to serve as a genuine presentation of Indigenous cultures that can inform larger ongoing efforts of readers in academia, civil society, business and politics to devise laws and policies regarding sacred sites. There are several potential ways in which Indigenous perspectives can offer insight. First, in keeping with the ulterior purpose of comprehensive book-length works, the present volume hopes to identify trends and principles across the various chapters that can be generalized for application in other cases, Indigenous or otherwise. In particular, it may be worthwhile to see if the diverse experiences of the disparate authors reveal themes that

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might assist existing forms of governance for sacred sites, not just as a matter of including or respecting Indigenous concerns but also proposing alternative approaches to Indigenous and non-Indigenous sacred sites as a whole. Second, the present volume also seeks to draw lessons from the individual chapters that might provide a sense of Indigenous norms regarding appropriate or inappropriate treatment of sacred sites, with the ulterior goal of again informing existing efforts on sacred sites about strategies and practices consistent with Indigenous cultures. Third, on a more fundamental level, the present volume endeavors to draw from the various chapters an awareness of the ways Indigenous identity is associated with Indigenous means of knowledge, either ontological in terms of what constitutes a sacred site or epistemological in terms of how to understand and behave in relation to a sacred site, so as to increase comprehension of how the connection between Indigenous identity, Indigenous knowledge and Indigenous norms leads to Indigenous forms of governance for sacred sites.

The outline of chapters A cursory overview of the chapters indicates a richness in diversity. Jennifer Evans, a social and cultural geographer at the University of Tasmania and a member of the Aboriginal peoples of Tasmania, writes of takayna country in north-west Tasmania, which is sacred land for the palawa, or Aboriginal peoples of Tasmania. Susan Leopold, an ethnobotanist by training, is a member of the Patawomeck people of Virginia. She writes of her first-hand involvement in the Native American movement at Standing Rock against the Dakota Access Pipeline, which threatened lands sacred to Native Americans. Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor, Professor with Native Hawai’ian ancestry, founding member of the Department of Ethnic Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi, Manoa and a member of Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana, provides a chapter on Kanaloa Kaho‘olawe, an island used by the United States Navy for target practice but restored to the Native Hawaiian peoples. Annapurna Devi Pandey, a member of the Odia people of India, is with the faculty of Cultural Anthropology at the University of California, Santa Cruz and writes about Niyamgiri, a mountain sacred to the Kondhs residing in Odisha, India. Lesle Jansen, a member of the Khoisan people of South Africa and an attorney, and Ademola Oluborode Jegede, a senior lecturer in law at the University of Venda, present a case study on the sacred lands of the Bethany Griqua people in South Africa. Vernon G. Lujan, a member of Taos Pueblo in New Mexico, writes of Blue Lake, a water body sacred to the pueblo. Brunna Crespi, a PhD candidate in Ethnogeography at the National Museum of Natural History in France, partners with Anacleto Amaral and Clementino Amaral, both members of the Indigenous peoples of Timor, to present Fesawa, a mangrove sacred to the surrounding Indigenous communities. The next chapter on the Maghee, a cultural practice tied to the lands of the Tharu people in Nepal, is co-written by Bhaskar Upadhyay, an Associate Professor at the University of Minnesota, Mahesh (Tharu) Chaudhary and Baliram Tharu, both native Tharu and activists in their cultural preservation, and Dinesh Gautam, an activist and supporter of Tharu cultural preservation. The next chapter, on Wirikuta, a sacred site of the Wixarika Pueblo in Mexico, is co-written by Anaid Paola Velasco Ramírez, a member of the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) World Commission on Environmental Law (WCEL), Andrea Ulisse Davide Cerami and Úrsula Garzón Aragón, both lawyers in environment and human rights and Santos De La Cruz Carillo, a member of the Wixarika Pueblo. Their chapter is followed by a presentation

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on the terraced rice fields of the Ifugao people in the Philippines, co-written by Marlon Martin, a member of the Ifugao and activist in the movement to save their rice terraces, Stephen Acabado, Assistant Professor in Anthropological Archaeology at the University of California, Los Angeles and Raymond Macapagal, an Assistant Professor in International Studies at the University of the Philippines. Bérengère Boüan, a landscape architect in France, and Kathy Khine, a spatial designer in Myanmar, follow with their chapter that poses the issue of Bagan as a sacred site of an extinct civilization in a developing society. The last chapter, written by Yolanda Lopez-Maldonado, a member of the Maya people in Mexico, centres around cenotes, or sinkholes, and calls for the inclusion of Indigenous knowledge alongside science in protection of cenotes. These chapters are not presented as a sampling in the statistical sense of the word. Rather, they are presented as an ensemble of cases representing a diverse mixture of Indigenous perspectives and sacred sites, and hence serve as a demonstration of the richness in Indigenous voices available for the larger discourse on sacred sites. In particular, the assembly of chapters display multiple dimensions of variety: cultural, with the authors coming from a diversity of Indigenous peoples with different societies, languages and worldviews; geographical, with the chapters presenting Indigenous peoples and places existing in unique environments; natural features, with the chapters presenting sacred sites of different forms that include land, caves, island, rice and lakes; concerns, with each chapter focusing on different aspects of a sacred natural site in terms of issues seen by Indigenous peoples as having priority; backgrounds, with the authors having a range of educational training and professions, as well as varying levels of engagement between Indigenous and non-Indigenous worlds; and viewpoints, with the chapters showing different approaches by Indigenous peoples towards the treatment of sacred sites.

References Aniah, P., and Yelfaanibe, A. (2016) ‘Learning from the past: The role of sacred groves and shrines in environmental management in the Bongo district of Ghana’, Environmental Earth Science, vol. 75, p. 916. Babalola, F.D., Lawal, I., Opii, E.E., and Oso, A.O. (2014) ‘Roles of and threats to Indigenous cultural beliefs in protection of sacred forests in Nigeria’, Albanian Journal of Agricultural Sciences, vol. 13, no. 2, pp. 41–50. Bakht, N., and Collins, L. (2017) ‘The Earth is our mother: Freedom of religion and the preservation of Indigenous sacred sites in Canada’, McGill Law Journal, vol. 62, no. 3, pp. 777–812. Barkan, E., and Barkley, K. (eds). (2014) Choreographies of shared sacred sites: Religion, politics, and conflict resolution, Columbia University Press, New York. Battiste, M. (2011) Reclaiming Indigenous voice and vision, University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. Batty, P. (2005) ‘Private politics, public strategies: White advisers and their aboriginal subjects’, Oceania, vol. 75, no. 3, pp. 209–221. Best, S., and Kellner, D. (1991) Postmodern theory, Guilford Press, New York. Blakeney, M. (2013) ‘Protecting the spiritual beliefs of Indigenous Peoples—Australian case studies’, Pacific Rim Law and Policy Journal, vol. 22, no. 2, pp. 391–427. Bovensiepen, J., and Rosa, F. (2016) ‘Transformations of the sacred in East Timor’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 58, no. 3, pp. 664–693. Brigg, M. (2007) ‘Biopolitics meets terrapolitics: Political ontologies and governance in settler-colonial Australia’, Australian Journal of Political Science, vol. 42, no. 39, pp. 403–417.

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Bunten, A. (2010) ‘More like ourselves: Indigenous capitalism through tourism’, American Indian Quarterly, vol. 34, no. 3, pp. 285–311. Butzier, S., and Stevenson, S. (2014) ‘Indigenous peoples’ rights to sacred sites and traditional cultural properties and the role of consultation and free, prior and informed consent’, Journal of Energy and Natural Resources Law, vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 297–334. Campbell, G., and Foor, T. (2004) ‘Entering sacred landscapes: Cultural expectations versus legal realities in the northwestern plains’, Great Plains Quarterly, vol. 24, no. 3, pp. 163–183. Carmichael, D., Hubert, J., Reeves, B., and Schanche, A. (eds). (1994) Sacred sites, sacred places, Routledge, New York. Coates, K. (2004) A global history of Indigenous peoples, Palgrave MacMillan, London. de Grenade, R., Nabhan, G., and Olvera, M. (2016) ‘Oases of the Baja California Peninsula as sacred spaces of agrobiodiversity persistence’, Agriculture and Human Values, vol. 33, pp. 455–474. EagleWoman, A. (2008) ‘Fencing off the eagle and the condor, border politics, and Indigenous peoples’, Natural Resources and Environment, vol. 23, pp. 33–35. Ferronato, B., and Cruzado, G. (2013) ‘Uses, beliefs, and conservation of turtles by Ashaninka Indigenous people, central Peru’, Chelonian Conservation and Biology, vol. 12, no. 2, pp. 308–313. Foucault, M. (1972 [2010]) The archaeology of knowledge and discourse on language, Pantheon Books, New York. Foucault, M. (1977) Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison, Vintage Books, New York. Foucault, M. (1978 [1990]) The history of sexuality, Vintage Books, New York. 1978. Foucault, M. (1988a) ‘Technologies of the self’, in L. Martin, H. Gutmanand & P. Hutton (eds), Technologies of the self, pp. 16–49. Routledge, New York. Foucault, M. (1988b) in Kritzman, L. (ed.) Michel Foucault: Politics, philosophy, culture, Routledge, New York. Gilbert, J. (2011) ‘Indigenous peoples’ human rights in Africa: The pragmatic revolution of the African commission on human and peoples’ rights’, International and Comparative Law Quarterly, vol. 60, pp. 245–270. Harkin, M., and Lewis, D. (eds) (2007) Native Americans and the environment: Erspectives on the ecological Indian, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE. Howard-Wagner, D. (2010) ‘From denial to emergency: Governing Indigenous communities in Australia’, in D. Fassin & M. Pandolfi (eds), Contemporary states of emergency: The politics of military and humanitarian interventions, pp. 217–240. Zone Books, New York. Hueneke, H., and Baker, R. (2009) ‘Tourist behavior, local values, and interpretation at Uluru: “The sacred deed at Australia’s might heart”’, GeoJournal, vol. 74, pp. 477–490. Hunt, A., and Wickham, G. (1994) Foucault and law, Pluto Press, Boulder, CO. Inter-American Court of Human Rights. (2012) Kichwa Indigenous people of Sarayaku v. Ecuador (Sarayaku). Available at: www.escr-net.org/caselaw/2012/pueblo-indigena-kichwa-sarayaku-vsecuador. International Labor Organization (ILO). (1989) Indigenous and tribal peoples convention No. 169. Available at: www.ilo.org/dyn/normlex/en/f?p=NORMLEXPUB:12100:0::NO::P12100_ILO_CODE: C169. International Law Association (ILA). (2012) Committee on the rights of Indigenous peoples final report. 75th International Law Association Sofia Conference (2012), International Law Association. Irakiza, R., Vedaste, M., Elias, B., Nyirambangutse, B., Serge, N.J., and Marc, N. (2016) ‘Assessment of traditional ecological knowledge and beliefs in the utilization of important plant species: The case of Buhanga sacred forest, Rwanda’, KOEDOE – African Protected Area Conservation and Science, vol. 58, no. 1, pp. 1–11. Keller, M. (2014) ‘Indigenous studies and “the Sacred.”’, American Indian Quarterly, vol. 38, no. 1, pp. 82–109. Kirkby, D., and Coleborne, C. (eds). (2010) Law, history, and colonialism, Manchester University Press, Manchester.

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Kraft, S.E. (2010) ‘The making of a sacred mountain: mountains of nature and sacredness in Sapmi and northern Norway’, Religion, vol. 40, no. 1, pp. 53–61. Krech, S. III. (1999) The ecological Indian: Myth and history, W.W. Norton & Company, New York. Kulchyski, P., and Tester, F. (2007) Kiumajut (talking back): Game management and Inuit rights, 1900-70, UBC Press, Vancouver. Kurkiala, M. (2002) ‘Objectifying the past: Lakota responses to western historiography’, Critique of Anthropology, vol. 22, no. 4, pp. 445–460. Lenzerini, F. (2011) ‘Intangible cultural heritage: The living culture of peoples’, European Journal of International Law, vol. 22, no. 1, pp. 101–120. Lindroth, M. (2011) ‘Paradoxes of power: Indigenous peoples in the permanent forum’, Cooperation and Conflict, vol. 46, no. 4, pp. 543–562. Martinez, D. (2012) ‘Wrong directions and new maps of voice, representation, and engagement’, American Indian Quarterly, vol. 36, no. 4, pp. 545–573. McNally, M. (2015) ‘From substantial burden on religion to diminished spiritual fulfillment: The San Francisco peaks case and the misunderstanding of native American religion’, Journal of Law and Religion, vol. 30, no. 1, pp. 36–64. Metcalfe, K., Ffrench-Constant, R., and Gordon, I. (2010) ‘Sacred sites as hotspots for biodiversity: The three sisters cave complex in coastal Kenya’, Oryx, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 118–123. Mgumia, F.H., and Oba, G. (2003) ‘Potential role of sacred groves in biodiversity conservation in Tanzania’, Environmental Conservation, vol. 30, no. 3, pp. 259–265. Nair, S. (2007) ‘Localizing sacredness, difference, and yachacuscamcani in a colonial Andean painting’, The Art Bulletin, vol. 89, no. 2, pp. 211–238. Ormsby, A. (2011) ‘The impacts of global and national policy on the management and conservation of sacred groves of India’, Human Ecology, vol. 39, pp. 783–793. Ormsby, A. (2013) ‘Analysis of local attitudes toward the sacred groves of Meghalaya and Karnataka, India’, Conservation and Society, vol. 11, no. 2, pp. 187–197. Ornelas, R. (2011) ‘Managing sacred lands of North America’, International Indigenous Policy Journal, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 1–13. Osherenko, G. (2001) ‘Indigenous rights in Russia: Is title to land essential for cultural survival?’ Georgetown International Environmental Law Review, vol. 13, no. 3, pp. 695–734. Pungetti, G., Oviedo, G., and Hooke, D. (eds). (2012) Sacred species and sites: Advances in biocultural conservation, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Quebec City Declaration on the Preservation of the Spirit of Place. (2008) Available at: http:// whc.unesco.org/uploads/activities/documents/activity-646-2.pdf. Ross, A., Sherman, K.P., Snodgrass, J., Delcore, H., and Sherman, R. (2011) Indigenous peoples and the collaborative stewardship of nature, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, WL. Salick, J., Amend, A., Anderson, D., Hoffmeister, K., Gunn, B., and Zhendong, F. (2007) ‘Tibetan sacred sites conserve old growth trees and cover in the eastern Himalayas’, Biodiversity and Conservation, vol. 16, pp. 693–706. Sheridan, M. (2009) ‘The environmental and social history of African sacred groves: A Tanzanian case study’, African Studies Review, vol. 52, no. 1, pp. 73–98. Shrubsole, N. (2011) ‘The sun dance and the Gustafsen lake standoff: Healing through resistance and the danger of dismissing religion’, The International Indigenous Policy Journal, vol. 2, no. 4, pp. 1–17. Shutova, N. (2006) ‘Trees in Udmurt religion’, Antiquity, vol. 80, pp. 318–327. Siwila, L. (2015) ‘An encroachment of ecological sacred sites and its threat to the interconnectedness of sacred rituals: A case study of the Tonga people in Gwembe valley’, Journal for the Study of Religion, vol. 28, no. 2, pp. 138–153. Skibine, A.T. (2012) ‘Towards a balanced approach for the protection of Native American sacred sites’, Michigan Journal of Race and Law, vol. 17, pp. 269–302. Sleeper-Smith, S. (ed.). (2009) Contesting knowledge: Museums and Indigenous perspectives, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE.

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Stronza, A. (2001) ‘Anthropology of tourism: Forging new ground for ecotourism and other alternatives’, Annual Review of Anthropology, vol. 30, pp. 261–283. United Nations (UNDRIP). (2007) Declaration on the rights of Indigenous peoples. Available at: www.un. org/development/desa/Indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-the-rights-of-Indigenous-peoples.html Verschuuren, B., and Furuta, N., (2016) Asian sacred natural sites, Routledge, London. Verschuuren, B., Wild, R., McNeely, J., and Oviedo, G., (2012) Sacred natural sites: Conserving nature and culture, Routledge, New York. Wadley, R., and Colfer, C.J.P. (2004) ‘Sacred forest, hunting, and conservation in west Kalimantan, Indonesia’, Human Ecology, vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 313–338. Wibbelsman, M. (2005) ‘Otavalenos at the crossroads: Physical and metaphysical coordinates of an Indigenous world’, Journal of Latin American Anthropology, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 151–185. Wild, R., and McLeod, C. (eds). (2008) Sacred natural sites: Guidelines for protected area managers, IUCN, Gland, Switzerland.

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PART I

Identity and embodying the sacred

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2 GIVING VOICE TO THE SACRED BLACK FEMALE BODY IN TAKAYNA COUNTRY Jennifer Evans

Introduction: black female body and sacredness in takayna country This chapter articulates the tensions and convergence of sacredness in protected area management. Sacredness in the landscape is defined as “areas of land and or water that have special spiritual significance to people” (Verschuuren and Furuta, 2016; Wild and McLeod, 2008). Tensions which occur with sacredness in protected areas cannot be articulated within wilderness ideology, as sacredness is of the body, not of a pristine emptiness (Cronon, 1995; Washington, 2006). This view has ramifications for management: therefore, the convergence lies in the articulation of Indigenous methodologies that place the black female body central to understanding black female sacredness. An Indigenous methodology, while seemingly complex (Chilisa, 2012; Walter and Andersen, 2016), is no different to contemporary methods used in protected area management, in that it is the understanding and application of the methods that affect the quality of outcomes (Dovers et al., 2015; Pimbert and Petty, 1995). In order to elucidate the understanding and application of Indigenous methodologies that are congruent of the black female body, this chapter attempts to frame sacredness against wilderness ideologies. This chapter provides a critical view of the body of women as it applies to takayna country, lutuwitra, Australia. I use a discourse analysis of the expression of the sacredness of the black female body on country based upon my PhD research (Evans, 2016). I then compare this to the Bob Brown Foundation and the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre’s publication “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016). I use a discourse analysis method as it is effective in stimulating alternative perspectives when comparing standpoints in Indigenous social research contexts (Nursey-Bray, 2011). Discourse analysis is an interdisciplinary method used to analyse forms of communication (discourse)—for example writing and conversations. It involves the interpretation of the discourse through an examination of its assumptions, theories and social and cultural context (see Wodak and Meyer, 2009). Given that values relating to the black female body in takayna country are hidden, the application of a discourse analysis method keeps cultural knowledge safe by focusing on how it is represented rather than attempting to characterize it or commodify its value. As I enter into this analysis, I do not hold a critical view

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of the cultural knowledge shared by others, but instead investigate the methodologies that have been used to elicit values relating to the black female body in the landscape. My discourse analysis questions the actual depth and meaning of the research findings derived from both sources and the intent of seeking cultural knowledge. I use an Indigenous methodology by virtue of my dual connection to country and kinship when analysing the discourses. There is an established history of the symbolic and sacred representation of the female body in the landscape throughout cultures globally. In ancient Indian spirituality, particular rivers are seen as landscape symbols holding maternal reproductive qualities including water-borne embryos (Rana, 2016) and archetypal symbols of breasts and vulvas are identified in maternal landscapes (Bohidar, 2015). First Nations peoples of America also have sacred sites that relate to particular body functions, such as menses (Hays-Gilpin, 2004). In the Australian Indigenous context, theories and discourses of “body landscape” are established as the material existence of body and landscape relations (Davies, 1945; Somerville, 1999), including gendered sacred places (Rose, 1996). Female forms such as ovaries and breasts are present in the landscape and celebrated as sensory interactions with country (Snell, 2003). In post-colonial settings, body landscape is open to re-invention using contemporary social narratives (Slater, 2007). In this chapter, I blend the traditional knowledges of the sacred black female body as it occurs in takayna country with contemporary narratives about body landscape to give voice to the sacred black female body. In seeking the sacred form in lutuwitra, Australia, I turn to takayna country of the northwest coast. takayna country is an extensive cultural and natural area, void of World Heritage status, of approximately 447,000 hectares, situated on the western side of the island of lutuwitra. It is a cultural landscape of great antiquity (Fletcher and Thomas, 2010) and a vital place for the palawa people to connect to country and practise culture (BBF and TAC, 2016; TWS, 2015). But takayna country is formally known as the Arthur Pieman Conservation Area (APCA), whose name refers to the two major rivers: their palawa kani names maydim and royenrine (Plomley, 1990) are not recognized by the State under formal nomenclature processes. The conservation status of the APCA is at the lowest scale, allowing use for logging, mining, cattle grazing, shack development and off road vehicle driving (Tasmanian Government, 2018). Only recently has takayna country been given a formal status under a dual naming policy of the current State Government (Tasmanian Government, 2014). Most of takayna country is managed by the Tasmanian Government, with a small number of private properties, shacks and farms bordering and inside its boundary. Small areas of takayna country are under Indigenous ownership and control. For example, the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC) owns 335 hectares of private lands within the conservation area. Just outside the APCA, the TAC manages 500 hectares at Preminghana Indigenous Protected Area (Figure 2.1).

Background: black female body and wilderness All of lutuwitra is significant to palawa (Tasmanian Aboriginal people) as it represents palawa culture and community both in the past and present, and a meaningful connection with and representation of a living culture (Cameron, 2016). Since the British invasion in 1803 (Boyce, 2010; Reynolds, 1995; Ryan, 2012), palawa people have been fighting for sovereignty, selfdetermination, restorative justice and recognition against the backdrop of colonized white privilege and racism (Daniels, 1995).

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takayna country, lutuwitra (Tasmania), Australia

In lutuwitra, the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (TWWHA), or TWWHA country, and takayna country represent rich sacred natural sites (DPIPWE, 2016; Evans, 2016). The TWWHA country, inscribed as a World Heritage Area in 1982, is perceived as the primary wilderness asset of the Tasmanian state, but recent calls have been made for takayna country to also be recognized as a complementary and internationally significant asset in its own right (Law, 2009; Save the Tarkine, 2016; TWS, 1992, 2015). Both are abundant in cultural and biodiversity values and provide refuge for ongoing evolutionary processes, but have different protected area management status, such that takayna country is

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only a conservation area (Tasmanian Government, 2018). Although it is recognized internationally that the conservation of sacred natural sites assists in the maintenance and protection of biodiversity (Verschuuren and Furuta, 2016), the Tasmanian attitude to wilderness has no place for sacredness (see Adels, 2008; Shipway, 2005). TWWHA country, whilst formally recognized as a mixed natural and cultural site, is perceived as predominantly wilderness (Lee, 2015, 2016). This perception of sacredness being in opposition to wilderness is also expressed in the valuing of takayna country (Evans, 2016; Lee, 2015). takayna country is a rich landscape, with unique biota, shaped by palawa and their anthropological burning of country over 40,000 years (Fletcher and Thomas, 2010). Many palawa refer to takayna as “she” and “her,” deriving an identity from the female landscape form. takayna country contains Australia’s largest contiguous area of cool temperate rainforest, extensive coastal sites of permanent palawa occupation and a unique convergence of cultural and natural values of international and national significance (Australian Government, 2013a; Evans, 2016). Some perceive her as wilderness, some perceive her as a cultural landscape and others perceive her as a natural reserve for consumption and resource extraction (Evans, 2016; Mackay, 2011; Quilliam, 2008). In lutuwitra, the battle for the international recognition of takayna country is being led by green groups, eco- and nature-based tourism interests, nature photographers and artists (Ashton, 2004; BBF, 2018; Mead, 2014; The Greens, 2018; TWS, 2015; Save the Tarkine, 2018). New armoury is required to broaden the valuing of takayna country beyond archaeological artefacts and wilderness with concepts of Aboriginal cultural landscapes emerging in arguments for international significance (BBF, 2018; BBF and TAC, 2016; Save the Tarkine, 2018; TWS, 2015). The concept of Aboriginal cultural landscape is being co-opted by non-Indigenous people to bolster arguments for enhanced significance and therefore justification of greater recognition (BBF and TAC, 2016). In takayna country, archaeological spatial inputs have been used to assist in providing data to characterize significance (Evans, 2016). palawa leaders have shared cultural knowledge that tells of spiritual links and the significance of takayna country (BBF and TAC, 2016). Yet it is unclear whether this data reflects “surface values” (Stephenson, 2008) recordable in the present. How can the “embedded values” (Stephenson, 2008) of the past and sacredness be then characterized? Country has its own agency and influence, able to command metaphysical connections and spatial time relationships (Lee, 2017; West, 2000), therefore measures of sacredness may not be adequate or even properly articulated. Sacredness is thus hidden by processes that do not recognize such agency. Current arguments for greater international recognition of takayna country privilege colonized methodologies over Indigenous methodologies and perpetuate concealment of sacredness. Therefore, alternative Indigenous methods are required to define sacredness in the landscape and how it is accessed, perceived, valued and recognized.

Methodology: black female body and giving voice through kinship In demonstrating an Indigenous methodology at work, it is important that I locate my black female body as core and central to the themes of sacredness. I have dual connections to dharug and palawa country. The barramattagal eel dreaming of my ancestors facilitates my connection to country in lutuwitra where I was born and where I have grown up and responded to the agency of country. Therefore, I have a unique song of country, both

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dharug and palawa, that allows me to understand my black female body in its sacred form in the landscape. Thus, as a black woman with connections to country, I am able to use my kinship to give voice to the sacred black female body. This Indigenous methodology, grounded in reciprocity, is demonstrated by partnering the research with a senior trawlwulwuy woman from tebrakunna country, north-east Tasmania—Dr Emma Lee. As a black female researcher, it is important to give a sense of authority and legitimacy to what is sacredness to the black female body located in country. This country that I speak of is takayna country. In takayna country the sacred black female body is hidden and silenced by white male privilege. Yet, the black female body is represented in the landscape and reflected in the coastal areas, where Indigenous women are of the sea (tebrakunna country and Lee, 2017). takayna country is also a contested natural area. Wilderness values have been co-opted to create a name and brand that leaves black women behind, ignores the sacredness of the landscape and gives no gender equity in its management or protection. Wilderness values do not account for or allow acknowledgement of the sacred black female body as it is reflected in country—wilderness is generally held to be a place of the other and a place that inhibits Indigenous histories (Ross, 2017). Wilderness politic of protected area management is a male dominated business; these ideals are being imported into country but with co-option of Indigenous peoples. Recent changes to the TWWHA management plan have generated debate about the value and perception of wilderness (Burden, 2015; Hardy and Pearson, 2015). There has been a call to end the dualism of nature and culture that the term wilderness creates, by separating Indigenous peoples from country (Lee, 2015; Robin, 2014; Rose, 2012). Contemporary shifts in Tasmanian protected area management, such as discourse in favour of joint management of TWWHA country, have seen the wilderness politics engage with Indigeneity (see DPIPWE, 2016). I investigate this proposition through the Bob Brown Foundation and the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre co-authored book entitled “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016). In investigating this partnership between an Indigenous organization and a wilderness foundation, I apply Indigenous methodologies for a discourse analysis of their publication. I compare this with my own PhD research “Valuing the Tarkine: A systematic quantification of optimal land use and potential conflict compromise” (Evans, 2016). Indigenous methodologies require relationships of respect and understanding and clear positioning of the Indigenous community and researcher in the research (Carińo, 2005; Louis, 2007). As I apply an Indigenous methodology, I privilege Indigenous perspectives and knowledge systems in voicing of the black female body in the landscape through my dual connection to country and kinship.

Results: takayna country; more than a disembodied “she” What I find is that the sacredness of the black female body on country is distorted and minimalized in favour of a status quo management plan that privileges the white male view in protected area management regimes in lutuwitra. While it may seem that the wilderness organizations have come to a shared understanding of palawa rights to management and sacred knowing of country, in reality I argue that takayna has become a spectacle image (Debord, 1994) while reinforcing the powers of the dominant patriarchal wilderness narratives.

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The publication “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016) provides a wilderness perspective on takayna country that is visually attractive and will assist in the marketing for a Tarkine National Park. In its discourse, palawa elder Heather Sculthorpe refers to takayna country as “she,” “her,” “cradle of our ancestors,” using phrases such as “she has” and “she holds” (BBF and TAC, 2016). palawa woman and leader Sharnie Everett refers to takayna country as a place to connect to the ocean and the women, and that the “landscape shows me the story” (BBF and TAC, 2016). Both these palawa women are giving recognition of the agency and female power of takayna country. They do not situate or articulate their female body in landscape nor refer to sacred or sacredness for unknown reasons. This publication “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016) has been jointly project coordinated and managed by a palawa woman and a non-Indigenous woman. However, it is unclear if the publication has project ownership by women, is authored by women or only project managed by women. These details are absent, therefore there is enough information to satisfy a curious gaze but not enough to satisfy intellectual inquiry. There is no disclosure of Indigenous methodologies that may have been used, therefore it is unclear what interview and consent processes may have been used and their impact. Despite this, the publication does characterize takayna country as a cherished landscape providing powerful connections to the past and present. palawa contributors do not refer to the terms sacred or sacredness. The only single reference to sacred is in the preface about the Western Tasmanian Aboriginal Cultural Landscape by Justice Mortimer regarding the federal court ruling on off road vehicle access. She states that “the values of the sacred sites on the takayna/Tarkine coast are under-recognised, inadequately protected and repeatedly disrespected” (BBF and TAC, 2016). Justice Mortimer goes further than the palawa contributors and refers to landscape as having integrity and character (BBF and TAC, 2016). I do not construe that palawa contributors did not share Justice Mortimer’s views, or hold their own views about sacredness, their own black female bodies in the landscape or the agency of black female body present in the landscape. Rather, they may have chosen not to share if they held such views. I believe that the palawa women may have been coopted to provide knowledge to characterize the cultural landscape. The palawa women may have deeper knowledges than those documented, but the lack of Indigenous methodologies may have prevented disclosure. Alternatively, the palawa women may have wanted to retain their knowledges to themselves, but this is also unclear. The lack of information regarding the intent of the publication points to little understanding by its authors of free prior informed consent based research and the reciprocity of the research. The publication also raises unanswered questions of whether the sacredness of takayna country has been hidden, or unrecognized, or simply unrepresented? Upon this basis, the publication is a marketing tool and not a genuine inquiry into sacredness and the black female body. In contrast, I wish to bring an example highlighting three parts of the female black body and sacredness: menses, pubic hair and breasts. Although I had several palawa women participate in my research, I wish to highlight one story that is critical. This articulation of female body as landscape has been provided by senior trawlwulwuy woman, Dr Emma Lee (E. Lee, 2014, pers. comm., 6 October): Our menses are represented in the black reflective waters of takayna country. Deep river ravines deliver our black female waters fed from inland tannin-stained male hunting grounds. The headwaters of these rivers characterize wooded ovarian follicles, delivering

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ash from the burnt inland grassland womb through our vaginal canal to the coast. Here the liminal merging of black waters meet blue; flushing and merging menses in a tidal dance. On the coast where bedrock interdigitates into the sea, kelp clings to the space in-between fingers of outcrops signifying pubic and labia. Here, submerged in women’s hunting grounds, the pubic fringes of kelp ebb and flow with water in cycles of growth and decay. Hidden among the pubic fringe is women’s bounty of food for sustaining life. Towering over the menses and pubic fringe are giant living middens, sites of life. Here the accumulation of our cultural materiality represents our nipples on our breasts. Our breasts are integral to the black female body and localized to our menses (rivers) and our pubic fringes (coast). takayna country is women’s country, a place where I can feel, observe and connect with my sacred black female body. In takayna country, a continuous multi-layered and connected black female body is present as a sacred landscape at varying spatial and temporal scales. The pubic fringe (Figure 2.2) is intimate, menses (Figure 2.3) are large and breasts are both (Figure 2.4). All are influenced by seasonal fluctuations. Complex relations and scales of sacredness are hidden from view and unable to conform to Cartesian dualism and products, meaning that the black female body cannot be mapped. The discourse within this research with Emma creates a place for her to express her female interiority and claim her body ownership on country. Emma’s discourse allows her to understand the nature of the intangible aspects of country and express them as tangible qualities. Emma’s discourse is based upon her female power, her black power and her connection to country and the agency and authority of takayna country. This contrasts greatly with the discourse in the text “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016) where, although takayna country is gendered as female, reference to sacred black female body beyond a disembodied “she” is absent. The tension in our black female bodies is yet to erupt. There are many questions about the intent and process of the story-telling and knowledge sharing of the palawa women in the publication “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016). It is unclear as to what Indigenous methodology may or may not have been adopted in authoring of the publication. Were the palawa women who contributed to the publication interviewed by black women? Did the story-telling process involve methods that were culturally safe? What was the purpose of sharing knowledges of country with the general public? The publication is not about telling women’s stories, rather it is a marketing tool that privileges wilderness above management to support campaign to create a National Park. A new discourse is being used to characterize wilderness, whereby Aboriginal cultural landscape values are fused to natural values in order to overcome its wilderness deficiencies. It uses green glitter and wilderness branding as a moral force (Lee, 2015). Indigenous methodologies are absent in the protected area management of takayna country. White male privilege dominates land management in lutuwitra. White males are in positions of power from the top down; for example; the Minister for Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife (PWS) is male, PWS management and rangers in the area are male, shack ownership and gender representation for off road vehicle permits highly reflect predominant male usage. Further, the National Parks and Wildlife Advisory Council, who provides advice to State Government for management of all reserves including takayna country, is under-represented by palawa, with one palawa female and one palawa male member compared to eight white members (see Tasmanian Liberals, 2017). At the local level, the

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FIGURE 2.2

Women’s coastal hunting grounds, takyana country, representing pubic fringes of the black female body (Photograph: Jennifer Evans)

APCA Management Committee exclusively comprises six males, one of whom is a palawa man (see Ford 2018). This committee has a formal function of advising the Minister for Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife. Therefore, the voice of palawa women in the management of takayna country remains colonized and silenced. Land managers and authorities have available to them key research relating to palawa cultural and heritage values in takayna country. Such research is white male dominated, for example Cosgrove (1990), Huys (2010), MacFarlane (1992), Sims (2013), Stockton (1982), and Tasmanian Wilderness Society (2015) have all produced reports, papers and opinions without regard or question to their gaze or status. There are two male palawa authored sources (Collett et al., 1998; Pedder, Hughes and Edwards, 2007), one black male and white male authored source (Fletcher and Thomas, 2010), one white male and female authored source (Richards and Sutherland Richards, 1995) and now one mixed male, female, white and palawa-authored source (BBF and TAC, 2016). Female palawa authors as sole voices are absent.

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Near the confluence of the royenrine (Pieman) and Donaldson rivers, takyana country, representing menses of the black female body (Photograph: Jennifer Evans)

FIGURE 2.4

Giant living middens, takyana country, representing breasts of the black female body (Photograph: Jennifer Evans)

What does this mean for the governance of sacredness in protected area management? It may be much easier to “buy the book” than form a relationship with the palawa female community. But what will be purchased is a wilderness brand, a politic, not a state of being or greater understanding of hidden values. Sacredness is non-commodification and cannot be purchased. Therefore, protected area management has to struggle with appeasing wilderness politic and being elusive of what black female body sacredness means on the ground.

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Discussion The understanding of lived experiences and the view of sacredness differs according to the various methodologies and the contexts in which they are being applied (Denzin, Lincoln and Tuhiwai Smith, 2008). As an Indigenous woman, I applied my connections to lutuwitra country to create layered maps that served as a point of discussion for the palawa women to talk about their connection to takayna country. The palawa women were supported by a respected senior palawa woman for debriefing after sharing their cultural knowledge if required. What I found is in complete contrast to the discourse “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016). I established that the reciprocal relationships enabled by kinship provided legitimacy whereby the palawa women initiated sharing of their perceptions of their own black female bodies in the landscape. My Indigenous methodology gave respect to the palawa women through my careful communication that valued their sharing of information and oral histories. Our shared gendered roles and connection to country provided reciprocity to exchange information, as did our common belief in the utility of traditional knowledges to solving conservation conflicts. Free, prior and informed consent was carried out in the interviewing process of the palawa women, an action that is vital for joint or co-conservation management of protected areas (Hales et al., 2013). How is the sacred black female body in takayna country articulated within protected area management? The current management regime does not make any room for the sacred black female body and presents an array of problems. Along the coast conflicts are present between off road vehicle users and bushwalkers under the watch of State-facilitated cattle agistment where they graze and trample middens (Evans, 2016; Lehman, 2013). Inland, there are inappropriate burning regimes, construction of roads, logging and mining activities (Evans, 2016; McDonald and McCaffrey, 2011). Meanwhile local government leaders contest wilderness values and support local attitudes that deny the protection of middens, instead focusing on recreational vehicle use as a heritage value (Evans, 2016; Good, 1991; Hay, 2011; Quilliam, 2008). Decisions relating to the management of takayna country are being made by white males, who continue to define and value her as they please. The current management regime will not benefit her. The management of takayna country should lie with black female bodies through localized black women. The current privileging of white men in the management of takayna country is an outcome of institutionalized international schemes. Although the acknowledgement of Aboriginal people generally is considered important (Tasmanian Government, 2018), such acknowledgement is absent in any motherhood statements in the management of takayna country or elsewhere in lutuwitra. In the race to acknowledge Aboriginal people as important to management, some government regimes and wilderness organizations chose to co-opt blackness (see BBF and TAC, 2016; TWS, 2015). I am predicting that the ongoing management of protected areas in lutuwitra is not going to consider the full range of factors that preclude acknowledging, conserving and valuing sacredness. I believe that a management vacuum exists which requires more investigation, as it is currently lacking funding and research resources, understanding and a management policy framework. My criticisms of the current management regime is that it is about us, not of us. An Indigenous methodology is required as a management antidote to facilitate critical legitimacy of the sacred black female body in the landscape. The methodology that I have applied gave safe space for the voice of the black female body in the landscape to be shared by palawa

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women. Black women interviewing black women with free, prior and informed consent was central to the success of revealing the hidden cultural information. This exemplar should be applied for further research and used to guide future management of takayna country. The two case studies “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016) and my research (Evans, 2016) concur that takayna country is female country. However, the explicit description of sacred and female body form in the landscape is absent in the former. I suspect that the Bob Brown Foundation is unfamiliar with Indigenous methodologies, or exploring modes to safely share narratives in order define what “she” and “her” means for takayna country. The design and application of appropriate Indigenous methodologies requires resources, effort and significant care (Cochran et al., 2008). Protocols of being on country must be followed in order to create legitimacy, kinship and respectful relationships between the researcher and the research participant (Carter, 2010). When this relationship is established, the tension between body and landscape shifts. No longer is country seen as a separate entity and nor is it referred to solely as a single force of “she” or “her” where sacredness remains hidden. Rather, the language of “me”, “I”, “us” and “ours” places our black female bodies in and of the landscape as integral. This way sacredness has privilege. Therefore, the language of “she” or “her” in “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016) supports the disconnect of the sacred black female body in the landscape and distracts from her power. In contrast, potent black language of “me”, “I”, “us” and “ours” in my research provides a corrective Indigenous method which is a predictor for management. This process relies on valuing the discourse of women and their agency to tell their stories and shape a management value of women having primacy. However, by comparing these two approaches to characterizing sacredness, we must be careful not to colonize or marginalize ourselves by being critical of the knowledge shared by the palawa women involved. If we do this, then we would be falling into the colonizing trick (Kazanjian, 2003; Moretn-Robinson, 2002) or the wilderness trick where black women are given a false mantle of power over a wilderness green trickery. The characterization of female sacredness in the landscape is a process that involves intrinsic tensions (see Hanna, 2005). Whilst the two case studies established that takayna country is a female landscape, what is of importance is the framing of her characterization. In “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016), a white man is defining the frame by which he co-opts palawa women’s voices. Bob Brown’s frame is wilderness and protection and not about placing Indigenous people at the centre for its management. In this sense, palawa cultural heritage is being used as a commodity in the campaign for a Tarkine National Park. What is being denied by BBF and TAC (2016) is that palawa have no control over their heritage in takayna country. The basis for the relationship between the Bob Brown Foundation and the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre is unclear. In “takayna: country, culture, spirit” (BBF and TAC, 2016), there has been no acknowledgement that palawa have no control of their heritage. Without such acknowledgement, a transparent relationship cannot be created nor can real cooperation commence to cease the commodification of culture (Langford, 1983). Further, State agency voices see benefit in retaining their own distorted governance to render their view palatable within the wilderness-centric framework. palawa women are sole custodians of palawa culture, are historical and contemporary matriarchs (Cameron, 1994) and therefore our voices should no longer be ignored. We must exercise our black privilege by resisting the co-option of our culture, give privilege to our research which is based on Indigenous methodologies (Kunnie and Goduka, 2006) and emancipate our view of our black female bodies if we chose to.

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The act of secluding the sacredness of our black female bodies as it reflects in the landscape is a legitimate one. Seclusion demonstrates resistance, prevents complete colonization of our knowledge, allows us to preserve the reciprocity of country and retain control of our bodies (Lee, 2017; Liberman, 1980). With the support of appropriate Indigenous methodologies, we can choose to seclude or share narratives about our female bodies (Lee, 2017). The palawa women who participated in my research chose to reveal their female body connections through narratives that overcame the exotic and nature conflations and instead located their voice, connection and knowledges to physical land and seascapes. I found that palawa women portrayed an Aboriginal environmental ethic and connection to country that others did not (Evans, 2016). The sacred black female body in landscape can be seen, hidden, interpreted and made available through kinship and agency. I have reported on the values of palawa women as a translator, responding to the power of the sacred female body present in the landscape. My interpretation and reporting relates to other black female bodies globally, as it is consistent with universal concepts of feminization of landscapes (Hodder, 2012; Porteous, 1986) and gendered sensory body landscape discourse (Davies, 1945; Rose, 1996; Snell, 2003; Somerville, 1999). I am also co-creating and defining my sacred black female body through my research process and relationships with the palawa women. The palawa women chose to reveal their black female bodies and the authority and agency of their connections to takayna country at multiple levels, scales, and indigeneity. Therefore, takayna country is the power source and medium, co-created with palawa, and palawa women should always talk for country (see Cameron, 1994). This methodology is different from the present approach to elucidating cultural values in takayna country, which are framed through an archaeological lens (Australian Government, 2013b; Harries, 1995; Huys, 2010). The palawa valuing of sacredness involves a process of being on country and opening the channels of cultural transference from ancestors (see Lehman, 2006; Petrovic-Steger, 2013). It is about being in and of the landscape, a timeless experience that cannot be quantified, where the recovery of sacred is gained from the journey to make new feelings of sacred. It is when being on country that the power relations of the black female body itself are evident. It is therefore important for black women to exercise our Indigeneity, self-determine how to identify as “first peoples” and pursue our own “culturally framed understanding” (O’Sullivan, 2017). It is our right to release our tacit sacred knowledge via Indigenous methodologies to expose our black female body if we chose, so we can sing our songs, burn our country free from white male privilege. The expression of our menses, pubic fringes and breasts as sacred in the landscape is a legitimate expression of our own sacred female indigeneity. What it does tell us, however, is how far away protected area management is from understanding and protecting our sacred values of our black female bodies. The current protected area management and conservation of takayna country is a barrier to achieving Aichi biodiversity targets (Convention on Biological Diversity, 2018). Rather than create a Tarkine National Park based on wilderness values, one option would be to create an “aquapelago”, a marine and land based protected area incorporating sea country (Fleury, 2013; Hayward, 2012; Yunupingu and Muller, 2009) as one black female body. In this context, marine and land management would be decolonized to report against the black female body. This would be a transboundary approach, where new research would be required to create alternative management conditions (see Stratford, 2017; Yunupingu and

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Muller, 2009). When the sacredness of a landscape is reflected in black women’s bodies and recognized as present, current heritage legislation is incapable of dealing with such complexity. Therefore, the hidden sacred that cannot be expressed under the current management conditions cannot be protected in terms of their current guidelines, whereas wilderness can be protected under current management conditions (Mittermeirer et al., 2003; Russell and Jambrecina, 2002). Wilderness is a gift for everyone, a product of white male privilege (Pritchard and Morgan, 2002) but it repels our sacredness. Our black female bodies have worth. We are highlighting the fact that protected area management and conservation of takayna country is about white male privilege because it diminishes our black female sacredness. Management conditions for protected areas are informed by spatial data (Nagendra et al., 2013). Such data is generated using geographical information systems (GIS) involving twodimensional data on, for example, biota, abiota and archaeological values (Evans, 2016). The two-dimensionality of these mapping processes is unsuited to expressing the black female body present in the landscape as it fails to capture the multiple dimensions and complexity associated with sacredness. Other means of conceptualizing the black female body in the landscape are required so as to protect sacredness and ethically retain its secretness, as it is not for consumption or understanding by others. It is imperative that protected area management uses Indigenous methodologies to give recognition to sacredness of the black female body in takayna country, but not necessarily to quantify or characterize it nor its significance. Rather, it is important to give recognition of the presence of the sacred black female body in the landscape, by translating into it into protected area management via giving black women empowerment and control to protect, access, burn and hunt on takayna country. We need new Indigenous methodologies to create a policy framework that places palawa women central to the sacredness and management of takayna country so that women can sing songs of country and not be shackled by neocolonial victimhood.

Acknowledgements I wish to acknowledge the palawa women who participated in my PhD research for sharing their cultural knowledge with great trust. I thank Dr Emma Lee senior trawlwulwuy woman from tebrakunna country, north-east Tasmania for her significant contribution to this chapter, both in sharing her views and experience of her black female body on takayna country and for her insightful instructive reviews of chapter manuscripts.

References Adels, S. (2008) Conceptions of wilderness in Tasmania, sustainability and the environment, Hobart, Tasmania. Ashton, R. (ed.). (2004) Tarkine, World Wide Fund for Nature Australia, Crows Nest, NSW. Australian Government. (2013a) The Tarkine national heritage assessment, Assessor’s summary of significance, Australian Government Department of Sustainability, Environment, Water, Population and Communities, www.environment.gov.au/heritage/ahc/national/tarkine/pubs/tarkine-finalassessment.pdf, accessed 15 March 2018. Australian Government. (2013b) Western Tasmanian Aboriginal cultural landscape, Tasmania, National Heritage Places Database, Australian Government Department of the Environment, Canberra, ACT, www.environment.gov.au/system/files/pages/d3456005-87a2-4c69-beb9-3223499797bf/ files/boundary-map.pdf, accessed 15 March 2018.

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Bob Brown Foundation (BBF) and The Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC). (2016) Takayna: Country, culture, spirit, Bob Brown Foundation and Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre, Hobart, Tasmania. Bob Brown Foundation (BBF). (2018) ‘takayna world heritage protection for the Tarkine’, Bob Brown Foundation, Hobart, Tasmania, www.bobbrown.org.au/takayna_tarkine, accessed 15 March 2018. Bohidar, A. (2015) ‘Worshipping breasts in the maternal landscape of India’, South Asian Studies, vol. 31, no 2, pp. 247–253. Boyce, J. (2010) Van Diemen’s land, Black Inc., Melbourne, VIC. Burden, H. (2015) ‘Is development in Tasmania’s world heritage areas the end of wilderness?’ The Guardian, www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jan/28/tasmania-world-heritage-develop ment-is-this-the-end-of-wilderness, accessed 15 March 2018. Cameron, P. (1994) ‘Pallawah women: their historical contribution to our survival: Part 1: A matriarchal heritage / Patsy Cameron’, The Tasmanian Historical Research Association Papers and Proceedings, vol. 41, no. 2, pp. 65–67. Cameron, P. (2016) Grease and ochre: The blending of two cultures at the colonial sea frontier, University of Tasmania, Community, Place & Heritage Research Unit, Riawunna, Hobart, Tasmania. Carińo, J. (2005) ‘Indigenous peoples’ right to free, prior, informed consent: Reflections on concepts and practice’, Arizona Journal of International & Comparative Law, vol. 22, no. 1, pp. 19–39. Carter, J. (2010) ‘Protocols, particularities, and problematizing Indigenous “engagement” in community-based environmental management in settled Australia’, The Geographical Journal, vol. 176, no. 3, pp. 199–213. Chilisa, B. (2012) Indigenous methodologies, SAGE Publications, Los Angeles. Cochran, P., Marshal, C., Garcia-Downing, C., Kendall, E., Cook, D., McCubbin, L., and Gover, R. (2008) ‘Indigenous ways of knowing: Implications for participatory research and community’, American Journal of Public Health, vol. 98, no. 1, pp. 22–27. Collett, D., Green, C., Hughes, R., and Summers, D. (1998) Project Pah-Leah Nattie: Aboriginal sites and impacts on the North-West Coast of Tasmania, Tasmanian Aboriginal Land Council, North Hobart, Final Report to the Australian Heritage Commission. Convention on Biological Diversity. (2018) Archi biodiversity targets, Convention on Biological Diversity Secretariat, Montreal, QC, Canada. Cosgrove, R. (1990) The archeological resources of Tasmanian forests: Past Aboriginal use of forested environments, Occasional Papers No. 27, Department of Parks, Wildlife and Heritage, Hobart, Tasmania. Cronon, W. (1995) ‘The trouble with wilderness; or, getting back to the wrong nature’, in W. Cronon (ed.), Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the human place in nature, pp. 69–90. W. W. Norton & Co, New York. Daniels, D. (1995) ‘The assertion of Tasmanian Aboriginality from the 1967 referendum to Mabo’, Masters thesis, University of Tasmania. Davies, B. (1945) (In)scribing, body/landscape relations, Altamira Press, Oxford. Debord, G. (1994) The society of the spectacle, Zone Books, New York. Denzin, N.K., Lincoln, Y.S., and Tuhiwai Smith, L. (eds.) (2008) Handbook of critical and Indigenous methodologies, SAGE, Los Angeles. Dovers, S., Feary, S., Martin, A., McMillan, L., Morgan, D., and Tollefson, M. (2015) ‘Engagement and participation in protected area management: Who, why, how and when?’ in G.L. Worboys, M. Lockwood, A. Kothari, S. Feary and I. Pulsford (eds.), Protected area governance and management, pp. 413–440. ANU Press, Canberra. DPIPWE. (2016) Tasmanian wilderness world heritage area management plan 2016, Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment, Hobart, Tasmania. Evans, J. (2016) ‘Valuing the Tarkine: A systematic quantification of optimal land use and potential conflict compromise’, PhD thesis, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Tasmania. Fletcher, M., and Thomas, I. (2010) ‘The origin and temporal development of an ancient cultural landscape’, Journal of Biogeography, vol. 37, pp. 2183–2196. Fleury, C. (2013) ‘The island/sea/territory. Towards a broader and three dimensional view of the aquapelagic assemblage’, The International Journal of Research into Island Culturese, vol. 7, no. 1, pp. 1–13.

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Ford, S. (2018) ‘Will Hodgman “playing games with Arthur-Pieman group”: Shane Broad’ The Advocate, www.theadvocate.com.au/story/5205098/will-hodgman-playing-games-with-arthurpieman-group-circular-head-shane-broad/, accessed 15 March 2018. Good, J. (1991) ‘The impact and management of four wheel drive vehicles, Temma/Sandy Cape, Tasmania’, Honours Thesis, Department of Geography and Environmental Studies University of Tasmania, Hobart, Tasmania. Hales, R.J., Rynne, J., Howlett, C., Devine, J., and Hauser, V. (2013) ‘Indigenous free prior informed consent: A case for self determination in world heritage nomination processes’, International Journal of Heritage Studies, vol. 19, no. 3, pp. 270–287. Hanna, J. (2005) Re-gendering the landscape in New South Wales, NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, Sydney, NSW. Hardy, A., and Pearson, L. (2015) ‘Paradise gained—How tourism could help Tasmania’s wilderness’, The Conversation, 16 January, http://theconversation.com/paradise-gained-how-tourism-couldhelp-tasmanias-wilderness-36301, accessed 15 March 2018. Harries, D. (1995) Forgotten wilderness: North West Tasmania 2nd rev. edn, Tasmanian Conservation Trust, Hobart, Tasmania. Hay, P. (2011) Wild sight, transcript of opening address, Wild Sight Exhibition, 3 November, University of Tasmania, Cradle Coast Campus, Burnie, Tasmania. Hays-Gilpin, K.A. (2004) Ambiguous images gender and rock art, Altamira Press, Oxford. Hayward, P (2012) ‘The constitution of assemblages and the aquapelagality of Haida Gwaii’, Shima: The International Journal of Research Into Island Cultures, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 1–14. Hodder, L. (2012) Entangled: An archaeology of the relationship between humans and things, Wiley-Blackwell, Chichester. Huys, S. (2010) An Aboriginal cultural heritage assessment of designated vehicle tracks within the Arthur Pieman Conservation Area, Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service, www.parks.tas.gov.au/file.aspx?id=25109, accessed 21 March 2012. Kazanjian, J. (2003) Women and landscape: NSW Western Parks project: An historical study of women and outback landscapes for the Cultural Heritage Division of NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, Sydney, NSW. Kunnie, J.E., and Goduka, N.I. (eds.). (2006) Indigenous peoples’ wisdom and power affirming our knowledge through narratives, Routledge, London. Langford, R.F. (1983) ‘Our heritage – Your playground’, Australian Archaeology, vol. 16, pp. 1–10. Law, G. (2009) Western Tasmania: A place of outstanding universal value: Proposed extensions to the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, Senator Bob Brown, Hobart, Tasmania, http://tas.greens.org.au/ sites/greens.org.au/files/Western%20Tasmania%20A%20Place%20of%20Outstanding%20Universal %20Value%20.pdf, accessed 15 March 2018. Lee, E. (2015) ‘Green glitter hides cultural truth’, The Mercury, 24 January, www.themercury.com.au/ news/opinion/saturday-soapbox-green-glitter-hides-cultural-truth/news-story/cda2398165796569 f570e402a729801a, accessed 15 March 2018. Lee, E. (2016) ‘Protected areas, country and value: The nature-culture tyranny of the IUCN’s protected area guidelines for Indigenous Australians’, Antipode, vol. 48, no. 2, pp. 355–374. Lee, E. (2017) ‘Establishing joint management processes and models for Tasmania’s protected areas’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Tasmania. Lehman, G. (2006) The palawa voice, Centre for Tasmanian Historical Studies, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Tasmania. Lehman, G. (2013) ‘Tasmanian Gothic’, in J. Schultz, and N. Cica (eds.), Tasmania: The tipping point? Griffith review 39, pp. 193–204. Griffith University, South Brisbane. Liberman, K. (1980) ‘The decline of the Kuwarra people of Australia’s Western Desert: A case study of legally secured domination’, Ethnohistory, vol. 27, no. 2, pp. 119–133. Louis, R. (2007) ‘Can you hear us now? Voices from the margin: Using Indigenous methodologies in geographic research’, Aboriginal Policy Research Consortium International (APRCi), paper 175.

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MacFarlane, I. (1992) North West Tasmania: A regional Aboriginal archeological site survey, unpublished report for the Department of Parks, Wildlife and Heritage, Hobart, Tasmania. Mackay, J. (2011) Social values of the Arthur-Pieman Conservation Area, Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service, Hobart, Tasmania, www.parks.tas.gov.au/index.aspx?base=24161, accessed 15 March 2018. McDonald, J., and McCaffrey, N. (2011) An assessment of the flora and vegetation at selected sites within the Tarkine, North West Tasmania, Cradle Coast NRM, unpublished report, Burnie Tasmania. Mead, T. (2014) ‘Tarkine—A national park beckons’, Tasmanian Times, 1 September, http://tasmanian times.com/index.php?%2Fweblog%2Farticle%2Ftarkine-a-national-park-beckons%2F, accessed 15 March 2018. Mittermeirer, R.A., Mittermeirer, C.G., Brooks, T.M., Pilgrim, J.D., Konstant, W.R., Fonseca, G.A. B., and Kormos, C. (2003) ‘Wilderness and biodiversity conservation’, PNAS, vol. 100, no. 18, pp. 10309–10313. Moretn-Robinson, A. (2002) Talkin’ up to the white woman, University of Queensland Press, St. Lucia. Nagendra, H., Lucas, R., Honrado, J., Jongman, R., Tarantino, C., Adamo, M., and Mairota, P. (2013) ‘Remote sensing for conservation monitoring: Assessing protected areas, habitat extent, habitat condition, species diversity, and threats’, Ecological Indicators, vol. 33, pp. 45–59. Nursey-Bray, M. (2011) ‘Social contexts and customary fisheries: Marine protected areas and Indigenous Use, Australia’, Environmental Management, vol. 47, pp. 671–683. O’Sullivan, D. (2017) Indigeneity a politics of potential Australia, Fiji and New Zealand, Policy Press, University of Bristol, UK. Pedder, C., Hughes, C., and Edwards, J. (2007) An assessment of vehicle tracks between Temma and Greenes Creek in the Arthur Pieman conservation area, Tasmanian Land and Sea Council, Hobart, Tasmania. Petrovic-Steger, M. (2013) Claiming the Aboriginal body in Tasmania an anthropological study of repatriation and redress, Institute of Anthropological and Spatial Studies, Ljubljana: Zalzoba, ZRC SAZU. Pimbert, M.P., and Petty, J.N. (1995) Parks, people and professionals: Putting ‘participation’ into protected area management, United Nations Research Institute for Social Development, International Institute for Environment and Development & World Wide Fund for Nature, Geneva. Plomley, N.J.B. (1990) Tasmanian Aboriginal place names, Occasional Paper No. 3, Queen Victoria Museum & Art Gallery, Launceston, Tasmania. Porteous, J.D. (1986) ‘Bodyscape: The body-landscape metaphor’, The Canadian Geographer/Le Géographe Canadien, vol. 30, no. 1, pp. 2–12. Pritchard, A., and Morgan, N.J. (2002) ‘Privileging the male gaze: Gendered tourism landscapes’, Annals of Tourism Research, vol. 27, no. 4, pp. 884–905. Quilliam, D. (2008) ‘Foreword’, in N. Haygarth and S. Cubit (eds.), A peopled frontier – The European heritage of the Tarkine Area, pp. 3–4. Circular Head Council, Smithton Tasmania. Rana, S. (2016) ‘Sacred sites, cultural landscapes, and harmonising the world of Asia’, 5th ACLA International Symposium on sacred sites, cultural landscapes, and harmonising the world of Asia, Lampang Rajabhat University, Lanpang Province, Thailand. Reynolds, H. (1995) Fate of a free people, Penguin Books, Melbourne, VIC. Richards, T., and Sutherland Richards, P. (1995) ‘Chapter three: Archeology’, in D. Harries (ed.), Forgotten wilderness: North West Tasmania, 2nd rev. edn, pp. 25–87. Tasmanian Conservation Trust, Hobart, Tasmania. Robin, L. (2014) ‘Wilderness in a global age, fifty years on’, Environmental History, vol. 19, pp. 721–727. Rose, D.B. (1996) Nourishing terrains: Australian Aboriginal views of landscape wilderness, Australian Heritage Commission, Canberra, ACT. Rose, D.B. (2012) ‘Why I don’t speak of wilderness’, EarthSong, Spring 2012, pp. 9–11. Ross, D. (2017) ‘Black country, white wilderness: Conservation, colonialism, and conflict in Tasmania’, Journal of Undergraduate Ethnography, vol. 7, no. 1, pp. 1–23. Russell, J., and Jambrecina, M. (2002) ‘Wilderness and cultural landscapes: Shifting management emphases in the Tasmanian wilderness world heritage area’, Australian Geographer, vol. 33, no. 2, pp. 125–139. Ryan, L. (2012) The Aboriginal Tasmanians, Allen & Unwin, St. Leonards, NSW.

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Save the Tarkine. (2016) ‘Conservation history’, Tarkine National Coalition, Burnie, Tasmania, www. tarkine.org/conservation-history/, accessed 15 March 2018. Save the Tarkine. (2018) ‘National park and world heritage aspirations’, Tarkine National Coalition, Burnie, Tasmania, www.tarkine.org/national-park-and-world-heritage-aspirations/, accessed 15 March 2018. Shipway, J. (2005) ‘Scars on the archive, visions of place: Genocide and modernity in Tasmania’, PhD thesis, University of Tasmania. Sims, P.C. (2013) ‘No reprieve for Tasmanian rock art’, Arts, vol. 2, pp. 182–224. Slater, L. (2007) ‘Intimate Australia’, Cultural Studies Review, vol. 13, no. 1, pp. 150–169. Snell, T. (2003) ‘Country’, in K. Hamersly (ed.), Sacred ground beating heart: Works by Judy Watson 1989– 2003, pp. 6–19. John Curtin Gallery, Western Australia. Somerville, M. (1999) Body/landscape journals, Spinifex Press Pty Ltd, Melbourne, VIC. Stephenson, J. (2008) ‘The cultural values model: An integrated approach to values in landscapes’, Landscape and Urban Planning, vol. 84, pp. 127–139. Stockton, J. (1982) The prehistoric geography of Northwest Tasmania, Unpublished PhD Thesis, Australian National University, Canberra. Stratford, E. (ed.) (2017) Island Geographies: Essays and conversations, Routledge, London, UK. Tasmanian Government. (2014) ‘Aboriginal and dual naming policy’, Department of Premier and Cabinet, Hobart, Tasmania, www.dpac.tas.gov.au/divisions/csr/oaa/aboriginal_and_dual_naming_ policy, accessed 15 March 2018. Tasmanian Government. (2018) Tasmanian reserve estate spatial layer, Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment, Hobart, Tasmania, http://dpipwe.tas.gov.au/conservation/develop ment-planning-conservation-assessment/tools/tasmanian-reserve-estate-spatial-layer, accessed 15 March 2018. Tasmanian Liberals. (2017) ‘Arthur-Pieman management committee appointed’, Tasmanian Liberals, Hobart, Tasmania, www.tas.liberal.org.au/news/arthur-pieman-management-committee-appointed, accessed 15 March 2018. tebrakunna country and Lee, E. (2017) ‘Performing colonisation: The manufacture of black female bodies in tourism research’, Annals of Tourism Research, vol. 66, pp. 95–104. The Greens. (2018) ‘Tasmanian world heritage extension, a takayna/Tarkine National Park’, The Greens, Hobart, Tasmania, www.greens.org.au/sites/default/files/2018-06/TWWHA%20Tarkine %20Extension.pdf, accessed 15 March 2018. Verschuuren, B., and Furuta, N. (eds.). (2016) Asian sacred natural sites: Philosophy and practice in protected areas and conservation, Earthscan, Routledge, London, UK. Walter, M., and Andersen, C. (2016) Indigenous statistics: A quantitative research methodology, Routledge, London, UK. Washington, H. (2006) ‘The wilderness knot’, PhD thesis, University of Western Sydney, Australia. West, E.G. (2000) ‘An alternative to existing Australian research and teaching models: The Japanangka teaching and research paradigm, an Australian Aboriginal model’, PhD thesis, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Tasmania. Wild, R., and McLeod, C. (2008) Sacred natural sites guidelines for protected area managers, IUCN, Gland, Switzerland. The Wilderness Society (TWS). (1992) Draft world heritage nomination for the Tarkine, The Wilderness Society, unpublished report, Hobart, Tasmania. The Wilderness Society (TWS). (2015) Tasmanian wilderness world heritage area proposed extensions, The Wilderness Society, Hobart, Tasmania. Wodak, R., and Meyer, M. (eds.). (2009) Methods of critical discourse analysis second edition, SAGE, London. Yunupingu, D., and Muller, S. (2009) ‘Cross-cultural challenges for indigenous sea country management in Australia’, Australian Journal of Environmental Management, vol. 16, pp. 158–167.

3 DEFENDING THE SACRED THROUGH PLANT KNOWLEDGE Susan Leopold

This chapter embodies the concept of dormant ethnobotany (Leopold, 2011), defined as the study of relationships between people and plants that are inactive, but nonetheless still alive in memories, historical records, written folklore and a part of our ecology, thereby capable of re-emergence in support of the transition into a more sustainable society. Defending the sacred is about how we can draw from dormant ethnobotanical knowledge in a time when we have forgotten what it means to value sacred landscapes. It is important to frame the concept of dormancy with a wide spectrum of variation of plant knowledge in various states of use and memory. I am using this concept of dormancy to frame my personal process towards re-emergence of my relationship to the values of sacred landscapes. I learned later in my life my own personal history as it relates to the Patawomeck tribe of Virginia. Those members of the tribe are using archaeology, historical records, a documented language and folklore in the process of reviving their ethnobotanical relationship that in part went dormant in the late 1600s, thus a re-emergence is happening now. My history is not tied to the Lakota, but my journey to Standing Rock was still deeply profound as I opened my heart to listen to the land and to research the history and folklore to define for myself my relationship with sacred landscapes and thus feel empowered to defend our human right to reclaim sacredness. This is a personal narrative of a journey framed in qualitative methodologies: the triangulation of folklore, historical and ecological research. The author acknowledges the subjectivity of one’s own experience and takes to heart the seriousness of how indigenous stories and voices are represented. My intention is to share my story in a very personal narrative that is not objective from a certain type of epistemology, or ways of knowing—rather, it is the story of how my experiences synced in the contextual journey, as I traveled west, to be in solidarity with those who I would meet at Standing Rock. My story and personal reflections will weave their way through this chapter, framed in folklore, art, historical literature, ecology and sacred sites. The indigenous cosmology of time and space is where sacred landscapes, stories and art are interwoven. Plants are for me a sacred link to a circle of ancestry that is layered in stories and folded into the geological history, the changes in climate, habitat and form. My genealogy is tied through nine generations to the thread of the Patowomeck people,

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documented from the perspective of the emerging colonial landscape of Virginia. It is a journey that is told in circles within circles, dreams within dreams and stories within stories. My ethnobotanical connection to plants and place was in a state of dormancy; tapping into this dormant realm became tangible through personal observation, historical and ecological research, appreciation for folklore and dreams. Defending the sacred from my personal journey and perspective is about the plants, our allies and ancestors. If you listen, they will teach you, is a simplistic, yet profound way of thinking. My stories are interwoven from this important perspective; for me, the plants appear in all forms and are carried with us in story, art, ecology, language, water and in each inhalation. This is my story of how I found myself at Standing Rock and how it changed me in the most profound way. It has shifted how I see sacred landscapes and how I then ground myself in the plants because they are always forgiving, always adapting and always providing.

