Indigenous Wellbeing and Enterprise: Self-Determination and Sustainable Economic Development 9780367349639, 9780429329029

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of contents
Introduction
Area 1: indigeneity, Indigenous knowledge and sustainability
Area 2: history of Indigenous sovereignty and rights
Area 3: indigenous governance, sustainability and wellbeing
Area 4: Indigenous enterprise
References
1 Invitation to ethical space: A dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation
Introduction: towards shared ethical space
Sustainability and reconciliation: an ethical imperative
Towards shared ethical space: a dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation
David: introduction
Reg: introduction, reconciliation
David: Calls to Action and the land
Reg: land, creation, natural law and education
David: Ginmapiipitsin, ‘sanctified kindness’
Reg: Ginmapiipitsin, ‘sanctified kindness’
David: visible/invisible concept
Reg: invisible concept
David: science/Indigenous knowledge, shared space
Reg: invisible concept and Ginmapiipitsin
David: shared space
Reg: ethics, Creation and ‘sanctified kindness’
David: shared space and sanctified kindness
Reg: natural law and its consequences, thunder
David: natural law and climate change
Reg: climate change
David: honoring ‘sanctified kindness’
Reg: honoring ‘sanctified kindness’
David: sustainability
Reg: follow nature’s laws and it will look after us; deer permit
David: sustainability flows from ethics
Reg: because you can’t survive by yourself
David: deer song
Reg: buffalo hunting song
David: permit and relationship
Reg: read the buffalo; Food Safety Act
David: human identity
Reg: human identity
David: 100 years sustainability analogue
Reg: sustainability is self-determination for all
David: reconciliation from the land
Reg: land acknowledgment
David: affirming
Reg: property model clash
David: purpose of territorial recognition
Reg: entering someone else’s territory
David: ethical values, clash of values and land
Reg: code of conduct
David: values
Reg: ethical values
David: sustainability/100 years and cultural analogues
Reg: systems that allow us to come together
David: foundational shared teachings
Reg: principles of oral practice
David
Reg
David
Reg
Reflections upon the discussion
Creation and relations: Ginmapiipitsin – sanctified kindness for all
Natural law and ethics: life is environment, environment is life
Human identity: we are the land
Analogues for sustainability: shared purpose with self-determination for all
Closing thoughts: invitation to ethical space
Notes
References
2 Coyote learns commerce
Introduction
A note on commerce and enterprise
A note on the word Native
Coyote learns commerce
Mouse introduces money
Javelina
Tortoise
Badger
Rabbit
Bobcat
The Buffalo
Coyote revisits Bird
References
3 Resistance to ‘development’ amongst the Kogui of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta
Introduction
The Kogui and their ancestral territory – past and present
Damned development interventions
Encroachment, extractivism, and land-grabbing
Attempted assimilation
Tourism
Tayrona National Park
The Lost City
Who benefits?
Tourism at a debated crossroads in the SNSM
Kogui views on – and resistance to – development
Impacts
Resistance
Views on development
Kogui rights to territory, culture, autonomy, and self-governance
Recommendations
Conclusions
Acknowledgments
References
4 Consultation or free, informed and prior consent?: A comparative legal analysis of Indigenous consultation during ...
Introduction
A global legal context of the right to self-determination
Domestic implementation of Indigenous self-determination
Commonalities and differences within legal systems: Australia and Canada
A comparative context of Indigenous title
Consultation during natural resource activities
Free, prior and informed consent
The next step towards self-determination
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
5 Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability: Merging vernacular and modern knowledge
Introduction
The Indigenous sustainable place
Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability
The Negev Bedouin as a conceptual basis for formulating the set of Indigenous sustainability indicators
Indigenous sustainability indicators
Indicators and measurement
Weighing the indicators
Physically sustainable space
Socially and economically sustainable space
Mentally (psychologically) sustainable space
Conclusion and further research
References
6 The Inuit: Sustaining themselves, the Arctic and the World
Introduction
Sustainability in Inuit culture
Sustainability and the political awakening of the Inuit
The take-off of Inuit self-determination
Inuit sustainability on the global political stage
Inuit sovereignty
Conclusions
Notes
References
7 Self-gentrification as a pro-active response to tourism development: Cases of Indigenous entrepreneurship in mainland ...
Introduction
Gentrification
Entrepreneurship as a pro-active response
Methods and data
Overview of ethnic minority entrepreneurship in Mainland China
A case on Hani and Yi Indigenous communities in the Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site
Overview of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Taiwan
The case of the Chi-mei Indigenous community in Taiwan
Case analysis
Challenges facing Indigenous community entrepreneurship
Conclusions
Notes
References
8 What is a river?: Cross-disciplinary and Indigenous assessment
Introduction
On Skolt Sámi traditional land use and culture
Skolt Sámi Presence and Other Human Societies of Näätämö
Contemporary Näätämö catchment area in Sápmi, Finland and Norway
Scientific view on Näätämö water quality
Preliminary results of new bird surveys in 2018
State governance of the Näätämö: selected examples from the post-war era
How did the state respond to the problem identified in 1973 as a ‘lack of stocking’?
Attempts at shared governance: Näätämö and Skolt Sámi co-management is established
Conveying results from the co-management work: salmon and fish stocks
The PISUNA method
Skolt Sámi visual histories
Oral history observations of the Näätämö, Skolt Sámi cultural relations with the river and recent changes
Local fishery in Neiden village, Finnmark, Norway
The Sámi view on a river
Success in co-management: ecological restoration of the Vainosjoki area
Conclusions: maintaining good relations with a river
Notes
References
9 Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs) in Galiza: Indigeneity or peasanthood?
Introduction
Indigeneity and peasanthood: the self-determination of Galizan communities in history
The Frojám Commons: “An oak forest lies under the eucalyptus”
The Vilar Commons
“I have a tree in my heart”: broadening circles of concern
“To change mountains we must first change minds”
“If you don’t like eucalyptus being set on fire in the forests, burn it in your fireplace”
Acknowledgments
Notes
References
10 Sustainable development through Indigenous community-based enterprises
Introduction
Indigenous community-based enterprises
Grupo Ixtlán
Governance
Empowering mechanisms
Environmental awareness
Profits distribution policy
Lifetime jobs and entrepreneurial skills
Sustainable development
Granja Porcón
Governance
Empowering mechanisms
Environmental awareness
Job stability and entrepreneurial skills
Sustainable development
Conclusion
References
11 Andean enterprises: A case study of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs
Introduction
Terminology
Methodology
Part I: a renewal
Inca and pre-Inca trade
Ancient entrepreneurs
The colonial era
Rediscovery
A conflict with originating beliefs
Part II: the impact of being an originating producer (Indigenous entrepreneur)
Ecology
Natural environment
Habitat and settlements
Water and air
Flora and fauna
Built-form and energy
Access to parks and recreation
Emission and waste
Cultural sustainability
Identity and engagement
Dress and traditions
Belief and meaning
Memory and projection
Gender and generations
Enquiry and learning
Well-being and health
Political sustainability
Organization and governance
Law and justice
Communication and critique
Representation and negotiation
Peace and security
Dialogue and reconciliation
Ethics and accountability
Economic sustainability
Production and resourcing
Exchange and transfer
Accounting and regulation
Consumption and use
Labor and welfare
Technology and infrastructure
Wealth and distribution
Capura, Bolivia: the happiest quinoa producers
The Fair Trade difference
Bolivian quinoa Fair Trade facts
Conclusion
References
12 Relational and social aspects of Indigenous entrepreneurship: The Hupacasath case
Introduction
Indigenous peoples and social entrepreneurship
Indigenous identity
Indigenous entrepreneurship
Indigenous social entrepreneurs as stewards
The duty to consult
Free, prior and informed consent
Treaty rights
Social entrepreneurship and the role of financial institutions
Methodology
Case: the China Creek story – Hupacasath as social entrepreneurs
The financing of China Creek
Discussion and lessons learned
Conclusion
Note
References
Index

Citation preview

Indigenous Wellbeing and Enterprise

In this book, we explore the economic wellbeing of Indigenous peoples globally through case studies that provide practical examples of how Indigenous wellbeing is premised on sustainable self-​determination that is in turn dependent on a community’s evolving model for economic development, its cultural traditions, its relationship to its traditional territories and its particular spiritual practices. Adding to the richness, geographically these chapters cover North, Central and South America, Northern Europe, the Circumpolar Arctic, Southern Europe, the Middle East, Asia and Oceania and a resulting diverse set of Indigenous peoples. The book addresses key issues related to economic, environmental, social and cultural value creation activities and provides numerous examples and case studies of Indigenous communities globally which have successfully used entrepreneurship in the pursuit of sustainable development and wellbeing. Readers will gain practical understandings of the nature of sustainable economic development from a cross-​section of case studies of Indigenous perspectives globally. The chapters map out the international development of Indigenous rights and the influence that this has had on Indigenous communities globally in asserting their sovereignty and acting on their rights to develop sustainable governance and economic development practices. Readers will develop insights into the intersection of Indigenous governance with sustainable practice and community wellbeing through practical case studies that explain the need for Indigenous-​led economic development and governance strategies, which are responsive to local, regional, national and international realities in developing sustainable Indigenous economies focused on economic, environmental, social and cultural value creation. This book will be useful for Indigenous and non-​ Indigenous business students studying undergraduate business or MBA programs who seek to understand the global context and the varied experiences of Indigenous peoples in developing sustainable economic development strategies that promote community wellbeing. Rick Colbourne is Algonquin Anishinaabe. He is a Fulbright Fellow and Assistant Professor in Indigenous Leadership and Management at Carleton University’s Sprott School of Business. His research is focused on understanding

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the intersection of Indigenous ways of knowing and organizing economic development and entrepreneurship. Robert B.  Anderson is Professor Emeritus at the Hill/​Levene Schools of Business, University of Regina. His areas of interest include entrepreneurship/​ economic development, resource management/​sustainable development, corporate social responsibility, corporate/​Indigenous alliances, Indigenous land claims/​economic development, financial reporting in Indigenous organizations and the creation/​commercialization of intellectual property.

Indigenous Wellbeing and Enterprise Self-​Determination and Sustainable Economic Development Edited by Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson

First published 2021 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 © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson; individual chapters, the contributors. The right of Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson 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: Colbourne, Rick, editor. | Anderson, Robert Brent, 1951–​editor. Title: Indigenous Wellbeing and Enterprise: Self-​Determination and Sustainable Economic Development /​Edited by Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson. Description: Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019035525 (print) | LCCN 2019035526 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Indigenous peoples–​Economic conditions. | Indigenous peoples–​Social conditions. | Economic development–​Citizen participation. | Economic development–​Social aspects. Classification: LCC GN380.I5425 2020 (print) | LCC GN380 (ebook) | DDC 305.8–​dc23 LC record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2019035525 LC ebook record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2019035526 ISBN: 978-​0-​367-​34963-​9  (hbk) ISBN: 978-​0-​429-​32902-​9  (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Newgen Publishing UK

Contents

Introduction 

1

R I C K C O L B O URNE AND RO B E RT B.  AND E RSO N

1 Invitation to ethical space: a dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation 

10

R E G C ROW S H OE AND DAVI D LE RTZMAN

2 Coyote learns commerce 

45

J O S E P H S C OT T GLAD STO NE

3 Resistance to ‘development’ amongst the Kogui of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta 

63

A I LI   P Y H ÄLÄ

4 Consultation or free, informed and prior consent? A comparative legal analysis of Indigenous consultation during natural resource activities in Australia and Canada 

88

M A D E L I N E E .   TAY LO R

5 Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability: merging vernacular and modern knowledge 

112

M AO R KO H N, ME I DAD K I SSI NGE R AND AVI NOAM  M EIR

6 The Inuit: sustaining themselves, the Arctic and the World  147 P E TE R  H O U GH

7 Self-​gentrification as a pro-​active response to tourism development: cases of Indigenous entrepreneurship in mainland China and Taiwan  J I N H O O I C H A N, SHI H- ​Y U CHE N, ZHO NGJUAN J I, YIN G Z HA N G A N D X I AO G UANG Q I

165

newgenprepdf

vi Contents

8 What is a river? Cross-​disciplinary and Indigenous assessment 

192

TE RO M U S TO NE N AND PAULI I NA FE O D O ROFF

9 Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs) in Galiza: indigeneity or peasanthood? 

235

JOÁ M E VA N S  PI M

10 Sustainable development through Indigenous community-​based enterprises 

263

M ARI O VÁZQUE Z-​M AGUI RRE

11 Andean enterprises: a case study of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs 

282

TAM ARA  S T E NN

12 Relational and social aspects of Indigenous entrepreneurship: the Hupacasath case 

313

I RE N E H E N R I QUE S, RI CK CO LB O URNE , ANA M A R ÍA P ER EDO AN D RO B E RT B.  AND E RSO N

Index 

341

Introduction Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson

When we issued a call for chapters for this book, we set out four areas of particular interest. We invited submissions addressing these areas.

Area 1: indigeneity, Indigenous knowledge and sustainability Indigenous traditions, laws and customs are the practical application of Indigenous values grounded in their particular experience and worldview (Bear, 2000: 79). While not all Indigenous peoples share identical worldviews, most have a land-​based, holistic and relational worldview that is both spiritual and material. It is an expression of identity and culture that informs a community’s socioeconomic values (Kuokkanen, 2011; Wuttunee, 2004:  14). Many Indigenous peoples experience a profound connection to their land of origin (traditional territory) and to the interdependent ecosystem of fauna and flora within which they interact and live as a result of worldviews that are founded on the active recognition of the interconnection, interrelationship and interdependency of people and the natural and spiritual realms. This relational worldview stresses that Indigenous peoples are stewards of the land mandated with a responsibility to ensure all of their actions and interactions are sustaining and respectful. In this, they are obligated to care for, respect, conserve and promote wellbeing for all people, fauna and flora residing within their traditional territories (Kuokkanen, 2011; Spiller et al., 2011: 223; Wuttunee, 2004). This section introduces the foundational and interdependent concepts of indigeneity, Indigenous worldviews, philosophy, traditional knowledge and environmental knowledge (sustainability) and explicates how many Indigenous communities favor socioeconomic initiatives that recognize this interdependency and, therefore, pursue objectives that promote sustainability and reciprocity between the human, natural and spiritual realms (Kuokkanen, 2011:  219; Walters and Takamura, 2015).

Area 2: history of Indigenous sovereignty and rights Indigenous peoples’ economic, social and legal status often limits their capacity to defend their interests in and rights to traditional territories and resources. It

2  Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson also limits the potential to benefit from entrepreneurial activities on or near their communities, resulting in Indigenous peoples frequently being among a country’s most marginalized and vulnerable population. Many countries have been reluctant or have failed to develop clear determinations of ‘Indigenous’ and ‘Indigenous peoples’ within their areas of jurisdiction (Lama, 2013:  34). The most respectful approach to articulating indigeneity is to identify, rather than define Indigenous peoples through recognizing the fundamental criterion of self-​identification (United Nations, 2015). This area frames past, current and ongoing effects of colonialism and the impact that they have had on Indigenous peoples globally. It explores the importance that the recognition of Indigenous peoples’ long-​standing struggle for redress has had on social, economic, environmental and cultural value creation activities in context of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) on September 13, 2007, which enshrined those rights that ‘constitute the minimum standards for the survival, dignity and wellbeing of the indigenous peoples of the world’ (Article 43) (Amnesty International Canada, 2016; Blackstock, 2013).The most relevant concepts relating to sustainable social, economic, environmental and cultural value creation are: a) the right to self-​determination; b) the right to be recognized as distinct peoples; and c) the right to free, prior and informed consent.

Area 3: indigenous governance, sustainability and wellbeing Indigenous peoples occupy the physical and ideological frontiers of world struggles with globalization. In occupying this space, they stand to be the most profoundly impacted by threats to their very existence as peoples through the destruction of their lands, cultures, traditions and identities (Doyle and Gilbert, 2010: 221). Encouraged by emerging international standards and court rulings affirming and clarifying Indigenous rights, Indigenous communities are redefining the nature of their participation in economic development opportunities that occur on or near their traditional territories. Indigenous communities worldwide share in a common struggle to address two central issues:  (i) how to create and foster sustainable economic opportunities for their members (employment, entrepreneurship, subsistence etc.); and (ii) how to fund and develop Indigenous government and civic institutions (legal, judicial, social services, education etc.) (Begay et  al., 2007:  35; Cornell, 2006:  4; Corntassel, 2008). This area explores how Indigenous governance can be challenging for some Indigenous communities due to the size of the population (too small), for example, the quality of the land base of the territory, access and rights to natural and human resources, proximity to economic centres, markets and customers and/​or due to the particular community’s legal status within the host country. It describes how, working to create optimal social, economic and political conditions that support self-​ governance and sustainable economic development, Indigenous leaders and entrepreneurs prepare their communities to participate (or not) in a global economy characterized by differing and often conflicting worldviews

Introduction  3 of sustainability and wellbeing. The work in this area identifies and describes successful and challenging approaches to Indigenous community development and effective self-​governance mechanisms. This includes an examination of Indigenous community dynamics involved in choosing to opt in or opt out of local, regional and international economic development opportunities.