The ghosts of natural history art I start my journey with curiosity for historical characters that were documenting the natural history of Virginia, where I call home. I became infatuated with Mark Catesby (1683– 1749), while writing my dissertation. He was a colonial naturalist whose exploration of the new world was deeply reflected in his artistic compositions. I valued his ethnobotanical observations and his appreciation of the indigenous people who were his guides. In many ways, I am jealous of his opportunities to explore the towering chestnut forests, the prairies of Virginia where Eastern Buffalo once roamed and to have seen the Carolina parakeet, the ivory-billed woodpecker and the passenger pigeon—all ghosts of the natural world. I was fortunate, however, to spend countless hours with his works, the most notable of which being The Natural History of the Carolina, Florida and the Bahama Islands (Catesby, 1747), during the ten years I worked at the Oaks Spring Garden Library in Virginia. Catesby’s work pioneered the composition of birds and plants in natural history art, demonstrating at times interrelationships or themes based on keen observation. In the process of researching another profound botanist, John Clayton (1695–1773) author of Flora Virginica, I stumbled across the illustration of ginseng (Panax quinquefolius) paired with the whip-poor-will (Caprimulgus vociferous) by Mark Catesby (Catesby, Plate 52, vol. II, 1747). Catesby was a mentor to John Clayton, and I was aware that Clayton sent many plant specimens to Catesby, but I later learned that Clayton also sent Catesby a carefully preserved and stuffed “whip-poor-will” as requested (Feduccia, 1985). It seems that while Catesby worked on his final drawings back in England, he struggled to accurately understand this mysterious bird. I mention this because it is curious as to why Catesby paired these two species, and it is also symbolic of the relationship between Catesby and Clayton, who were both pioneers in documenting native medicinal plants and biodiversity of what was the termed the new world. In this pairing, however, Catesby did not note an ecological connection of direct interdependency but instead highlighted the remarks sent to him by Clayton, along with the stuffed specimen, Abundance of people (in the colony of Virginia) look upon them as birds of ill omen, and are very melancholy if one of them happens to light upon their house, or near

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their door, and set up his cry, as they will sometimes upon the threshold, for they verily believe one of the family will die very soon after. (Catesby, Plate 52/Appendix 16, 1747) In the letter that he sent Catesby, Clayton further explains the derivation of the colonial fear of the elusive nightly call of the “whip-poor-will”: “The Indians say these birds were never known till a great massacre was made of their country folks by the English and that they are the souls of departed spirits of the massacred Indians . . . ” (Catesby, Plate 52/ Appendix 16 1747). The infamous massacre to which Catesby was referring is likely that of Patawomeck people that took place in 1666, around 50 years before Catesby arrived in Williamsburg, Virginia. I am a descendant of one of the Patawomeck survivors, Otanaha, who was spared because she was married into the colonial landscapes as a means of survival. My children and I are members of the Virginia-recognized (but not federally recognized) Patawomeck tribe. I found this personally extremely intriguing as to why Catesby, in what was one of his last illustrations, chose to artistically unite these two species. It seemed for me a fortuitous, mystical and perplexing find. Catesby paired a bird whose existence is known in folklore to represent the souls of native people with a medicinal herb we now know to be a powerful adaptogen (a class of herbs that build strength and stamina) that can bring back vitality, which seems telling. I first viewed this composition as a foreshadowing of further demise of our biodiversity perhaps foretold by Catesby, as he also highlighted the intense trade in ginseng that rapidly caught fire in the new world and in China as the obsession with this plant had led to its disappearance in the wild. The sense of foreshadowing was also in part because Catesby is known as one of the earlier scientists to empirically observe the natural and manmade dangers impacting species’ survival and the value of native knowledge. The call of the “whip-poor-will” as dusk falls on the open sky echoes the transition time between light and dark. Ginseng is the quintessential adaptogen, helping us shift our energy and focus as we move through these incredibly trying times. Ginseng, especially among Chinese folklore, is also a spirit herb, a divine root that helps us find balance between the human world and the spirit world. It has been suggested by Feduccia (1985) that the whippoor-will and the ginseng were placed together by Catesby because of the mystical and superstitious connotations attached to both. However interpreted, Clayton and Catesby through their work created a bridge, crossing folkloric oral tradition into historical literature.

Folklore as a framework for cultural prophecy in reconnecting with the natural world and insight into traditional ecological knowledge In dynamic settings, where plants are actively being used for day to day needs and activities, ethnobotanical knowledge has almost always been transmitted orally and through hand-on engagement. Oral traditions are part of the makeup of cultural identity that survives from one generation to another, and may take several forms such as folklore, sayings, teachings, ballads, chants or other forms of ceremony and song. Ethnobotanical knowledge is part of the oral tradition that connects people, place and plants in cultures where it is active. Examination of folklore is an appropriate tool in ethnobotanical inquiry because in both

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dynamic and dormant settings, it is a vessel for communicating plant knowledge and passing it on from one generation to the next. The transition of oral story into literature as well as visual art doesn’t diminish its value but adds to the layers of historical context in a time of transition; it’s a metamorphosis, and it’s a way in which one can tap into dormant ethnobotanical knowledge, the literature becomes an important thread. On my journey to Standing Rock, two relevant themes of folklore emerged: folklore related to prophecy/ cultural manifestation, that emphasizes our relationship to the natural world and folklore that highlights the insight of traditional ecological knowledge. In the spring of 2016, I started to have profound dreams of the ceremonial pipe being passed in a circle and the smoke from the tobacco rising in shadowed light. As ginseng helps to bring balance between the human and the spirit world, tobacco is the plant that brings us in communication with the spirits. For this reason, it is also takes on the significant role of the messenger to offer thanks to the spirit world and to those to whom you offer your heartfelt gratitude. The message of reciprocity, communication and restoring the sacred hoop, defined my personal journey to Standing Rock. The call to go to Standing Rock spoke to people in ways that are unexplainable; it was a convergence that resonated deep within each individual. The smoke of the sacred peace pipe was calling people from across all nations to gather with the heartbeat of the drum; it was the call of the rocks and the call of the open sky. Each night my dreams called me, each day I awoke more dedicated to find a way—even to travel alone, unknowing yet knowing that I needed to be there. As I write this chapter now, one year has passed since the fall of 2017, when the most monumental gathering of native people of the Americas in recent history took place. Reflecting back, the past year has felt like a lifetime. The world seems to be falling apart even faster, the extremes are wider, the cracks are now deep gorges. Pain is revealing itself. There are many documented accounts that embody pain; I have chosen the poetic work of Black Elk as it embodies a profound journey filled with pain and sadness along with the vision that was given to him. How his visions came to be published is in many ways a guide for how we can navigate back towards a sacred relationship with our environment.

Folklore and cultural prophecy in reconnecting with the natural world Black Elk Speaks (Black Elk and Neihardt, 2014) is a recent complete edition that not only tells Black Elk’s personal story translated by Neihardt (1932), but also how Neihardt came to meet Black Elk, and includes an extensive appendix of letters exchanged, original transcripts and insightful essays. The story of their relationship, essentially how the book Black Elk Speaks came into form, is profound because Black Elk recognizes the importance of sharing his story with the world and thus his vision of bringing his people back into the sacred hoop. Nicolas Black Elk (1863–1950) was an Oglala Lakota visionary and healer who lived through the time of Crazy Horse, Wounded Knee and seeing the dreams of his people vanish. Black Elk received a series of visions though out his life, told in his story and illustrated by his friend Standing Bear. Most profound is how he speaks of these visions and truths, translated by Black Elk’s son to Neihardt over many trips that included collaboration between the families of Neihardt and Black Elk. Supported by their families and a mutual admiration they created a bridge between two worlds, Black Elk naming Neihardt

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“Flaming Rainbow” in recognition of his gift as “word sender” (Black Elk and Neihardt, 2014, Appendix 8: 286). Neihardt writes in an essay entitled “A Great Indian Poet” that “Black Elk is truly a great poet” (Black Elk and Neihardt, 2014, Appendix 5: 241). The Lakota carried on these stories in dances and ceremony, thus Neihardt brings to words as best he can Black Elk’s vision and life story so that it can be accessible to the world. A poet himself, Neihardt goes to great lengths to honor the artful poetic way in which Black Elk carries the sacred vessel of his vision and his peoples’ folklore. Black Elk confided that he would think about his vision and become sad because he wanted the world to know about his vision but was powerless to do so. In meeting Neihardt he now had the opportunity to share his vision. Telling his full vision, which was embodied in his life’s story to Neihardt and his son was the first time he had ever told anyone the complete story. It has made me very sad to do this at last, and I have lain awake at night worrying and wondering if I was doing it right: for I know I have given away my power when I have given away my vision. . . . but I think I have done right thing to save the vision. (Black Elk and Neihardt, 2014: 128) Before he passed he set out to speak to the Great Spirit in the place he had his first vision at age nine, again and maybe the last time on this earth, I recall the great vision you sent me. It may be that some little root of the sacred tree still lives, nourish it then, that it may leaf and bloom and fill with singing birds. Hear me not for myself but for my people, I am old. Hear me that they may once more go back into the sacred hoop and find the good red road, the shielding tree. (Black Elk and Neihardt, 2014, Author’s postscript: 172) The folklore shared in the book Black Elk Speaks is profound for several reasons; it’s a window in the cultural world of his people, his story carries a vision for restoring an important relationship with the land and with how we interact with each other. It’s also a story of two families, Black Elk and Neihardt, who transform profound folklore into literature, a thread of dormant ethnobotanical knowledge that is viable for re-emergence, a root of the sacred tree still alive awaiting to be nourished.

Folklore and traditional ecological knowledge The story of the Indian Pipe/Ghost Pipe plant, Montropa uniflora, according to Cherokee folklore, is that the Great Spirit turned the quarrelling elders into Indian Pipes because they smoked the peace pipe without making reconciliation. The Ghost Pipes are therefore a reminder when seen blooming on the forest floor to share the common resources and to make peace before smoking the sacred pipe and communicating with the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit gathered the smoke and draped the white flowers over the mountains as a reminder to live in peace together. The ecological teachings of the Indian Pipe appeared on my trip as I made my way to Standing Rock.

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As the summer of 2016 set in, I was aware that a group of young people from Standing Rock had banded together with a petition signed by members of their tribe: they were running across the country, a journey of 3,000 miles by foot to carry this petition to then President Obama. I started my summer off with a solo road trip to Kentucky to meet with ginseng dealers, diggers and growers to share the work of United Plant Savers, a non-profit dedicated to native medicinal plant conservation. I met up with the band Rising Appalachia, in the town of Berea, witnessing the artful social activism that is taking place to fight not only mountain top removal but to also stop plans to build more prisons on former mountain top removal sites. I was in awe of the Appalachian herbiary collection at Pine Mountain Settlement School, the life work of Ellwood J Carr. I was also deeply moved by the documentary films on Appalachian herbal culture housed at Appalshop. What I was not prepared for was my solo hike in an old growth forest where I witnessed for the first time a sea of Indian Pipes (Montropa uniflora), that covered the forest floor for as far as the eye could see. Our understanding of parasitic plants’ function in the ecosystem is still very limited. Yet in Cherokee folklore, the story of the Indian Pipes symbolizes the importance of collaboration and communication among the elders, essentially to remind our leaders to keep peace. Being in the old growth forest, witnessing a sea of Indian Pipes, it became apparent that the underground network of connectivity was intact in a way that became extremely visual. The Indian Pipes are white because they do not photosynthesize—they are considered mycoheterotrophic, meaning they derive food from the relationship they have below the surface of the soil. Indian pipes derive carbohydrates from green plants by connecting to mycorrhizal networks. Parasitic medicinal plants teach us that not only will they not survive if we continue to fragment their soil habitat, but that we are essentially breaking the neurotransmission capabilities of the ecosystem when we allow horrific practices such as deforestation and mountain top removal. My insight is that we are literally reducing the earth’s ability to adapt, to be resilient, to make peace and to provide ecosystem services we take for granted and that were at one time the basis for how we perceive sacred landscapes. The folklore of the Cherokee lessons of the Indian Pipe took on insightful meaning that day in the old-growth forests of Kentucky. The visualization of the Great Spirit gathering the tobacco smoke from the sacred pipe and draping the white flowers over the mountains to remind us to keep peace, is a reminder of ecological communication via a mycorrhizal network that is critical to the forests’ survival, and essentially our survival. On the drive home I listened to the entire Muhammad Ali funeral that took place in Louisville, Kentucky. Before Ali died, he had planned his funeral by requesting that significant leaders of all faiths would gather to speak. The common dream and platform of caring for humanity was heavily contrasted with the hate speeches that were brewing in the South leading up to the US presidential election. I arrived home in late June and was caught in a terrible storm on my farm that literally twisted and snapped a large cherry tree in half. I peeled the bark from the twisted form of this fresh wild fallen cherry tree, which is used to soothe sore throats and ease coughs. I brought this inner bark with me to Seven Arrows farm in Massachusetts and shared it with those who came and joined in circle at this particular United Plant Savers’ educational event. The cherry bark was the gift of healing in the midst of tragedy and it was a foreshadowing of what was yet to come.

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In August I traveled to Colorado and this is where the ancient voices emerged from the Pueblo song—to purify all that you touch, purify all that is within you. I found myself drawn to visit the sacred site of Chimney Rock (Figure 3.1) where the peregrine falcons have returned after their populations recovered and they were removed from the Endangered Species list. There I was, watching the peregrine falcons, knowing the story of their recovery. The sacred site is also where you can observe the sun rising between the two natural pinnacles on the equinox. It is good medicine to visit places of ancient mystery in times of collective uncertainty. The news was traveling that the native people from across the country were starting to gather at Standing Rock, that the petition to stop the pipeline that the youth had carried by running across the country had fallen on deaf ears in Washington, but the call on the smoke rising had not. My dreams were becoming more intense, and though I was unsure of what I was to do at that time I was committed to attend the IUCN World Conservation Congress in Hawaii. Ten thousand people gathered from around the world to address conservation concerns, to make commitments to conservation, this taking place at the extinction capital of the world, the Hawaiian Islands. I was processing E.O. Wilson’s message as he spoke to this large crowd about how we must love the animate and the inanimate—the living and the dead. How do we embrace the vision of his latest book “Half Earth,” a call to global action to

FIGURE 3.1

Chimney rock Source: Author (used with permission)

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dedicate half the surface of the earth to nature? How do we love the living if we do not love the dead?—this is our ancestral heritage that we have lost the language to feel and express. This is why the recognition of dormant ethnobotanical knowledge and its reemergence is relevant to how we embrace sacred landscapes. The next morning, I awoke in my hotel room to see from the balcony a beached monk seal in the heart of all the hotels at Waikiki. Amazed, I went down to the beach where a team of conservationists were guarding the rare being, because of its endangered status. Overwhelmed with emotion, I decided to take a swim. It was in the calm warm waters that I noticed a shadow coming close to me and as I gazed to see this shadow, there swimming next to me was a hawksbill turtle—another endangered species. I floated in the moment with what felt like a great spirit, the embodiment of Turtle Island and that is when I returned to my room and bought a one-way ticket to North Dakota. From Bismarck, I rented a car and drove in the direction of Standing Rock reservation; I saw the signs of the camp and was greeted upon arrival. The most profound experience of my life would take place just a few hours later; as the transition to dusk approached and evening set in, I found myself in ceremony with those at Standing Rock. I was with nearly 200 tribes of native people of the Americas together in a peaceful camp praying with the remaining languages of our vast continent, being spoken in harmony to stand together to protect not just the waters but to stand up for mother earth, the creator and for Gaia. There was harmony to speak without fear for what we all know is happening on this planet and to do so in prayer, not anger, and not with violence but a call to the creator with tears of grief to be shed in the ever-flowing waters we were gathered to protect. Could the people most betrayed and deeply scarred be the call to action that is needed? I can’t say how this moment in time that I feel we have already lived will come to pass but I can say we have a heritage, cherished and beautiful that is still alive in all of us. I think of all the modern gatherings—rainbow, music festivals, burning man, revivals, marches, this is the one voice we have, yet often this voice is squandered because we lack unity, whereas the corporations have unity in their goal, which is to increase profits for shareholders. It’s a system we all feel we can’t influence so we numb ourselves to the mundane; we become victims to the pain and the medications. What was felt for me in my brief stay at Standing Rock was that there was tremendous healing of veterans, addiction, abuse, shame, and that a shift from victimization to self-revitalization was happening in this camp. It was a relighting of a sacred fire that now has spread fiery sparks, windborne to where they need to land, to provide light and warmth to those camps defending local watersheds regionally. Great Spirit forgives us, yet can we forgive ourselves? With each soul in Standing Rock there was a legacy of many lives lived, a linage of ancestors, of story, of history, of reconciliation, of deep healing. I sat in circle in the lodge with profound stories of foster care, children with no home, abuse, addiction, rape, war veterans, nightmares, trials and tribulations and with those stories humble prayers for forgiveness. Personally, the profound moments for me were the languages—to hear them was the call of the native ecosystems, the call of the trees, birds, insects, healing herbs, amphibians and mammals. We often forget how to communicate with our hearts; the sounds of language are songs that carry these messages. I celebrated to hear them and to be among all my relations.

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The shift After I left Standing Rock, a shift happened in my view of sacred landscapes. I was invited to speak in Missouri on medicinal plants at the Center for Agroforestry just after the camp had been disbanded. Something pulled and tugged on my soul to pull off the highway on my way from Saint Louis to Colombia and what did I find—Graham’s Cave. This cave was home to people 10,000 years ago and is a significant archeological site with many artifacts found telling the story of people who lived and thrived where the southern Missouri Ozarks meet the glaciated plains of the north. The energy of this spot was intoxicating! The original medicinal plant gatherers and conservationists—I was listening to them. After my talk, I traveled to the Cahokia mounds, the largest pre-Colombian settlement north of Mexico. The woodhenge, as it is called, is the astronomical observatory that was uncovered consisting of a circle of wooden posts bringing together this timeless connection of the earth’s movement and the sun’s pathways. The Birdman tablet (Figure 3.2) was found at the site during an excavation in 1971. It is a man with a bird-like mask thought to be a falcon—the back hatch crossing though to represent the skin of a snake. The tablet is presumed to

FIGURE 3.2

Birdman tablet Source: author (used with permission)

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represent the three spiritual realms, the underworld with a snake, this middle world with the man, and the upper world with the bird (Iseminger, 2012). Next, I was invited to speak in Costa Rica at the Envision Festival—not far from the site along the southern pacific coast are these beautiful large round stones. These stone spheres found in several locations in Costa Rica are attributed to the Disquis culture that was thought to flourish from 700 CE to 1530 CE (World Heritage List, 2014). When I spoke at Envision I talked about how I traveled to Standing Rock, and for me it was a reminder of how sacred landscapes have guided humanity. We are living in a time when nothing is sacred anymore. It is no coincidence that the Cannonball River at Standing Rock, also home to naturally formed spherical balls, became the location for the largest gathering of native people to happen in recent history (Figure 3.3). The land is sacred, and Standing Rock is now the birthplace of defending the sacred. The Standing Rock Herbal Medic and Healers Council formed like a flower blooming in the desert, the herbal community bloomed into self-organizing activism speaks to the power of plants to show up and bring us all together. The United Plant Savers Botanical Sanctuary in southern Ohio is a manifestation to bring the concept of sacredness back into our current cultural context. United Plant Savers has a botanical sanctuary network that empowers and encourages individuals or groups to join and start their own sanctuary. We can’t be trapped by known historical landscapes as the only places we deem sacred. Sacredness is alive in our spiritual practices and this is innate in all of us.

FIGURE 3.3

Round river stone from the Cannonball River Source: Author (used with permission)

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The historically documented sacred landscapes/sacred natural sites and sacred groves are where places are set aside with intention for ceremony and also to protect areas where medicinal plants could be gathered and the land stewarded. It has been documented that sacred sites are also areas of increased beta biodiversity and ecosystem functions (Avtzis et al., 2018). Robin W. Kimmer (2002), established the Center for Native People and the Environment at SUNY (merging two intellectual traditions regarding stewardship of the earth: traditional ecological knowledge and scientific ecological knowledge). The merging of two intellectual traditions is also a reflection of the relationship between Black Elk and Neihardt, and the bridge between oral tradition/folklore and literature, and a spark to awaken dormant ethnobotanical knowledge. Not far from the Ohio Botanical Sanctuary is Serpent Mound, an earthen mound thought to be constructed by the Fort Ancient communities around 1030 CE and therefore after the Hopewell period (ca 200 BCE to ca 500 CE), which has left numerous ceremonial marks along the river valleys of southern Ohio. The form of the serpent connects cycles of birth, death and nature in many cultures around the world. There again, similar to Chimney Rock and Cahokia and many other sites, the timeless mysteries and alignments to astrological correlations that bring people to this site for the equinox and solstice, remind us of a cultural legacy of honoring and celebrating the sacred. It is now time to defend our human right to sacredness. There is duality among us as we find balance in how we see and connect with the landscape with which we are an integral part. At the United Plant Savers’ Botanical Sanctuary, we have the talking forest trail filled with native medicinal plants and then we have the reclaim trail, where the land was formally strip mined. We are reminded that nearby along the Ohio River are large coal fired power plants. In communities everywhere the reality of resource extraction looms. We must not look the other way and only see what we can tolerate. My personal journey to Standing Rock is told to support reviving ethnobotanical knowledge and ecological awareness of the sacred relationship we have with the land. In Black Elk’s vision of nourishing the tree and living again within the sacred hoop, and also lingering in the simple lesson of the Cherokee folklore of the Indian Pipe, and the sacred pipe itself, is the message of reciprocity and connectivity in how our web of life holds our fragile world together. The marks of sacred landscapes are all around us, but it is our capacity to see them and to defend them that will define our future.

References Avtzis, D.N., Stara, K., Sgardeli, V., Betsis, A., . . . Halley, J.M., et al. (2018) ‘Quantifying the conservation value of sacred natural sites’, Biological Conservation, vol. 222, pp. 95–103. Black Elk and Neihardt, J.G. (1979) Black Elk speaks: Being the life story of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE. Black Elk and Neihardt, J.G. (2014) Black Elk speaks: The complete edition, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE. Catesby, M. (1747) The natural history of the Carolina, Florida and the Bahama Islands, Biodiversity Heritage Library, London (1731–1734 [1729–1747]). https://doi.org/10.5962/bhl.title.62015. Feduccia, A. (1985) Catesby’s birds of Colonial America, The University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, NC. Iseminger, W. (2012) Cahokia mounds: America’s first city, The History Press, UK.

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Kimmer, R.W. (2002). ‘Weaving traditional ecological knowledge into biological education: A call to action’, BioScience, vol. 52, pp. 432–438. Leopold, S. (2011) Dormant ethnobotany: A case study of decline in regional plant knowledge in the bull run mountains of Virginia. PhD thesis, Department of Environmental Studies, Antioch New England, Keene, NH. World Heritage List. (2014) https://whc.unesco.org/en/newproperties/date=2014&mode=table

4 IMAGINE KANALOA KAHOʻOLAWE Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor

Imagine an island where ancient navigators trained. They learned how to voyage to islands spread across the vast Pacific and return by studying the relative positions of stars and constellations as they rise and set over this island throughout the seasons. Imagine an island where universal time was observed and shrines, temples and house sites were built to mark the daily and seasonal movement of the sun. On this island, the community organized its lifeways in alignment with the cycles of nature. Honored as a body form of Kanaloa, Hawaiian god of the sea, this island, Kahoʻolawe was originally named Kohe mālamalama o Kanaloa—The Shining Birth Canal of Kanaloa. Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe is a place renowned among Pacific navigators as a piko or the center of Hawaiian navigation, which was an integral part of Pacificwide navigation. It is an island that serves as a portal into realms across Ka Pae ʻĀina Hawaiʻi, the broad Pacific, the expansive universe and into the depths of indigenous Hawaiian scientific knowledge. The story of this island as a sacred place, its desecration after Western contact and the spread of Christianity, the degradation of its landscape with goat, sheep and cattle ranching, its use by the U.S. Navy for live-fire training exercises, and the Native Hawaiian movement to stop military use and heal the island is epic. It is laden with meaningful insights and lessons about indigenous peoples’ connections with ancestral lands. This chapter is based upon over 35 years of involvement with Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe as a member of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (the extended family that protects Kahoʻolawe). As a Professor of Ethnic Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa and a historian of Hawaiʻi and the Pacific, I have conducted ethnographic and participatory action research, including oral histories, to reconstruct the history and cultural significance of the island throughout the long struggle to stop the bombing and all military use of the island. This work has been in conjunction with kūpuna or elders, community members, students, cultural practitioners, members of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (ʻOhana) and the Edith Kanakaʻole Foundation.

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In the time of old Kahoʻolawe, the smallest of Hawaiʻi’s major islands, consists of 45 square miles of volcanic craters, hills, valleys, rugged cliffs and sandy shorelines, with nearshore reefs and deep ocean channels. It lies eight miles south of Maui. The island was also home to farmers and fishers who settled along the coastline around 1000 CE. It became a center for training in celestial navigation between 1200 and 1400 CE. The population continued to grow until the era of contact with European trade. (KICC, 1993a) Native Hawaiians first settled Kanaloa sometime around 1000 CE. They built their homes in its valleys, fished its waters and farmed its slopes. At Puʻu Moiwi, they hewed stone adzes out of basalt veins at what is the second largest such quarry in the Hawaiian Islands. They also crafted basaltic glass cutting tools, carved petroglyphs, and built fishing shrines and temples to sacred deities. (KICC, 1993a) There are 69 coastal fishing shrines which early Native Hawaiian settlers constructed around the island to mark separate fishing grounds for distinct varieties of fish which thrive in the ocean offshore. In addition, there are numerous inland shrines which also appear to have a connection to fishing. The ocean surrounding the island has continued to be accessed by fishermen from Maui for fish, seaweed, limpets and other forms of marine life for subsistence and medicinal uses. The coral reefs surrounding Kanaloa are in a pristine condition relative to the reefs off of heavily populated areas of our islands. There is still a wide variety and abundance of fish and marine life in the reefs and ocean around Kanaloa. Seabirds live in cliffs and rocky islets on the leeward side of Kanaloa. The following “Oli Kuhohonu O Kahoʻolawe Mai No Kūpuna Mai/Deep Chant of Kahoʻolawe from our Ancestors” is an example of a chant composed by early Native

FIGURE 4.1

Ahupū (June 2014) is the location of house sites, a fresh water source and one of the largest basaltic glass quarries in Hawai‘i. Photo by Noa Emmett Aluli1

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Hawaiians for Kanaloa. The chant connects the island to navigators returning from a transpacific voyage. Wehewehe mai nei kahi ao Dawn is breaking. Ku mai na waa kaulua Two double-hulled canoes are sighted. Pue ke kanaka mai ka waa mai The men cheer from the canoe. Kukulu ka iwi o ka aina Land is sighted. Ailana Kohemalamalama To your left it is like heaven all lit up Hoohiki keia moku ia Kanaloa We dedicate this island to Kanaloa. Akua o ka moana ili, moana uli God of the shallow and deep ocean Ke holo nei me ke au kahili We are running in an erratic current. Ohaehae mai ka makani The wind is blowing from all directions. Alala keiki pua alii The chief’s child is crying (also the name of the channel between Kahoʻolawe and Maui). Ka piko hole pelu o Kanaloa The island of Molokini is shaped like the navel of Kanaloa. Kahua pae ii kihonua ahua The channel between Molokini—Kanaloa and Maui Kahiki Nui is shallow. Puehu ka lepo o Moaula Dust is spreading over Mount Moa’ula. Puuhonua mookahuna kilo pae honua Gathering place of the kahuna classes to study astronomy. Pohaku ahu aikupele kapili o Keaweiki Stone of deep magic of Keaweiki Kaulilua ka makani ke hae nei The wind is chilly Kawele hele nei o Hineli’i Light rain is falling Napoo ka la i Kahiki Moe The sun is setting towards Kahiki. Nue mai ke ao Lanikau The glow after the sunset is like the colors of the rainbow Kapu mai ka honua kupaa loa The world seems to be standing still. Pau ka luhi ana o ka moana We shall no more labor on the ocean.

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Manao halana pu i ke Akua My thoughts are enlightened towards God. He aloha pili kau no keia aina My love for this land will always be deep within my heart. Aloha no ka mana o na kūpuna I love the knowledge and power of my ancestors. (Nā Leo, 1995) Within the chant, four ancient names for Kanaloa are revealed: Kohemalamalama, meaning to your left and lit up like heaven; Hineliʻi, light rain; Kahiki Moe, the sun sets in Kahiki; and Kanaloa, Hawaiian and Polynesian god of the ocean, ocean currents and navigation. Two of the above names can be combined into a fifth: Kohemalamalama o Kanaloa, the southern beacon of Kanaloa, or alternately, the shining birth canal of Kanaloa. The more recent name, Kahoʻolawe can be translated as to take and to embrace. Creation myths for Kanaloa also reinforce its significance as a sacred place. The island, like Hawaiʻi, Maui, Kauaʻi, Niʻihau and Oʻahu, was born of Papa and Wākea. Two chants by composers of the time of Kamehameha (1782–1819) give similar accounts of the birth of the island by Papa. The chant by Pakui records it as follows: Kaahea Papa ia Kanaloa, he moku, Papa was prostrated with Kanaloa, an island, I hanauia he punua he naia, Who was born as a birdling; as a porpoise; He keiki ia na Papa i hanau, A child that Papa gave birth to, Haalele Papa hoi i Tahiti, Then Papa left and went back to Tahiti, Hoi a Tahiti Kapakapakaua Went back to Tahiti at Kapakapakaua. (Fornander, 1916–1919) The Fornander account of Puʻuoinaina, the legendary moʻowahine (mythical dragon lizard and woman) who lived on Kanaloa refers to the island as a sacred land. According to the myth: This daughter of theirs was placed on Kahoolawe; the name of Kahoolawe at that time, however, was Kohemalamalama; it was a very sacred land at that time, no chiefs or common people went there. (Fornander, 1916–1919) Kanaloa’s status as a sacred island is also related to its role as a training center in the art and science of navigating transpacific voyages using the stars for wayfinding.

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Kanaloa as a training center for way finding Kanaloa, the god and the island, figured prominently in the long voyages between Hawaiʻi and Tahiti. Moaʻula iki at the piko or central part of the island was the location of a traditional training school for navigators. Moaʻula is a place name associated with a place in Tahiti. Moaʻula was one of the powerful kahuna priests associated with Kanaloa. An important feature of this site is a bell stone which was broken in half and carried to this point in two parts and placed back together. The split in the rock is oriented north to south. The ancient name of the rock is “pohaku ahu ‘aikupele kapili o Keaweiki”/“the put together rock that kneads the knowledge of the moʻokahuna priest Keaweiki.” The kahuna, Keaweiki, was associated with the school for training in astronomy and navigation at Moaʻulaiki. At Moaʻulaiki are found the foundations of a platform used for the navigational school and of a house site for the kahuna who instructed the students in navigation (Figure 4.2). Moaʻulaiki affords a panoramic view of the islands of Lanaʻi, Oʻahu, Molokaʻi, Maui and Hawaiʻi, all the interconnecting channels and the currents which run through them. It was and remains an ideal site for astronomical observation in relation to the surrounding islands and channels. (Aluli and McGregor, 1992) Oral traditions identify Lae O Kealaikahiki as the major departure point from where Hawaiians left when they traveled between Hawaiʻi and Tahiti in the thirteenth century. The name translates into Point of the Pathway to Tahiti. The Hawaiians probably waited here for the ideal moon, wind and other signs to launch their voyages to Tahiti in the strong southerly Kealaikahiki Channel and current. Members of the Hokuleʻa estimate that

FIGURE 4.2

Moa‘ulaiki (May 2016) affords a panoramic view of surrounding islands and a 360 degree view of the horizon, making it ideal for training navigators. A wooden lele (altar) built by the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana at the edge of the rock, “Pohaku ahu ‘aikupele kapili o keaweiki,” is for the placement of offerings to Lono, Hawaiian god of agriculture. Photo by Noa Emmett Aluli

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they could have saved five days sailing if they had left from here rather than from the Big Island.2 While in the Kealaikahiki Channel, the crew also noted that, if the stern of Hokuleʻa is aligned with Puʻu O Hoku, Molokaʻi on the northern horizon and the north star above it in the heavens, then the bow of the canoe was aimed directly for the point in the heavens that marks the location of Tahiti. The Hokuleʻa crew also noted that Kanaloa lies one mile north of 20º30ʹ latitude, making it the closest land mass to the latitudinal center of the main Hawaiian islands. Memorizing the image of Newe, the Southern Cross, from sea level, near this latitudinal center, in relation to Hokupaʻa, the North Star, is critical for navigators to learn how to find Hawaiʻi on their voyage home, making Kanaloa and, especially, Lae O Kelaikahiki, the ideal location for their training. Master navigator Nainoa Thompson considers Kealaikahiki “the greatest navigational school on the earth.”3 Just above the high water mark, inland from Lae O Kealaikahiki is a traditional compass site comprised of four large boulders. The lines formed by the placement of the stones mark true north, south, east, west, as has been verified by placing a compass in the center of the stones. Jutting out from the shoals just south of Lae O Kealaikahiki, was another key traditional and contemporary navigational marker, identified on the charts as Black Rock. The traditional name for it is Pohaku Kuhi Keʻe I Kahiki, the rock that points the way to Tahiti. The rock was an important marker for boats sailing along the Western side of Kanaloa, because it indicated how far the shoals extended into the channel. It mysteriously disappeared in 1984 after a military training exercise. Peter Buck concluded through his research that Kealaikahiki was the primary departure point for voyages to Tahiti. He wrote as follows: The point of departure for the south was the passage between Kahoolawe and Maui which was named Ke Ala i Kahiki (The Course to Tahiti). In a translation from Kamakau, Alexander refers to the southern sailing directions. Hokupaa, the North Star, was left directly astern; and when Hokupaa sank below the norther horizon on reaching the Piko o Wakea (the Equator), Newe became the guiding star to the south. No sailing directions were given for the return voyage to the north. (Buck, 1964) The legend of Moʻikeha, chief of Kauaʻi, who sent his son Kiha to bring his other son, Laʻamaikahiki back to Hawaiʻi places Kanaloa as centerpiece in navigation between Hawaiʻi and Tahiti. Fornander offers the following translation of the Laʻamaikahiki account: As the place [Kahikinui, Maui] was too windy, Laamaikahiki left it and sailed for the west coast of the island of Kahoolawe, where he lived until he finally left for Tahiti. It is said that because Laamaikahiki lived on Kahoolawe, and set sail from that island, was the reason why the ocean to the west of Kahoolawe is called “the road to Tahiti.” After Laamaikahiki had lived on Kahoolawe for a time, his priests became dissatisfied with the place, so Laamaikahiki left Kahoolawe and returned to Kauai. Upon the death of Moikeha [his father] the land descended to Kila, and Laamaikahiki returned to Tahiti. (Fornander, 1916–1919)

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In the ocean of Kanaloa Primary evidence of the rich and varied fishing resources of the waters surrounding Kanaloa are the location of 69 fishing koʻa/shrines around the island, as mentioned above. The first settlers may have been attracted to Kanaloa from Maui by the fishing resources, and decided to make a home there. Koʻa were used by fishermen to mark and develop their fishing grounds. The first caught fish were given as offerings on the koʻa upon returning from a day of fishing, as gratitude for the guidance of the shrine. The koʻa serve as land markers for ocean fishing grounds. In some cases the fish were fed at certain grounds to assure that they would be plentiful in those designated areas and the koʻa serves as a land marker. Kūʻula the patron of fishing is honored at the fishing koʻa. He is represented on the shrine as an upright stone. A broader stone is usually placed next to the upright to represent, Hina, the wife of Kūʻula. The practices honoring Kūʻula were introduced in Hawaiʻi by his son Aʻiaʻi. Beckwith offers the following explanation of the Kūʻula custom: The god lived as a man on earth on East Maui in the land called Alea-mai at a place called Leho-ula (Red-cowry) on the side of the hill Ka-iwi-o-Pele (the bones of Pele). There he built the first fishpond; and when he died he gave to his son Aiai the four magic objects with which he controlled the fish and taught him how to address the gods in prayer and how to set up fish altars. The objects were a decoy stick called Pahiaku-kahuoi (kahuai), a cowry called Leho-ula, a hook called Manai-a-ka-lani, and a stone called Kuula which, if dropped into a pool, had the power to draw the fish thither. His son Aiai, following his instructions, traveled about the islands establishing fishing stations (koʻa) at fishing grounds (koʻa aina) where fish were accustomed to feed and setting up altars (kuula) upon which to lay, as offerings to the fishing gods, two fish from the first catch. (Beckwith, 1970) One of the early shrines built by Aʻiaʻi in Hawaiʻi was on Kanaloa at Hakioawa. It is described as a square-walled Kūʻula like a heiau (temple), set on a bluff looking out to the sea. (Beckwith, 1970) The following account of how Aʻiaʻi constructed the shrine on Kanaloa was published by Thomas Thrum in his Hawaiian Folk Tales: Thus was performed the good work of Aiai in establishing ku-ula stations and fish stones continued all around the island of Maui. It is also said that he visited Kahoolawe and established a ku-ula at Hakioawa, though it differs from the others, being built on a high bluff overlooking the sea, somewhat like a temple, by placing stones in the form of a square, in the middle of which was left a space wherein the fishermen of that island laid their first fish caught, as a thank offering. Awa and kapa were also placed there as offerings to the fish deities. (Thrum, 1907) There are other place names on the island which identify additional marine resources utilized by Hawaiians who lived on the island. Honokanaiʻa is the traditional name for what is called Smuggler’s Bay. It means “the dolphin harbor.” Dolphins are frequently observed playing in the offshore waters of this bay. A bay between Honokanaiʻa and Kealaikahiki is

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named Honukanaenae, meaning “tired turtle.” This was where the turtles came to rest, and to lay their eggs. It is not currently used as a nesting spot by turtles, probably because of the location of the military encampment in the vicinity. (Nā Maka O Ka ʻĀina, 1989) Koʻele Bay is said to refer to a variety of large tough opihi, the koʻele species. (Napoka, 1983) The easternmost point and westernmost points of Kuheʻeia Bay are the sites of fishing koʻa and bear names referring to the white hilu fish and the red hilu fish, respectively. The eastern point is Laehilukea, white hilu (fish) point. The western point is Laehiluʻula, red hilu (fish) point. Kuheʻeia Bay, itself, means squid grounds. (Napoka, 1983) Laepuhi means eel point. Laeokuakaʻiwa means the point where the frigate bird roosts. Nalaekohola, the names for the two outermost poins of Ahupu Bay means the points of the humpback whales (Napoka, 1983: see Figure 4.1). Puʻu Koaʻe is the name of an islet off of the southern coast of Kanaloa. It means “hill of the tropic bird.” These seabirds who feed daily off of deep sea fish guide fishermen to schools of fish in the open ocean and can be followed back to landfalls. (Napoka, 1983)

History Between 1400 CE and 1600 CE, Native Hawaiians opened agricultural plots inland and planted sweet potatoes and dryland crops. By the middle of the seventeenth century, the northeast portion of the island at Hakioawa emerged as the largest settlement on the island. They built many house sites, two major heiau, and several koʻa there. The population began to decline in the eighteenth century due to interisland warfare and introduced diseases which had affected the other Hawaiian islands. In particular, High Chief Kalaniopuʻu of Hawaiʻi invaded Kanaloa during one of his battles against High Chief Kahekili for control over Maui, Lanaʻi, and Kanaloa and many of the residents perished. In 1793 Captain George Vancouver gifted Kahekili with two goats which were sent to Kahoʻolawe to grow and multiply. Eventually, over the following two centuries, thousands of goats denuded the island of its vegetation. Exposed to strong winds and good annual rainfall the island became heavily eroded, with almost eight feet of its top soil running off into the surrounding ocean. In the 1820s when the Hawaiian chiefs and chiefesses converted to Christianity, this sacred island was debased into serving as a prison through 1853 for those who violated the Christian law that criminalized adultery, those who converted to Catholicism rather than Protestant Christianity, and other crimes such as rebellion, theft, divorce and murder. (Kamakau, 1992) In 1858, the island was leased for sheep ranching. Overgrazing by goats and sheep destroyed the natural flora and left the island bare and vulnerable to the erosive forces of wind and rain. Reforestation efforts in the early twentieth century introduced noxious alien species of trees, grasses and shrubs to sustain cattle ranching which further degraded the island’s ecosystem. (KICC, 1993a) Beginning with the U.S. involvement in World War II, on December 8, 1941, the U.S. military took over control of the island to use for live-fire military training exercises. By September 1945, 150 Navy pilots, the crews of 532 major ships and 350 Navy, Marine and Army shore fire control officers had trained at Kahoʻolawe. Another 730 service members had trained in joint signal operations on the island. Every major battle to retake Pacific islands held by the Japanese was first staged on Kahoʻolawe. During the Korean War, Navy carrier planes used Kahoʻolawe to practice airfield attacks and strafing runs on vehicle

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FIGURE 4.3

Naulu (May 2011) is a rain ko‘a (altar) on the east rim of Moa‘ulanui built to call the naulu cloud from Haleakalā on Maui. According to Hawaiian elders, the naulu cloud would form daily on the slopes of Haleakalā, when it was forested, and connect to Moa‘ulanui, bringing rain to for the island‘s crops and dryland forest. Photo by Noa Emmett Aluli

convoys and other mock North Korean targets. In 1965, during the Cold War era, a onekiloton nuclear explosion was simulated on the island when the U.S. Navy detonated 500 tons of TNT. During the Vietnam era, Navy and Marine Corps planes practiced attacks on surface-to-air missile sites, airfields and radar stations. By the time of the Gulf War, live-fire training on the island was reduced, as the Navy shifted its primary training to other state-ofthe-art electronic target ranges. Every conventional weapon in the arsenal of the U.S. Navy was fired on Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe (McGregor, 2002). In January 1976, Native Hawaiians staged an occupation of Kahoʻolawe as a means of drawing national attention to the desperate conditions of Native Hawaiians.4 A bill to grant Native Hawaiians monetary reparations for the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy by U.S. naval forces was pending in Congress. Three young men from Molokaʻi, George Helm, Dr. Noa Emmett Aluli and Walter Ritte were in the one boat which made it past the Coast Guard blockade and actually landed on the island. While the Navy arrested the protesters, Ritte and Aluli remained hidden. Staying behind, they roamed the island for two days before being discovered and arrested. Not only did they witness vast destruction around the island, they also felt the presence of a deep spiritual force. Kahoʻolawe revealed to them that it was not just a barren target island. This initial occupation sparked a vibrant movement to stop the bombing and all military use of the island, to heal and eventually revitalize it as a sacred Hawaiian place. Reviewing the stages of this revitalization may provide lessons in how to deal with disputes over conflicting uses of indigenous lands (McGregor, 2002).

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Revitalization of a sacred island Stage one: rediscovery The first landing on Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe marked the first stage in the revitalization of the island as a sacred place, the rediscovery of the spiritual nature of the island. Seeking an explanation of their spiritual epiphany on Kahoʻolawe, Aluli and Ritte together with Helm sought out Native Hawaiian kūpuna, or elders, to share their memories of Kahoʻolawe. They drew upon the Native Hawaiian communities of Molokaʻi, Hana and Hawaiʻi. Molokaʻi kūpuna revealed that the island had served as a refuge for Native Hawaiian spiritual customs and practices and that it was a center for training in the arts of noninstrument navigation involving the sighting of heavenly bodies. Kūpuna from Maui shared the chants, traditions and history about Kaho‘olawe which they learned from their kūpuna. They also shared their tradition of fishing, gathering limu and subsisting upon the abundant marine resources of the ocean surrounding the island. Kūpuna and Kumu Hula (hula master), Edith Kanakaʻole from Hawaiʻi island advised the young men to organize their work to stop military use of Kahoʻolawe in a Hawaiian manner, as an ‘ohana or extended family for the island rather than as a western structured association (McGregor 2007).

Stage two: reconstruction Through the course of this journey of rediscovery, an entirely new image of Kahoʻolawe as a sacred island emerged. As discussed above, the Native Hawaiian kūpuna revealed the original name of the island as Kohemālamalama O Kanaloa, or Kanaloa, and described its central role in the training of navigators in the arts of wayfinding. The leaders re-organized as the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana (ʻOhana). An ʻohana is an extended family comprised of all generations—parents, grandparents, youth and children, as well as those who have passed on and those yet to be born. The involvement of the kūpuna in the ʻOhana proved critical in guiding the group along a Hawaiian cultural path of community organizing. The ʻOhana expanded to all of the islands, with its political center on Molokaʻi, rather than the political and economic capital on Oʻahu. The ʻOhana matured into a distinctly Hawaiian grassroots political group grounded in Hawaiian culture and spirituality. One of the leaders of the ʻOhana (Aluli) was a descendant of Joseph and Emma Nawahī, founders of the Hui Aloha ʻĀina, or the Hawaiian Patriotic League, which led the movement in 1893–1900 to restore the Hawaiian monarchy and oppose the Annexation of Hawaiʻi. Researching the Ke Aloha ʻĀina newspaper and the historic work of the organization, the ʻOhana decided to adopt “Aloha ʻĀina” as the slogan to rally the community around the movement to stop the bombing and military use of the island. Again, the kūpuna shared the kaona or multiple layers of meaning of Aloha ʻĀina. Literally, it means Love and Respect the Land and All of its Resources and was one of the core ethical values of Hawaiian ancestors to provide stewardship of the Hawaiian Islands. Politically it means Love of the Hawaiian Nation or Patriotism, as was invoked by the historic Hawaiian Patriotic League. Spiritually, it means to Love and Respect the Life Force of Nature who Hawaiian ancestors honored as deities and is the core belief of Native Hawaiian religion. Gradually, the ʻOhana evolved into a Hawaiian cultural and spiritual organization that began to revive Hawaiian cultural and spiritual beliefs, customs and practices revolving around Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe.

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Stage three: advocacy While the ʻOhana continued to organize illegal landings on the island throughout 1976, it also filed a federal lawsuit to enjoin the Navy from further bombing. (Aluli v. Brown, 437 F. Supp. 602, 604 (D. Haw. 1977)). The ʻOhana claimed that the U.S. Navy was in violation of several federal laws. By not conducting a survey of the historic cultural sites and developing a cultural management plan, the U.S. Navy was in violation of the National Historic Preservation Law. Holding live-fire naval exercises during the season when humpback whales give birth and nurse their young in the waters surrounding Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe was a violation of the Endangered Species Law. Under the American Indian Religious Freedom Law, the Navy was obligated to provide access to Native Hawaiians for religious practices and ceremonies. Continued bombing of the island without efforts to control erosion was a violation of the Environmental Protection Law. Under the executive order which transferred the island, the U.S. Navy was required to eradicate the goats on the island, and nothing was being done to control the goat population. March 1977 marked a pivotal moment for the ‘Ohana with the mysterious loss of its leader George Helm with James Kimo Mitchell in the ocean off of Kahoʻolawe during a protest of the bombing. Their martyrdom galvanized the movement to mature, expand and persevere. The illegal occupations had taken a serious toll on the lives of ʻOhana members with arrests, expensive court defenses, imprisonments and the loss of lives. In summer 1977, the strategy turned to building a base of support to make a political impact in the courts and the legislature (Morales, 1984). Impressively, in October 1980, as a result of the federal lawsuit, the federal court found that the U.S. Navy was in violation of the laws cited by the ʻOhana. The court mandated the parties to enter into a consent decree and order, which required that the United States “recognize that Plaintiffs’ organization [the ʻOhana] seeks to act as stewards of the moku [island] Kahoʻolawe,” and gave the ʻOhana access to the island with the responsibility to evaluate and ensure that the Navy lived up to specific responsibilities set out in the order.5 Thus, both in practice and as a matter of law, a Native Hawaiian political organization, the ʻOhana, began to exercise shared governance responsibility with the U.S. Navy over a major Hawaiian island, from 1980 until 2003, while the United States Navy retained control of access to Kahoʻolawe.6 A United States District Court recognized a Native Hawaiian political organization “acting as stewards of the island” for a period of nearly 23 years. Moreover, under the Consent Decree, the Court accorded specific access to Kahoʻolawe, not to the state or county officials, but to the ʻOhana—a Native Hawaiian political and cultural organization. Importantly, under the Consent Decree, the Navy was required to limit the zone for live-fire exercises to the central third of the island and to stop military exercises for 10 days of each month. During those 10 days, the Navy was mandated to survey and protect the island’s historic sites, clear one-third of the island of surface ordnance, eradicate the goats, implement an erosion prevention program and allow the ‘Ohana monthly access to the island for 10 months of the year. With access assured, the ʻOhana was able to remain in touch with and expand its experience and relationship with the island. Moreover, it enabled the ʻOhana to bring hundreds of Hawaiʻi’s people along with them and connect spiritually with the island (McGregor, 2007).

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Stage four: revival of cultural practices During its access to the island, the ‘Ohana began to clear and rededicate cultural sites and conduct religious ceremonies. The first ceremony to be revived, in 1980–1981, was the Makahiki ceremony that calls upon Lono, the Hawaiian god of the rain season and of agricultural productivity, to heal, re-green and replenish the island and its resources (Figure 4.4). This ceremony has opened in November and closed in January–February each year since 1980. Protocols and prayers for the ceremonies were provided by Kūpuna and Kumu Hula Edith Kanakaʻole and her ʻohana, of Hawaiʻi Island. Participants journey from all of the islands to be a part of the Makahiki ceremonies on Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe. Significantly, participants, inspired by their experience on the island, have re-opened the practice of Makahiki on their home islands Ceremonies to honor Kanaloa, Hawaiian god of the ocean; Kāne, Hawaiian god of fresh water sources (Figure 4.3); Laka, the goddess of hula; Kūʻula, god of fishing; and Papa, earth mother, have all been revived and are now practiced on the island. Protocols to honor the island, itself, as a sacred place have been established. Those who go to the island must chant to ask permission to land and to depart from the island. Once on the island, a ceremonial cleansing, or kapu kai, in the ocean is conducted for all participants. This protocol involves the release of worries and concerns for the period of their stay on the island so that they can focus on positive energy while engaging in activities on the island. Pre-dawn observations and a chant to welcome the sunrise are done each day. Participants also do chants for focus before getting involved in work projects and a chant to honor call upon their ancestors for inspiration, strength, wisdom and vision. The island, was reborn as a sacred place, acknowledged to be one of the manifestations of Kanaloa. There is no electricity, running water or facilities in the base camp of the ‘Ohana. Immersion in the natural life forces on the island and participation in aloha ‘āina work projects provides participants with a life-transforming experience that awakens a spiritual consciousness. Most who journey to the island affirm that the experience reconnects them to their ancestors, to

FIGURE 4.4

Ceremonies at Moa‘ulaiki are conducted annually by Native Hawaiian practitioners who gather from all of the islands to honor Lono, Hawaiian god of agriculture, during the rainy season of Makahiki. They chant and make offerings to call for annual rains to revitalize the island. Photo by Noa Emmett Aluli

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their identity as Hawaiians and are inspired to practice their culture when they return home. Some have changed their livelihoods to include the practice of aloha ʻāina in their lives.

Stage five: return and healing Ten years after the signing of the U.S. Navy-Protect Kahoʻolawe ‘Ohana Consent Decree a breakthrough occurred on October 22, 1990. In an effort to win votes for a Republican senatorial candidate, President George H.W. Bush stopped all live-fire military exercises on Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe. The Democratic senatorial candidate worked with Hawaiʻi’s Senator Daniel K. Inouye to pass a congressional measure which stopped live-fire military exercises on the island unless a report recommending the future use of the island would be submitted to congress within two years. Twenty-one studies about the natural and cultural resources of the island as well as the extent of unexploded ordnance on the island and methods to remove it, formed the foundation for a recommendation to end all military use of the island and return the island to the people of Hawaiʻi (KICC, 1993b).7 Title to Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe was transferred to the State of Hawaiʻi in May 1994; the U.S. Navy retained control over access to the island, overseeing an omnibus clean up of the island from November 10, 1993 through November 11, 2003. After 50 years of use as a military weapons range Kahoʻolawe/Kanaloa’s 28,800 acres were contaminated with shrapnel, target vehicles and unexploded ordnance. The U.S. Navy signed an agreement with the State of Hawaiʻi to clean up 30 percent of the island’s subsurface of ordnance.8 The U.S. Congress appropriated $460 million for the U.S. Navy to fulfil this obligation. The U.S. Navy contracted Parsons-UXB Joint Venture to conduct what is acknowledged to be the largest unexploded ordnance remediation project in the history of the United States. Over 10 million pounds of metal, 370 vehicles and 14,000 tiers were removed from the island and recycled. However, rather than clearing 30 percent of the island to a depth of 4 feet, the Navy contractor only cleared 2,650 acres or 9 percent of the island’s subsurface. Another 19,464 acres, or 68 percent of the island’s surface, was cleared of ordnance but 6,686 acres, or 23 percent of Kanaloa, has not been cleared at all. A disturbing fact is that the U.S. Navy can only guarantee that it is 90 percent confident that 85 percent of the ordnance in the 2,650 acres was cleared of ordnance to a depth of 4 feet (McGregor, 2007).9 Access to our beloved island will continue to be limited to the “cleared” areas which have the highest priority for cultural activities and revegetation projects. The uncleared areas can be accessed in small groups and with guides who are trained to detect and handle unexploded ordnance. The Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission (KIRC) manages access to the island and has provided training of its staff and selected members of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana as “access guides.” The KIRC takes volunteers to the island to help with its restoration activities. The Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana has a Stewardship Agreement with the KIRC by which it can take volunteers to the island to participate in restoration, educational, cultural and spiritual activities. The focus of all visits to the island is on the healing and restoration of the cultural and natural resources of Kanaloa and reviving Native Hawaiian spiritual and cultural customs and practices. The limited clearance of ordnance means that the island will not be opened for general recreational or commercial activities nor for resorts, golf courses or subdivisions. Under state law, commercial use of the island is prohibited and the State of Hawaiʻi holds the island in trust for eventual transfer to the sovereign Hawaiian entity when it is

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re-established and recognized by the federal and state governments. The ‘Ohana is committed to hold the Navy accountable to clear more of the island as use and needs expand so that the island can ultimately be returned to the sovereign Hawaiian entity for safe and meaningful use as a cultural reserve.

Haʻina Ia Mai—tell the story The story of the healing of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe is the story of a generation of Native Hawaiians assuming responsibility to end abuse of Native Hawaiian lands and in the process reclaiming ancestral cultural and spiritual beliefs, customs and practices. This is reflected in the words of founder and leader of the ʻOhana, Noa Emmett Aluli: On Kahoʻolawe, we’ve been able to live together as Hawaiians. We’ve been able to practice the religion and to carry on the traditions we’ve learned from our kūpuna, our elders. In doing this, we connect to the land, and we connect to the gods. We call them back to the land and back to our lives . . . We commit for generations, not just for careers. We set things up now so that they’ll be carried on. We look ahead together so that many of us share the same vision and dream. To our next generations we say, Go with the spirit. Take the challenge. Learn something. Give back. (Na Leo, 1995) The work to heal the island is also the work to heal as a people and a nation. As the first lands set aside to be returned to the re-established Native Hawaiian nation, the story of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe will continue to develop to new stages and levels inspiring new generations.

Notes 1 Photos for this article were provided by Noa Emmett Aluli, M.D. who was among those who made the first landing in January 1976 and who founded and continues to be a leader of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana. 2 Nainoa Thompson and Gordon Piʻianaia related this to McGregor in October 1991 when the Hokuleʻa and its training crew visited Kahoʻolawe. 3 Nainoa Thompson, in the series “Reclaiming Kahoʻolawe: A Hawaii News Now Special Report” by Lacy Deniz, March 5, 2018, www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/37651748/reclaiming-kahoo lawe-a-hawaii-news-now-special-report, accessed May 29, 2018 4 D. McGregor-Alegado (1980) “Hawaiians: Organizing in the 1970s.” In 1972 one-third of all Native Hawaiians earned poverty-level incomes of $4,000 or below. In 1970, Hawaiians comprised 30 percent of the welfare recipients and 49.5 percent of all adult inmates. The unemployment rate for Native Hawaiians was higher than the general population. Only 50 percent of adult Hawaiians over 25 had graduated from high school and the drop out rate for Native Hawaiians was 23 percent compared to the state rate of 13 percent. 5 Consent Decree and Order, December 1, 1980, filed in the United States District Court, Civil No. 76–0380 in Aluli, et al., v Brown, Secretary of Defense, et al. (signed by Hon. William Schwarzer, (D.C. N.D. Cal.) 6 Title to Kahoʻolawe was transferred to the State of Hawaiʻi on May 7, 1994, but control of access and the Consent Decree remained in full force and effect until 11 November 2003. 7 The 21 reports can be found on the web site of the Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission, www.kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/plans-policies-reports.shtml, accessed May 29. 2018.

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8 The Tranfer of title and legal agreements can be viewed at the Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission site www.kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/legal.shtml. accessed May 29, 2018. 9 Parsons-UXB Joint Venture, Final Summary After Action Report Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve, Final, December 2004, pp. 29 and 44. Can be viewed at www.kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/downloads/ PUXBFinal%20SummaryAfterActionReport.pdf. accessed May 29, 2018.

References Aluli, N.E., and McGregor, D.P. (1992) ‘Mai Ke Kai Mai Ke Ola, from the ocean comes life: Hawaiian customs, uses and practices on Kahoʻolawe relating to the surrounding ocean’, The Hawaiian Journal of History, Honolulu, vol. 26, pp. 231–254. Beckwith, M. (1970) Hawaiian mythology, University of Hawaiʻi Press, Honolulu, HI. Buck, P.H. (1964) Arts and crafts of Hawaiʻi, Section VI—Canoes, Bernice P. Bishop Museum Special Publication 45, Bishop Museum Press, Honolulu, HI. Consent Decree and Order. (1980, December 1) ‘Filed in the United States District Court, Civil No. 76-0380 in Aluli, et al., v Brown, Secretary of Defense, et al. (signed by Hon. William Schwarzer, (D.C. N.D. Cal.)’. Fornander, A. (1916–1919) Fornander collection of Hawaiian antiquities and folklore. The Hawaiians’ account of the formation of their islands and origins of their race, with the traditions of their migrations as gathered from original sources, Bishop Museum, Memoir IV: 128, Bishop Museum, Honolulu, IV: 12. Kaho‘olawe Island Conveyance Commission (KICC). (1993a) Kahoʻolawe: Restoring a cultural treasure, Final Report of the Kaho‘olawe Island Conveyance Commission to the Congress of the United States, March 31, 1993, Maui. Kahoʻolawe Island Conveyance Commission (KICC). (1993b) ‘21 reports on the history, resources and unexploded ordnance on the island of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe’, www.kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/planspolicies-reports.shtml, accessed May 29, 2018. Kahoʻolawe, Nā Leo O Kanaloa: Chants and Stories of Kahoʻolawe. (1995) Photographs by Wayne Levin, Rowland B. Reeve, Franco Salmoiraghi, David Ulrich, ‘Ai Pohaku Press, Honolulu, p. xiv. Kamakau, S. (1992) Ruling chiefs of Hawaiʻi, The Kamehameha Schools Press, Honolulu, HI. McGregor, D. (2002) ‘Kaho‘olawe: Rebirth of the sacred’, Amerasia Journal, “The Politics of Remembering” edited by Henry Yu and Mae M. Ngai, vol. 28, no. 3, pp. 68–83. McGregor, D. (2007) Na Kuaʻāina: Living Hawaiian culture, University of Hawaiʻi Press, Honolulu, HI. McGregor-Alegado, D. (1980) ‘Hawaiians: Organizing in the 1970s’, Amerasia, vol. 7, no. 2, pp. 29–55. Morales, R. (1984) HoʻiHoʻi Hou: A tribute to George Helm & Kimo Mitchell, Bamboo Ridge Press, Honolulu, HI. Nā Maka O Ka ʻĀina. (1989) Kahoʻolawe: Aloha ʻĀina, videotaped interview of Harry Kunihi Mitchell. Napoka, N. (1983) ‘Kahoolawe Place Names’, in Silva, C. (ed.), Kahoolawe Cultural Study, Part 1: Historial Documentation. Prepared for the Pacific Division, Naval Facilities Engineering Command, U.S. Navy, Pearl Harbor, Honolulu. Parsons-UXB Joint Venture. (2004 December) ‘Final summary after action report Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve, Final’ www.kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/downloads/PUXBFinal%20SummaryAfterActionRe port.pdf, accessed May 29, 2018. Thompson, N. (2018, March 5) in the series ‘Reclaiming Kahoʻolawe: A Hawaii news now special report’, by Lacy Deniz, www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/37651748/reclaiming-kahoolawe-ahawaii-news-now-special-report, accessed May 29, 2018. Thrum, T.G. (1907) ‘Aiai, Son of Kūʻula’, in Hawaiian Folk Tales. A.C. McClurg & Col, Chicago. Transfer of title and legal agreements between the U.S. Navy and the State of Hawaiʻi. (1994 May) www. kahoolawe.hawaii.gov/legal.shtml, accessed 29 May 2018.

PART II

Resistance, advocacy and perseverance

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5 KONDHS’ RESISTANCE MOVEMENT TO SAVE SACRED NIYAMGIRI, ODISHA Annapurna Devi Pandey

Niyamgiri hills and the Kondhs in Odisha The one process now going on that will take millions of years to connect is the loss of genetic and species diversity by the destruction of natural habitats. This is the folly our descendants are least likely to forgive us. Edward O. Wilson, Biophilia, 1984: 121 This chapter is devoted to Kondh1 resistance movement to protect their sacred land and livelihood surrounding Niyamgiri in Odisha. The Dongria Kondhs along with Kutia Kondhs and a dozen other indigenous groups, have been living on the Niyamgiri hills of the South Western region of the state since time immemorial. Niyamgiri Hills, a cluster of 1008 mountains, mostly covers three blocks of Rayagada district such as Kalyansingpur, Bisamakatak, Muniguda and some parts of Kalahandi District in Odisha. This range of peaks around 3000 to 3200 feet above sea level constitutes the northern section of the Eastern Ghats range, covered with densely forested hills and abundant streams. The Niyamgiri range, termed the food bowl of South Western Odisha, is known for its rich biodiversity. The long, continuous stretch of dense hills connects forests of the Kandhamal district to forests of the Rayagada, Kalahandi and Koraput districts. These forests also join the Karlapat wildlife sanctuary in the northwest and the Kotagarh wildlife sanctuary in the northeast. The uninterrupted forest is responsible for the conservation of wildlife species, including elephants and tigers, observed in this region. The wild life freely graze there because of ample open grasslands, and adjacent dense trees stretching over miles provide shelter and escape. The forested slopes of the Niyamgiri hills and the many streams that flow through them provide the means of living for Dongria Kondh and Kutia Kondh communities. They are classified as Scheduled Tribes, according to Schedule V of the Indian Constitution which enjoins the government to respect and uphold the land rights of Scheduled Tribes applying to the entire Niyamgiri hills region. The Dongria Kondhs live in the upper reaches of the Niyamgiri hills, whereas the Kutia Kondhs inhabit the foothills. The Dongria Kondhs

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derive their name from dangar or hill. The Niyamgiri hills are the sole habitat of this group, whose distinctive identity is evident in their unique language, agro-forestry expertise, social structure and religious practices. At least 1453 Dongria Kondhs (20 percent of the total population of the community, numbering 7952 as of the 2001 census) live in villages in and around the Forest Blocks of the proposed mining lease area (Saxena et al., 2010: 1). There are no reliable census data of the population of Dongria Kondhs since 2001 but I have often heard in various quarters that there are fifteen thousand of them who live on and around Niyamgiri. These indigenous people are also classified by the government as “Primitive Tribal Groups”2 who are eligible for special protection. This chapter focuses on grassroots Kondh resistance and struggles against corporate and state power in the state of Odisha to save their sacred hill Niyamgiri which provides them life and livelihood sources. Their resistance movement is primarily in opposition to megadevelopment projects, which have harmed their social and natural environment. The chapter is divided into six sections. The first section provides an overview of indigenous people’s situation in India, specifically in Odisha, my field of study; the second section focuses on theoretical underpinnings and methodology; the third section looks at the relationship between the Kondhs and Niyamgiri, their sacred abode. The fourth section deals with Vedanta and its bauxite mining in Niyamgiri. The fifth section discusses the Kondh movement against Vedanta specifically to protect their sacred mountain and focuses on their agency and emerging political voice in the state. The last section provides some concluding remarks. India, with a population of 1.34 billion, is an emerging economy that experiences a massive migration from rural to urban areas, with over 65 percent of the population under 35 (Population of India Report, 2017).3 It is going through a paradigm shift in development through opportunities wrought by globalization, with the emergence of Civil Society groups led by women. The Indian experience provides a unique model to study tribal resistance movements in the context of globalization and development. In India nearly 1.5 million indigenous people have been displaced—this includes environment, marginalization, deprivation of life and livelihood and resource sustainability and is overlooked within the narrow paradigm of cost-benefit analysis in economic rationalization. Indigenous people from the mineral-rich hills have been forced to move to slums, for example, Salia Sahi and Kargil (the largest urban slums) in Bhubaneswar, the capital city of Odisha. Tribals have sunk into the quandary of “involuntary nomadism,” “the homeless people” (Srivastava, 2017). N. C. Saxena Committee (Saxena et al., 2010) came out with startling findings that 8.539 million indigenous people in rural India have been displaced since 1990 for mega projects, constituting 56 percent of India’s total displaced population. “Since 1980, 9.8 lakh hectares of forest land have been diverted for 11,282 projects,” the note stated, giving the example of Orissa where 54–56% of tribal land has been lost to non-tribals over the last 25–30 years (Mukherjee, 2010).

Odisha and the Adivasis: a case study Odisha is known for its distinct tribal population—every fourth person out of 42 million belongs to one or the other of its 62 Scheduled Tribes (ST). In the statistical profile of the state, tribals or adivasis4 constitute 22.1 percent of the total 42 million, the second largest tribal population in the country (as per 2011 census). The state holds about 9 percent of the

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tribal population of the country and has the highest number (13) of Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) out of a total 62 tribal communities. In the name of the special protection of the scheduled tribes, tribal areas especially called scheduled areas have been treated as separate administrative categories in order to protect the rights of scheduled tribes over their land, forests and water. The fifth and sixth schedule of the constitution of India carried over the principles of the Scheduled Districts Act of 1874 which excluded scheduled area from the operation of ordinary laws of British India. (Shah, 2010: 18) Ironically, nearly half the state’s area (44.7 percent) is under Schedule V of the Indian constitution, some of the most poverty-ridden areas in the country (Elwin, 1936). Despite being extremely rich in resources, 72 percent of the tribal households in Odisha live beneath the poverty line. Since much of the country’s mineral resources are located in these protected scheduled areas, they are constantly amended by the state in order to extract all the rich resources and help the state to rapidly improve its growth rate. Odisha is one of the poorest states in the country, with around 36 percent of the population living below poverty levels (Government of Odisha, 2015). The Scheduled Tribes (ST) (22.85 percent) and the Scheduled Castes (SC)5 (17.13 percent) live mostly in rural areas and, combined, form nearly 40 percent of the total population. It is striking to note that 83 percent of the total 42 million people of the state still live in rural regions. Further, poverty among the ST is 63.52 percent, SC is 41.39 percent, and among the Other Backward Castes (OBC)6 is 24.16 percent (Government of Odisha, 2015). The indigenous people in rural areas are primarily dependent on forest gathering, swidden cultivation and wage labor for their livelihoods. The forest, minerals and indigenous people are concentrated in the same region in Odisha. Table 5.1 provides data on the forests and their per capita availability to adivasis over the years. Statistics suggest that there is a decline from 0.84 ha in 1961 to 0.61 ha of forest land available to the rural people in 2011(Government of Orissa, 2011). From the time of independence in 1947, deforestation and displacement has impoverished the indigenous people and other communities dependent on natural resources for their sustenance. Manoranjan Mohanty (2014) very aptly describes Odisha to

TABLE 5.1 Forest Area and Adivasis in the State of Odisha

Recorded forest Year area (’000 ha)

Percent of forest area to total geog. area

ST popula- Forest area per Total popu- Per capita forest tion (’000) capita (ST) in ha lation (’000) area in ha

1961 1971 1981 1991 2001 2011

22.95 39.18 42.73 35.24 37.34 37.34

42,24 50,72 59,15 70,32 81,45 95,91

3566 6088 6640 5476 5814 5814

Source: Forest Department of Odisha (2011)

0.84 1.20 1.12 0.78 0.71 0.61

17,549 21,945 26,370 31,660 36,707 41,974

0.20 0.28 0.25 0.17 0.15 0.14

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be a case that presents a crisis of democracy with upper castes and patriarchal domination that has been consolidated through the formation and expansion of the middle class, that provides services to the capitalist extractive economy, while vast sections of the population, especially adivasis, dalits and agricultural workers remain marginalized. This process has been accentuated in the recent times of neo-liberal policies during which the scale and magnitude of mining-based industries and organized crime serving the interest of the corporate sector pro-corporate mafia have grown to a great extent (Panda and Pandey, 2018). In Odisha, the nature of industrialization is based on extraction of natural resources— more specifically minerals. At present, the mining sector may have decreased for various reasons; it has been vibrant in the state of Odisha compared with agriculture which is the only significant determinant of the per capita income that is lagging behind (Mishra, 2010). The government of Odisha as of December 2014, has signed 93 memorandum of understanding (MOUs) to the tune of 2.15 lakh crores, with industries to set up steel (48), power (28), aluminium (3) and other plants in different parts of the state (Business Standard, 2014). Industrialization and growth of the economy is desired in a state like Odisha where poverty and unemployment continue unabated. But the question remains whether the local communities are being benefited by such development efforts. Minerals (mainly iron ore and bauxite) are by and large concentrated in those areas that are inhabited by the tribal communities. The extraction of minerals has either led to displacement of local communities or drastic reduction in the natural resource base (land, water and forests) leaving them homeless, resourceless and pauperized (Padel, 2011; Padel & Das, 2010). The local communities depend for their survival on their land and on forests for their livelihood. The state of Odisha has developed a partnership with several multinational corporations to extract its natural resources—bauxite, copper, coal, iron ore among others, most of it in the areas inhabited by its tribal people. Odisha has more than 60 percent of the bauxite reserve in India, the world’s largest inventory—the Government of Odisha discovered bauxite in these areas in the late 1980s and following financial liberalization in 1991–1992, the state has been working with a slew of multinational corporations extracting bauxite in this area for aluminium production. The indigenous people are robbed of their land and their livelihood by state supported and sponsored multi-national mining projects.

Theoretical underpinning and methodology Several missionaries and anthropologists have studied the Kondhs since late nineteenth century. The exploitation of the Kondhs is nothing new. It has gone on for a very long time, as F.G. Bailey (1957, 1960, 1969) and other scholars have reported. During the British colonial period, their land was classified and became available for profit-making, leading to land alienation. The role of missionaries, money lenders, zamindars (large landowners) and the British punitive rules and regulations were major sources of their exploitation (Bailey, 1957, 1960, 1969). What is new is the state’s participation with the multinational mining projects in robbing them of their land and their livelihood. In the late 1980s, the Indian anthropologist Prasanna Kumar Nayak (1989) conducted an in-depth study of the Dongria society. In 2002, in a voluminous collaborative work, he analyzed the social, economic and religious worldview of the Dongria (see Jena et al.,

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2002). The most impressive anthropological study is by Felix Padel and Samarendra Das and it has been reported in several books, articles, and videos (Padel, 2011; Padel and Das, 2010). Besides, there are significant studies of contemporary socio-religious life of Kondhs (Hardenberg, 2016; Pfeffer and Behera, 2008). This chapter is based on the fieldwork I conducted over among the Dongaria Kondhs, beginning in January 1987, followed by return visits during the summers of 2004, 2012 and 2016. In the last few decades, I have observed quite disturbing dismantling of tribal social structure, culminating in a massive plan for a mega mining project. Here I argue that the exploitation and marginalization of the tribes can be explained through “internal colonialism” as in the British period that Singh and others have documented (Rao, 1978; Singh, 2002) and the development model as imposed from above, totally disregarding interests and wellbeing of the people. Development theorists and World Bank economists utilize models that force the non-western peoples to mirror westerners in their worldview, both in ideology as well as in way of life (Bairoch, 1977; Pandey, 2012; Sen, 2007). I also expand on Rama Chandra Guha’s observation that adivasis as a whole have gained least and lost most from six decades of democracy and development in India (Guha, 2007). Let me explain the changing life conditions and vanishing social structure of the Dongria Kondhs since my visit in the last three decades. It is well known that the problems faced by the indigenous peoples are by and large universal. They suffer from the consequences of historic injustice, including colonization, dispossession of the lands, territories and resources, oppression and discrimination, as well as lack of control over their ways of life. Their right to development has been largely denied by colonial and modern states in the pursuit of economic growth. As a consequence, indigenous peoples often lose out to more powerful actors, becoming one of the most impoverished groups in the country (UN, 2010). In India, despite the presence of several laws to protect the adivasis and their habitats such as Schedule V, PESA (Panchayat Extension to Scheduled Areas 1996), FRA (Forest Rights Act 2006) and Land Alienation Act7 (non-transfer of adivasi lands to non-adivasis), all of which have been systematically violated and encroached upon by mega national companies and multinationals for extraction of minerals and other natural resources available on their land. The state is responsible for allowing corporate encroachment on indigenous lands. The profits made by the corporate sector are siphoned out of the area without sharing it with the indigenous population who are the legitimate owners of the land and resources. In the process indigenous communities are also exposed to a whole range of development induced changes in their habitats. Indigenous women are worse off as compared with their male counterparts among such communities as they are largely responsible for provision of household resources (food, fodder, fuelwood and water) and raising their children.

Niyamgiri: the sacred abode of the Kondhs The Dongria Kondhs are an estimated 15,000 people who reside in 61 villages of Bisam katak and Muniguda and 46 villages of Kalyansingpur in Rayagada. The Dongrias, Kutias and other indigenous groups around Niyamgiri revere the mountain as their divine abode where Niyam Raja the “God king” resides. Both the Dongaria and Kutia Kondhs worship Niyamagiri as a sacred being and strongly believe that their survival is dependent on the integrity of its ecosystem. The Kondhs worship Niyamgiri as Niyam Raja, King of the Law, who is their source of living, identity and heritage. The deep reverence that the Dongrias

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and Kutias have for their hills and streams pervades every aspect of their lives: their art, music, dance and textile making, among others. The Dongria’s name is tied to the dangar, meaning “hill,” and the name for themselves is Jharania: protector of streams.8 Niyam in the local language means Law, and giri is the mountain. In Kondh cosmology and worldview, Niyamgiri stands as a “social charter,” to invoke Bronislow Malinowski’s term (1954). They worship Niyamgiri as the sacred divine, the King who controls their fate and determines their destiny. Their culture is tied to the forests and hills of Niyamgiri hills. These hills are their home and the source of their sustenance that provides food, water, firewood, religion, and roots and herbs as medicine (Figure 5.1). They totally depend on the mountain for their food, water and livelihood. In relation to Niyamgiri, Sumati Jakakika9 observed, we go to this mountain all the time. Besides growing crops like raggi, we collect leaves, dry wood, ants’ eggs and all kinds of greens not only for our family to survive on but also to sell in the market in exchange of clothes and medicine. (personal conversation, April 28, 2016) Felix Padel, an anthropologist who has spent several years in the Niyamgiri area, explains that “mountains are the foundation of the indigenous religion rooted in an awareness that all life depends on the water, sourced from the mountains in countless perennial streams” (Padel, 2011: xv). The Niyamgiri has provided them with all they require to sustain their economic and socio-cultural and spiritual life. Kumuti Majhi, a Dongria Kondh who lives in Lanjigarh, Kalahandi observes, “We are alive because of this land. It fulfills all our needs,

FIGURE 5.1

Kondh women on their way from Niyamgiri (Photo credit: Author)

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we get our shelter, our water all from it. We are happy here and we are at peace here” (personal conversation, May 11, 2016). The Kondhs I interviewed say that even if they are provided all modern amenities and alternative means of livelihood, they would never leave Niyamgiri as it is their most precious sacred shrine. The World Conservation Congress promotes the concept of Indigenous Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs). The Niyamgiri is the living example where biodiversity co-exists with bio-cultural diversity. The Dongria Kondhs maintain a taboo on cutting trees there in Niyamraja’s name out of recognition that the natural vegetation conserves the fertility of their land through an abundance of streams (Mathur, 2011: 163). The Forest Rights Act (FRA) in India recognizes the rights of forest communities to live by their customary use of forests where they have lived or which they have used and from which they shall not be forcibly displaced. They have also a right to protect, conserve, regenerate and manage for their sustainable use the forests they have sustained as their Community Forest Resource.10 In the Niyamgiri hills, Vedanta, in collaboration with the state of Odisha, has ignored the Forest Right Act (2006) and started a refinery to mine bauxite displacing these forest peoples out of their land, the source of their identity and livelihood. Vedanta’s intervention in the Niyamagiri has shaken the life experience of the Kondhs. The Niyamagiri has been true to its name as the Kondhs’ sacred site. Surya Narayan Padhi, development officer of the Dangria Kondh Developement Agency (DKDA), Chatikona, who has been living among these people for the last several years, observes that “Niyam” means all the Dongria Kondhs abide by one culture, one tradition, one type of marriage and one kind of worship, whereas “Giri” means the path or the way. So the word “Niyamgiri” altogether signifies that all members of the Dongria Kondh community follow the same culture, same tradition and same type of marriage and worship in every respect (personal conversation, April 28, 2016). The Dongria Kondhs worship nature which include trees, mountains, rivers and earth, to whom they are obliged and grateful. When going outside the village to the jungle, if they see a snake on the roadside they worship these as different divine spirits. At the entry point of every Dongria Kondh village, there is a wooden post in a shade known as Jatra Kudi (Bata Devata), the entry God. For the Kondhs, the sky and the earth are living beings. They worship Dharani Devata or Jakiripenu (earth) as Mother Goddess. Dharani Devata is worshipped inside Sadar Ghar (special house) located at the center of every village. Adjacent to it, the Kuteibali, (a smaller wooden post), or the male god known as the husband of Dharani Devata, is also worshipped. Religion plays an important role in the Dongria Kondhs’ life. Unlike their neighbors, Lanjia Soura community, the majority of whom have lost their culture and tradition after being converted to Christianity, the Dongria Kondhs have preserved their religious traditions and culture. The village Jani (Shamans) predominantly women, and Disari (priests) play leading roles in preventing them from being converted to Christianity. The Dongria Kondhs practise shifting cultivation in the Niyamgiri hills in different patches where they produce grains like bajara, Mandia, and fruits such as banana and pineapple. Sometimes the government agencies also supply them the seeds and plants for plantation. Each patch, called a Sandhi, is allotted to each Dongria Kondh where they plant. As a niyam (Law) the other Dongria Kondhs are prevented from crossing the Sandhi of another person. There is no starvation among the Dongria Kondhs as they collect roots, fruits and leaves, which are plentiful along with perennial streams in the Niyamgiri.

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This clearly shows that the Dongrias have embraced progressive change when it comes to improving their living standards—introducing new non-traditional cash crops for profit, sending their children to residential schools located in the urban areas, far away from their villages and demanding hospital facilities and public transportation to their remote villages. On April 28, 2016, when I arrived at the Dongaria Kandhas Development Agency (DKDA) office in Chatkonia, Rayagada district of Odisha, I was pleasantly surprised to see a group of traditionally clad Dongaria Kondh women, crossing the street to come and meet Mr. Padhi, the DKDA11 officer in charge, to help them procure an agriculture loan at the local bank. It was barely 8 am and they had walked about 26 kilometers through the tough terrain down the Niyamgiri hills to reach this little town. They wanted to apply for an agriculture loan and were checking if Mr. Padhi would accompany them. He was busy so they went ahead on their own. Even today, there are many villages that can only be reached on foot by hiking and walking for several hours across the hills and streams. The Kondh men, women and children spend several hours walking to and from the small towns in the plains where all the modern facilities are available. For example, a pregnant woman having difficulty in childbirth would be carried in a cot through the hills for hours to the hospital down the hill in the plains. On a regular market (haata) day in Chatkonia or in Muniguda, Kondhs carry heavy loads of wood and other produce through the hills to sell in order to buy goods for their sustenance. The Dongria women stand out because of their distinct costume—a simple white sari without a blouse to cover their upper body. They are a proud people taking great care in their distinct appearance. In Muniguda haata, I bought some Kandula (brown lentil) from a Kondh woman which she grows on the slopes of the Niyamgiri hills. To my question of what she is buying back from the market, she said, “salt, hooka (tobacco), some vegetables and clothing.” They walk back in groups through the trails of the Niyamgiri, their abode and identity. When I visited Kondhmal in 1986–1987, I was struck by the natural beauty of this region and rich, vibrant and multi layered spiritual lifestyle of the Dongria Kondhs and nearby Kutia Kondhs.12 The notion of Niyam Raja reveals certain essential rites analyzing the workings of sacred among the Dongrias, transforming their villages into sacred space, and reflects the symbiotic relationship between economic activities and lifestyles (for every food crop there is a ritual to satisfy the spirit tied to Niyamgiri). The Kondhs speak a distinct language and are known for their distinctive culture. Their gods do not reside in temples but inhabit the hills, forests, and streams of their surroundinga. The name of this tribe (“Dongria” and “Kondh,” both meaning mountain) as well as the rich ethnography clearly show that the “land of the hill” (neta or horu) is the focus of their oral traditions, rituals and economic activities (Hardenberg, 2016). “The Dongria argue that without jiu [soul] of the hills, neither trees, nor forest, nor streams and animals would exist” (Jena et al., 2002: 267). Sacred is defined as “things and actions set apart as religious or spiritual which are entitled to reverence”—(Durkheim, quoted in Gans, 2000). But in the context of India the sacred and secular are contextual, as opposed to Durkheim’s notion of the sacred as set apart and opposed to the secular. In supporting Durkheim’s notion of the sacred, the Kondhs’ resistance movement to save Niyamgiri reflects specific dynamic of the sacred in the discovery/invention of the “good to think” as a means for achieving social cohesion (Gans, 2000). Keith Basso observes that Long before the advent of literacy, to say nothing of “history” as an academic discipline, places served humankind as durable symbols of distant events and as

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FIGURE 5.2

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Dharni Penu, Earth Goddess (the tall wooden pole in this photo), the divine feminine is their main deity, worshipped along with Bura Penu, the Sky God (the small stone pillar next to it) (Photo credit: Author)

indispensable aids for remembering and imagining them—and this convenient arrangement, ancient but not outmoded, is with us till today. (Feld and Basso, 1996: 7) A local social activist in his nineties explained me that during the super cyclone in 1999, most part of Odisha was devastated. Many lives and innumerable properties were damaged all over the state. But in the Kondh region people did not experience the severe effect of

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this destructive cyclone because of Niyamgiri (personal conversation with Bhagabat Prasad Rath, Rayagada, Odisha, April 24, 2016). The mountain is known for its rich bio-diversity. These hills house rare varieties of plants, trees, animals and natural streams. The forest specially is known for large number of Amla (Emblica officinalis) trees, the fruit of which is harvested for medicinal use and for sale. The forest is also known to be the source of many other products including edible mushrooms and honey, items that are important sources of nutrition in the Kondh diet as well as marketable commodities that fetch them a good income. For a Kondh, the day begins at the hills. Early in the morning, men, women and children consume raggi (which grows on the hill slopes) porridge as their breakfast. Raggi, tiny red-brown colored seeds, are known as the most nutritious grain full of protein and vitamins. It is not only filling but also very sustaining for the person to brave the hard work throughout the day. It provides necessary food and water content and with a bowl or two, people go to the hills to work in the fields specific to the season. When I visited Kundli village near Chatikona, Bissamkatak, Dangaria Kondhs were busy drying out their turmeric freshly harvested from the hill slope land and processing their raggi. It was around dusk when the sun was setting, women and men were coming back home each with a load of dry wood on their head which they will use for their firewood and will sell in the local market in exchange of salt, oil and tobacco which they do not produce in the hills. When I asked a woman why they voted against Vedanta mining, she quipped: “Who will give us food and livelihoods? Will Vedanta do?” (personal conversation). Keeping in view the interrelationship of the indigenous people with the forest and the mountain, the landmark Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006 was introduced to safeguard the rights of the adivasis who were constantly violated by corporations and by the non-tribal people with an acquisition of their land. FRA safeguards the basic customary and religious rights of the Dongria Kondhs, known as a forest dwelling tribe who have been living in Niyamgiri hills forever and have long-standing habitation, usage and conservation ties to forests. Dongria Kondhs, who live in the upland areas of the Niyamgiri hills, depend on the hills intensely. Their distinctive cultural identity is intrinsically linked to the Niyamgiri hills and they have crafted a diverse and intricate agro-forestry system that uses mountain slopes and streams to great advantage. Dongria Kondhs cultivate patches of land cleared from the forest that are rotated to maintain soil fertility. They regard land as plentiful and leave most of it forested. They are renowned for their skill in horticulture. The fruit that they grow on forest plots fetches them a handsome income throughout the year. In addition, they collect a variety of forest produce and also rear chicken, pigs, goats and buffaloes. Kumuti Majhi, the president of Vedanta Pratirodh Samiti and a native of Niyamgiri, echoes the voice of the people. When asked, “so for how many years have you been living here at the foothills of Niyamgiri?” We are here since our ancestors, as far as I remember, my great grandfather, father and then us. Our land is very fertile, we grow maize, raggi, coconut, sweet potatoes, spinach, mangoes, pineapples and all kinds of herbs. We get water from streams on the Niyamgiri hill which have been flowing since ages. There are two big rivers, Banshadhara and Nagavall and we have about thirty-six waterfalls here, at the Niyamgiri hill spreading through Rayagada and Kalahandi districts. One of the

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waterfalls is in our village. These are small rivers, but now the stream has narrowed down because of this factory in Lanjigad. We depend on the water that comes from the stream. We do all the vegetation from the water that we get from it. There is no rainfall but still we get water from the streams. Niyamgiri provides us all the basic necessities of life. It provides us food so that no one will die of starvation, whenever you go the hill you will get plenty of food there. It brings rainfall, provides us water, fresh air, and it also provides a habitat for different kinds of animals. If the hill is cut off and we aspire for progress, the progress/development will not support us, and finally the land will get barren and we all will die. There would be nothing called “God” in this world. (personal conversation, May 5, 2016) Niyamgiri has more than three hundred species of flora, including about eighty species of medicinal plants. Six of the species are listed in the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN) Red Data Book (CEC, 2005; Samantara, 2006, cited in Xaxa, 2012: 194). Further, Niyamgiri range is critical to protect the water regime of a major part of Orissa. Niyamgiri, the origin of many perennial streams, is a permanent source of water for the entire area, including the Kalahandi and Rayagada districts. As many as 22 water harvesting structures are located in the foothills that provide year-round water supply. Vamsdhara and Nagvalli are two major rivers of South Orissa that emanate from this hill. Thousands of people of South Orissa and Andhra Pradesh depend on these rivers for drinking water and irrigation (CEC, 2005).

Vedanta and bauxite mining in Niyamgiri The state entered into a memorandum of understanding with Vedanta Group in 2004 to set up an integrated aluminum refinery power complex along with power plants at Lanjigarh, the foothills of the Niyamgiri hills, to extract its bauxite reserve (Figure 5.3). The greenfield aluminum refinery, a subsidiary of Vedanta, became operational in 2008. Vedanta proceeded to build their factories without having first acquired proper environmental clearance for the mines they were depending on (IPTEHR 2006 headed by Justice Bhargava, Samantara 2007, Goodland, 2007; cited in Padel and Das, 2008) Sterlite-Vedanta industries’ clearance for mining Niyamgiri came after the Norwegian Government Council on Ethics released a report (2007) that detailed a long list of transgressions of law by the Sterlite-Vedanta group, and abuse of the environment and human rights in India and other countries (cited in Padel and Das, 2008). “Mining projects are fueled by an entrenched notion of development so powerful, that democracy and human rights often seem to wither in the face of it” (Padel and Das, 2010: 10). For example, mining in Niyamgiri threatens the integral values of the Kondhs. The mountains carry the stories and myths and are sacred entities for the indigenous people who live on it and around them (Padel and Das, 2010: 71). The market-based profit-oriented development pushed by the state is not in sync with the tribal vision of development. For example, when I asked, “If you are provided with water, food and everything without hampering your natural habitat, will you agree to the mining proposal to extract bauxite from Niyamgiri?” the Kondhs responded,

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FIGURE 5.3

A photo of The Vedanta Factory Belt across Niyamgiri (Photo Credit: Author)

No madam once bauxite is extracted the water will be dried up. We know all the consequences, madam. If they show us the greed, we are not going to agree. We cannot destroy our natural resources. Yes, if we go for deforestation, it will be very difficult to get the same forest again. (personal conversation, April 26, 2016) In reaction to the mining venture of Vedanta company and antecedent displacement of the Dangaria Kondhs in Niyamagiri hills, Laxmi Gouda, a Dangaria Kondh woman speaks up: Vedanta came here and promised many things, roads, tubewell, water, but did nothing. Now they ask us to take money and leave the village. Where do we go? Life will be miserable. They may give us some money for a day or two. If we go to a new village for resettlement, we will be like fish out of water after that. They will chase us away and say “Vedanta has chased you out, why do you come here?” Where do we go then? (Mishra, 2015) For the Dangria Kondhs, We are the hills, we are the streams, we are the water, we are the air, we are Adivasi, Dalit peasants, mothers, sisters, crops, fields all carry the same meaning for us. We are the smile of the soil, we are the branches of the same tree. Oh dear we can’t live without each other. I can’t live without you, you can’t live without me. (Mishra, 2015)

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Vinay Srivastava observes that “the gains of development largely go to the upper classes, for they are the ones who have benefitted from the state in the name of development.” For example, Promining state government in Odisha in connivance with its district administration promotes the corporate mining houses like Sterlite’s—formerly known as Vedanta Aluminum—expansion of its Lanjigarh facility in Kalahandi district in Odisha where the Dongaria Kondhs reside (Figure 5.4). These developments are indicative of the state and central government’s covert and overt resolve of becoming a facilitator for the international corporations as well as multinationals to take over the development projects at the cost of local communities and natural resources. While driving up the Niyamagiri hills through Dangaria Kandha villages, such as Khambesi and Kurli, Khajuri among many others, shifting cultivation on the hills was a common sight. I saw men and women lining up on the hills to clear the forest, get the soil ready for the next crop and tending their pineapples, turmeric, raggi and other produce. While we stopped over in Kurli, I witnessed massive construction in the village. New brick and mortar houses (under the scheme of Indira Awaas Jojana) with tin or asbestos roofs were very conspicuous in the community. The whole village was engaged in building these private houses. The people were also building places of worship for Niyamaraja and Daharani Penu, the father and mother of the tribe. Niyamaraja and Dharani Penu being symbolized by a Post and the Stone adorn the center of the village. The whole village was engaged in major construction work specially to build permanent places of worship for Niyamarja and Dharani Penu, getting ready for the Dharani Penu festival. A typical shrine of the Kondh village is characterized by the presence of a Stone and a wooden Post. The single stone, which may be of various sizes but all of them have a wide base and a conical peak, thus resembling a miniature model of a hill or mountain. This stone is referred to as Koteiwali, the husband of the earth goddess, and addressed by the Dongria as ‘our father’ (maba). (Hardenberg, 2016: 7)

FIGURE 5.4

A photo of the Vedanta Factory at Lanjigarh, Odisha (Photo Credit: Author)

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The house is called Sadar Ghar where they worship Dharani Devata or Jakiripenu (the earth as Mother Goddess) located at the mid-point of every Dongria Kondh village (see Figure 5.2). Adjacent to it, the Kuteibali or the male god who is known as the husband of Dharani Devata is also worshipped. The whole village, including young children, was engaged in building these structures. These young boys and girls study at Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences (KISS), a residential school in Bhubaneswar, about 450 kilometers away from their home and had just come back on their summer break. KISS boasts of educating 27,000 tribal children from interior regions of the state with major backers like Vedanta and the state, the significant collaborator with Vedanta. Dongria Kondhs are totally aware of the benefits of modernity and are fully embracing the markers of modernity, e.g., education, improved agriculture, commercial crops, banking service, health care and so on. They are also cognizant of the fact that unlike their Hindu neighbors they are still lagging behind, not because of any deficiency of their part, but the extractive economy promoted by the state to take away the land of the indigenous people and deprive them of their traditional livelihood by introducing national and multinational corporations. These mega companies have made inroads to the indigenous (for extraction of minerals and natural resources) lands. Despite several laws/Acts that allow autonomy to protect indigenous lands and natural habitat, they have been systematically violated by the state in the name of eminent domain (the state’s power to convert communal land or private property for public use) and benefit for the larger good of the society. It has caused terrible devastations to the natural habitats, namely Niyamagiri mountain for the Dongria Kondhs, their eternal home, livelihood and identity. Now the Dongria Kondhs are using modern strategies—I met Dinja Jakesika, the young woman village Panchayat leader in Kurli, who recently received the best Sarpanch award and asked her how they relate to the mountain Niyamagiri. For her and her people, Niyamagiri is the life and livelihood without whom the Dangarias would not survive. In 2002 Vedanta in alliance with the state government of Odisha, bought 12 villages from the local people in Lanjigarh, Kalhandi district, displaced their residents and immediately started to construct a large-scale alumina refinery,13 with a long belt conveyer stretching from the factory to Niyamgiri, in order to dig and transport the bauxite. The total 118 acres of forest land acquired by Vedanta was signed by the district collector of Kalahandi on June 6, 2002, a part of which contained thick forest. The villagers were enticed to sell their land to Vedanta with the promise that our area will be developed, we will get jobs and earn money. Vedanta had promised that with its set up, two family members per family will get job. The roads will be constructed and proper houses will be provided. There will be no difficulties any more. Many people were trapped. Then we backed out and started revolution against it. (Majhi, personal conversation, May 1, 2016) Since the land mostly consisted of government revenue land and private land which contained thick forest, it clearly violated the Forest conservation Act (1980) as the forest was not supposed to exchange hands for profit making. In October 2004, in accordance with the memorandum of understanding signed in 2003, the Odisha government, through the Odisha mining corporation (OMC), entered into an agreement with Vedanta involving

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the Lanjigarh and Karlapat bauxite mines. OMC entered into a joint venture company with Vedanta. Sadly, the required guidelines of Forest conservation Act (1980) was not followed and the forest and the people were in danger. Kumuti Majhi voices his concern against Vedanta mining project: Our progress is in our hands. We are doing work, we are supporting our family with food from our mountain and we do not need the help of any government to look after our progress. Until the hill is here, all our needs will get fulfilled. There we have sweet potatoes, spinach, gingers etc. which are provided by the hill here. Do you see? Most part of the hill on the top is covered with mango trees. The trees which look black in color are all mango trees. We collect mangoes from there and the animals also feed on those mangoes. Oh, those trees are all mango trees. Yes, all those dark green patches are all mango trees. And those which are seem dried—Sal, Sandalwood, etc. Those mangoes are very sweet. We dry the mangoes and eat it all the year. We collect dry firewood worth Rs. 250 (four dollars approximately) from the forest every day along with sweet potatoes, gingers—at least one kilo sizes, which is difficult to consume in a way. We too get medicinal plants from this hill. (personal conversation, May 2, 2016)

The conflict between the state and Dongria Kondh society The struggle between the indigenous people and the state for development is nothing new. It has been going on throughout the world. In 1978, the United States Congress passed the American Indian Religious Freedom Act (AIRFA) which legalized Native American worship practices which had been banned for over a century. But in practice the Native Americans could not use the law to protect their land against the state and various corporates. While Native Americans tried to use the Act to protect sacred places where they pray, in every instance they lost. For example, the Lakota, Hopi and Wintu consider the land sacred. But the non-Native Americans look at the land from a consumerist point of view. For example, the mining companies, New Age practitioners, and rock climbers think of the land as a material resource best used for industry and recreation. The indigenous land has been hijacked by various companies in collaboration with the state (for example, Peabody coal company extracting coal from the sacred Hopi mountains in Arizona; nonIndians transforming the sacred Lakota mountain into an entertainment resort; the state turning the sacred Wintu mountain into a ski resort). Ifred Pearce’s recent book The Landgrabbers (2012) examines the phenomenon of land takeovers worldwide. Various works on the sufferings of adivasis in India are slowly gaining momentum (Fernandez et al., 2016; Shah, 2010 Sunder, 2016; Xaxa, 2012). An adivasi viewpoint on displacement caused by the aluminum industry is given by Bhagaban Majhi, a leader of the Kashipur movement against the Utkal alumina project (originally Alcan and Associates and now Hindalco). In a 2005 interview, he asked, Who would benefit from the bauxite mine on their nearby mountains? How would it benefit adivasis, who see themselves as matiropoko (earthworms)? What profit would it bring to which official? How many aircrafts and bombs will be made from the aluminum? The mine will last thirty years at most and would destroy the water

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hording capacity of the thirty million year old mountain. We have sought an explanation from the government about people who have been displaced in the name of development. How many have been properly rehabilitated? You have not provided them with jobs. You have not rehabilitated them at all. How can you again displace more people? Where will you relocate them and what job will you give them? (Das and Das, 2005) cited in Padel and Das (2010) His people are only interested in “permanent development” that will benefit future generations. Dongria Kondhs opposed Vedanta’s plan to mine bauxite from the summit of Niyamagiri on the ground of identity and faith. The spirit of law is embodied in the Dongria conception of their deity. Niyamraja (king of law) whose abode is mountain summit, and in the many niyam or nigam (rules) that characterize their relationship of restraint towards nature, such as cutting forest on the mountain tops. Lado Sikoka, one of the Dongria leaders, stated in a Belamba public hearing, people say that the minerals at the top of Niyamgiri represent millions of rupees, “lying unutilised,” reflecting a common mantra in Odisha, that it is one of India’s poorest states but one of the richest in minerals. But the mountain is not money. “It” is our Maa- Baap (Mother and Father) and the Dongria are prepared to fight to defend it. (Padel & Das, 2010: 167) Even the executive summary of a rapid Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA)5 had admitted that the project lease area was 77 percent forest. Nevertheless, the Ministry of Environment and Forest (MoEF) cleared the project. Moreover, construction of the alumina refinery was started at the project site long before environmental clearance was given on September 22, 2004. This is evident from the annual reports and other documents filed before the Central Empowered Committee (CEC). According to company statements, 45 percent of the work had been completed by March 31, 2005 (i.e. within four months) and an amount of US $29 million had been spent (Samantara, 2006; Xaxa, 2012).

Kondhs affected by mining site On a recent visit to Chatikona, a few American friends and I spotted beautiful Kondh women and children along with their men at the local haat (weekly market). They were not interested in exchange of pleasantries. They remained aloof and were not too thrilled to see us the outsiders. I could clearly see the reason why. Throughout their history, they have suffered so much in the hands of the outsiders that they simply are not interested in any interference or imposition from us. The Vedanta project has resulted in dislocation and tremendous disruption of the lives of Dangaria Kondhs. Of the proposed 12 villages to be displaced, the alumina refinery has already displaced six. Initially, Kondhs were persuaded to move to the colony on their own, and were promised a good concrete house, electricity,

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running water and television, among many other things. However, once the persuasion failed, the state resorted to brute physical force, creating an atmosphere of fear through hired goons (Kalshian, 2004). The police and the goons badly beat up many tribals and illegally and violently took over their property. Forcibly evicted from their homes, they were taken in trucks to a new “colony” three kilometers away, where they were kept in confinement by Vedanta’s security forces. In this, the police and district administration aided the company (CEC, 2005; Xaxa, 2012). Apart from the land acquired by the district administration from a large number of tribals and other marginalized groups of the Bandhagunda and Rengopali villages, Vedanta also illegally took over land without an acquisition notice or paying compensation. About 64 households of Jaganathpur Village, most of which were Kondh people, had been cultivating Khasra plot No. 186-revenue land for generations. Encroachment cases have been filed against many of them. These tribal families were forcibly evicted from the land which they had been cultivating for generations without any compensation or any shelter, thereby taking away their main source of livelihood. The eviction took place without any process of verification and in violation of the special protection provided to Scheduled Tribes. Though they approached the District Collector about the forcible eviction he did not take any action (CEC, 2005; Samantara, 2006). In the name of rehabilitation, Vedanta provided concrete boxes of houses at the foothills of Niyamgiri without any essential facilities such as gas and electricity supply. None were given documents proving their ownership of these houses. They were strictly instructed not to light any fire inside the structures and forced to cook in the open, in the scorching heat. After their forceful confinement in the colony, the inhabitants were faced with problems that concerned their immediate survival. Rations would not last for more than five months. Electricity, which was intermittent, was free for only two months. There is no toilet in these structures, only a series of locked latrines in one corner of the colony. Compensation money was locked in the bank. There was no work for them. The whole colony is fenced and looks like a concentration camp. Already some families have left the colony house and gone to their relatives’ houses. Two families from Bandhaguda, despite having a house in the colony, continue to live in the village hut (Kalshian, 2004; Padel and Das, 2008. On enquiry I found out that the DAV school built by Veadanta was meant to enhance the education standard of the Kondh children and prepare them to compete with the mainstream for gainful employment. But the school hardly has any Kondh children studying there. It only admits children of the administrators, businessmen and the industry officers. Gajendra Gouda, a Dangaria Kondh man speaks up: Vedanta company is engaging fixers, goons, leaders. They have been of no help to us so far. Has the company fed anyone here? No, nothing. They say they will give you aluminum, sheets, rice, clothes. Do we need company clothes to live? We said we don’t need aluminum sheets. We took rice in the beginning. We did not know its source. When we were told it was from the company, we immediately stopped. Company was approaching the hills. From this village we erected a gate to stop them, they created many paths in the forest. How can we trust them? They are a fraud, misleading company. Trying to get its work done by goons, leaders, and harassing our

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people. Let them try their tricks now. If we leave Niyamgiri, we will be like a fish out of water. Government and company are spreading their net to catch us, wanting us to die without water. (Mishra, 2015) The Dangria Kondhs residing in the Niyamgiri hills are a highly endangered community with unique customs and practices. However, Vedanta has shown absolutely no respect for constitutional provisions and laws meant for protecting and safeguarding the interest of these people, nor have they made any serious effort for their suitable rehabilitation and resettlement. The national rehabilitation and resettlement policy requires that land should be given after due process of consultation, particularly in the case of indigenous people. The rehabilitation package for the displaced persons given by the user agency is not in the interest of the sustainable livelihoods of the local communities, as no land has been given for grazing purposes, raising agricultural crops and carrying out other income-generating activities. Rather, they were merely offered cash compensation, not acceptable to many. Kondhs vehemently opposed displacement despite being offered large cash compensations by Vedanta. Promises of regular employment were made but not kept. Even employment suited to indigenous peoples has gone to the non-indigenous population as such employment invariably requires access to power and manipulative networking skills which indigenous peoples hardly have. And when work had to do with leveling of land, construction of roads and buildings and other related activities that required very little skill, nearly 80 percent of this was done by outsiders (Kalshian, 2004; Padel and Das, 2004). Those in the rehabilitated colony were offered employment only after the CEC’s intervention. The state officials have been exhorting the displaced to open tea stalls and shops knowing that they have neither such knowledge nor skills. Their only knowledge and skills relate to agriculture and related activities that have been jeopardized. One Dongria lady told us, we go to the mountain all the time. Besides growing crops like raggi, we collect leaves, dry wood, ant eggs and all kinds of greens not only for our family to survive on but also to sell in the market in exchange of clothes and medicine. (personal conversation, April 28, 2016) Felix Padel observes that “mountains are the foundation of the indigenous religion rooted in an awareness that all life depends on the water, sourced from the mountains in countless perennial streams” (Padel and Das, 2010: xv). The power plant is expected to provide only about 300 jobs, most of which will be technical in nature and require higher engineering skill. Such qualification and technical skills are not available in the region and especially not among tribal people. Niranjan Bidrohi, Chairman of the Bhawanipatna (Kalahandi’s district headquarter) Municipal Corporation clearly stated that there is no suitable candidate available in Kalahandi for the jobs that Vedanta is going to offer (Das, 2005.). I have also observed that even though many youths from this area are getting trained in skill-based jobs like commercial sewing, auto repair, basic computer training promoted by the government, they are transported to far away cities like Bangalore (Karnatak), Tirupur (TamilNadu) for menial jobs. So the local youth are neither trained for the jobs created in these mining

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companies nor are recruited for on the job training. Kondhs are traditionally engaged in farming and depend on the forest for much of their food and other needs such as maintaining houses, livestock and procuring medicinal plants. They have realized that mining of bauxite at the Niyamgiri will destroy their life support system. Their land, irrigated from perennial springs, is likely to dry up with the coming of the aluminum refinery and bauxite mining. The refinery and smelting plant are going to absorb much of the water available in the region.

Resistance movement among the Kondhs Dongrias established the Niyamgiri Surakshya Samiti (NSS) to protect Niyamgiri, their father and mother who they have described as giving them their identity and source of sustenance and livelihood. The NSS was comprised of the local tribal residents and neighboring villages affected by mining related displacement and environmental pollution in their area. They were joined by local, national and international activists and environment rights groups in order to fight Vedanta. The tribal people’s resistance movement is primarily in opposition to such projects, because of resulting harm to their social and natural environment. The people’s struggle has been continuing since 2004. Kondhs have been protesting against the Vedanta mining venture which has clearly posed a threat to their life, livelihood and identity. They have been supported by the neighboring indigenous groups in Kasipur and Gandhamardan who were affected by mining ventures leading to their mass displacement. The neighbors share a history of exploitation with the Kondhs, especially the affected residents who have been protesting against the establishment of the project from the very beginning. When I asked about the status of people’s resistance, Majhi said, “we are struggling for our Niymagiri hill range. Since 2004 we established a Samiti to protect our hill Niyamagiri.” NSS took up demonstrations against Vedanta mining project both in the local areas and in Bhubaneswar, the capital of Odisha. NSS was organized by the local Kondhs and their brothers and sisters from neighboring mining areas in Rayagada, Koraput and Kalahandi. Prafulla Samantara, a local activist explained that Without Kasipur movement, there would be no Niyamagiri movement. The tribal people in Kasipur came to our area after the mining in Gandhamardan to see this movement. Since they had already experienced displacement, they did not want it to be repeated for the Dangaria Kondhs. (Personal conversation, January 31, 2018) Following the struggle of the NSS, concerned citizens of Kalahandi came forward to participate in the struggle under the banner of Kalahandi Sachetan Nagarika Manch (Kalahandi Thinking Citizens Forum). More recently, a new organization by the name of Green Kalahandi has been formed to join the movement against the project (Xaxa, 2012: 196). Kumuti Majhi articulated about their struggle very succinctly: “Niyamagiri is Kondh’s breathing and feeling divine.” When I asked whether the people saw any benefit in setting up Vedanta in Niyamagiri, Majhi answered,

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Nothing. No benefits, Madam. Rather it will be a loss. Our danger will be turned into a desert. Now we have this natural resources and we are getting fresh air and water. After this hill is cut off, the land will turn into desert and we will die. As a fish dies without water, we too will die. So there will be no development, rather destruction. We have been fighting for this. Here the Vedanta people are imposing British rule on us. They barge into our homes, beat us, and shoot us, just like the British rule. (Kumuti Majhi, personal conversation, May 23, 2016) The local people are convinced that Niyamgiri punishes the traitors who are trying to sell the divine for making personal profit and bring injustice to Dongrias. They are aware of the divide and rule politics of Vedanta who has been known for bribing some of the villagers to go against their own community. An excerpt from a group conversation—“Madam, Jaysingh Majhi was the President of NSS but he was murdered.” When I asked how and who murdered him, I was told that these Vedanta people bribed him with money and liquor, made him a drunkard due to which he felt unwell and died. As the President of the Samiti, he became greedy. Vedanta people supported him and he with the help of Vedanta people wanted to go to London with a promise to handover Niyamgiri to the Vedanta officials. Like this he was bribed. Then, God even didn’t support him and his life was cancelled. After he returned from Delhi he died within 15 days. (Kumuti Majhi, May 23, 2016) When I asked, “How did he die?” someone quickly responded: He was made drunk and due to excessive consumption of bad liquor he died. One needs to be true to Niyamgiri. If you deceive Him, you have to pay for it. There are so many instances regarding this, and thus we strongly believe and have faith on the Niyamgiri. There are so many incidents attached to this myth. Once an engineer at Vedanta took the coconut with blood stains, then he suffered from some kind of disease and died on his way to the hospital. So, we should be true and faithful to Niyamgiri. So many brokers and conmen, all died. There was a brahmin priest, who had been here to worship the land for Vedanta and he too died. A member of the parliament, Bikram Deo who attended the land worship for Vedanta too died. We have witnessed many such instances. Only we worship Niyamgiri, believe in it, have faith on it, so we are alive and alright. Mr. Majhi also gave the example of his own son in law who escaped death by a thin margin. He was the sarpanch of Sananima Village, close to the mining area. He met an accident and had survived after fighting hard with death. Whatever money he earned in an unjust way, all were spent in his treatment. One of my relatives too supported Vedanta at the village sabha, he too died. So many people have died due to this. Those who want to earn money illegally in an injustice manner and don’t

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believe in the heavenly being in Niyamgiri, they only want to give away Niyamgiri land to others. (Majhi, personal conversation, May 23, 2016) Since Vedanta’s bauxite operation at Lanjigarh, Niyamgiri Hills in Odisha threatened the lives of the Dongria Kondh people who live in this region and was endangering their livelihood and faith, Odisha public interest litigations were filed in 2004 by Indian NGOs led by the People’s Union for Civil Liberties to the Supreme Court sub-committee regarding the potential environmental impact of the mines. To counter and break the resistance of the protest movement, both physical force and money have been deployed. Bribes and the lure of employment have been used as the main weapons to destroy the solidarity among the indigenous peoples. Vedanta has mainly targeted the educated youth of the community and the leadership of the indigenous peoples. Many activists of Niyamgiri Surakhya Samiti were offered bribes by local police officers to stop participating in the protest movement (personal conversation with Prafulla Samantara). In some instances, Vedanta supported by the state has succeeded in their endeavor. I met a young Dongria in his late twenties who is educated and very articulate in explaining their cause. In the early years of the movement, he was wholeheartedly involved in the protest movement to save Niyamgiri. For example, when Rahul Gandhi, a young leader of the Indian National Congress (then the ruling party at the center) visited this area, he escorted him to visit the tribal communities of the Niyamgiri area and made a strong pitch to save Niyamgiri. He worked with the social activists such as Prafulla Samantara and Lingaraj Azad who were in the forefront of the Save Niyamgiri movement. Now it appears, as Prafulla Samantara, said that this young leader allowed himself to be coopted by the state to become spokesman for the initiative state is promoting for tribal development. As Samantara shared, “Kinu14 has been purchased by the state and Vedanta. Now he works for the state—a symbol of true corporate identity” (personal conversation on March 2, 2018). Now he makes money as a state agent and reports to the state about any resistance in the village. He is a state sponsored agent to report on activists and is on the state payroll. When I visited Kinu’s village in the foothills of Niyamagiri, where Panchayat Sarpanch (his cousin) lives, his brothers were watching an English film on the computer screen in the back room. He had just come back from visiting the chief minister and he had not yet removed his traditional earrings showcasing his Dongria identity. He takes pride in having access to the chief minister of the state. Also he works with the founder/President of Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences (KISS) that boasts about housing 27,000 indigenous children on its campus in Bhubaneswar. His aim is to transfer the brightest of the bright kids from Dongria villages to Bhubaneswar for civilized education. Consequently the villages are emptied out of young children who will soon forget their own indigenous identity. In the case of Vedanta Alumina project in Lanjigarh of Kalahandi District, after the direction of Honorable Supreme Court, special Grama Sabhas (village councils) were held and accordingly people rejected the proposal of Odisha Govt to lease Niyamgiri Bauxite hill to Vedanta Companies. Dongria Kondhs, those who live on Niyamgiri, do not want mining. They say that “company wants mining. State has the police, judiciary and administration” (personal conversation with Prafulla Samantara). They are not interested in the false promises of the state providing benefits like education. Bauxite’s export will lead to instant wealth which does not cater to the needs of the local Kondhs and would not give permanent jobs to the local people. A Dongria member shared

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Now those who have built up two-three storied building they will suffer. We will be as we are, we won’t suffer. Here the Vedanta people are imposing British rule on us. They barge into our homes, beat us, and shoot us, just like the British rule. Yes, the Odisha Govt. is supporting them. Yes, the Odisha Govt. supports them or else how would they commit such crime? (personal conversation, May 24, 2016) Dongria Kondhs shows an example of a community uniting to fight against the unholy nexus between multi-national companies and the Odisha Government, who have made several illegal attempts to displace the Dongaria Kondhs and want to deprive them of their home and sacred earth (Das, 2014). Even after Vedanta bauxite mining was not supported by the people, the state has used fear tactics by openly criminalizing the activists as branded Maoists. The Kondhs’ resistance movement I have described is not opposed to globalization and modernization and their antecedents like modern education, job opportunities, banking and opening of markets. But they vehemently are opposed to the extraction of minerals from Niyamagiri, which they consider their lawgiver, source of their moral order and society. They realize that mining will desecrate the Niyamagiri and will snatch away their food security, livelihood and ultimately their identity tied to the hills.

Bauxite mining and its impact on place and people The state of Odisha, especially the southern belt comprising Koraput, Balangir and Kalahandi districts, is endowed with 1733 million tons (70 percent) of the total Bauxite resources of the country. In the post-liberalization period, this mineral resource has attracted many multinational corporations both from within and outside the country, dragging this state into the globalization arena. The state whole-heartedly supports these initiatives, attracting huge revenues from the mining. During the 1992–1997 period, bauxite resources in Odisha have pulled in $20.5 billion dollars. Vedanta Aluminium Ltd. has set up and is operating a one-million ton alumina refinery at Lanjigarh, in the district of Kalahandi, based on a Memorandum of Understanding signed with the Government of Odisha that up to 150 million tons of bauxite for the plant will be supplied from nearby Niyamagiri hills (Vedanta Annual Report, 2012–2013). However, with the protest of the local Dongria Kondhs, the Union Ministry of Environment and Forest (MoEF) has disallowed bauxite excavation at Niyamgiri. These mining projects have had an adverse impact on the local tribal people, leading to their physical displacement, loss of land, loss of access to the forest and its resources and affecting their traditional livelihood. The state is getting plenty of revenue and has fervently promoted mining as a sure way to curb unemployment among the youth in Odisha. Middle class ambitious youth and entrepreneurs from different parts of the state have flocked to these areas and have found a quick way of making money. But the mining project areas are inhabited by tribal people—they live and breathe around these mines. Niyamagiri hills provide major livelihood sources to the Dongria Kondhs—not only the sources of food and water, but also their identity and spirituality. As per their origin myth, Danger raja is their god, ancestor and the source of their being. They realize that with bauxite mining in the area, their kin and clan are displaced and have suffered severe

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blows—depletion of forest resources have become the biggest threat in the wake of mining projects in the surrounding districts. This has been accompanied by the “piling up of solid effluents such as red mud and tons of sodium hydroxide, leaving a high PH level in the soil and loss of vegetation and natural habitats” (Padhi and Panigrahi, 2011: 43), a major health hazard. It is interesting to note that the state government advertises the establishment of Bauxite mining by NALCO at Damanjodi only 110 kilometers from Kashipur as the symbol of the state pride. In reality, it has adversely affected the tribal people and their livelihood. With the depletion of the forest source, people are displaced from their own land and are forced to perform wage labor. Around every bauxite mine, local people testify that their water sources that were perennial have dried up—this is just part of the danger faced by farmers in the area. I observed similar situations while visiting the Aditya Birla mining project in the neighboring city of Barbil in Keonjhar district. There are 80 iron ore mines operating in this region around Barbil as it is known as the fifth largest deposit of iron ore and manganese ore in the world. I was shocked to see the thick red dust all over the trees, roads and houses. While visiting the mining sites, one could see the open cast mining mile after mile; the hills have been cut down and piles of iron ore mounted and transported by trucks to the nearby railway station. The people have moved away from the hills and are living in small makeshift housing; they were standing in line to work in the mines. All the managerial jobs are held by the non-tribal babus while the low-paying manual jobs are given to the tribal people. Clearly, one can see that there was no fair sharing of the profit made by the mines. Even though the multinational mining corporations are making excessive profit, illegal mining is common and has created scores of millionaires coming from the plains, the tribals remain poor and mostly are illiterate. It is because of the dedication and the courage shown by the Dongria Kondhs that the Niyamgiri hills are still untouched (apart from the refinery below). For the people, the Niyamgiri hills are too precious to be touched. Everyone knows that once the machines move in, it is a slippery slope and those hills will become history. The Dongria Kondhs in the Niyamgiri hills have raised their voice against such mega-development projects. They have questioned these development projects by asking “Development for whom and at whose cost?” noting that it robs tribal people of their livelihood resources. This is one of the reasons why there have been several protests of the tribal people in Odisha against the state sponsored bauxite mining operations in 1985, 1996, 1997, 2000 and 2005 (Padhi and Panigrahi, 2011). This shows the conflict between the state sponsored development, which favors industrialization and mining, and that of the people who prefer sustainable livelihood provided by their environment. In all these movements women have taken an active part through picketing, processions and public hearings. The emergence of an indigenous leadership made all these movements more widespread. Since 1991 when the state liberalized its policies and got rid of the permit quota system, different business interest groups have competed in the globalized arena in order to maximize their own profits. This leaves out the protection, which the state had provided in the name of the uplift of the tribal people. Many people have made a lot of money— legally or illegally—from various mining operations and some of that money has gone into financing various state enterprises. Unless and until state rises up to its obligation to protect all citizens—marginalized as well as privileged—these tribal people are going to be exploited, leaving them to fend for their own life and livelihood.

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The India of today, by all accounts, is becoming a very different country, no longer a predominantly agrarian society. Due to world-class information technology and the revolution in telecommunications, it has been pushed to become the third largest economy in Asia with a rising middle class, close to the total population of the United States. Both internal and foreign industrial houses and corporations have contributed to this massive growth since the advent of liberalization and globalization in early 1990s. Odisha—known as a “backward” state—also wants to have its own share of the benefits of globalization. The state has much of the country’s mineral reserves (a million tons), mostly concentrated in its tribal areas. In order to increase its per capita income, it has collaborated with many multinational corporations and big industries in India to carry out mining, which is affecting the life of the people in many adverse ways. The state has adapted neo-liberal policies to promote growth without taking into account the impact it is bound to have on the health and wellbeing of the tribal people living in the area. Despite all the protest movements described in this section, in July 2013 came the news that the refinery in Lanjigad had reopened, after seven months of being closed due to lack of availability of Bauxite (http://realtime.rediff.com/news/lanjigarh). The local tribals who have formed the NSS have relentlessly protested the move. They have organized with many international NGOs and concerned groups like Cultural Survival, Action Aid, academics and activists such as Felix Padel who have worked on the ground with local activists. With the protest of the local tribals such as the NSS, the Supreme Court of India ordered the state of Odisha to halt any mining operation until ascertaining the views of the local people through the Palli Sabhas (Village Panchayats). The tribal people expressed fear that money power, coupled with the muscle power, would co-opt some of their leaders who would favor the state’s agenda in promoting the interest of the Vedanta mining corporation against their own people. Unless and until a wider resistance movement of the oppressed is mounted against the oppressors—the state and the corporations—nothing is going to be achieved in the name of preserving the pristine land and the livelihood of the tribal people in that region. Vedanta continued fighting in the courts for its right to mine in the Niyamgiri region and reopened its refinery in 2013 while appealing the mining ban. The Indian Supreme Court rejected that appeal and made the decision on April 18, 2013 that the Dongria Kondh had to be consulted themselves about the future of the area, upholding their religious and social rights. This was done through a referendum in Gram Sabhas (village councils), which serve as the basis of grassroots democracy in India, letting “the people plan and decide about the development of their own village” (Rout and Sahu, 2013: 103–109). Representatives of mining interests tried to subvert the local decision-making process, but the Dongria Kondh made the collective decision time and time again to prevent mining in the Niyamgiri hills. When I asked a Dongaria woman why she along with other women voted against Vedanta mining, she remarked: “Who will give us food and livelihoods and our identity? Will Vedanta do?” (personal conversation, April 26, 2016). Mishra’s documentary Referendum (2015) provides many examples of the mountains being active participants in that decision. Gobina Sikaka, from a village in the region, said: “We are not literate. We do not know what is Patta [land title]. The whole of Niyamgiri belongs to us. Write Niyamgiri as our name.” Their god Niyamraja’s abode is Niyamgiri. His body stretches from Rayagada to Kalahandi, covering a wide region. Niyamgiri represents nature. If man has not created Niyamgiri, who is to destroy it? (Mishra, 2015).

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Others in the film spoke of the hills feeding them, but not the company, and of Niyamgiri not being able to walk “if you break his legs and his body.” These depictions of the mountains as having the same agency as people, or more so as sacred beings, resonates with the Dongrias’ logic and has become the prevailing logic in their resistance movement.

Present challenges to Niyamgiri as the sacred abode of Kondhs Odisha state has applied again to the Supreme Court to initiate mining on the sacred hills of the Dongria Kondh people, despite previous defeat in the Supreme Court, and determined opposition by the tribe. The Dongria Kondh consider the Niyamgiri Hills to be sacred and have been dependent on and managed them for millennia. Despite this the OMC, which previously partnered with British-owned Vedanta Resources, is once again attempting to open a bauxite mine there. In February 2018, OMC sought permission from India’s Supreme court to re-run a ground-breaking referendum, in which the Dongria people had resolutely rejected large-scale mining in their hills. This petition was thrown out by the Supreme Court in May, 2017. India’s Business Standard reported recently that OMC is gearing up for yet another attempt to mine, after getting the go-ahead from the government of Odisha state. Dongria leader Lodu Sikaka has said: We would rather sacrifice our lives for Mother Earth, we shall not let her down. Let the government, businessmen, and the company argue and repress us as much as they can, we are not going to leave Niyamgiri, our Mother Earth. Niyamgiri, Niyam Raja, is our god, our Mother Earth. We are her children. For indigenous peoples like the Dongria, land is life. It fulfils all their material and spiritual needs. Land provides food, housing and clothing. It’s also the foundation of tribal peoples’ identity and sense of belonging. The theft of indigenous land destroys self-sufficient peoples and their diverse ways of life. It causes disease, destitution and suicide. Dongria’s rejection of mining at 12 village meetings in 2013, led the Indian government to refuse the necessary clearances to mining giant Vedanta Resources. This was viewed as a heroic David and Goliath victory over London-listed Vedanta and the state-run OMC. Only the Dongria’s courageous defense of their sacred hills has stopped a mine which would have devastated the area: more evidence that indigenous peoples are better at looking after their environment than anyone else. They are the best conservationists and guardians of the natural world. Protecting their territory is an effective barrier against deforestation and other forms of environmental degradation. V. Elwin said he never wanted to make them museum pieces. Just wanted them to be treated as fellow human beings and with dignity. Tribals are no different from us. The developers make the argument that do we want them to remain backward? The answer is, in a democratic society, the state should enable them to join the society where they can compete with the rest of the people. Right now they lack the resources such as health, education and necessary employment in their own habitat. The state’s responsibility is to bring them on par with the rest of the citizens so that they can decide on their own what they need to do. James Clifford argues that “Given the crises facing an unequal, overpopulated, environmentally ravaged planet today, the survival of small societies that

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maintain, or at least aspire to, some degree of social balance and responsible local attachment is, in itself, an achievement” (Clifford, 2013: 44). In Australia, as part of the 1974 Aboriginal Land Rights commission, Mr. Justice Woodward commented that even though there is no visible sacred marker of these sites, the Aboriginal’s personal identification with this land is more important to him than are place of worship to members of other religions. Niyamgiri has become a site for contestation by various agencies. Dongria Kondhs and their supporters are still fighting to save their natural resources, their cultural and religious rights. Though lying low, the state government of Odisha is still supporting mining operations in the adjacent mines and bringing the bauxite for processing at the Lanjigarh refinery. It wants to give leases to multinational and other mega-national corporations in the hope of getting some investment in the state. Central government has its own environmental mandate in line with the constitution. Different political parties have their selfish agenda regarding mining. The state to its advantage can invoke the “eminent domain” in support of Vedanta mining operation in Niyamgiri. The argument is that communities will be forced to give away their lands for the larger benefit of the public, in the process disregarding the customary laws and the cultural and religious rights of the local communities. History shows that the state invariably has used force to invoke “eminent domain” causing the indigenous people immense suffering. There is tremendous uncertainty looming large as Vedanta Aluminum factory is still present in Niyamgiri area. The state has increased the patrolling by the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) where innocent people are picked up—implicated in false cases or branded as Naxalites.15 With low level of education and employment possibilities, they are unable to aspire for any alternative livelihood. Despite creating an oppositional space for themselves, the indigenous people are unable to stop atrocities and discrimination by outsiders. A 20–25 year Donaria Kondh asked me, how will a Kondh become aware? Call a Kondh, give her a slap, two slaps, three slaps. Then at the fourth slap, a Kondh will ask why are you hitting me? Now after years of exploitation, they are asking why are you doing this to us? (personal conversation, May 24, 2016) One can see why Medha Patkar, the eminent environmental activist would say that in doing that, state is openly favoring corporate interests and their profit over the wellbeing of people.16

Notes 1 Spelt variously as “Kond,” “Kandha” and “Kondh” since the colonial time. These spellings are used by various missionaries, administrators and researchers at different historical moments. I adhere to these distinctions in quotations, but for uniformity, in my text, I spell it as “Kondh” which conforms to the local use as I was told by the people during my fieldwork. 2 The concept of tribe developed in the context of census operations conducted under the auspices of British colonialism and remained a legal and anthropological term commonly used in India. Now “Adivasis” or “Indigenous” are used in place of tribals. Certain tribes earlier known as primitive tribal groups have been characterized as Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTG) on the basis of their greater vulnerability even among the tribal groups in India. Kondhs are one of them.

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3 See Population of India (2017) www.indiaonlinepages.com/population/india-current-population. html. 4 Meaning “original inhabitants” in Sanskrit, the category adivasi was first invoked in the 1930s as a self-designation to differentiate between forest insiders and settler/moneylender “outsiders,” although historians disagree over whether all tribes were original inhabitants of the regions they reside in currently. Article 342 of the Indian constitution defines “Scheduled Tribes,” an administrative list of 645 communities, as populations possessing the following characteristics: primitive traits; distinctive culture; geographical isolation; backwardness and limited contact with the mainstream (Karak, 2016). 5 SC stands for Scheduled Castes defined by the Constitution of India. 6 OBC stands for Other Backward Classes—“notified as socially and educationally Backward Classes by the state Governments or those that may be notified as such by the Central Government from time to time.” Source: National Commission of Backward Classes, Government of India. 7 The Forest Rights Act, 2006 was initiated by the Ministry of Tribal Affairs to protect the adivasis from eviction from their own land. Even though they had lived on their land since time immemorial, they had never possessed any document proving their ownership. This Act was introduced to the advantage of the adivasis, but in reality, they have not benefitted much from it. This policy has not stopped the state from introducing multi-national corporations to their habitat to extract natural resources. In the name of “public purpose,” as in the name of mining and dam building for greater good, sanctions have been given even without the knowledge of the adivasis living in the area, endangering their life, livelihood, environment, religion and their identity. For details refer to Bhatia, “Competing Concerns.” 8 For details, please refer to Survival, 2017. 9 The names are changed to protect the privacy of the respondents who have been interviewed. 10 The Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers (Recognition of Forest Rights) Act, 2006, see particularly preface and sections 3(1), 4(2)(e), 4(5) and 4(8). The text of the Act is available at http://tribal.nic.in/actTA06.pdf.. 11 DKDA stands for Dongaria Kondh Development Agency 12 For details please refer to Survival, 2017: 24. 13 The application of mining was by Odisha Mining Corporation Ltd., a corporation owned by the Government of Odisha, in order to circumvent legal requirements of mining in Schedule V areas. The fifth schedule designates “Schedule areas” in large parts of India in which the interests of the “Scheduled Tribes” are to be protected. The Scheduled area has more than 50 percent tribal population. Dangarias and Kuttias are known as particularly vulnerable tribes (PVTs) However, in reality, except for the name, all the operations were to be carried out by Vedanta. See Kumar, 2013: 4. 14 Kinu is a given name as the real name is in disguise. 15 The term “Naxalites” refers to the people who have been challenging the government and protesting against state-promoted inequality in India. They promote the empowerment of the poor, underprivileged and marginalized. The Naxalites strongly believe that inequality and poverty of the majority is orchestrated by the state, hence they are a serious threat for the Indian State. They are very prominent in the state of Odisha 16 Mehta, 2009: xiv.