Area 4: Indigenous enterprise Not all Indigenous communities share the same socioeconomic values and objectives, as Indigenous economic development and entrepreneurship is influenced by the interconnectedness of the particular social relationships, governing institutions and values within which the individual or value creation activities are embedded. An Indigenous community’s socioeconomic needs and objectives can be conceptualized as being nested within the environmental dimension within which each of the economic, social, spiritual and cultural dimensions exert a differential influence on Indigenous social, cultural, economic and environmental value creation activities. This section picks up and builds on the discussion of colonization presented above to explore how Indigenous communities can challenge or counter assimilative forces through adopting Indigenous-​led solutions focused on decolonizing business, entrepreneurial and economic development practice, thought and action. This section explores Indigenous approaches to community development that focus on asserting sovereignty through establishing strong mechanisms for self-​governance that support self-​ determination through economic development and venture creation. This enables the community to make socioeconomic decisions that reflect its culture, traditions, values and concerns in the laws, policies and procedures created by the community for the community’s benefit rather than benefiting non-​Indigenous interests (i.e., corporations, local, regional and federal government etc.) (Cornell, 2006; Cornell and Kalt, 2010; 2006). Increased community engagement through the creation of strong Indigenous-​centric civic institutions facilitates accountability and transparency in decision-​making that focuses on the community’s long-​term socioeconomic vision and objectives and informs choices to opt out of or opt in to particular activities (Anderson et  al., 2006). For Indigenous peoples, value extraction and creation activities occur in context of social interrelationships and interdependencies that are influenced by the community’s cultural and spiritual understandings, beliefs, practices and socioeconomic needs, all of which are embedded in a particular geographical, environmental and community development ecosystem within which the community is situated. It is important, therefore, to understand how community embeddedness influences Indigenous value creation activities and this section describes how Indigenous environmental, social, cultural and economic value creation is characterized by the need to consider:  (i) how sustainable Indigenous value creation activities are accountable to the Indigenous community within which they are embedded; (ii) how these activities must focus on community-​ centric value creation in a manner that reflects and

4  Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson leverages community resources, assets, culture, values and traditions; (iii) which value creation activities are culturally appropriate for addressing community socioeconomic needs and objectives; and (iv) which organizational and governance structures are appropriate for mobilizing idle or underutilized community value and/​or resources (Johnstone and Lionais, 2004: 225; Peredo et al., 2004; Rante and Warokka, 2013). After review and revision, 12 chapters were selected from the submissions received, each of which addresses some or all of the four areas of interest. Initially, it was our intention as editors to divide the book into four sections, one for each of these areas. However, having considered all the accepted chapters, we have decided against this approach. It would serve no useful purpose to associate each chapter with only one of the four areas, when they all clearly address more than one of the areas in a more holistic fashion. In fact, we feel forcing chapters into a particular section based on the areas would distract from the thoughtful exploration of the interrelationship of these areas as expressed by the chapter authors. Similarly, as editors we have elected not to offer an analysis comparing or synthesizing the chapters. We feel doing so would detract from the rich and deep exploration of these four areas by the contributing authors. Adding to the richness of the exploration of the four areas above, geographically these chapters cover North, Central and South America, Northern Europe, the Circumpolar Arctic, Southern Europe, the Middle East, Asia and Oceania and a resulting diverse set of Indigenous People. In Chapter  1, ‘Invitation to ethical space:  a dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation’, Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman explore the idea that the concepts of sustainability may hold the potential to reconcile long-​term interests of industrial settler societies with Indigenous peoples. For this to happen the authors stress that meaning of sustainable development will have to be decolonized and indigenized to emerge as a shared ethical space. In their chapter, they offer thoughts on how this shared space might unfold through authentic intercultural dialogue and exchange resulting in new insights and outcomes across cultures to address shared challenges of sustainability. They provide an example of this process through a case on the Piikani (Blackfoot).They close by offering four themes associated with an indigenized concept of sustainability. These are:  i) creation, relations and Ginmapiipitsin –​the spirit of sanctified kindness for all; ii) natural law and ethics, framed in the axiom life is environment, environment is life; iii) insight into human identity, articulated in the axiom we are the land; and iv) cultural analogues for sustainability with shared purpose and self-​determination for all. Chapter 2 is ‘Coyote learns commerce’ by Joseph Scott Gladstone.The author explores the community foundations for contemporary business practices using Native American trickster storytelling. By doing so, he contributes to understanding the links between American Indian worldviews and modern-​ day business practices performed by Native Americans, which are applicable to Indigenous people elsewhere. As suggested by the title of Chapter 3,‘Resistance to “development” amongst the Kogui of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta’, Aili Pyhälä explores the

Introduction  5 tensions between largely external development activities on one hand that are encroaching on land and sacred sites through land-​grabbing and extractivism, attempted assimilation and unsustainable tourism, and the self-​determination objectives of the Kogui people on the other. The chapter explores what the Kogui have to say with regard to ‘development’, highlighting the rights they have to their own sustainable and alternative pathways. As the author says, Overall, the chapter takes a critical perspective to the broader notion of development, and demonstrates the blatant oxymoron inherent in the notion of ‘sustainable economic development’ as it is framed in and imposed by the global political and economic system onto biocultural settings like the Sierra Nevada, where it is neither fitting nor welcome. Chapter 4 is ‘Consultation or free, informed and prior consent? A comparative legal analysis of Indigenous consultation during natural resource activities in Australia and Canada’ by Madeline E.  Taylor. In this chapter, the author explores the evolving treaties, laws and regulations governing natural resource negotiations between nation-​states and Indigenous peoples with a particular focus on Australia and Canada, but with relevance beyond. The author explores the question as to whether the current negotiation process is effective in representing Indigenous interests in achieving self-​ determination and preserving and protecting traditional lands, and if not if it is not, what opportunities exist to better manage Indigenous interests. She argues for the putting in place of a regulatory framework for implementing consultation that allows for Indigenous peoples’ genuine input and involvement and the ability to withhold consent by adopting the free, prior and informed prior consent standard within both nations’ respective regulatory systems, and by other nation-​states. Chapter  5 is ‘Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability:  merging vernacular and modern knowledge’ by Maor Kohn, Meidad Kissinger and Avinoam Meir. According to the authors, The encounter between Indigenous societies and Western states often involves imposition of undesired policies by the state … often fails primarily due to inappropriate policy and planning tools and particularly insufficient integration of highly essential Indigenous values and vernacular knowledge into policy formulation in building a sustainable place for these groups. They go on to argue that rectifying this requires a better understanding and accommodation of Indigenous concepts of sustainability, saying that it is perceived differently among various Indigenous groups but is almost always associated with the spiritual connection to nature and perception of their locale as a sacred place that provides all existential needs. They go on to discuss an approach to addressing this challenge. Based on a study conducted among the Bedouin population in Israel, this chapter proposes a measurement tool, an Indigenous sustainability index, which attempts to provide quantitative

6  Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson expression to the various qualitative non-​material variables that comprise the Indigenous place in modern countries. The proposed index combines the conventional Western components of sustainability with the non-​ material Indigenous culture and sense of place. They argue that this will ‘create a new and more generic measurement method of Indigenous sustainability towards producing a sustainable Indigenous place within modern spaces’. Peter Hough is the author of Chapter 6, ‘The Inuit: sustaining themselves, the Arctic and the world’. The author discusses the Inuit and the impact that this relatively small group of Indigenous people with few resources and little apparent political power have had on sustainability in the circumpolar Arctic, where they have become ‘a strong voice for sustainability in the face of the increasing encroachment on and environmental degradation of their lands’. Hough argues that this success can serve as a distinct political and economic model for sustainable develop elsewhere. In the chapter he explores the evolution and impact of this unique Inuit voice for sustainability, paradoxically increasing in global influence at the same time as the Inuit lifestyle has come to be most threatened, through climate change and related issues. Chapter 7 is ‘Self-​gentrification as a pro-​active response to tourism development: cases of Indigenous entrepreneurship in mainland China and Taiwan’ by Jin Hooi Chan, Shih-​Yu Chen, Zhongjuan Ji, Ying Zhang and Xiaoguang Qi. The authors use case studies to compare entrepreneurial endeavors in two Indigenous communities in Asia, both of which are attempting to develop their socioeconomic status on their own terms, while conserving their own cultural heritage (self-​gentrification) through tourism activities. They are doing this in response to external pressures (gentrification). The first case examines efforts to engage in entrepreneurialism to improve capabilities and provide resources to the ethnic communities in the Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site in Yunnan province, mainland China. The second case of Chi-​mei community in Taiwan offers some insights on successful collaborations of the Indigenous community with national museums to develop the tourism economy and entrepreneurship while enhancing the appreciation and conservation of Indigenous heritage. ‘What is a river? Cross-​disciplinary and Indigenous assessment’ by Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff is Chapter 8. This paper discusses successful efforts of the Skolt Sámi to establish a community-​based monitoring detecting the arrival of climate impacts and extreme weather events affecting the Atlantic salmon river Njâuddam in the Finnish–​Norwegian sub-​Arctic. The authors describe how these Sámi launched wide-​scale Indigenous-​led river ecosystem restoration, including renewed salmonid spawning areas and habitats, natural flows and an independent monitoring feed alongside scientific studies. The authors discuss the interplay between science and Indigenous Sámi knowledge and the struggle of the Sámi to have traditional knowledge respected and included. The authors conclude that the events surrounding the Sámi and the Njâuddam emphasize the need to profoundly rethink our relations and knowledge of aquatic ecosystems.

Introduction  7 Chapter 9 by Joám Evans Pim is ‘Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs) in Galiza: indigeneity or peasanthood?’ In this chapter the author examines Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs), recognized since 2004 by a number of decisions of the Conference of the Parties to the UN Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD) and resolutions of the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN). These areas focus on customary sustainable use, ecosystem conservation and restoration and protection in the face of extractivism and other threats. The author argues that ICCAs represent a paradigm shift from conventional state-​centric approaches to the conservation of protected areas, by recognizing the crucial role of Indigenous peoples and local communities and their customary practices in the conservation of biological and cultural diversity. He further argues that ‘this new approach is also creating new paths for ICCAs to organize and collaborate at regional and global scales, including active involvement in shifting international regulations and creating new institutions and procedures based on community governance and decision making’. In the chapter, the author first describes ICCAs and then, through two case studies of the Frojám and Vilar ICCAs, seeks to understand the roots and implications of ‘Galizan indigeneity’ in terms of cultural identity, relationships with the land and sociopolitical engagement. He suggests that a better understanding of self-​identification and the nature of indigeneity can contribute to the trend of greater global connectedness of Indigenous peoples and local communities leading resistance movements to protect their lands, and related self-​determination. ‘Sustainable development through Indigenous community-​based enterprises’ by Mario Vázquez-​Maguirre is Chapter  10. The author states the object of the chapter to be to examine how successful Indigenous community-​based enterprises in Latin America promote sustainable development. To accomplish this object, cases from Mexico and Peru were examined using interviews, observation and secondary data analysis. Results indicated the importance of local governance. Economic, environmental and social value creation mechanisms that promote community wellbeing based on cultural and spiritual values were also important, ‘leading these communities through the process of starting, growing and consolidating a venture that ultimately has reinforced their self-​ determination and created conditions for inclusive growth, cooperation, and participatory management’. Chapter 11 is ‘Andean enterprises: a case study of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs’ by Tamara Stenn. In this chapter the author uses the Circles of Sustainability model and ethnographic research to explore the cultural, political, social, environmental and spiritual elements that make up Bolivia’s entrepreneurship, particularly with respect to Quinoa. She shows how the road to global entrepreneurship came at a cost as new market opportunities created by Bolivian producers were met by insurmountable global competition and their sacred quinoa became a world commodity. What once seemed to be a development success turned into a market

8  Rick Colbourne and Robert B. Anderson tragedy as competition from foreign countries and producers with greater resources and training caused Bolivia’s quinoa market to crash and spiral out of the original producers’ control. However, as the authors shows, this was not the end of the story; Indigenous producers have not given up and continue to forge forward, seeking new and different economic responses and opportunities to better their community, and the world. Finally, ‘Relational and social aspects of Indigenous entrepreneurship:  the Hupacasath case’ by Irene Henriques, Rick Colbourne, Ana María Peredo, and Robert Anderson is Chapter 12. Using stakeholder theory, social entrepreneurship theory and stewardship theory, this chapter examines the role of entrepreneurship ecosystem players, particularly financial institutions, in encouraging or discouraging Indigenous social entrepreneurs. Past experience indicates that mainstream non-​Indigenous financial institutions lack the mechanisms and understanding to assess the value and likely success of Indigenous social enterprise activities. To illustrate this, the authors analyze a case in which competing financial institutions were asked to fund a small hydro project led by a First Nation in British Columbia that respected its waterways, air and fisheries. The major financial institutions (banks) all rejected the project for funding. However, a regional credit union approved the project and provided the requested debt financing. Based on the findings from the case, the authors suggest ways in which financial institutions and other organizations can improve their assessment of projects proposed by Indigenous social entrepreneurs.

References Amnesty International Canada, 2016. The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples [online]. Vancouver, BC:  Amnesty International. Available at:    www.amnesty.ca/​our-​work/​issues/​indigenous-​peoples/​the-​united-​nations-​ declaration-​on-​the-​r ights-​of-​indigenous-​people (accessed April 3, 2016). Anderson, R.B., Dana, L.P. & Dana,T.E., 2006. Indigenous Land Rights, Entrepreneurship, and Economic Development in Canada:  “Opting-​ In” to the Global Economy. Journal of World Business, 41: 45–​55. Bear, L.L., 2000. Jagged Worldviews Colliding. In Battiste, M. (ed.), Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision.Vancouver, BC: University of British Columbia Press. Begay, M., Cornell, S., Jorgensen, M. & Kalt, J.P., 2007. Development, Governance, Culture: What Are They and What Do They Have to Do with Nation Building? In Jorgensen, M. (ed.), Rebuilding Native Nations: Strategies for Governance and Development. Tucson, AZ:  Native Nations Institute, Udall Center for Studies in Public Policy, University of Arizona. Blackstock, C., 2013. Know Your Rights!:  United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples for Indigenous Adolescents. New  York:  United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF). Cornell, S., 2006. What Makes First Nations Enterprises Successful? Lessons Learned from the Harvard Project. University of Arizona Udall Center for Studies in Public Policy Joint Occasional Papers on Native Affairs (01).

Introduction  9 Cornell, S. & Kalt, J.P., 2006. Two Approaches to Economic Development on American Indian Reservations: One Works, the Other Doesn’t. In Jorgensen, M. (ed.), Rebuilding Native Nations: Strategies for Governance and Development. Tucson, AZ: Native Nations Institute, Udall Center for Studies in Public Policy, University of Arizona. Cornell, S. & Kalt, J.P., 2010. American Indian Self-​ Determination:  The Political Economy of a Policy that Works. HKS Faculty Research Working Paper Series RWP10-​043, John F. Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University. Corntassel, J., 2008. Toward Sustainable Self-​ Determination:  Rethinking the Contemporary Indigenous-​ Rights Discourse. Alternatives:  Global, Local, Political, 33: 105–​132. Doyle, C. & Gilbert, J., 2010. Indigenous Peoples and Globalization: From ‘Development Aggression’ to ‘Self-​Determined Development’. European Yearbook of Minority Issues, 7: 219–​262. Johnstone, H. & Lionais, D., 2004. Depleted Communities and Community Business Entrepreneurship:  Revaluing Space through Place. Entrepreneurship & Regional Development, 16: 217–​233. Kuokkanen, R., 2011. Indigenous Economies, Theories of Subsistence, and Women:  Exploring the Social Economy Model for Indigenous Governance. The American Indian Quarterly, 35: 215–​240. Lama, M., 2013. Access to Health Services by Indigenous Peoples in Asia. In Reading, J. (ed.), State of the World’s Indigenous Peoples: Indigenous People’s Access to Health Services. New York: United Nations Department of Social and Economic Affairs. Peredo, A.M., Anderson, R.B., Galbraith, C.S. & Honig, B., 2004. Towards a Theory of Indigenous Entrepreneurship. International Journal of Entrepreneurship and Small Business, 1: 1–​20. Rante, Y. & Warokka, A., 2013. The Interrelated Nexus of Indigenous Economic Growth and Small Business Development:  Do Local Culture, Government Role, and Entrepreneurial Behavior Play the Role? Journal of Innovation Management in Small & Medium Enterprises: 1–​19. Spiller, C., Pio, E., Erakovic, L. & Henare, M., 2011. Wise Up: Creating Organizational Wisdom Through an Ethic of Kaitiakitanga. Journal of Business Ethics, 104: 223–​235. United Nations, 2015. Indigenous Peoples, Indigenous Voices:  Who are Indigenous Peoples. United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. New York: United Nations. Walters, F. & Takamura, J., 2015. The Decolonized Quadruple Bottom Line:  A Framework for Developing Indigenous Innovation. Wicazo Sa Review, 30: 77–​99. Wuttunee, W., 2004. Living Rhythms: Lessons in Aboriginal Economic Resilience and Vision. Montreal, QC: McGill-​Queen’s Press.

1  Invitation to ethical space A dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman

Introduction: towards shared ethical space Sustainability holds potential to reconcile long-​term interests of industrial-​ settler societies with Indigenous peoples.Yet, such reconciliation is not a given, nor will it be easily achieved.The very meaning of sustainable development will have to be re-​thought and re-​imagined. The theories and practices of sustainability will need to be decolonized and indigenized in order to emerge as a shared space between cultures (Lertzman, 2010). Cree scholar Willie Ermine (2007) suggests such shared intercultural domain is also an ethical space of engagement. We maintain that such shared ethical spaces will unfold through processes of authentic intercultural dialogue and exchange, and that these shared spaces offer the possibility for new insights into human identity and responsibility with emergent outcomes across cultures to address shared challenges of sustainability. This chapter opens by framing the subject of sustainability and Indigenous peoples in global and Canadian contexts. Drawing from themes of ecological and cultural diversity indicating impacts of consumer-​based industrial societies on Indigenous peoples, lands and lifeways, we make the ethical case for sustainability and reconciliation as a moral imperative of human development. This global perspective frames not only the ethical context of discussion but also the pedagogical argument for intercultural learning on sustainability in deep dialogue with Indigenous peoples. In the main body of text that follows, we present discussion of traditional Indigenous Piikani (Blackfoot) philosophical teachings’ role modeling authentic intercultural dialogue with relevance to sustainability. This shared ethical space opens doorways to learning, reconciliation and indigenization. The discussion is between co-​ authors Dr Reg Crowshoe, a Blackfoot spiritual leader, cultural educator and former elected Chief, and Dr David Lertzman, an academic practitioner with over 20  years’ involvement in the field and multiple adoptions into Indigenous families. Our dialogue serves as a reflective basis to infer foundational themes and principles of sustainability from an Indigenous, in this case Piikani (Blackfoot) perspective. This provides the ground for entering into consideration of an indigenized frame of reference, an axiology as it were, for sustainability. Thus, the final section re-​frames

Invitation to ethical space  11 the conversation with a focus on foundational themes and values as an offering for others seeking to engage in such dialogue, wherever they are on Mother Earth, to reflect upon and gain new insights for entering shared ethical spaces of human identity, sustainability and reconciliation. Foundational themes we put forward in the chapter’s closing section include: i) creation, relations and Ginmapiipitsin, the spirit of sanctified kindness for all; ii) natural law and ethics, framed in the axiom life is environment, environment is life; iii) insight into human identity, articulated in the axiom we are the land; and iv) cultural analogues for sustainability with shared purpose and self-​determination for all.

Sustainability and reconciliation: an ethical imperative Humanity is at a crossroads. As a single species we now use more than the planet can provide.We have transgressed the threshold to “ecological overshoot”, consuming at least 50% of the global goods and services that ecosystems are able to regenerate (Rees and Wackernagel, 2013). This has been going on for some time. Accounts indicate human demand likely exceeded the biosphere’s regenerative capacity in the 1980s (Wackernagel et  al., 2002). Positive correlation between income and per-​capita ecological footprint is no surprise in a world where a wealthy minority of market-​based economies consume vastly more than their share of planetary resources, externalizing their ecological deficits to the poor (Rees, 2002).1 Thus, it should come as no great shock that the poorest, most vulnerable people are those most directly impacted by ecological decline. Moreover, humanity’s consumption of natural capital is growing annually as forests are cut faster than they can regrow, fish are being depleted more quickly than they can regenerate and natural resource extraction has increased some 45% in the past 25 years (Wackernagel and Galli, 2012). Certain sectors are outpacing others, such as metals extraction, which has increased almost 60% since 1980 (Behrens et al., 2007). On top of all this, anthropogenic climate change is altering the global climate, posing significant risks to both natural and social systems with likely irreversible changes to the global climate system as a whole (Molina et al., 2014). Perhaps the starkest example of humanity’s impact on the planet is loss of biodiversity. As a direct result of human intervention in the biosphere we are witnessing the greatest rate of species extinction on Earth since the demise of dinosaurs 65 million years ago (Wilson, 1999). According to the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2005), humans have increased species extinction to over 1,000 times the background rates typical of Earth’s history. This staggering impact of humanity on the rest of life is starting to come back on us. Thus, while the implications of biodiversity and its loss are well known for ecosystem resilience and health, we are only just beginning to understand how human wellbeing depends upon biodiversity, and is threatened by its loss. We do know that the connection with nature for human health and wellbeing functions across diverse cultural, religious and symbolic mediations where cultural meanings facilitate pathways to human health, including both material

12  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman and non-​material ecosystem services with evidence that biodiversity loss impacts human health via cultural pathways (MEA, 2005; Díaz, 2006; Clark et al., 2014; Sandifer, Sutton-​Grier and Ward, 2015; Small et  al., 2017; Mekonnen and Sintayehu, 2018). These connections are particularly significant for Indigenous peoples whose core identities are intimately bound with the lands and waters of their traditional territories, upon which they depend directly for their means of survival. More than 370 million Indigenous peoples encompass some 5,000 distinct cultural identities spread across 90 countries worldwide (UN, 2009). Their territories, upon which they depend for survival, cover about 20% of global land surface yet hold 80% of the planet’s biodiversity (Sobrevila, 2008). Indigenous peoples make up just 5% of the world’s population, yet comprise upwards of 90% of the Earth’s cultural diversity, speaking roughly 70% of the world’s remaining 6,000–​7,000 languages, half of which are threatened with extinction this century and even more of which are losing the ecological contexts that keep their languages alive (Posey, 1999;Toledo, 2001; Sobrevila, 2008).Thus, the areas of greatest biodiversity on Earth hold the planet’s greatest cultural diversity in a symbiotic relationship of ecology and culture; where those ecosystems are strong, so are their languages; where those languages are threatened, so are their ecosystems (Nettle and Romaine, 2000). Even though much of the Earth’s remaining natural resources occur within their territories,2 Indigenous peoples continue to struggle for a determining voice in the decision-​making processes that control the stewardship and extraction of those natural resources. Indigenous peoples are disproportionately impacted by the industrial extraction of natural resources, yet have reaped historically little benefit from such activities (O’Faircheallaigh, 2013). From Europe to Asia, Oceania, Africa and the Americas, industrial resource extraction has led to various ecotoxicological, human health, socioeconomic, cultural and political impacts on Indigenous peoples, accompanied also by human rights violations. In the Western Amazon, for example, where some Indigenous peoples still live in voluntary isolation, petroleum development has been attended by sexual exploitation, sickness and mortality from pollution, disease and violence (Kimerling, 2006; Napolitano, 2007; Napolitano and Ryan, 2007; Finer et al., 2008; Orta-​Martinez and Finer, 2010; Schmall, 2011).This is the same region where, in an earlier generation, tens of thousands of Indigenous peoples were enslaved, tortured, raped, murdered and wiped out by disease as part of the rubber boom (Hardenburg, 1912; Taussig, 1984; Kimerling, 1994; Davis, 1996; Hvalkoff, 2001; Napolitano, 2007; Napolitano and Ryan, 2007). The disparities and vulnerabilities of Indigenous peoples due to social, historical, political, economic, health and other material factors are well documented (Gracey and King, 2009; King, Smith and Gracey, 2009; Reading and Wien, 2009; Reading and Halseth, 2013). It is shockingly absurd that in spite of their contiguity with the Earth’s greatest natural wealth, Indigenous peoples are among the poorest, most politically and economically marginalized peoples of the planet (O’Faircheallaigh and Ali, 2008; Sobrevila, 2008; UN, 2009).

Invitation to ethical space  13 Indigenous peoples provide the longest sustained examples of human adaptation to and use of the environment. Given their dependence upon healthy ecosystems to maintain traditional ways of life, Indigenous peoples have a fundamental stake in sustainability. Their traditional ecological knowledge and resource management systems contribute to the maintenance and conservation of biodiversity and ecosystem management, offering alternative paradigms for sustainable development (Posey, 1999; Berkes et al., 2000; Toledo, 2001; Toledo et al., 2003; Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005; Sobrevila, 2008; Lertzman, 2010; Martin et  al., 2010). This notwithstanding, ongoing attrition of Indigenous peoples’ territories and cultures places increasing constraints on traditional land use and its practices, rendering Indigenous subsistence economies and their associated social processes less viable. One of the more pernicious features of global industrialization is that as consumer society inexorably grows, Indigenous peoples’ territories shrink. This dynamic of consumer society growing at the expense of Indigenous peoples, their territories and ways of life underscores a base ethical problem for consumer-​driven industrial civilization and its expansion. It is clearly unethical to sacrifice the viability of Indigenous peoples and their ways of life for the sake of industrial resource extraction to feed consumer society (Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005), yet this dynamic has been unfolding since the emergence of colonialism, founded in precepts of the ‘Doctrine of Discovery’ and ‘Law of Conquest’.3 The notion that Indigenous peoples and ecosystems upon which they depend are somehow expendable  –​inevitable (if regrettable) casualties of economic progress  –​is deeply embedded within the thinking of modern society. At its core is a value judgment that privileges settler-​colonial and eventually industrial society in a morally superior status of developmental eventuality superseding that of the land’s first peoples including their ways of life, lands and resources. This arguably genocidal4 thinking lies at the root of the ethical problem whereby the unsustainable consumptive behaviours of industrial societies are maintained through resource extraction at the expense of Indigenous peoples and their traditional ways of life. As industrial society expands in its search for raw materials into progressively remote, ecologically salient regions where much of the world’s natural resources remain, most Indigenous communities will confront the presence of industrial incursion into their areas. Many Indigenous peoples have resisted the penetration of extractive industry into their territories, often resulting in ongoing, organized opposition and at times violent conflict.5 Others have engaged with industry and collaborated on productive projects at times to diversify their options for community economic development and perhaps offset declines in traditional lifestyles.6 Whatever position they take, Indigenous peoples have the right to self-​determination as recognized in international law with free prior informed consent, or ‘FPIC’, for any projects, investments or activities that may occur in their areas. Self-​determination is the foundational principle of international law for the rights of Indigenous peoples and is the basis for free, prior and informed consent

14  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman (Ward, 2011). While self-​determination is considered ‘hard law’, FPIC, which has received particular attention since the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UN, 2007), is considered ‘soft law’. This notwithstanding, FPIC indicates the direction of such international legal thinking becoming a defining issue for resource-​r ich states and global extractive industries (Doyle, 2015). Doyle (2015) suggests that FPIC should form the basis for renegotiating the relationship between Indigenous peoples and all the actors who impinge on their territorial dominion around the world. This will ensure that “the response to questions and challenges posed by modernity’s increasingly pervasive reach are provided by Indigenous peoples themselves” (Doyle, 2015, p.  xiii). Thus, implementing FPIC may help reconstruct some of the foundations for self-​determination so brutally ruptured during early and subsequent encounters of colonialism while providing a transformative instrument towards achieving reconciliation. Honouring self-​determination through free, prior, informed consent indicates a pathway framing a basis for entering an ethical space of engagement with Indigenous peoples. What might this look like for companies or others seeking to operate in the territories of Indigenous peoples? The ethical approach would be to engage with Indigenous peoples in a manner consistent with their wishes and needs as they determine these to be (Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005). Accordingly, an ethical approach to engagement would seek to align one’s policy and practice with the self-​determination of Indigenous peoples and development priorities of their communities using practices of free, prior and informed consent. This means respecting not only how Indigenous communities wish to be consulted, and eventually involved should they decide to participate in any proposed activities; it also means respecting the ‘no’ of Indigenous peoples should they reject participation in such proposals. Achieving the free, prior, informed consent of Indigenous peoples may not be easy, but is the right thing to do. FPIC, once attained, opens doorways to new possibilities in collaboration, partnership and alliance. Indeed, such efforts are already evolving the field of Indigenous engagement progressively into new capabilities and spaces across public, private and civil society sectors. Now we are hearing how companies are seeking to improve their social license through Indigenous engagement, and government is courting the Indigenous vote. Nevertheless, the ethical concerns of Indigenous peoples and industrial society are a global crisis, much bigger than any individual company, industry or country. Indeed, the diminishing of Indigenous peoples has implications for all humanity. We are essentially deficit-​spending the biological diversity of the planet and cultural diversity of our species to maintain an unsustainable lifestyle at the expense of the longest-​standing examples extant of sustainable human culture. With each vanishing language we lose an identity, culture and way of life, taking with it an irreplaceable example of thousands of years of human experience, knowledge and adaptation to the environment. Whereas adaptation is a pivotal feature of evolution, humans have unique capabilities to adapt and evolve culturally (Henrich and McElreath, 2003). This is our competitive

Invitation to ethical space  15 advantage, for we can choose to change; yet, the movement towards industrial monoculture diminishes the collective knowledge and wisdom base of our species while amplifying shared cultural blind spots, thus narrowing the range of thinking and imagination informing our decisions. Reflecting upon these dynamics of declining human cultural diversity and the movement towards industrial monoculture, one discerns a striking contrast of worldviews, values and identity. Most contemporary governments, development agencies and civil societies maintain an outlook that has been described as “technological expansionism” or the “expansionist paradigm” (Rees, 1995: p. 347). Founded on the a priori moral superiority of humanity and perceived separation from nature, this perspective posits economic growth as essential for human fulfilment, exploiting nature with impunity to satisfy expanding human wants and needs. Presupposing the inevitable ‘progress’ from diverse culturally self-​sustaining, pre-​industrial societies to a more advanced, monocultural form of industrial consumerism, this growth-​ based worldview is the dominant development paradigm. Its hegemonic imposition on Indigenous peoples the world over befits the cultural genocide epithet. Yet, many have argued that growth and development are not commensurate, and sustainable development is an inherently cross-​cultural proposition (Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005).7 If so, defining the meaning of development is fundamental for self-​determination. In contrast to the acquisitive materialism of consumer-​ based industrial society, many Indigenous philosophies tend to affirm humanity’s place in nature as a spiritual and ethical foundation for human identity and development. Oren Lyons, Faith Keeper of the Onondaga Turtle Clan and member of the Council of Chiefs for the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy in the Northeastern United States, suggests that Indigenous perspectives encompass the long-​term view of community and life with respect for nature’s regenerative laws. The earth does not need us:  we need her. She functions under these universal laws that are immense beyond our comprehension. We, the Haudenosaunee, were instructed to bind ourselves to these universal laws to ensure the survival of our people. We know that other indigenous nations and peoples understand these laws and instructions … This then is what we can offer humanity the basis for making long-​term decisions. We are responsible to life in the future. (Lyons, 1999: p. 450)8 Embedded within these teachings and long-​term thinking are ethics of stewardship, sacredness and respect. Chief Lyons also notes that such teachings exist across many different Indigenous cultures. Corresponding teachings are exemplified on the opposite side of the continent amongst the Nuu-​chah-​nulth people of Canada’s Pacific Northwest. Traditional values of “sacredness of and respect for all things” (CSSP, 1995) were explained by the late Ahousaht Elder Roy Haiyupis.

16  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman Nothing is isolated from other aspects of life surrounding it and within it. This concept is the basis for the respect for nature that our people live with, and also contributes to the value system that promoted the need … to be totally conscious of your actual needs … Respect is the very core of our traditions, culture and existence. It is very basic to all we encounter in life … Respect for nature requires a healthy state of stewardship with a healthy attitude. It is wise to respect nature. Respect the spiritual … Nature … once broken, will hit back. (CSSP, 1995: pp. 6–​7) This sacredness of and respect for all things is embodied in the traditional Nuu-​ chah-​nulth concept of hishuk ish ts’awalk, which literally means “everything is one” (CSSP, 1995).The reference here is not only to humans, but to all life forms, which are seen as equals from the same family, “for it is believed that we all have the same source, our lives are bound up together inextricably making us all relations” (Atleo, 2003: p. 207). Hereditary Ahousaht Chief Umeek Dr Richard Atleo (2007) has written extensively on the subject, explaining that ts’awalk means “one”, speaking to the unity of existence that describes the Nuu-​chah-​nulth view of reality. More recently (2012), Atleo has suggested how “ontology and metaphysics frame the epistemology and axiology of Nuu-​chah-​nulth people”. (Poff, 2014: p. 201), offering an edifying philosophical reference to help address in relational terms the global environmental and social crisis fundamentally as one of perception driven by the dominant economic development model. These ethical stewardship values of relational, long-​ term thinking are embedded in a profound sense of individual and collective identity within a larger context. Boreal Cree traditional land-​use practitioner and Chief for the Little Red River Cree Nation of northern Alberta Conroy Sewepagaham shared from the traditional philosophy of Sagawinawak lifeways Pimachihowan, a way of being framed as a set of principles the following way. To take care of things, to respect things … and one of the biggest teachings from Pimachihowan is when you respect the environment around you, you respect yourself, and when you respect yourself you respect the environment … go out to the land … it’s not about you and it’s not about you and I, it’s about everything around us, that’s what Pimachihowan is … it’s like a child: you take care of a child, eventually that child will take care of you. (In Lertzman and MacDonald, 2016)9 The offering here is fundamentally an ontological premise. This is an invitation into an Earth-​based understanding of what it means to be human. Our human identity, our very being, is embedded in the land: that which is all around us, which makes us who we are. When we respect this, we respect ourselves; when we take care of this, we take of ourselves. There are numerous ways in this language to reference ‘the land’ or ‘the Earth’, perhaps the most preferred of which is Kee Mamano, ‘Our Mother’.

Invitation to ethical space  17 That the Earth is alive –​the shared source of life, identity and wealth upon whom we as a species collectively depend –​is not an unprecedented or radical premise for many if not most Indigenous cultures. For occidental science-​based culture, this would be a rather fanciful, if quaint, notion. When James Lovelock (2000) introduced the Gaia Hypothesis in the 1970s it was indeed a revolutionary proposition.The idea of the planet as a living, self-​generating singularity was certainly intriguing in popular and some scholarly circles.Yet, Gaia was provocative if not outrageous to many in the scientific community even though Lovelock made no assertion of sentience or causality in spite of cautioning in this regard. To people of such “deeply held materialistic beliefs”, broad ideas like Gaia are an anathema and metascience, “something like a religious faith” to be rejected outright (Lovelock, 2000: p. xii). Notwithstanding its detractors, Gaia has become an established scientific theory; one could even go so far as to say it is a “paradigm”. A senior scientist “deeply committed to science as a way of life” (Lovelock, 2000: p. xii), Lovelock is also well aware of the moral implications of Gaia. Kee Mamano and Gaia may have rather distinct philosophical origins, with different phenomenological systems of explanation and categories of meaning, yet both provide an Earth-​based context for understanding humanity’s place in the bigger picture. Both are paradigmatic in that sense for organizing our thinking and guiding our behaviours; they also have shared ethical implications. When he first started writing about Gaia, Lovelock began to see that we are all “part of the community of living things”, adding, “we humans have no special rights, only obligations to the community of Gaia” (2000: p. ix). The implication is that “Our destiny is not dependent merely on what we do for ourselves, but also on what we do for Gaia as a whole” (Havel cited in Lovelock, 2000: p. ix). Different in origin as they are, Kee Mamano and Gaia may provide an entrée into the commensurability of cultures translating the correspondence of cultural analogues towards a bridgehead of understanding between traditions  –​ that is, an intercultural shared space (Tambiah, 1990).10 We all have common cause in the Earth’s efficacy. Whether you call her Kee Mamano and regard the Earth as a living sentient being, or use the name Gaia in reference to all the material parts of the planet’s surface as a living super-​system or mega-​organism whose balance is maintained through homeostasis, we all share what is best for the good of the whole. This realization of common cause in the Earth’s sustainability clarifies the underlying, pivotal long-​term shared interest between industrial-​settler societies and Indigenous peoples. As an ethical imperative the shared value of sustainability has the potential to help reconcile long-​term interests of industrial-​settler societies with that of Indigenous peoples. Getting to this shared realization is the first step; the bigger challenge will be getting us there in practice. To do so will require a radical deconstruction, a decolonization of the meaning of sustainable development.The path towards such reconciliation will also necessitate the culturally generative process of sustainability’s indigenization. It is to this prospect that we now turn.

18  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman

Towards shared ethical space: a dialogue on sustainability and reconciliation This next section presents a discussion between the co-​authors, Dr Reg Crowshoe and Dr David Lertzman. Crowshoe is a respected Niitsitapi (Blackfoot) spiritual leader and cultural educator of the Piikani people, and former elected Chief in the Treaty 7 region of southern Alberta, Canada. Lertzman is a Canadian academic practitioner with over 20  years’ experience in the field and multiple adoptions into Indigenous families in North and South America. Crowshoe and Lertzman represent two distinct, parallel and potentially complementary cultural philosophical traditions; one is grounded in traditional teachings of Piikani Blackfoot, the other in the Western science-​based academy. The dialogue is a free-​ranging discussion on topics related to reconciliation, sustainability and ethics. The conversational style of discussion that unfolds has been preserved, edited only for clarity. Parenthetical italicized statements represent when one participant spoke in the midst of the other’s sharing. David: introduction We’re having a conversation about a dialogue on foundations for ethical space with the possibility of sustainability providing a space for reconciliation to unfold between representatives of settler-​ industrial society and Indigenous peoples. It’s a tall order but it needs to happen (Um humm). Any initial thoughts on the topic? Reg: introduction, reconciliation Ok, I should say my name is Reg Crowshoe, my Blackfoot name is Awakaseena, and I come from the Piikani First Nation. My language is Piikani Blackfoot… When I look at the ethical space between the two worlds, the newcomers and the Indigenous peoples, there’s many things that have happened ever since contact. All those things, like treaties, reserves, implementation on First Nations communities, all those things that happened bring us to this point today that we’re talking about reconciliation; we’re talking about the Calls to Action,11 and where do we go from here. I always think we should have had this discussion 50 years ago! But I guess today’s timing is the right time. This concept of ethical space, to look at how we might understand each other, we need to start identifying that space and the first thing we’ve got to give that space from both sides, the Indigenous side and the newcomer side, is we’ve got to replace that trust and respect that disappeared through all this contact and all what’s happened through these years. So, it’s with that, it would be one of our shared purposes, is that trust and respect; because that’s going to provide some safety so that we can speak up, rather than the last couple of

Invitation to ethical space  19 hundred years when nobody spoke up and we hid things from each other. So, I guess this is where we start, Calls to Action! David: Calls to Action and the land Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Calls to Action are powerful tools and Number 92 for Business is one with which I’m especially familiar. Yet, to me there’s another Call to Action, which, while not expressly written down, is strongly present. It’s the call to action of the land telling us we share this physical space, whether one side is aware they’re supposed to be sharing or not, and it is something that we can potentially align on; we need to preserve that which preserves us if we are going to survive as a species. People from the settler-​industrial side are starting to realize that we’ve impacted the land in significant ways that may be undermining its ability to sustain us. Something I’ve heard you speak to many times, from your perspective as a Piikani person, for all these traditional systems of governance and organization is the place from where all that mandate comes is the land. That’s not something we have on the settler side –​the land is something we try to own; but on the other, it’s more that the land owns you. So, there’s a clash of worldviews and values. I was wondering if you would speak to this idea of the land as a basis for our mandate, and natural law. Reg: land, creation, natural law and education To understand the concept of the mandate coming from the land… I’d like to speak a bit about some of what I  heard with regards to Creation stories. Looking at the concept of Creation stories, my teaching in the oral culture is that Creation stories are the basic understanding of how we look at or would say, ‘we’re a part of the land and the land is a part of us…’ So, when we look at the environment, life is environment and environment is life. Our Creation stories talk about that. In our Creation stories the four concepts of Original Emotion, Original Thought, Original Creation and Original Sound, and how we handled those four concepts with respect and disrespect, allow us to understand the environment that we are a part of and also allow us to participate in that environment. As we participate in that environment, this is what I would understand as natural laws. When we look at natural laws then we’re saying it’s through that Creation concept out of those four concepts that natural laws were a part of that Creation. So we would say Creator created the people or animals that walked on two legs, the animals with wings that fly, and four legs that walk on four legs, the plants –​you give ’em water and sun, they’re gonna grow; it’s our interaction with that environment that we would look at as natural laws… … So, when we look at those as our natural laws, part of our validation and earning validation would say that everything created has songs:  the winged ones, and the plants, and the animals, and the humans, and wind, the whole environment has songs. So that gives everybody authority to exist, and that’s