References Bailey, F.G. (1957) Caste and the economic frontier: A village in Highland Odisha, Manchester University Press, Manchester. Bailey, F.G. (1960) Tribe, caste, and nation: A study of political activity and political change in Highland Odisha, Manchester University Press, Manchester. Bailey, F.G. (1969) Stratagems and spoils: A social anthropology of politics, Basil Blackwell, Oxford. Bairoch, P. (1977) The economic development of the third world since 1900, University of California Press, Oakland, CA. Bhatia, B. (2005) ‘Competing concerns’, Economic and Political Weekly, vol. 40, no. 47, pp. 4890–4893.

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Business Standard (2014) December 1, 2014, Bhubaneswar. Central Empowered Committee (CEC) (2005) Report, India’s Supreme Court, September 21, 2005. Clifford, J. (2013) Returns, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA. Das, A., (dir.) (2005) Matiro Poko, Company Loko, (‘Earth Worm, Company Man’) Das, C.R. (2014) “Tribes and forests in Odisha: Some critical issues”, International Journal of Research and Development: A Management Review, Vol.3, No.3, pp. 29–44 Dhurjati, M. (2010) ‘Tribal displacement: Their right to livelihood cannot be denied in Kurukhetra’, A Journal on Rural Development, vol. 59, no. 1, pp. 11–12. Elwin, V. (1936) Leaves from the jungle, John Murry, London. Feld, S., and Basso, K. (1996) Senses of place. School of American Research Advanced Seminar Series, School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, NM. Fernandez, B., Meena, G., and Orlanda, R. (2016) Land, labour and livelihoods: Indian women’s perspectives, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Gans, E. (2000) ‘The sacred and the social: Defining Durkheim’s anthropological legacy’, Anthropoetics, vol. 6, no. 1, pp. 1–7. Goodland, R. (2007) India: Orissa, Kashipur: Utkal bauxite & alumina project: Human rights and environmental impacts, Business and Human Rights Resource Centre, Washington, DC. Government of Orissa (2011) Economic Survey of Orissa 2010–11, Directorate of Economics and Statistics, Bhubaneswar. Government of Odisha (2015). Odisha economic survey. Bhubaneswar: Government of Odisha. Guha, R. (2007) ‘Adivasis, naxalites and Indian democracy’, Economic and Political Weekly, vol. 42, no. 32, pp. 3305–3312. Hardenberg, R. (2016) ‘Beyond economy and religion resources and socio-cosmic fields in Odisha, India’, Religion and Society: Advances in Research, vol. 7, pp. 83–96. Jena, K., Pathi, P., and Dash, J.(eds) (2002) Forest tribes of Orissa. Lifestyle and social conditions of selected Orissan Tribes. Vol. I: The Dongaria Kondh, (Man and Forest Series 2), D.K. Printworld, New Delhi. Kalshian, R. (2004) Caterpillar and the Mahua flower: Tremors in India’s mining fields, Panos South Asia, New Delhi. Karak, M. (2016) Choosing paths, not roads, CUNY Graduate Center, New York. Kumar, K. (2013) ‘The sacred mountain: Confronting global capital at Niyamgiri’, Geoforum, vol. 54, pp. 196–206. Malinowski, B. (1954) Magic, science and religion : And other essays, Doubleday, Garden City, NY. Mathur, H. (2011) Resettling displaced people: Policy and practice in India, Routledge, Delhi, India. Mehta, L. (2009) Displaced by development, Sage, New Delhi. Mishra, B. (2010). ‘Agriculture, industry and mining in Orissa in the post-liberalisation era: An inter-district and inter-state panel analysis’, Economic and Political Weekly, vol. XLV, No. 20, pp. 49–68. Mishra, T. (dir.) (2015) Referendum, Samadrushti Television Production. Mohanty, M. (2014) ‘Persisting dominance: Crisis of democracy in a resource-rich region’, Economic and Political Weekly, vol. 49, no. 14, pp. 30–47. Mukherjee, D. (2010), ‘Tribal displacement: Their right to livelihood cannot be denied’, Kurukhetra: A Journal on Rural Development vol. 59, no. 1, pp. 10–11. Nayak, P. (1989) Blood, women and territory: An analysis of clan feuds of the Dongria Kondhs, Reliance Publishing House, New Delhi. Padel, F. (2011) Sacrificing People: Invasions of a tribal landscape, Orient Blackswan, New Delhi. Padel, F., and Das, S. (2008) ‘Orissa’s highland clearances: The reality gap in R&R’, Social Change, vol. 38, no. 4, pp. 576–608. Padel, F., and Das, S. (2010) Out of this Earth. East India Adivasis and the Aluminum Cartel, Orient Blackswan, New Delhi. Padhi, S., and Panigrahi, N. (2011) Tribal movements and livelihoods: Recent developments in Odisha. CPRCIIP, Working Paper No. 51, Indian Institute of Public Administration, New Delhi.

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Panda, S.M., and Pandey, A.D. (2018) ‘Rural women’s self-determination and grassroots resistance movement: Reclaiming land and traditional livelihoods in Odisha’, a paper presented at the International Seminar on Social and Political Movements in Odisha Past and Present, Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Kanpur, February 21–23, 2018. Pandey, T.N. (2012) ‘Foreword’, in D.P. Guillermo, and J.B. Childs, (eds), Indigeneity: Collected essays, pp. xi–xiv. New Pacific Press, Santa Cruz, CA. Pearce, F. (2012) The Landgrabbers: The new fight over who owns the earth, Beacon Press. Boston, MA. Pfeffer, G., and Behera, D.K. (2008) Concept of tribal society, Vol. 5, Concept Publishing House, New Delhi. Population of India. (2017) www.indiaonlinepages.com/population/india-current-population.html. Rao, M.S.A. (1978) Social movements in India, Manohar, New Delhi. Report of the Expert Group (NC Saxena) on the methodology for the BPL Census (2009). www. prsindia.org/. . ./Report%20of%20the%20Expert%20Group%20(NC%20Saxena) Rout, B. and Sahu, N.T. (2013) ‘Strengthening Local Self Governance in Odisha through Empowerment of Palli Sabha/Gram Sabha’, Odisha Review, February–March, pp. 103–109. Saxena, N.C., Parasuraman, S., Promode, K., and Baviskar, A. (2010) ‘Report of the Four member committee for investigation into the proposal submitted by the Orissa mining company for bauxite mining in niyamgiri’, Submitted to the Ministry of Environment & Forests Government of India New Delhi. Sen, A. (2007) Identity and violence: The illusion of destiny (issues of our time), W. W. Norton & Company, New York. Shah, A. (2010) In the shadows of the state: Indigenous politics, environmentalism, and insurgency in Jharkhand, India, Duke University Press, Durham, NC. Singh, K.S. (2002) Birsa Munda and his movement, 1872–1901: A study of a millenarian movement in Chotanagpur, Seagull Books, Calcutta. Srivastava, V.K. (2017) ‘In the context of tribes of India’ (unpublished paper), Department of Anthropology, University of Delhi. Sundar, N., and Madan, T. N., (2016) The scheduled tribes and their India: Politics, identities, policies and work, Oxford in India Readings in Sociology and Social Anthropology, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Survival. (2017) ‘Royal descendants of the mountain God’, www.survivalinternational.org/tribes/ dongria, downloaded on 6 February 2017. United Nations. (2010) ‘State of the world’s Indigenous peoples’, Department of Public Information State of the World’s Indigenous Peoples Press Release United Nations Report, January 14, 2010, www.un.org/esa/socdev/unpfii/documents/SOWIP/. . ./sowip-press-package-en.pdf Vedanta Annual Report. (2012–2013) www.vedantaresources.com/investor-relations/results-andreports/annual-reports.aspx?year=2012-13. Wilson, Edward O. (1984) Biophilia, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA. Xaxa, V. (2012) ‘Identity, power, and development: The Kondhs in Orissa, India’, in Sawyer, S., and Gomez, E. (eds), The politics of resource extraction: Indigenous peoples, multinational corporations, and the state, pp. 180–203. Macmillian, UK.

6 HUMAN RIGHTS LAW AND THE PROTECTION OF SACRED SITES AND TERRITORIES A case study of the Bethany Griqua community in South Africa Lesle Jansen and Ademola Oluborode Jegede Introduction Under international human rights law, ancestral lands and sacred sites are recognised to be of cultural and spiritual importance to indigenous peoples’ way of life, identity and survival. In South Africa, there has been a range of literature in the post-apartheid legislative environment focusing on sacred sites and general land restitution (Hall, 2004; Kloppers and Pienaar, 2014; Lahiff, 2008). However, whether international human rights law is compatible with post-apartheid development in relation to sacred sites on the territory of the Griqua community merits consideration. This chapter therefore examines international human rights law and domestic legislative environment in relation to sacred sites and traditional cultural properties. Through the Griqua community’s own lens, the chapter investigates the extent that the law affords protection to their sacred sites and management systems. The chapter establishes that despite the position of international human rights law and the domestic legislation on the protection of ancestral lands and sacred sites, the Bethany Griqua community’s right to lands, and in particular, their water, groves and customary governance has been historically undermined in South Africa. It concludes with some recommendations.

Sacred sites of indigenous peoples under international human rights law Sacred sites and other traditional cultural properties are crucial to the preservation of the culture and society of indigenous peoples (Verschuuren, 2016). According to the “(Akwé: Kon Guidelines, 2004, para 6(g))”, “sacred site” may refer to a site, object, structure, area or natural feature or area, held by national Governments or indigenous communities to be of particular importance in accordance with the customs of an indigenous or local community because of its religious and/or spiritual significance. (World Bank, 2006)

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They are also cultural resources, which according to the Operational Manual of the World Bank are “movable or immovable objects, sites, structures, groups of structures, and natural features and landscapes that have archaeological, paleontological, historical, architectural, religious, aesthetic, or other cultural significance” (World Bank, 2006, para 1). The importance of sacred sites has found copious expression both indirectly and directly in the international human rights instruments. Generally, an evidence of indirect protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites is discernible from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) 1948, the founding instrument on human rights law, which requires universal respect for human rights, and guarantees the protection of property rights in Article 17, religion in Article 18 and community culture in Article 27. As the significance of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites interfaces with their property, religious and cultural worldviews, these provisions set out the basis for the recognition of the right of indigenous peoples to territories containing their sacred sites. Indirect protection is also illustrated by Article 1 provisions of the UN General Assembly International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR; 1966) and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR; 1966) dealing with the right to self-determination. According to Article 1, “[a]ll peoples have the right of self-determination” and the right to “freely dispose of their natural wealth and resources.” As an invaluable spiritual and cultural asset, the Article 1 provision of both the ICCPR (1966) and ICESCR (1966) is an important provision on the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites. In particular, the ICCPR (1966) contains other provisions of particular significance to different aspects of sacred sites. For instance, Article 18 guarantees freedom of religion, while Article 27 provides for the rights of minorities “to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion, or to use their own language.” In what shows that the protection of sacred sites also forms part of the focus of the ICCPR (1966), the treaty monitoring body of the ICCPR, the UN Human Rights Committee (2014, para 25), in a concluding observation advises that “the state party should adopt measures to effectively protect sacred areas of indigenous peoples against desecration, contamination and destruction.” Also the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (ICERD, 1965 prohibits discrimination based on race, while the UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (2003) protects cultural knowledge and practices that may be associated with particular landscapes. There are direct international human rights instruments dealing with the protection of sacred sites of indigenous peoples. For instance, described as an instrument which “represents an authoritative common understanding, at the global level, of the minimum content of the rights of indigenous peoples, upon a foundation of various sources of international human rights law (United Nations General Assembly, 2012, para 24)”, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP, 2007) has a range of interesting provisions of particular relevance to sacred sites. Cultural traditions and customs, including archaeological and historical sites, are protected in Article 11(1) of UNDRIP. Article 12(1) protects spiritual and religious rights, including “the right to maintain, protect, and have access in privacy to their religious and cultural sites” while Article 24(1) protects the conservation of traditional medicinal sources. Article 25 provides the right “to maintain and strengthen their distinctive spiritual relationship with their traditionally owned or otherwise occupied and used lands, territories, waters and coastal seas and other resources.” In a statement which affirms that indigenous peoples’ worldview is intricately linked to their

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territorial claim, Article 26 recognises rights to lands traditionally used or occupied which, arguably, consist their sacred sites. Article 29(1) guarantees the right to “the conservation and protection of the environment and the productive capacity of their lands or territories and resources.” Article 32(1) provides the right “to determine and develop priorities and strategies for the development or use of their lands or territories or other resources.” The International Labour Organization (ILO)’s Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples’ 169 (1991) in its Article 13(1) requires governments to respect “the special importance for the cultures and spiritual values of the peoples concerned of their relationship with the lands or territories . . . which they occupy or otherwise use, and in particular the collective aspects of this relationship.” Article 14(1) requires States to protect the right of indigenous peoples to access lands they have traditionally used. At the regional level in Africa, the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (the African Charter, 1981) guarantees peoples’ right to property in Article 14, and the right of “all peoples” to freely dispose of their wealth and natural resources. The treaty monitoring body of the African Charter, the African Commission on Human and Peoples Rights (the Commission) considered the importance of sacred sites to indigenous peoples’ way of life in Centre for Minority Rights Development (Kenya) and Minority Rights Group International on behalf of Endorois Welfare Council v Kenya.1 The Government of the Republic of Kenya had, in 1974, ordered the Endorois community out of their ancestral land in the Lake Bogoria area and gazetted their land as a wildlife reserve and had done so without consulting the group. The government further promised compensation to the Endorois community, which it had at the date of the action failed to fulfil. Instead, it continued to deny the community access to their pristine pasturelands and their sacred sites. In a landmark ruling, the Commission found that the eviction of the Endorois people to make way for a wildlife reserve with minimal compensation violated their rights as indigenous peoples to own their customary lands and to practise their culture and religion. The Commission therefore ordered Kenya to restore the Endorois to their historic lands and to compensate them. Due to the link of the lake to the Endorois’ cultural survival, the decision is of significance to the protection of sacred sites. As observes Abraham (2014: 165), “from a social perspective, the lake epitomizes the community’s religious and other traditional practices.” The lake also provides the community with sacred prayer sites, venues for initiation rites such as circumcision rituals, and grounds for hosting the periodic assembly of the community, where norms are enacted and given force (Abraham, 2014: 165). Hence, according to the Gaia Foundation, the Endorois decision constitutes “the first ruling of an international tribunal to recognise indigenous peoples in Africa and their rights to traditional lands as custodians” (Chennells et al., 2015: 17). During 2017 at its 60th Session in Niamey, the Commission also passed Resolution 372 which recognises that sacred natural sites are one of the oldest forms of cultural conservation, often harbouring rich biodiversity. It highlights the role that custodian communities and their customary systems play in preserving traditional values, and that they require legal recognition and support to do so (ACHPR Resolution 372, 2017). The Resolution therefore calls on state parties to recognise sacred natural sites and territories and their customary governance systems, as well as to uphold their commitments under regional and international law and the rights of custodian communities. It urges states parties and other stakeholders, including businesses, to recognise and respect the intrinsic value of sacred natural sites and territories. In developing this resolution, the African Commission drew on a “Call for Legal Recognition

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of Sacred Natural Sites and Territories, and their Customary Governance Systems” (ACHPR Resolution 372, 2017). It remains to be seen to what extent South Africa’s domestic legal framework has conformed with the normative developments at the international and regional levels regarding dealings with sacred sites.

South African law and the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites At the domestic level, the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites is, arguably, twofold: the constitutional approach which consists of the provisions in relation to the application of international law, the protection of religious freedoms and rights to selfdetermination; and the legislative approach which consists of specific legislation relevant to the sacred sites of indigenous peoples. Generally, so as to internalise international human rights law, South Africa has to ratify international conventions, and adopt them in its domestic laws. However, international human rights law can still be helpful in shaping activities of the organs of state, notwithstanding its domestication status. The application of international law in accordance with such reasoning, finds basis in Section 39 1(b) of the Constitution (1996) which stipulates that when interpreting the Bill of Rights, a court, tribunal or forum must consider international law. The said section of the Constitution contains authoritative provisions which connote that when interpreting the Bill of Rights, a court, tribunal or forum must make value judgments that are aimed at promoting the values which underlie an open and democratic society based on human dignity, equality and freedom, and must have regard to international law. Further reinforcing this provision, Section 233 of the Constitution prescribes that “when interpreting any legislation, every court must prefer any reasonable interpretation of the legislation that is consistent with international law over any alternative interpretation that is inconsistent with international law.” The significance of the application of international law cannot be overstated. For example in Glenister v President of the Republic of South Africa and Others,2 Ngcobo CJ enunciated the significance of international law to the Constitution as follows: Our Constitution reveals a clear determination to ensure that the Constitution and South African law are interpreted to comply with international law, in particular international human-rights law . . . These provisions of our Constitution demonstrate that international law has a special place in our law which is carefully defined by the Constitution. (para 97) The implication of the above is that, while dealing with sacred sites in relation to indigenous peoples, one can expect courts and, indeed, policy makers, to take into consideration relevant international human rights law instruments explained in the previous sections as part of the domestic legal system. The Constitution also protects freedom of religion through a variety of provisions. Section 15(1) unequivocally enshrines the right to religious freedom by providing that “everyone has the right to freedom of conscience, religion, thought, belief and opinion.” This provision is not dissimilar to the norms given in international documents on religious freedom (Goodsell, 2007). It also guarantees freedom of conscience, thought, belief and opinion and is said to probably include the right not to

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observe any religion at all (Du Plessis, 2001). This means that the thought, belief and opinion associated with sacred sites of indigenous peoples can be protected under the right to religion. Furthermore, both Sections 30 and 31 of the 1996 Constitution dealing with language rights are important. Section 30 provides that everyone has the right to use the language and to participate in the cultural life of their choice, but no one exercising these rights may do so in a manner inconsistent with any provision of the Bill of Rights. On the other hand, Section 31 states that persons belonging to a cultural, religious or linguistic community may not be denied the right, with other members of that community (a) to enjoy their culture, practise their religion and use their language; and (b) to form, join and maintain cultural, religious and linguistic associations and other organs of civil society. From the legislative perspective, the National Heritage Resources Act (1999), which came into operation in 2000, is generally considered to establish an all-encompassing cultural heritage protection regime. It generally creates an integrated framework for the protection of cultural heritage with regard to its management and development, as well as participation in and access to heritage resources. A statement contained in the preamble of the Act emphasises its main objective: to promote good management of the national estate, and to enable and encourage communities to nurture and conserve their legacy so that it may be bequeathed to future generations. Our heritage is unique and precious and it cannot be renewed. It helps us to define our cultural identity and therefore lies at the heart of our spiritual well-being and has the power to build our nation. It has the potential to affirm our diverse cultures, and in so doing shape our national character. Our heritage celebrates our achievements and contributes to redressing past inequities. It educates, it deepens our understanding of society and encourages us to empathize with the experience of others. It facilitates healing and material and symbolic restitution and it promotes new and previously neglected research into our rich oral traditions and customs. Accordingly, in terms of Section 2(xvi) of the Act, any place or object that is of cultural significance qualifies as a heritage resource. Section 2(vi) goes further to describe cultural significance as encompassing historical, social, spiritual, linguistic or technological value that these resources should possess. In terms of Section 2(xvi) of the Act, any place or object that is of cultural significance qualifies as a heritage resource. Sections 2(a) and (d) state that the national estate may include places to which oral traditions are attached or which are associated with living heritage, as well as landscapes and natural features of cultural significance. Movable objects, which by implication may emanate from such places or landscapes, are also subject to protection under the Act. As is explicit in the provisions of Section 3(l)(ii), those movable objects include objects to which oral traditions are attached or which are associated with living heritage, ritual or popular memory. It follows therefore that any traditional community can, on the basis of this legislation and more specifically in terms of Section 27(3), submit a nomination to the South African Heritage Resources Agency (SAHRA) for a place to be declared a national heritage site or make a similar submission to the provincial heritage resources authority for the same place to be declared a provincial heritage site. Once such a declaration is made in terms of subsections (5) and (6), then the overall protection made available by

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the Act will apply to the place in question. The Act offers guidance on the governance of heritage in South Africa as can be discerned from a number of its provisions. As a general principle, Section 5(2) (a) of the Act provides that the recognition of the skills and capacities of communities is critical to effective management of heritage resources. It is not surprising, therefore, that while Section 31(5) affirms the power of local authority to designate an area of cultural importance as a heritage site, it calls for the consultation of the provincial heritage resources authority and owners of property in the area and any affected community. Also, while acknowledging that heritage resources is a core feature of the cultural history and beliefs of such communities, Section 5(4) of the Act urges for their consultation and participation in the management of heritage resources. In fact, according to Section 36(5), unless an effort has been made to contact, consult and agree with communities and individuals who by tradition have an interest in heritage resources such as grave or burial ground, permit for any activity in such territory may not be issued by SAHRA or a provincial heritage resources authority. Section 25(1) (d) advises that assistance should be given to communities with established interests in heritage resources to obtain reasonable access, should they request it. The implication of these provisions is that consultation and the involvement of local communities such as the Griqua who have established interests in sacred sites is key in any decision-making process regarding sites affecting their interest. Hence, in terms of these provisions, indigenous worldviews and visons of heritage should count in the management of heritage resources. Section 38 of the Act governs in general the management approach when the State is interested in the pursuit of development projects in heritage resources. Before development projects are endorsed, Section 38 calls for a report which may include, among other things, the results of consultation with communities affected by the proposed development and other interested parties regarding the impact of the development on heritage resources. Section 18 of the Act allows for the establishment of committees composed of competent persons with appropriate skills and expertise for carrying out functions relating to the management of heritage resources. These provisions constitute a legal basis for the involvement of communities, such as the Griqua community, with established interests in sacred sites declared as heritage resources, in the management of heritage resources. In terms of claiming a territory wrongfully declared as a heritage resource, the Act is of limited relevance to communities with established interests. Section 41(1) of the Act only allows for the restitution of heritage movable objects. It endorses negotiation with a community or body with a bona fide interest for the restitution of a movable heritage resource and the future of the resource. On the basis of this provision, the Griqua community can only sustain a claim for the restitution of movable not immovable in heritage resources. To claim back a territory declared as a heritage resource, arguably, the relevant piece of legislation is the Restitution of Land Rights Act3 which enables a person or community dispossessed of a right in land, after 19 June 1913 as a result of past discriminatory laws and practices, to restoration of that right or equitable redress. Such a person or community, according to the Act, must have lodged a claim within the timeframe provided for in the Restitution Act and must not have received compensation that is just and equitable calculated at the time of dispossession in terms of Section 25(3) of the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa, 1996. The cut-off date for lodging a land claim was 31 December 1998. The cut-off date for the lodgement of claims has been extended to 30 June 2019,4 but, this has been nullified by the Constitutional Court.5

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According to Section 11 (1), a claim for restitution may be submitted to the Commission which is required to investigate the merits of land claims and make a determination, through the Regional Land Claims Commissioner, as to whether a claim is not precluded by the requirements for restitution; and whether it is not frivolous or vexatious. If satisfied that these conditions are met, the Regional Land Claims Commissioner will accept the claim and thereafter publish the details of the claim in the Gazette. The claim is then investigated further and either mediated, with a view to reaching a settlement or referred to the Land Claims for adjudication. The Restitution of Land Rights Act is in fact important in the sense that it allows indigenous peoples the opportunity to recover a territory consisting their sacred sites, thus allowing them to realise the rights associated with the recognition, custody and maintenance of sacred sites. Despite the foregoing, the narrative of the Griqua community in the pre- and postapartheid South Africa has been not only of encroachment on their sacred sites, but, denial of general land rights.

Griqua community and sacred sites The plight of indigenous peoples in relation to the ownership of lands and sacred sites can be argued with reference to the Griqua community. Found in the Bethany mission station in the Free State some 50 kilometres outside of Bloemfontein, the land which currently forms part of their territory consists of areas, subdivided and named Bethany Farm No 16, and later Bethany 365. The Griqua community from Bethany arrived in Phillipolis in 1823 following an invitation from Reverend John Philip, under the leadership of Adam Kok II. Some of their land within their current Bethany Farm (Bandewysfontein) was granted by

FIGURE 6.1

Here is the leader and elder, Captain Kraalshoek, at their community grave site area where most of their families are buried (Photo credit: Ivan Vaalbooi)

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Adam Kok II (regarded as one of the legendary Griqua leaders in history) to Mr Jan Kraalshoek in 1833 through a historical treaty which was later renewed in 1842 and which currently forms the basis for their indigenous lands and sacred sites. The Kraalshoek family was one of the most influential families in the area. At that time Adam Kok II had been recognised as the leader of the Griqua following the death of Cornelius Kok.

Historical treaty of the Griqua 1833 to their ancestral territories During 1833, the great Griqua leader, Adam Kok II gave the remaining Griqua people land through a historic treaty to what is today called Bethany Farm. It comprises 11 000 ha in total. The Griqua community lost most of these lands due to the Berlin Missionary Church systematically dispossessing them over a period of 200 years. They managed to claim back 5339 ha of their lands which they have to share with the Tswana community who were labourers to the Missionary Station at the time. Their struggle continues to (i) protect their current land rights and (ii) claim back the remaining 6000 ha under the control of the Church up to today. Author Karl Schoeman writes, in The Griqua Captaincy of Phillippols 1826–1861: As an example of the granting of land to Griquas by the Kaptyn and Raad, the following request which has been preserved in the Free State Archives Repository may be quoted. It is dated 13 September 1842 and is a renewal of an original request of 1833 involving an unnamed farm (translated literally). Herewith the request is renewed as the old request has been lost (of 1833) issued by the late Kaptyn Adam Kok Senior at the request of burgher Jan Kraalshoek as lawful property of him and his heir, according to the laws of the country now in force, on condition that the burgher Jan Kraalshoek shall on no account sell this farm to any burgher or Colonist, and if such sale should take place, that such farm is to be hired out. The rights held by these in particular Griqua communities included the rights to reside on, cultivate on, graze livestock on, utilise the natural resources on, and utilise the natural resources in the rivers within, and along the boundaries of, the claimed land under and in terms of rights of communal ownership under indigenous law, and later within the rules set out by the Berlin Mission Society. The communities’ rights were gradually and systematically eroded over time as set out below. The dispossession of indigenous ownership rights took place in 1881 when the Deed of Grant 365 was passed without recognition of the indigenous or customary law rights. Those that occupied the land, being the Koranna, the Griqua and the Tswana, were thereafter subjected to the rules of the Berlin Mission Society who had been granted the land. There were also various attempts challenging the ownership of the land by the Berlin Mission Church as part of their attempts to resist regulations that were introduced by it. Most of those attempts, however, were not successful, including the various court challenges. This dire situation of loss of lands and resources continues up until today.

Nature of the sacred sites of Griqua community The sacred natural sites of the Griqua consist of natural features including mountains, hills, forests, groves, rivers, lakes and caves which existed at Bethany farm (Figure 6.2).6 In the international conservation and heritage community these are known as sacred natural sites

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(Wild and McLeod, 2008). The most important sacred sites are the water groves at Bethany. Eight such fountains can be identified. The sacred sites are in Bethany in a large track of land in the Bethany farm in Free States which officially still belong to the Lutheran Church, some of which have also been sold to large scale farmers. The interviewees indicated that although the lands have not been restored to the community, some members of the community have stayed there for about 85 years around the underground fountains of water in the farm. The head of the Griqua Council has laid down walking routes to the sacred sites which the community members must follow in accessing the sites. This serves as a form of traditional methodology in accessing the sites. In terms of the maintenance of these sacred sites on their lands, Captain Kraalshoek explained that the Griqua community has a distinct manner of managing their lands and sacred sites. For instance, even though not at their full control, the Free State Griqua Council is in close collaboration with the relevant South African Departments in managing and preserving their Heritage. Part of the roles of the Traditional Council include the documentation of the heritage and the Council performs its roles under the watchful eye of Captain Kraalshoek’s Executive Council Members. However, they still do not have the full ownership of the lands or, arguably, the water groves on the land, hence, they cannot govern their sacred natural sites and territories according to their customary governance systems, and on their own terms.

Perspectives on the relevance of the Griqua sacred sites The community’s relationship with the water groves at Bethany has intrinsically spiritual and cultural connections. It goes hand in hand with their culture and heritage from their

FIGURE 6.2

This is a cultural landscape picture locating both indigenous and non-indigenous plants and trees of the Bethany community inside of their cultural territories. (Photo credit: Ivan Vaalbooi)

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ancestors. Through these sites, the community re-affirm their identity and origin in line with their history. The sacred sites create a close connection with their spiritual beliefs.7 These groves are an important link with their ancestors in that ancestral graves are developed with the burying of their deceased alongside water. Hence, the community members remember every time they drink water, their history and who they are and their cultural connection with their environment and ancestors. Their water groves form a central part of their customary practices and way of life.8 They constitute a great part in the historical healing process for the body of the community committing them to the ancestors as it is believed that the spirit of the ancestors is closed to the sites. In fact, there used to be ancient songs which spoke so eloquently about the importance of sacred sites, the interviewees recalled. However, the last language speaker (Ben Kraalshoek) died in 1938, hence, it is impossible to recall songs produced in praise of the water groves. This is largely because songs relating to the groves which form part of the language structure of the Griqua have been lost as a result of long history of colonialism and decimation of the language of the Griqua community by colonialists.9 The water groves are of heightened spiritual importance to the Griqua community. In their narrative, the indigenous sacred sites are important for: the religious, spiritual and cultural activities which form part of their cultural heritage, but also contributing to that of the whole of mankind; the continuation of their historical and cultural memory; emblematise some of deep and secret arts of the Griqua Peoples prior to colonisation and religious imposition, including its contemporary forms, biological diversity (plants, animals, their habitats, ecosystems, genetic diversity and water sources) and cultural diversity, (spiritual practices and beliefs, identity, linguistic expression), which are inextricably connected in what is increasingly understood as biocultural diversity.10 Explaining the significance of the above sites to the Griqua community, it was noted that the essence of the water groves are put to use in the calendar plan which is also cascaded into a Griqua induction programme used for the yearly development of new members and accountability purpose. Describing the induction programme, the interviewee indicated that celebrations around the fountains are held on a yearly basis, such as at the end or the beginning of the years. When the Griqua Council opens at the beginning of the year, the captain as the leader usually presents the water from the groves to the council members with the view that it will give them ancestral strength for the struggle for the New Year journey. The leader of the Council also takes them to the fountains where he presents his dreams and visions as revealed to him by the ancestors. At the end of the year, where the members of the council are reporting back, a similar process is repeated. The water groves are also of particular relevance to women and children, who have been the primary agents through which the relevance of the fountains, particularly their history, is spread by community members. Since they visit the groves from time to time to fetch water for physical and spiritual strength, the usefulness of the sites are never out of their mouth and presence. Generally, people notwithstanding their sex or age visit the fountains from different parts of South Africa. These groves are so important that even when a member of the community dies in another territory, according the interviewees, the wish is

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mostly to be brought back home and buried close to the groves. This further confirms that the groves have spiritual and cultural significance to the Griqua community (Figure 6.1).

Dispossession of water groves of the Griqua in the light of human rights law Despite the perspectives on the uniqueness of the water groves to the community, there has been both colonial and modern dispossession of their lands which form the habitats of the water groves (Figure 6.3). The history of dispossession of indigenous ownership rights dates back to the 1881 treaty. Earlier in 1846, there was a large exodus due to the forced implementation of the regulations made by the missionary station. The Native Land Act (1913) and the Native Trust and Land Act (1936) were relied on to carry out the dispossessions. These laws laid the foundation for racial segregation in South Africa. The laws divided South Africa, according to race. Whites occupied 87 per cent of South Africa and blacks were pushed into reserves which made up about 7 per cent, later increased to 13 per cent of South Africa. In 1881, through further land dispossession of the Bethany Griqua, land was registered in the name of the Berlin Mission Station (BMS) by Deed of Grant, but this was followed by the forceful removal of indigenous leaders for revolting against the implementation of the regulations made by the BMS in 1910. In 1910 the Berlin Mission Society forcefully removed the leaders of the Koranna that revolted against the implementation of the rules resulting in a Supreme Court case involving Thimotheus Yzerbeck, Matheus Kloete, David Jager, Hendrik Kraalshoek, Titus Witvoet, Maria Hofman and Andries Buffelbout. In their affidavit to court the above stated that they were members of the Koranna community who

FIGURE 6.3

Here we find Captain Kraalshoek with some of the Griqua community members next to the river area. (Photo credit: Ivan Vaalbooi)

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occupied the Bethany Farm before the Berlin Mission Society. They also stated that there were other natives that lived on Bethany that, unlike the Koranna, were required to pay for grazing rights and were sharecroppers. Prior to the Deed of Grant 365 in 1881 the claimed land was dealt with in terms of indigenous or customary law. The Griquas argue that the land belonged to the Griqua, that is why Adam Kok II was able to grant some of the land (Bandewysfontein) to Mr Jan Kraalshoek, and that the Berlin Mission Society was granted rights to the land by Adam Kok II. A development which further accentuated dispossessions as authorised by courts was the application of racial discriminatory policies. For instance, in 1924 there was a court case where the Trustees of the Berlin Mission Society obtained an order to evict a certain Hosea Lechoana from the farm. When the order was granted by the Supreme Court of Appeal more “natives” were removed,11 land was subdivided and approximately one third of the farm was sold to white farmers in 1925. Also between 1924 and 1925, one third of the land, at this stage owned by the BMS, was sold to white farmers. Further eviction of natives from this part of the land followed the order of court. In 1965, approximately 1000 people, mostly Tswana speaking people who were laborers to the Mission, were removed from the farm because of the Group Areas Act (1950). The legislation undermined the access of the community to their groves. Throughout this period the Griqua community were able to remain on their ever-diminishing ancestral lands and manage their community, lands and territories under difficult periods of both colonialism and apartheid. There are some four families who have been able to keep their land based on culture and customary systems going across generations. They successfully claimed back a portion of their ancestral land through the South African Land Restitution process. The claim was settled during 1998 by awarding the Bethany Farm Number 610 to their governance structure, Bethany Communal Property Association, which was established by the Bethany community (which includes the Tswana former farm labourers. The Bethany community consists of descendants of people of Griqua and of Tswana descent that were dispossessed of rights in land on the farm in 1965). However, the Griqua community’s struggle for their ancestral lands as per their historical treaty with Adam Kok during the 1881 continues. That post-apartheid legislation and policies have still not ensured the restitution of the lands or water groves to the Griqua community. For instance, even when some of the lands have been restored in modern times, the leadership has been misinformed, according to the interviewees, to change the complainants from Griqua Council to Bethany community at Goldan Gate and later the change was effected with a visit to Pretoria (1996). Initially, according to the interviewees, when the matter started in 1974, the leader of the Griqua Community claimed the land on behalf of four Griqua communities containing the water groves. During March 1994 Mr Johannes Kraalshoek, Mr. C. Oliphant and others had oneon one-meetings with the first democratic President the late Nelson Mandela who ensured that government would do their best to restore their land crisis. A second meeting took place between President Nelson Mandela and Captain Kraalshoek at the official presidential residence in Cape Town. Mr Johannes Kraalshoek lodged a claim on 5 September 1995 on behalf of the Griqua Community. The claim was accepted by the Commission for further investigation and its details were published in Government Notice 1168 of 1995, dated 10 November 1995.

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The claim was settled on 19 June 1998 by an award of the Bethany Farm Number 610 (5, 339 hectares) to the Bethany Communal Property Association, which was established by the Bethany community. It has been argued that it was the intention of Mr Kraalshoek to lodge a claim in respect of the original Bethany Farm No 365 on behalf of the Griqua descendants, but officials that assisted him during the lodgement process limited his claim to the present Bethany Farm 610 (which is a one third of the original Bethany Farm) and only in relation to dispossessions that took place in 1965, and to include the Tswana people as claimants as a prerequisite to getting their land back. However, he was deceived by the government to change the complainants from Griqua Council to Bethany community and, by virtue of doing that, other tribes such as the Tswana which were neither originally part of the Griqua ancestral territories nor had affiliation with their lands and sacred sites were brought on board on the claim. These added tribes are represented by 69 families which means that on any issue of public significance in relation to claimed lands, the Griqua are always outvoted in the communal property associations even though they are the original land owners. Even then, according to the interviewees, none of the water groves are under the control of the Griqua community nor form part of the lands successfully claimed. The failure of the state to adequately address the dispossession of the Griqua community of their lands inclusive of their water groves is incompatible with the three levels of obligations under international human rights law, namely, to respect, to protect, and to fulfil human rights (Koch, 2005). In the context of their dispossession, the obligation to “respect” signifies that states must refrain from measures which infringe on the rights of indigenous peoples in relation to their sacred sites (UN General Comment No 31, 2004). The fact that the dispossession took place under apartheid era is in itself evidence that the state has historically failed to respect their land rights. A similar challenge is posed to the obligation to “protect” which requires states to prevent private actors from infringing the rights of indigenous peoples. Again, considering that the dispossession took place with the connivance of non-state actors, such as the Missionaries, one can arguably affirm that the dispossession offends the obligation of state to protect the rights of the Griqua community. A parallel implication also exists for the obligation to “fulfil” which requires the state to cultivate policies and programmes that inspire the progressive realisation of human rights, and to refrain from actions that weaken the realisation of rights (Skogly, 2006; UN General Comment No 31, 2004). Besides, the foregoing constitutes a breach of the rights of the Griqua community to have their sacred sites and ancestral territories protected as indirectly guaranteed under international human rights law instruments such as the UDHR (1948), the ICCPR (1966), ICESCR (1966), and CEDAW (1979). The development undermines the provision of the UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (2003) which protects cultural knowledge and practices associated with particular landscapes. It is incompatible with the direct provisions on the protection of sacred sites and ancestral territories under the UNDRIP (2007), ILO Convention 169 (1991), and the African Charter (1981), through its interpretation of the provision dealing with peoples’ rights to property and natural resources. In addition, the current trend on the breach of the Griqua community rights to sacred sites and ancestral territories does not conform with the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites as allowed through the constitutional guarantee on the application of international law, other specific rights such as the protection of religious freedoms and rights to self-determination and other legislative provisions relevant to the sacred sites of indigenous peoples in South Africa.

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Conclusion and recommendations This chapter set out to sketch the international human rights instruments which address sacred sites and traditional cultural properties of significance to the land claims of the Griqua community in South Africa, and against that background, and from their own lens, examines the extent of protection afforded the Griqua community’s indigenous sacred sites, and their management system under the law and practice. The importance of sacred sites, as was established, has found copious expression both indirectly and directly in the international human rights instruments. At the domestic level, the protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites is evident in both the constitutional approach which consists of the provisions in relation to the application of international human rights law, the protection of religious freedoms and rights to self-determination, and the legislative approach which entails specific legislation relevant to the sacred sites of indigenous peoples. The applicable legislation is the National Heritage Resources Act 25 of 1999, and the Restitution Act. Notwithstanding the foregoing, the experience of the Griqua in pre- and post-apartheid South Africa, particularly in relation to their water groves, indicates that much is required to redress dispossession experienced by the community in relation to their sacred sites, and general land rights. The failure of the government to address this trend is, indeed, in breach of the human rights obligations of the State to respect, to protect, and to fulfil human rights of the Griqua community in South Africa as per their original treaty. It runs contrary to direct and indirect provisions of international human rights instruments dealing with the protection of sacred sites and ancestral lands of indigenous peoples and existing constitutional and legislative provisions at the domestic level which are relevant to the sacred sites of indigenous peoples in South Africa. In the light of the above, it is recommended that the government should observe and enforce international and domestic instruments to which South Africa is committed for the realisation of the aspirations of the Griqua community in the interest of their sacred sites and the broader interest of their lands. Also, it is expected of the State to recognise and strengthen community rights and responsibilities to govern their sacred natural sites and territories according to their customary governance systems, and on their own terms. In their implementation of existing policies and laws and in the functioning of organs of the State, it is equally important that the Griqua communities’ customary governance systems of sacred natural sites and territories are recognised. Furthermore, along with the State, the civil society can contribute in ensuring an increase in public awareness of national, regional and international laws that support the recognition of sacred natural sites and territories and community customary governance systems of the Griqua community. Finally, the civil society can pursue opportunities to use and enforce existing international human rights law and national legislation to support the recognition of the Griqua communities’ customary governance of sacred natural sites and territories.

Notes 1 Centre for Minority Rights Development (Kenya) and Minority Rights Group International on behalf of Endorois Welfare Council v Kenya 276/2003. 2 Glenister v President of the Republic of South Africa and Others 2011 (3) SA 347 (CC); 2011 (7) BCLR 651 (CC). 3 Restitution of Land Rights Act 1994 (Act No 22 of 1994).

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4 “Re-opening of the lodgement of land claims” www.gov.za/about-government/opening-lodge ment-land-claims-campaign. 5 Land Access Movement of South Africa and Others v Chairperson of the National Council of Provinces and others 2016 ZACC 22. 6 F. Kraalshoek Chairperson response during his interview with the authors; and Captain Johannes Kraalshoek response during his interview with the authors. 7 As above. 8 As above. 9 As above. 10 As above. 11 See Department of Land Affairs and Others v Goedgelegen Tropical Fruites (Pty) Ltd (CCT69/ 06) [2007] ZACC 12, 2007 (10) BCLR 1027 (CC); 2007(6) SA 199 (CC) (6 June 2007).

References Abraham, K.S. (2014). ‘Ignoring indigenous peoples’ rights: The case of Lake Bogoria’s designation as a UNESCO World Heritage Site’, in S. Disko and H. Tugendhat (eds.), World Heritage Sites and Indigenous peoples’ rights, pp. 163–188. IWGIA, Forest Peoples Programme and Gundjeihmi Aboriginal Corporation, Copenhagen. Chennells, Roger, Nadal, Carine, and The Gaia Foundation (2015). Submission to the African Commission: A call for legal recognition of sacred natural sites and territories, and their customary governance systems. Du Plessis, L. (2001) ‘Freedom of or freedom from religion? An overview of issues pertinent to the constitutional protection of religious rights and freedom in “the New South Africa”’, Brigham Young University Law Review, no. 2, pp. 439–466. Goodsell, E.E. (2007) ‘Constitution, custom, and creed: balancing human rights concerns with cultural and religious freedom in today’s South Africa’, Brigham Young University Journal of Public Law, vol. 21, no. 1, p. 111–153. Hall, R. (2004) ‘Restitution in South Africa: rights, development, and the restrained state’, Canadian Journal of African Studies/Revue Canadienne des Études Africaines, vol. 38, no. 3, pp. 654–671. Kloppers, H.J., and Pienaar, G.J. (2014) ‘The historical context of land reform in South Africa and early policies’, Potchefstroom Electronic Law Journal, vol. 17, no. 2, pp. 677–707. Koch, I.E. (2005) ‘Dichotomies, trichotomies or waves of duties?’, Human Rights Law Review, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 81–103. Lahiff, E. (2008) ‘Land reform in South Africa: A status report 2008’, www.plaas.org.za/sites/default/ files/publications-landpdf/RR38.pdf, accessed 30 May 2018. Shoeman, K.. (2000) The Griqua Captaincy of Phillippols 1826–1861, Book House, Pretoria. Skogly, S. (2006) Beyond national borders: states’ human rights obligations in international co-operation, Intersentia, Antwerpen and Oxford. Verschuuren, B. (2016) ‘World heritage sites and indigenous peoples’ rights’, Conservat Soc, vol. 14, pp. 161–162. Wild, P., and McLeod, C. (eds.). (2008) Sacred natural sites: Guidelines for protected area managers. IUCN, Gland, Switzerland and UNESCO, Paris.

Legal instruments ACHPR Resolution 372: Resolution on the Protection of Sacred Natural Sites and Territories – ACHPR/Res. 372 (LX) 2017, adopted by the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, meeting at its 60th Ordinary Session held from 8 to 22 May 2017 in Niamey, Niger Constitution of the Republic of South Africa, 1996. Group Areas Act No 41 of 1950.

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ICERD, 1965, International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, United Nations Treaty Series, vol. 660, p. 195. International Labour Organization, Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries, 27 June 1989, ILO Official Bull 59 (entered into force 5 September 1991). The National Heritage Resources Act 25 of 1999. The Native Trust and Land Act, 1936 (Act No. 18 of 1936). The Natives Land Act (No. 27 of 1913). Organization of African Unity (OAU), African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (‘Banjul Charter’), 27 June 1981, CAB/LEG/67/3 rev. 5, 21 I.L.M. 58 (1982). Restitution of Land Rights Act 1994 (Act No 22 of 1994). Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity, Akwé: Kon Guidelines – Voluntary guidelines for the conduct of cultural, environmental and social impact assessments (Akwé: Kon Guidelines) (2004). UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage 2003, Paris, 17 October 2003. UN General Assembly, Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women, 18 December 1979, A/RES/34/180. UN General Assembly, International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR), 16 December 1966, United Nations, Treaty Series, vol. 993, p. 3. UN General Assembly, International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR), 16 December 1966, United Nations, Treaty Series, vol. 999, p. 171. UN General Assembly, Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 10 December 1948, 217 A (III). UN Human Rights Committee, Concluding Observations on the Fourth Report of the United States of America, adopted March 2014. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), adopted by the UN General Assembly on 13 September 2007. United Nations General Assembly, ‘Report of the Special Rapporteurs on the rights of indigenous peoples’, A/HRC/21/47 (6 July 2012). United Nations General Comment No. 31 [80] Nature of the General Legal Obligation Imposed on state parties to the Covenant: 26.05.2004. CCPR/C/21/Rev.1/Add.13 HRC (United Nations General Comment 31). The World Bank, Operational Manual, OP 4.11, (July 2006)

Case law Centre for Minority Rights Development (Kenya) and Minority Rights Group International on behalf of Endorois Welfare Council v Kenya 276/2003. Department of Land Affairs and Others v Goedgelegen Tropical Fruits (Pty) Ltd (CCT69/06) [2007] ZACC 12, 2007 (10) BCLR 1027 (CC); 2007(6) SA 199 (CC) (6 June 2007). Glenister v President of the Republic of South Africa and Others 2011 (3) SA 347 (CC); 2011 (7) BCLR 651 (CC). Land Access Movement of South Africa and Others v Chairperson of the National Council of Provinces and others 2016 ZACC 22

7 TAOS PUEBLO BLUE LAKE A legacy of cultural perseverance Vernon G. Lujan

According to Pueblo anthropological scholar, Alfonso Ortiz, the following statement is that of a Taos Pueblo man: “We have lived upon this land from days beyond history’s records, far past any living memory, deep into the time of legend. The story of my people and the story of this place are one single story. No man can think of us without thinking of this place. We are always joined together” (Henry et al., 1970: 35). This is the essence of our relationship with the land. We evolved and have developed an intimate relationship and knowledge of the land over the course of millennia. It is sacred to us and we have fought to keep it under our stewardship and as our place of worship. In his seminal work, The Tewa World, Dr. Ortiz relates that Pueblo origin stories tell that there was a great distance between the place where humans lived with the animals and the land that we now inhabit. After many attempts by different animals, it was the birds who finally discovered a place to live. But, it was determined that this place was still “soft,” or not ready for settlement (Ortiz, 1972). The people and animals decided to wait until the new place became “harder” or more suitable, stable. Also according to Pueblo origin stories, at this time, people and animals lived together and were able to communicate with one another. Intermittent checks determined when this place was ready for settlement. The Hunt or War Chiefs were the first to travel to this new place. The rest of the people followed shortly to discover the place of emergence, a place of water. All the people undertook this journey, no one was left behind. We believe that we evolved from and with the land. This is the basis of our intimacy with it. We believe that we were part of its evolution and it was and continues to be a part of ours. We believe that we were put on this earth to live with and take care of her. We call her our Mother; the sky, our Father. We have lived with and observed all the changes and have developed an intimate relationship with her. We honor her and revere her in daily prayers and special dances to coax her favor. We know that our journeys may take us far from our home and our mountains and lakes, but we also know that we will return to the water of our origin—our Blue Lake. Upon emergence, the people decided that a search was necessary for a place to live. This was quite a journey! With stops at several locations that were transitory for one reason or

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another. Taos people lived with others at a place now known as Pot Creek, which is approximately 20 miles to the southeast of the present day Pueblo. After many centuries, a large multi-storied structure evolved mirroring the surrounding mountains. The people had abundant resources and everyone was content contributing to the greater good. Yet, there came a time when there was unrest, which turned into dissatisfaction, dissent and squabbles and disputes. Eventually, the people separated into smaller groups and dispersed across the countryside. Each of these groups embarked on their own journeys of discovery to find a place that was especially suited to their needs. For the Picuris, this was to the south, over the mountain and into the next valley. For the Sandia, it was the area where present day Albuquerque is now situated. For the Isleta, this was along the Rio Grande and adjacent to the present day Manzano Mountains. They remain our relatives: families and cousins— brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, fathers, mothers, grandmothers, and grandfathers. We are still related by blood and by language. Despite this unique cultural and evolutionary history, their journeys made our people intimately tied to the land through which they traveled and this intimacy continues to this day. Our journeys brought us to the southern tip of what are now known as the Rocky Mountains and, more specifically, the high desert plateau known as the Taos Valley. The elevation ranges from 6,000 feet to over 13,000 feet, with the highest point in New Mexico piercing the roof of this world we currently live in. Our sacred Blue Lake lies at an elevation of 12,000 feet above sea level and provides life sustaining water (Figure 7.1). The Taos Valley is ringed with volcanic cinder cones with names like Fox Ears, Pottery (or Pot) Mountain, Wind Mountain, Whistling Mountain and Obsidian (or San Antonio) Mountain. The Taos Plateau is capped with basalt from these cinder cones and the many small rivers that flow from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains on the east side of the valley

FIGURE 7.1

Blue Lake by Mark T. Lujan

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have deposited alluvial soils, which, combined with the volcanic soils, have created a rich soil that makes agriculture possible even at this elevation. The only drawback for large scale agriculture is the short growing season due to its latitude, which is dependent on weather blowing in from the west and Pacific Ocean and moisture drawn from the Gulfs of Baja California and Mexico or Caribbean. The valley experiences all four seasons including winters with significant snowfall, which the farmers rely upon for irrigating their fields during the spring and early summer months. Later in the summer, monsoon rains from the two sources to the west and south provide enough rain to supplement the irrigation water from perennial streams flowing from the mountains. “The earliest settlements date from A.D. 1,000 to 1,200 and are primarily pithouses” (Ortiz, 1979). These settlements were located near perennial water sources and scattered throughout the valley with the main concentrations in the north along the Rio Hondo and in the south along the Rito de la Olla. These settlements are characterized not only by their location, but by their architecture, most notably the shape of their pit structures. In the north end of the valley, the pit structures were rectangular. In the south end of the valley, the pit structures were round. The round style of the pit structures in the southwest is atypical, but the fact that there was a distinctively different style within a 20-mile radius reflects the diversity of people who came to settle in this valley. There are few other areas where rectangular pit structures have been found, namely in Arizona, where the Hohokam also lived in rectangular homes before moving above ground. What signifies this as an extraordinary finding is that the journeys of our people were so widespread that they were learning various architectural styles and other facets of culture and sharing these with each other. Eventually, when the two groups living in the Taos Valley united near the present day location of Taos Pueblo (Cornfield Taos, Parsons, 1936), the architecture changed to above ground, multi-storied buildings with circular pit structures being adapted for ceremonial purposes. As evident in Figure 7.2, Taos Pueblo is unique as the only Pueblo retaining Pueblo IV architectural style in the twenty-first century. Although there were other groups of people in and around the Taos Valley, there was mutual respect for land areas used and open space without conflict. Our origin stories reveal that our people wandered far and wide, as evident in the place names of geographical features hundreds of miles away from Taos. Even today, these places are named in our ceremonies and are still known to our people as they continue to travel in areas that at first are distant, yet gain familiarity through Tiwa place names. Our travels are also revealed in items that we use in ceremonies and in daily activities such as macaw feathers as part of our ceremonial headdresses used in dances. Some were obtained through trade, but could be from people traveling to or from certain locations where these items could be found. Seashells from the coasts were obtained the same way. Whether through trade or by traveling to the locations to gather them, these items are a vital part of our culture and ceremonies. An example are the tropical birds and their feathers, which were and still are an important trade item and were eventually brought to the area to be raised and cared for specifically for their importance in ceremonial activities. The architecture employed was far ahead of its time with the incorporation of readily available, natural resources for building including rocks for foundations, puddled earth, and later, adobes for construction, timber from the mountains for roof supports, windows and doors. The first level of construction employs extraordinarily thick walls to support succeeding levels of houses and storage rooms to a height of 45 feet to 50 feet! These

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Taos Pueblo North Side by Vernon G. Lujan here

techniques maximize the natural insulation properties of building into the ground at depths of 3–4 meters and placed in south-facing orientations, which also maximized solar gain and retention as well as providing lighting. The building materials were all local, natural resources gathered and constructed in a cooperative atmosphere of people and community working together to accomplish this unique architectural feature, now recognized by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) as a World Heritage Site (1992). This architectural style continued to this day with adaptation referred to as “Pueblo style,” architecture with distinctive features including flat roofs, adobe construction, natural wood products for roof supports, frames, window frames, doors, etc. As part of the adaptation, the architectural style has changed to incorporate more modern, man-made materials including stucco for exterior finishes and metal for roofing, as pictured in Figure 7.3, which alleviates yearly maintenance by residents. Although there were no formal boundaries regarding defined land areas or use, there was no need due to the abundance of land and resources. Various groups of people came and went throughout the area and they were welcome to pass with permission. The expectation was based on respect and groups were able to pass as long as there were no conflicts or disruptions to the host communities. Formal boundaries came with the introduction of Western and European philosophies of land ownership and tenure. Upon introduction of Spanish land tenure, each Pueblo community was “granted” title to “four leagues” of their own land! A league was equivalent to three miles, but varied depending on the terrain and was longer on flatter surfaces and shorter in mountainous terrain. Therefore, Pueblo grants were usually four leagues, which amounts to 12 miles

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FIGURE 7.3

Taos Pueblo South Side by Vernon G. Lujan

in all directions, although it was usually measured in a square originating from the center of the village or church (if one was present). Accurate measurement was not possible and inconsistent at best—for these reasons and due to the person who was taking the measurement!

Foreign relations Spanish land tenure was totally different and imposed when these newcomers came to this part of North America. The Spaniards had papal edicts that “justified” both their exploration and conquests and claims to new lands and their resources. Yet, the Spanish newcomers were totally dependent upon the indigenous population for their livelihood, their very existence. Instead of strengthening a cooperative relationship, they enforced two

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exploitative systems: the repartimiento and the encomienda. The repartimiento system was a forced labor land use system that required the indigenous populations to provide labor to grow crops for the new landowners. The encomienda was a taxation system which required the indigenous population to pay tribute with the crops that they grew or the animals they cared for. Again, these forms of colonization were intended to exploit the indigenous population and make them aware that the Spanish were the new landlords! Indigenous resentment grew over the decades and in 1680, the first true “American” revolt occurred with a concerted effort by an all Pueblos, Apaches and Navajos alliance that expelled the Spaniards south into present day Mexico. This new found freedom was short lived and the Spaniards returned in 1692 to re-conquer the area by force. The indigenous people were not prepared to revive their alliance and the Spaniards easily reclaimed the area, but with a new understanding of the power of the ability of the indigenous peoples to unite and fight for their rights! The Mexican Revolution of 1821 introduced a new dominant government, but luckily for the indigenous peoples, the new government was short lived and not interested in spending money to maintain the frontera or frontier—for it had proven to be a bust with regard to mineral riches, specifically gold. This was based on the search by conquistadors, which was spurred on by falsehood espoused by the indigenous people, for the fabled “Cities of Gold.” The only redemption for the indigenous peoples was that the new Mexican government recognized the land grant system of their predecessors and kept the Pueblo leagues intact, for the most part. The new regime lasted but 50 years when another shift in power and dominance occurred. In the early 1800s, the fledgling American government negotiated with the French, who “sold” their interests to the land from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains, which is now known as the “Louisiana Purchase.” During this time, the English and French colonists were expanding their territory from the east to west and eventually abutted the Spanish land claims. This spawned conflict between the colonizing nations and culminated in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which recognized the fact that the indigenous peoples and, especially, the Pueblos of the area had lived on their lands preceding exploration and discovery and continued to occupy those lands. Based on the many centuries of living with the Spaniards, and later, the Mexicans, a certain level of tolerance grew between the people and the introduction of a new dominant government—the Americans—was intolerable to the indigenous people in the new Territory of New Mexico. Rebellions ensued and rebels sought refuge in the Convento de San Geronimo at Taos Pueblo. The American army bombarded the church and those who sought refuge in it lost their lives. Thus ended the rebellion of 1848. In the following years, Taos Pueblo people rebuilt the church, keeping the name of the patron saint—San Geronimo.

United States legislation and American Indian Nations The United States of America was founded in 1776. In the U.S. Constitution, Article 1, Section 8 outlines Congress’ power “To regulate commerce with foreign nations, and among the several states, and with the Indian tribes.” The expansion of the United States of America prompted a short term war with Mexico and in 1847 the Pueblo land base was further compromised. The philosophy of the Americans was to remove indigenous peoples

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to make way for expansion and settlement by their own citizens. The ideal of “Manifest Destiny” was implemented almost immediately and caused many armed conflicts with indigenous peoples, including Taos Pueblo. The Pueblo was one of the only resistors to this expansion in 1847 by staging a coup including civil disobedience and revolt. This was met with swift and fatal action by the new government, which culminated in the destruction of the original San Geronimo mission and church. The Americans’ view of land was that they were entitled to whatever land they could claim or conquer. This was called Manifest Destiny, which was interpreted as a God-given right to the land that would later become the United States of America. Thus began the westward expansion from the original colonies and the purchase of the new lands from France in the Louisiana Purchase. Explorers were sent by the government in advance to map routes to the west. Military outposts were soon established and garrisons of troops stationed to provide protection to settlers trekking into the new lands. Conflicts soon arose between the indigenous peoples and the newcomers. Initially, the indigenous perspectives on land were such that there was some tolerance for the newcomers based on the belief that there was plenty of land for everyone. But, the greed of the newcomers was not anticipated and this became the impetus for exploitation and theft. These conflicts forced the new American government to begin a policy of negotiations with the indigenous inhabitants, which eventually gave way to treaties and land grants unlike the Spanish and Mexican land grants. The American land grants were negotiated with the caveat that if the land was not occupied and “developed,” then the land could and would be taken away from the indigenous people with whom the treaty was negotiated. As more and more settlers arrived and moved westward, the need for land became insatiable. The land was taken by any means possible including outright theft, murder, removal and any number of nefarious ways that were contrived by both settlers and their government. Thus, the first of a succession of related legislation, the Indian Nonintercourse Act of 1790, reserved the right to title to Indian lands strictly to the United States. Later, the Indian Trade and Intercourse Act of 1802, which prohibited trade with indigenous peoples, also viewed the land as a commodity wherein state governments were entitled to whatever land they could claim or conquer. Following this, the Indian Non-Intercourse Act of 1834, was passed by the U.S. Congress to discourage and eventually prohibit, by threat of incarceration, trade with American Indian tribes. This law also discouraged non-Indians from venturing onto Indian lands and informally recognized that the indigenous people inhabited certain lands, but God forbid that they go as far as recognizing that Indians possessed land! Following years of resistance to American expansion and decimation of their land and populations, the tribes along the eastern seaboard used a new old strategy of “if you can’t beat them, join them,” and adopted Western philosophies of economic enterprise, land ownership, slave labor and religion. The Chickasaw, Choctaw, Cherokee, Seminoles and Creeks became known as the “Five Civilized Tribes,” because these tribes had become so adept at learning Western ways that they were quickly becoming wealthy entrepreneurs and land owners. From 1814, when he was serving as a commander of U.S. military forces, Andrew Jackson was a forceful proponent of Indian removal. Between 1814 and 1824, over 22 million acres of aboriginal lands were taken from the original inhabitants. Jackson became President of the United States in 1829 and immediately implemented a policy of removal of indigenous peoples from their homelands along the eastern seaboard. The infamous “Trail of Tears” was the forced removal of the Cherokee people from their

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homelands in the mountains of Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. The remainder of the Five Civilized Tribes were also removed on forced marches to Indian or Oklahoma Territory, which was the land designated for tribes displaced by the government “in perpetuity”. This designation did not last long and this territory was also eventually opened for settlement by non-tribal people in a big land grab by settlers referred to as “Sooners,” who were the first to line up on an imaginary line that demarked the starting point for available land. This was only the beginning of many “Trails of Tears” for other indigenous people including the Navajos in the southwest. It seems that the new American government was set on implementing laws that either exterminated or removed the indigenous populations. In the early 1830s, the [in]famous series of Supreme Court decisions rendered by Chief Justice John Marshall set the precedent for U.S. Government treatment of Indian lands and their status in the new dominant culture spreading like wildfire from east to west. In Johnson v. McIntosh, Chief Justice Marshall wrote that despite the fact that Indians occupied all lands before European immigration, the country or government who subsequently discovered the land ultimately became owner of that land. This decision became known as the “Doctrine of Discovery.” In the second decision in the trilogy, Cherokee Nation v. Georgia, Chief Justice Marshall addressed the earliest decisions on the Indians’ land status and their relationship to the United States as being “domestic dependent nations,” establishing that Indian nations are not foreign nations nor states, but dependent on the United States for their protection and in whom they entrust their livelihood. He further explained that “In [t]heir relation to the United States (the Indian nations) resembles that of a ward to his guardian.” In the third decision, Worcester vs. Georgia, Chief Justice Marshall defined the plenary powers of the United States over the Indian nations, yet ruled that individual states do not have the same power over these nations. Although contradictory, these decisions rendered by Chief Justice John Marshall are known as the Marshall Trilogy and form the basis of American jurisprudence affecting American Indian tribal nations up to the present day (Getches et al., 1998). The Pueblo people were very fortunate not to have experienced such dramatic, forced removal as the Indian nations in the eastern United States. But, they were not spared from the Manifest Destiny, which came in the form of the opening of the Santa Fe Trail, which was one of many migration routes for settlers moving west from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean. This large scale migration and movement of people caused much friction, resentment and violence among people who never knew each other, but wanted the same land where many generations of indigenous people lived and flourished. The 1887 Dawes Act, also known as the General Allotment Act, enacted laws that enforced Western views of land ownership on indigenous populations, specifically in the Oklahoma Territory to divide [and conquer] the remaining land belonging to native people. The law imposed a division of 160 acres of land to married tribal members and 80 acres to single tribal members. This land came with the caveat that tribal landowners, or allottees, had to farm or make use of the land or it would be confiscated and sold or reissued to other people interested in owning land. Many unscrupulous non-Native people acquired land by this means. The Osage Tribe was given land by the U.S. Government and oil was discovered in the subsurface of their land. Some Osage tribal members were able to take advantage of this mineral resource and dredge for oil and quickly became rich. Other Osage, not knowing how to exploit this resource, were themselves exploited by unscrupulous non-tribal people who inebriated them

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and made them sign their land over in illegal sales or just outright murdered them after they were forced to sign such documentation that they sold the land legally. A report entitled “The Problem of Indian Administration,” also known as the Merriam Report, compiled in the 1928, discovered that American Indians had deplorable living conditions and to make ends meet, they would lease or sell their allotted lands for money to buy food. This also reduced the land base of many reservations, especially those subject to allotment by the General Allotment Act of 1887. The Merriam Commission also found that allotted lands were not of the best quality or suitability for farming or ranching. The Indians also lacked the agricultural knowledge to successfully grow crops that could aid in their subsistence or economic development. When the U.S. Government moved Indians onto reservations as part of their war efforts during the Indian Wars of the mid- and late 1800s, they pauperized and minimized the Indian by making him reliant on the government and no longer reliant on himself and his resources as he was accustomed to in his immediate past. Up until this time, Indians were communal, or community oriented, in their views of land use and resource use. The government’s implementation of the General Allotment Act or Dawes Act was another hallmark of the loss of their land base. Due to their communal knowledge of land use, the individual ownership of land was a totally foreign concept and when given the option to choose their land, the individuals chose those lands where they knew traditional plants and resources could be easily obtained. Yet, some of these lands were totally unsuitable for agricultural purposes—the exact purpose for which the government wanted Indians to engage to become “productive citizens.”

The fight for Blue Lake In 1904, President Theodore Roosevelt appointed Gifford Pinchot, an avid environmentalist and naturalist, to assess the state of the nation’s natural resources. Pinchot recommended the establishment of preserves of land, public lands for citizens to access and enjoy. In 1906, the U.S. Government designated the Carson National Forest, including the Blue Lake watershed as part of the greater National Forest system. Taos Pueblo was given notice that their tribal members would have to request permission to use their ancestral lands and this permission would be granted on a limited basis! Taos Pueblo tribal members were appalled that they would have to ask permission to use their land for hunting and fishing rights for their sustenance, timber resources to build and heat their homes, and most importantly, to access their sacred Blue Lake. Naturally, our tribal members were defiant and continued to use the resources as their forefathers had for millennia. Thus began the fight to regain and have our land returned to us. The fight began locally, but grew very quickly as people sympathetic to our cause expanded the fight to the national level. The fight was led by many Taos Pueblo religious and civic leaders including Juan de Jesus Romero, Cacique; Severino Martinez, Governor; Querino Romero, Governor; Paul Bernal, Tribal Council Interpreter; and Gilbert Suazo, Youth Representative. Many prominent American citizens, politicians, and philanthropic organizations also joined the fight including Senator Fred Harris (D-Oklahoma), Senator Barry Goldwater (R-Arizona), Marlon Brando (Actor), Jane Fonda (Actress), Association for American Indians, Oklahomans for Indian Opportunity, and many others.