20  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman where the concept of having relatives comes, not only with humans, but with the environment itself: relative-​making. So when we look at relative-​making, and let’s say the mandate of education… when I was young, my grandmother took one of the Creation stories of the chickadees and the Creation story of the plants that the chickadees liked to sit in, and the interaction that happened between the human beings and the chickadees and the bushes they liked to sit in. When all those came together, out of that story came the mandate of education… And the story goes that there was a woman who brought those kids to the river to teach them about the environment (and they) were swarmed by chickadees and they had to go down on their knees every time the chickadees swarmed them… so it’s that interaction of the chickadees giving the mandate for a kindergarten education and the chickadees’ song that came with that story was a validation of that mandate. So when the woman came back she got together with the other people that taught in our community and she asked for a smudge12… the smudge is a truthing: the smoke goes to Creator, and the smudge also is a truthing amongst all our relatives of sanctified kindness to all our relatives in that truthing… so when she asked for a smudge she talked about what happened to her along the river with the children, her, the chickadees and the brush, how all those natural laws came together and the action that came out of it in teaching, and that song that came from the little birds or chickadees, so that story became a mandate for the chickadees’ level of education. We look at it as a mandate. When I went to the chickadees, I was inducted through ceremony into the Chickadee Society… and their shared purpose for that grade of education came from the story and the song. The story and the song represented what we had to learn in that level of education. The chickadees live within the environment so we had to learn within the environment and our classroom became a nest. So, when all the nest and the classroom and the chickadees and the language all came together the mandate of education came and that’s how we went through that institution and at the end we had an oral measurement of excellence and then we were given the chickadee song as our physical document that we passed that grade level. When we’re looking at mandate, we have many different mandates (for example)… mandates in governance, we had mandates in education and health, we had mandates in commerce and trade, all those mandates came from those basic principles of interaction with the environment, which are natural laws, and how we would use honor and dishonor. So, to me that’s how I  recognize mandate from an oral perspective. David: Ginmapiipitsin, ‘sanctified kindness’ You spoke of ‘sanctified kindness’, and I’ve heard you use that before, in the Blackfoot, Ginmapiipitsin… you described that to me as, when you light the smudge there’s a feeling that comes out that touches you and it’s a good feeling

Invitation to ethical space  21 and that’s what you’re connecting with, is that ‘sanctified kindness’… From where does that come and is that a kind of natural law? Reg: Ginmapiipitsin, ‘sanctified kindness’ ‘Sanctified kindness’ is a Western word I  use to translate Ginmapiipitsin, but the concept of Ginmapiipitsin came from a kindness and a survival that we all need each other to survive. The animals need us, the bugs need the animals, and everybody needs the air and so on, so we all need each other to survive, so that’s sanctified kindness is a part of that. And also, there’s a kindness when we look at, for example, mandate, mandate that came from the environment gave us principles or protocols we have to follow and those protocols have consequences if we break them, and if we break those protocols the consequences are also a part of the sanctified kindness. We need to understand how we look at self-​policing, how we honor the protocols as we use these mandates. So that sanctified kindness came from a spot in our Creation story… after the Creator created the being of the Earth and it stayed suspended in front of him, the first thing he put on the Earth was all these green plants, and we know plants grow green in the summer and die back in the winter and come back to life every year and the sweetgrass is part of it. So, when the sweetgrass was given to us part of the protocols or powers that Creator gave, it was that it connects us with Creator. So, in one context, our head, our thought, our logic connects  us  with Creator but it also takes that logic to our heart and our feeling connects it with that logic and that feeling is part of our invisible connection to Creator, and the smoke is the logic connection. So when that invisible connection with feeling, that connection is a part of so many of our Creation stories that we look at when we do self-​policing; we have to make sure we deal with that invisible connection through the smudge to Creator with honor and dishonor, how we’re going to deal with it, so that’s important when we look at it. But … when we get the smudge … we’re going to say the truth –​the truthing in front of the smudge –​that the logic and the heart come together in that smudge to say the truth. David: visible/​invisible concept We would say speaking about invisible connection to Creator, the heart and the logic: the logic is the part of our mind that needs something physically tangible to latch on to but is more of a physical demonstration of something that’s happening invisibly in our heart, so we see the smoke as a physical demonstration of what’s happening internally? Reg: invisible concept We would say that invisible concept is like our shadow. If we don’t have a shadow, we’re not real. Everything needs a shadow for it to be real. So, when

22  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman we’re dealing with concepts of dreams that don’t have shadows, then those dreams are not real but there are dreams with shadows that are real. But those are concepts that we have to start understanding that we might look at as our scientific concepts. David: science/​Indigenous knowledge, shared space So, it’s a natural law (Right). Interesting, there’s this whole empirical piece, which is shared by science and Indigenous cultures. They share tremendous empirical knowledge about the world, like how could you know what to eat and not to eat, what is medicinal or poisonous, about animal behaviors? So, there’s this overlap, but then there’s a piece that science does not address, which you call the invisible (Um hum). So, there’s aspects of alignment and others that are not shared, but we can still come to a shared space (Right). And so Ginmapiipitsin then, does it come from the Creator, or from the land, or is it the Creator in the land? Reg: invisible concept and Ginmapiipitsin It’s the Creator in the land. It’s that invisible shared space that we all share. The smoke that goes up is the logic, the process of how you build a safe, ethical space to be able to say what you need to say. David: shared space So, we enter into that space together (Right) and when we light the smudge it creates physically to remind us of what we already have within us that we share with other beings, human and otherwise (Right) in this shared space. Reg: ethics, Creation and ‘sanctified kindness’ Yes, and then the other thing when we look at ethics we have in our Creation stories … and I see in many different concepts across different tribes across the country, (like) the Ojibwe talk about Seven Sacred Grandmothers, the Cree talk about Seven Sacred Grandfathers, the Sioux talk about Seven Sacred Teachings, or the Blackfoot talk about Seven Sacred Brothers, but they all point to the constellation we call the Little Dipper. So, each star in that constellation is part of our Creation stories … each has basic ethics and those ethics protect the smudge through those stories but the smudge connects us to real ethical space where we have to watch our conduct within that physical space. So the way we sit in a circle and our shelters in a physical space in a circle, those conducts come from those stories but the ethics come from those stars to protect that space so it becomes a safe space to be able to talk and when you connect all that with sanctified kindness, the smoke in the smudge, then you’re in a space that’s safe for you to say anything that you need to say.

Invitation to ethical space  23 David: shared space and sanctified kindness The sanctified kindness, it guides our behaviors and is something we carry within us (Um hum), and is something that is mirrored to us in the land. You spoke of honor and dishonor; so, if it’s a natural law there are consequences; there are consequences when we honor it, and there are consequences when we dishonor it? Reg: natural law and its consequences, thunder Right… it’s going to be the environment… In our case we have the Thunder Pipe ceremonies, which is a conflict resolution. If we settle a dispute through the Thunder Pipe that’s a contract, which if we break the natural consequences are going to be that the thunder can take my life, the thunder can take my child’s life, the thunder can also take my relative’s life. Those are what guides us when we talk about self-​policing. David: natural law and climate change So, I wonder about a collective consequence of not answering the natural law, like climate change. Reg: climate change When I look at climate change, I consider the story of the Seven Brothers. The Seven Brothers were each given gifts to escape this harm that was coming to them. The first brother was given a rock and when the harm was closing in on them he threw this rock back and all the mountains happened, then they were given a stick that they threw back that all the vegetation came from; they were given another stick to draw a line in the ground and all the valleys happened, then they were given a bladder bag of water that they threw back where all water came from, then they had a bladder bag of air where the weather came from … all these stories are part of those ethics principles that we look at. Now when we look at climate change and what’s happening today, we see all these things that are happening and then we look at the stories and think maybe it’s the time when they are throwing the water bladder back, but what harm came to us why we have to throw the bladder bag of water back and how are we going to survive from it and those are the questions that will come, that we need to answer through those stories also with direction of mandate on how we move ahead to survive in the environment we live in through the ceremonies and the stories connected together. David: honoring ‘sanctified kindness’ So, when we honor sanctified kindness, what are the consequences of that?

24  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman Reg: honoring ‘sanctified kindness’ Well, I listened to the old people in ceremonies. Honoring sanctified kindness is a concept where you don’t deny Creator’s existence. So, when you do that then you follow the natural laws and the protocols from the natural laws, you follow that and what’s bestowed upon you is 100 years of survival. That’s why we always pray for 100 years. Those are the consequences of honoring those principles. David: sustainability Sustainability (Right!), you get to keep going in a good way! (Right!) So that is lived out through, or demonstrated through, our relationships in the human and, as one author David Abrams (1997) calls, the ‘more-​than-​human-​world’ (Um hum). That idea, in the human and the more-​than-​human-​world, so even though I may pick this plant and use it, or hunt that creature to eat it, there’s a certain set of behavioral principles and ethical values that are guiding my actions, that come back from that. Reg: follow nature’s laws and it will look after us; deer permit Right. We follow, we honor natural laws in the environment and they will look after us. Life is environment and environment is life; it will look after us. As it looks after us, think about the concept of a hunting permit.We can get a permit from the government to hunt the deer that will feed our family. But we look at the mandate of getting a permit to hunt animals as it had to come from the deer. So the sanctified kindness in the circle that we put together, the deer are a part of that circle so we ask the deer following the same, honoring the same protocols and procedures; they honor them too and asking them to help us survive and through honor they’ll let us … we’ll be given a song to hunt the deer. Now that song depending on the circumstances with the assessors or the ceremonial people in a Tipi … can allow you to kill one deer or a large number of deer. That would be decided by those people in that sanctified kindness smudge in that circle. But following those principles and not denying Creator’s existence you’re going to be looked after for 100 years, which is sustainability. David: sustainability flows from ethics So, the sustainability flows from our ethics, and our behaviors (Right) in our relationship with everything else. Reg: because you can’t survive by yourself Because you can’t survive by yourself.That’s why in our tribes we have to come together. If I’m part of tribe, let’s say the Piikani First Nation, it’s made up of

Invitation to ethical space  25 eight bands, and each of those bands has a song. So, my wife came from the Padded Saddles band. Now the Padded Saddles is one of eight songs that make up our tribe. She danced under that song when she was growing up but when she decided to come and marry me, she let go of that song and she danced under the Fights-​Among-​Themselves band; that song became her membership and today she’s recognized under that song. However, if I did something wrong to my band, really bad, the song can be taken away, and if the song is taken away then I become a strange element to that band and if I don’t find a way into another band then I become an enemy of all the bands, so I can’t survive by myself. I need to follow the protocols to try and get into another band. It’s like Canada denying you a Canadian citizenship. That’s what the songs are all about when you can’t go into that band … again, those songs are related to the protocols of the ethical space in which we come together to make decisions and fulfil our mandates. David: deer song Speaking about the song of the deer, which gives the permit or permission to take the life of the deer under a certain set of circumstances, originally that song would have come from the deer itself? Reg: buffalo hunting song The deer itself. In one of our Creation stories there was a man that was supernatural … rounded up all the buffalo and hid them in a cave; and our hero, his name is Napi, Napi came to our band and said he’ll find the buffalo. He did go out and find the buffalo; that was where Napi brought the spirit of the buffalo back … that was the knowledge story, but in the physical concept the band wasn’t finding buffalo and were close to starting to run out of meat. So, a woman went down to the river to get water and as she was getting water, she started back to her camp thinking about if the hunters were going to get buffalo. All of a sudden, she hears in the bush (singing) so she looked around. But the sound is what Creator gave to this creation of the Earth, Ochkomi … she couldn’t understand the language so she started looking around and then she found where the wind was hitting the trees where the buffalos were brushing their winter fur off and that sound came from that. So, when she looked there, there was a stone there that was an effigy of a buffalo so she took that stone and took that hair off and put it together and she heard (Reg sings Iniiskim song). So, the first part she heard just a sound then second part actually told her directions, ‘I’ll feed you my body it’s holy treat it holy’ (Hmmm). So, she took the song and the fur and went and asked for the hunters, the Elders, the old people that were hunters and asked for a truthing smudge. Then she brought this stone, the buffalo fur and the song. Then they took the song as a permit, they gave the song to the hunters and the hunters went out and they found buffalo.

26  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman David: permit and relationship So, to get that permit from that being you have to be in relationship with it, and you have to be in the right relationship with it. Reg: read the buffalo; Food Safety Act You have be able to read the buffalo, you have to know how to kill the buffalo the right way, you have to know how to process the meat and you have to know to bring the meat back to that original ceremony to get it certified as safe for all the humans to eat in your camp or in your family. So that’s our parallel to the Food Security (Safety) Act in Canada. David: human identity There are a couple things that come up for me in this conversation. One is about that relationship in the long term.The other is about identity, our identity as human beings, connected with all these other relatives (beings) in this landscape. What does it tell us about what it means to be humans in that context? Reg: human identity To be human in that circumstance is that you’re a part of all the environment, you’re not isolated from it; and, being a part of the environment, that’s what you need to survive, that’s life. So, we need to honor the system of mandate and governance that comes from that environment through the smudge, through the logic and heart, to become assessors to assess the situation and give out the sources of directions on how we need to survive, but also to understand the consequences of dishonoring that system. David: 100 years sustainability analogue So, we’d spoken about 100 years, it’s a kind of analogue for sustainability (Um hum). One hundred years is a long time, it’s a few generations and hopefully the next generations will honor that and keep it going. So, in the context of today’s world we’ve seen how the ability of people to exercise that capacity has been curtailed. We often hear about self-​determination, but one could say that while we may have it in principle, if one doesn’t have the tools to exercise it, it won’t mean much. So, self-​sufficiency and self-​determination must be connected (Um hum). Reg: sustainability is self-​determination for all When I look back at the stories of the old time, when we talk about 100 years, and we’re looking at self-​determination to live that 100 years, but that’s for all

Invitation to ethical space  27 our relations! That’s the animals, plants and humans all together is that 100 years. So, each individual part of that environment has their own self-​determination. When we’re looking at that concept of all surviving together, those mandates and those systems tie us together where we’re a part of each other to survive that 100 years. Those are the resources we needed. So, when they traveled, they followed seasonal round, they followed and sheltered in areas where the seasonal climates told them to shelter, they followed the governance in the systems that made them part of that environment to survive; all those work together. But all of a sudden after we signed treaties, we were allotted sections of land that we couldn’t leave, and when we couldn’t leave then that cut off our connections to the land, to all the animals, and even the concept of self-​ determination because our Sundances and ceremonies were outlawed. So, our governance to look at self-​determination wasn’t allowed. We had to depend on what the Queen brought together in writing and Western governance, and that’s where I see the split of what we looked at as self-​determination and how a different system of self-​determination imposed on who we are and our children got caught in the middle. So, when our children got caught in the middle, they were all assimilated to the Western default system. So today when they look at self-​determination it’s from a different default system rather than what they hear from the Elders. David: reconciliation from the land So not coming from natural law, it’s coming from colonial law. (Right) It really seems that if reconciliation is going to be a reality it’s gotta come back to the land. Reg: land acknowledgment I look at the land acknowledgment. I’m glad they have that, it’s a direction in reconciliation, but to me as an Indigenous person that land acknowledgment allows me to not deny Creator’s existence. It allows me to be a part of the environment, or in acknowledgment that I am part of the environment. David: affirming Affirming Creator, affirming me, affirming the land and that relationship. Reg: property model clash Right, that’s relation I look at. But some meetings I went to across the country, as soon as I went into a board room with an agenda, the topic of land acknowledgment became a different topic because one chairman stood up and talked and said I’m not going to use the land acknowledgment because I refuse to get into a battle or discussion for land claims.

28  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman David: purpose of territorial recognition So, they didn’t understand the purpose of the acknowledgment. (Exactly) They saw it from a private property perspective, rather than a perspective of sanctified kindness (Right). It seems people need to learn what is the foundational principle of a territorial recognition. Wherever I’ve gone I observe Indigenous peoples doing this when they first show up, or when they speak publicly saying, ‘Thank you for being in the territory of…’ (Um hum), recognizing whoever are the cultural, spiritual or hereditary authorities of the land (Right), so now I can go forward in a good way (Right), in an ethical space (Yeah). So, we carry the ethical space with us and enter in the ethical space of someone else and in the mutual recognition you get the shared ethical space (Um hum, and sanctified kindness) that flows in all directions for everybody (Right, right). Reg: entering someone else’s territory Like my dad. When we used to go to Cree territory and we’re Blackfoot, soon as we get into Cree territory the first thing we’d seek out is a Cree ceremonialist … My dad when we used to go to Cree territory, he would seek out a Cree medicine man or an Elder from the Cree authorities or mandate. My dad would ask for a pipe ceremony and a song that allowed him to be in the territory. So the Elder would bring his family together or the community together and they would have their pipe ceremony but he would always sing, whether it’s his song or the band’s song, to my dad, and then we were able to stay in that community because that was our … permit or passport to be in that territory. So, when we look at it that’s how we were able to work with all different First Nations around our territory that lived around the Blackfoot. Those different geographic territories that have different Creation stories and different languages … in order to enter them we have a basic understanding of asking for a ceremony, which is the smudge, an individual ceremonialist and a song to validate so that I can be in that territory. It’s the same when the other First Nations come into our territory, that’s what they seek. So those are the basic principles of how we use the oral principles of practice to be able to have commerce, trade, discussions and so on. David: ethical values, clash of values and land There’s a clash of values; we referenced this earlier. I’ve often seen it as one system which believes they can own the land and another which recognizes that the land owns us (Right). When you look at the values that unfold from those two propositions they may not necessarily align. (Not only values but practices) … The practices are guided by the ethical values. (Right) So what are the ethical values that flow from sanctified kindness, what are they?

Invitation to ethical space  29 Reg: code of conduct Exactly! So, when we look at sanctified kindness, those are the Seven Sacred Brothers that we draw on our tipis that protect what happens in the floor plan of the circle inside of the tipi. Those are how we might look at as a ‘code of conduct’, how we have to act with those ethical pieces in sanctified kindness through the smudge. David: values Could you say what are those values that come from that, are they a value of sharing, a value of respect? Reg: ethical values All the ethical values, respect, honor, trust, saying the truth, all those wisdom and ethical values. It also balances there with respect and disrespect, when you look at those values, so you police yourself. David: sustainability/​100 years and cultural analogues The sustainability, the 100  years, flows from honoring those ethical values (Right), from where they come and the relationships that we live them through … If we’re going to move towards shared ethical space in the context of sustainability, if sustainability is maybe the last hold-​out for moving towards reconciliation, what is the work that goes into being able to empower or enact that space. You’ve often spoken of cultural analogues as a way for bringing people together, would that be part of the work? Reg: systems that allow us to come together It’s important to bring people together … but in order to bring people together we need to build systems that will allows us to come together  –​ systems that will allow us to recognize how we build trust and respect back that we lost. This is where we have to look at how can we culturally interpret systems; how can we enter into system-​to-​system protocols so we can culturally interpret and translate systems to find best practices to move ahead or parallels that allow us to move ahead. Right now, we have the default system of the written system but we’re not really moving as fast or in the direction at all that the Calls to Action call for. So, we need to give them protection, and the protection is going to be writing … (we need) to understand writings like the Treaty, the Constitution, court cases for Indigenous peoples, UNDRIP,13 those documents are their protections to be able to start looking at cultural parallels (Um hum). Right now, they don’t see those as a protections (Yeah, they seem as a threat!), right, they refuse to step out of their systems to do any

30  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman translating. So that’s why I always say we need to look at our cultural processes and culturally translate and interpret them into the Western written system so that they have something to read and that they can trust and maybe start making inroads. If we just keep going with our smudges and our circles, they’ll participate to know of them but they won’t place themselves there. They won’t be able to say, ok, this is a protected area and I’ll enter it as ethical space; they’ll know of them and they’ll be aware of them but they won’t move on them.The only time they’re going to move on them is if they can be brought into a board room and they use their own protections to impose on those systems again. So, what I’m looking at is how do we culturally translate and interpret our default system, our oral system, in those Western languages so that they can start understanding. So, when we talk about awareness it’s real awareness … David: foundational shared teachings You had spoken earlier to different traditions of Indigenous peoples in North America, and that although they are from different places with different languages there may be shared foundational teachings or principles. Reg: principles of oral practice I would say there are shared foundational oral practices we all recognize like the call to order which is a smudge, somebody to lead which is a ceremonialist, and a song which is a physical document of whatever you received (like) ownership or validation. So, when we look at principles of oral practice, those are three practices I can think of right now that we take into other verbal societies that allow us to communicate, along with stories. David You had spoken about the Seven Grandfathers and Grandmothers and Seven Brothers (All coming from the same origin, the Dipper), so they are all coming from the same basic place but get expressed differently (Because of the geographical location) because of the environment. Reg Yes, because of the environments, which are their natural law. David Well there’s a lot more to discuss (Laughing) but for now I  think we’ll say, Sukaapi!