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The Pueblos Lands Board of the 1950s attempted to monetarily compensate the Pueblos for the loss of their lands. The Bursum Bill, named for its sponsor, Holm Bursum, a U.S. Senator from New Mexico, attempted to justify the taking of Pueblo lands by proposing compensation at the going rate of real estate at that time. The Pueblos, especially Taos Pueblo, fought against such a Western land concept of land for sale, which was totally against the Pueblo belief in being stewards and not owners of the land. The noted author, Frank Waters, wrote a novel—The Man Who Killed the Deer (1942)— based on a tribal member who was incarcerated for hunting on Government property. But this same property was once tribal land. He did not think it was necessary to ask for permission to hunt on “tribal land” to feed his family. The Government declared the tribal members hunting as illegal and that he was trespassing on Government land. Waters, who was sympathetic to the Taos Pueblo cause to regain their land, used profits from sales of the book to finance tribal members’ travels to Washington, D.C. to lobby the U.S. Congress for return of their land. The local community of Taos, the regional community of New Mexico and the national community of Native Americans and sympathizers all came together to fight the U.S. Government and demand the return of our sacred lake and the surrounding lands that were taken without compensation or even asking our people. This sense of community permeates throughout our history with cooperative efforts employed in building, farming, hunting, etc. to provide homes and food for the growing community. This method of sharing labor helped with sustained growth and stability of the community. In the early 1950s, the U.S. Government instituted an Urban Indian Relocation Program, which identified half a dozen metropolitan cities in the United States that could provide educational and employment opportunities for American Indian people, especially young families. Between 1950 and 1980, it is estimated that approximately 750,000 American Indian people moved to these metropolitan areas, leaving their homes and reservations to seek these educational and employment opportunities promised by the U.S. Government and its agency, the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Many families returned to the reservations of their origin disillusioned by discrimination and racism that they encountered in these cities that were supposed to provide hope for a new way of life. Some families remain in these cities, but keep their family ties strong with frequent visits to the reservation of their origin. An excerpt of a prayer delivered by tribal elder and spiritual leader, Juan de Jesus Romero, at the signing of P. L. 90–550 by President Richard M. Nixon on December 15, 1970: My dear sons and daughters, we are a foundation with Mother Nature. Mother Nature gives us the opportunity to walk on her blanket, a beautiful blanket that is spread for us to walk in front of destiny, and the sun gives us the light that we will be able to find our destiny when we walk with Mother Nature, and all the great ecology that we have in this country is meant for you and I to enjoy. Mr. Romero goes on to say: In telling you the truth, I go to Blue Lake with my little package of worship, with the thing that I have to give and offer to the spiritual way, to give thanksgiving of every day of my life for what we have in this country, because this is important and I know myself when I do this it will be included in all the walks, in all the lives of this country.

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When our spiritual leaders offer their prayers, they include everyone and everything. This has always been our way and will always be. We have no animosities, we had no animosities towards the government, legislators or others involved in the confiscation of our lands. We believed that we would prevail and shed light on the lives of these people who would deter and keep us from regaining our land, our sacred lake. Our love for the land prevailed. Without it we would not be. When the U.S. Government returned only a portion of the vast expanse that we considered our land base, the 48,000 acres were designated as “Wilderness.” With this distinction came “strings,” such as limited access only by foot or pack animal. The Congressional law P. L. 90–550, was made public law with no funding for maintenance or to address other issues, such as firefighting capabilities. A firefighting crew was established in the 1970s, known as the “Snowballs,” they quickly earned a distinction and reputation for preparedness, determination and skill in fighting wildfires across the United States.

The Encebado fire of 2003 On a beautiful balmy summer day, which also happened to be the American holiday of Independence—4 July 2003—my family and I happened to be in the north plaza of our historic village of Taos Pueblo. We had just finished cleaning our family’s village home when we walked outside to catch our breath. It was then that we witnessed a horrific sight! We watched as a wayward cloud blew in from the west ahead of a bank of clouds that looked to be bringing much needed rain. Unfortunately, this cloud sent a single bolt of lightning onto the top of Encebado Peak. A few minutes later, we saw a plume of smoke rise from the heavy timber in this exact spot. Our hearts sank and we all let out a collective gasp as we knew that this was not a good sign. We immediately reported the lightning strike to the War Chief’s Office for they are responsible for caring for and managing our natural resources, including the wilderness that comprises our sacred Blue Lake. After reporting the forest fire, my family and I cried at what we had just witnessed. We were in disbelief that we saw the lightning bolt, smoke and beginning of a wildfire in our pristine forest! We felt helpless and we collected ourselves and prepared for what the winds would bring and blow the fire in whatever direction we knew was uncontrollable. The Encebado Fire scorched 5,338 acres of prime, pristine old-growth forest in just a little over one month. The fire threatened our water supply which flows from our sacred Blue Lake and the animals and resources we had come to rely on for our very survival for so many centuries. The whole community witnessed this devastation and shed collective tears over the loss of our beautiful forests; our homeland. The fire burnt not only the forest but also the image of the fire onto our collective memories. We knew that in our lifetime we would see only a small portion of this area grow back to its original health.

Definition of Indian Lands The U.S. Government has attempted on many occasions to define “Indian land,” based on requirements of legislation or state’s rights. These definitions have run the gamut from “Indian territory,” “Indian country,” “allotments,” to “Indian lands.” The most recent definition is part of the legislation that authorized gaming, the Indian Gaming Regulatory

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Act of 1988 (IGRA). This legislation defines “Indian land” as “any land outside a reservation which is either held in trust or the title to which is subject to restriction ‘over which an Indian tribe exercises governmental power.” (IGRA, Section 2703(4)). Yet, there are many instances where tribes own land that is considered “non-reservation trust,” or “restricted fee land,” which are lands which tribal governments must demonstrate that they “exercise governmental authority.” The prerequisite to exercising governmental power over trust or restricted fee land is jurisdiction. To further complicate matters, an overarching definition of “Indian country,” includes reservations, dependent Indian communities, and allotments held in trust or restricted fee.” By this definition, only land that has been set aside for Indian use, tribal trust land and is superintended by the federal government qualifies as Indian country (Venetie, 18 U.§. 1151). American Indian people and Taos Pueblo people take great pride in serving our country in the military. We have a rich history of forced or unavoidable conflict and both men and women have willing served in the United States Armed Forces. Antonio “Tony” Reyna was one of these soldiers who served in World War II and was captured and forced to march along with thousands of other troops captured by the Japanese in the Bataan Death March. At one of Mr. Reyna’s last public appearances which was held at the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque, NM, he relayed the following dialogue: Many have asked, “Why did you fight for a country that stole your sacred Blue Lake, killed your women and children, prohibited you from practicing your religion and speaking your language, did not allow you to vote and desecrated your sacred places?” I answer, “We fought for our lands, our children, our families, our people and the right to exist. Long before there was a United States of America, these were our lands upon which places of worship, upon which our ancestors walked. We gave our lives that our children and their children might continue to call our lands their home. Tell the people, this was our sacrifice for them.” This is an example of the love we all have for our land. Upon his return home to Taos Pueblo, Mr. Reyna walked to our beautiful lake every year until he could no longer walk such distances and terrain. If you are ever fortunate to see our home, our lands, you too will know why we love it so much! It provides us with natural resources to build our homes, it feeds us, it provides beauty for our eyes to behold, it warms our hearts. We are thankful every day for this land and we are honored to be its caretaker like it cares for us.

Epilogue Things are looking up! In December 2010, President Obama signed the Cobell Settlement, which was a class action lawsuit that resolved the long standing issue of trust responsibility by the U.S. Government. Specifically, for many decades the U.S. Government had been accruing money collected from natural resource and other royalties and withholding this money from the tribal members who were entitled to receive it. The Cobell Settlement also set aside money for tribal nations to “buy back” land that was fractionated during the course of their history and to purchase this land to consolidate their tribal lands. The U.S. Department of the Interior has implemented this Land Buy Back Program for Native

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American tribes to purchase lands that were once theirs, but fell into individual or other ownership. According to the official website, “Consolidated interests are immediately restored to tribal trust ownership for uses benefiting the reservation community and tribal residents.” Thus far, several tribes have purchased lands through this program including The Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs, the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla both in the State of Oregon and the Maricopa in Arizona. A governmental interagency initiative including the National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Bureau of Indian Affairs, and AmeriCorps Vista have established the Ancestral Lands VISTA program as part of their Conservation Corps Program (CCP). The CCP provides opportunities for youth and young adults to complete important conservation project work with local land management agencies. There is a growing movement to create Tribal-specific Corps programs that are better able to provide opportunities for Native youth and young adults as well as address important needs in Native communities such as incorporating Indigenous knowledge and languages. Thus, the Ancestral Lands VISTA program was established to make more of these opportunities available in local tribal communities. Ancestral Lands VISTA works to increase the capacity of local Conservation Corps, various federal agencies, and other partnerships to support a local tribally-focused Conservation Corps Program throughout the United States of America. Native youth and young adults engage in work that often entails camping in remote wilderness, learning valuable work skills such as chainsaw, GIS, farming, as well as cultivating leadership, teamwork, work ethic and other personal development (See www. conservationlegacy.org/ancestrallands). These and many other programs are designed to teach an ethic of natural resource stewardship as our forefathers did in the past. The intent of these programs are to have Native youth leading our Nations back to ecological and cultural well-being.

References General Allotment Act, Act of February 8, 1887 (24 Stat. 388, ch. 119, 25 USCA 331). Getches, D. H., C. F. Wilkinson, and R. A. Williams, (Eds.). (1998). Cases and materials on Federal Indian Law. West Group. St. Paul, MN. Henry, J., Deloria, Jr. V., Momaday, M.S., Medicine, B., and Ortiz, A. (eds) (1970) Indian voices: The first convocation of American Indian scholars, The Indian Historian Press, San Francisco, CA. Land Buy Back Program, www.doi.gov/buybackprogram. Merriam, L. (1928). The Problem of Indian Administration. Report of a Survey made at the request of Honorable Hubert Work, Secretary of the Interior, and submitted to him. Brookings Institution. Washington, D.C. Ortiz, A. (1972) The Tewa world: space, time, being and becoming in a Pueblo society, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL. Ortiz, A. (ed.). (1979) Handbook of the American Indians – Southwest, vol. 9, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Parsons, E. C. (1936) Taos Pueblo. George Banta Publishing Co., Menasha, WI. Peters, G., and Woolley, J.T. (1970) Richard Nixon: ‘Remarks on signing bill restoring the Blue Lake lands in New Mexico to the Taos Pueblo Indians’, The American Presidency Project. online at www.presidency. ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=2848, December 15. Waters, F. (1942). The Man Who Killed the Deer, Ohio University Press, Athens, OH.

PART III

The sacred in intangible heritage and education

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8 THE CROCODILES OF FESAWA Sacred sites and rituals in a changing context in Southern East Timor Brunna Crespi, Anacleto Amaral and Clementino Amaral

Introduction Timor is an island located between Indonesia and Papua New Guinea. Its eastern part, the republic of East Timor, is a former Portuguese colony that became independent in 2002 after 24 years of occupation by Indonesian forces. Many aspects of traditional life disrupted by Indonesian occupation have been restored and reinforced since the independence. The new context of accelerated development in a country where reconstruction is not yet completed, leads to complex situations and puts tradition and modernity face to face. We will deal with one such situation on the southern coast of the country, in the region of Suai. In Timorese societies, membership of a particular territory is a trait passed down from generation to generation. The ancestors, the spirits and their magical powers guarantee the habitability of land and have to be thanked for this access to land and to its resources (Francillon, 1989; Friedberg, 1999). A community’s territory is designed, built and reasserted through the worship of these powers. Such territory is collectively organized according to the local presence of non-human and magical forces, and the transgression of sacred boundaries and prohibited areas “can introduce disorder, defilement, then it should turn again in order by purification or sacrifice” (Racine and Walther, 2003: 208). Everywhere in the Indonesian archipelago, including in East Timor, we find places designated as “sacred” and “powerful,” which mark the presence of beings “from beyond” that can be potentially helpful or evil depending on the situation. These places, identified as “lulik” in the local language, are distributed throughout the territory and often of a dangerous nature. They are represented by stones, trees, springs, houses or mountains. They can be: sites related to seniority and ancestors; historical sites that embody important facts of the past; usual places of residence of non-human and invisible entities like springs, forests, caves, etc. (McWilliam, 2001; Rappoport, 2011). To ingratiate themselves with these supernatural beings, ancestors and spirits “Masters of the Place,” which could affect their activities and their very existence, local societies organize ritual circuits. A defined group of participants visits all important sacred places in a precise succession and “reactivates” these places to maintain or restore order in the

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territory and in the social life of the group (Guillaud, 2015). The memory and the nature of these places is preserved and transmitted in each of the lineages forming a village. This is done through oral tradition, and in particular through narratives of origin. These narratives are preciously guarded by the “Lianain,” which means “Masters of Speech” in the tetun language, whose function is to preserve and transmit the memory of a social group through various myths and foundation narratives. The Masters of Speech, always men, are the only ones who know all of these stories, including their symbolic meaning. They are the only ones entitled to tell them, which allows them to control these accounts and the message they convey to local society. All over Timor, local societies are composed of different ethnic groups and migrants from different origins. The configuration of the related territory is marked by the coexistence of different cultures, resulting in a controversial and sometimes contentious cohabitation. Thus, narratives and prohibitions related to the management of sacred sites can become a strategy of construction and of control of the territory. This is possible because narratives permit the highlighting of various spatial, historical and socio-political dimensions, as well as the role and place of each group in its construction. Among the stories about the origin of sacred sites in the region of Suai is that of a large mangrove swamp along the southern coast considered very sacred. According to a common myth in the region, “at the beginning of the world” in this mangrove, there was a village named Benabuen belonging to the kingdom of Lihuwai Wetalas. This village was one of the oldest places in the region, and the myth that we will further detail describes its destruction. The sacred place is supposed to lie at the very location of this ancient village, which is today replaced by a mangrove, known by the name of Fesawa. Most of the local information, i.e. local representations and knowledge that I collected about this sacred place, was provided by two persons, Anacleto and Clementino Amaral. They delivered precise information on their own representations of what constitutes the management and the governance of a sacred site, and their perceptions on threats that affect such site facing an accelerated development. As such, they, as the sole owners of this information, hold intellectual property rights and were associated as co-authors of this paper. It is to be noted that in Tetun society, responsibilities and classifications go by pairs, imposing two Masters of Speech in every statement about tradition. The information was collected during my PhD fieldwork between May 2015 and September 2016. I have interviewed 42 informants spread across three villages: Fatisin, Holbelis and Maneikin.1 The interviews were made in Tetun and were then translated by me.

The sacred site of Fesawa The Fesawa mangrove is located on the south Timorese coast in Suai province, about 15 km east of the village of Fatisin. Fatisin is a village from the suco (term for a group of villages in the local language) Kamanasa, which itself is included in the province of Suai, part of the department of Cova Lima. The area is located between two major rivers, the Raiketan River to the east and the river Ulun Karau to the west (Figure 8.1). The Suai area is inhabited by two distinct ethno-linguistic groups: the Bunaq (ISO 639–3 bfn, Ethnologue, www.ethnologue.com), whose language is classified as “Papuan,” a non-Austronesian family language, and the Tetun (ISO 639–3 tet, Ethnologue), belonging to the family of Austronesian languages.

FIGURE 8.1

Fesawa mangrove and Fatisin village localization

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Local communities’ livelihoods in the area are centred on non-intensive agriculture, the most common crops being rain-fed rice and corn. Arid conditions during the dry season and late rains during the monsoon may cause drought that can lead to total loss of production and increase the vulnerability of farmers by jeopardizing the food security. Ritual ceremonies, conducted in order to call for the rain and for the protection of crops, must be regularly performed. In the Fesawa mangrove there is a ritual altar belonging to the Tetum village of Fatisin. The people of Fatisin claim that they are the “rights holders” of the mythical beings associated with this altar and therefore the “Land Masters” of the place. On this altar, they perform periodic rituals for rain and good harvest which, according to their beliefs, also guarantees the socio-environmental order of the area. It’s important to notice that the people of Fatisin do not consider themselves as descendants, but as allies and right holders of the mythical characters that will be discussed below.

Background: description and symbolic representation of Fesawa sacred place The area contains mangroves and the coastal dunes. The mangroves cover lagoons and mudflats of salty or brackish water surrounded by riparian vegetation covering the sandier soils. Coastal dunes are colonized by pioneer vegetation followed by woodland in the higher parts. The coastal plain has been largely cleared by slash and burn agriculture, by the collection of sandalwood and of timber for construction (Tasi Mane Project, 2012). The inventory of species that we will present in this section has been made by the three authors, using the local names and equivalent Latin names present in the literature. Local names are given in Tetum and signalled by a “T.” The most frequent species in the mudflat mangroves, where land is permanently or temporarily flooded, are Excoecaria agallocha, ai-tanuT and Lumnitzera racemosa, ai-bikuT, (Figure 8.2). This area is surrounded by bands of Nypa fruticosa, komuT, Pandanus tectorius, hedanT, Hibiscus tiliaceus, aik-fauT and Casuarina sp., kakeuT in the sandier areas, constituting riparian vegetation. Other species of trees are common in the dune complex: Tamarindus indica, sukaerT, Schleichera oleosa, sukabiT and Borassus flabellifer, akadiruT in dry soils, Corypha utan, akarT and Arenga pinnata, akar nawaT in wetter soils and Cocos nucifera, nu’uT where human activity is most intense (Figure 8.3). The common shrub species include Jatropha gossypiifolia, Ziziphus mauritiana, ai-lokT and Fimbristylis cymosa, ai-lalerekT. Weeds like Calotropis gigantean, fukaT and C. odorata are widespread in many parts of the sandy coastal area. The flora of the mangrove is relatively poor in genera and species. However, it is a source of income for the population, since wood has good quality for use in construction and tannin can be extracted from the bark. In Suai, mangroves are a major source of wood for building sacred houses, which are the basic unit of social organization and of ritual. In addition, the lagoons are also rich in fish and shellfish, an important source of protein and much appreciated by local communities. Fesawa is a natural resource of wealth for local communities, and supports important symbolic representations: the place is the seat of supernatural powers, where populations can communicate with the mythical creatures and the guardian spirits of the place, and perform ritual ceremonies for rain and a good harvest.

The crocodiles of Fesawa

FIGURE 8.2

Mudflat mangroves

FIGURE 8.3

Dune complex

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The ritual ceremony of rain and good harvest Ritual ceremonies performed in Fesawa take place once a year during three successive years, and are followed by an interval of three years without ceremonies. All families, grouped by sacred houses, are invited to make the pilgrimage from their village to the

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sacred site. This ceremony takes place in November, the hottest month, at the end of the dry season. Before leaving for Fesawa, Fatisin’s three great Masters of Speech, Bei Basin, Bei Kornei and Bei Rai Ulun, gather the villagers to inform them of the precise date of the pilgrimage. On the said day, participants, dressed in traditional cloth,2 walk barefoot for about eight hours on the sandy coast, under the sun, stopping to freshen up at each lagoon on their way. These lagoons are considered minor sacred sites and are part of the ritual circuit and all have names: We Mout, Bei Sertahok, Tan Sikun, We Dare, Sikun At, Seuk Lae, We Foun, We Kaduak, We Aka Modok, Bei Luruk, We boot Fesawa. Bei Basin, the most honored Master of Speech, plays the flute all along the way to warn the crocodiles that their Masters arrive. The clan of Bei Rai Ulun walks ahead, the clans of Bei Basin and Bei Kornei follow. The clan of Bei Rai Ulun brings food, while the other two provide a white rooster and a pig. Once in Fesawa, the clans erect four simple shelters of wood and palm leaves, or kloborT: the first is called Klobor Ai-Lasa’en Ai-Latoban, the second Klobor Lalor Bei Fahik Bei Klau, the third Klobor Liurai and the fourth Klobor Leo Ualu. After a night in the shelters, they proceed the next day to the sacred altar Nudak Soru FatinT (i.e. the place to weave). Its wooden post planted in an open area in the middle of the lagoon is a relic of a loom mentioned in the founding myth of the place (see below). Bei Rai Ulun and his clan are the first to go to the altar, cutting the vegetation on the way with a machete, while Bei Kornei, Bei Basin and their clan follow with a pig and rooster. The altar is located in the middle of what is in the dry season a muddy lagoon, where according to informants the village of Benabuen was located. Once at the altar, Bei Rai Ulun asks Basin and Bei Kornei what they want: they answer that they ask for rain. Bei Rai Ulun digs a hole in the mud, creating a puddle, and splashes the other two clans until they are soaked, so that the ancestors understand that they ask for rain. Participants then share pieces of mud which represent corn seeds that will be used to begin planting when they return to the village fields. Waving the white rooster to communicate with non-humans,3 they say the following words in old Tetum:4 1. Na’i oan dadobe, 2. foin titu ba kalan, 3. titu ba loron, 4. loron la tadu. 5. Hau kodi tahatur saseni, 6. kodi badi saseni, 7. foin kodi kida saseni, 8. kodi fina saseni, 9. foin rai wen la tadu, 10. loro wen mos la dai.

1. Our beloved Lord, 2. we saw the night, 3. we saw the day, 4. the day has not come. 5. I brought my good machete 6. I brought my good pick, 7. I brought my good spool (loom) 8. I brought my good shuttle (loom) 9. but the rain season has not come, 10. neither did the dry season.

Then Bei Rai Ulun sacrifices the pigs by the altar in the middle of the swamp. Pig blood is poured on the altar, where the heart, liver and tripe are presented. Bei Basin receives the right thigh; Bei Kornei the trunk; Bei Rai Ulun the head and both front legs; and Bei Leo Ualu the left thigh. But since the latter is not present at the ceremony,5 Bei Basin takes his share. The ritual sharing of the meat follows the statutory hierarchy, the thighs being attributed to the Master of Speech with the highest status. After dividing the meat, each group cooks its share and eats it in its shelter. The skull is cleaned and left on the altar to indicate a prohibition. People know they cannot settle on

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the site, hunt animals or cut trees under penalty of supernatural punishment. It is a sign of possession of the land and of the presence of spirits who control the place, guaranteeing its integrity. It is also a form of expression of the group’s territoriality.

Territoriality through sacred places When a narrator conveys the story of his group, the time line of his narrative is based on a sequence of locations (ancient settlements, which have become sacred sites) instead of a sequence of generations (cf the topogeny of Fox, 2006). Moreover, the sites considered sacred are often strategic places, with an economic or environmental interest, and therefore must be actively managed, protected and integrated in the group’s territory. The sacred and the political are combined in order to create a system that allows control and management at the same time. In Fesawa, this system is characterized by a corpus of narratives, especially myths. In a dialectical movement, myths and territory interact and produce one another: the myths give meaning to places, while the territory is the geographical basis for the validation of myths. Therefore, myths are not only a way to anchor ancestors and traditional land rights to the territory: they also ensure the reproduction of land ownership and the transmission of the material and spiritual heritage. This framework legitimizes the “Land Masters,” who interact with the spirits and prevent their evil manifestations. If the clans use these narratives to validate their territory, they are nevertheless protected by a law of secrecy, forbidding their holders to reveal their mysteries6 to any foreign clan7 under the penalty of death.

Fesawa’s origin myth The myth that is presented in this chapter is carefully guarded by Fatisin’s Masters of Speech, coauthors of this chapter. Throughout the region it is possible to find other Masters of Speech that know different versions of the story of Fesawa. Until now, five different versions of this myth have been collected during my fieldwork. These versions are nevertheless considered as “less authentic” or “wrong” by our co-authors, because Fatisin village would be the only true “master” of Fesawa’s sacred site and therefore the only holder of the “true story.” As we will discuss, one of the Fatisin’s clan is considered by the other clans as the owner of the place of the entire zone. We chose to detail here only the version of our two co-authors; the differences, sometimes important, with the other versions will be summed up in a comparative table later in this chapter (Table 8.1).

Fatisin’s myth on Fesawa Formerly, the village of Benabuen, in the great kingdom of Lihuwai Wetalas, was ruled by two female weavers, Rika Lihuwai and Dahu Lihuwai. These women were princesses of high rank, and they spent their days weaving. When they were weaving, the sound of their loom was very strong. Even from the top of the mountain it was possible to hear them. One day, two princes of Hae Manu, a mountain behind Lihuwai Wetalas, heard this weird noise coming from below, from the plains. These two princes, Sera Sumaen and Laka Sumaen, came down to check what was going on.

TABLE 8.1 Comparative table of the different versions

Version

Fatisin

Holbelis 1

Holbelis 2

Holbelis 3

Female character

Rika Lihuwai and Dahu Lihuwai Tetun

Bui Nahak

Rika Lihuwai and Dahu Lihuwai Tetun

Dahu Lihuwai Rika Lihuwai and Soe Keitara and Dahu Lihuwai Bunaq Bunaq

Tetun (but mixed village Tetun-Bunaq) Activity Weaving Weaving Weaving Not mentioned Male Sera Sumaen Liurai Laku Sera Sumaen and Sera Sumaen character and Laka Leik Laka Sumaen and Laka Sumaen Sumaen Language Bunaq Tetun Bunaq Bunaq Who Sera Sumaen Liurai Laku Rika Lihuwai The boat of caused the and Laka Leik and a pig three princes, destruction Sumaen known as Loro of the Tolu: village Raimean, Manufahi and Suai. Bunaq socioBodies of dead Aftermath The crocodile Culture of people gave women sacred objects political structure (Leo Siwe) birth to the (Leo Siwe); seeds Tetun turning into Bunaq Mazop Lianain, Suai Loro, Fatisin Molop Leo Villages Fatisin, Cassa, Molop Leo Ualu, Leber, traversed Walu, Suai Loro Sabi Dilai. Lakus, Pur by the Belis, Mazop characters Lianain, Oburo, Suai Loro No foundation Buak sacred Locations Sacred houses No foundation founded by house (Oburo) Uma Linain characters (Mazop), Uma Samatais (Suai Loro) and De Buak (Mazop) Alliances Refusal of wed- Wedding of Refusal of wed- Wedding of ding with the Bui Nahak ding Rika et Dahu with two princes; with Bere Bau Sera Laka and of social rejection (man from Soe with Seran of the crocodile Mazop) women Request for Associated Request for rain No rituals on No associated ritual rain and good the site, but rituals and good harvest invocation of harvest the site during the rain ritual Language

Manekin

Weaving Na’i Tafara and Na’i Foura Tetun Na’i Tafara and Na’i Foura

The crocodile women

Fatuk Soi Lesu, Manekin

Sacred house Uma Lor (Manekin)

Refusal of wedding with the two princes; conflitcs and alliances with neighboring villages No associated ritual

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When they arrived in Lihuwai Wetalas, they saw the two women sitting at their looms, and fell immediately in love with them. They went to propose marriage to these women. But the princesses did not want to marry them because they had “wide feet,” they came from the mountain. Upset, the princes went home and with their magic caused a heavy rain in Lihuwai Wetalas, so heavy that everything in the village has been drowned. Everything was destroyed but the two princesses continued to weave without being disturbed, and the two princes, still hearing the looms, said to themselves that they were really strong women. Rika and Dahu quickly noticed that the whole kingdom was destroyed and that their people had drowned. Humiliated because they were unable to protect their kingdom, they transformed themselves into crocodiles and went into the sea. Once in the water, they sent giant waves to destroy the kingdom of Hae Manu, as a revenge. Nobody survived. Today one can still see the traces of the destruction caused by these waves sent by the crocodile women. And there is a salt marsh inland on the spot where the two princes died. Not far from Lihuwai Wetalas, the king of Fatisin, Na’i Akalau Da’ok, had a bad dream in which a large wave flooded and destroyed a whole village, “Tasi sae rai, metin likurai”T (lit. “the sea rises upon the land, put the likurai in a safe place”8). He called his trusted servant, Bei Rai Ulun, from the house Ai Lasa’en, and asked him to go and check that all was well in the area. Bei Rai Ulun then sent the hunter Bisi Rafatu with his dog to inspect the territory. Arriving at Lihuwai Wetalas he saw something moving in the dark. The dog began barking and he heard a voice that said, “Take me to the king.” He approached and saw two young crocodiles in the middle of the destroyed village. He was afraid and fled! Arriving at Fatisin he told the king what he saw, and the king asked him to go back and fetch the crocodiles. Once the crocodiles were in Fatisin, the people of the house Bei Klau took care of the two princesses as they grew, because only in this house people knew how to make pounded food for the crocodiles. As they grew up, the crocodiles reversed into women, but their crocodile tail did not disappear. The princesses never left the house for fear of being discovered, but one day, during a funeral ceremony, they had the idea of covering their tails with a taisT to be able to attend. When they arrived at the party, everyone saw that they were very beautiful princesses, but their joy did not last. One of the guests, finding these women very strange, went under the house to see what was under their taisT and discovered their tails. The day after the party, the two women were very vexed and asked to be brought back to Lihuwai Wetalas. Arriving there, they thanked their guests and told them that they would always be indebted. They told them: “when there is too much sun, come and ask us for rain; when there is too much rain, come and ask us for the sun; when you do not have corn, come and ask us for the seeds. Bring us a pig to sacrifice and a white rooster and in return we will give you a buffalo.”9 That is why, when the time comes, Fatisin’s people go to the site to honour their agreement, and have done so until now. Following their agreement, the people named the place “Fesawa,” after the word fetosa—umaneT, i.e. the house/clan of the groom—the house/clan of the bride, which refers to a matrimonial alliance, referring to the fact that the two princesses had refused the alliance with the two princes of the mountain. Interestingly, according to Belo and Da Silva (2013), marriages between people of high rank from two different kingdoms were meant to create strong bonds between polities,

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which had to be maintained by subsequent intermarriage: not obeying this rule was believed to cause natural disasters.

Other versions associated to Fesawa site Although the other versions present many differences with this first one, their background is often the same: a woman weaver rejects the love of a man, which causes the flooding and destruction of her village, forcing her to abandon it and migrate to other places. The main change from one version to the other is the identity of the female characters, and also their destination after the flooding and destruction of Benabuen-Lihuwai. According to some of my informants, these differences come from the fact that each narrator tells the part of the story which highlights the origin of his own village. In this perspective these versions would be complementary, and not exclusive. The identity of Benabuen’s original population is not clearly asserted by informants, either. Some indicate that the place had been populated by people who came, with their king, from the islands of Savu and Roti, and that it was ruled by his daughters who were weavers. Others observe that upon the arrival of such kings, the site was already occupied and the newcomers settled down and imposed their authority over the village. The name and number of characters also change depending on the version (Table 8.1). In the first version, the coastal village of Fesawa is presented as having a higher sociopolitical status than that of the mountain, and as having better techniques and more resources, which would explain the prevailing of coastal people and the dissemination of the victors’ culture. Whereas in other versions, the key issue is not the status, but the transmission of sacred objects, seeds or new social structures, which arrive by sea and go to the mountains to help set up a new culture there. These differences seem to enlighten the respective visions of the linguistic groups. These narratives come mostly as the description of a conflict between people from the sea and people from the mountains, between newcomers and local people, resulting in a mixed and original culture going along with a new socio-political organization, with the culture of sacred objects10 and the dissemination of seeds (cereals11) in the region. This culture would be represented today by the two ethno-linguistic groups of Tetun and Bunaq. The mythical narrative seems to describe, in various ways, the genesis of these components; it also hints at an intermixing of the two groups which are sometimes presented as allies, sometimes as enemies.

Governance: the logic of management and site supervision The sacred and the political aspects are often combined to ensure domination, control and management of the territory. The ritual life constantly defines the modalities of natural resources use and of the group’s inscription in the territory. Traditional rules and customs surrounding sacred places are a system of communal protection and allow the conservation of natural resources.

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In Suai, the clans that are considered as first settlers in the myths of origin, as “Masters of Land,” retain the political-ritual authority in the community. They are usually responsible for the surveillance of sacred sites and grant the authorization to access and use them. The concepts of customary rights, lisanT, and prohibitions, lulikT, which form the basis of customary and ritual management of natural resources, are still very active in the area and their application is ruled by the clan leaders ai-makle’atT “the eye of the forest.”12 Prohibitions include bans on resource extraction, such as cutting of trees, grazing, fishing or hunting (Table 8.2). The ai-makle’atT fixes fines for violations and is in charge of the mediation in conflicts involving sacred sites. One of the three great Masters of Speech, Bei Rai Ulun, is in charge of the surveillance of Fesawa; he is responsible for clearing the vegetation on the way to the altar, and to replace the altar’s wooden post if needed. No one can visit the sacred without his presence. He is chosen in reference to the fact that he belongs to the same clan as the hunter who, in the myth, discovered the destroyed village and the two crocodile women. Since the original Masters of Land have been killed or transformed into crocodiles, his clan will be forever considered as the owner of the place. The ai-makle’atT is responsible for watching holy places, but he is not the only one feared by violators. Fesawa is protected by supernatural powers that can be activated by a bad usage of the site: according to local beliefs, the violation of sacred sites leads to disasters such as tsunamis, droughts, plague and other disasters that can completely destroy the violator’s village (Table 8.2). The spirit of ancestors and the crocodile women of the original myth of the place are supposedly the ubiquitous watchers of every transgression. Following these beliefs, the fishermen and the surrounding communities closely control the site, since in case of natural disaster, they would be the first ones affected. All these prohibitions not only provide an effective protection of the place, but also recall its myth of origin, for instance the ban on Bunaq-speaking, edicted by the Masters of the place in the village of Fatisin, refers to the princes of the mountain that would have destroyed the village. Many of these prohibitions can be beneficial to the conservation of biodiversity, although from the perspective of the communities, they primarily have a practical or symbolic function. For example, the ban on killing bats, animals mentioned by Bunaq as consumers (and propagators) of the fruit of akar nawaT (Arenga pinnata) could be explained

TABLE 8.2 List of bans and prescriptions in Fesawa

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Prohibition on speaking Bunaq Obligation to speak in Fesawa’s old language (local tetun language, described as very ancient) Prohibition on fishing and hunting Prohibition on killing crocodiles Prohibition on killing bats Prohibition of non-essential conversations Obligation to dress in traditional garment (tais) when coming to the site and to the altar Prohibition on accessing the site without the presence of the clan “Master of the place” or without his permission

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by the fact that this palm tree provides the wine used in sacred ceremonies. However, the alleged reason for the prohibition is that it is believed that when young people die, they turn into bats. The ceremonies and rituals performed almost annually in the site are a reminder and warning of the danger of the place, since they allow, through the communication with the ancestors, the good order and functioning of life within the social group and in the whole country (good harvest, guarantee of rain, proper transition between the cycles of life etc.).

Analysis of threats to the site and problems with its management The clans of Masters of Land in Suai, and elsewhere in Timor, are in charge of the surveillance, access and use of sacred sites, but nowhere in the regional planning of the country is their role precisely recognized, nor is the existence and physical and cultural functioning of the places they control acknowledged. Besides, sacred places like Fesawa are not recognized by the authorities of Timor-Leste, who simply carried out an inventory of forested areas. The current system dispossesses local communities of the responsibility and authority related to the control of sacred land, and weakens the role of these communities and of their governance system. This non-recognition by the state of traditional modes of management and of land division weakens the authority of communities towards violators. The traditional management of natural resources is based on the respect of the ancestors, who must be honoured in each culture and harvest. These beliefs are therefore the key to customary authority. During the Indonesian occupation, and the transmigration13 operations, prohibitions have been suspended and “foreigners,” whether Timorese or Indonesian, who settled in lands that were not theirs and of which they had no traditional right of use, did not follow the rules of the Masters of Land. Hence the management and customary prohibitions have lost a lot of strength in most parts of the country. This is the case in Fesawa where two neighboring villages, relocated by the Indonesian, freely took advantage of resources available on the sacred site, leading to conflicts with the Masters of Land. Recently, the creation of a Petroleum Development base, Timor Gap, may change the current territorial organization again. This base is part of the project Tasi Mane (TMP), planning an oil infrastructure corridor along the southern coast; which includes the building of a supply base (Suai Supply Base) on the territory of the communities of Fatisin-Kamanasa in Suai. This major project would affect land currently used by local communities for agriculture (paddy fields, corn and other crops), pastures, forest areas used for gathering wood and products, as well as segments of the coast, used by fishermen for their boats and to collect salt. Several of these sites, as we have seen, are also invested with a sacred value, and their destruction brings fears of natural disasters and diseases according to local beliefs. One of these places is Fesawa. For expropriated land, the government has offered monetary compensation to each “owner” within the communities, which has led to conflicts between families and clans for the ownership of land, and within families concerning the sharing of money. Moreover, gambling, such as cock fighting and lottery, has spread in the region. Young people, attracted by the novelty and by money, have started to abandon traditional practices for this easy new life.

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In the opinion of traditional leaders, new generations’ loss of interest in ancestral knowledge has considerably weakened the protection system beneficial to sacred sites. Moreover, punishments for transgressions have today become symbolic and the spiritual sanctions are less effective, reducing the violators’ fear. Customary leaders have reported increasing transgression of prohibitions in Fesawa: communities go there to cut wood or hunt; farmers bring their cattle to graze and fishermen put their fishing net in the very lagoon where the ritual altar is located. The consequences of these transgressions is already being felt, as they recount the disappearance of some plant species (ai-besiT, babuakT) and animals (tuna tasiT, a kind of eel), formerly abundant on the site. In addition, even if the traditional leaders have reported the increasingly visible degradation of the coastal vegetation caused by the rise of sea levels, they do not consider this fact as a direct threat to the sacred site of Fesawa.

Conclusion If the older members of our community seem to worry about the loss of traditions and spiritual sanctions, and about the transgressions of prohibitions, it is not the same for younger generations. Attracted by the prospect of new comfort and a better quality of life, young people aspire to modernity. Accelerated by the oil development project, modernity inspires great hopes among youth in Suai: the prospect of economic prosperity, of a less painful work than their elders and of access to education and leisure is explicit in the imagination of East Timor as a “new Singapore.” However, with development, residents are now compelled to pay for “amenities” such as electricity, fuel and education among others, which drastically reduces their autonomy and increases their need for financial resources. Villagers who once lived on subsistence agriculture are often faced with the obligation to find professional activities outside the village. But if this perspective seduces young people, it is a concern for village elders too. New activities reduce the time dedicated to ceremonies, craft skills are reduced due to the arrival of objects and industrial materials, agricultural and forestry activities are gradually forgotten when new opportunities offered by modern life appear. Although the oil project has been paused for the time being, due to logistical complications, the works and construction are carried on in the region on the expropriated land. But there is at present little certainty about the continuation, which could mean that the community would have given out their land without having the jobs they expected, and also without having the possibility to carry out their traditional agriculture. The opposition in ideas about lifestyle further exacerbates the conflict between the generations. This wild modernity would endanger not only the traditions and rich cultural practices in the area, but also the entire social structure, which is based upon the observance of rituals for rain, harvest and important moments of life, and in which each sacred house has a definite role to play. Furthermore, once the ritual is corrupted, the territorial management could be threatened; and without any proper surveillance, these sacred territories, often patches of forest, could be very quickly degraded. The Fesawa case is not isolated in the island of Timor, which is already highly deforested, Fesawa being one of the last and largest fragments of mangrove forest, whose

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protection is strongly encouraged in the international agreements signed by the independent government (Ramsar Convention and the Convention on Biodiversity). Mangrove has great ecological importance14 and its maintenance helps tackle the effects of climate change, in particular the rising of sea levels that threatens small islands such as Timor. Actually, there is some common sense in local beliefs, inspired by a long and deep knowledge of the environment, and which claim that the destruction of sacred sites could cause natural disasters. Mangrove is known to be an effective stabilizer of coastal areas and an important element for the resilience of ecological ecosystem after hurricanes and tsunamis.

Notes 1 Permission for this research from the government and the local leaders was obtained in 2014 by our research team. 2 In East Timor the traditional garment is called tais, and there is a dress for women and a skirt for men, both woven by women. 3 The rooster used for communication with non-human beings will be brought back to the village and be used in cockfighting until he dies. 4 According to traditional leaders, a distinct vocabulary must be employed in Fesawa. This old Tetum would have evolved into the currently spoken Tetum. 5 This Master of Speech’s great sacred house moved to west Timor during the Manufahi war, a Timorese rebellion against Portuguese colonization in 1911. 6 According to their beliefs, they cannot integrally deliver myths and narratives. Each Master of Speech chooses the part that will be hidden. 7 There are exceptions, for instance when a researcher requests such information; a researcher has a special status in the society, and is used by the clan to assert its prestige. In such exceptional circumstances the secrets can be revealed, albeit not entirely. It means that I could not be given all the details of the narratives. 8 Likurai is a kind of drum used in sacred ceremonies in Suai, and every sacred house has one. 9 According to the Masters of Speech, in the past, during ceremonies at Fesawa, a buffalo was present when they arrived, given by the spirits to the community. This ended after World War II. 10 The culture of sacred objects refers to a collection of objects, inherited from ancestors and enriched over generations, that are kept inside the sacred house; their sacredness is linked to the identity of the house. 11 Cereals such as millet, rice or corn are cultivated today in the region. 12 The forest being the generic term for natural resources. The ai-makle’at are clan elders. 13 The Indonesian government resettled agricultural migrants in various parts of the archipelago, to colonize the areas considered under-exploited and to loosen too densely populated areas. This process was known as “transmigration.” 14 Mangroves are recognized for their role in the production of biomass and as important areas for breeding, conservation and development of wildlife.

References Belo, D.C.F.X. (2013) Os antigos reinos de Timor-Leste: Reys de Lorosay e reys de Lorothoba, Coronéis e Datos, Porto Editora, Porto. Fox, J.J. (2006). ‘Genealogy and topogeny: Towards an ethnography of rotinese ritual place names’, in J.J. Fox (ed.), Poetic power of place: Comparative perspectives on Austronesian ideas of locality (pp. 89–100). ANU Press, Canberra. Francillon, G. (1989) ‘Un profitable échange de frères chez les Tetun du Sud, Timor central’, L’Homme, vol. 29, pp. 26–43.

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Friedberg, C. (1999). ‘Les relations aux ancêtres aujourd’hui et la gestion de la forêt tropicale dans l’Indonésie de l’est’, in S. Bahuchet et al. (eds), L’homme et la forêt tropicale, pp. 45–57. Editions de Bergier, Châteauneuf de Grasse. Guillaud, D. (2015) ‘Le vivrier et le sacré: Systèmes agricoles, rituels et territoires dans l’est indonésien et à Timor-Leste’, Archipel, vol. 90, pp. 245–274. McWilliam, A. (2001) ‘Prospects for the sacred grove’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, vol. 2, pp. 89–113. Tasi Mane Project. (2012) ‘Suai supply base Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA), volume 1 - Main report Part A’, Final Report. WorleyParsons Services Pty Ltd, Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste. Racine, J.B., and Walther, O. (2003) ‘Géographie et religions: Une approche territoriale du religieux et du sacré’, L’Information Géographique, vol. 67, pp. 193–221. Rappoport, D. (2011) ‘Les Pierres Nuba Nara (Flores, Indonésie)’, Les Lieux Puissants En Asie Du SudEst: Définition, Caractérisation, Fonction. Paper presented at the 4th Congress of Asia & Pacific Network, Paris, September 14–16.

9 MAGHEE A case study of indigenous Tharu cultural heritage for democratic practice and STEM education Bhaskar Upadhyay, Mahesh (Tharu) Chaudhary, Dinesh Gautam and Baliram Tharu

Introduction Cultural heritage is central to social well-being, community cohesion, sustainable growth of geographical and natural spaces, and revitalization and preservation of vast and varied knowledge residing within an indigenous community (see Ashworth, Graham, and Tunbridge, 2007; Basso, 1996). Yet the aspects of cultural heritage that people tend to interact with are mostly those that are visible to the human senses. Therefore for decades, UNESCO and other similar organizations have promoted the idea of cultural heritage or heritage in general through artefacts and sites called tangibles. Only valuing the tangibles as cultural heritage takes away the authenticity and connection from local people for who these artefacts are more personal and meaningful at a much deeper level than to the outsiders vis a vis tourists and interlocutors. In order to understand the meaningfulness of the tangible cultural heritage one has to also understand cultural meanings behind them. Without connecting the tangibles with the intangibles, one cannot fully appreciate the meaning of the tangibles. Therefore understanding the intangibles inherent within a cultural heritage forces us to reconsider the cultural meanings associated with those at a deeper level. In this case study of Maghee, a Tharu cultural heritage, we attempt to explore how the emic view of this cultural heritage helps us understand the sociocultural values and importance embedded in it. At another level we seek to understand how the changing environment and physical geographical location and spaces influence the celebration of Maghee within the Tharu community of Thakurdwara village and the surrounding community in Nepal (Figure 9.1). Finally how Tharu children’s STEM education and education in general could be enhanced by integrating Maghee at the curricular and pedagogical levels. Another reason we want to understand the Tharu cultural heritage of Maghee is because Tharus make up 53 per cent of the total population of Nepal and the Tharu language is spoken by 52 per cent of the population despite its being considered an ethnic language (Census Bureau of Statistics, 2011). Yet their cultural heritage and sites are less well understood and get very little attention from the larger community outside the Tharu communities. We caution the readers that the Tharu language varies considerably from

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Map of Bardiya district and the location of Thakurdwara. A large portion of the district occupied by the Bardiya national park. [Office of Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), UN, Nepal, 2008, and modified by Bhaskar Upadhyay]

region to region, therefore the meanings and values inherent in the language is local and specific. This study and the meaning of the cultural heritage, sites, practices, values, and knowledge are specific to the Tharus who celebrate the Maghee and from the Thakurdwara region of Nepal. In this chapter we first explore the framework of the sociocultural nature of engagement (primary to secondary or P-12) in the context of STEM education and connections to cultural heritage as conceptualized by UNESCO and related research. Second, we explore the case of Maghee from the Tharu perspectives with additional analytical perspectives from the authors linking heritage with STEM education and broader education. Finally we discuss why linking cultural heritage in education could support the preservation and revitalization of both the tangible and intangible cultural heritage.

Sociocultural nature of engagement Sociocultural theory of engagement states that engagement is a sociocultural process (Vygotsky, 1978). From this perspective, people make meaning of their interactions based on their social, political, cultural, spatial (geographical location and environment), and linguistic contexts (Figures 9.2 and 9.3). Sociocultural interactions that people engage in allows them to make sense of their engagement as well as the value of that engagement in their sociocultural contexts. Therefore meaning making is an important component of

FIGURE 9.2

A Tharu family, Shivapur, Thakurdwara, taken in March 2013, by Bhaskar Upadhyay

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A Tharu home, Shivapur, Thakurdwara, taken in March 2013, by Bhaskar Upadhyay

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engaging. This kind of engagement follows the constructivist nature of meaning making (Vygotsky, 1986). Thus as people engage in any activity they also engage in constructing meaning and value of that activity in their own social, cultural, geographical, and political contexts. Another important aspect connected to sociocultural nature of engagement and learning is the value of connections with home experiences or local geographical sites and environments. When home experiences get connected with the activities people are engaged in, they value both the engagement and the learning that takes place. In the context of schools, home–school connections are essential to improving active engagement, participation in classroom learning, motivation, and better learning outcomes. The central reason for improved learning outcomes is because the learners find valuable personal meaning in that learning. This makes school learning more connected to social, political, and cultural experiences of learners’ homes and communities. Studies in STEM education and across many other disciplines show that connecting students’ home experiences (cultural, geographical, and environmental experiences) with classroom content improves academic achievement, motivation, engagement with the content areas, a sense of belonging, and gives meaning to learning and engagement (Ladson-Billings, 2014; McCarty and Lee, 2014; Paris and Alim, 2017; Upadhyay, 2012; Upadhyay, Maruyama, and Albrecht, 2017). Similarly, studies on indigenous youths and communities indicate that when sociocultural experiences of indigenous communities are linked to school learning, indigenous youths’ participation, motivation, and sense of belonging to that learning and engagement improves. Furthermore, for youths from indigenous communities, the greater the linkages made with their cultural heritage to schooling the larger the potential academic success (McCarty and Lee, 2014). For many indigenous communities and their youths, school learning, including STEM areas, is meaningful when the learning is connected to their cultural heritage and cultural heritage sites. Most indigenous communities prefer and value knowledge when it is contextual (Battiste, 2004). In a seminal book on indigenous knowledge and its links to sites, environments, landscapes, and language, Keith Basso (1996) shows that Western Apaches “talk about natural landscape and they importance to named locations” (p. 40) and how these places influence their daily lives both physically and spiritually. In the same book, Wisdom sits in places: Landscapes and language in Western Apache, Basso claims that local people (indigenous to the place) understand the external realities or sites and landscapes based on the local cultural materials and artefacts. Therefore not knowing the local cultural meanings of the landscapes and the environment is guaranteed to be deficient. Thus, rightly so, the indigenous communities consider humans as caretakers of the local nature, landscapes, sites, and environments. In indigenous communities younger generations are both the preservers and caretakers of knowledge that are passed down through generations in the forms of folklores, festivities, and stories as indigenous cultural heritage and landscapes and environments are central to these practices. According to the World Commission on Culture and Development Report (UNESCO, 1995) intangibles such as folklores, festivities, and stories are more valuable than the tangibles because it’s the intangibles that give meaning to all tangibles. In this vein the Report affirmed that intangibles should not be ignored because they may tend to look and feel very “simple” (UNESCO, 1995: 94). The recognition within the world body was that without understanding and placing important value on the intangibles, there is less to know, appreciate, learn from, and make sense of a cultural site or environment. The connections

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to the values, beliefs, ideas, practices, politics, and sociocultural meanings that intangibles provide allow us to appreciate and learn from the cultural heritage of a place or people. In the case of indigenous communities the connections between tangibles and intangibles are intricate, contextual, and spiritual. These communities do not separate tangibles and intangibles the way Western cultures do. Therefore, in indigenous communities the distance between the physical and the spiritual is non-existent. In many non-Western and indigenous communities “the spirit of the site takes precedence over . . . the physical aspect of the site” (Munjeri, 2004: 17). Furthermore, the physical sites carry authenticity for indigenous communities because it has both the spiritual value and the cultural value.

Marginalization of indigenous cultural heritage and knowledge in STEM education In STEM education, there is a continuous challenge to integrate indigenous knowledge, practices, and values as a legitimate way of understanding nature (Bang and Medin, 2010). The arguments against indigenous ways of knowing nature are based on the value that STEM fields are objective and are based on the universality of STEM knowledge. However, philosophers of science suggest that objective nature of science is a false premise; therefore, the universality of science knowledge is also false (Kuhn, 1996). Kuhn argues that all science knowledge is produced in a context; therefore science knowledge cannot be objective and universal. Incommensurability among scientific theories (Kuhn, 1996) would clearly support multiple ways of knowing and understanding nature and support indigenous ways of knowing and knowledge production. Scholars of indigenous communities who focus on the marginalization of their knowledge, practices, and people in the STEM fields argue that indigenous knowledge has been exploited for the exclusive benefit of the White Western people (Smith, 2012). These scholars also argue that Western institutions delegitimize indigenous knowledge in the name of STEM practices and objectivity. The knowledge gained through centuries of observations and trials and errors are discounted because Western Modern Science (WMS) does not consider observations made by indigenous people as objective. Yet many Western multinational companies and universities have profited from patenting indigenous knowledge about flora and fauna, landscapes, geography, architecture, and medicinal values of plants and herbs without sharing their profits with the indigenous communities from who they gained knowledge about those things. Indigenous knowledge or indigenous traditional knowledge (ITK or TK) is also a basis for indigenous cultural heritage (Ferreira et al., 2014). International Council for Science (ICSU) advocated the value of traditional knowledge or indigenous knowledge because it is a: cumulative body of locally contextualized knowledge, know-how, practices and beliefs [sustained[by oral transmission from [one] generation to [another] and [it represents multifaceted complex nature of culture] and cosmology that [embodies] language, classification systems, [naming], and spiritual ceremonies and protocols. (ICSU, 2009: 37)

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Many indigenous science educators and researchers assert that every culture has its own science (Ogawa, 1995; Smith, 2012; Snively and Corsiglia, 2001). In his works, Ogawa describes indigenous science as “a culture-dependent collective rational perceiving of reality.” He argues that the “collective” is an important framework for indigenous communities because it indicates that indigenous people can effectively communicate among themselves but their knowledge and experiences are dependent on their local geographical contexts, showing variation among the individual experiences (Ogawa, 1995: 588). Indigenous science interprets how the local world works through a cultural lens (Snively and Corsiglia, 2001; Battiste, 2004). In similar vein Cajete (2000) argues that indigenous science knowledge is produced through human experiences with the natural world over time. This knowledge then gets passed on over generations through oral means and during social and cultural events (Ogawa, 1995). Another aspect of indigenous knowledge and the way of sharing cultural heritage is through strong relationships. The relationship between the knowledge giver and taker dictates who gets to learn the knowledge (Hatcher et al., 2009). Similarly in the indigenous Tharu communities of the western plains of Nepal, knowledge is passed through oral traditions during social and cultural events such as the Maghee. Therefore, types of knowledge, the process of accessing knowledge, and the value of this knowledge in the indigenous communities conflict with how WMS science knowledge is taught to students in P-12 schools. In the case of the US, many schools serving indigenous communities teach and value WMS over ITK (Bang and Medin, 2010; Jegede and Aikenhead, 1999). Many indigenous communities have experienced unwelcoming environments in schools because their ways of knowing science and doing science seemed to be discounted. This has created a strong negative feelings among the indigenous communities in the US and other places that schools will lead to loss of their cultural heritage of knowing and doing science (Bissell, 2004) diminishing participation in Western science and professions related to them (Aikenhead, 2001). Therefore the diminished participation in and enthusiasm about the Western science and related STEM fields could be a cause for lower number of people seeking degrees in STEM fields. One bright side that tends to show promise in higher and more positive participation and engagement between indigenous communities and youths and STEM fields is the inclusion of indigenous cultural heritage and knowledge in STEM disciplines throughout schooling (Bang and Medin, 2010; Chemers et al., 2011). The inclusion of culture in science provides a strong support for positive and strong identity building and positive STEM self-efficacy. Therefore, cultural heritage should not only be invoked for the designation of World Heritage Sites and the promotion of tourism but also an integral part of the education of indigenous people and specifically the STEM education. We present the case of Maghee, an indigenous Tharu cultural heritage, and its importance for STEM education, cultural heritage revitalization and sustainability, and democratic practice.

Positionality of the authors Bhaskar Upadhyay is a Nepali who grew up in the Tharu village and was educated in Nepal, the UK, and the US. He is fluent in several languages, including the Tharu language. He currently holds an associate professor of science education position at the University of Minnesota in the US. He brings perspectives from the dominant group in

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Nepal, the Tharu communities, and the Western views as an immigrant with a minority status. Mahesh Chaudhary (Tharu) grew up in the Tharu village called Bhudkaiha in an extended Tharu family. He was educated in Nepal and has a degree in mathematics equivalent to a high school degree in the US context. He currently teaches mathematics to elementary grade students in the local high school where the majority of the students come from the Tharu homes. He is fluent in Nepali and the Tharu languages. He has a working knowledge of English language in writing and speaking. Dinesh Gautam grew up in Nepal and has spent almost all of his life in the Tharu village where he is the headmaster of the local public high school. He has an undergraduate degree in life science from a university in Nepal. He is fluent in four languages including Tharu and English. Baliram is a Tharu male who grew up in a Tharu village of Khushalpatwa. He went to the village school until high school. He is now attending college for an undergraduate degree in management and economics. He is also a nationally recognized javelin thrower and has represented Nepal in the South Asian Games as well as his region in the national games. He has been working as a physical education teacher in the village high school for the last 12 years. He is fluent in three languages—Tharu, Nepali, and Hindi—and has a working knowledge of English.

Case study approach A case study (Merriam, 1998; Stake, 1995; Yin, 1994) approach enables a researcher to closely examine the data within a specific context. We follow Merriam’s notion of case study as she takes the constructivist approach to understanding a phenomenon rather than critical (Stake, 1995) or positivistic (Yin, 1994). In this case study our goal is to document and understand the cultural, social, and political meanings behind celebrating Maghee, thus giving us a window into how the socio-cultural “reality [of Maghee] is constructed by [the Tharus] interacting with their social worlds” (Merriam, 1998; 6). This allows us to make a deeper sense of how the cultural heritage of Maghee pushes us to consider its influence and “multiple interpretations of it” (Merriam, 1998; 22). This helps us to extend the value of Maghee from our perspectives to the larger STEM education contexts in schools that most Tharu children attend. Therefore, our primary interest in this case study is to understand the meaning or knowledge constructed by the Tharu people about Maghee as an important cultural heritage. Finally, we consider how the Tharu community make sense of their world and experiences through Maghee. Therefore, this case study is bounded by Maghee and Tharu and allows us to explore and understand the meaning of Maghee as a cultural heritage, its interactions with the changing local environment and geographic landscapes and its importance in STEM Education.

Methods of data collection and analysis This case study involves conversations with Tharu people in four villages in the midwestern Terai region of Nepal. Specifically we interviewed elders from the villages surrounding Thakurdwara village and the teachers and principal from the local high school, who are also co-authors of this chapter. We interviewed five Tharus elders over a year during several formal and informal occasions. Including the authors, the participants have celebrated Maghee throughout their lives. In the data collection process we also inquired about how

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elders saw Maghee’s cultural heritage in light of STEM education and democratic practices. We were curious what Maghee meant as a way to sustain and revitalize Tharu indigenous knowledge and the practice of voicing choice as a democratic practice. Additionally we were also curious how they say STEM education intersects with sustainability of their cultural practices and values of caring for nature—water, land, and vegetation. We also photographed some of the activities surrounding Maghee to illustrate their larger culture and life. We reviewed and analysed the interviews qualitatively. Below we present our findings related to Maghee as an important cultural heritage intersecting cultural sustainability through democracy and STEM education.

Maghee: a democratic practice fit for agentic STEM education Maghee is the beginning of the new year for the Tharus of western Nepal. The day marks a cultural heritage that is rooted in the idea of democratic practice and critically examining the past year and looking forward to the new year. Maghee also represents a sense of agency for the Tharu community who used this cultural heritage day to get out of being an “indentured labourer” to become a freer person both for self and the family. On the day of the Maghee, Tharu men and women tell their landlords and other business owners where they worked if they wish to continue or move to a different place. A Tharu man or a woman has a choice to make his or her own decision about the future. STEM education could learn from this democratic and agentic practice of giving power to the marginalized indigenous community. There are several core ideas in the practice of science and the STEM fields that are central to both doing and learning science. Those core ideas are inquiry, questioning, knowledge through consensus building, and believing in the distributive nature of expertise. All of these core ideas are built on democratic practice of participation, deliberation, and agency. For a school that serves mostly Tharu students, according to a Tharu elder, “[STEM] science curriculum, teaching, engagement, and participation” has to consider the “Tharu cultural heritage of choice” in learning. Additionally, in the words of another Tharu elder man, if “we value cultural heritage as one way to [link] Tharu values and practices” then STEM education should embed itself in this practice. Scholars of science education lament that STEM curricula in schools are devoid of connections to local cultural heritage and values, helping to increase the academic gap and lower motivation among marginalized groups (Upadhyay, Maruyama, and Albrecht, 2017). The context of Maghee could be “leveraged to help [Tharu] children understand that choosing [what to learn] in school [STEM and other content areas] is on them and is encouraged” [High School Principal]. In the context of schooling the school curriculum and pedagogies in the classrooms could be an encouraging space to value democratic practices. Yet the unsavoury side of Maghee as a cultural symbol of democratic practice is its connection to indentured labour, or kamaiya practice. The Tharu name for indentured labour practice and also the name of the indentured labourer is kamaiya. A kamaiya is always a male indentured labourer. A kamaiya would be contractually bound to a landlord for a year. On the evening of Maghee (sometimes a day earlier or later depending on the context) a kamaiya will sit down with the landlord and state his desire to leave and go work for a different landlord or stay with the same. There is a discussion between the kamaiyas and a landlord when each side presents his experiences

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based on previous year’s work performance and personal feelings. There is a back-andforth exchange in which both sides discuss all matters related to the work and personal feelings. This could last for a while and finally each kamaiya states his intention to leave or stay with the same landlord. Subsequently the landlord states his intentions about who he wants to keep and who he doesn’t. A mutual agreement is reached after several rounds of back-and-forth. The practice is democratic on the surface but the landlord has the leverage throughout over the kamaiyas. Tharu women participate in the kamaiya process but their power is very minimal or reduced. A kamaiya is required to supply a Tharu woman to help the landlord and his family in household chores. The Tharu woman is called ‘bukrahi.” Her compensation is at half the rate that a kamaiya makes. Most of the time a bukrahi is either a wife or daughter or any other female family member of a kamaiya. A female member can refuse to be a bukrahi but since the contrctural agreement with the kamaiya is to supply a “bukrahi,” there is very little leverage left for the women in this process. One reason the landlord has an upper hand is because many kamaiyas have large amounts of debt incurred during a year. A kamaiya can’t leave the landlord until the debt is paid back or the new landlord where the kamaiya is seeking to go pays on behalf of the kamaiya. Thus the kamaiya now owes the debt to the new landlord. The debt got transferred but not cleaned. Despites this practice being made illegal now, from the cultural heritage point of view, Tharus still consider this day as an important day for their community and as a day of democratic practice that shows in other social and political wellbeing aspects of the communities and farming. The democratic practices that the Tharus have incorporated with Maghee are the collective and consensus decisions they make when choosing men for the smooth management of village and farming. For example the Tharu community, along with non-Tharus who live in the village, elect several important Tharu individuals to manage many day-to-day chores of the communities. These leaders are elected through consensus. The tasks for which Tharus are elected are the following: a village leader (badghad), irrigation and canal management leader (kulo chaudhari), night watchman (chaukidar), shaman leader (badka guruwa), assistant to shaman leader (guruwa), junior assistant to shaman leader (kasauki), and community priest (chiriyaki). The Tharus with whom Bhaskar talked about Maghee and its implications for democratic STEM education all agreed that “giving [voice] to Tharu students in everyday class engagement in science and math would help keep cultural heritage [of Maghee].” The students would be encouraged to participate in “inquiry science and participating in making decisions about [environment clubs in school] and its tasks, what sciences to learn, and what science contents and activities could be linked directly to cultural heritage of Tharus” [Tharu school teacher]. Similarly Maghee provides a context for STEM educators to promote STEM learning and engagement for a democratic STEM experience. Furthermore, we particularly find the idea of assigning and taking responsibilities to preserve and restore sites and places such as the kulos and village roads—temporary bridges over the kulos called dhurpatwa in the Tharu language—are strongly tied to Maghee. The practice of collectively deciding who is responsible for making decisions connected to which sites and places should be restored for the benefit of the larger community is an inherent Tharu practice and value associated with Maghee. From a Tharu elder’s point of view, Maghee is about “continuing to preserve and pass on knowledge about the importance of sites and places and how to restore and preserve them for the sons, daughters,

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and grandchildren so they can take care and save them for the next Maghee.” Therefore, Maghee connects Tharu sites to who they are and what they want to sustain, restore, and preserve as uniquely Tharu democratic values and practices. Therefore, we argue that Maghee is a cultural heritage that schools should use in making STEM teaching and learning a democratic practice that supports revitalization and retention of the Tharu cultural heritage of democracy and management of local natural resources such as water and irrigation. This also could be an example of how cultural heritage could be used to manage other cultural and physical sites in other contexts.