Invitation to ethical space  31 Reg Sukaapi!

Reflections upon the discussion In this final section we reflect upon the above dialogue, drawing foundational principles towards an indigenized approach to sustainability. Numerous topics emerge from our discussion. These can be organized into broad theme areas with sub-​themes holding implications for ethical values to help inform our understanding of sustainability as a shared space for reconciliation. The theme areas we put forward include: i) creation, relations and Ginmapiipitsin, the spirit of sanctified kindness for all; ii) natural law and ethics framed in the axiom life is environment, environment is life; iii) insight into human identity, articulated in the axiom we are the land; iv) cultural analogues for sustainability with shared purpose and self-​determination for all. Each of these four foundational theme areas is addressed below, followed by concluding remarks. Creation and relations: Ginmapiipitsin –​sanctified kindness for all Everything in nature, all of Creation, is connected. We are all related. The idea that ‘you can’t survive by yourself ’ is grounded in an unequivocal common cause:  ‘we all need each other to survive’. Beyond any practical utilitarian nature of such relationships, there is a palpable intimacy to these connections. This intimacy is founded in or expressed through the Indigenous, Piikani principle of Ginmapiipitsin, which could be translated as ‘sanctified kindness for all’. ‘Sanctified kindness’ is a Western word I  use to translate Ginmapiipitsin, but the concept of Ginmapiipitsin came from a kindness and a survival that we all need each other to survive. The animals need us, the bugs need the animals, and everybody needs the air and so on, so we all need each other to survive; so that sanctified kindness is a part of that. Ginmapiipitsin is a principle expressed in nature through all Creation. It is ‘the Creator in the land’. Directly related to our immediate and long-​term survival, and therefore to our sustainability, there is a tangibly numinous quality to Ginmapiipitsin as the ‘invisible shared space that we all share’, bringing a sense of the sacred to the land and all our relationships within it. Thus, Ginmapiipitsin keeps us connected with our relatives, both human and non-​human, and is something ‘we carry within us’ that is ‘part of our invisible connection to Creator’. Ginmapiipitsin also guides our actions and behaviors to honor and be in harmony with natural law. there’s a kindness when we look at, for example, mandate … that came from the environment (and) gave us principles or protocols we have to

32  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman follow, and those protocols have consequences if we break them, and if we break those protocols the consequences are also a part of the sanctified kindness. Ginmapiipitsin is therefore a basis for ethics founded in principles of natural law. So, when we look at those as our natural laws, part of our validation and earning validation would say that everything created has songs: the winged ones, and the plants, and the animals, and the humans, and wind, the whole environment has songs. So that gives everybody authority to exist, and that’s where the concept of having relatives comes, not only with humans, but with the environment itself: relative-​making. We consider this theme of ethical principles founded in natural law and their implications further below. Natural law and ethics: life is environment, environment is life ‘We are part of the land and the land is part of us’, so when we perceive the environment, we realize that life is environment and environment is life. The word ‘environment’ may be a limiting term in this case. In the worldview described by traditional Western science, ecosystems have both living biological and non-​ living abiotic components. Within the Indigenous perspective shared above all of nature is alive  –​not just people, animals and plants, but also rocks, rivers, mountains and storms. Such thinking is embedded in the language and evolved over thousands of years of direct experience with nature. Our Creation stories allow us to understand the environment that we are a part of … and to participate in that environment. As we participate in that environment, this is what I would understand as natural laws … Creator created the people or animals that walked on two legs, the animals with wings that fly, … that walk on four legs, the plants you give ’em water and sun, they’re gonna grow; it’s our interaction with that environment that we look at as natural laws. Thus, natural law is revealed through our direct experience of the land; perhaps this is not unlike Western science in some respect with its laws of nature, which are arrived at through observation and deduction. Yet, whereas traditional Western science typically addresses only that which can be measured in time and space and does not recognize that which lies outside such material realms, traditional Indigenous knowledge systems bring an understanding to the physical word of that which cannot be measured in time and space to foster meaning and value for that which can (Lertzman, 2010). In other words, we share this physical world, this living space, yet bring different understandings to our experience of it. These understandings are based in different philosophies,

Invitation to ethical space  33 values and practices representing parallel, potentially complementary traditions (Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005). The question remains, how does this shared space become an ethical one, one for sustainability and reconciliation? Answers to the above question can be found in part within natural law. Our behaviors, individually and collectively, have consequences. There are consequences when we honor natural law, and consequences when we dishonor natural law. If we go against natural law we are out of integrity with its protocols and dictates; we deny the Creator and dishonor Creation with potentially catastrophic results from the environment itself. it’s going to be the environment … If we settle a dispute through the Thunder Pipe that’s a contract, which if we break the natural consequences are going to be that the Thunder can take my life, the Thunder can take my child’s life, the Thunder can also take my relative’s life. What, then, would it look like to honor natural law, and what are the results when we follow it? I listened to the old people in ceremonies. Honoring sanctified kindness is a concept where you don’t deny Creator’s existence. So, when you do that then you follow the natural laws and the protocols from the natural laws, you follow that and what’s bestowed upon you is 100 years of survival. That’s why we always pray for 100 years. Those are the consequences of honoring those principles. … We follow, we honor natural laws in the environment and they will look after us. Life is environment and environment is life; it will look after us … So the sanctified kindness in the circle … following those principles and not denying Creator’s existence you’re going to be looked after for 100 years, which is sustainability. When we follow natural law, honoring its principles, protocols and practices, we are in harmony with nature and nature looks after us. What is bestowed upon us is the ability to continue to live a good life for generations to come –​ in other words: sustainability. Sustainable for nature means sustainable for us; good for nature means good for us. Natural law, with its principles, protocols and practices, thus become a basis for ethics. So, when we embody natural principles, we embody ethical principles; when we follow natural practices, we follow ethical practices. We are living in a good way, sustainably in an ethical space. Human identity: we are the land Living sustainably in an ethical space based on natural law has profound implications not only for how we are, but also for whom we are and what it means to be human.

34  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman To be human in that circumstance is that you’re a part of all the environment, you’re not isolated from it and being a part of the environment that’s what you need to survive, that’s life. So, we need to honor the system of mandate and governance that comes from that environment … through the logic and heart … to survive but also to understand the consequences of dishonouring that system … we’re a part of the land and the land is a part of us. This connection of person and place is not an abstract or primarily intellectual one. It is intimate and deeply personal. Our existence, our identity, our very being, is embedded in the land; it is what makes us who we are and what makes us human. Consequently, we have a personal stake in the good of the whole; I am dependent upon it, and vice versa. My fate and the fate of the land, and all with whom we share it, are bound together. This ontology is ecological and spiritual; it is individual and collective, practical and ethical, immediate and long-​term, human and more than human. This is an offering into an Earth-​ based understanding of what it means to be a human being.This is an invitation to find one’s place, purpose and path upon the Earth. What would this mean, and what would it take, for such a perspective to be shared across cultures, not only for those whose ancestry is Indigenous to these lands, but also for the newcomers who are inheritors and benefactors of a shared colonial history and its outcomes? We must find common cause with shared purpose, drawing strength from our differences while unifying our efforts. Going a little further down the trail of discussion, Reg reflected on the Gaia theory. To the scientific theory that humans are part of a living system, and that the Earth behaves like an organism, Reg replied:  Chachk’um nostum natooye. This Piikani phrase could be translated as, ‘Coming from Creator the whole Earth is a person with a body in whom I live that we need, and we all need each other to survive’.14 The idea of Earth as a person is different from the Gaia theory. The Gaia theory does not involve a Creator, nor does it attribute any sense of sentience to the Earth; yet, the ethical and practical implications are aligned. Humans are individually and collectively part of the Earth’s body and we depend upon her for survival. We also need each other to achieve sustainability; we cannot survive on our own. This shared perspective has profound implications for human identity, including our individual and collective responsibilities. Leaving aside any probing into the meaning of the term ‘Indigenous’ and what constitutes indigeneity, we can certainly agree that we all come from the same place: the Earth. Analogues for sustainability: shared purpose with self-​determination for all At the outset of our discussion we raised the matter of ‘shared purpose’, along with the need to establish trust and respect. We then spoke to the principle of Ginmapiipitsin and the notion of connectedness, that we are all related, and we all need each other to survive.What greater common cause could there be than

Invitation to ethical space  35 in our mutual survival? What more of a compelling purpose could there be than in our shared long-​term sustainability? In terms of sustainability, we spoke of how the 100 years of living in a good way flows from following ethical values based in natural law.The teaching of ‘100 years’ and the concept of sustainability are analogues based in different cultural contexts. Each has specific meanings within and germane to its own cultural context yet carries enough shared sense of meaning to be substantively analogous: cultural analogues. Occidental understanding of sustainable development tends to revolve around the notion of balancing the environment, economy and society with some deeper discussion and debate into the substitution of human-​made capital with natural capital, and the need for socioeconomic and eco-​justice. The Indigenous perspective we shared here is oriented towards ancestral spiritual teachings with ethical principles and values originating in natural law instilling a deep reverence for the Earth with intimate connections to other species. The Western industrial perspective tends to separate humanity, commodifying nature based on the notion of private property with individual ownership. The Indigenous perspective shared here tends to have a more collectivist outlook with a sense of human identity embedded in the land. It seems that much of the history of colonization can be characterized in part as a clash between these two worldviews, one which believes we can own the land and the other based in an understanding that the land owns us. In terms of sustainability, both perspectives seek to harmonize humanity’s impacts within natural processes in a manner that can maintain our quality of life in the long-​term; yet, both have rather divergent philosophical origins that shape our perceptions of nature and humanity’s place within it. Another aspect related to sustainable development is the principle of self-​ determination. Self-​determination is a cornerstone for international law, and human and Indigenous rights. It is signed into hard law for most countries and speaks to the agency or freedom to make choice and determine the course of one’s destiny. Yet, even such a cornerstone concept is bounded by cultural understandings with implications and teachings for sustainability. I look back at the stories of the old time, when we talk about 100 years and we’re looking at self-​determination to live that 100  years … that’s for all our relations! That’s the animals, plants and humans all together is that 100 years. So, each individual part of that environment has their own self-​determination. When we’re looking at that concept of all surviving together, those mandates and those systems tie us together where we’re a part of each other to survive that 100  years. Those are the resources we needed. So, when they traveled, they followed seasonal round … they followed the governance in the systems that made them part of that environment to survive, all those work together. This speaks not just to the principle of self-​determination, but also to the capacity and larger ecological context within which to achieve it. The Piikani

36  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman perspective also upends Western notions of self-​determination as an anthropocentric concept, extending it across all species and aspects of the living ecosystem. Furthermore, the governance mandates and structures function as a part of this larger living system. This seems a challenge for reductionist Western science-​based thought and political systems. But is such thinking entirely outside the realm of plausibility? Is it not conceivable, for example, that sound government policy be framed on the basis of a scientific understanding of natural law in any given ecosystem, with organizational mandates coming from our connections and relationships within that system? To be sure, this might not look like the Piikani way, but such intercultural learning and exchange could provide different pathways into a shared ethical space. We do not expect these cultural approaches to be the same; indeed, it’s the differences between these cultural traditions that make any agreements between them that much more powerful, and their shared spaces so much more potentially transformational (Lertzman, 2010). That the Earth is alive is an old Indigenous teaching, but radically new from a scientific perspective. Industrial society has barely begun to consider the implications of such a proposition, that the entire “human enterprise is a fully embedded completely dependent sub-​system of the ecosphere” (Rees, 2019: p. 144). Mounting evidence and awareness that we are undermining the living systems upon which we and other species depend for our collective survival is attended by the growing realization that in spite of our technical prowess there are real limits to growth as the gulf of inequity widens within and between nations despite our economic performance. William Rees (2019: p. 142), originator of the ecological footprint, admonished,“Our dominant econo-​cultural narrative of perpetual growth and ever-​progressing technology” regards the living Earth “as little more than a static aesthetic backdrop to human affairs”, expanding by consuming that upon which it depends, having already exceeded Earth’s long-​term carrying capacity. Rees concludes that without major transformation, “our present system will crash” (Rees, 2019: p. 145). Awareness of this possibility underscores the shared common purpose of sustainability as an ethical imperative for reconciliation. Therefore, the movement towards reconciling the long-​term interests of industrial-​settler societies with that of Indigenous peoples is a profound cultural transformation unfolding from a shared ethical space founded in the common good of our collective survival and planetary wellbeing. In unifying our common long-​term interests and shared purpose as human beings, it makes sense to engage with guidance, input and leadership from those who provide the longest-​lived examples of sustained human cultures with perennial wisdom founded in thousands of years of collective experience. As we come to terms with our place in the planet and identity as human beings within this larger living being –​ Chachk’um nostum natooye –​we come into awareness that sustainability is not just about addressing our material needs alone. Sustainability must also meet our non-​material needs (Lertzman, 2002), our need for meaning and sense of purpose, which also seems to be a declining resource for many in

Invitation to ethical space  37 consumer-​based industrial society. Perhaps with a greater supply of meaning in our lives and sense of collective purpose, we may be less inclined to inexorably consume the living Earth upon which we depend for our material survival.15 This evokes the invisible quality of the numinous in nature bringing a sense of the sacred to the land and our connection with all living things in the ethical space of Ginmapiipitsin, sanctified kindness for all, as a guiding mandate with all our relations.

Closing thoughts: invitation to ethical space We have suggested that sustainability holds a potential to reconcile long-​ term interests of industrial-​ settler societies with Indigenous peoples. We have maintained that such a reconciliation is not a given, nor will it be easily achieved. The meaning of sustainable development will have to be re-​thought and re-​imagined; it will need to be decolonized and indigenized to emerge as a shared space between cultures. We also maintained that such shared ethical spaces will unfold through processes of authentic intercultural dialogue and exchange, and that these shared spaces offer the possibility for new insights into human identity and purpose, with emergent outcomes across cultures to address shared challenges of sustainability. To this end, we have provided an example of such a dialogue ranging around themes of sustainability, reconciliation and ethics. The purpose of our dialogue has been to provide a reflective basis from which to draw foundational principles to inform sustainability from an indigenized, in this case Piikani Blackfoot, perspective towards a shared ethical space for reconciliation. Reflecting on our discussion we have drawn out four broad axiological themes to help animate values for an indigenized approach to sustainability. These include: i) creation, relations and Ginmapiipitsin –​the spirit of sanctified kindness for all; ii) natural law and ethics, framed in the axiom life is environment, environment is life; iii) insight into human identity, articulated in the axiom we are the land; and iv) cultural analogues for sustainability with shared purpose and self-​determination for all. In receiving these teachings, we hope others will be affirmed and informed, inspired and empowered to seek their own insights, generate new understandings and nurture ongoing dialogue in their own areas of Mother Earth. We have sought to role-​model authentic intercultural engagement in dialogue on shared critically important topics of relevance to sustainability and reconciliation through an ethical frame. We invite others to replicate similar processes in their areas to come up with their own insights grounded in authentic dialogue with the cultural governance and spiritual authorities of their territories. While we anticipate that others engaging in such a dialogic process may arrive at similar or even shared themes and insights, ours is of a particularly Piikani-​influenced perspective. Thus, we expect diverse cultural perspectives to emerge from such dialogues in different areas along with shared foundational values. This notwithstanding, authentic intercultural dialogue and

38  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman exchange exposes us to values, philosophies and practices, to ways of knowing and being, outside our typical cultural terrain. Such experiences can challenge our perceptions. The numinous nature of the Creator in the land and the invisible space we all share, that the land is sacred, that plants have agency and animals’ self-​determination, may all be challenging propositions for one with a worldview informed by Western science. Yet, such culturally based ways of thinking will also stimulate new insights into ourselves and the world around us that we could not come up with on our own. It is understandable that people from different cultural backgrounds and traditions may not always agree, nor should we be expected to.As we mentioned, it is the differences that make our agreements that much more powerful and potentially transformational. Given the history and persisting impacts of colonization, there are many challenges to overcome if we are to achieve reconciliation in the context of sustainability. Yet from different pathways we can align on core values, shared purpose and ethical practice. No one culture may have all the answers to the unprecedented ecological, socioeconomic and philosophical challenges currently facing humanity, yet every culture has unique and irreplaceable contributions to make, with greater answers to be found in the shared spaces between cultures. The smudge is an ethical space that is protected. That ethical shared space is a safe space where we can come together to understand one another. Even this document is an ethical space, because we both feel safe to share and understand each other using our interaction with natural law to protect what we have put together. So, with physical evidence of our truthing, into this ethical space we invite you…

Notes 1 Whereas industrialized nations like Canada, the United States and those in Europe have ecological footprints ranging from 5 to 12 hectares (ha.) per capita, the global per-​capita fair share of available biocapacity is 1.8 ha. While the current global average per-​capita ecological footprint is about 2.7 ha., those living in the world’s poorest countries have ecological footprints of less than 1 ha. per capita (Rees, 2002; Rees and Wackernagel, 2013). William Rees (2002), creator of the ecological footprint, has suggested that with prevailing technology it would take an additional three Earth-​like planets to bring world population to the material standards enjoyed by Canada. See also the Global Footprint Network: www.footprintnetwork.org/​ en/​index.php/​GFN/​. 2 For example, it has been estimated that over half the world’s remaining mineral resources may be located in the territories of Indigenous peoples. See the introduction to Doyle’s (2015) monograph, Indigenous Peoples,Title to Territory, Rights and Resources, an excellent resource for further study. 3 Miller (2005, 2011) provides worthwhile overview and detailed examination of the Doctrine of Discovery with particular relevance to the law in the United States. Reid (2010) offers a treatment with particular relevance to the law in Canada.

Invitation to ethical space  39

Figure 1.1 Author’s invitation to ethical space. Photograph: Jazhart Studios. 4 The term ‘genocide’ was coined by Polish-​Jewish lawyer and Holocaust survivor Raphael Lemkin in his influential work Axis Rule in Occupied Europe (1944); his drafting and stalwart efforts also led to the United Nations Genocide Convention. Although the term became known due to its association with the genocide of Nazi Germany, it is clear from Lemkin’s published, and particularly unpublished, works (Docker, 2004; McDonnell and Moses, 2005) that he equated genocide and colonization. On page one of Axis Rule he wrote, “Genocide has two phases: one, destruction of the national pattern of the oppressed group; the other, the imposition of the national pattern of the oppressor” (Lemkin, 1944: p. 1). Lemkin defended through earlier drafts of the UN Genocide Convention the term cultural genocide, meaning “the destruction of the cultural pattern of a group … But there was not enough support for this idea … So with a heavy heart I decided not to press for it…” (cited in Docker, 2004: p. 3, in reference to Lemkin’s autobiography, Totally Unofficial Man). 5 Examples include: the Bougainville Conflict over mining in Papua New Guinea from the late 1980s to the 1990s; expulsion and internment of Penan peoples due to deforestation in the Sarawak region of Borneo in Malaysia since the mid-​ 1980s; oil conflict in the Niger Delta largely with Ogoni people from the early 1990s into the twenty-​first century; conflict with various Indigenous Amazonians in Bagua, Peru in 2009 and more recently in Puyo, Ecuador in response to consultation issues related largely to petroleum and mining; confrontations between police and Mi’kmaq people of New Brunswick, Canada over fracking in 2013; ongoing conflict related to expansion of palm oil in Indonesia and Malaysia;

40  Reg Crowshoe and David Lertzman ongoing opposition to the Bello Monte Dam by numerous Indigenous peoples on the Xingu River of Brazil; ongoing opposition to the Site C Dam by Treaty 8 First Nations of Canada; opposition to petroleum pipeline construction and tanker traffic in large projects across Western Canada including the Northern Gateway by multiple Coastal First Nations, the Trans-​Mountain Pipeline and Coastal Gas Link with arrests of Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs; organized opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline by Standing Rock Sioux and allies; ongoing concerns and opposition by Navajo people related to uranium mining in the United States. 6 Examples include: agreements with mining companies and Aboriginal peoples in central Australia; agreements between Dene people and the diamond mining industry in Canada’s Northwest Territories; collaborative economic development initiatives with Treaty 8 First Nations and the petroleum industry in Alberta, Canada; numerous examples in Canada of collaboration with the forestry industry across the Boreal and Coastal Temperate Rainforest; agreements of Sakhalin Island Indigenous peoples with the petroleum industry in coastal Siberia, Russia. 7 Whereas growth refers to physical or quantitative change entailing an increase in size, development denotes qualitative change characterized by capacity building and system enhancement. 8 Listen to Chief Oren Lyons in the YouTube video, ‘We Are Part of the Earth’. www. youtube.com/​watch?v=bSwmqZ272As. 9 From the video, ‘Pimachihowin: Living with the Land’. This video introduces Boreal Cree concepts as cultural analogues for consultation and accommodation to engage a broader discussion on cultural sustainability; viewable on Vimeo: https://​vimeo. com/​147150995. 10 In his work Magic, Science, Religion and the Scope of Rationality, cultural anthropologist S. J.Tambiah addresses some of the key philosophical and methodological challenges for the commensurability of cultural analogues in creating bridges of understanding towards an intercultural shared space. 11 This is a reference to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada and their 94 Calls to Action (2015). 12 ‘Smudge’ refers to the ceremonial burning of sacred herbs and medicines used typically for blessing, purification and the ‘call to order’ for entering ethical space. 13 This is a reference to the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). 14 This conversation occurred some months after the original dialogue when reviewing its written form. It can be tricky translating such concepts. For example, ‘coming from the Creator’ could also be translated as, ‘holy’ or ‘sacred’. Delineating cultural analogues is typically labor-​intensive work. 15 The idea of substituting meaning with consumption can be found in Jürgen Habermas’ treatise on crisis tendencies in advanced capitalism, Legitimation Crisis. “Meaning is a scarce resource … becoming even scarcer” (1975: p. 73). As meaning becomes increasingly scarce, it must be increasingly replaced with values derived through material consumption to maintain legitimacy of the state. This idea can be reversed drawing from ecological economics proposing that perhaps we could offset our collective demand on natural capital with a great supply of meaning in the form of social and cultural capital (Lertzman and Vredenburg, 2005), thus leading to the

Invitation to ethical space  41 notion of qualitative development, or the meaning-​based economy. For a more robust discussion, see D. A. Lertzman (1999).

References

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2  Coyote learns commerce Joseph Scott Gladstone

Introduction Commerce has been practiced by Native people for a very long time (Cowie, 1993; Frantz, 1999; Gladstone, 2013, 2018; Miller, 2008; Stern, 1993), yet there appears to be community apprehension for tribal members to engage in enterprise activities as private individuals (Frantz, 1999; Gallagher and Selman, 2015; Garsombke and Garsombke, 2000; Gladstone, 2013, 2018; Miller, 2008; Stewart and Schwartz, 2007). Part of this apprehension could be grounded in a belief that Native people who choose to participate in what is understood as Western capitalism are stepping away from a strong traditional Native value for embracing community (Frantz, 1999; Garsombke and Garsombke, 2000; Gladstone, 2013, 2018). This chapter draws from and presents research exploring the philosophical foundations for contemporary business practices performed by individual Native American people in the United States (Gladstone, 2018). It presents this work by embracing a Native teaching style by telling a Coyote story presented in a modern style (Verbos, Kennedy and Gladstone, 2011) to illustrate a Native American trading spirit. Through this trickster story metaphor, which draws from interview transcripts with practicing Native American businesspeople (Gladstone, 2012), links between American Indian values and modern-​day business practices performed by Native people (Gladstone, 2018) are revealed. This chapter is useful for illustrating Native American values for practicing commercial enterprise. The Coyote story presented in this chapter is inspired by and draws from interviews with Native American business practitioners as part of an academic project exploring guiding philosophies for conducting business in a Native way (Gladstone, 2012). This chapter offers a novel approach to help business students understand and resolve this modern-​day problem that practicing trade as Native individuals alienates them from traditional tribal values.The goal for this chapter is to demonstrate that Native people inherently embrace traditional Native values and that they can express these traditional values through their business practices.

46  Joseph Scott Gladstone Being a Coyote story, the lesson is open-​ended so that the readers can have the opportunity to reflect on what they read. A note on commerce and enterprise During the 2018 annual meeting of the Native, Aboriginal and Indigenous Peoples Caucus of the Academy of Management (the Caucus), a discussion arose about the cultural challenge of using the terms capitalism and entrepreneurship within Indigenous culture (NAIPC, 2018). The discussion raised concerns about and considered cultural apprehensions among Indigenous people when using the terms capitalism and entrepreneurship within Indigenous contexts, primarily because these words can represent colonialism. The Caucus considered that for some Native and Indigenous people, practicing entrepreneurship means embracing capitalism. Embracing capitalism means surrendering to Western imperialism. Members of the Caucus suggested that this might be a key reason why many Native and Indigenous communities discourage entrepreneurial activities among their community members. To practice entrepreneurship means to step outside of community identity and values. The discussion about this matter was quite lively, the end result being that the Caucus will encourage its members to use terms it believes are more appropriate for Native and Indigenous communities –​words that carry the same meaning as capitalism (in the simple economic sense) and entrepreneurship, yet disassociate these activities from a history of Western influence through colonialism. The terms agreed on by the Caucus are commerce, enterprise and enterprisers. When appropriate, these terms will be used throughout this chapter when discussing commerce and enterprise in the Native and Indigenous sense. A note on the word Native The word Native is used here to represent the Indigenous people of North America. The choice for this single word over the more common vernaculars Native American and American Indian is inspired by the Native philosopher Gerald Vizenor (1994), who states that the single word Native best represents a living story describing experiences shared among the modern Indigenous people of North America.

Coyote learns commerce Coyote was walking along when he noticed that when he blew into one end of a hollow stick he was carrying, he was able to create a pleasant sound. He blew into the stick for some time and he noticed that the sound changed as he rotated and adjusted the stick. One day, Bird landed next to Coyote and listened to him as he was blowing into the hollow stick.

Coyote learns commerce  47 “Your stick makes an interesting sound,” said Bird. “Yes. I am quite pleased with it,” Coyote replied. “Could be better,” Bird said back. Now, Coyote wasn’t one to accept advice he didn’t ask for, but he was curious about what Bird had to say to him. “How could it be better?” he asked Bird. “I can teach you, Coyote,” Bird said. “But right now, I am rather hungry. Do you have anything I could eat?” Coyote did have some berries in his satchel, and he gave some to Bird. “This is a fair trade,” said Bird. “I will teach you how to play your flute better.” And through trading berries with Bird for a flute-​playing lesson, Coyote first discovered commerce –​the general definition for commerce being the trade of goods and services among people. Coyote completed a fair trade, meaning that both he and Bird were satisfied that what they received from each other was worth what they gave to one another. Mouse introduces money Coyote was walking along and playing his flute when he came across Mouse. “That sounds nice,” Mouse said. “I am rather good at this, am I not?” Coyote replied. “How did you learn to do that?” Mouse asked. “Bird taught me.” “What did you give Bird in exchange for her wisdom?” “She was happy with the berries I had with me.” “It sounds like you are happy with what she gave to you in exchange.” “I am a very good flute player. Am I not?” “I’ve heard better,” Mouse replied, to keep Coyote humble. Mouse added, “Do you think it was fair that you only gave Bird some berries for the lessons she taught you?” “She seemed happy,” Coyote said. “What do you have to trade with somebody else who doesn’t need berries?” Coyote tipped his head. He didn’t understand what Mouse was saying. Mouse added, “What do you have to trade the next time you need something?”

48  Joseph Scott Gladstone Coyote thought for a moment about what he had with him. He then took off his satchel and began taking things out of it. “I have some really neat rocks I found on the trail. And some shells I found on the beach.” He dug further into his satchel. “I have some more berries. Some chokecherries.” He curiously stared at an object, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed it. “And some dried salmon.” He continued to look into his bag. “Oh. I  have a little bit of blanket that I  saved after that incident with Okotoks. And a knife.” He looked up at Mouse. “I don’t want to give that up,” he added. Mouse watched as Coyote dug through his satchel and called out the other items he carried with him, mostly trinkets, snacks, and an abnormally great number of coffee mugs. As she watched Coyote spread out many mugs between them, she gave him a curious look he understood. “For some reason people like to give me coffee when they want to hear my stories,” he said to her. “And you never gave them back their mugs?” “My stories are worth more than just black water.” “What are you going to do with all of these mugs?” Mouse asked. Coyote pursed his lips as he prepared to answer, but after a short moment he held his head down and said, “I don’t know.” Mouse looked around her home and saw that her only two coffee mugs were old and chipped. “I need two new mugs.”

Coyote learns commerce  49 “What do you have to trade for them?” Coyote asked. He was eager to lighten the load from his satchel. Mouse replied, “I could offer you coffee.” Coyote quickly replied, “I already had too much coffee today. Six of those mugs are new since sun-​up. Anthropologists really like to give away coffee for my stories.” Mouse laughed, but Coyote didn’t know why. “Let me give you something better that you can use.” She got up and walked over to a box kept near a cabinet. “I don’t need a box; I have my satchel,” Coyote said as he watched Mouse bring the box to the table. “And I don’t want to give you my box, Coyote. I need it,” she replied. Mouse opened the box and took out some colored paper and metal disks. “What is that?” Coyote asked. His curiosity piqued, he held his ears erect and sniffed at the paper. “You’ve been on the trail too long, Coyote,” Mouse said amusingly. “This is money. It’s what’s being used these days to make things easier to trade. Many, many others are using it.” “Money?” Coyote asked, still unsure how anybody not needing paper or metal disks would want to trade for them. Mouse thought for a few seconds to figure out how to explain money to Coyote. She then said, “Money is what we use to do trade with others. And while this looks like paper and metal disks, neither are that easy to get. Most others do something in exchange for getting this paper and these disks. Others will make things or do some kind of work –​services –​in exchange for these things.” “But why do others want these things and not the things they need?” Coyote asked, adding, “Bird needed berries and I needed to learn how to play my flute. We got what we needed.” “But what if all you had was just your coffee mugs or dried meat?” Mouse asked. “Bird doesn’t eat meat or drink coffee.” “Well, I was thinking about telling Bird that I was going to roast her if she didn’t teach me how to play my flute.”

50  Joseph Scott Gladstone Mouse gave Coyote a very stern look. Coyote squirmed in his seat; he knew he had said something he should not have said. “Oh.That’s right. I’m not supposed to do things like that anymore. So? What was I supposed to do? Give her these papers and metal pieces?” “That’s how money works, Coyote,” Mouse replied. “How? I don’t get it. And do you have coffee? I think I need it now.” While they talked over coffee, Mouse gave Coyote a very simple lesson in microeconomics. She taught him that money in its simplest form is a way to make trade easier for everybody. She taught Coyote that money represents something valuable, something with worth. But unlike songs, berries, and coffee mugs, the value was universal; the sheets of paper and metal disks –​cash and coins –​themselves were things that could continuously be traded for something that the holder of the money wanted at that moment. Mouse gave Coyote the example that if he wanted to learn a song from Bird, but he didn’t have berries with him, he could give Bird some of the money, which she could later use to trade for berries, or for something else if she didn’t want berries later, or wanted something more important to her than berries. “How much of this money should I have given her?” Coyote asked. “That is a good question, Coyote,” Mouse replied. “But that is for other stories called marketing and pricing. But for now, just to keep our lesson going, I  will tell you that you give Bird what you both think is fair. And that is usually based on how much others give others for the same thing.” Coyote looked confused, and Mouse saw it. She held up five sheets of paper and continued her lesson. “If all of the other animals are giving each other five sheets of paper for flute lessons, then that is normally what is called market value for that kind of trade.” “Market value,” Coyote repeated so he could remember the term later. “Oh. I think I get it. If everybody is trading five sheets of these papers for flute lessons, then it’s what I should give to Bird.” “Yes,” Mouse replied. “There is much more to it. But for now, let’s stick with this. If you want to learn more about market value, marketing, and pricing, you can come back to me or find somebody who knows this and ask them for help.” “Fair enough,” Coyote said as he stood, put everything but two of the coffee mugs into his satchel, and started to walk toward the door.

Coyote learns commerce  51 Before he stepped out, he turned and asked Mouse another question. “Is trading this way okay? How can I learn to do this in a good way?” “You should ask those who are already doing this kind of trade,” Mouse answered. “Visit Javelina, Tortoise, Badger, Rabbit, Bobcat, and the Buffalo. They have been doing trade on their own for quite a while. They can share their stories and advice with you.” While Coyote had learned to not threaten others to give him the things he wanted, he still had not learned to thank those who gave him help. He only said, “I need about ten of those sheets of paper and some of those coins, too. Then you can have my mugs.” Mouse counted out the money and gave it to Coyote. “A little pricey for the mugs, but I think you need a little bit of money to get you started.” Javelina Coyote was walking along when he smelled food being cooked. He had found Javelina’s enterprise. Javelina owned a restaurant. “Welcome, friend. Please sit anywhere,” Javelina said to Coyote. “What would you like?” “Mouse told me that I should visit you so you could teach me how to do business in a good way.” “Sure, Coyote.” He then moved across from him. “I have been doing this for a long time. I admit that I have no problems doing this, since I discovered that I am good at cooking and many others visit for a meal. What I have is a talent. One that I like to share with others. And they reward me in trade.” Javelina continued. “It is important to know that it’s okay to do trade like this as a Native person. I have heard some teachers in my community tell our youth that we could never be successful as entrepreneurs or businesspeople because we are not greedy like white people. These people tell our youth that the white people are all about making money and making profits and getting, getting, getting, and that goes against our ways of being very giving. They say to our youth that Indian people are very giving. They say we are not greedy like white people.

52  Joseph Scott Gladstone “And I  dispute that, Coyote. Because our forefathers were not destitute or poor people. Also, poor people cannot help poor people. Remember this, Coyote, our forefathers were very wealthy with what they had.They had an abundance to keep them and their family living very well. And I think sometimes today we often see poverty as a sign of being Indian, and I don’t think that’s the right thing.” Coyote nodded his head to let Javelina know that he was listening to his story. Javelina went on. “Giving is actually the fundamental of success in all enterprise. And it has to be. You strive every day to become your very, very best, Coyote. You use your naturally given talents and your craft to be able to make the world a better place. Enterprise is all about being able to give away your best to as many other people as you can and to bring value into their lives. To be able to make their lives happy. And profit is really nothing more than giving beyond expectation.” Coyote by now had taken a notepad from his satchel and was scribbling away. He thought of a question to ask. Which he did. “Is it okay to do enterprise? Isn’t this just a way to call attention to yourself?” Javelina replied, “The most that you can give is not to call attention to yourself, but to be able to give your best to somebody else first. I want to be able to make somebody happy.” He paused in thought before adding, “Delightfully happy beyond expectation. Coyote, I  believe that enterprise is really fundamentally giving your best to as many people as you can to create value in their life. To be able to resolve the problems that they have. We are in the problem-​solving enterprise. When somebody needs our product, it’s because they have a problem in their life. If they are hungry, they have a problem. Or if they need a widget, and they desperately need that widget, they are willing to pay for that widget because they need that widget to solve a problem in their life. “So, Coyote, the very core of enterprise is nothing more than giving your best to other people to create happiness or to create value in their lives.” Javelina added, “This is very much in alignment with Native People being very giving people.” Coyote thought about the lesson that Javelina had given to him. And he gave Javelina money for the meal, plus a coffee mug for the lesson. Tortoise Coyote went to visit Tortoise, who managed a large recreation enterprise. He asked Tortoise the same question he had asked Javelina, if it is okay to do

Coyote learns commerce  53 enterprise as a Native person. If being Native conflicts with running an enterprise. Tortoise shared his story. “Why do I not feel that I am in conflict in terms of who I am as an Indian, and who I am as that Indian business professional? I ask you, Coyote, where are the bridges between these two identities? Why don’t I have a conflict? Why is it that I don’t feel the separation between who I am as an Indian, to be able to walk into the Kiva and participate and pray and do all of the things that we do as tribal people? I don’t believe that what I’m doing in business is violating any of that.” Coyote nodded as he listened. He had another question. “Tortoise, is it possible to build a business in a Native way?” Tortoise replied, “When we look at our business, we have to spend time  looking at our guiding principles as an organization. I  don’t go out and create new guiding principles, I use tribal principles. I use tribal principles especially when it comes to our enterprise’s core values. “Our tribal principles that we teach each other are to love one another, respect one another, understand the way it is, and live our lives by those rules. “Our enterprise’s core principles are not my creation, they are just a restating of what the tribal core values are. I run this enterprise in relation to tribal core values. Our enterprise has five values:  friendliness, cleanliness, integrity, dependability, and honor and wisdom.” “How do you use these values?” Coyote asked. Tortoise replied. “The first thing in preserving your traditions and practices is learning how to pray to the spirit world. How to communicate with the spirit world. You don’t need to put on something to be an Indian. It’s your ability to speak to the spirit world. Each of us as a tribe does it differently. But that is fundamental. “Ask yourself, Coyote, what are the things that you do day-​to-​day that tie you to who you are as an Indian? That’s what helps us in decision-​ making. It’s about how you tell yourself to understand who we are as people. And because the spirit world and the human world coexist, we have to honor each other and respect each other.” Coyote took more notes as Tortoise continued talking. “This not just understanding what you need to do technically for your job. It’s also understanding what’s the right thing to do.” Tortoise paused to think, and continued. “A lot of answering the question about what’s the right thing to do comes from spirituality. It comes from guidance of morals and values and principles. Sometimes, we are taught to rely on the business formula instead of asking if this is really just the right thing to do.