Maghee: environmental heritage, sites, and STEM education Tharu cultural heritage is intimately linked to the environment Tharus live in and the relationship they have created with the environment, the sites, and its entities. In the Tharu cultural heritage Maghee represents a strong bond with the environment through stock taking of past actions and future continuity. Maghee is a celebration of the renewal of the relationship with the nature when the belief is that the “sun starts to move towards the northern hemisphere (spring equinox) and life is sprouting after a long winter dormant period.” This indicates that the Tharus rely on the nature for their survival. A Tharu elder commented that their community “borrows many things from nature” so the respect for it was paramount. Not only the natural resources such as the grass for the thatched roof, fire wood, water, and fertile soil, but also the health of the community relied on respecting the “spirit of the woods and water.” Respecting the spirits of the woods and water is carried out by “offering a coin” to the river where Tharus cleanse themselves by taking a dip in the river or kulo on the day of Maghee (Figures 9.4 and 9.5). This cleansing is connected to “keeping the water clean and pure” which is the responsibility of the leader who was elected to manage the irrigation canal. Except this offering of cash (a coin of low denomination) to the river for providing the “free flowing clean water,” Tharus always in all occasions offer food, grains, or other fruits that they bring from the nearby jungle or their backyard garden and farms. Thus their cultural heritage is tightly connected to the environment and what they harvest from that environment. In the Tharu community, the general belief is that the “environment has changed so much that there is an [increasing] shortage of water in the kulo [the traditional source of water] for this region.” The Tharus in Thakurdwara rely on water that has been tapped from the Karnali River, one of the three largest rivers in Nepal, and its tributaries. As one of the Tharu elders commented on how the change in the environment had affected the Tharu community and their life style: restrictions on how much water we could tap from the Karnali has affected our life style. The restrictions imposed by the national park authority and its rules added further pain to our everyday life that so depends on water . . .We know that national park animals, flora and fauna . . . need water too but the rules are lopsided causing us to suffer . . . Similarly the legal and illegal diversion of water has created further shortages [downstream] . . .The most frustrating and [anguishing] aspect of water shortage is not getting water even during the Maghee celebration and other Tharu cultural and economic needs

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FIGURE 9.4

Kulo (water canal) for taking a dip on the Maghee day1

Another Tharu elder shared how the environmental changes had affected the Tharu practices and the relation with water. in the last 30 years I have seen so much change in the water level in the kulos for farming, drinking, cleaning, and different social and cultural ceremonies. The water level and the flow of water in the kulos has become less predictable and . . . during Maghee we sometimes don’t get to divert enough water to the Mandir kulo [the water canal that is within the premises of the Thakurji temple, Figure 9.4], where we traditionally been taking a bath [to cleanse] on the day. Now we have built a permanent space [pond] to take a bath on the day of the Maghee. Many of us don’t like this [artificial space] but we have no choice . . . soon we will lose our traditional ways and value of the kulos and its meaning to the Tharu way of life. . . The kulos are central to Tharus’ spiritual, cultural, and economic sites (Figures 9.6 and 9.7). These kulos not only provide livelihood for them but they also define the connections between nature, sites, and the human spirit.

FIGURE 9.5

Pond built for the Maghee day as an alternative to kulo2

FIGURE 9.6

Khauraha Gandi: Unseasonably dry Karnali tributary in Shivapur village, Thakudwara, taken in March 2013, by Bhaskar Upadhyay

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FIGURE 9.7

A traditional kulo in the Shivapur village, Thakurdwara, taken in March 2013, by Bhaskar Upadhyay

Similarly the Tharus celebrate Maghee by preparing a rice dish called “dhikari.” Dhikaris are made from a particular variety of locally grown rice called “andhi rice.” Dhikari is made out of rice flower rolled into elongated shapes with tapered ends and steamed. Even though the “hybrid rice has replaced many other locally grown rice,” andhi rice is one of the few that have “survived because of the Tharu cultural heritage” [Tharu elder]. Therefore Maghee has effectively helped preserve an indigenous rice variety. Schools are essential institutions that could further help in preserving and sustaining local rice varieties like andhi rice and water resources by integrating these cultural practices in STEM education. During an interview, the local high school principal suggested that “STEM education could positively influence students to find connections between their cultural heritage and STEM . . . Our STEM curriculum could use cultural heritage such as growing and preserving andhi rice and keeping rivers clean.” We argue that cultural heritage should not be divorced from the school curriculum, particularly STEM fields, because STEM fields have stronger and more organic connections to Tharu cultural heritage. These “connections would definitely preserve cultural heritage” [high school teacher]. The advantage of indigenous seeds and crops is that they also provide food security and preserve local land. A school science teacher argued that “STEM curriculum we are planning needs to engage students and Tharu elders to connect the Tharu cultural heritage of growing, harvesting, and preserving food for consumption and seeds for the next year.” There is lot of different kinds of science embedded in this process. Therefore, envisioning STEM education through cultural heritage of the Tharus could be an important aspect of heritage preservation and sustainability.

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Key implications Cultural heritage is central to understanding how indigenous knowledge, practices, values, and beliefs are preserved and sustained over time. In this chapter we presented Tharu cultural heritage which contained Tharu knowledge, practices, values, and beliefs and Tharus’ sense of connections to the local environment and sites. The celebration of Maghee as the Tharu new year also has to be infused with the deeper cultural, social, and political values, practices, and beliefs inherent in various sites and sociocultural and sociopolitical heritage. The tourists who visit the Tharu villages of Western Nepal enjoy Tharu dance, live in the traditional Tharu homes, and eat “dhikari” but most of the time don’t get to learn the value of intangibles that these objects and sites carry with them. The value “dhikari” has for the Tharus is more than just “sticky rice” for a Western tourist. For the Tharus “dhikari” is also about sustaining and preserving cultural heritage of relationships, building sustainable food practices, environmental influence on their farming and water resource management practices, and the preservation and care of sites and locations such as the kulos. In this chapter we continuously find intersections between cultural heritage and sites, cultural or otherwise, that are central to understanding the value of Maghee for the Tharus. For the Tharus the sites such as the kulos, the tapping of water from the Karnali River for irrigation and other household activities, the awareness of the changing environment and its influence on water management, and assigning and taking responsibilities to manage, restore, and preserve these sites are integral to their way of life. What Maghee means to the Tharus of western Nepal, and the Thakurdwara region in particular is that it reminds them the urgency of continuously looking after these sites and linking them to sociocultural and sociopolitical meanings. The kulo near the village temple that they so essentially need to manage, sustain, and preserve so that they can take a bath on the day of Maghee is a site that reminds them the value of both the changing environment and politics of water but also a need to preserve for the next generation. The pond, built as an alternative to the kulo, reminds the Tharus and also us as researchers and consumers of the Tharu culture and sites is that heritage sites are fragile in the face of environmental changes and demands on local resources. Therefore, this case study shows that Maghee is a reminder of larger sociocultural, sociopolitical, and educational issues an indigenous community and many heritage sites need to focus on and seek to find an inherently local solution. This case study also indicates to us that education and STEM education in particular could be one way to encourage young generations to look at studying their own local heritage for knowledge, understanding, preservation, and sustainability. The co-authors argue that STEM education could be leveraged to bring local indigenous youths into the fold of finding and seeing heritage as a way to pursue their future careers in sustaining and preserving their local heritage for the future. Heritage sites could also be one space that could give them both a tangible and an intangible context to learn and practice STEM where local knowledge is valued on the same footing as the STEM knowledge. Finally the Maghee case study indicates to us that the local heritage sites could also provide linkages between the local sociocultural and sociopolitical values within the spaces of doing and practicing STEM. For us in this chapter exploring cultural heritage goes beyond the economic value of cultural heritage, environment, and local sites. We extend cultural heritage into P-12 STEM education. Cultural heritage not only has cultural values but it also carries

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indigenous science knowledge, democratic practices, political processes, and spiritual beliefs which could be leveraged into the P-12 STEM curriculum and pedagogies. From the viewpoint of cultural anthropology, to learn science is to acquire the culture of science (Maddock, 1981; Wolcott, 1991). From the teachers, elders, and the principal’s comments we could envision potentials for making STEM engagement culturally relevant to indigenous students and communities. We argue that cultural heritage should be viewed not only through economic gains but also through educational gains and long-term sustainability through STEM education. Both the tangible and intangible cultural heritage could be useful contexts for P-12 STEM teaching and learning. In this chapter we present a different view of cultural heritage and we argue that in order for cultural heritage to be inclusive and sustaining for the local people, the cultural heritage has to be integral to STEM education as STEM seems to have more social, cultural, political, and economic capital than other content areas. Therefore there might be more buy-in by the indigenous communities if their cultural heritage, intangibles in particular, could be at the centre of P-12 STEM education.

Notes 1 This kulo (Tharu and Nepali name for human made irrigation canal) is near a temple considered the most sacred by the Tharus in the mid-western and far-western regions of Nepal. During the Maghee, water is diverted from the nearest canal into this one so the devotees can take a bath. Taking the bath in this kulo is considered to cleanse the body and the soul and renew the human spirit. This photo was taken during the month of May, 2018, by Dinesh Gautam, the coauthor. 2 A pond built for the purposes of the Tharu and non-Tharu devotees. The pond is filled with water from the kulo or the hand pump located in the premises of the Thakurji temple (a temple dedicated to Lord Vishnu) during the Maghee celebration to reduce the congestion at the kulo. Also when the water level at the kulo is too low, this pond is used as a substitute.

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Chemers, M.M., Zurbriggen, E.L., Syed, M., Goza, B.K., and Bearman, S. (2011) ‘The role of efficacy and identity in science career commitment among underrepresented minority students’, Journal of Social Issues, vol. 67, no. 3, pp. 469–491. Ferreira, M.P., Betty M., and Fidji, G. (2014) ‘Traditional elders in postsecondary STEM education’, The International Journal of Health, Wellness, and Society, vol 3, no. 4, pp. 1–11. Hatcher, A., Bartlett, C, Marshall, A., and Marshall, M. (2009) ‘Two-eyed seeing in the classroom environment: Concepts, approaches, and challenges’, Canadian Journal of Science, Mathematics, and Technology Education, vol. 9, no. 3, pp. 141–153. ICSU. (2002a) Science, traditional knowledge and sustainable development, ICSU Series on Science for sustainable development No. 4, International Council for Science, Paris. ICSU. (2002b) Resilience and sustainable development, ICSU Series on Science for sustainable development No. 3, International Council for Science, Paris. Jegede, O.K., and Aikenhead, G.S. (1999) ‘Transcending cultural borders: Implications for science teaching’, Journal for Science and Technology Education, vol. 17, no. 1, pp. 45–66. Kuhn, T. (1996) The structure of scientific revolutions (3rd ed.), University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Ladson-Billings, G. (2014) ‘Culturally relevant pedagogy 2.0: a.k.a.the remix’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 84, no. 1, pp. 74–84. Maddock, M.N. (1981) ‘Science education: An anthropological viewpoint’, Studies in Science Education, vol. 8, no. 1, pp. 1–26. McCarty, T.L., and Lee, T.S. (2014) ‘Critical culturally sustaining/revitalizing pedagogy and indigenous education sovereignt’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 84, no. 1, pp. 101–136. Merriam, S.B. (1998) Qualitative research and case study applications in education, Jossey-Bass, San Francisco. Munjeri, D. (2004) ‘Tangible and intangible heritage: From difference to convergence’, Museum International, vol. 56, no. 1–2, pp. 12–20. Ogawa, M. (1995) ‘Science education in a multi-science perspective’, Science Education, vol. 79, no. 5, pp. 583–593. Paris, D., and Alim, H.S. (2017) Culturally sustaining pedagogies: Teaching and learning for justice in a changing world, Teacher’s College Press, New York. Smith, L.T. (2012) Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples, Zed Books, New York. Snively, G., and Corsiglia, J. (2001) ‘Discovering indigenous science: Implications for science education’, Science Education, vol. 85, no. 1, pp. 6–34. Stake, R.E. (1995) The art of case study research, Sage Publications, Thousand Oaks. Truth and Reconciliation Commission. (2015) ‘Calls to action report’, http://nctr.ca/reports.php, accessed 20 March 2018. UNESCO. (1995) World Commission on culture and development, our creative diversity, UNESCO, Paris. Upadhyay, B. (2012). ‘Elementary students’ ways of seeing globalization in science’, in J. Bianchini, V. Akerson, A. Calabrese Barton, O. Lee, and A. Rodriguez (eds.), Moving the equity agenda forward: Equity research, practice, and policy in science education (pp. 99–118). Springer Publisher, Rotterdam. Upadhyay, B., Maruyama, G., and Albrecht, N. (2017) ‘Taking an active stance: How urban elementary students connect sociocultural experiences in learning science’, International Journal of Science Education, vol. 39, no. 18, pp. 2528–2547. Vygotsky, L.S. (1978) Mind in society, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA. Vygotsky, L.S. (1986) Thought and language, MIT Press, Cambridge, MA. Wolcott, H.F. (1991) ‘Propriospect and the acquisition of culture’, Anthropology and Education Quarterly, vol. 22, no. 3, pp. 251–273. Yin, R. (1994) Case study research: Design and methods (2nd ed.), Sage Publishing, Beverly Hills.

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PART IV

Recognition and preservation of the sacred in place

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10 WIRIKUTA Sacred Heart of Mexico: Pueblo Wixárika (Huichol ) Anaid Paola Velasco Ramírez, Úrsula Garzón Aragón, Andrea Ulisse Davide Cerami and Santos de la Cruz Carillo

Methods The present document is the result of the companionship in the defense process of the Wixárika people of their sacred territory through the past five years; moreover, one of the authors is a Wixárika lawyer and member of the defense movement. Because of the legal defense process, much of the information used in this paper consist of official documents and material, as well as informal interviews with members of the Wixárika people.

What is Wirikuta? Wirikuta, is the name that the Wixáritari people (Huichol) gave to one of their five sacred territories, a place where the deities get together. This land is one of the material and cultural foundations on which the identity of the Wixárika is based, being the place where the world was created with the first appearance of the sun. Each year, the Wixáritari carry out a yearly pilgrimage to this land following the journey made by their spiritual ancestors to create the world as we know it, because Wirikuta holds and weaves the essence of life on the planet, according to their understanding of the cosmos. The other four sacred places of the Wixáritari are: a) Huaxa Manaka on the hill San Bernardino Milpillas Chico, in the state of Durango; b) Tatei Haramara on the island del Rey, San Blas, in the state of Nayarit; c) Teakata in Tuapurie, Mezquitic, in the state of Jalisco, d) Xapawiyemeta, on the island of Los Alacranes, in the state of Jalisco.

Who are the Wixáritari (custodians)? Wixáritari are Indigenous people who live in communities located in the Sierra Madre Occidental range in the Mexican states of Jalisco, Nayarit, Durango and Zacatecas (about 45,000 people). The communities with the majority of the population are Santa Catarina Cuexcomatitlán (Tuapurie), San Sebastián Teoponahuaxtlán (Waut+a) and its annex Tuxpan de Bolaños (Kuruxi Manawe), in the state of Jalisco, San Andrés Cohamiata (Tatei Kie) in the states of Jalisco and

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Nayarit, Bancos de San Hipólito (Uweni Muyewe) in the State of Durango, and the communities Guadalupe Ocotán (Xatsitsarie) and Zoquipan (Tsapuu Mayewe) in the state of Nayarit. Their communities serve as settlements to their traditional governments, among which the council of elders (Kawiteru), the Governor (Tatuwani), the judge (Har+kari), the Captain (Kapitani), the superintendent or sheriff (Kumitsariyu-Halawasini) the prosecutor (Pixakari), the police (Tupiri) and other religious authorities are particularly notable (Figure 10.1). Each community has its traditional jurisdiction over several villages, in small groups they belong to Tukipa or Kalihuey (ceremonial centers) and are governed by a religious authority called Mara’akame.

FIGURE 10.1

Wirikuta guardian Photo taken by Ursula Garzon.

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Its defining characteristic is that, being a pre-Hispanic culture, it retains a variety of customs and traditions, such as clothing, food, language and beliefs. One of the most important is the pilgrimage to the sacred territory of Wirikuta, in the state of San Luis Potosi. For Wixárika, the pilgrimage and the meaning of the sacred territory Wirikuta, is supported by a worldview that gives special importance to their relationship with Mother Earth. In the Wixárika worldview, Mother Earth is inhabited by the holy Mothers and Fathers who were the first divine beings, parents, creators and shapers of the world.

Why is Wirikuta important? Wirikuta is one of the territories that constitute the material and cultural foundations of the Wixárika people. In addition to the cultural importance, this 140,212-hectare territory has a remarkable natural importance and it is located in the southeast part of the Chihuahuan Desert, one of the three most biologically rich semi-desert areas of the planet. Wirikuta is a landscape of unique global relevance due to the combination of natural and cultural values: it hosts about half of Mexico’s species of flora, 70 percent of birds and 60 percent of mammals. This area is considered essential for the conservation and propagation of endemic and endangered cacti (WWF, 2000). Therefore, Wirikuta should not be understood only as a geographical point, but as an expression of the Wixárika customs and traditions and their understanding of the cosmos. The pilgrimage to their holy sites and offerings deposited therein are a fundamental part of the ritual that allows the renewal of life and part of their right to culture and traditional territory.

Meaning for the custodians The Wirikuta historical route is not an ordinary pilgrimage, but a mystical and sacred custom, and it is fundamental to defend it against social, cultural and environmental impact as it is their cultural identity— “the custom,” or Tayeiyari (literally “our essence”). By following the Tayeiyari, the Wixárika people maintain their tradition and embrace their community bond, as the cultural tradition Wixáritari is essentially built around a worldview in which we must maintain the balance of the world through a path of self-sacrifice and pursuit of knowledge obtained in the recreation of the primordial acts of the genesis of the world. The oldest grandparents of the people tell that their ancestors walked in darkness without there being light, they departed from the heart of Tatei Haramara (Mother of the Sea), to a place called Hai Muti’uu, until they reached a place called Wirikuta (Par + yatsie). Tau or Tawexik+a, Father Sun, emerged in a place called Ra’unax + or Cerro del Quemado, which is one of the altars that the Wixáritari have in Wirikuta. The constant recreation of the myth of creation and the visit to the holy places is the way that their cultural and social reproduction is ensured, in order that the world remains and does not disappear. Their deity, Tamatsi Kauyumar+e (the elder brother—the deer), the only one who resisted and met all the obligations and oaths from the sea to reach Wirikuta, is symbolized

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in items such as corn, the eagle and híkuri, the sacred plant that germinates and grows in Wirikuta and transmits them wisdom, energy, life and the gift of seeing and dreaming beyond space (Figure 10.2). There are kakauyar+ (deities) in flora, fauna and landscapes, in mountains, caves, rivers, streams, hills, springs, rocks and trees that are visited and worshiped by the Wixáritari as an important part of the cycle of life, as their ancestors have always done, and their conservation depends on the possibility of recreating the myth by which they live. Wirikuta is the sacred place where all the Wixáritari arrive after a pilgrimage of 550 kilometers made year after year in an ancestral way by members of each and every one of the Wixáritari Communities (Huichol) that together make up the Huichol people, which are located in the Sierra Madre Occidental. The yearly pilgrimage recreates, recalls and revives the path traveled by the ancestors during the formation of the world to where the sun was born, in the Catorce semi-desert (Figure 10.3). This pilgrimage is itself a repeated journey that the ancestors once carried out before the Sun appeared on earth; it is a central event in community life, it is linked with a number of celebrations and rituals that revolve around it and has a number of purposes. The worldview of the Wixárika means that their whole lives revolve around the sacred and their pilgrimages, so Wirikuta is a space where people ask and thank life, where children are presented to the gods, their relatives; where the sacred sea water is brought from Haramara, where creation begins, to protect and keep pets alive; it is the place where favors are requested, they express gratitude for the good harvests and health of families, the community and humanity (well-being is requested for all the people in the world, for nature itself, plants and animals). In addition, holy water is collected from the springs to take home and use for ceremonies and healing.

FIGURE 10.2

Wixáritari peyote ceremony Photo taken for the Wixáritari People.

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Wixáritari pilgrimage Photo taken for the Wixáritari People.

How is Wirikuta organized and governed? To Wirikuta, conservation is vital. Thus, this site was recognized as one of the first natural reserves designed to protect both the sacred land and its biodiversity. This protection was officially granted by the Government of the State of San Luis Potosi through the Official Decree on 19 September 1994 which stated the territory to be “a historical and cultural heritage and subject to ecological conservation of the ethnic group ‘WIRRARIKA,’ the sacred places and the historical and cultural route located in the municipalities of Villa de Ramos, Charcas and Catorce within the State of San Luis Potosi” (State of San Luis Potosi, 1994) including in the polygon an area of 73,000 hectares and the historical and the cultural Wixárika route through these municipalities. The Official Decree recognizes that the existence of sacred places for the Wixárika people is also important to those who live in other states, and the region is also part of their cultural and historical heritage, who year after year come to perform their ritual practices and customs; Likewise, it was recognized that the celebration of their spiritual ceremonies runs through different municipalities within the state, therefore the route and its natural environment are considered sacred. The Decree protects and preserves the sacred places that the pilgrimage has to Wirikuta, the ecological balance and the environment, cultural and historical heritage. On October 27, 2000 a new Decree was issued in the Federal Official Gazette, with a main objective, the protection of the cultural and natural heritage of the State of San Luis Potosi, including sacred sites, the historical and cultural Wixárika route, conservation of historical monuments in the area and, especially, the natural landscape of the municipalities of Catorce, Villa de la Paz, Villa de Guadalupe, Matehuala, Charcas and Villa de Ramos which derogated the previous Decree (CNDH, 2012: 12).

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Subsequently, on June 9, 2001, the category of the reserve was modified by the environmental authorities of San Luis Potosi, and included the modality of “Sacred Natural Site” and on June 10, 2008 the Wirikuta Natural Sacred Site Management Plan was published in the Federal Official Gazette of the State of San Luis Potosi. The modification was made in response to Wixárika demand to strengthen the protection of their Natural Sacred Sites (SEGAM, 2008: 7). The Wirikuta protection Decree was established as a cause of public interest to appoint Wirikuta as a Natural Protected Area, in the form of a Cultural Landscape State Reserve called “Huiricuta, the Holy Places and Historical Cultural Route of the Huichol People within the Fourteen municipalities, Villa de la Paz, Matehuala, Villa de Guadalupe, Charcas and Villa de Ramos in the State of San Luis Potosi”, with an area of 140, 211.85 hectares and with a route length of 138.78 km (SEGAM, 2008: 7). Note that this Decree is a watershed for taking into account various international instruments for development and compliance, since an express recognition of the multicultural composition of Mexico is made, as well as the duty of the Mexican State to ensure legal and effective protection to the people in accordance with Articles 13 and 14 of the ILO’s Convention No. 169. Also, the reserve was protected by the Mexican State in accordance with the recommendations of the International Convention on Psychotropic Substances, Article 32, by virtue of the traditional use of wild plants in the magical-religious rituals celebrated by Indigenous ethnic groups. The State also took into account the Convention on Biological Diversity, which aims to conserve biological diversity, the sustainable use of its components and the fair and equitable sharing of benefits arising from genetic resources which include the contributions of Indigenous and local communities (SEGAM, 2008: 40–42). In the same way, the recognition of the Mexican State was reaffirmed in 2008, when the former President of Mexico, Felipe Calderon Hinojosa, signed with the governors of the states of Durango, Jalisco, Nayarit, Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi the Hauxa Manakaa Pact for the Preservation and Development of the Wixárika culture, in which they pledged to take the necessary actions to protect, preserve and promote the historical continuity of the sacred sites and pilgrimage routes of Wixárika people (Gobierno Nayarit, 2008). Its importance has been recognized internationally, Wirikuta has been recognized in 1998 by UNESCO as one of the 14 sites of the Network World of Natural Sacred Sites. Subsequently, in 2003, it was registered in the Indicative List of Mexico for the Convention on the Protection of the World Heritage Natural and Cultural of UNESCO (UNESCO, 2016: 3); because of its biodiversity, it is an important area for Bird Conservation is recognized as a Biodiversity Area (IBA) by the Birdlife International organization; it is also a Terrestrial Priority Region (RTP) recognized by the National Commission for the Biodiversity Use and Management (CONABIO) which manages the specific national programs for the recovery of priority species such as the golden eagle Species-at-Risk Conservation Program—PROCER—and the Terrestrial Priority Region. In addition, it is located in the southeastern portion of the Chihuahua Desert where the most threatened and endemic cacti occur and where the highest peaks of this ecoregion are located, which gives it a special uniqueness and importance based on the coexistence of markedly diverse habitats and species and heterogeneous environments, making it therefore of great ecological, biogeographic and cultural relevance (SEGAM, 2008: 48). The area has unique characteristics that contribute to highlight the importance of the conservation of its

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biodiversity. For example, within the area there are a variety of plant and animal species subject to special protection given by their degree of threat or rarity, listed on the Official Mexican Standard NOM 059-SEMARNAT-2020, Species at Risk—the list of endangered species at risk. In addition, the area is being considered by international instruments such as the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) and the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species, as a result of which the IUCN Resolution WCC-2012-Rec-156-SP: Biodiversity conservation in protected natural area under the sacred natural site modality of Huiricuta and the historical-cultural Route of the Huichol People (IUCN, 2012) was approved in the 2012 World Conservation Congress of the International Union for Conservation of Nature.

What is the problem in Wirikuta? While there is a national and international recognition of the cultural and natural significance of Wirikuta, there are significant challenges for effective conservation. It is known that conservation based on culture has enabled the protection of sacred natural sites of Indigenous communities where a rich biodiversity is found, which safeguards valuable landscapes and ecosystems. International instruments such as the Convention on Biological Diversity recommend the implementation of the ecosystem approach, recognizing the human being as part of the ecosystem and urging States parties to promote and implement projects, and by this it allows that the promotion of this natural and cultural heritage site strengthens this approach. Nevertheless, Wirikuta is at risk and it is subject to a wide range of pressures and threats such as impacts caused by exploitation industries, poverty, tourism and irresponsible recreational activities, degradation of natural elements and surrounding territory. Its declarations of protection and zoning for sustainable use have not been sufficient to achieve the conservation of species that are subject to some form of national and international protection. Despite its ancestral wealth, Wirikuta is loaded with a narrative of poverty and social marginalization, bringing disruption to the identities and communities, as well as disempowering dynamics. It is a region impacted by deforestation, alteration of climate cycles and growing poverty that became a migratory phenomenon caused by the lack of real opportunities that allow a free and full life development. It is a territory inhabited by mestizo communities, with shared land owners, marked by a mining tradition that gives them an identity relationship with their environment, but, due to the conclusion of mining operations, most had to emigrate to the nearest urban center, closer to the region’s actual economic activities: tourism, agro-industries, grazing goats and to a lesser extent planting seasonal corn and irrigation. Agribusiness immediately represents an industry extremely aggressive to the environment, because in the process of preparing the land for tomato planting hundreds of hectares are cleared out. Although the irrigation system is implemented in the region, working the land has also ceased to be an option for locals mostly subject to season planting as the decrease in rainfall caused by deforestation, with an average between 340 and 380mm yearly, offers few certainties to communities that have only concentrated underground water and springs for local use. Despite the poor infrastructure for distribution, these water

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reserves are a certain source of life that would be taken from them if mining was carried out (Subversiones, 2011). In 2009, the Wixárika discovered that the Mexican government granted 78 mining concessions in the sacred territory of Wirikuta, for the exploitation of the subsoil, seriously jeopardizing the survival of the sacred territory, the survival of the Wixárika people and thousands of Wirikuta inhabitants found in the municipalities of Catorce, Charcas, Villa de Ramos, Villa de Guadalupe, Matehuala, Villa de la Paz and Salinas de Hidalgo in the state of San Luis Potosi, plus the area of influence much broader than the threatened watershed. The environmental impact of mining means that at least 10,000 liters of water per ton of extracted stone is used, changing the water cycles of both surface and groundwater aquifers in the region, as well as causing its progressive decrease; use of highly aggressive methods for the ecosystem and for humans as the use of substances such as cyanide and heavy metals can cause severe damage to human health, as well as pollute water and land through filtration processes used in production and running the risk of becoming unproductive (SubVersiones Agencia Autónoma de Comunicación Agency, 2011). To fight the aforementioned mining projects and to achieve legal recognition of their territorial rights, the Wixárika people, with support from organizations and academics, began in 2010 activities of legal and territorial defense, awareness, building alliances and communication that achieved mobilization of specific parts of Mexican society. Since 2011, the Wixárika people, through the Wixárika Regional Council for the Defense of Wirikuta (CRW: see Figure 10.4), have introduced various legal actions to demand the recognition of their human rights to their sacred territory and access, enjoyment and conservation of natural resources, obtaining an administrative federal court order for precautionary suspension of any government permission with the purpose of mining exploration and exploitation. This judicial suspension, a precautionary effect, during the court proceedings, is the first suspension of a mega-project awarded in Mexico based on the ILO’s 169 Convention on a territory where the applicants cannot display a document of ownership, recognizing that Indigenous peoples have territorial rights over places which they have traditionally accessed to carry out their life culture. In the summer of 2012, the Wirikuta Fest concert with various artists was organized in Mexico City, where more than 50,000 people showed up to claim the protection of Wirikuta (Expansión, 2012). A few days before the event, the government of Mexico had made a public statement via a press conference which acknowledged the problem of Wirikuta and announced measures for its protection; this measures were not previously agreed with or informed to the Wixárika people (SE, 2012). On the same occasion, one of the Canadian companies, holder of a mining project in Wirikuta, symbolically returned a concession to Wixárika. In September 2012, the National Human Rights Commission issued Recommendation 56/2012 in which the violations to the Indigenous inhabitants rights of Wirikuta were documented, therefore highlighting the illegal mining concessions in Wirikuta (CNDH, 2012). In addition, the Committee on the Convention Against All Forms of Discrimination (CERD) and the United Nations Special Rapporteur for Indigenous Peoples and the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) issued recommendations to the Mexican government for the protection of Wirikuta, and almost two hundred intellectuals from around the world, including some Nobel Laureates, also have joined in demanding the preservation of the traditional territory and natural resources. Amnesty International in

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Wixárika Regional Council for the Defense of Wirikuta press conference Photo taken by Ursula Garzon.

2012 and 2013 inserted the Wirikuta case as an emblematic case of violations of Indigenous rights in its annual report on Mexico. Along with the legal defense, Wixárika has promoted various productive activities as social cooperatives to promote a sustainable land management in Wirikuta, which may represent an alternative economic benefit that would stop mining projects. These activities are characterized by being proposed and designed together with the inhabitants of Wirikuta for a sustainable land and natural resources management. The momentum of these activities by the Wixárika people has caused the locals (cataloged as highly marginalized) and formal landowners to be fiercely pestered by mining companies and their political allies in the region, who promise them jobs and welfare, while assuring them that no environmental damage results from mining, denying them the complete and necessary information to make their decisions and positions, given that it is possible to prove that all proposed mining projects will completely devastate the environment and destroy the land and forests and pollute and deplete aquifers.

Challenges and prospects Given this scenario, there are various challenges that must be solved for the future. Wirikuta has been defined as the heart of Mexico, due to its natural and cultural importance not only for the Wixárika people, but also for the thousands of pilgrims who walk to the Church of San Francisco in Real de Catorce, on the day of his birth. However, it is threatened by business development unless the Mexican State puts together effective and definitive measures to protect this area of natural and cultural significances.

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Mexico on one side has recognized the importance of the area with environmental protection measures, while on the other, different administrative authorities have issued permits for mining and agribusiness megaprojects, such as the tomato industry, violating human rights of the Wixárika people and endangering the environmental integrity of the Wirikuta ecosystem and its existence. This lack of synchrony between the Mexican authorities has allowed environmental impacts on sacred territory caused by private companies. In this context, the Wixárika people have led one of the most important Indigenous environmental movements in recent years, seeking protection and promotion of Indigenous rights by the Mexican State; their main demands are the protection of their social, cultural, religious and spiritual practices under the full respect for their territories, institutions and traditional forms of organization. However, the response of the Mexican State has not been consistent in protecting Wirikuta since, despite various actions brought to date, the suspension of mining projects depends only on the precautionary order of the judge hearing the case filed by the Wixárika, while still allowing the development of agro-industrial companies in the area. Wirikuta should be an integrally working landscape, where the complexities of ecological and cultural systems achieve their balance by the full recognition and enjoyment of the human rights of the Wixárika people and the inhabitants of Wirikuta and by applying conservation tools, articulated with instruments of economic, social and cultural policy, aiming toward harmonious development activities with local people. The main challenges are to improve the living conditions of local communities, through full participatory planning on land and water use, fighting looting of wildlife, reducing overgrazing and protecting sacred sites and cultural value. To do this, it is necessary that the Mexican state ensures full compliance with treaties, policies, programs and management plans that have an impact on the conservation of Wirikuta. In this sense, it is imperative that the Mexican authorities cancel mining projects in the area, regulate agribusiness projects to ensure environmental sustainability of the area, implement mechanisms and tools prior to Indigenous consultation on any project that wants to be developed in Wirikuta, include Wixárika agrarian and traditional authorities in the handling and management of the Wirikuta’s natural protected area and meet the objectives of the Decree and natural protected area management plan, particularly the following programs (SEGAM, 2008: 233–243): a) b) c) d) e) f) g) h) i) j) k)

Research on the Legal Framework of Huiricuta Natural Sacred Site. Rating the quality of surface water in the holy site. Culture communication project. Identification of underground hydrological flow systems in the northwestern state of San Luis Potosi. Inventory of soil, flora and fauna. Environmental protection of the Peyote (Lophophora williamsii). Environmental history of Natural Sacred Site. Mercury in sacred ground: Study of mining sites in Huiricuta. Health risk assessment in communities of the Huichol people. Natural Sacred Site management development program. Documentation of the recovery process of their cultural traditions by the Huichol people.

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l) Respect and comply with Zoning, Environmental Management Units, all management categories and all sustainable programs according to the general objectives of the Natural Sacred Site. m) Comply with the provisions of the administrative regulations of the Management Plan. As for the conservation of biodiversity, it is necessary that the Mexican authorities such as the Secretariat of Environment and Natural Resources (SEMARNAT), the National Commission of Natural Protected Areas (CONANP), and the National Commission for the Biodiversity Use and Management (CONABIO) implement the national and international biodiversity conservation programs to fulfil their obligations and objectives, which are: • • •

Apply and monitor the Species-at-Risk Conservation Program—(PROCER) and the Conservation Action Program (PACE) of the Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) species. Execute the necessary actions for the protection and monitoring of the priority regions: Bird Conservation and Biodiversity Area-Sierra de Catorce (IBA No. 81) and Terrestrial Priority Region Tokyo (RTP No. 80). Apply the Official Mexican Standard NOM-059 -SEMARNAT 2010, environmental protection—Mexican native species of wild flora and fauna—Risk categories and specifications for inclusion, exclusion or change—List of endangered species, consistent with the environmental provisions of the Natural Protected Area.

It is also encouraged that in its jurisdiction and with the effective audience of both sectors, the National Commission for the Development of Indigenous Peoples, monitor, give funding and systematize the coordinated efforts in the spirit of preservation of cultural and natural heritage of Mexico. It is necessary that the environmental authorities ensure informed participation of local communities, Indigenous peoples, civil organizations, associations of scientists and academics in participatory planning activities to develop in the Huiricuta Natural Protected Area looking to emphasize the biodiversity conservation.

References CNDH. (2012) ‘Recommendation 56/2012 of the National Human Rights Commission’, www.cndh. org.mx/sites/all/doc/Recomendaciones/2012/Rec_2012_056.pdf. Expansión. (2012) ‘Wirikuta fest: A Mexican call for social justice’, https://expansion.mx/entreteni miento/2012/05/27/el-wirikuta-fest-se-transforma-en-un-llamado-de-justicia-para-mexico. Gobierno Nayarit. (2008) Official Newspaper, Nayarit Government. November 15, 2008. Pacto de Hauxa Manaka para la preservación y desarrollo de la cultura wixarika. International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN). (2012) ‘WCC-2012-Rec-156-EN, Biodiversity conservation in the protected natural area under the sacred natural site modality of Huiricuta and the Historico-cultural route of the Huichol people’, https://portals.iucn.org/library/sites/ library/files/resrecfiles/WCC_2012_REC_156_EN.pdf. SE. (2012) ‘Press conference preservation and protection of the sacred sites of Wirikuta’, www.20062012.economia.gob.mx/eventos-noticias/sala-de-prensa/discursos/7842-discurso-wirikuta. SEGAM. (2008) ‘Wirikuta natural sacred site management plan’, www.anpsestatales.mx/lib/archivo. php?id=193.

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State of San Luis Potosi. (2000) Official decree for the protection of cultural and natural heritage of the State of San Luis Potosi, including sacred sites, the historical and cultural Wixárika route, conservation of historical monuments in the area, and especially the natural landscape of the municipalities of Catorce, Villa de la Paz, Villa de Guadalupe, Matehuala, Charcas and Villa de Ramos. State of San Luis Potosi. (2001) Official Decree to modify the category of the reserve and include the modality of ‘Sacred Natural Site’. State of San Luis Potosi, Official Decree. (1994) A historical and cultural heritage and subject to ecological conservation of the ethnic group “Wirrarika”, the sacred places and the historical and cultural route located in the municipalities of Villa de Ramos, Charcas and Catorce within the State of San Luis Potosi, www2.inecc.gob.mx/publicaciones2/libros/360/slp.html. SubVersiones Agencia Autónoma de Comunicación Agency. (2011, October). ‘Wirikuta: The heart of life under the transnational stalking’. First and Second part. https://subversiones.org/archivos/2062. UNESCO (2016). Tentative list. World Hertiage Convention. http://whc.unesco.org/en/tentative lists/1959/ WWF (2000) Ecoregion-based conservation in the chihuahuan desert: A biological assessment, WWF, Conabio, The Nature Conservancy, PRONATURA Noreste, ITESM. Mexico.

11 HONGAN DI PA’GE The sacredness and realism of terraced landscape in Ifugao culture, Philippines Marlon Martin, Stephen Acabado and Raymond Aquino Macapagal

Introduction Globalization and the imposition of the market economy have shaped the rapid transformations that traditional and indigenous peoples around the world have faced. These changes are more accentuated among peoples whose subsistence pattern is intertwined with their political and religious realms. Studies of traditional societies often emphasize the sustainability of indigenous agricultural practices (e.g. Altieri, 2004; Lwoga, Ngulube, and Stilwell, 2010; Pawluk, Sandor, and Tabor, 1992; Sillitoe, 1998), particularly economic systems that are considered as composite or complementary (Acabado, 2012b; Conklin, 1980; Rambo, 1996). However, studies such as these often overlook the fact that communities make decisions based on a variety of options available to them. In this chapter, we argue that the endurance of rituals among the Ifugao is an expression of identity maintenance and resistance to assimilation, even in the midst of economic and political transformations sponsored by the state. Scott (1976, 1985) has argued that shifts such as those observed in Ifugao could be part of what he calls peasant struggles against class divisions. Utilizing the concept of habitus (Bourdieu, 1977, 1990) and practice theory (Giddens, 1984), we aim to illustrate that the Ifugao of the Philippines (Figure 11.1) continue to practise rituals even with the pressures of the market economy to maintain the prestige and status associated with rice production and consumption in the region. As a form of habitus (Bourdieu, 1990), the rice fields are the nexus of Ifugao social relationships where individuals situate themselves in the larger social environment. Habitus is defined as “systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures” (Bourdieu, 1990: 53). To the Ifugao, wealth and prestige are often measured through the amount of rice land holdings a particular individual owns. In the last three decades, however, this aspect of Ifugao culture has been eroded because of the assimilation of the Ifugao to the larger Philippine society. Rice production and the cultivation of the traditional Ifugao rice varieties (tinawon) have also been expensive and economically unviable. Nevertheless, we see communities who have strengthened the customary production system and the invigoration of ritual activities associated with the rice cycle.

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FIGURE 11.1

Map of the Philippines, with the Ifugao province highlighted

Based on a long-term ethnography project carried out by the authors, this chapter provides a background on the rituals that signal each activity in the Ifugao rice cycle. The lead author, Marlon Martin, is an Ifugao who works directly with farmer communities and who has been at the forefront of development and heritage conservation work in the region. Martin started formally documenting his observations on Ifugao culture in the late 1990s as part of his work in the development and heritage conservation programs in the region. Acabado’s research in Ifugao started in 2003, with the collaboration with Martin starting in 2012. The ethnographic descriptions provided in this chapter are thus, obtained in the last 20+ years.

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We are aware of the potential for researcher subjectivity, particularly since Martin is an Ifugao. Thus, the interpretations presented in this chapter are based on continuing discussions about Ifugao culture between the authors. Acabado and Macapagal come from different ethnolinguistic groups in the Philippines. These discussions result in the argument that the continuity and revitalization of Ifugao rice rituals are products of the belief in the sacredness of the Ifugao rice fields. Thus, even with the seemingly economically illogical choice of producing tinawon and sponsoring rituals associated with the rice production, we observe the recent strengthening of the institutions associated with rice.

Ifugao rice production To the Ifugao of the northern highlands of Luzon, Philippines, the rice terraces do not merely represent an agricultural landscape where a staple food is cultivated. More than that, it is the physical expression of a socio-cultural belief system which ultimately defined a people’s ethnic identity—a sacred space where ancestral spirits are invoked and deities are entreated with animal sacrifices to magically increase the grains to last until the next harvest season. Like most indigenous peoples, the Ifugao equate their cultural landscape to life itself, a hallowed ground sanctified by a covenant between the gods and their ancestors. The Ifugao Rice Terraces (IRT) are the setting of almost all sacred myths (hu’uwa) of the Ifugao chanted by a dwindling number of ritual specialists (mumbaki). These sacred myths emphasize the sanctity and centrality of the terraced landscape, the core of a vanishing belief system and an entire way of life. Even today where Christianity permeates most of the activities of these formerly animistic people, in more important matters relating to the terraces like property transfer, purchase, or exchange, the Ifugao would return to the rites of the old religion and customary law, a maintenance practice that indicates deep reverence to an ancient way of life deeply anchored to the land. Since the introduction of civil government by the Americans, however, the customary laws of the Ifugao gradually succumbed to nationally enforced policies. The IRT can be considered as a “multi-internationally designated area” (Schaff and Rodrigues, 2016). The five inscribed clusters in the United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage listing “Rice Terraces of the Philippine Cordilleras” are all in the province of Ifugao (UNESCO, 1996) (Figures 11.2 and 11.3). The Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO) also recognized the IRT as a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System (GIAHS) in 2011 (FAO, 2011). It is also the site of the ritual Hudhud chants, which are inscribed on the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity (UNESCO, 2008). The IRT fits the definition of a sacred cultural landscape, a sacred space maintained for several hundred years not only for its economic value but more for its importance as a link between modern times and the ancient ways of the ancestors. The rice terraces connect the worlds of the living and the dead as ancestors who previously cultivated these agricultural spaces are invoked in the different seasonal rituals of rice to intercede on behalf of the current possessors of the land. Numerous agricultural gods are offered animal sacrifices to appease forces of nature beyond the control of mortals. The Ifugao agricultural system is an agro-cultural complex, a term popularized by O’Connor (1995) to describe the interlocking nature of agricultural practices, social systems,

FIGURE 11.2

The Batad Rice terraces in Banaue, Ifugao. One of the five terrace clusters included in the UNESCO World Heritage Sites

FIGURE 11.3

The Nagacadan Rice terraces in Kiangan, Ifugao. One of the five terrace clusters listed in the UNESCO World Heritage Sites

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political, historical, and cultural changes. This is an apt term because for the Ifugao, wetrice cultivation is part of a much larger production system that includes swiddening and agro-forestry (Acabado, 2012a; Acabado and Martin, 2015). They are planted mainly with rice interspersed with taro, legumes, beans and other crops. Its surrounding forests, both private and communal, are managed using an indigenous system of natural resources management passed down by earlier generations. Both the swidden and agro-forest serve as economic supplements and buffers in case of crop failure in the rice terraces (Acabado, 2013). The maintenance of the living rice terraces reflects primarily a cooperative approach of the whole community which is based on detailed knowledge of the rich biodiversity of biological resources existing in the Ifugao agro-ecosystem, a finely tuned annual system respecting the lunar cycle, zoning and planning, extensive soil and water conservation, mastery of a most complex pest control regime based on the processing of a variety of herbs, accompanied by religious rituals (UNESCO, n.d.). Notwithstanding the more recognizable pastoral feature of the terraces, it is equally important to understand the intangible and sacred component of the Ifugao terraced landscape. The traditional rice has always been at the centre of the Ifugao way of life. Rice alone merited an entire cycle of rituals in the old Ifugao religion. Feasts of merit sanctified by ritual specialists that elevated individuals in the social hierarchy were preconditioned on existing rice field holdings. Social structure was defined by rice through rituals that necessitated the invocation of a thousand or so agricultural gods. Ritual rice fields were consecrated to set the pace of community labour and establish socio-political ranking (Acabado, 2013). The terraced landscape is, thus, the setting of a belief system where gods and mortals communed, where sacrifices are offered and divine providence is manifested. Like much of Southeast Asia, the Philippines relies much on rice as a staple food, hence, a premium crop in the entirety of its agricultural production. From the Moslem south to the mountains of Northern Luzon, the Filipinos’ dependence on rice makes it one of the world’s biggest consumers of this grain (FAOSTAT, as cited in Helgi Library, 2018). In fact it is the region’s biggest importer. Rice to the Filipinos is a great equalizer in the context of common consumption; from the gilded kitchens of the mansions of the elite to the makeshift shanties of the urban poor, rice is omnipresent. In a deeply religious country like the Philippines, divine providence is equated with the presence of rice, and prayers storm the heavens for an unending provision of rice (Aguilar, 2013). In the highlands of Ifugao in the Cordillera Region of Northern Luzon, rice plays a role not only in the continuing history of the Ifugaos but more so in the very definition of their indigenous culture. Rice traditionally defined not just wealth and social status but all other functions of the Ifugao including socio-political, gender and religious roles. Rice gives essence to the tangible and intangible, the material and the spiritual culture of this mountain people. Since the dawn of rice cultivation among the Ifugaos, it has come to occupy an essential function in the progression of this indigenous people’s civilization. Though the Ifugao Rice Terraces have been thought to exist for over 2000 years, recent discoveries of the Ifugao Archaeological Project (Acabado, 2015) reveal a much younger dating, as recent as 200–500 years ago. This short narrative on the antiquity of the Ifugao rice terraces more logically corresponds with the historical development of the wider Philippines and of mainland and island Southeast Asia, particularly on the introduction of irrigated rice. According to

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Keesing (1962), the Spanish presence in the Philippine lowlands from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries AD caused a demographic impetus that marked the sudden explosion of rice terraces in the highlands of Ifugao. There was a remarkable population decrease in the colonized coastal areas and the Spanish authorities complained of remontados or runaways who escaped to the mountains to avoid paying taxes. Furthermore, Keesing noted Spanish reports of irrigated rice fields in the upper Magat River (currently Ifugao’s neighbouring province of Nueva Vizcaya) in 1591 but these were noticeably absent when missionaries went to the same area in 1632. Keesing suggested those fields might have been made by the ancestors of the Ifugaos who withdrew from the lowlands and had gone into the mountains to avoid the Spanish authorities. The Ifugaos themselves claimed to have been driven out of their old lands in Nueva Vizcaya and Isabela by Spanish relocation of converted lowlanders, causing the Ifugaos to conduct punitive attacks on Christian settlements and on the newly constructed government highway and to exact taxes from the poor lowland farmers. Other scholars on the Ifugao including Lambrecht (1967) and most recently Acabado (2009, 2012b, 2017), using evidence from lexical information, ethno-historic documents, and archaeological data, suggest that the terraced landscapes of the Ifugao are the end-result of population expansion into the Cordillera highlands in response to Spanish colonization. Lowland-mountain contacts even before the Spanish arrival might have facilitated the movement of lowland peoples to the highlands when the Spanish established bases in their locales (Acabado and Martin, 2015). Though the Ifugao’s terracing technology probably started, in its present site, nearly nine hundred years ago with the cultivation of taro (Colocasia esculenta) on split-levelled pond fields (Acabado, 2012b), it was the cultivation of wet rice that served as impetus for the rapid expansion of terraces as we see it now and along with it the elaboration of cultural correlates associated with this one grain. Religion, custom law, community values and indigenous knowledge revolved and evolved around the rice. The debate on the antiquity of the Ifugao terraces, however, does not provide the same answer if asked of the wider rice culture of the Ifugaos. Did the rice rituals of the Ifugao including their religion and rice-centred oral literature coincide with the construction of the terraces in present day Ifugao province? Or were they in fact the builders of the irrigated rice fields in the upper Magat as observed by the Spanish expedition in 1591 as postulated by Keesing (1962); if it were so then perhaps the terraces in modern-day Ifugao Province were a continuation of an interrupted rice-growing culture in the lowlands? These questions, however, can be settled by further archaeological and ethnographic research to bring together a more holistic understanding of the UNESCO-inscribed Ifugao Rice Terraces and the oral literature of the Ifugao that apparently focuses on rice.

The Rice Gods of the Ifugao The core of the Ifugao spirituality is the baki, a sacrificial ritual performed by a mumbaki, a ritual specialist, in all important occasions of the Ifugao people: to mark the different stages of life and to mark the different stages of rice culture (Dulawan, 2001). The baki are numerous rites and prayers that comprise the main body of myths. The myths tell of gods and goddesses, related supernatural beings, ancestors and the forces of nature (Dumia, 1979). In the performance of rituals, the mumbaki invokes the ancestors and a legion of gods and goddesses numbering over a thousand, residing in all possible corners of the Ifugao universe. The overwhelming number of divinities of the Ifugaos was aptly described by Barton

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(1930) as being as astonishing as the Ifugao terracing. From the supreme deities of the Skyworld (Kabunian), the Underworld (Nunda’ul), the Easternworld (Lagud) and the Westernworld (Daya), several other groups of divinities inhabit the spaces in-between and beyond and even mix with mortals in the Earthworld (Pugaw). This one part of the cosmos, Pugaw, is where humans settled and from which they called themselves, iPugaw, the prefix “i” denoting “from” or “place of origin.” Ipugaw later on became Ifugao, people of the earth, to distinguish themselves from the inhabitants of the other parts of his cosmos, the Ikabunian, Ilagud etc. There are three classes of major deities numbering at least 1200 as recorded by R.F. Barton: The Agricultural Gods (or Rice Gods), the Greater War Gods and the Gods of Reproduction. However, individual gods can have overlapping functions, e.g. Liddum and Wigan are both Rice Gods but are also invoked in rituals of reproduction and war respectively. To quote at length from Barton: The Agricultural Gods are very largely the personifications of natural forces. They have a special attractiveness to the Ifugaos because of their ability to increase the rice while the crop is being harvested and soon after it has been stored in the granary. They make the grains swell large in cooking, and can bring it about that “when the women take the rice from the store, the place left vacant shall be filled again.” There are great feasts at harvest; the rice is left beneath the granaries for several days while the folk observe a ceremonial idleness, move slowly, and speak gently so as not to disturb the deities that have come to the village to increase the rice. (Barton, 1930: 123–124) In the performance of rice rituals (Figure 11.4), the ancestral spirits of the couple sponsoring the ritual are invoked first just as in the rituals for the living. Ancestors are invoked so they may join their living kin in petitioning the gods. This ritual significance of ancestral spirits makes the Ifugao an expert genealogist. This knowledge of pedigree is of paramount importance to an Ifugao. Some priests are able to provide genealogies for 10 or 11 generations which include descendants in both lines of important ancestors. In the conduct of ritual feasts where relatives are required to attend, a functional knowledge of one’s lineage easily determines whom to invite (Dumia, 1979) and to whom to distribute the meat of sacrificed animals. Aside from being mere ritual sympathizers, deceased blood relatives, if properly propitiated, can ensure good harvests, increases in livestock and large healthy families (Conklin, 1980). The Ifugao observe elaborate ritual offerings for every single phase of the rice from the sowing of consecrated seeds meticulously selected by highly skilled elderly women to the harvesting of the ripened grains. The rice rituals follow the natural cycle of the tinawon, heirloom varieties believed by the Ifugaos to have been handed down by gods of the Skyworld as narrated in their sacred myths. These agricultural rituals are sponsored by the tumonak, agricultural leaders whose landholdings may not be the widest in the area, but are consecrated by deities to be the ritual field for a particular agricultural district. The tumonak are necessarily of the kadangyan class, families or individuals who performed lavish prestige rites to earn a place among the elite of Ifugao society. There is usually one tumonak in every district who may be a man or a woman but with one or two alternates who would take his or her place in case s/he fails in her/his duties. The most important role of the tumonak is to maintain the synchronicity of labour in the terraces and at the same time maintain the rice rituals. Unfortunately, we now

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FIGURE 11.4

The Tuwali-Ifugao Agricultural Calendar, adjusted to the Gregorian months. The inner ring shows associated rice rituals while the outer ring indicates the major seasons in the rice agricultural cycle

speak of the tumonak more as an institution of the vanishing past as this “keeper of rituals” is doomed to fade away along with the old ways as the new religion incessantly wreaks havoc at the very core of the old religion. During a harvest ritual, while the group of elderly mumbaki mumble their lengthy prayers under the rice granary, labourers in the rice field, both men and women, chant the harvest Hudhud, the Ifugao epic that narrates the exploits of culture heroes in the days of the ancestors. An elderly woman who has mastered the epic usually leads the chorus. Note that the Hudhud cannot be chanted in just any rice field as it has to be one that is said to be mahudhudan, that which is consecrated as a ritual field (maton’akan) and owned, just even recently, by the kadangyan, nobles of old Ifugao society. The Hudhud in this case features a ritual element highly regulated by custom law as it forms part of the whole harvest ceremony. It does not merely function as a form of entertainment. The performance of rice rituals is nearing extinction because of: 1. The introduction of new non-Ifugao rice varieties in the terraces. One has to understand that the performance of Ifugao rice rituals is specific to local rice variety,

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the tinawon. Apparently, rice is not just rice to the Ifugao for they in fact cultivate dry varieties grown in their hillside swidden farms. But these dry rice varieties have never been the object of any of their rice rituals. The narration of the Myth of the Hunting of the Rice, a significant portion in the litany of harvest prayers, tells of the story of two hunter brothers from the mythical Earthworld village of Kiyyangan, who accidentally went up the Skyworld in pursuit of their quarry. An encounter with the Skyworld deities resulted in a barter where the Ifugaos gave the former the knowledge of fire-making in exchange for an odd-looking large-grained, rounded, aromatic, white rice. The bestowal however came with a strict caveat that the Ifugao need to perform the different rituals during the entire growing period of the rice as a way to remember and honour the rice-givers. To this the Ifugao agreed and the rituals were taught to them by the Great Teacher Liddum. This cultural context of the ritual performances draws essence from cultural memory and indigenous spirituality (that somehow escapes contemporary conservation). And so the rituals were passed down from generation to generation . . . until the International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) came along. The change in rice variety from the traditional one-year cropping tinawon to the shortterm high-yielding varieties (HYVs) produced at the IRRI based in the Philippines and promoted by the national government had devastating consequences on the practice of rice rituals in some parts of Ifugaoland. With its much shorter growing period, the HYVs promised at least two harvests a year, which should increase productivity of the terraces compared to the single-harvest, once-a-year tinawon. An entire system of time reckoning that depended heavily on the recognition of successions of observable environmental changes and of agricultural activities related to terrace maintenance and rice cultivation (Conklin, 1980) was compromised by a shift in the main crop that dictated the annual cycle. The rice rituals depended on these agricultural activities just as these activities relied on the natural cycle of the tinawon. It would not make any sense to perform rice rituals that are based on a one-year agricultural cycle when the new rice varieties have a growing period of at least three months from planting to harvesting. That would be like celebrating Christmas twice a year. This aspect of Ifugao intangible culture suffered due to introductions that did not understand the tinawon and the practices surrounding its cultivation as central to the Ifugao belief system. With the HYVs having no ritual value whatsoever, rice rituals have ceased to be practised. For instance, in the central Kiangan area, known as the birthplace of Ifugao culture, not one of the rice rituals has been performed since the introduced varieties became the dominant rice planted by farmers. Further, one no longer hears the chanting of the Hudhud epic, during planting or harvesting of the tinawon rice. This UNESCO-declared Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity is currently being taught to children in primary schools as a last-ditch effort in intangible heritage conservation. Without the customary practices that necessitate their accompaniment, the rich and complex oral tradition of the Ifugao will cease to exist sooner than later. Non-contextual performance of cultural rituals sponsored by government agencies only reflects the desperate state of conservation in the province (Acabado and Martin, 2015). 2. Proselytization and loss of indigenous knowledge in the Ifugao Rice Terraces. The polytheistic religion of the Ifugaos cannot come to terms with the monotheistic foundation of Christianity, hence the objective of ultimately expunging the old religion no matter how

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long it takes. A strategy of the American colonial government to provide western-style education to the Ifugao with Christian missionaries as teachers was purposely to wean them away from their “savage” lifestyle and make them more like their lowland counterparts (Reyes-Boquiren, 1999). This assimilationist policy came to fruition after at least two generations of Christian conversion and western education. Ifugaos began to shun the religion of their forefathers relegating it as only for the ignorant, superstitious and backward. The American assimilationist policy for non-Christian tribes continued long after the colonial era. State policies of the Philippine government imposed national standards in education, agriculture, environment, public works, etc. in utter disregard for or perhaps unfamiliarity with existing indigenous Philippine cultures (Acabado, Martin, and Lauer, 2014). Entire generations of Ifugao who spend most of their time in government or Christian schools are never taught the ways of their people, their old religion or their indigenous knowledge. It is ironic that the modern concept of being educated means to be ignorant of the ways of the past. With the erosion of the old religion and the modern education of the new generations of Ifugao, the future of rice rituals along with the traditional knowledge of managing the terraces looks bleaker rather than brighter.

Continuity and change: maintenance of identity The assimilation of the Ifugao to the Philippine state and the dominance of the market economy have spurred dramatic transformations in the Ifugao agroecological system. Gender roles in the agricultural production, for instance, have shifted to make it a maledominated activity; whereas the production of the tinawon was once a female domain, the introduction of commercial rice varieties transferred the farming responsibilities to males (Acabado and Martin, 2015). Changes such as these are products of economic pressures, which pit customary social relationships against forces of globalization. As a dynamic culture, the Ifugao have responded to this process with ingenuity by choosing to be part of the larger Philippine society, but maintaining their identity. Of particular importance is the revitalization of rice rituals that, as we have outlined, have eroded significantly in the last 50 years. This revitalization could have been initially prompted by tourism, but we have observed that farmer-communities welcome the revenue brought in by tourists as these funds provide the needed resources for the expensive rituals (i.e. pigs, chicken, and rice wine). We recognize that there is a fine line that separates spectacle and heritage conservation when they are in the context of tourism, but in this case, the latter provides the avenue for the continuity of tradition. A case in point where tourism can be the catalyst for cultural revival is the performance of almost forgotten rice rituals in the World Heritage Site village of Bayninan, Nagacadan in Kiangan town. In 2011, after conducting a series of community consultations, the nongovernment organization Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement (SITMo) introduced the rice cycle tours in its community-led eco-tourism program. The tours featured packaged itineraries where visitors participate in actual activities in the terraces from land preparation to harvesting. Each phase of the traditional rice comes with certain ritual performances presided over by the mumbaki, ritual specialists, keepers of the old religion of the Ifugaos. Bayninan last performed its harvest ritual more than 25 years prior to 2011, meaning people younger than 25 have never witnessed a harvest ritual in their village. With the introduction of the rice cycle tours, the great harvest feast has since been performed with

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the cost of sacrificial animals charged to the tour package. In 2017, a descendant family of the kadangyan voluntarily took the responsibility of covering the ritual costs of the harvest ritual without the need for marketing the harvest ritual to tourists. The ancestors of these kadangyan families customarily sponsored all the rituals in terraces communities. It should also be noted that in 2011, there was not a single mumbaki left in Bayninan who could perform the rice rituals. The ritualists were imported from adjoining villages, also the last of their kind. In 2013, Elder Simon Tuguinay, earlier converted to a Christian congregation, went back to the old belief system saying his ancestors are haunting him in his dreams for not doing his priestly duties to his community. He has had an extensive education in the rituals under the tutelage of long deceased elders including the last woman mumbaki of Nagacadan. He was ordained to the order of the mumbagol, a superior order of the mumbaki, during the harvest ritual of 2013. Currently, he is one of Kiangan’s few remaining mumbaki actively performing traditional rituals for those who continue to practice the old belief system of the Ifugao people. Furthermore, it should be mentioned that the Hudhud epic chant, a UNESCO-declared Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity, also made a comeback in the terraces when the rice cycle tours where conducted. These processes suggest revitalization of cultural practices to cement their identity as Ifugao in contrast to the dominant, lowland cultures. The re-emergence of these practices also suggests resistance to assimilation to lowland norms. Another project in the rice terrace village of Batad in the town of Banaue works to restore b’faluy (rice granary) and provides opportunities for the revival of granary houserelated rituals. The Batad Kadangyan Ethnic Lodges Project (Macapagal and Bermejo, 2015) is a collaborative endeavour with local families who want to restore or renovate their damaged granary houses and turn these into tourist lodging. With the project securing funds from various sources, the owner-families adaptively restore their b‘faluy using mainly customary techniques. Then, the pahang, an all-but-forgotten ritual for the inauguration of a dwelling, is held. This ritual, which is officiated by the few surviving mumbaki (there are less than five) of the village, lasts over two days and entails the slaughter of at least three pigs. While this ritual is mainly for the locals, tourists are invited to participate. Following Scott’s (1985: 29) argument that powerless groups contest domination by “foot dragging, dissimulation, false compliance, pilfering, feigned ignorance, slander, arson, sabotage, and so forth,” we contend that the Ifugao respond to cultural domination creatively—by actively choosing options that are advantageous for their own purposes. Taken in a more positive way than how Scott illustrated how peasants around the world fight the perils of the market economy, the Ifugao chose to strengthen the power of their rice fields. As rice appears to be central to Ifugao identity, the reinforcement of rice-related rituals provide an avenue for Ifugao communities to highlight their identity in the face of the pressures of the market economy. As a habitus, the Ifugao agricultural fields become the arenas where status and power are played out. Since the Ifugao base their status on the amount of rice land holdings that they own, the shift to market production empowers the non-elite to gain economic power and prestige through monetary wealth. The non-elites also now have control over labour since the customary cooperative labour groups have been replaced by wageworkers. We thus argue, that even with the changes brought about by the current economic and political pressures, Ifugao rice rituals and Ifugao identity will continue to exist. As the

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Ifugao maintain the sacredness of the rice fields, the effects of assimilation are mitigated. Change is inevitable, but the way communities engage the transformations results in the dynamism of culture.

Acknowledgement The first and third authors would like to acknowledge the generous support of the University of the Philippines Office of the Vice-President for Academic Affairs, which provided an Enhanced Creative Work and Research Grant entitled “Native House Restorations and Rituals Toward Community-Based Tourism in the UNESCO World Heritage Batad Rice Terrace Cultural Landscape” (grant number 2015-02-08, from 2015 to 2016).

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Keesing, F. (1962) The ethnohistory of Northern Luzon, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA. Lambrecht, F. (1967). ‘The Hudhud of Dinulawan and Bugan at Gonhadan’, Saint Louis Quarterly 5, pp. 527–571. Lwoga, E.T., Ngulube, P., and Stilwell, C. (2010) ‘Managing indigenous knowledge for sustainable agricultural development in developing countries: Knowledge management approaches in the social context’, The International Information & Library Review, vol. 42, no. 3, pp. 174–185. Macapagal, R.A., and Bermejo, R.A. (2015). ‘The Batad Kadangyan Ethnic Lodges Project: Community-based indigenous tourism in a UNESCO World Heritage rice terrace cultural landscape’, in A. C. Mena (ed.), Personas y comunidades: Actas del Segundo Congreso Internacional de Buenas Prácticas en Patrimonio Mundial: (29–30 de abril, 1 y 2 de mayo de 2015), Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Servicio de Publicaciones, Madrid, pp. 793–810. O’Connor, R. A. (1995). ‘Agricultural change and ethnic succession in Southeast Asian states: A case for regional anthropology’, The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 54, no. 4, pp. 968–996. Pawluk, R.R., Sandor, J.A., and Tabor, J.A. (1992) ‘The role of indigenous soil knowledge in agricultural development’, Journal of Soil and Water Conservation, vol. 47, no. 4, pp. 298–302. Rambo, A.T. (1996). ‘The composite swiddening agroecosystem of the tay ethnic minority of the Northwestern Mountains of Vietnam’, in B. Rerkasem, D. Donovan, and K. Talbott (eds), Montane Mainland Southeast Asia in transition, Chiang Mai University Consortium, Chiang Mai, pp. 43–64. Reyes-Boquiren, R. (1999) ‘Kalikasan, uri, at kakanyahang pang-etniko: Ang imperyalismong Estados Unidos sa Kordilyera ng Hilagang Luzon (Nature, kind, and ethnicity: American imperialism in the Cordilleras of Northern Luzon)’, Philippine Social Sciences Review, special issue, pp. 165–184. Schaff, T., and Rodrigues, C.D. (2016) Managing MIDAS: Harmonising the management of multiinternationally designated areas, International Union for the Conservation of Nature, Gland. Scott, J.C. (1976) The moral economy of the peasant: Rebellion and subsistence in Southeast Asia, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Scott, J.C. (1985) Weapons of the weak: Everyday forms of peasant resistance, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Sillitoe, P. (1998) ‘The development of indigenous knowledge: A new applied anthropology’, Current Anthropology, vol. 39, no. 2, pp. 223–252. UNESCO. (1996) Report of the World Heritage Committee, Nineteenth Session, Berlin, Germany, 4–9 December 1995, UNESCO, Paris. UNESCO. (2008) ‘Decision of the intergovernmental committee: 3.COM 1’, https://ich.unesco.org/ en/decisions/3.COM/1, accessed 17 April 2018. UNESCO. (n.d.) ‘Rice terraces of the Philippine cordilleras’, http://whc.unesco.org/pg.cfm? cid=31&idsite=722, accessed 26 April 2018.