54  Joseph Scott Gladstone “As a tribal enterpriser, Coyote, you have to find balance. We cannot go back and live our world totally according to traditions because a lot of those traditions were based on the economy at the time.” “Economy,” Coyote said to himself, to remember the word. “Things have evolved today. You have to find a way to finely balance your spiritual world, your mental world, and your physical world. This includes your physical health. But it’s not for you to own, because these are blessings that come from the spiritual world. Trying to find a balance between these two worlds is the biggest trick in my life.” In a traditional way, Tortoise closed his conversation at that, leaving Coyote to think about the things he shared with him. Coyote found a mug that he thought Tortoise could use. And he gave him some of his money in case Tortoise wanted more than a mug. Badger As Coyote was walking along, thinking about how to balance who he is as an Indian while still being able to do trade as an enterpriser, he came across Badger. “Hello, Badger!” Coyote said. “Hello, Coyote,” Badger replied. “Word is out that you want to learn how to trade in a good way.” “Yes, I do,” Coyote said. “Take a seat, Coyote. Would you like something to drink?” “Coffee, please, Badger,” Coyote said as he dug through his satchel, and took out two coffee mugs. He placed both on the table. “And you can have some, too.” “Thank you for offering me some of my own coffee, Coyote,” Badger replied. He took the mug closest to Coyote, filled it, and kept it for himself. He then filled Coyote’s mug. After their mugs were filled, Badger lifted his mug to his lips, took a sip, and shared his story. “Doing enterprise in a native way is a process of balance. It is also about egalitarianism.” He took another sip. “The Indian way is also about giving. It doesn’t matter how expensive the item, but it is about giving what you can afford to give. Despite poverty, Native people still have the willingness and openness to give away.”

Coyote learns commerce  55 He sipped again and asked Coyote, “I hear that you are learning about economy.” Coyote’s ears perked up. “Oh! Yes, I am! I heard Tortoise say that word.” “Do you know what that word means?” Badger asked. “No,” Coyote replied. “I was going to find out.” “There is a lot to find out.” Badger took another sip. “In a very, very simple way, economy is about how much you have. And in a funny way, about how little you have.” Coyote just stared at Badger. Confused. Badger saw Coyote’s expression and gave a sly, slightly evil smile. He enjoyed seeing Coyote’s face at that moment. He was eager to see how Coyote was going to react when he added one more thing about economy. “Plus, it’s about how fast whatever you have moves around.” Coyote just blinked. He didn’t understand anything Badger had told him. Badger took a long sip of his coffee as he watched Coyote over the top edge of his mug. “Of course, Coyote, that is a very –​very –​simple way to say something even more complicated.” “Oh,” was all that Coyote could say in response. Badger stood and walked over to his bookshelf. He took down a book titled “Dictionary.” He opened the book, flipped through some pages, and when he found what he was looking for, he placed his finger on the page and read it. “Economy.” He read some words quietly to himself, and then,“Ah.A system especially of interaction and exchange.” He closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and then returned himself to his chair and coffee. Coyote remained quiet, hoping that Badger was going to tell him more. Which Badger did. “Economy is partly about trade, Coyote.”

56  Joseph Scott Gladstone He paused so Coyote could think about what he had just said. “As that book said over there, economy is about a system of interaction and exchange.” He continued. “Right now, Coyote. You came across all of those coffee mugs you are carrying around in that sack of yours. I hear you are giving them away after you talk with others about how to do enterprise.” “Yes. I am,” Coyote replied. “But what will you trade when you run out of coffee mugs?” Coyote hadn’t thought that far ahead, but then remembered, “I have money. Mouse gave me money for some mugs.” “And when you run out of money?” Coyote had no answer. “Economy as it is thought of today is about money. How much we have. And how little we have. Depending on how much we have, we make decisions about what we can spend it on.” “Ah,” Coyote said, more to let Badger know that he heard him –​not so much that he had understood him. “I have only so many pages in this story to teach you about doing enterprise in an Indian way, Coyote. After you hear these stories, you need to learn more about economy. Including the part about how fast money moves around. Knowing this will help you be good at practicing enterprise.” “Ah,” Coyote replied in agreement. “Anyway, Coyote. Like I said, this isn’t the time and place to talk about economy. You need to ask others. I need to talk to you about doing enterprise in the Indian way, which is also about giving. It doesn’t matter how expensive the item, but it is about giving what you can afford to give. Despite poverty, Native people still have the willingness and openness to give away. “This willingness and openness, Coyote, means there’s an economy that assumes plenty, in contrast to an economy that assumes scarcity. Our Native way assumes plenty. There is always plenty to give away. And in our way, it isn’t always about money.We are a social people.We give away our kindness. We help others.” Badger took another sip of coffee and continued. “Social circles and spiritual circles are one and the same. You cannot separate them. The giveaway represents that. We have a collective idealism.

Coyote learns commerce  57 “Trade is about equity. In the old days, the goal was not to make a profit; it was to create something that was equal in the mind of each person. For example, if one person needs a knife and the other person needs arrows, the trade was fair since one person who needs the knife receives the knife and the other person who needs the arrows receives arrows.” “Like when I gave Bird some berries and she gave me a song,” Coyote said. “Yes. Like that, Coyote,” Badger nodded. “But when I go into a convenience store today to buy beans and flour and lard, I not only pay the store owner for what those things cost, I pay him more so he can have a job and he can pay for his place for his enterprise.” Badger paused in thought. “It is important, Coyote, to understand what makes an enterprise healthy. You need to go out and learn that. It’s important to understand what place a healthy enterprise has in our community.This reflects our values. It does not have to be foreign to us. And it does not have to be black-​ and-​white. Either-​or. Scarcity or plenty. “Here is something for you to think about, Coyote. The role of enterprise in Indian communities, whether on-​or off-​reservation, is evolving. The balance has to be formed and it is going to be different for every culture. But, like you, Coyote, we are adaptable.” Badger took a last sip from his coffee, reached for a towel to wipe it off, and set it aside. He then sat upright and closed his conversation with Coyote by saying, “We did not always have horses, but we took to the horse very quickly. We did not have guns, but we learned to use them. We were able to bring these into our collective ideal. The same fits with enterprise.” Rabbit Coyote found Rabbit. She was working on pouring some lotions into bottles. That was her enterprise, selling lotions, soaps, and candles. “Hello, Rabbit.” “Hello, Coyote,” Rabbit said, remaining focused on her task. “Give me a second.You can sit over there.” She used her lips to point to a nearby chair. After she had finished her task, Rabbit took a seat. She lifted the mug Coyote had put beside her, admired it, and placed it aside. She sat and waited for Coyote to speak.

58  Joseph Scott Gladstone Coyote asked, “What got you into your enterprise?” Rabbit replied, “I went into business for independence. Plus, I got tired of eating macaroni and cheese.” She paused a second in thought, and added, “And confidence. I like knowing that I can do this, Coyote.” Coyote asked another question. “Why do you do this kind of enterprise? Is it about economy? Is it about…” He paused to remember the term he learned earlier, “market value?” Rabbit laughed. “No, Coyote. I’m not just putting out a product and pricing it, I’m trying to help people take time to heal themselves. I know that they’re busy. They are moms. They have children and careers. They have husbands. They have many things going on. But they don’t take time to spend on themselves. So, I am trying help them do that with my products.They can use my products and have a spa.Take a bath in it. Use the candles to help them relax.” “But you don’t give these away, Rabbit,” Coyote said. “No. I don’t, Coyote. But I do provide something that I am good at doing, and others are willing to pay me for it.” Coyote thought about what Rabbit had said and then remembered what Badger had taught him earlier. That trade was about equity. And today, when a person goes to a convenience store to buy what they need, they not only pay the store owner for what those things cost, but they pay her more so she can have a job and she can pay for her place for her enterprise. “That sounds fair,” he said. “Coyote,” Rabbit continued, “I promote Native values through my service. Something keeps telling me to not quit. Something keeps pushing me. Do it. Do it. Don’t give up. I passed that stage where I don’t want to give up anymore. I just want to focus on a goal and keep doing it. My business is an extension of my identity, and I want to share my identity with others. Sharing makes me feel good. It is good for my self-​esteem. Other Native women tell me that I have a lot of guts. That I’m doing this. That I’m really dedicated to my business.” Coyote nodded. In just a short visit, Rabbit had taught him a lot about what it means to be a Native enterpriser. He left the mug with Rabbit, and with the money that Mouse had given him, he bought some lotion. Bobcat Coyote was whistling as he walked along. He stopped by the creek for a drink of water and in his reflection he saw that the lotion made his fur look shinier.

Coyote learns commerce  59 He thought about who Mouse had instructed him to visit next, and then walked on to find Bobcat. After asking around, he found Bobcat at work. She was repairing an Elder’s house. “Hello, Bobcat. Mouse said you can teach me about how to do enterprise in a Native way.” “Hi, Coyote. I  know. Word is getting out about you and your curiosity about enterprise in a Native way.” She reached out and took the mug Coyote was offering her. She filled it with water and sat down. She patted on the ground beside her, inviting Coyote to take a seat. Bobcat shared the same things as the others had said about doing enterprise in a Native way. That Native enterprisers know that they are part of their community and that they work to help their communities become better. She said to Coyote, “We leave impressions with people by how we create things. If we start thinking in a circular manner, instead of a linear one, I think that would be more helpful for doing enterprise in a Native way. We want to be proud of what we do. We want to be self-​accountable and be respectful. I think we will benefit more from that. If we don’t become accountable as enterprise owners, we are going to fail. Accountability means not blaming somebody else for our own failures.” Coyote listened and nodded. Bobcat continued. “A Native way of doing work with employees and customers means being mindful of who they are and where they are at. It is important to check and make sure that the other person is okay. When you start treating someone like a robot, you lose respect for that person and their thought processes in the moment.” Bobcat took a drink of water and thought some more. “Let me tell you about ethics, Coyote.” “Ethics.” Coyote always repeated new words so he could remember them later. “I want to create good relationships. I want people to take a look at me and say, ‘you have a heart.’ Ethics is about how you do your work, Coyote. Either you do an excellent job, you do a mediocre job, or you do a bad job. And I know that each individual has their own standard of what is a bad job, what’s possible, or what is good. Ethics is an internal question. I think it is asking,‘how do I want to live today? Do I want to go to sleep tonight because I did a good job on the floor of a little lady that lives

60  Joseph Scott Gladstone in the Pueblo? Do the little bumps just bother me? As she is scooting around in the dark, is she going to trip?’ ” Bobcat paused to allow time for Coyote to think about what she had shared with him. Coyote asked, “Can you do these ethics and still make money? Is that okay?” Bobcat smiled. Coyote had asked a great ethical question. She answered him by saying, “Wealth is individually defined. It is a definition that enterprise owners have to be willing to accept. It’s important to get paid decent money, but not throw myself away. It’s okay to have personal wealth, to live comfortably in a decent home. I want to be happy, healthy, comfortable, and secure. But this has to be done without ripping off other people.” Bobcat then looked at Coyote to see if he had learned anything. She saw that he was thinking about what she had said to him. She finished her water and stood. “Remember, Coyote, ethics is about how you do your work. Either you do an excellent job, you do a mediocre job, or you do a bad job. Ask yourself how you want to live today.” Coyote nodded. “And, Coyote, I want to go to sleep tonight knowing that I did a good job on the floor of the little lady that lives in this house. Those little bumps on the floor just bother me. I don’t want her to trip as she is scooting around in the dark. So, I need to get back to work.” Coyote stood, brushed himself off, nodded, and continued his journey. And he left a mug behind. The Buffalo Coyote visited the Buffalo. They owned a restaurant, which was good for Coyote since his journey learning about enterprise had made him hungry. Like many Buffalo, they said a lot in a few words. Their lesson for Coyote was that enterprise is more than doing business, it’s an experience. The experience is measured in the relationships that exist with the enterprise. They said that family is also part of the enterprise’s success. For them, in this modern time, their favorite measure of success was when Elders drove by and gave them a pat on the back for their accomplishments.

Coyote learns commerce  61 As Coyote ate, the Buffalo showed him the paintings in their enterprise that told the story about their tribe. They told him that their enterprise was an opportunity to share tribal history with customers who were not from their community. They saw their opportunity to share tribal history with outsiders as their opportunity to help their tribe reclaim its place. So, beside using their enterprise to serve others, and to earn a living, they used their enterprise to reclaim their and their tribe’s identity. Coyote didn’t have much to say, given the powerful lesson that the Buffalo had taught him about what it meant to be a Native enterpriser. He paid for his meal and continued his journey.

Coyote revisits Bird Coyote had walked for a long time, thinking about all of the Native enterprisers he had met. They were from all over, and the walking had made his feet sore. So, when he came across a brook, he sat and dipped his feet in the water to cool them off. He took out his flute and started to play. Bird flew down and sat next to him. “Nice song,” she said to him. “It is, isn’t it?” Coyote played for a short while as Bird sat quietly beside him. Finally, he stopped and said to her, “It could be better. Can you teach me?” “Of course,” Bird replied. Coyote dug through his satchel. “It looks like I don’t have any more berries. I ate them all.” Bird sat quietly. “Do you want a mug?” “I don’t drink coffee, Coyote.” “I have some dried meat.” And then Coyote rolled his eyes; embarrassed, he had forgotten that Mouse had told him that Bird didn’t drink coffee or eat meat. His embarrassment reminded him that he was trying to be a better person. He dug further into his satchel and found what was left of his roll of colored paper. He also found some loose coins.

62  Joseph Scott Gladstone “Money?” he asked her. “That would be better,” she replied. “My kids keep asking me for this thing called a Nintendo. I can buy that for them much easier with money than I can with berries, anyway.” And both felt that their trade was fair. Through their trade, they helped each other. Coyote received a good lesson about how to play his flute, while Bird was later able to pay for the gift she wanted to give her children.

References Cowie, I. (1993). The Company of Adventurers: A Narrative of Seven Years in the Service of the Hudson’s Bay Company during 1867–​1874 on the Great Buffalo Plains. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Frantz, K. (1999). Indian Reservations in the United States. Chicago, IL:  University of Chicago Press. Gallagher, B. and Selman, M. (2015). Warrior Entrepreneur. American Indian Quarterly, 39(1): 73–​94. Garsombke, D. J. and Thomas W. Garsombke (2000). Non-​Traditional vs. Traditional Entrepreneurs:  Emergence of a Native American Comparative Profile of Characteristics and Barriers. Academy of Entrepreneurship Journal, 6(1): 93–​100. Gladstone, J. S. (2012). Old Man and Coyote Barter: An Inquiry into the Spirit of a Native American Philosophy of Business. Thesis (PhD) –​Business Administration (Order No. 3537767, New Mexico State University). Gladstone, J. S. (2013). Sovereign Trade as Historically Practiced among Indian Tribes in the Western United States. Divisional paper presented at the Academy of Management Meeting, Lake Buena Vista, FL, August 11. Gladstone, J. S. (2018). All My Relations: An Inquiry into a Spirit of a Native American Philosophy of Business. American Indian Quarterly, 42(2): 192–​214. Native, Aboriginal and Indigenous Peoples Caucus (2018). Academy of Management Annual Meeting. Chicago, IL. August 13. Miller, R. J. (2008). American Indian Entrepreneurs:  Unique Challenges, Unlimited Potential. Arizona State Law Journal, 40:  1297; Lewis & Clark Law School Legal Studies Research Paper No. 2008-​ 20. Available at SSRN:  https://​ssrn.com/​ abstract=1153708. Stern, T. (1993). Chiefs & Chief Traders: Indian Relations at Fort Nez Percés, 1818–​1855. Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University Press. Stewart, D. and Schwartz, R. G. (2007). Native American Business Strategy: A Survey of Northwest U.S. Firms. International Journal of Business Performance Management, 9(3): 259–​277. Verbos, A. K., Kennedy, D. M., and Gladstone, J. S. (2011). “Coyote Was Walking…”: Management Education in Indian Time. Journal of Management Education, 35(1)(special issue): 51–​65. Vizenor, G. (1994). Manifest Matters. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.

3  Resistance to ‘development’ amongst the Kogui of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Aili Pyhälä

Introduction Having worked with Indigenous peoples and local communities on five continents, rarely have I come across societies that have not already been (or are in the rapid process of being) lured into the mainstream mode of what I in this chapter refer to as “development” –​the (often false) notion of progress and civilization that, on the one hand, sees Western cultures as somehow “better” and, on the other, sees humans and nature as somehow separate from one another (Gudynas, 2017). Having witnessed such processes of separation and estrangement across the globe, I have grown increasingly preoccupied about the (often manipulative) promotion (and even imposition) of supposedly more “advanced” or more “effective” programs of education, healthcare, food security, and even nature conservation, and the long-​lasting impacts that such interventions have on local human and non-​human wellbeing. Sadly, most Indigenous peoples that come into sustained contact with the Western world end up to a large extent being acculturated, whether through religious conversion, Western healthcare and education, dress, food, alcohol, television, or cell phones –​in the process losing their own wealth of traditional local knowledge, culture, and identity. This loss of traditional knowledge and culture is detrimental not only to the wellbeing of the knowledge holders themselves and their descendants (Berkes, 1999; Johnson et al., 2016), but to global humanity as a whole –​seeing that we, too, in the WEIRD (Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and developed) (Heinrich, 2010) world have a great deal to learn (or perhaps remember) from Indigenous knowledge and practices. The Kogui are an exemplary case demonstrating long-​ held resistance and resilience in the face of decades of external pressures and failed external attempts of elimination and assimilation. To this day, despite increased contact and acculturation, the Kogui continue to maintain and strongly safeguard their culture, traditions, and identity, with very limited interaction with people other than their fellow Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada.That said, the extent of multiple forms of externally driven economic development and the impacts this is having on Kogui territory, livelihood, and wellbeing is of great concern. The tensions that this scenario creates between an ancient culture  –​that of

64  Aili Pyhälä the Kogui, who stand strong in their self-​determined lifeway and identity  –​ and the capitalist ventures of many non-​Indigenous stakeholders seeing the wealth of resources and opportunities in the area are well worth examining and questioning. I was drawn to the Kogui already several years ago, when I first saw portraits of Kogui men and women in Antonio Briceño’s stunning photographic collection entitled “Gods of America” (2007). There was something about their mesmerizing gaze that simply captivated me. Similarly, I could see that their traditional dress  –​in all-​white cotton  –​was not something just for show for tourists passing by. There was something very strongly rooted and genuine in how the Kogui presented themselves in these photos. Some years later, while conversing with another friend, this time a hikuri healer who had also spent some days with the Kogui, I learned of the extraordinary apprenticeship training required to become a mamo –​the highest spiritual authority amongst the Kogui –​and how strongly Kogui livelihood is defined and guided by their fundamentally nature-​based cosmovision (From the Heart of the World, 1990; Aluna, 2011). This unique case in today’s globalized world  –​demonstrating ecological sustainability coupled with still-​held resistance to the outside (despite contact and access) –​was what led me to try to speak with the Kogui. I finally did have the immense fortune and honor to spend one month in and around the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, the ancestral territory of the Kogui, in March–​April 2018. With such a short field visit, I do not by any means claim or pretend to be an expert on the Kogui, and am very grateful to all those fellow scholars (many of whom are referenced below) who have produced both literary and audio-​visual documentation that has served me substantially whilst carrying out and writing up my own research (see, for instance, Arbeláez Albornoz, 1994; Ereira, 1992; Orrantia, 2002; Ortiz Ricaurte, 2004; Reichel-​ Dolmatoff, 1950, 1976, 1982, 1987; Rodriguez-​ Navarro, 2000; Uribe, 1998). This chapter draws on data from two visits, the first collected during my one-​ month field visit in March–​ April 2018, during which I  carried out a handful of interviews and focus groups with Kogui and other Indigenous representatives in the city of Santa Marta as well as in various parts of the Sierra Nevada and Tayrona National Park. I  had the opportunity to stay in two Kogui communities (La Ciudad Perdida and Tungueka), in both of which I interviewed the leaders, elders and mamos. I also interviewed relevant non-​ Indigenous NGO representatives in Bogota and Santa Marta. The second visit took place in November 2018, when I had the honor of spending some days with the Cabildo Governador (political leader) of the Kogui, and met again with representatives at the Organisación Gonawindua Tayrona (OGT), the principal political body officially representing the four Indigenous peoples of Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. On this second visit I  also undertook a long interview with the director of the Sierra Nevada National Park, who has been working closely with the Kogui for many years. I am intentionally withholding the names of all the interviewees in order to respect their rights to anonymity.