12 PERPETUATION IS THE KEY TO PRESERVATION Encouraging local development and valuing indigenous culture as the sole bastion against Bagan’s museification Bérengère Boüan and Kathy Khine

Introduction: Bagan indigeneity and sacrality The legendary Bagan kingdom was popularized by Marco Polo’s thirteenth-century travelogue, in which he claimed to have visited Bagan. Unlike the preceding Pyu civilization situated along the Irrawaddy river in the Mandalay dry region, Bagan was the epicentre of the first recognized Myanmar empire, lasting from the ninth to thirteenth centuries. The first settlers in the Bagan area were Pyu people who escaped the invasion by the Nanzhao armies (also called Nanchao) in AD 832. The Bagan area was already a multicultural place in the ninth century, especially when the Bamar people entered Bagan and settled in Pyu villages. Bamar people are descendants of Qiang people (also called Chi’ang people) and are one of the groups of Tibet-Burman speaking people. The Qiangs came from the Anyang region on the Shanxi plateau in current China to flee invasions during the Qing Dynasty (also called Tsin Dynasty). After several centuries, their descendants settled in Kyauk Sae and came to be called Bamar. Later, they found a strategic location to settle down in existing Pyu villages and founded Bagan on a bank of the Irrawaddy river. Pyu and Bamar peoples co-existed in Bagan (Than Htun, 2005) and we recognize them as the original inhabitants of Bagan. Their respective cultures merged together and then blended with other imported cultures from places such as the Mon region, India, and Sri Lanka. The Bagan Kingdom was the first to unify the area that is now Myanmar. In establishing a Myanmar culture, they adopted a mixture of cultural sources, institutionalizing and integrating Theravada Buddhism with a variety of local beliefs in spirits called nats (Aung Thwin, 1985). According to Michael Aung-Thwin, Bagan could be recognized as the origin of modern Burma. It was a time when weights and measures, currencies and monies were standardised; when a norm for language and literature was being articulated; when art and architecture became classic models to be emulated by posterity (even if poorly); when Theravada Buddhism was institutionalised and integrated with a variety of beliefs; and when customs were codified and legalised. (Aung Thwin 1985, 128)

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After the fall of the Bagan Kingdom, a group of neighbouring villages took care of the land, monuments, and belief systems of their heirs across the ages. Bagan still occupies a place of mythic importance in modern Myanmar. With its 2500 Buddhist brick temples and monasteries built from the ninth to the thirteenth centuries, Bagan is the proof of religious devotion and the existence of one of the great civilizations of South-East Asia. Today, many monuments are still venerated by locals and also by pilgrims and devotees coming from all over the country. The Bagan archaeological zone measures 8 by 5 miles. The site is Myanmar’s largest tourist attraction (Henderson, 2010) and remains alive to the world as a unique sacred heritage landscape. The site, isolated from the world by more than 50 years of military dictatorship, is now experiencing an unprecedented growth in tourism: Bagan received 200,000 tourists in 2013 and, according to the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), more than 500,000 are expected in 2018 (See Figure 12.1). How can we save the uniqueness of Bagan’s indigeneity from these contemporary challenges? Bagan is a living landscape with an indigenous legacy that exists alongside other considerations regarding architecture, geology, hydrology, botany, religion, art, and history. To save Bagan from such concurrent challenges, contemporary solutions have to respect the coherence of its legacy over the past millennia. The local people are experts on the sacred site and have a significant role to play as the guardians of Bagan’s memory and soul for the future. Regarding this aspect: we first explore if the concept of indigeneity can be applied to Bagan, then we focus on the current ambitions to be ranked as an international heritage sacred site and how this affects the local actors and the management of the landscape. To conclude, we propose some key strategies of development to protect the essence of Bagan by promoting the contribution of the local populations in the process of tourism development.

FIGURE 12.1

Bagan daily life disrupted by tourist pressure. Bérengère Boüan, August 2016

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The applicability of indigeneity to Bagan Since this study is set up to find ways of preserving the indigenous legacy of Bagan, we need to better understand the condition of Bagan: indigenous or not. Research on the term “indigenous” in a local context provides some answers. People living in Bagan are not regarded officially as indigenous people on legal and political bases in Myanmar. In Myanmar, the term “indigenous” is mostly used to describe existing minority ethnic groups who have their own languages, customs, cultures, and who preserve their indigeneity in daily life, as well as pass their cultures on to their descendants. As a result, in modern Myanmar’s context, Bagan is no longer a true indigenous place because geographically the region belongs to the central Myanmar area, mostly inhabited by the majority ethnic group called the Bamar. This is comparable to cases like Russia which “recognizes as indigenous peoples only those ethnic groups living on territories of their ancestors, enjoying a ‘traditional lifestyle,’ and whose populations remain under fifty thousand individuals” (Gosart, 2013). However, what happens if we evaluate Bagan according to some international criteria on indigeneity such as small size, attachment to the land, value system and culture rooted in the environment, commitment to a sustainable lifestyle, mobility, and cultural conservatism (Coates, 2004, 14)? By these terms, Bagan can be construed as a sacred site with people living in Bagan, who originated from an identifiable historical group residing in a land within modern Myanmar, and are living an indigenous lifestyle and still celebrating their cultural heritage. Unlike other ancient temple sites like Angkor, the end of the Bagan empire was not accompanied by a significant change of religion. The continuity of rites at Bagan indicate that people never neglected the monuments (Koller, 2016). As stated by José Martínez Cobo, Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a historical continuity with pre-invasion and pre-colonial societies that developed on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing on those territories, or parts of them. They form at present non-dominant sectors of society and are determined to preserve, develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples, in accordance with their own cultural patterns, social institutions and legal system. (Martínez Cobo, 1986) Following Martínez Cobo, indigenous communities should have a historical continuity based on one or more factors such as culture, language, occupation of ancestral lands, etc. In Bagan’s case, the modern residents are descendants of ancient Pyu and Bamar people who established a distinct identity which adopted cultures from different sources including lands from Pyu, Bamar, Mon, India and Sri Lanka. Between the ninth and thirteenth centuries, the Bagan kings expanded their territory and founded the first Myanmar empire. The Bagan Empire grew and unified the area that is now Myanmar. This is the way the Bamar spread across the country over time, and the Bamar remain the majority ethnic group of modern Myanmar. Even after the fall of the Bagan Empire, Bagan still remained as inhabited land and the inhabitants continued to transmit their living heritage to future generations. Hence, generations committed to keep continuity with a sacred history. Using the working

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definition of José Martinez Cobo, and a case study on Bagan, Bagan can be recognized as an indigenous sacred site, as it still has a living tangible and intangible heritage beside a strong cultural identity preserved and transmitted by indigenous local custodians. Nevertheless, their way of living is now changing due to the ongoing transformation of modern Myanmar society. Through that transformation process, residents of Bagan should be aware of their indigenous richness and find a way to include it in their current daily lives. In this case, it is very important to take up the mission of transmitting the culture and legacy to future generations. Therefore, we continue our study by assuming Bagan to be an indigenous sacred site and we will study the local custodians of this site as the indigenous custodians to find ways to include them in the process of conserving Bagan as a sacred site. We assume here that experts of the wider world do not know and observe the sacred site the same way indigenous custodians do. We assume that local inhabitants, whose ancestors have lived continuously in Bagan since its golden age, who maintain and pray in the temples, plough the fields, and fish in the Irrawaddy river, know the spiritual heritage of Bagan better than others. The specialized conservation experts (architects of the Historic Monuments, landscape architects, archaeologists, engineers, etc.) need to help the local community to protect and value such heritage without loss of soul or identity to a globalized world.

Landscape analysis: a millennium continuity between earth and sky maintained by Bagan’s heirs Bagan owes some of its legacy to commerce. The ancient city is geographically situated along the Irrawaddy River, a commercial axis and sacred waterway that irrigates Myanmar and gives life to a stretch of over 2000 km. People along the Irrawaddy have an intimate relation with the river, using it for washing, drinking, and irrigating their fields. Besides the central role of the river in the daily lives of people, the water of the sacred river was also an important symbol during the coronation of kings in ancient times. In addition, all the royal capitals that followed Bagan were built along the banks of the river. Until the astrologers of Myanmar’s military government decided on Naypyidaw as capital, the country was never governed without attachment to this main artery. Its strategic position at the crossroads of the trade roads connecting China and India allowed ancient peoples of Bagan to expand its powers and make the city the capital of the first Myanmar empire. This brought trade and cultural exchange: for example, the rituals of consecration for Bagan’s sovereign were of Hindu origin and for this celebration the Brahmins used to collect river water to spray onto the future king (Brac de la Perrière, 2012). The geographical position and economic success of Bagan also enabled the development of Theravada Buddhism in the region under the reign of King Anawrahta at the beginning of the eleventh Century. Anawrahta did not forsake the traditional worship of the spirits, called “nats” by the population, but instead conjugated their worship with Theravada to form a Burmese brand of Buddhism. Over three centuries, kings and notable persons of the empire of Bagan transformed their wealth into monuments to improve their chance of salvation and to express their richness and dignity. The current landscape of Bagan, with its thousands of pagodas, is evidence of the richness of Myanmar’s past but also indicates the strong religious fervour of the people.

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Myanmar is situated in a zone where the rhythm of dry and wet weather dominates the seasons. According to the general geological morphology of the country, the climate varies a lot from one place to another. Without even knowing the history of the landscape which surrounds Bagan, visitors often become fascinated by the splendid panorama of the surrounding plain (Lubeigt, 2005). Bagan seems to be timeless, and its landscape reinvents itself in every season. Around Bagan, topography and sacrality are closely linked (Figure 12.2). The formation of the big mountain chains of Arakan (west) and Pegu (east) created the Popa volcanic mount and the Tu Yin hills, making the slope to the plain and the path of river embrace Bagan. Because of the Arakan and Pegu mountain chains, precipitation is often blocked from the plains hosting Bagan. When clouds reach the area, they do not contain much water and create a dry zone. Precipitation that does pass the mountains has to be powerful, creating numerous intermittent rivers like the Chaung Ma Gyi and excessive surface run-off that periodically floods the area hosting Bagan. The geology and the typography of Bagan play a key role in the flow of the water: during the big episodes of monsoon, the dry rivers become torrential, washing away everything to join the Irrawaddy river. The actual archaeological limits of this site are hard to track visually. Indeed, the archaeologists defined a priority zone around the most important monuments and the best conserved monuments. This decision not only favoured the development of this priority

FIGURE 12.2

Geology of Bagan geological case, (Bérengère Boüan, 2017)

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zone and the infrastructures which encircle it, but also cut the heart of the plain as a landscape. Historically, the limits of the city during its golden age were the spiritual limits given by the aforementioned symbolic visual elements of the landscape. According oral tradition, the white elephant made a tour of the sacred land and gave the limits of this territory, as well as the location of the cardinal temples. The limits of the royal capital city were marked by the first four stupas built in Bagan by Anawrahta. The first two, Lawkananda and Shwezigon, were situated at the banks of the Irrawaddy river in the north and south of the historical city. The other two are located on top of the mountain which overhangs Bagan at Tu Yan in the East, and Tan Gy in the West. These strong visual limits impress visitors beyond the faith and visual storytelling about Bagan. The four stupas refer visitors to the bigger landscape of mountains, hills, and rivers in the heart of the plain. The political and archaeological space of the territory may be changed, but the spiritual presence in the territory of Bagan is immutable. If the temples are seen as spatially ordered with a concentric enclosure system around the principal stupa, the lack of change for Bagan as a walled city over four hundred years of occupation and intense building activity indicates that Bagan did not engage in large-scale spatial planning (Hudson, 2008). That is, the borders were retained by King Anawrahta for the creation of his sacred capital, but the large scale organization of ancient Bagan seems very organic. If it is true that Anawrahta had a spatial plan in mind, it would better fit Frasch’s “cosmo-magical” artistic and ethnic concept, far from the planning idea based upon symmetry exemplified at places like Angkor under the Khmer (Koller, 2016). We can compare the Bagan landscape to a musical composition: whoever is looking at it, needs to elevate to a height to capture it in its eternal spirit. From the ground, we can appreciate the elements that constitute the landscape one after the other, but at greater height all the elements play together like a symphony. There are hundreds of sandy pathways, fields, pastures, and villages cadenced by seasons and human life. On that flat territory, verticality is brought by sugar palms, thorny hedging plants, and red brick temples repeating infinitely. To this composition, the larger landscape responds with the broad river, the succession of hills, the massive mountain, and the impressive endless perspective. At each stop, in every visited temple, the visitor rises spiritually or physically, discovering the plain they saw from the floor as a global composition transcended by welcoming the large scale landscape in its heart. (Boüan, 2017).

Bagan, a sacred site under threat from tourism development Bagan is facing the challenges of modern times and the threats of development. Since 2011, the Myanmar democratization process has exposed the whole country to the larger world. Myanmar’s society was confronted with major changes like rediscovery by the West and the popularization of cell phones and internet access: in 2014, mobile phone sim cards were sold for only 1500 kyats (less than a dollar at that time, whereas it costed up to 750 dollars under the military regime) (Le Figaro, 2014). From Yangon to Bagan, the growth in freedom is spreading with hopes of overcoming current uncertainties, while making investors and tourists from over the whole world part of its metamorphosis. Notions of Bagan as a dream or as a unique destination appear on the internet and in tourist guide books on Myanmar (Le Routard, 2014). As Bagan is being rediscovered by the outside

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world, it continues to experience the consequences of an unprecedented tourist explosion. According to the mid-range scenarios forecast carried out by Oxford Business Group for The Report Myanmar 2018, there will be 3.7 million international visitors arrivals by 2020 (The Report Myanmar, 2018). The government is aware of the role of tourism development for the economic growth of the country and aims to create favourable conditions towards sustainable and responsible tourism development. In 2017, a new draft tourism law was submitted to Parliament. However, the draft law is not treated holistically with other laws in that it does not clarify how the sector should be regulated by other laws such as land and environment legislation (The Report Myanmar, 2018, 198). Due to the booming tourism industry in Myanmar, Bagan’s infrastructure is being developed at high speed. The local people, who live on the land of their ancestors and maintain their ancestral heritage, are at high risk of being totally overtaken by the tourism economy. In fact, many investors from outside the local communities who are interested in Bagan are excluding local entrepreneurs from the growing tourism economy. As a consequence, local people are worried that international designation as a World Heritage site nomination will have a drastic impact on their lives. They fear that international conservation standards will disable local people and entrepreneurs from taking advantage of the development of their own heritage, on their own territory.

Bagan as the legacy of generations over millennia At the beginning of the first millennium, Pyu people from the north decided to stop where the river curves at a place now known as Bagan. The riverine plain provided fertile land for cattle pasture and millet cultivation. The surrounding hills supported hunting, wood harvesting for construction and fire making, as well as keeping watch over the territory and monitoring activities on the river. This geographical situation made Bagan a rich civilization. Before Bagan, 19 successive villages existed at the bank of Irrawaddy River from the period of Pyu. King Thinlikyaung transformed these villages into a federation and finally founded the royal capital, Bagan, in the ninth century. At the beginning, the Bagan Kingdom inherited some aspects of the material and ideological cultures from Pyu City States such as their ideology of salvation, the features of religious temples and stupas, and the method of construction of the fortified cities. Under the reign of King Anawrahta, Bagan became the first Myanmar empire. The Bagan Kingdom reached the peak of its power during the next two centuries and the Bagan kings set a foundation for nationbuilding in Myanmar. According to Michael Aung-Thwin It was a period of development, a period concerned with unification and centralization of resources, both material and intellectual. Labour was imported from adjacent territories, while certain ideologies dealing with legitimation of authority and society were evolving based on foundations already established by the Pyus as well as on prevailing thought in the Asian world. Each of the Pagan kings in this period insured the perpetuation of the civilization in his own way, according to the needs of his own generation. (Aung Thwin, 1985, 21) To feed the inhabitants of the expanding kingdom of Bagan, the local population adapted their cultures to the semi-arid climate. They learned to protect themselves from the heavy

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wind and erosion by expanding the limits of plantation at the edge of the fields and moulded the landscape accordingly. Visually, the structure of the landscape of the dry zone drawn by the lower agricultural practice was altered by the plantation of the palm trees (Biological name: Borasus flabellifer), thus fixing the limits of the agricultural plots of the land. Most of the time, the fields are bounded in the east and west by the thorny hedges, which protect the land from the winds, and in the north and south by aligned palm trees (Lubeigt, 1979, 30–39). Despite having a history of turmoil and hazards, a large number of villages still exist today. Certain villagers stayed after the downfall of Bagan kingdom in the thirteenth century to take care of the land of their ancestors. On the riverbanks, Nyaung U, Leya, Taungbi, and Myinkaba villages still exist. Nyaung U is developing very fast because of the rapid expansion of tourism and its closeness to the airport of Bagan. Inside the archaeological priority zone, six villages of farmers and breeders of cattle (cows and zebus) and goats live almost as they did in Bagan’s golden age. These are West Pwasaw, Minnanthu, East Pwasaw, Hpyauk Sein Pin, Kontangyi, Kun Sin Kye and Thuntekan villages. After the downfall of the Bagan kingdom, the management of the plain was entrusted to the villagers, who were represented by the local leaders of the villages concerned. The head of the village is not appointed or elected, but instead the duty is passed among the heirs from father to son. He is usually in charge of collecting tax, but also acts as a judge in case of disputes and disagreements between villagers. He acts as the advisor or chairperson of his village committee, composed of the head of the school, senior citizens, the richer class of the village, and the monks from the monastery, whose guidance is highly regarded. Historically, these actors decided the strategies for maintaining the territory of Bagan and its religious monuments until modern government and international authorities took over. Close to the ancient capital of Bagan, the village of New Bagan was built. The latter was built in the 1990s and that period symbolically marks the end of the freedom of site management by local populations. At that time, the villagers living in Old Bagan were asked to quit their villages, without prior notice and with the threat that their houses would be wiped out within three weeks. The authorities occupied Old Bagan and deported the inhabitants to land chosen by the government lying approximately four kilometres from the ancient city. These orders meant some of the traditional ways of living started disappearing, along with the destruction of the ancient houses. Most of the people re-built their houses with modern materials and spatial layouts without considering the local context. Local people started becoming familiar with modern lifestyles. Hence the traditional, vernacular methods and techniques of living and the rituals slowly started to disappear (Fong, 2014). In 1970, the military junta realized the potential of tourism in Bagan at the national and international level and began to intervene in this territory. They built infrastructure that gave the landscape concrete landmarks, weakening the sacred profile of the landscape. Kelly Willis, the Director of Uncharted Horizons Myanmar, states: The preservation of Myanmar’s culture is crucial to the future of tourism. Transparency and good cooperation between UNESCO, the MOHT [Ministry of Hotels and Tourism] and the ministry of Culture, and travel companies is needed to push towards sustainable tourism and preservation. This is not an easy task, not a quick one. (The Report Myanmar, 2018, 202)

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Following Willis, different stakeholders need to connect closely and collaborate together to find the most comprehensive and appropriate solutions to seek the balance between development and preservation, and find a good model for perpetuation. Bagan could have been classified as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1996, but the international community refused the nomination request of the military government due to the lack of a comprehensive management plan for the site, and the fact that the practices of reconstruction work did not conform to UNESCO’s criteria (Murphy, 1995, 369–373). At that time, UNESCO took the position of opposition to what it saw as irresponsible development projects for tourism launched by the military government: projects like Bagan airport, the construction of golf courses and hotels, and the placement of viewing towers in the heart of the archaeological zone. Further, various development projects imposed infrastructure that scarred the landscape. The military government set the priority only on national security and irresponsible economic development, and the national leaders did not give enough attention and effort to heritage conservation works. In addition, they were not ready to build trust in collaboration with the international community to save their own heritage. Moreover, in the 1980s, Myanmar’s Department of Archaeology, in collaboration with UNESCO and the UNDP, designed a plan for the conservation of some buildings and mural paintings, but conflicts and tensions between the military junta and the international organizations prohibited the further continuation. (Facchinetti, 2014) Compounding the situation, Bagan is situated in a seismic zone and has suffered numerous earthquakes, with the most serious one taking place in 1975. In response to the damage of earthquakes, the military junta approved projects of restoration and embellishment using concrete which does not comply with international archaeological standards (Fong, 2014). However, UNESCO and the international heritage conservation community continued to help the Myanmar government conserve Bagan with scientific methods that met international standards. In 2018, with the help of UNESCO and some specialists from international community of heritage conservation, Myanmar’s Ministry of Culture submitted a new nomination request for Bagan as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Before 2012, the financial funding for restoration came mainly from donations made by faithful Myanmar donors and the funds were invested with the priority of upgrading conditions through the installation of air-conditioning, comfortable carpets in the prayer halls, modern lighting equipment to spotlight the sculptures of Buddha and related paintings. These works gave rise to cases of misunderstanding between Myanmar and the international community about conservation work. Restoration work has been conducted, but with a lack of conservation techniques, and activities by unskilled workers and volunteers who come only with the intention of helping and donating their labour (Fong, 2014). Those workers do not have the necessary competence and knowledge to carry out restoration work that meets international standards. They frequently pile up rubble on the sides of the pagodas, use cement mortar to block the cracks, cover mural paintings with plaster, and whitewash the bricks with lime, while being unaware of the heritage value of the historical monuments, the architecture, the ornaments, or the mural paintings. It should be remembered that Bagan is not limited to its ruins: for the local population and the Buddhist pilgrims coming from the whole country, Bagan is neither an archaeological site

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nor a historic site, but instead a place of life and pilgrimage. The temples are active places and some are very frequently visited. Why should these places not be modernized? Anne Laura Kraak goes even further and says “Conserving the Buddhist monuments in a way that is deemed internationally appropriate could even be considered an interruption to this practice” (Kraak 2017). Before the submission of a nomination request for a second time in 2018, UNESCO adopted another strategy in 2018 to work together with the new government to prepare the World Heritage nomination dossier regarding the religious and historic site of Bagan, to protect the site and avoid new restorations which are not respectful and faithful to the original fabric of the landscape, and to control the development of the tourism infrastructures. Today, the process is progressing and the definitive answer will come before 2019. Local and international experts are working on the site. Some restoration work has been delayed, especially after the 6.8 Richter-scale earthquake of August 2016.

The dispossessed heirs and a site under threat Generally, the local populations do not trust external authorities any more as a result of the forced expulsion to New Bagan in the 1990s. While cultural heritage can be a vector for economic, socio-political and environmental sustainable development (Facchinetti, 2014) the villagers perceive the process of making an international nomination negatively. Since the political changes of 2011, the international concept of “cultural heritage” has begun to permeate Myanmar society (Mornement, 2015), but during our field research we observed that the majority of the local people living in Bagan do not want Bagan to be classified as World Heritage. They feel that they are being treated as outsiders and are excluded from the decision-making process over their own territory. They have the impression that they are being constantly manipulated to serve political and economic interests against their will. The levels of mistrust are compounded by the mismanagement of Bagan revenues by the government: only 2 per cent of the US$25 entrance fee goes towards the upkeep of Bagan (Kraak, 2017). Our field research also observed that the local people do not seem aware of the richness of their indigeneity and environment. With lack of awareness about their heritage, they prefer to adopt a new way of living and look forward to development that follows western ideas of progress. They mostly complained about not having permits to increase irrigation inside the archaeological zones comparable to the irrigation allowed for people living outside the archaeological zones. They said that if they are prevented from becoming modern, then they will not be able to live anymore on the land of their ancestors in a profitable way. Between the sandy dry riverbeds, the farmers cultivate small fields—an average of one or two hectares, adapted to the ways inherited from their ancestors. Machines are not allowed to be used on this land, which are erodible and sometimes muddy, but the farmers know that buffalo are the best allies on this type of landscape. However, irrigation would allow them to increase and stabilize their harvests. As it is prohibited, they have started considering themselves to be outsiders in the agricultural development of the country. Being less profitable than their neighbouring villages, the fields of the inhabitants in the archaeological zones are slowly being abandoned, thus sacrificing themselves to tourism. The villagers are reorienting their lives around tourism. Local tourism development activities are having positive as well as negative impacts. Positive impacts include increasing numbers of visitors to villages every year and the

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promotion of traditional handicrafts workshops. Negative impacts include street vendors following the visitors with motorcycles around the plain, and the removal of children from school to make them work as postcard sellers to earn money for their families. For comparison, Luang Prabang in the neighbouring country of Laos, well known for its wooden houses and pagodas, was classified as a World Heritage Site of UNESCO in 1995 but lost its authenticity (Berliner, 2010). Since classification as World Heritage, the regulations imposed by international authorities for conservation are so strict and the explosion of the tourism became so strong that the whole life of the site switched towards tourism. Today, the local population rent their houses and resettle outside the villages. If the regulations dictated by UNESCO allows the preservation of lifeless buildings, they will make the balance between landscapes and the heirs less convincing. Preservation based on nostalgia ties sites to the past— more precisely, they fix sites to a specific point in time in their past. To dictate preservation of a site according to “nostalgia” is contradictory to the goal of keeping them alive. Preserving a site by fixing it to a specific time in the past inevitably leads to a “museumification” and is therefore in contrary to the will of preservation. If preserving landscape is done in a different way, then negative effects will be reduced. This requires letting a landscape and its inhabitants exist by setting a line for projects which are coherent with the historical legacies of each site as a living entity. Making conservation focus on extending the life of a site should allow the landscape to keep evolving without taboo, such that it is not only dependent on tourism. Local populations have to be able to continue to feel responsible for their heritage, and to work and live within such heritage in accordance with their culture, without being oppressed by the common rules set by the international authorities to meet the nostalgia of tourists. We call for a new kind of tourism that does not transform everything for the sake of fixing a site to a particular point in time. Tourism development should be guided by local life, orientated around the pride of cultural heritage, and exist with respect for the local population. We avoid a general “concretization” by developing the encouraging sustainable tourism infrastructures that oppose the exclusion of local populations in the process of tourism development. Today, development is sometimes monopolized by wealthy foreign investors. Development should support local actors in their struggles with daily life. We think of Bagan by supporting the local populations, who closely maintain the territory and give Bagan its truth, by placing greater value on local agriculture, supporting local battles against pollution, consuming more local products rather than industrial products, and by organizing waste management and recycling. In this case, community involvement is a way of saving the indigeneity of local culture and their land.

Conclusion: perpetuation is the key to preservation The major challenge Bagan is facing today, is the international classification of Bagan that creates opposing visions for the land: • •

farmers who want to modernize and seek to irrigate their lands, while UNESCO seems to want to control their development; tourists who want to climb on fragile ancient temples to enjoy panoramic views of Bagan, while the government wants to prohibit them;

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Myanmar people who want to preserve Bagan as a pilgrimage place, while UNESCO wants to defend Bagan from the restoration efforts performed as acts of faith by Myanmar pilgrims; and pilgrims who come by bus and cars which increase pressure on the narrow paths of the plain, even though some tourists and international organizations such as UNESCO want to preserve Bagan from such unlimited development.

In an internationally renowned living landscape like Bagan, the conflicts are generally between local populations and international organizations. While the former want to develop economically for tourism, the latter wish local development to be self-sustained so that the splendour of the site will never be erased or fade. Can those two visions work together? We believe that it would be possible only after developing better communication, making more exchanges between different stakeholders, raising public awareness of heritage values, and implementing conservation and development works with collaborative approaches. Throughout our field research process, we found that local people in Bagan are now living with worries for their future and that the local community is starting to split in two—those who do not want Bagan as a World Heritage Site, and those who do. Considering inclusivity is the most important of all. Nature is tied to time, but as long as local life in Bagan continues, it will continue to mesmerize the world. We need to accept a dynamic spirit rather than a lethargic one. If we cannot restore the appearance of a landscape at a precise moment, it is necessary to preserve its all-time spirit. To preserve the atmosphere of the sacred site of Bagan, it is necessary to plunge into the very core of the site, listen to its heirs, and try to understand the reasons for deterioration in the past, present, and future.

References Aung Thwin, M. (1985) Pagan, the origins of modern Burma, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu. Berliner, D. (2010) ‘Perdre l’esprit du lieu. Les politiques de l’Unesco à Luang Prabang’, Terrain, vol. 55, pp. 90–105. Boüan, B. (2017) Myanmar: Sur les chemins des temples, une ligne dans le paysage pour raconter Bagan, Landscape Architecture Thesis, National School of Landscape Architecture, Versailles. Brac de la Perrière, B. (2012), ‘[radio broadcast, 21 March] Vivre avec le fleuve – 2/3 – Des dieux et des feuves’, Cultures Monde par Florian Delorme, France Culture, www.franceculture.fr/emissions/ culturesmonde/vivre-avec-le-euve-23-des-dieux-et-des-fleuves Coates, K. (2004) Definitions, a global history of indigenous peoples, struggle and survival, Palgrave Macmillan, UK. Facchinetti, S. (2014) Cultural heritage management in Myanmar: Gateway to sustainable development, European Institute for Asian Studies, Brussels. Fong, K. (2014) ‘Asian Cities: Heritage, image-making and nation-building’, Australia Icomos Historic Environment, vol. 26, no. 3, pp. 26–38. Gosart, J. (2013) Indigenous peoples: Attempts to define, the protection of the traditional knowledge of indigenous peoples, University of California PhD Dissertation, Los Angeles, ProQuest Dissertations Publishing, 2013. 3557561. Henderson, J.C. (2010) ‘The politics of tourism in Myanmar’, Current Issues in Tourism, pp. 97–118, DOI: 10.1080/13683500308667947 Hudson, B. (2008), ‘Communities of the past: A new view of the old walls and hydraulic system at Sriksetra, Myanmar (Burma)’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, The National University of Singapore, vol. 39, no. 2, pp. 269–296. DOI: 10.1017/S0022463408000210.

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Koller, A. (2016) ‘Architectural design at Bagan and Angkor: A comparison’, The Royal Asiatic Society, vol. 3. no. 27, pp. 93–141. DOI: 10.1017/S1356186316000353. Kraak, A.-L. (2017) ‘World heritage conservation and human rights in Bagan, Myanmar: Ambiguity and complexity’, Historic Environment, vol. 29, no. 3, pp. 84–96. Le Figaro (2014) ‘Des cartes sim low-coast en Birmanie’, www.lefigaro.fr/flash-eco/2014/08/02/ 97002-20140802FILWWW00080-des-cartes-sim-low-cost-en-birmanie.php. accessed 6 June 2018. Le Routard (2014) ‘Myanmar (Birmanie) 2014–2015’, Hachette Tourisme Guides, Paris. Lubeigt, G. (1979) Le palmier à sucre (Borassus abellifer) en Birmanie centrale, Département de géographie, Université Paris-Sorbonne. Lubeigt, G. (2005) ‘La Birmanie, l’âge d’or de Pagan’, Guide belles lettres des civilisations. Société d’édition les Belles Lettres, Paris. Martínez Cobo, J. (1986) ‘Study of the problem of discrimination against indigenous populations’, Volume 3/by José Martínez Cobo, Special Rapporteur of the Sub-Commission on Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities, E/CN.4/Sub.2/1986/7, official UN report document Mornement, A. (2015) ‘The role of heritage in Myanmar Today’, Fabric – Threads of Conservation, Australia ICOMOS Conference. Murphy, J.D. (1995) ‘The future of Asia’s past: An international conference on the preservation of Asia’s architectural heritage, Chiang Mai, Thailand January 11–14, 1995’, International Journal of Cultural Property, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 369–376. DOI: 10.1017/S0940739195000361. Than Htun (2005) – Article on economic life of early Myanmar. Than Htun (2005) A book on social studies of Bagan Kingdom (translation of G.H. Luce, The Economic Life of Early Burma, 1940). New Century Publishing, Yangon, Myanmar. The Report Myanmar. (2018) Tourism, Oxford Business Group.

13 PROTECTING OUR SACRED WATER Cenote conservation in the Maya area of Yucatan, Mexico Yolanda Lopez-Maldonado

Introduction . . . This article is almost entirely anecdotal [. . .]. It reads as a literature review of how sacred spaces should be considered in community based conservation research. The author(s) seems to believe that if we can only tap into the sacred aspect, then we can save the natural sinkholes in Yucatan—or cenotes to the Maya. This strikes me as the foreign investigator imposing his/her values on the local community. Today’s Maya are different from the ancient Maya [. . .]. (Anonymous reviewer) This is the response of one of the reviewers when I submitted my first scientific article for publication. Being a natural scientist and, at the same time, an author of a research article on issues related to the importance of the cultural and spiritual aspects of nature (LopezMaldonado and Berkes, 2017), some scientists questioned my work: “Do you really believe that if we can only tap into the sacred aspect, then we can save the cenotes?” My deliberately provocative paper did attract criticism from the scientific community, who could not subscribe to the inclusion of indigenous and local peoples’ values, knowledge and traditions into conservation of important natural and cultural sacred sites. I am the third daughter of four, born in an indigenous Mayan community in Yucatan, Mexico, and I consider myself as indigenous. In Mexico, one of the ten most mega-diverse and multicultural countries around the world (CONABIO, 2017), we (Indigenous peoples) are being dispossessed of our lands and resources: extractive industries have violated our rights, and harmful effects of ecosystem degradation are felt disproportionately by our indigenous groups. My mother, who hardly completed her schooling, was nonetheless passionate about learning and she taught me the importance of taking care of our Mother Nature: our trees, our animals, our sacred waters. Growing up, it mattered to me that I honoured the sacrifices that my parents made. The daughter of a Mayan woman, I was the first person in my family to earn an advanced degree from a university. When this happened I knew

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that I could use my education as strength to address the problems our societies in my country and globally are facing today, to protect our sacred waters, our sacred places. In Yucatan, many water-related places of cultural and environmental significance exist, such as traditional sacred natural sites, e.g. springs, landscapes, and caves, as well as humanmade monuments (Lopez-Maldonado and Berkes, 2017). The Maya, one of the ancient cultures that developed in the region, have a particular worldview related to the use of groundwater caves (locally called cenotes1) as a source of freshwater. Cenotes are formed because a great portion of the water that falls as rain infiltrates the soils and sometimes creates a stream that disappears underground into a cenote, recharging the aquifer (Figure 13.1). Cenotes can vary in size from the very small to interconnected cave systems, and can be found on land and inshore marine areas. The cenotes were considered sacred and were widely protected since they were important for the survival of Mayan society during the dry seasons. Over millennia various cenotes were used and considered very significant for the indigenous and local communities. They are one of the few remaining important natural, cultural and spiritual sites in Yucatan, where almost all of the related prehispanic evidence has been lost. Cenotes, like other sacred sites around the world, are maintained on the basis of a body of traditional ecological knowledge related to them (Samakov and Berkes, 2016) and are often associated with their guardians, spirits and supernatural forces. In this case, the sacredness of cenotes is usually based on something intangible, as a reminiscence of the prehispanic Mayas. For example, past Maya Elites performed water rituals including songs, dances, ceremonies such as human and animal sacrifices, sacred objects and paintings in order to maintain the connection between people and water, as manifested in the

FIGURE 13.1

Exploring a cenote and the interconnected cave system (Photos are courtesy of Santiago Chel)

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iconography and archaeology (Scarborough, 1998). Thus, besides biophysical elements, cenotes contain a profound cultural dimension that can be seen as a knowledge-practicebelief complex that can be manifested in the form of respect to supernatural forces or dimensions that reside in the area (Schaaf and Lee, 2006). In and around the Yucatan cenotes, cultural materials such as animal and human bones, ancient pottery, petroglyphs, etc. are found that can be seen as tributes to the ancestors. However, at present, environmental problems such as pollution, resource degradation and human impacts are placing too much pressure on them. There is evidence that the erosion of values, may lead to unsustainable use of the cenotes (Lopez-Maldonado and Berkes, 2017). Cenotes are currently used to sustain the main socio-economic sectors including: agriculture, cattle ranching, beekeeping, farming and tourism, etc. Apparently cenotes are less valued for their cultural and spiritual role by the population than they used to be. The resulting lack of protection of cenotes is clear: the abundance of freshwater (almost freely available to all) results in people taking less care of the resource.

Knowledge leads to action My fascination with cenotes and groundwater caves commenced from childhood memories. At a very young age, one cenote was discovered in a neighbouring community so I regularly visited it with my mother. However, before entering the cave we had to ask for permission to the spirits living in there. We did the same ritual every day we visited the cenotes. This at first seemed inexplicable to me but then I noted the fascinating belief of my mother and for me the exchange of cultural information and histories with her reaffirmed my identity and was empowering, as well as grounding. When I carried out fieldwork in Yucatan during my PhD studies I was thrilled by my personal discovery of complex caves and groundwater systems where my family had lived over generations. I was also perturbed due to the amount of evident plastic pollution and the use of cenotes as dumping sites for pesticide bottles. The anger raised in me by seeing the pollution motivated me to start learning about caves and to take action. This was a pivotal moment in my journey to becoming a guardian of our sacred waters. Since that day, my vision has been to support conservation of cenotes by respecting Mayan wisdom and to help local communities to find long-term solutions to environmental problems. During my fieldwork I found that thousands of cenotes exist in the region, but the majority of them are contaminated. Ironically, I also found that some of those sites are somehow considered important cultural and spiritual places for the communities. The fact that the cenotes and groundwater caves in Yucatan were important cultural and spiritual places was observed several years ago when anthropologists and archaeologists conducted some of the first archaeological investigations of Maya caves (Huntington, 1912). These studies included some advances in interpreting caves and underworld themes in Maya art, iconography and epigraphy, carvings, engravings, sculptures and petroglyphs (Bassie-Sweet, 1991; Coe, 1978; McNatt, 1996; Schele and Miller, 1986). However, less has been written about cenotes as important cultural and spiritual places and there is little literature on the role that indigenous and local populations might play as custodians or guardians of those sites (Andrews, 1981). My motivation for writing this chapter emerged from a simple fact: our water is sacred but paradoxically it is contaminated. As time went on, I realized that the belief and

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knowledge system I inherited from my ancestors was different from the Western science that I was being educated in. As an indigenous person, I am the guardian of our sacred water and our sacred sites (Lopez-Maldonado, 2018a). At the same time and in many ways, I am also like other scientists: I do scientific research. However, non-Indigenous scientists who are not familiar with our local religious/traditional beliefs and the spiritual dimensions will barely recognize this rationale since our different knowledge does not make sense to science, thus it has been often set aside from academic discourses and institutions (Berkes, 2012). This led me to the questions: who should take care of and protect our nature: Indigenous peoples? scientists? Non-indigenous people? society at large? Who are the real guardians of our planet? I am devoting myself to fighting water pollution in various places around the Globe. However, I am also bringing the voice of Indigenous peoples and local communities back to science fields by recognizing their contribution to the conservation and sustainable use of freshwater resources and biodiversity. From explaining the reasons why I became an advocate for cenotes and presenting some reflections of my own experience as an indigenous person and as a scientist, I will now move on to discussing the protection of cenotes and resources in general as well as the use of definitions and clarification of concepts in relation to the Indigenous and non-Indigenous care takers of cenotes on Yucatan.

Bridging knowledge for cenote conservation in Yucatan Indigenous custodians, defenders or guardians of the cenotes, should be recognized and a practical step in that direction is the establishment of definition of indigenous and nonindigenous guardians that will be mutually accepted. The definition of indigenous people in Mexico, for example, converges around the idea of indigenous people in the sense of being native, or belonging to a household in which people declare themselves to be native speakers of any indigenous language (i.e. in addition to or in lieu of Spanish, the de facto language in Mexico). This criterion also includes the universe of people who, although not being native indigenous language speakers, share lifestyles and active relationships within the framework of ethnic identities (CDI, 2016). One aspect of this definition is the fact that indigenous people maintain distinct social and cultural traits including their worldviews, cultural values and spirituality (Nakashima et al., 2012). However, the incorporation of those values into the realities of natural resource conservation remains a challenge. This is perhaps because their cultural values tend to be reduced to material components whereas spiritual values are often ignored (Oviedo and Janrenaud, 2007). Likewise, current management are grounded mostly in scientific and technical approaches, because access to and the creation of knowledge is often restricted to experts (See Chapter 1 and Chapter 14, this volume). This challenge is especially problematic in areas where sacred sites persist and where indigenous people are struggling to remain in charge of protecting and taking care of those places. Sacred sites are important cultural and natural places around the world that are spiritually or religiously meaningful for local people (Verschuuren et al., 2010). They also require some kind of institution to play a custodial role, which is protecting and maintaining the site (Samakov and Berkes, 2016). Generally, identification and recognition of custodians and their institutions is a challenge, since multiples approaches and meanings might create confusion. One of the persistent problems is the idea that guardians or

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custodians are super natural beings or represent people, which possess special knowledge or supernatural powers, such as elders, healers and shamans, mostly males. The difficulty of using this definition is because most people’s perception of who are and who are not custodians falls into the area of self-recognition. Thus, a custodian or guardian can be defined as “those indigenous and non-indigenous people which have not only empirical understandings and deductive thought, but also community know-how, practices and technology, which help to protect and to take care of such nature, traditions, practices, etc” (Nakashima et al, 2012: 30) The aim of this chapter is to use the example of Yucatan to bring attention to the importance of the inclusion of indigenous people and local communities as well as nonindigenous people in preserving our cenotes. Their role in the development of approaches, theories and further definitions for characterizing and managing the sacred is important. I will now describe the case study of cenotes as sacred sites in Yucatan in some more detail and continue with presenting questions for the readers about the role of guardians, defenders or custodians as vital stewards of the environment. I then explore some of the implications of indigenous scholars as protectors of nature and conclude with some recommendations.

Exploring the sacred cenotes of Yucatan: bringing indigenous knowledge back into the hands of my community Yucatan is comprised of 106 local communities; in each of them there exists at least one or two (sometimes even more) cenotes, which provide freshwater to the local population. Cenotes can vary in size and they can be connected to other cenotes through subterranean channels (Escolero et al., 2005). More than 2000 cenotes are already accounted for by the local government survey (SEDUMA, 2014);2 a large number of them are considered as sites of rich cultural and spiritual importance (Lopez-Maldonado and Berkes, 2017). In the Maya tradition, The God of Rain (Chaac) pervades everything on Earth and the Underworld, and thus, cenotes represented important natural, cultural and spiritual places that were widely protected by the entire population. Cenotes were used by the Maya as a source of water, as material to build altars, as places for ceremonies and shelter (Bonnafoux, 2011; Dunning, Beach and Rue, 1997; Moyes et al., 2009). There are also some problems in the area related to the use of cenotes. For example, in the late 1950s, cenotes began to be exploited for tourism activities and, despite some conservation efforts, they declined sharply due to pollution problems. Currently, the major threat is probably the increase of human activities that impact the cenotes (tourism, introduction of invasive species, bad solid waste disposal practices, among others). As a result, despite the fact that cenotes are undoubtedly tangible hot spots of biodiversity,3 their importance as cultural and spiritual places is often not considered in current management plans. Culturally, this region is also remarkably rich. The area has outstanding aspects of knowledge, practices and actions related to the ancient Maya. While working in the cenotes of the Yucatan, for example, I found that my cultural group has considerable traditional knowledge of the flora and fauna in the cenotes region, including plants used for medicinal purposes. They knew the precise locations of cenotes, relevant legends and

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ceremonies, and overall their lifestyles were and still are based on the use of cenotes and similar natural freshwater reservoirs such as aguadas.4 I also noted more features. Indigenous people and local population often talk about “guardians of the cenotes.” For example, they believe that it is necessary to ask for permission and explain the reasons before entering into a cenote, to the spirits living in there (as I narrated in my childhood experiences above. See Figure 13.2). They often mention that those beings punish people and some super natural forces might bring diseases or harm to the people if not asked for permission, or in the case of vandalism for example. Far more serious was the fear that poisonous animals, like snakes, would descend on the cave and cause diseases to the people for their lack of respect when entering the cenotes. There are numerous similar stories throughout the region and they always held one aspect in common: there must be gratitude, respect and awe towards cenotes. The rules of conduct varied from community to community but for the majority of the cenotes, each of them had a spirit guardian. In contrast to that, society does not recognize indigenous peoples and local communities as guardians or custodians of sacred cenotes since it is commonly believed that guardians should have special supernatural powers and abilities. Thus, the protection of cenotes was not considered a task for humans, as reported in previous studies in the area (Andrews, 1981). The fact that ownerships and management of the cenotes is vested in the government and not in the communities may have caused some of the problems encountered. Indeed, experience to date shows that some (but not all) cenotes were protected by law but not protected by the population, thus allowing pollution and environmental degradation. This

FIGURE 13.2

Asking for permission before entering into a cenote with a local indigenous leader (Photos are courtesy of Santiago Chel)

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alerted me to the necessity of cenote conservation, monitoring and protection. My investigations in Yucatan found that although local members admit some knowledge about supernatural beings or guardians, this knowledge is often not considered as another way of protecting the cenotes. It would seem that any approach for solving this problem must not only involve scientific, but also cultural and spiritual dimensions. However, despite the plentitude of literature on the importance of protection of natural sacred sites for biodiversity conservation, the latter have been rather little explored (Berkes, 2012; Verschuuren and Furuta, 2016). Indigenous peoples are not the only resource users capable of taking care of the cenotes in order to preserve the resource. Non-indigenous peoples and immigrants that are members of a community may also have incentives for protection. They may take part in activities at local and regional levels, and act as stewards of the resource. For example, when studying the cenotes, I had an innovative twist in my study research plan. Instead of just modelling groundwater resources as scientists normally do, I was diving the cenotes, interviewing Mayan elders and accompanying them to their lands in order to visit their cenotes and to evaluate the real status in terms of pollution, as well as collecting data on this matter (Figure 13.3). In doing so, I found that fortunately there exist some, albeit very few, Indigenous leaders that have acquired a knowledge base about their relations with the environment. However, I was finding that the more research I did, the more I became interested in the actions of the local people. I realized that Indigenous people not only possess particular knowledge to protect and take care of the cenotes but such knowledge was widely spread around the communities I worked with, including non-indigenous peoples.

FIGURE 13.3

Accompanying and learning from Mayan Elders to visit the cenotes (Photos are courtesy of Santiago Chel)

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Guardians of the cenotes My research started with a scientific approach which considers cenotes as a common resource: that is, all the cenotes are owned and/or shared by a group of people in which the exclusion or the control of access of potential users is difficult, and each user is capable of subtracting from the welfare of all other users (Lopez-Maldonado, 2018b; Ostrom, 2009). Consequently, the use, governance and management of cenotes is very complex. Much of the area of cenotes that requires management is under a mix of property regimes and user rights. For example, some cenotes are still owned by the Federal state, some of them are private, others are used and managed by the local government, or in some of them responsibility is shared between government and civil society. Lopez-Maldonado and Berkes (2017) reported five different management and property regimes. Cenotes are currently used for different activities including tourism services, agriculture, cattle ranch; many more provide water for beekeeping but, conversely, almost every cenote is used as an illegal dumping site. Furthermore, tourism facilities sprawled along the cenotes pumping water from the scarce phreatic layer, leading to salinization of natural wells. In fact, even when communities have legal rights to protect the cenotes, government actions undermine those rights, leading to large amounts of problems such as plastic pollution and wastewater emission into them. Numerous different interests and concerns could also be identified. Overall there are three main interests for the cenotes: the ecological, the economic and the social. The ecological interest can be represented by the organizations that are taking part in management of protection of those sites, and some researchers and academic institutions, which are involved in the protection of the area. The economic interest is represented by almost all socio-economic sectors, which hope for further development of the area. The recent political administration (2012–2018) is favouring the protection of cenotes due to their socio-economic potential. The social interest is represented by the different groups exploiting and using the cenotes in the area, which is difficult in terms of defining and claiming legal rights to the area. However, none of the current protection plans reflect the importance of the cultural and spiritual values of cenotes. There are numerous policies that are relevant to the management of cenotes. Recently, the local government has also concluded the development of an integrated management plan to provide a framework for sustainable use through which all sector plans and programmes will operate. The plan sets out strategic goals and operational objectives which, when realized, will contribute to the sustainability of the groundwater system in general. The plan emphasizes the sustainable use of resources and, as such, encourages the management and use of the system to be on a sustainable basis for all the stakeholders concerned. The role of this management plan is to regulate the use of resources among stakeholders compliance with management agreements and rules. Its aim is to protect these resources against threats. Still, neither of these includes clear guidance on the role of traditional knowledge, values and traditions nor do they include community participation. In this technical and mechanical approach there is little room for the inclusion of cultural values and even less the sacred aspects of cenotes. Thus, Yucatan’s cenotes are legally protected but their protection does not go beyond the application of technical and scientific approaches and does not include Mayan traditional knowledge or their cultural values.

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Several activities have been implemented within the region to involve indigenous peoples and local communities but those are local community-based actions. Some groups have carried out numerous activities to highlight the need for cenote conservation, and community members were invited to participate in meetings, but they were not given enough background information and still little has been done for the recognition of cultural and spiritual values of nature. Attempts to find ways to include indigenous knowledge into real practices such as water management, and conservation approaches to cenotes and similar sacred sites have not been well recognized. Perhaps the most important activity has been the development of the Technical Committee for the study of groundwater systems in Yucatan, which was created to provide a forum to raise, discuss and propose solutions to specific concerns from a technical perspective in managing cenotes. The group is composed of hydrologists, agronomists, ecologists and other related disciplines and it has provided a valuable and complementary tool in resolving stakeholder problems. Technical and professional expertise plays a vital role on water management and governance; however, indigenous people have not been included as a part of the team, so current topics and discussions focus on issues of collecting and analysing data, restoration and monitoring of the ecosystem, rather than managing the cenotes with the local population and including their values. Suffice to say that Mayan indigenous knowledge has played an interesting role in water management since ancient times. Currently the most important issue for the cenotes is how to coordinate their management with the rapid development of the local economy, in which pollution will inevitably be a main threat to this ecosystem. The clearest example is the current problem related to the authorization of the design, construction and putting into operation of a pig farm industry, which will be the largest in Yucatan, close to a place where cenotes are currently used for ecotourism. The legal and environmental background was not a priority and planning of the industry was done in consultation with scientists and engineers but without considering local people’s values and needs. Thus, authorities approved its construction and, paradoxically, the public interest including control and vigilance of the area grew. The industry will also be located within the boundaries of a Natural Protected Area, which exerts high pressure on the management of the region. Lack of confidence among stakeholders and the need for a dialogue have prevailed, thus it is necessary to allow indigenous and local people’s participation in management and to promote an effective communication and coordination effort among the stakeholders involved. The local population, including indigenous people, is currently concerned about the negative possible impacts and influences of this industry in the ecosystems such as habitat fragmentation and wastewater discharges (Peba, 2018).

Co-production of knowledge as a way to preserve cenotes The past and present holistic indigenous knowledge system of the Maya includes an understanding of the relationship between humans and nature. The historic and cultural practices provide guidance on the management of fauna, flora and water that reinforce and sustain biodiversity in the region. However, at present, the majority of the population do not hold a strong cultural or spiritual attachment to the cenotes. This imbalance can also be seen in the interest of the local communities in participating in and recognizing the

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importance of the cultural and spiritual aspects of cenotes, which could lead to their involvement in their protection. An important question remains “under what circumstances are Indigenous custodians or local communities being involved?” This brings us to governance and social aspects of the cenotes. However, it is necessary to point out that this is not just about indigenous communities or the local population. This is about everyone who wants to become and environmental defender or a guardian of a particular resource, place or heritage. Indigenous peoples in Yucatan are increasingly being recognized as custodians, defenders, or guardians of the cenotes. This recognition goes on separately from the recognition of traditional or local knowledge and the recognition of their rights to resources and ancestral traditions. In Yucatan, some groups are taking an increasingly active role in initiating and leading local actions to protect and to take care of the cenotes. However, those actions do not yet link conservation with cultural values and beliefs, which could favour a shift in attitudes and behaviours among the rest of the population. Without differentiating one from another and as a challenge to continue with the local efforts, several local groups are now developing strategies together by facilitating their inclusion into political arenas and research initiatives, and are sharing concern regarding biodiversity as well as cultural aspects. These actions serve as a powerful way for indigenous peoples and local members to assert and to take some control over their resources. In the last five years it has become evident to local people, government, NGOs and other relevant stakeholders that it is necessary to work together on goals for the protection of the cenotes. For example, federal funding has been secured to implement activities and to restore cenote habitats. Some cenotes have also been cleaned up by local groups, other cenotes are currently used for research purposes. This participation is furthering wise use of principles under current management plans and international bodies including, for example, the Ramsar Convention (1972). This has resulted, albeit reluctantly, in an effort to acknowledge the leadership and participation of Indigenous leaders and other individuals. However, the only way to ensure that change is going to happen is to provide a governance system where rural dwellers are actively involved in decision making, and where holders of traditional knowledge are active agents in conservation. It is necessary to build around theories of how indigenous ways of knowing can support conservation and monitor natural resources, but also to consider the fact that scientific and technical approaches can also go hand by hand with the former. A major challenge is accessing to information and effective participation in decision-making. The Mayas, similar to other cultural groups of Mexico, are at an automatic disadvantage with regards to governance, access to information, and decisionmaking as they are formally excluded from national, regional and even the local system, which is the basis of rural government, consultation and participation. Indigenous knowledge holders should be recognized amongst other Indigenous peoples as well as by experts, but all of them should be well recognized as guardians, defenders and custodians since they had some control over resource management. For example, the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) defines Indigenous and local knowledge holders as the persons situated in the collective knowledge systems of indigenous peoples and local communities with knowledge from their own indigenous peoples and local communities (IPBES, 2018). Indigenous and local knowledge experts are persons from Indigenous peoples’ groups and local communities who have knowledge about indigenous and local knowledge and associated issues (they may also be indigenous and local knowledge holders). Experts on indigenous and local knowledge are

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understood to be persons who have knowledge about indigenous and local knowledge and associated issues, not necessarily from indigenous peoples and local communities. Overall, custodians, defenders or guardians bear unique possibilities within local indigenous and communities to safeguard natural resources. They are knowledgeable about healing, livestock breeding, plant diversification, agriculture and the natural cycles. These are individuals, families and communities that protect these sites on a day-to-day basis and that face increasing challenges. Nevertheless, the most important fact is that just because someone from an indigenous community is a guardian, other stakeholders (e.g. local nonindigenous members) need not to be excluded.

Conclusion and calls for the future Cenotes are the only source of freshwater in Yucatan. Cenotes provide clean water for thousands of people to fulfil basic human needs, and a haven for wildlife and biodiversity. For the people in Yucatan to fully have access to clean water and enjoy good health, it is necessary to understand that this issue concerns not only indigenous peoples and local communities, but also other relevant stakeholders in the region, and the future generations since it is a common pool resource problem. The first important aspect to take into account in the case of the cenotes is the fact that the potential sources of conflict, risks and solution surround the issue of protection. Legally, water belongs to the nation and the land belongs to the person exploiting it, but a combination of those two simply does not exist in Yucatan. Thus, it is relatively easy for everyone to extract water from any part of the aquifer, but also to contaminate the cenotes or similar water bodies without legal consequences. A second aspect is related to knowledge of the society about the ecosystem. For example, the local population is not interested in protecting all the cenotes, they want to protect just one of them (i.e. the cenote located on their community), or to protect individual wells (also called pozos. See Figure 13.4). The notion of an interconnected network of underground caves is almost absent for the majority of the population; thus, the population is neither always informed nor involved in protection of the cenotes as a complete interconnected system. The third aspect relates to the notion of acknowledgment and connection to the different knowledge systems. People are not allowed to exercise their political rights and traditional systems have no legal status. Most importantly, access to basic information including environmental regulation, ecological information and access to networks such as other organizations from local to international level are needed. As local society’s efforts have proven to be effective in many cases of resource conservation, the role of communitarian leaders has evolved significantly. This will require collaboration and mutual learning across governance levels and should involve a plurality of knowledge sources and knowledge types together to address the problem (Armitage et al., 2011; Tengö et al., 2014). Carelessness against protecting cenotes might have many origins: users neglect responsibilities and lack concern, government and policy-makers might be unaware or tend to ignore or forget any possible danger, etc. However, in the light of the current natural resource degradation, it is important to enable local participation in decision making and to co-produce knowledge to assess different options for management and planning of those sites. There is a lot of work to be done to ensure the inclusion of local values.

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FIGURE 13.4

A rural Mayan community with a human-made well (pozo) in the center (Photos are courtesy of Santiago Chel)

In the case of the cenotes, there are more than two thousand years of history of communities actively involved in the use of cenotes and this has undoubtedly influenced the way in which the resource is currently used, and their current cultural and spiritual values reclaimed and made part of management plans. The future of the cenotes very much depends on the involvement of the local people in their management. Water pollution could have devastating impact on wildlife and biodiversity, thus indigenous people and local communities will be severely affected, and the whole society will be in jeopardy. The indigenous and local groups should be given the opportunity to promote and develop their own rules of use without much interference from the authorities in terms of management. Authorities should be involved in promoting good practices and giving technical and expert advice. The effort to inform local people about the features and importance of the cenotes is crucial. Based on my findings as a scientist and being indigenous myself, the major practical, evidence-based recommendations coming out from this chapter include: As a scientist, I believe that greater cooperation between communities, government and private sector is needed, the inclusion of more research on topics related to the importance of cultural and spiritual values of nature should be the basis for any chance to move forward. It is imperative to encourage the local government, policy-makers and local members, to formally recognize the knowledge of the peoples and to acknowledge the Maya as important stewards in the future management of the site. The creation of a locally based institution dedicated to public awareness and education should also be promoted. Identification of local conservation groups and indigenous population who are concerned

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with the site and of the on-going cultural practices and monitoring activities of local conservation groups should be developed. As an Indigenous person, I truly believe that Indigenous people need to boost their confidence and commitment to sustain and strengthen their actions to assert and claim their rights, and to preserve cultural values from the past and to engage society in a future revitalization of that past. Water management results from long-term processes, thus it should involve a participatory planning strengthen local capacities. Finally, both my work as a scientist and my journey as an Indigenous guardian taught me a lot about the value of getting out of my comfort zone, exploring different ways of knowing and to co-produce new knowledge in order to consolidate collaboration and deal with environmental problems.

Notes 1 From the Mayan word ts’onot, which means sinkhole (Huntington, 1912). 2 In addition to this, there is another main feature that characterize the region, the Ring of Cenotes: a groundwater system, which comprises a complex network of caves, cenotes and similar reservoirs. This feature is a geological structure, the product of a meteor impact 65 millions years ago. It comprises a local aquifer that is shared by local communities and represents one of the most important sources of freshwater for the present population. This is also an area with high seasonal concentrations of birdlife and wildlife, giving the area very high tourism potential. 3 In terms of biodiversity, for example, cenotes in Yucatan form habitat conditions of two endangered species: the dama blanca (Typhliasina pearsei), and the anguila ciega (Ophisternon infernale). 4 Aguadas are natural depressions in the southern Maya Lowlands. They originate from the collapse or dissolution of cenotes and can be found along the fractured bedrock of karst upland (AkpinarFerrand et al., 2012).

References Akpinar-Ferrand, E., Dunning, N.P., Lentz, D.L., and Jones, J.G. (2012) ‘Use of Aguadas as water management sources in two Southern Maya Lowland sites’, Ancient Mesoamerica, vol. 23, no. 1, pp. 85–101. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0956536112000065. Andrews, A. (1981) ‘El “Guerrero” de Loltun: Comentario Analitico’, Boletin E.C.A.U.D.Y, vol. 48, pp. 36–50, http://digital.lib.usf.edu/content/SF/S0/05/05/32/00001/K26-00083-Andrews_Anto nio-El_Guerrero_de_Loltun.pdf. Armitage, D., Berkes, F., Dale, A., Kocho-Schellenberg, E., and Patton, E. (2011) ‘Co-management and the co-production of knowledge: Learning to adapt in Canada’s Arctic’, Global Environmental Change, vol. 21, no. 3, pp. 995–1004. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2011.04.006. Bassie-Sweet, K. (1991) From the mouth of the dark cave: Commemorative sculpture of the late classic Maya, University of Oklahoma Press, Oklahoma. Berkes, F. (2012) Sacred ecology, 3rd ed., Routledge, New York. Bonnafoux, P. (2011) ‘Waters, droughts, and early classic Maya worldviews’, in C. Isendahl and B.L. Persson (eds.), Ecology, power, and religion in Maya landscapes. Acta Mesoamericana (Vol. 23, pp. 31–48). Verlag Anton Saurwein, Malmo. CDI. (2016) Indicadores de La Población Indígena, www.gob.mx/cdi/documentos/indicadores-de-lapoblacion-indigena. Coe, M.D. (1978) Lords of the underworld: Masterpieces of classic Maya ceramics, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ. CONABIO. (2017) Biodiversidad Mexicana, www.biodiversidad.gob.mx/pais/quees.html. Dunning, N., Beach, T., and Rue, D. (1997) ‘The paleoecology and ancient settlement of the Petexbatun Region, Guatemala’, Ancient Mesoamerica, vol. 8, no. 02, pp. 255–266. https://doi.org/ 10.1017/S0956536100001711.

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Escolero, O.A., Marín, L.E., Steinich, B., Pacheco, J.A., Molina-Maldonado, A., and Anzaldo, J.M. (2005) ‘Geochemistry of the hydrogeological reserve of Mérida,Yucatán, Mexico’, Geofísica Internacional, vol. 44. no. 3, pp. 301–314. Huntington, E. (1912) ‘The Peninsula of Yucatan’, Bulletin of the American Geographical Society, vol. 44. no. 11, pp. 801–822. IPBES. (2018) Indigenous and local knowledge in IPBES, www.ipbes.net/deliverables/1c-ilk. Lopez-Maldonado, Y. (2018a) ‘Can the cenotes be saved? Biocultural conservation in Yucatan, Mexico’, Langscape Magazine, vol. 7. no. 1, pp. 42–47. Lopez-Maldonado, Y. (2018b) Understanding socio-groundwater systems: Framework, toolbox, and stakeholders’ efforts for analysis and monitoring groundwater resources, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, München, https://edoc.ub.uni-muenchen.de/21697/. Lopez-Maldonado, Y., and Berkes, F. (2017) ‘Restoring the environment, revitalizing the culture: Cenote conservation in Yucatan, Mexico’, Ecology and Society, vol. 22, no. 4, p. 7. https://doi.org/ 10.5751/ES-09648-220407. McNatt, L. (1996) ‘Cave archaeology of Belize’, Journal of Cave and Karst Studies, vol. 58, no. 2, pp. 81–99, http://eprints.eriub.org/615/1/V58N2-McNatt.pdf. Moyes, H., Awe, J.J., Brook, G.A., and Webster, J.W. (2009) ‘The ancient Maya drought cult: Late classic cave use in Belize’, Latin American Antiquity, vol. 20, no. 1, pp. 175–206, www.jstor.org/ stable/40650082. Nakashima, D.J., Galloway McLean, K., Thulstrup, H.D., Ramos Castillo, A., and Rubis, J.T. (2012) Weathering uncertainty: Traditional knowledge for climate change assessment and adaptation, UNESCO and UNU, Paris and Darwin. Ostrom, E. (2009) ‘A general framework for analyzing sustainability of social-ecological systems’, Science, vol. 325, no. July, pp. 419–422. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.1172133. Oviedo, G., and Janrenaud, S. (2007) ‘Protecting sacred natural sites of indigenous and traditional peoples’, in J.-M. Mallarach and T. Papayannis (eds.), Protected areas and spirituality. Proceedings of the first workshop of the Delos initiative, Montserrat 2006, pp. 77–100. IUCN, and Publicacions de l’Abadia de Montserrat, Gland, Switzerland and Montserrat, Spain. Peba, R. (2018) ‘“Múuch” Xíinbal: El “Ya Basta” Al “Negocio Verde” a Costa de Los Pueblos Mayas’, MayaPolitikon, 22 July 2018, http://mayapolitikon.com/negocio-verde/. Samakov, A., and Berkes, F. (2016) ‘Ysyk-Köl Lake, the planet’s third eye: Sacred sites in Ysyk-Köl biosphere reserve’, in B. Verschuuren and N. Furuta (eds.), Asian sacred natural sites, philosophy and practice in protected areas and conservation (pp. 208–220). Routledge, London. Scarborough, V.L. (1998) ‘Ecology and ritual: Water management and the Maya’, Latin American Antiquity, vol. 9, no. 2, pp. 135–159. https://doi.org/10.2307/971991. Schaaf, T., and Lee, C. (eds.). (2006) Conserving cultural and biological diversity: The role of sacred natural sites and cultural landscapes. Proceedings of the Tokyo Symposium, UNESCO, Paris, http://unesdoc.unesco.org/ images/0014/001478/147863E.pdf?bcsi_scan_EC783A0C3C997A81=0&bcsi_scan_filena me=147863E.pdf. Schele, L., and Miller, M.E. (1986) The blood of kings: Dynasty and ritual in Maya art, George Braziller, Inc., and Kimbell Art Museum, New York and Fort Worth. SEDUMA. (2014). Cave survey of Yucatan, Merida, Mexico, www.seduma.yucatan.gob.mx/cenotesgrutas/censo-cenotes.php. Tengö, M., Brondizio, E.S., Elmqvist, T., Malmer, P., and Spierenburg, M. (2014) ‘Connecting diverse knowledge systems for enhanced ecosystem governance: The Multiple evidence base approach’, Ambio, vol. 43, no. 5, pp. 579–591. https://doi.org/10.1007/s13280-014-0501-3. Verschuuren, B., and Furuta, N. (2016) Asian sacred natural sites. Philosophy and practice in protected areas and conservation, Routledge, London. Verschuuren, B., Wild, R., McNeeley, J., and Oviedo, G. (2010) Sacred natural sites: Conserving nature and culture. Earthscan, London.

PART V

Conclusions

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14 INDIGENOUS PERSPECTIVES IN A GLOBAL DISCOURSE ON THE CONSERVATION OF SACRED HERITAGE Bas Verschuuren

Introduction This book is an example of the expansion and diversification of our understanding of Indigenous perspectives on sacred sites and the role these have in natural and cultural heritage conservation. Over the past decades the cultural and spiritual incentives for governing and managing natural resources have increasingly come to the attention of those working in the fields of nature conservation and cultural heritage. Not only do Indigenous peoples take on responsibility for caring for the environment (or nature), we also see a growing consideration of the cultural and spiritual significance that nature holds to the custodians, spiritual leaders, shamans, village committees, elders, chiefs and those representing customary governance systems in Indigenous cultures (BorriniFeyerabend et al., 2014; Brown and Verschuuren, 2018; Stevens, 2014). As the main interest of this book lays in providing a platform for Indigenous custodians to explain the importance of how they view and treat the sacred to a global audience, we take a look at several of the contestations, disjunctures as well as synergies put forward in its chapters. These illustrate the importance for creating a common ground and opening a discourse within the politics and processes of policy formation that eventually intersects with governance, management and peoples’ practices on the ground. This conclusion chapter starts with a personal note on how my involvement with this book project reflects my engagement with Indigenous people as well as my passion for understanding different worlds. It starts with a proposition to broaden the theoretical approach that we can apply to help us understand sacred sites. In Chapter 1, Foucault’s theory on technologies of the self was introduced and in addition to that, I proposed a plurality of worldviews, ontologies and Indigenous realities following John Law and Bruno Latour. These theories are further applied to the creation of common grounds, which I see as spaces we can create to overcome contestation and disjunctions and to find overlap and synergies between the different ways of understanding sacred sites and possibly the plurality of the worlds they exist in. The introduction continues with an analysis of “Identity,” “knowledge” and “norms” across common themes and principles as they are presented following the four sections of

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the book: I) Identity and embodying the sacred, II) Resistance, advocacy and perseverance, III) The sacred in intangible heritage and education, IV) Recognition and conservation of the sacred in place. The analysis across these sections enabled us to draw several general conclusions presented as lessons learned in the final section of this chapter. The chapter closes with a passage on the challenges that remain in understanding the role of Indigenous perspectives in a global discourse on the conservation of sacred sites.

Creating common ground, a personal note My contribution to this volume as a non-Indigenous scholar can be seen as a contribution to a larger process of change through the collaboration with Jonathan Liljeblad—as an Indigenous scholar—and many of the book’s Indigenous authors. It is a way to support the framing of collected chapters by engaging Indigenous perspectives with the existing international and intellectual discourse on sacred sites as it evolves in the sphere of natural and cultural heritage conservation. My own experience with Indigenous sacred sites stems from working directly with the Indigenous custodians of sacred natural sites in several places around the world but also at the international policy level in the Convention on Biological Diversity and at the IUCN World Conservation Congresses. These engagements ran parallel with my involvement in the development of the IUCN-UNESCO Best Practice Guidelines no 16: “Sacred Natural Sites: Guidelines for Protected Area Managers” (Wild and McLeod, 2008) as well as the first peer reviewed benchmark publication on the subject of sacred natural sites, written from the perspective of nature conservation: “Sacred Natural Sites: Conserving Nature and Culture” (Verschuuren et al., 2010). From these early experiences, I learned about the historic marginalisation and the subsequent inequities that had befallen many Indigenous peoples the world over. It became clear to me that in the field of conservation of natural and cultural heritage there is much to be done to bring Indigenous peoples’ worldviews and realities into the equation. In 2010, together with Robert Wild, I founded the Sacred Natural Sites Initiative (SNSI— www.sacrednaturalsites.org) in order to provide on-the-ground support to the custodians of sacred natural sites. By supporting Indigenous custodians directly, SNSI has since contributed to improved protection, conservation and revitalisation of sacred natural sites in Africa, Central America and Asia. This experience also changed my own perspective on the importance of Indigenous self-determination and subsequently, the right to self-define a sacred site or a protected area for that matter. The realisation that the cultural and spiritual significance of nature had only been marginally considered in nature conservation circles led me to re-examine a set of case studies put forward by Indigenous peoples, non-Indigenous site managers and scholars from Asia. In 2016 this resulted in the book: Asian Sacred Natural Sites: Philosophy and Practice in Protected Areas and Conservation (Verschuuren and Furuta, 2016). The book clearly pointed at biodiversity benefits of Indigenous peoples being in control of their own sacred sites but also at the governance principles that are deeply enshrined in unique Indigenous cultures and worldviews. Seeing non-Indigenous people and conventional policies struggle with the interconnectedness of nature and culture in Indigenous worldviews, I further focussed on ways to bridge disjunctures and contestations that bedevil the conservation of sacred places. My focus became the creation of “Common Grounds” between Indigenous custodians of

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sacred natural sites and non-Indigenous people working in the field of conservation and development and this resulted in my PhD thesis (Verschuuren, 2017, see Figure 14.1). As a consequence, my collaboration on this book feels as a natural and logical extension and continuation of this work.

Expanding the theoretical discourse In the introduction chapter to this book, Jonathan Liljeblad used Foucauldian theory to illustrate that discourses of power over sacred sites are affected by the ways that Indigenous peoples and their affiliates advocate for the inclusion of their interests and fundamentally; their worldviews at large. I see these creations of what Foucault calls “technologies of the self,” (Foucault, 1988: 18) as ways to create change and develop new practices, management and policies that are more inclusive and diverse than the ones we currently have. In other words, Foucault’s “technologies of the self” lead to shifts in power and changes in epistemologies that are more inclusive of Indigenous interests, knowledge and ontologies. These changes and developments in the epistemologies will also affect the paradigms, methods and practices of policy makers, site-managers and lay people on the ground. While such changes are inevitable, conservation practitioners, Indigenous and non-Indigenous Western-educated alike, will be challenged by adopting concepts of

FIGURE 14.1

During field work in Guatemala in the Quiche district, rituals at sacred sites became part of my work as a researcher. My ethnography was thus co-created by Indigenous practices and the ancestral spirits called upon in the ceremony were no longer just a phenomenon to study, they also shaped my research and influenced its findings. As such we can speak of a common ground in which methods of my western education in anthropology merged with Indigenous practices and inquiry Source: Sacred Natural Sites Initiative.

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“plurality” pertaining to the actual “realities” or a manifestation of “worldviews.” In this context, the easiest way to understand plurality is through the concept of multiculturalism; the idea that different cultures hold different views on the same objective reality, one nature, one landscape or one and the same sacred site. More difficult—but I would suggest more beneficial to our undertaking here—is it to conceptualise plurality through the coexistence of different worlds as is proposed in multi-naturalism. In multi-naturalism, different “realities,” “natures” or “worlds” coexist, a view which has been developed by anthropologists and sociologists such as Bruno Latour (2011), Annemarie Mol (2014), and John Law (2011) and has been applied to study the spiritual dimension of governance of sacred natural sites by Studley and Horsley (2018), Studley and Bleisch (2018), Verschuuren (2017) and the interconnectedness of culture and nature in heritage conservation Brown and Verschuuren (2018). This postmodern view of multiple worlds holds a challenge for those working in heritage conservation because it questions the existence of a singular objective reality or world. As a consequence, it poses the challenge of governing and managing multiple interacting realities that are constantly being co-created and changed by people with diverse worldviews. Such situational and relational contexts essentially emerge when Indigenous peoples’ voices are being raised in the global discourse on the conservation of sacred sites. It is not enough to accept that Indigenous peoples can themselves define what a sacred site is. It must follow that the worldviews and ontologies in which these places are embodied, represent realities that are of equal standing to the prevailing ones that have shaped current policy and management of sacred sites (Verschuuren, 2017). Thinking of different realities as being of equal value can assist in creating a sense of equity among all parties involved in a particular discourse on sacred sites. Essentially, there is much to be gained for the governance and management of sacred sites by applying both multicultural and multi-naturalistic approaches. The first certainly enriches the opportunities for representing the different cultural and spiritual values of various groups of stakeholders, not only those of Indigenous peoples. The second provides much space for creating equal standing of different ontologies and worldviews. The success of such an approach would hinge on the ability of all actors in a discourse to situate combinations of multiculturalism and multi-naturalism in ways that these extend ideas about the conservation of nature and culture beyond the dominant approaches adopted under the umbrella of Western natural sciences as well as dominant politics and institutional conventions (Verschuuren and Brown, 2018).

Creating common ground to bring change to conservation policy and practice We recognise that the current conceptualisations of sacred natural sites are largely derived from Western scientific worldviews and thinking that permeate conservation institutions, policies, management, and governance structures concerned with world heritage sites and protected areas in general (Brown, 2015; Mallarach et al., 2018). Nonetheless some paradigm shifts are already underway in the conservation of natural heritage under overarching IUCN policies; the most important of these are described by Josep-Maria Mallarach and Bas Verschuuren (2018): (i) a shift from exclusive nature conservation to more holistic, natural-cultural approaches; (ii) a shift from management to the inclusion of governance of natural heritage;

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(iii) a shift from scientific expert valuation to the inclusion of the values held by Indigenous peoples, local communities, and other traditional knowledge holders; (iv) a shift from an emphasis on tangible natural values to the inclusion of cultural, spiritual, and other intangible values; (v) a shift from applying top-down legal and regulatory frameworks to bottom-up rights and community-based approaches, including traditional/customary laws, duties, and responsibilities. Many of these trends have parallels in the field of cultural heritage management and conservation (Brown, 2015). These are the result of changes in power structures though the inclusion of Indigenous voices and perspectives in areas from which they had previously been excluded. Indigenous perspectives have started engaging in the discourse and have increasingly been included in the development of the products of knowledge arising from the discourse on natural and cultural heritage. A good and early example of this is the 2003 IUCN World Parks Congress where Indigenous peoples themselves claimed a space in the discussions and in crafting the recommendations which resulted in recommendation on the cultural and spiritual values of protected areas and landscapes which explicitly covered sacred sites (Brosius, 2004; Brown and Verschuuren, 2018; IUCN-WPC, 2003). Since the World Parks Congress in 2003 Indigenous peoples’ voices have become more prominent in the conservation arena. Their voices and perspectives have shaped the “technologies of power” and the products that have arisen form this discourse, such as the creation of the IUCN UNESCO Best Practice Guidelines: “Sacred Natural Sites: Guidelines for Protected Area Managers” (Wild and McLeod, 2008). While Indigenous peoples have been able to contribute knowledge, knowledge products and influence management and governance of sacred sites that are critical to their spirituality, much of the original language and process has remained under the control of mostly non-Indigenous peoples and existing institutions with vested power bases. Gaining more ground to do away with these remains of colonialism so that Indigenous voices can freely shape the discourse on the importance, governance and management of sacred sites constitutes an ongoing effort. The chapters in this book exemplify how this ground is gained: they discuss the methods, approaches and tools required to make space for Indigenous worldviews and the products processes and policies that can arise from this.

“Identity”, “knowledge” and “norms” across common themes and principles When we contextualise the chapters of this book in the above theoretical backgrounding we identify themes and principles related to the ways that: Indigenous identity is associated with Indigenous means of knowledge, either ontological in terms of what constitutes a sacred site or epistemological in terms of how to understand and behave in relation to a sacred site, so as to increase comprehension of how the connection between Indigenous identity, Indigenous knowledge, and Indigenous norms leads to Indigenous forms of governance for sacred sites. (Liljeblad, Chapter 1)

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The themes of “identity”, “knowledge” and “norms” therefore play an important role in the trends and principles that we can extract from this book’s chapters. Evans (Chapter 2) provides a brilliant example of how these themes are interwoven in the discourse of land management and the role of the sacred therein. Her country takayna country in Tasmania is female country; this is an embodiment of the “identity” of palawa women. Building on this she describes the how Indigenous methodologies are supported by kinship and agency of country. The methodologies then facilitate culturally appropriate revelation or “knowledge” of narratives about female bodies and their sacredness in the landscape. The “identity” of the black female body and the way this is expressed in methodologies and “knowledges” helps build arguments for the protection of sacred country because of its contributions to nature and biodiversity. To achieve this the black female body has to be expressed and understood in a conservation discourse dominated by “colonizing behaviours that perpetuate the unrecognition of sacredness which makes us hide our cultural knowledge in order to keep it safe” (Evans Chapter 2). Her solutions include the empowerment of black women and providing them with control over the protection, access, burning and hunting on takayna country. Jennifer Evans shows us that Indigenous identities, knowledge and norms change the modus operandi of how decisions over governance, in this natural World Heritage site, are being made and ultimately change power relations with other stakeholders. Throughout the chapters of this book the following themes have emerged which have also provided us with a means of structuring the book in sections: • • • •

Identity and embodying the sacred (Section I), Resistance, advocacy and perseverance (Section II), The sacred in intangible heritage and education (Section III), Recognition and conservation of the sacred in place (Section IV).

Clearly several of the chapters in this book show overlap with multiple themes and hence their value exceeds the way they have been organised for the purpose of this book. Of course, it would also be possible to structure the book differently but the editors feel a balance has been obtained that allows a focus on some of the most important themes in order to draw more general conclusions from across these themes.

Identity and embodying the sacred As shown, Evans (Chapter 2) explains the importance of Indigenous peoples self-defining the sacred based on their own identity. Under UNDRIP Indigenous peoples have the right to self-determination (UNDRIP, 2007, Article 1) and what is more, for an Indigenous person to self-determine her or his Indigeneity can involve self-affirmation, discovery and recuperation. The theme of identity as such is explicated in the experiential account of the sacred shared by Susan Leopold, whose personal history relates to the Patawomeck tribe of Virginia. (Chapter 3). She explores the relationships between people and plants, relationships which are inactive but are nevertheless still alive in memories, historical records, written folklore. In her personal and at times ethnographic account, she explains how she draws from dormant ethnobotanical knowledge to restore a forgotten relationship with sacred landscapes. She did so by opening her heart to listen to the land and to research the

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history and folklore in the traditional knowledge of her past. This empowered her to defend the human right to reclaim sacredness and stand in solidarity with those protesting at Standing Rock, a Lakota sacred site under threat from the construction of a pipeline. At Standing Rock, she experiences the healing of veterans, addiction, abuse and shame, and she observes a shift from victimisation to self-revitalisation which she attributes to the celebration and the way in which sharing of the sacred permeates Indigenous peoples’ identity and land. From this we can observe that restoring and recreating one’s relationship with the sacred, as it is embodied in the land or in nature, can lead to healing, selfaffirmation and solidarity among Indigenous voices looking to shape epistemologies that can change the discourse on the governance and management of sacred places. Davianna Pomaikaʻi McGregor is a native Hawaiian and writes about the healing that takes place when Indigenous people restore their sacred lands. A member of the Protect Kahoʻolawe ‘Ohana from the 1970s onward, she helps provide stewardship of the island of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe (Chapter 4). The Protect Kahoʻolawe ‘Ohana, is restoring this island, once used a military bombing range, and rekindling people to the sacred through providing stewardship of the island of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe. The chapter is part of the growing evidence that the sacred dimensions of Indigenous lands can heal and affirm Indigenous identities: healthy people healthy country.

Resistance, advocacy and perseverance Many of the chapters in this book speak of Indigenous strategies of resistance, advocacy and perseverance in the light of historic power imbalances and threats to Indigenous control over culture and sacred sites. Essentially, the aim is to broaden Indigenous control over developments and decision-making processes, for non-Indigenous actors to include and respect Indigenous concerns. This can lead not only to Indigenous but also alternative or new approaches to the use, development and preservation of Indigenous sacred sites. Annapurna Devi Pandey (Chapter 5) describes the Kondhs’ resistance movement which, although not opposed to globalisation and modernisation (modern education, job opportunities, banking and opening of markets) opposes the extraction of minerals from Niyamgiri mountain, which Kondhs consider their lawgiver, source of their moral order and society. Resistance against mining is also about maintaining the sacred, food security, Indigenous livelihoods and ultimately Indigenous identity tied to the hills. The motivation for resistance is derived from the latter. Annapurna Devi Pandey describes one of the better known and successful Indigenous protest movements against the mining industry. See Figure 14.2 where western people protest in solidarity with the Kondhs in Niyamgiry. It is not uncommon for local resistance to the development of sacred sites to find support from international NGOs and the public. The resistance of the Khonds received support worldwide and this has also been the case in the Mexico with the Wirikuta sacred mountain that lies at the end of the pilgrimage of the Wixárika (Huicholes). Here Indigenous peoples have shown various strategies for getting support from non-Indigenous peoples from outside the communities, including making them part of their ceremonies that celebrate the sacred (Velasco, Chapter 10). Another well-known Indigenous protest movement is the movement that recuperated the sacred island of Kanaloa Kahoʻolawe. The discourse of resistance started in the 1970s with activists making illegal canoe trips to the island and have continued since through

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FIGURE 14.2

Western people protest in solidarity with the Indigenous Khonds in Niyamgiri in at the General Assembly of Vedanta mining company in London in 2010. By painting themselves blue they draw a comparison with the blockbuster movie Avatar that depicted similar problems in a fictive word. These protest and advocacy activities did much to bring the issue to the attention of the international public Source: Survival ©.

advocacy and restoration measures, including the cleaning up of uncountable measures of military ordinance. Through this work they succeeded in the restoration of the sacred dimensions of the island and re-bonded with its people. All three aforementioned examples have had to challenge the prevailing powers, be these multi-nationals or the government, the mining industry or the military or combinations of such actors. In both cases protests start locally and soon grew into social movements that received the support and attention from national and international audiences and nongovernmental organisations. The strategies they deployed for this have persevered because of the resilience of Indigenous peoples and the importance that their sacred sites have to them. Lesle Jansen and Ademola Oluborode Jegede (Chapter 6) show how human rights law can be used to create a basis for the protection of the sacred sites of the Bethany Griqua community in South Africa. As an Indigenous lawyer Jansen works with the communities to use the law in support of advocacy efforts. The authors find that much is required to redress dispossession experienced by the community in relation to their sacred sites, and general land rights. While the government has failed to address these issues—in breach of the human rights obligations of the State—the authors suggest the government should enforce international and domestic instruments in order to realise the aspirations of the Griqua. The authors suggest that civil society can play a role in raising public awareness of national, regional and international laws that support the recognition of sacred natural sites

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and territories and community customary governance systems of the Griqua community (Jansen and Oluborode Jegede Chapter 6). Finally, civil society can pursue advocacy efforts to include existing international human rights law and national legislation to support the recognition of the Griqua communities’ customary governance of sacred natural sites and territories. Much like Lesle Jansen and Adeola Oluborode Jegede, Vernon G. Lujan (Chapter 7) also narrates a long history of resistance against colonisation, treaties and shifting negotiations with state actors. Essentially, the authors of both chapter argue that struggles for Indigenous stewardship over sacred sites cannot solely be won with rights, or the use of rights-based approaches, but requires advocacy, diplomacy and most of all, perseverance in the face of dominant ontologies. As Hunt puts it: “The potential for Indigenous ontologies to unsettle dominant ontologies can be easily neutralized as a triviality, a case study or a trinket, as powerful institutions work as self-legitimating systems which uphold broader dynamics of (neo)colonial power” Hunt (2013: 30). Contrary to Hunt, Davianna Pomaika’i McGregor and Annapurna Devi Pandey (Chapters 4 and 5) have shown us that sacred sites can be the linchpin of successful Indigenous resistance because they are at the heart of Indigenous ontologies. Further research into those “case studies” where Indigenous ontologies have successfully overcome colonial and Western ontologies should further elucidate the role of the sacred in terms of how its religious, spiritual, cultural and societal engagements trump neoliberal development and economic interests.

The sacred in intangible heritage and education Sacred sites typically link several types of intangible heritage such as song, dance, artistic expression and religious and spiritual knowledge related to culture and identity. They often form an expression of a worldview or cosmovision that can be specific to an (Indigenous) culture or religion. As described in Chapter 1 by Jonathan Liljeblad, the concept of the sacred as heritage has gained interest in the conservation community, first through the ICOMOS Declaration on Spirit of Place (ICOMOS, 2008), then through the IUCN UNESCO Best Practice Guidelines on sacred Natural sites (Wild and McLeod, 2008), The Akwé Kon Guidelines of the Convention on Biological Diversity (Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity, 2004) but more recently also through the UNESCO World Heritage Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest (UNESCO, 2018). Furthermore, Brown and Verschuuren (2018) and Verschuuren and Brown (2018) describe the practices in heritage conservation that typically develop qualitative statements of significance based on the accumulation of values in which sacred and spiritual values are treated a as subset of cultural values. While all chapters in this book could be analysed with the purpose of illustrating the role that sacred natural sites have in conserving a unique intangible heritage, the book’s role is rather to provide a space for Indigenous voices, perspectives and worldviews on their importance. The emphasis thus is not on the construction of statements of significance or the elucidation of values but rather the exploration of Indigenous narratives, worldviews and their underlying ontologies and epistemologies. Chapter 8, written by Brunna Crespi, Anacleto Amaral and Clementino Amaral is a collaboration between a Western-educated anthropologist and two culture bearers sharing oral heritage

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about the sacred, its rituals, species and places. These Indigenous voices provide oral histories of the sacred in Feswa (East Timor) from an Indigenous perspective. In multinaturalist terms they are testimonies of Indigenous realities and worlds that exist in concert with other realities, such as the Western scientific. In this case one could argue that these realities have essentially blended through the collaboration between Indigenous culture bearers and an anthropologist. Chapter 9 represents a similar collaboration between Bhaskar Upadhyay, a Nepali Associate Professor, and Mahesh Tharu Chaudhary, Dinesh Gautam and Baliram Tharu, three Indigenous Tharu working in the field of education in their Indigenous communities. In following the Indigenous narratives in education these authors present an Indigenous perspective that is made explicit against a theoretical background of agency, socio-political consciousness, sociocultural connections and participation of individuals from underrepresented and Indigenous groups in science and education. The chapter explores the connections between Indigenous heritage and science education and provides a view on the disjunctures and synergies between these different epistemologies. One example is the synergies found between the organic and biological aspects of education on the one hand and Indigenous ways of knowing the values of seeds and crops on the other. These seeds and crops also constitute material interlocutors between Indigenous and non-Indigenous epistemologies because they also help communication about shared aims such as providing food security and preserving local land.

Recognition and conservation of the sacred in place Almost all chapters in this book focus on sacred sites directly. However, Chapters 10, 11, 12 and 13 exemplify the discourses associated with their conservation, and more precisely the disjunctures, contestations and synergies between Indigenous practices and beliefs and those held in the contemporary fields of natural and cultural heritage conservation. In Chapter 10 Anaid Paolo Velasco Ramirez, Úrsula Garzón Aragón, Andrea Ulisse Davide Cerami and Santos de la Cruz Carillo describes Wirikuta, the sacred mountain of the Wixárika (Huicholes) that is known for being at the end of a pilgrimage trail and for the cultural importance of the Wixárika’s use of the hallucinogenic peyote cactus. The ritual use of peyote has been part of the manifestation of the sacred in Wixárika culture for uncountable generations and is considered a source of knowing and wisdom. Mexico has proposed to put the mountain at the centre of this unique intangible cultural heritage on the World Heritage nomination list but such World Heritage status would conflict with potential that the site has for mining. In the Philippines the Hongan di Pa’ge, terraced landscape is an expression of the sacred in the Ifugao culture. In Chapter 11, Marlon Martin, Stephen Acabado and Raymond Macapagal describe the cultural importance of this landscape based on the cultivation of the tinawon, the local rice variety, which is anchored to elaborate rituals in each phase of the agricultural cycle. Building on the importance of related epics, myths, ballads, and prayer chants that accompany each activity in the rice fields, they demonstrate how intangible heritage enables a deeper understanding of the history, material culture, religion and spirituality of the Ifugao. They argue that the continued practice of rice rituals and other related intangible heritage signifies Ifugao resistance to landscape conversion, which is also the case in places where there has not been any inscription under the UNESCO World Heritage Convention (UNESCO, 1972) or the Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Cultural Heritage (UNESCO, 2003).

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The conservation of culture and nature is not all about landscapes or natural sacred places, we also see many human-made sacred sites or built up elements in natural settings. Bagan, a historic temple complex in Myanmar, is one such place that marks an ancient sacred geography in the landscape and whose future as a heritage site is uncertain. Uncertain because, as Bérengère Boüan and Kathy Khine explain in Chapter 12, there is too little attention paid to the continuation of local people and Indigenous culture. Instead the sacred site is growing to become a heritage icon and a tourist destination on par with Angkor Wat in Cambodia. To avoid a takeover by tourism that would lead to heritage museification, they suggest Indigenous perspectives should be guiding development of the site and the conservation of its sacredness. In Mexico on the Yucatan peninsula the phenomenon of cenotes represents a geoheritage long considered sacred by the Maya who have lived in the area for uncountable generations. The cenotes are also at the forefront of many economic developments of the Yucatan as they are the primary sources of fresh water in the region. Yolanda Lopez Maldonado (Chapter 14) has studied the systems of the cenotes to help find solutions that counter their pollution and destruction from activities such as agriculture, tourism and the development of build-up areas. As an Indigenous person with a PhD in environmental science she is rediscovering not only the spiritual role of the cenotes but also the ways in which their cultural significance can help with their preservation. This has led her onto a journey, exploring ways to enable community conservation through engagement but also reflection on the role of her Indigenous identity in this process.

Lessons learned The themes discussed in this book have enabled us to draw serval general conclusions with a view to the role of Indigenous perspectives in a global discourse on the conservation of sacred sites. Although there are many more conclusions that could be drawn from the chapters in this book these stand out as particularly important with respect to spaces where Indigenous and non-Indigenous worlds meet: 1. 2. 3.

4.

5.

An Indigenous sacred site is defined by its Indigenous custodians and its significance is embedded in Indigenous peoples’ culture and cosmovision, Indigenous sacred places are too often contested and silenced in dominant conservation approaches of natural and cultural heritage, Indigenous sacred sites are particularly significant to Indigenous identities and play a critical role in the resistance and affirmation of Indigenous cultures and subsequently in protecting Indigenous cultures from marginalisation, Indigenous ways of knowing can shape new epistemologies and science for the conservation of sacred sites but only when the legitimacy of Indigenous worldviews is respected as equal to non-Indigenous worldviews, Creating a common ground, a culturally safe place for expression of multiple ontologies and epistemologies, leads to the development of new, more inclusive, methodologies, practices, management and governance that bridges Indigenous and non-Indigenous understandings of sacred sites.

The sacred appears to be able to serve as a motivation for creating new epistemologies and new paradigms for the conservation of the cultural and natural heritage. Of course, the

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sacred can be seen as being at the heart of Indigenous worldviews and ontologies, the core of Indigenous identities, and it is therefore only logical that it finds its expression in new knowledge products and discourses. The chapters in this book provide ample evidence of this importance; Davianna Pomaika’i McGregor demonstrates in Chapter 4, how the recovery of Kanaloa led to the rekindling of relationships with the ancestors and spirits of the land but also how this reclaimed cultural place has been a training centre for way finding. This knowledge has been part of marine cultures in the pacific for uncountable generations and is born of Indigenous ontologies and ways of knowing the world. The path she describes that led to the revitalisation of the sacred island is that of recovery, reconstruction, advocacy, the revival of cultural practices followed by the return and healing and finally, telling the story of revival. In this case the cultural practices have strengthened the epistemologies needed to restore the land and put Indigenous stewardship and governance in place. Evans (Chapter 2) has shown the need to use Indigenous methodologies, derived from Indigenous practices, to affect the discourse of governance and management and create new and more inclusive practices and policies for the land. As Jonathan Liljeblad demonstrated in Chapter 1 using Foucauldian theory, “knowledge is power.” Even if this knowledge is derived from dormant sources it can be used to empower people to recreate and strengthen their Indigenous identity, which as Leopold has shown in Chapter 3, can in turn enable a person to support the creation of new epistemologies. Respecting Indigenous governance for sacred sites is not merely a matter of including Indigenous voices and perspectives but an affirmation of their right to self-determination and self-governance. In most cases this leads to the innovation and application of norms (or policies), practices, uses and approaches that support the conservation of nature and culture. Indigenous norms and management of sacred sites can inform existing strategies and practices related to sacred sites that may not be consistent with Indigenous cultures. Doing so requires the creation of a common ground between Indigenous peoples and non-Indigenous peoples. This is the place where identities, ontologies and knowledge blend into new epistemologies and science that will affect the politics, governance and management of sacred sites. This weaving of the social fabric will require the acknowledgement of ontological pluralism which means that non-Indigenous people working the conservation of nature and culture will be required to recognise and respond respectfully to those elements of sacred sites that positivistic management and governance discourses have routinely denied exist (Howitt and Suchet-Pearson, 2006). However, this common ground will not necessarily be an affirmation or adoption of Indigenous worldviews and rights. Even when we are working together across cultures and with the best of intentions to honour identities, spiritualities and different ways of knowing, this is not an easy task. As Richard White noted in his ground-breaking work on the “middle ground”: Diverse peoples adjust their differences through what amounts to a process of creative, and often expedient, misunderstandings. People try to persuade others who are different from themselves by appealing to what they perceive to be the values and the practices of those others. They often misinterpret and distort both the values and practices of those they deal with, but from these misunderstandings arise new meanings and through them new practices. (White, 1991: 10)

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Indigenous identities are associated—ontologically and epistemologically—with Indigenous knowledge; comprehension of the connections between Indigenous and non-Indigenous meanings of sacred sites leads to new understandings and likely also more respect for existing, as well as the creation of new, practices and regulations for the conservation of sacred sites.

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INDEX

Aboriginal Land Rights Commission 86 Abraham, K.S. 92 Acabado, Stephen 168, 169, 171, 172, 176 accelerated development 121, 122, 133 Action Aid 84 Aditya Birla mining project 83 advocacy 54, 196, 215–217 African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (ACHPR) 92–93, 102 agency 6, 26, 143–145, 214, 218 agribusiness 161–162, 164 agriculture: Bagan 187; Dongria Kondhs 67–68, 70, 84; East Timor 124, 132; Hawai‘i 51; Ifugao culture, Philippines 167–179; Kanaloa 55; sustainability 167; Taos Pueblo 108, 114 agro-cultural complexes 169–170 Aichi biodiversity targets 26 Akwé Kon Guidelines 90, 217 alcohol 80, 113 alienation 64 Aloha ʻĀina 53, 55 altars 48, 124, 126, 131, 133, 157, 197 Aluli, Noa Emmett 45, 48, 52, 53, 55, 57 Aluli v. Brown, 437 F. Supp. 602, 604 (D. Haw. 1977) 54 aluminium refining 71, 74, 75, 86 Amaral, Anacleto 122 Amaral, Clementino 122 American Convention on Human Rights 4 Amnesty International 162–163 ancestors: Bagan 183, 186–189; Bethany Griqua, South Africa 99; East Timor 121, 126, 132; Ifugao culture, Philippines 169, 172–176, 177; Kahoʻolawe, Hawai‘i 53, 55; Mayan community 193, 195; Patawomeck tribe, Virginia 33, 39; sequence of locations versus

sequence of generations 127; takayna country 18, 20, 26; Wixáritari 158 Ancestral Lands VISTA program 118 Aniah, P. 2 animism 169 Apache community 111, 139 Appalachian herbal knowledge 37 archaeology 18, 26, 171–172, 181, 184–185, 188, 195 architecture 107–109 artefacts, cultural 136, 188, 195 Arthur Pieman Conservation Area (APCA) 16 assimilationism 176 astronomical observation 48–49, 53 Aung Thwin, Michael 180, 186 Australia 15–31, 86 authenticity 136, 139, 190 authority 131, 132; see also leadership autonomy 74, 133 Azad, Lingaraj 81 Babalola, F.D. 2 Bagan 180–192, 219 Bailey, F.G. 64 Baker, R. 2 Bakht, N. 2 Baliram 142 banking 74 Barkan, E. 2 Barkley, K. 2 Barton, R.F. 172–173 Basso, K. 68–69, 139 Batad Kadangyan Ethnic Lodges Project 177 bats 131–132 bauxite mining 64, 67, 71–76, 79, 82–85 Beckwith, M. 50

224

Index

bell stone 48 Belo, X. 129–130 belonging, sense of 85, 139 Berkes, F. 193, 194, 197, 200 Berlin Mission Church 97, 100, 101 Best, S. 5 Bethany Griqua, South Africa 90–105, 216–217 Bidrohi, Niranjan 78 bio-cultural diversity 67 biodiversity protection: cenote conservation, Yucatan 196, 197, 199, 201, 203, 204; Chihuahuan Desert 157; Dongria Kondhs 70, 71; East Timor 124, 131–132, 133, 134; ethnobotany 33, 42; Ifugao culture, Philippines 171; India 67; takayna country 18, 26; Wixáritari 159–161 Birdman tablet 40 birds 33, 40–41, 51, 106, 108, 160 Black Elk, Nicolas 35–36, 42 black female body 15–31, 214 Black Rock 49 Blakeney, M. 2 Bleisch, W.V. 212 Blue Lake, Taos Pueblo 114–117 Bob Brown Foundation (BBF) 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25 body landscapes 16, 18, 19, 20–23, 25–27 botanical sanctuary network 41, 42 Boüan, Bérengère 181, 185 boundaries 109, 185 Bourdieu, P. 167 Bovensiepen, J. 2 bribery 80, 81, 84 Brown, S. 212, 213, 217 Buck, Peter 49 Buddhism 180, 181, 183, 188–189 Bunten, A. 6 Bureau of Indian Affairs, US 115 Burma 180 Bursum, Holm 115 Bush, George H.W. 56 cacti 157, 160, 218 Cahokia mounds 40, 42 Cajete, G. 141 Calderon Hinojosa, Felipe 160 Campbell, G. 2 Cannonball River, Standing Rock 41 capitalism 64; see also neo-liberalism Carmichael, D. 2 Carr, Ellwood J. 37 Carson National Forest 114 cash crops 68, 70, 74 Catesby, Mark 33, 34 Catorce semi-desert 158 caves 193–206 celestial navigation 45, 47, 48–49, 53

cenote conservation, Yucatan 193–206, 219 Center for Agroforestry 40 Center for Native People and the Environment 42 Centre for Minority Rights Development (Kenya) and Minority Rights Group International on behalf of Endorois Welfare Council v Kenya 92 ceremonies 55, 108, 197; see also rituals chants 45–47, 53, 55, 169, 174, 175, 177 Chaudhary, Mahesh 142 Chel, Santiago 194, 198, 199, 204 Chennells, R. 92 Cherokee community 36, 37, 112, 113 Cherokee Nation v. Georgia 113 Chi’ang people 180 Chickasaw community 112 Chihuahuan Desert 157, 160 children 74, 190; see also young people Chimney Rock 38, 42 Choctaw community 112 Christianity 51, 67, 97, 169, 172, 175–176 civil society 62, 200, 216 class action lawsuits 117 class divisions 167 Clayton, John 33, 34 cleansing rituals 55, 145–146, 149 Clifford, J. 85–86 clothing/dress 68, 126, 131 coastal dunes 124, 125 Cobell Settlement 117 co-conservation management 23 co-creation 26, 211, 212 Colfer, C.P. 3 collecting food 67, 70 collective decision-making 144 collective knowledge 141, 201–203 Collins, L. 2 colonialism 4, 6, 16–17, 25, 64–65, 99, 100, 101, 176, 213 commercial use of land 56; see also mining commodification of culture 25 common grounds 209, 210–211, 212–213, 219, 220 communal land, conversion of 74 communal property associations 102 communitarian leaders 203 Community Forest Resource 67 community knowledge 197–199 community organization 53 compass sites 49 compensation/monetary reparations 52, 77, 78, 92, 95, 115, 132 complementary economic systems 167 concerts 162 Condition of the Indians 114 consensus-building practices 143, 144 Consent Decree 54, 56 Conservation Corps Program (CCP) 118

Index

conservation experts 183 constructivism 139, 142 consumerist perspectives 75 contextual knowledge 139 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage 91, 102, 218 Convention on Biological Diversity 134, 160, 161, 210, 217 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) 161 cooperative working 115, 171, 177, 204 co-production of knowledge 201–203 coral reefs 45 cosmo-magical concepts 185 Costa Rica 41 craft skills 133, 190 creation myths 47, 126, 157 Creek community 112 crocodiles 126, 128, 129, 131 Cruzado, G. 2 cultivation rights 97 cultural artefacts 136, 188, 195 cultural heritage: Bagan 189; Bethany Griqua, South Africa 94–95; and biodiversity protection 27; Ifugao Rice Terraces (IRT) 169; intangible cultural heritage 136–151, 175, 183, 194, 213, 217–218; management of 213; revival of cultural practices 55–56; in STEM education 140–141; takayna country 16–18; Tharu cultural heritage 136–151; Wixáritari 159–160 cultural resources, defined 91 Cultural Survival 84 cultural transference, and Indigenous methodologies 26 culturally safe methods 21 custodianship 92, 155–159, 195–197, 202, 209, 210–211 customary rights and prohibitions 131 cyclones 69–70 Da Silva, M.D. 129–130 Daharani Penu 73 Damanjodi mine 83 Dangria Kondh Development Agency (DKDA) 67 Das, S. 64, 65, 71, 76, 78, 82 Dawes Act 1889 (US) 113, 114 de Grenade, R. 2 dead, loving the 39 decolonization 26 deforestation 37, 63, 72, 83, 161 deliberation 143 democracy 64, 65, 71, 85, 143–145, 185 demographic changes 172 demonstrations 79 development theory 65

225

Dharani Devata 67, 74 dignity 85 discourse, Foucauldian 4–6 discourse analysis 15–16 displacement: Bagan 187; Dongria Kondhs 76–77; forced displacement 77; India 62, 63, 74, 76; resistance 79–87; US 112–113 dispossession 97, 100–102, 132, 189–190 Disquis culture 41 Doctrine of Discovery 113 dolphins 50–51 Dongaria Kondh Development Agency (DKDA) 68 Dongria Kondhs 61–89 dormant knowledge 35 dreams 18, 33, 35, 37, 38, 158 Du Plessis, L. 94 Durkheim, E. 68 eagles 160, 165 EagleWoman, A. 2 Earth Goddess 69 earthquakes 188, 189 East Timor 121–135, 218 ecosystems: cenote conservation, Yucatan 193, 201, 203; Fesawa, East Timor 134; Hawai‘i 51; Ifugao culture, Philippines 171; neurotransmission capabilities of 37; Niyamgiri Hills, Odisha 65–66; Patawomeck tribe, Virginia 37, 39, 42; Wirikuta 161–162, 164 eco-tourism 18, 176 Edith Kanakaʻole Foundation 44, 53, 55 education 136–151, 218; see also schooling eels 18, 133 electricity 55, 77 elephants 185 Elwin, V. 63, 85 eminent domain 86 employment 78–79, 81, 83, 86, 143–144, 163 Encebado fire 116 encomienda 111 encroachment cases 77 endangered communities 78 endangered species 38, 39, 54, 157, 160–161 Endorois community 92 entrepreneurialism 112 entry Gods 67, 73 environmental heritage 145–148 Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) 76 environmental movements 162–165 Envision Festival, Costa Rica 41 equity 212 erosion 51, 54, 187 essence 157 ethnobotany 32–43, 214 Evans, J. 15, 17, 18, 19, 25, 214

226

Index

evictions 77, 101, 189 extended family structure 53 feasts 171, 173, 176–177 federal lawsuits 54 Feduccia, A. 33, 34 Feld, S. 69 female body 16, 18, 20–23, 25, 26 Ferreira, M.P. 140 Ferronato, B. 2 Fesawa mangrove 122–133, 218 festivals 162 firefighting 116 First Nations peoples of America 16 first settlers 131 fishing 45, 50, 53, 124, 131, 133 fishing shrines 45, 50 Five Civilized Tribes 112–113 folklore 32–33, 34–39, 50, 139, 215 Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO) 169 Foor, T. 2 forced displacement 77, 101, 189 forced labor 111 foreshadowing 34 forests 63, 64, 67, 70, 171 forgiveness 39 Fornander, A. 47, 49 Fort Ancient communities 42 Foucault, M. 4–6, 209, 211, 220 fountains 98, 99 Furuta, N. 2, 210 Gaia 39 Gaia Foundation 92 gambling 132 Gandhi, Rahul 81 Gans, E. 68 Garzon, Ursula 156 Gautam, Dinesh 142 gender roles 173–174, 176, 197 gendered sacred spaces 16, 20–23, 25–27 geneaology 173 geographical information systems (GIS) 27 geology 184 Giddens, A. 167 ginseng 33–34, 35, 37 Glenister v President of the Republic of South Africa and Others 93 globalization 62, 84, 167, 176 Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System (GIAHS) 169 goats 51, 54, 161 golden eagles 160, 165 Goodsell, E.E. 93 Gouda, Gajendra 77 Gouda, Laxmi 72

governance 54, 200–203, 209, 210, 212, 220 Graham’s Cave 40 grassroots political groups 53, 62, 162–165 gratitude 35, 50, 158, 198 grazing 97, 101, 131, 133, 161 Great Spirit 36, 37, 39 greater good 74 Green Kalahandi 79 green movements 18, 21 Griqua community 96–104 guardian spirits 124, 194, 198 guardianship 195–196, 198–199, 200–201, 202; see also custodianship; stewardship Guatemala 211 Guha, Rama Chandra 65 habitat loss 83 habitus 167, 177 handicrafts 190 harassment 77 Hardenberg, R. 73 harvest rituals 125–127, 174, 176–177 Hauxa Manakaa Pact 160 Hawai‘i 44–58, 215 healing: Bethany Griqua, South Africa 99; restoration of Kahoʻolawe 56–57, 215; Standing Rock 39, 215; Wixáritari 158 Helm, George 52, 53, 54 Henry, J. 106 hilu fish 51 historical continuity 182, 183–185, 219 Hohokam community 108 homelessness 62, 64 home-school connections 139 Hongan di Pa’ge 167–179, 218 Hopi people 75 Horsley, P. 212 house building 73, 77, 82, 108–109, 124, 177, 187 Hudhud chants 169, 174, 175, 177 Hudson, B. 185 Hueneke, H. 2 Hui Aloha ʻĀina/Hawaiian Patriotic League 53 Huichol (Pueblo Wixárika) 155–166 human rights 42, 71, 90–105, 162, 216 Hunt, A. 4, 217 hunting rights 131, 133 identity: Bagan 182; Bethany Griqua, South Africa 99; black female body in takayna country 15–31, 214; Dongria Kondhs 70, 81; and embodying the sacred 214–215; Hawaiian 56; indigenous identity 213–214; Kondhs 67; as means to oppose development 76; power relations 5 identity maintenance 167, 176–178 Ifugao Archaeological Project 171–172

Index

Ifugao culture, Philippines 167–179, 218 income-replacement schemes 78 indentured labour 143–144 India 61–89 Indian lands, definition of 116–117 Indian Pipe/Ghost Pipe plant 36, 37, 42 Indigenous Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs) 67 indigenous knowledge 201, 202–203 indigenous traditional knowledge (ITK) 140–141 industrialization 64 informed consent 23, 24 infrastructure development 186, 188 Inouye, Daniel K. 56 intangible cultural heritage 136–151, 175, 183, 194, 213, 217–218 Inter-American Court of Human Rights 4 intergenerational conflict 133 intergenerational transfer 34, 53, 57, 76, 94, 121, 144–145, 157, 186–189 Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) 202 intermarriage 130 international conservation standards 186, 188, 190 International Convention on Psychotropic Substances 160 International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (ICERD) 91 International Council for Science (ICSU) 140 International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) 1, 217 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) 91, 102 International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) 91, 102 International Labor Organization (ILO) Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples (169) 3, 92, 102, 160, 162 international law 3–4, 90–105, 160, 161 International Law Association 4 International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) 175 International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN): IUCN-UNESCO Best Practice Guidelines no 16; “Sacred Natural Sites” 1, 210, 213, 217; paradigm shifts 212–213; Red List of Threatened Species 71, 161; Wirikuta 162; World Conservation Congresses 38, 210; World Parks Congress 2003 213 Irakiza, R 2 irrigation 161, 171–172, 183, 189 Iseminger, W. 41 Isleta community 107

227

Jackson, Andrew 112 Jakakika, Sumati 66 Jakesika, Dinja 74 Japan International Cooperation Agency 181 Jena, J. 64–65, 68 Johnson v. McIntosh 113 Jojana, Indira Awaas 73 Kahoʻolawe, Hawai‘i 44–58, 215–216 Kahoʻolawe Island Reserve Commission (KIRC) 56 kahunas 48 Kalahandi Sachetan Nagarika Manch (Kalahandi Thinking Citizens Forum) 79 Kalaniopu’u 51 Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences (KISS) 74, 81 Kamakau, S. 51 Kanaloa 44–58, 215, 220 Kasipur movement 79 Keaweiki 48 Keesing, F. 172 Keller, M. 2 Kellner, D. 5 Kenya 92 Kichwa Indigenous People of Sarayaku v. Ecuador (Sarayaku) 4 Kimmer, Robin W. 42 kinship and indigenous methodologies 23, 26 knowledge: and the balance of the world 157; cenote conservation, Yucatan 196–197, 199; collective knowledge 141, 201–203; community knowledge 197–199; conclusions on 213–214; consensus-building practices 143, 144; contextual knowledge 139; co-production of knowledge 201–203; dormant knowledge 35; indigenous knowledge 201, 202–203; indigenous traditional knowledge (ITK) 140–141; interconnected 203; loss of 175; marginalization of indigenous knowledge 140, 196; as power 220; restricted to experts 196; scientific knowledge 140–141, 142–150, 196, 199, 200, 204, 212, 218; traditional ecological knowledge 36–39, 42, 194, 197, 199, 203; traditional knowledge (TK) 140–141; transmission mechanisms 141 knowledge-practice-belief 195 Koch, I.E. 102 Kok II, Adam 96–97, 101 Koller, A. 182, 185 Kondhs 61–89, 215, 216 Koranna community 97, 100 Kraak, Anne Laura 189 Kraalshoek, Captain Jan 96–97, 98, 100, 101, 102 Kraft, S.E. 3 Kuhn, T. 140 Kutia Kondhs 61–62, 65, 68

228

Index

lagoons 126, 133 lakes 92, 114–117 Lakota people 35–36, 75 Lambrecht, F. 172 Land Buy Back Program 117–118 land grants 112 Land Masters 124, 127, 131, 132 land rights: Bethany Griqua, South Africa 98; boundaries 109; buying back land 117; cenote conservation, Yucatan 198–199, 200; conflicts 112; Dongria Kondhs 74; East Timor 127; expressed in myths 127; forced displacement 77, 101, 189; Hawai‘i 56; Ifugao culture, Philippines 169; India 64, 65; individual versus communal 114; land takeovers 74, 75, 77, 101, 112, 132; land titles 109; restitution 90, 95–96, 101; versus stewardship 115; takayna country 16; Taos Pueblo 109, 112; trust, land held in 56–57, 117; Wirikuta 161, 162; see also compensation/monetary reparations landscape meanings 139, 158, 185, 187 languages 39, 68, 94, 99, 118, 122, 130, 131, 136–137, 196 Lanjia Soura 67 Laos 190 Latour, Bruno 209, 212 Law, John 209, 212 laws 65, 74, 90–105, 112, 113 lawsuits 54, 81, 117, 162, 216 leadership 53, 55, 83, 144, 156, 173, 187, 202, 209 Lechoana, Hosea 101 Lee, E. 18, 19, 21 legal rights 3–4 Leo, Nā 47 Leopold, S. 32 Lianain (Masters of Speech) 122 liberalization 84 Liljeblad, J. 6, 210, 211, 213, 220 Lindroth, M. 5 literacy 84 loans 68 logging 23 Lopez- Maldonado, Yolanda 193, 194, 196, 197, 200 Louisiana Purchase 111, 112 Luang Prabang 190 Lujan, Mark T. 107 Lujan, Vernon G. 110 lutuwitra, Australia 15–31 Macapagal, Raymond 169, 177 McGregor, D. 52, 53, 54, 56 McLeod, C. 1, 98, 210, 213, 217 McNally, M. 2 Maghee 136–151 magical forces 121, 160, 185 Majhi, Bhagaban 75

Majhi, Jaysingh 80 Majhi, Kumuti 66–67, 70, 74, 75, 79–81 Makahiki ceremony 55 male dominated wilderness ideologies 19, 22–23 Mallarach, Josep-Maria 212 Mandela, Nelson 101 mangroves 122–135 Manifest Destiny 112 mapping 21 market economics 167, 177, 183, 200–201 marketing 20, 21 markets 68, 70, 76 marriage 129–130 Marshall, John 113 Marshall Trilogy 113 Martin, Marlon 168, 171, 172, 176 Martinez, D. 6 Martínez Cobo, José 182, 183 Masters of Land 124, 127, 131, 132 Masters of Speech 122, 126–128, 131 maternal landscapes 16 Mayan community 193–206, 219 meaning-making 137–139 medical facilities 68, 74 medicinal plants 33, 34, 37, 42, 66, 70, 71, 197 mega-development 62, 65, 83, 86, 162, 164 memory, preservation of 122 menses 16, 20–21, 23, 26 Merriam, S.B. 142 Merriam Report 114 Metcalfe, K. 2 Mexican Revolution 111 Mexico 155–166, 193–206, 218, 219 Mgumia, F.H. 2 micro-politics 5, 6 middle ground 220–221 migration 113, 161 military camps 44, 51 military interventions 187, 188 military service 117 military training 51–52, 54, 56, 216 mining: India 62, 64, 65, 67, 70, 71–75, 82–85, 215; takayna country 23; US 113; Wirikuta 161–163, 164 Mishra, T. 72, 78, 84 missionaries 97 Mitchell, James Kimo 54 modernity, attitudes to 74, 133, 187, 189 Mohanty, M. 63–64 Mol, Annemarie 212 Mother Earth 39, 55, 85, 157 Mother Goddess 67, 74 Mother Nature 115, 193 motherhood statements 23 mountains: agency of 85; Bagan 184; biodiversity 70; Fesawa mangrove myths 130; as livelihood of Kondhs 66, 68, 71, 74, 78, 82–83, 85;

Index

mountain top removal 37; spirituality of 68; Taos Valley 107 Mukherjee, D. 62 multiculturalism 160, 180, 193, 212 multi-internationally designated area 169 multinational corporations 64, 65, 71–75, 79–82, 83, 84, 86, 140 multi-naturalism 212, 218 Munjeri, D. 139 Murphy, J.D. 188 museification 190–191, 219 music 126, 185 Myanmar 180–192 myths 124, 127, 169, 172–176, 218; see also creation myths; narratives of origin Nair, S. 2 Nakashima, D.J. 197 narratives of origin 47, 122, 127–130, 131, 157 National Forest System, US 114 National Human Rights Commission 162 nats 180, 183 natural disasters 69–70, 131, 132, 134, 188 natural history art 33–34 Natural Protected Area 201 nature worship 67 nature-culture dualism 19 naulu cloud 52 Navajo community 111, 113 navigation 44–58 Nawahī, Emma and Joseph 53 Nayak, Prasanna Kumar 64 Neihardt, J.G. 35, 42 neo-liberalism 64, 84, 217 Nepal 136–151 New Mexico 106–118 NGOs (non-governmental organizations) 81, 84, 176, 202, 215 Niyamgiri Hills, Odisha 61–89, 215 Niyamgiri Surakshya Samiti (NSS) 79–82, 84 non-indigenous scholars 6 Norwegian Government Council on Ethics 71 nostalgia 190 Obama, Barack 117 objectivity 140, 212 O’Connor, R.A. 169 Odisha 61–89 off road access 20, 21, 23 offerings 126–127, 145, 157, 171, 173 Ogawa, M. 141 ‘ohana 53–54, 55, 215 oil infrastructure 132, 133 on country, being 26 oral traditions 34–35, 94, 122, 141, 172, 185 ordnance clearing 56, 216

229

organized crime 64 origin narratives 47, 122, 127–130, 131, 157 Ormsby, A. 3 Ornelas, R. 2 Ortiz, A. 106 Osage community 113 Osherenko, G. 3 O’Sullivan, D. 26 Other Backward Castes (OBC) 63 Oxford Business Group 186 Ozarks, Missouri 40 Padel, F. 64, 65, 66, 71, 76, 78, 84 Padhi, Surya Narayan 67, 83 pahang ritual 177 Pakui 47 palawa people 16, 18–19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26, 214 Palli Sabhas (Village Panchayats) 84 palm trees 187 Panigrahi, N. 83 Parks and Wildlife Management 21 participation 143, 202 Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) 63 Patawomeck tribe, Virginia 32, 214 Patkar, Medha 86 patriarchy 19 patrons 50 Peabody coal company 75 peace pipes 35, 36 Pearce, I. 75 pedigree 173 People’s Union for Civil Liberties 81 peregrine falcons 38 permission to enter land, seeking 55, 195, 198 permission to use land 114, 131 permit quota system 83 perpetuation 180–192 perseverance 215–217 pest control 171 Petroleum Development base 132 peyote 158, 164, 218 Philippines 167–179, 218 physical force 77, 81, 100, 112 Picuri community 107 pigs 126, 201 pilgrimages 155, 157–159, 163, 188–189, 191, 218 Pinchot, Gifford 114 Pine Mountain Settlement School 37 pithouses 108 place names 47, 50, 108 places of worship 73, 115; see also altars; temples plant knowledge 32–43 plurality 212, 220

230

Index

poetry 35–36 police 77, 86 political sites, sacred sites as 127, 130–132 pollution 83, 162, 195, 197, 200, 201, 204, 219 population changes 172 post-colonialism 4, 16 postmodernism 212 Pot Creek 107 poverty 63, 161 power relations 4–6, 5, 209, 211, 213, 220 practice theory 167 preservation/upkeep of cultural sites 144–145, 187–188, 190 Primitive Tribal Groups (India) 62 prisons 37, 51 prohibitions 126–127, 131, 132, 189 property rights 91, 169, 200 Protect Kahoʻolawe ʻOhana 44, 53–54, 56, 215 protected area management: and the black female body 15, 26; cenote conservation, Yucatan 201; lutuwitra, Australia 17–18; male dominated wilderness ideologies 19; and sacredness 23; spatial data 27; white male privilege 21, 23, 27; Wirikuta 161, 162–163, 164 protest movements 79–85, 215; see also resistance psychotropic plants 160, 218 public interest litigations 81 public transport 68 Pueblo origin stories 106 Pueblo song 38 Pueblo style architecture 109 Pueblo Wixárika (Huichol) 155–166 Pueblos Lands Board 115 Pungetti, G. 2 punishments 127, 131, 133 Pu’u Moiwi quarry 45 Pyu civilization 180, 182, 186 Qiang people 180 quarries 45 Quebec City Declaration 1 racial discrimination 100, 101, 115 Racine, J.B. 121 raggi porridge 70 rain 52, 55, 108, 124, 125–127, 132, 161, 184, 197 rainforest 18 Ramsar Convention 134, 202 Rath, Bhagabat Prasad 70 reactivation of sacred places 121–122 reciprocity in Indigenous methodology 19, 23 reclaim trails 42 reforestation 51 rehabilitation 77–78 relevance of Indigenous voices 4–6

religion: American Indian Religious Freedom Act (AIRFA) 75; Bagan 180–181, 186; Bah 183; Dongria Kondhs 67, 68, 76; freedom of 91, 93; Ifugao culture, Philippines 171, 172–176, 177; and intangible cultural heritage 217; and Manifest Destiny 112; sacred divine 66; Wixáritari 160 repartimiento 111 Report Myanmar, The 186 reservations 113–114, 117 reserve status 160 resettlement 72, 78, 115 resilience 216 resistance: Bethany Griqua, South Africa 100–102; Blue Lake, Taos Pueblo 114–117; conclusions on 215–217; Ifugao culture, Philippines 167, 176–177; Kondhs 79–87, 215, 216; and power relations 5, 215–217; Taos Pueblo 111; US 112; Wirikuta 162–165 respect 102, 108, 145, 198 restitution 90, 95–96, 101, 103 restoration of lands 92 restoration work 188 revitalization 52, 53–57, 176, 177, 220 revival of cultural practices 55–56 revolution 111 Reyna, Antonio 117 rice 148, 167–179, 218 rights 3–4, 70, 124, 132; see also human rights; land rights; property rights Rising Appalachia 37 rites 68, 121–135 Ritte, Walter 52, 53 rituals: Bagan 183; Fesawa mangroves 124, 131; Ifugao culture, Philippines 167, 169, 171, 172–178; Mayan community 195; Mayan water rituals 194–195; Wixáritari 155–161 rivers 16, 23, 71, 108, 145, 183, 184, 187 road construction 23 rocks 41, 48, 49, 50 Rodrigues, C.D. 169 Romero, Juan de Jesus 115 Rosa, F. 2 routes 98, 159, 160 Russia 182 Sacred Natural Sites Initiative (SNSI) 210, 211 sacred sites, definition of 1 sacred tree 35–36 sacredness, measures of 18 sacrificial offerings 126–127, 171, 173 Sadar Ghar 74 Salick, J. 3 salinization 200 Samakov, A. 194 Samantara, Prafulla 79, 81 San Geronimo mission 112

Index

Sandia community 107 sanitation 77 Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement (SITMo) 176 Saxena, N.C. 62 Schaff, T. 169 Scheduled Castes 63 Scheduled Tribes 61, 62–64, 77 Schoeman, K. 97 schooling: and cultural heritage 139, 141, 142–150; Dongria Kondhs 77; Ifugao culture, Philippines 175–176; intangible cultural heritage 175–176; Kondhs 68, 74, 81; STEM education 136, 139–141, 142–150 scientific knowledge 140–141, 142–150, 196, 199, 200, 204, 212, 218 Scott, J.C. 167, 177 Sculthorpe, H. 20 sea countries 26 sea level rises 134 seashells 108 seclusion 26 secrecy laws 127 seeds 130, 148, 173, 218 self-determination 91, 93, 210, 212, 214, 220 self-recognition 197 self-revitalization 39 self-sacrifice 157 Seminole community 112 Serpent Mound 42 Shah, A. 63 sharecropping 101 shared labor 115 sheep ranching 51 shellfish 124 shifting cultivation 67–68, 73 Shrubsole, N. 2 Shutova, N. 3 Sikaka, Gobina 84 Sikaka, Lodu 85 Sikoka, Lado 76 Singh, K.S. 65 site surveillance 131, 132 Siwila, L. 2 Skibine, A.T. 2 Sleeper-Smith, S. 6 Smuggler’s Bay 50 snakes 40, 41, 67 social charters 66 social cohesion 68 social cooperatives 163 sociocultural engagement 137–140, 142–150, 169, 218 songs 99; see also chants Sooners 113 South Africa 90–105 South African Heritage Resources Agency (SAHRA) 94, 95

231

Southern Cross 48 sovereignty 56–57 Spanish colonialism 108–111, 172 spatial data 27 species loss 34, 38, 39, 133, 160–161 spectacle images 19 spirit guardians 124, 194, 198 spirit herbs 34 spirits 67, 121, 180, 183, 198 spiritual consciousness 55 spiritual force 52 spiritual limits 185 spiritual links 18 spiritual revitalization 53–57 spirituality: Bethany Griqua, South Africa 98–99; Dongria Kondhs 68; Ifugao culture, Philippines 172–176; and intangible cultural heritage 217–218; Mexico 196; and multi-naturalism 212; physical-spiritual/tangible-intangible link 139; Tharu cultural heritage 145–146 Srivastava, V. 62, 73 Standing Rock 32, 33, 35, 37, 38, 39, 41, 215 Standing Rock Herbal Medic and Healers Council 41 STEM education 136, 139–141, 142–150 Stephenson, J. 18 Sterlite-Vedanta 71 stewardship 53, 54, 115, 118, 217 Stewardship Agreements 56 stones 73 stories, as intangible cultural heritage 139 story-telling methods 21, 23, 185 Stronza, A. 6 Studley, J. 212 stupas 185 supernatural forces/beings 121, 124, 131, 172–176, 194, 195, 197, 198 Supreme Court lawsuits 81, 84, 85, 101, 113 sustainability: cenote conservation, Yucatan 196, 200; forests 67; Ifugao culture, Philippines 167; Tharu cultural heritage 148, 150; tourism 186, 187, 191; Wirikuta 160, 161, 163 taboos 67 takayna country 15–31, 214 Taos Pueblo 106–118, 217 Tasi Mane Project 124, 132 Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC) 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25 Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (TWWHA) 17–18, 19 Technical Committee (Yucatan) 201 technologies of power 5, 213 technologies of the self 5, 6, 209, 211 technology 185 temples 50, 51, 185, 188–189, 190 tenure 109

232

Index

terraced landscapes 167–179, 218 Terrestrial Priority Region (RTP) 160 territoriality 127 Thakurdwara village 136–137, 138 Tharu cultural heritage 136–151, 218 Thompson, Nainoa 48 Thrum, T. 50 Timor 121–135 Timor Gap 132 titles, returning of 56, 112 tobacco 35, 37 toilet facilities 77 tomatoes 161, 164 topogeny 127 topography 184 tourism: Bagan 181, 185–191, 219; cenote conservation, Yucatan 197, 200; Ifugao culture, Philippines 176, 177; Laos 190; Tharu cultural heritage 136, 149; Wirikuta 161 trade prohibitions 112 trade routes 108, 183 traditional ecological knowledge 36–39, 42, 194, 197, 199, 203 traditional knowledge (TK) 140–141 Trail of Tears 112, 113 transboundary approaches 26 transmigration 132 treaties 97, 100, 111, 112, 164 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo 111 trees 37, 67, 70, 124, 131 tribute crops 111 trust, land held in 56–57, 117 Tswana community 97, 101, 102 Tuguinay, Simon 177 turtles 39, 51 Uncharted Horizons Myanmar 187 underworld 41 UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization): Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage 91, 102, 218; focus on tangible cultural heritage 136–151; Indicative List of Mexico 160; Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity 175, 177; Network World of Natural Sacred Sites 160; Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity 169; Wirikuta 160; World Commission on Culture and Development Report 139; World Heritage Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest 217; World Heritage Status 17, 109, 169, 170, 176, 186, 188–189, 190, 218 United Nations: CEDAW (Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women) 102; CERD (Convention

Against All Forms of Discrimination) 162; Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) 3, 91–92, 214; Development Program (UNDP) 188; General Assembly International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights 91; Human Rights Committee 91; Special Rapporteur for Indigenous Peoples 162; Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) 91, 102 United Plant Savers 37, 41, 42 Upadhyay, Bhaskar 138, 139, 141–142, 143, 147, 218 Urban Indian Relocation Program 115 urbanization 62, 115 US 32–43, 75, 106–118 utilitarianism 4 Vaalbooi, Ivan 96, 98 Vancouver, George 51 Vedanta 67, 70, 71–75, 76, 77, 79–87, 216 vegetation loss 51, 67, 83, 124 Verschuuren, B. 2, 6, 90, 196, 210–211, 212, 217 victimization 39 violence 77, 81, 100, 112 Virginia, US 32–43 VISTA program 118 vitality 34 Vygotstky, L.S. 137, 139 Wadley, R. 3 walking 68 walking routes 98 Walther, O. 121 water: Bagan 183; and bauxite mining 72, 83; cenote conservation, Yucatan 193–206, 219; Dongria Kondhs 71; holy water 158; and the Kondhs 66; and mining projects 162; respecting 145; water groves 98, 99, 102; water harvesting structures 71; water shortages 72, 145–148, 149, 161–162 Waters, Frank 115 Western Modern Science (WMS) 140, 141 western-focused approaches 65 Westernization 112 whales 54 whip-poor-wills 33–34 White, Richard 220 white male privilege 19, 21, 22, 23 white roosters 126 Wibbelsman, M. 2 Wickham, G. 4 Wild, R. 1, 2, 98, 210, 213, 217 wilderness ideologies 15, 18, 19–23, 25, 27, 116 wildlife conservation 61 Willis, Kelly 187 Wilson, E.O. 38

Index

Wintu people 75 Wirikuta 155–166, 215, 218 Wirikuta Fest 162 Wixárika Pueblo (Huichol) 155–166 Wixáritari (custodians) 155–159, 215, 218 women: Bethany Griqua water groves 99; black female body in takayna country 15–31; Ifugao culture, Philippines 173–174, 176; more disadvantaged than men 65; shamans of Dongria Kondh 67; in Tharu community 144; women’s groups in India 62 wood 124 woodhenges 40 Woodward, Mr Justice 86 Worcester vs. Georgia 113 World Bank 65, 90, 91

233

World Conservation Congress 67 World War II 51 worship 65–67, 69, 73–74, 80, 106, 115, 117, 121, 158 Xaxa, V. 79 Yelfaanibe, A. 2 young people: abandoning traditional practices 132–133; caretakers of knowledge 139; conservation projects for 118; employment 78–79; see also intergenerational transfer zoning 161, 165