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  65 In this chapter, I  present some preliminary findings on where the Kogui see themselves vis-​à-​vis Western notions and impositions of “development”, highlighting both the challenges and alternatives currently faced by Kogui communities in being able to practice their own self-​determined path and lifeways. Inspired by other similar works (Altman and Kerins, 2012; de la Cadena, 2011; and Kohn, 2013), I examine also the beliefs and relationships that the Kogui have of and with the natural world and non-​human species –​a cosmovision that goes far in explaining the Kogui worldview vis-​à-​vis development. I want to underscore that in speaking of Kogui (or other Indigenous) resistance, I am not referring only to straightforward means of opposition or activism, but rather, the “fine-​tuned and subtle practices of resistance [that] hold more relevance and currency in today’s biopolitical world” (Lindrooth and Sinevaara-​Niskanen, 2015: p. 13), hence also of resistance to assimilation of various forms. The layout of this chapter is as follows. First, I  give a brief introduction to the Kogui and their ancestral territory, laying out a context both in terms of historical processes and attempts of colonization, as well as current territorial rights. I  then examine the processes and impacts of the most prominent development interventions and impositions in the area, namely multiple forms of encroachment, extractivism and land-​grabbing, as well as attempts at assimilation (including through education, evangelization, and healthcare) and finally tourism. All of these are what external actors would probably refer to as contributors to “economic development”. In contrast, I  question and share what the Kogui have to say about development, and examine what rights they have for claiming their own alternative pathways. I end the chapter with some conclusions and policy recommendations that I  hope will help guide any external efforts to support and promote the socio-​environmental rights and sustainable self-​determination (see Corntassel, 2008; Corntassel and Bryce, 2012) of not only the Kogui, but also of other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada and beyond.

The Kogui and their ancestral territory –​past and present The Kogui (also known as Kággaba, meaning “jaguar” in the Kogui language) are an Indigenous ethnic group living on the north-​facing valleys of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta (SNSM).The SNSM is a coastal mountain range in the north of Colombia, with a surface area of approximately 17,000 km2. Together with the other three Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada –​the Arhuaco, Wiwa, and Kankuamo –​the Kogui are believed to be direct descendants of the Tayrona culture, an advanced civilization well known for its intricately fabricated gold objects that goes back to at least the first century C E , flourishing before the Spanish conquest. Before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors, the Tayrona were forced to move into the highlands when the Caribs invaded the lowlands (around 1000 C E ). By the time the Spanish entered modern-​day Colombia in the fifteenth century, the Kogui had found refuge in isolation, unlike many of the other Indigenous groups in the region who suffered dire consequences. Up

66  Aili Pyhälä to the present day, the Kogui have remained in the mid-​highlands of the Sierra, untouched by the worst effects of colonization, modernization, and globalization, allowing them to preserve their traditional ways of life. Like elsewhere in Colombia, the SNSM also comprises Indigenous territories referred to as resguardos. The area in which the Kogui live is officially administered as the Resguardo Kogui-​ Malayo-​ Arhuaco (RKMA), a public institution under the current political and administrative structure of the Colombian state, constituted under Resolution 0109 (from October 8, 1980). The RKMA currently has a surface area of 412,871 hectares. Like all resguardos, the RKMA is subject to land use planning based on the Western model of applying land titles, not reflecting the traditional form of land use planning or management. Similarly, the public state entities in the area promote land use planning based on privatization and commercial use (i.e., commodification) of natural resources, rather than reflecting local Indigenous norms and institutions. Despite this official territorial assignment by the Colombian state, the Kogui claim that their ancestral territory is far more extensive than that which has been recognized under the RKMA. Indeed, OGT is working on a proposal to extend the surface area of the resguardo (pers. comm., director of OGT). This proposed extension they refer to as the territorio amplio (“the wide territory”), which is marked by the Línea Negra (i.e., the “Black Line”, or Seshizha in Kogui language). Se in Kogui means the spiritual world, the invisible space; Shi means string, or the spiritual and energetic connections that unite all the sacred spaces in the territory, and all aspects of nature and humans; Shi are considered the veins interconnecting the different dimensions of the ancestral territory, much like the veins in a human body. Thus, the Línea Negra, or Seshizha, refers to the connection with the spiritual principals and the Indigenous peoples of the world (OGT, 2017).The Linea Negra forms a ring connecting all the sacred sites extending from the Caribbean coast all the way up to the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevada, covering all the valleys from the River Ranchería all the way to the River Aracataca. According to the Kogui, the Línea Negra demarcates their ancestral space and jurisdiction, that which contains all the sacred spaces and sites that connect, weave, embody, and secure the body of the Mother –​from the base of the river basins, from the sea to the snowy peaks, and from each person to the infinite universe –​and it is according to these connections that life in the Sierra is maintained, according to the Law of Origin (OGT, 2017; Witte, 2018).This area, according to the Kogui, is the territory that the Mother of Origin left to them and the other three Indigenous peoples of the SNSM, for them to carry out their mission in caring for nature. As one interviewed Kogui representative clarified: “The Línea Negra is all ancestral territory. No one has the right to take this away, not even if the national government changes.” The recognition and care given to sacred sites is fundamental to the Kogui. The four principal sacred sites are the ezuama; each is represented by one of the four main rivers descending from the highest peak of the Sierra Nevada. In addition, the Kogui ancestral territory is scattered with sacred sites, gaka, all the way from the coast up to the highest peaks, including mangroves, estuaries, even

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  67 sites in the sea itself. The Kogui believe that if the sacred sites are destroyed, the balance between spiritual and material as well as the connections between the different components of the territory are altered, as is the possibility to continue the cultural work. Traditionally, the Kogui would make pilgrimages to these sacred sites to leave offerings. There are sacred sites to prevent, cure and pay for illnesses, others where confessions are made, others where problems are solved, others for governance and decision-​making. In the SNSM, there are approximately 23,000 Kogui, across 49 communities (pers. comm., OGT). While there are also Wiwa and Arhuaco communities in the RKMA, the territory was originally inhabited only by the Kogui (pers. comm., OGT). The Kogui welcomed the Wiwa and Arhuaco onto their land when the latter two ethnic groups fled their own territories due to conflicts with narco-​trafficking guerrillas during the most violent times of colonization, and up until only a few decades ago. The younger Wiwa and Arhuaco generations who were born and raised in the RKMA feel it is also their land, as they and their children have been raised there in close relations with each other and the Kogui (pers. comm., Wiwa youth). The four Indigenous peoples of the SNSM, while each speaking a different language, see themselves as coming from the same origin and having the same spiritual Fathers and Mothers that today guide them in their norms and care for the earth and nature and all its elements.The Kogui, together with the Arhuaco, Wiwa, and Kankuamo, believe themselves to be the Older Sons of the spiritual Mother, who gave them their territory to care for as custodians. For them, to be the Older Brothers implies great responsibility. Today, these four Indigenous peoples co-​inhabit the Sierra, recognizing the virtue and complementarity of each other, each carrying out their separate tasks for the better of all. However, the historic process of colonization and more recent economic development encroaching on the SNSM has led to a large part of the ancestral territory being occupied by people other than the SNSM’s Indigenous population. The effects of colonization ever since the Spanish invasion have resulted in the physical displacement of the Kogui and the other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra, forcing them to leave vast expanses of their ancestral territories to find refuge in ever more high and inaccessible altitudes of the Sierra Nevada. Meanwhile settlers of different origin (including foreigners to Colombia) have been establishing themselves in the low and mid-​ranges of the mountains, drastically transforming the natural environment with their roads, deforestation, extensive cultivations, and livestock. In just the past five or six decades, the cultural and ecological landscape of the Sierra Nevada has seen radical changes, many of them irreversible. I explore the processes and effects of these in more detail below.

Damned development interventions In the past 100 or so years, a multitude of different economic, social, and political interests have driven an array of different actors from around the country (and more recently from abroad) to explore and invest in business ventures in

68  Aili Pyhälä the Sierra Nevada, amongst them campesino farmers, entrepreneurs, and political actors.The increased access to the Sierra has attracted tomb-​raiders, loggers, and extractivists of all kinds, as well as illicit cultivators of marihuana and coca for foreign export, agribusiness for cash crops (coffee, plantain, and oil palm), with ever more infrastructure built for the transport, energy, processing, and telecommunications, in turn attracting new laborers and settlements. Different development models have been imposed by a number of agents ranging from national legislation to the health and education sectors. All this has radically transformed both the physical and the socio-​cultural landscape, and with that the relations both in the human and non-​human realm. This colonization has transformed not only the land and ecological harmony and connectivity that is so important to the Kogui, but also directly affected Kogui livelihoods and wellbeing. The significantly diminished surface area of their ancestral territory, along with the disturbed peace and tranquillity, the serious (including irreversible) environmental destruction, degradation of and loss of access to many of their sacred sites, and the ruptured social organization and internal governance structures have all weakened the legitimacy and recognition of the Kogui to apply their own norms and regulations. Encroachment, extractivism, and land-​grabbing Much of Kogui ancestral land has been taken over by the state and sold to outside settlers, including foreigners, who are now (especially since the recent Colombian peace deal) flocking to these lush, productive lands to set up tourism ventures (particularly in and around Palomino) or agricultural (largely cacao and coffee) plantations. In the valley where Tungueka is located, for instance, about 350 hectares of land have been leased out by the national government to non-​Indigenous campesinos for the next 12 years (pers. comm., villagers of Tungueka). Illustrating the magnitude, complexity, and impact of encroachment, the ancestral territory of the Kogui is today superimposed upon by three departmental territorial entities, 16 local authorities, three regional corporations, two national parks, countless public institutions, and an increasing number of privately bought-​up land. Each of these come with their own plans, instalments, political instruments, and economic activities, with no effective or coherent coordination, and certainly no effective dialogue with the Indigenous authorities and custodians of the territory. Moreover, since the 1990s, the Colombian state has been incentivizing large-​ scale development megaprojects in the Sierra Nevada, in the form mineral extraction, dams, and large-​scale agriculture. Both national and international companies have been rushing in to benefit from what the area offers in terms of mining, hydropower, agroindustry, and tourism, threatening both the ecological and cultural integrity of the SNSM. More recently, large agro-​industrial complexes have come in, responsible for clear-​cutting extensive areas of primary forest in the lowlands to make way

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  69 for cash crops (e.g., banana and oil palm) grown with the use of heavy topsoil-​ destroying machinery and pesticides, polluting the soil and water sources. The impacts of these are further exacerbated when toxins from sprayed fumigation on cash crops is carried with the wind also to the subsistence cultivation plots of the Indigenous peoples, posing serious environmental and health risks. As if this did not already cause enough havoc, along with these extensive cultivations come the processing plants, roads, and huge infrastructure such as new ports at sea for access to international markets. In addition to direct biodiversity loss from deforestation and soil damage, the environmental impacts of these mega-​projects include flooding from dams, air and water pollution, litter and waste, and reclining wetlands along the coast due to built-​up infrastructure. The socio-​environmental impact of these megaprojects has been to a magnitude of affecting, according to the Kogui, the entire “order of their territory and culture” (OGT, 2017), destroying entire mountains, degrading their sacred sites, breaking ancient paths and structures, and disrupting also the social connectivity and relation to the territory. In addition to the above, one of the most violent forms of encroachment has been that of tomb-​raiding. Raiders open up tombs in identified sacred sites in search of precious gold artefacts (including remnant pieces from the ancient Tayrona culture), ripping straight into the heart of Kogui history. The Kogui, in turn, claim that this rampage has caused damage to not only their concept and sense of identity and their patrimony, but has destroyed their living knowledge. When the colonizers entered the Kogui ancestral territory they removed almost the entirety of gold and precious stones found in the sacred sites. While for people from Western cultures and for the national government such pieces of gold and precious stones may primarily be of monetary value, to be deposited into museums to attract tourism and further wealth to the country, for the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra, these cultural artefacts represent so much more. They are a guarantee to health, sustainable management of the territory, social organization, governance, and cultural permanence (OGT, 2017). The damage done (i.e., the removal of pieces from their particular sacred sites) is irreversible, and the Kogui see that this raiding has been the cause of many other illnesses, conflicts, and natural disasters that have followed, as the connection between social and natural elements was broken. There are also signs of remnant trauma from the past, from threats of armed conflict in the area. Some Kogui, especially the elders who lived through the conflict only some decades ago, are still scared of coming down from the mountain, with memories of a recent past when the guerrilla would violate the women who stayed alone in the villages while the men went down the mountain (e.g., to visit sacred sites or sell/​buy products) (pers. comm., Mamo Romualdo). Many Kogui stopped going on these spiritual pilgrimages to distant sacred sites, a burden that has been psychologically very hard to accept and overcome. All these threats and invasions are resulting in less land for the Kogui, with some Kogui communities already starting to face food shortages (pers. comm., director of OGT). For instance, the natural pastures up in the higher altitudes of

70  Aili Pyhälä the Sierra –​which have traditionally been harvested for hay (for roof construction) –​are being invaded and consumed by livestock brought in by outsiders. One interviewee shared their concern of the Sierra being increasingly accessible. The mamos fear that outsiders will soon be able to reach even the most revered and protected sacred sites of the Sierra that have to date been so hard to reach that they have been left alone. Attempted assimilation Over the decades, there have been numerous attempts, some more direct than others, to assimilate the Kogui into mainstream society. Since the establishment of its constitution of 1890, the Colombian state put in place policies to absorb all Indigenous peoples into the Colombian society by use of Catholic missionaries and through the imposition of the national judicial system. A large part of the evangelization mission was to impose a different learning system (i.e., Western education), in a non-​native language (Spanish), and to change into Spanish the previously Indigenous names of people and communities –​in so doing attempting to erase the relationship that the Kogui have with their tradition, culture, and territory. The legacies of these impositions are still strongly visible in the present day, one of the greatest impacts being the weakened system of internal social organization of the Kogui. For instance, the imposition of new forms of law and ownership, including that of private property, has had its impacts on the traditional sacred valuing of the earth and the strength of the sense of the collective that has traditionally persisted amongst the Kogui (OGT, 2017). This has further weakened the traditional governance structure, social and territorial order, and management of sacred sites and their connections across the ancestral territory. Other significant forms of assimilation are the Western systems of education and healthcare in and of themselves. Education is entirely voluntary, never forced upon a Kogui child. Kogui children are still today given by their elders the option of whether or not they want to go to school. “Schooling is not for everybody. Not all children want to go to school or learn the Western way, and they should be given the option of staying in their village and living their traditional livelihood if they want” was the view of one interviewee of mixed Kogui-​Wiwa descendant. Until not long ago, only half of Kogui children were choosing to attend school, the other half choosing to stay in the village. Nowadays, while there are no exact figures, the estimate is somewhere closer to 80% of children choosing to go to school, and only 20% of children opting to stay in the village to learn the traditional lifeways (pers. comm., representative at OGT). Few Kogui villages have a school, and those that do only have schooling at primary level. For those Kogui children choosing to continue up to secondary level, they go to one of the five boarding schools located along the foothills the Sierra. Mostly it is the boys who choose to attend school, girls more often opting to stay at home to help their mothers and elder sisters in household chores.This trend was reinforced during my stay in Tungueka, where

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  71 I observed some two-​dozen children in the local primary school, all boys. This raises the question of what implications this highly skewed attendance has in terms of gendered knowledge and cultural transmission, and how this might affect gender roles more widely in the Kogui society.With boys going to school (and perhaps after graduation going to the city in search of employment), they leave behind their traditional male-​role duties –​i.e., physical labor in the fields and weaving cotton and clothes. Unfortunately, I did not get an opportunity during this visit to ask the women in the village how they feel about this, but this is certainly something worth looking into. Currently, the schooling model and curriculum offered to the Kogui is based on the Western education system and provided mostly in Spanish. According to one interviewee, the Ministry of Education long refused to understand and accept the needs of the Kogui, and to acknowledge the challenges and dilemmas they face in having their children attend school, and the implications this would have on their traditional livelihood, local knowledge, and culture. Finally, after many dialogues, and hearing and noticing time and time again that most Kogui youth really are not interested in leaving behind their own culture and moving to the city, the Ministry of Education has come to understand that it too needs to be more flexible and respectful in terms of the kinds of schooling and learning options offered to Kogui children (pers. comm., Kogui interviewee). The Ministry of Education has now accepted a Kogui-​proposed project that takes mamos to visit schools in different Kogui communities to share “their explanations of how things are” (Kogui interviewee). While this is better than nothing, much more is needed in terms of substantially integrating traditional knowledge into the education system, and care needs to be taken to take into account the social, situated, and dynamic nature of that knowledge, as McCarter and colleagues (2014) suggest. Similarly, the healthcare centres in Santa Marta and surroundings are run entirely in Spanish and by non-​Indigenous practitioners. There are, to date, no Kogui doctors in the official established healthcare system in the area, meaning that there is also no healthcare (other than that provided by a few nurses or health promoters with very basic first-​aid skills) offered in the Kogui language. This results in a serious limitation, posing a huge barrier especially to those Kogui (the more than 99%) who do not speak Spanish. Furthermore, the introduction of basic clinics offering purely Western-​based pharmaceutical drugs in some of the Kogui communities in the lowlands poses serious threats of the elimination of traditional knowledge of medicinal plants and healing.The impacts of these forms of assimilation, particularly education and healthcare, are taking a heavy toll on what still remains of the traditional knowledge and practices of the Kogui. Tourism The Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta is an important ecological zone, seeing that the mountain range comprises 70% of the Caribbean forests of Colombia. Encompassing some 17,000 km2, this isolated mountain range rises from the coast

72  Aili Pyhälä at sea level all the way to altitudes of 5,700 meters above sea level.With the combination of lush forest, waterfalls, stunning beaches, and snowy peaks, and the fascinating cultural heritage of the Tayrona, it is no surprise that the area is attracting a rapidly growing number of tourists every year. Today, tourism in the resguardo is officially allowed only in the Tayrona National Park (TNP) and on the Lost City Trek tour, both of which are hugely popular destinations amongst both foreigners and national tourists alike. All the remaining land is strictly forbidden to outsiders. Both the TNP and the Lost City Trek tour are receiving a rapidly increasing number of tourists each year (395,250 tourists entered the TNP and more than 23,000 tourists visited the Lost City Trek in 2017), and the estimates for 2018 are closer to 30,000. With entrance fees at about 8 US dollars for the TNP, and 300 USD for the Lost City Tour trek, this amounts to an underestimated annual revenue of 3 million US dollars for the TNP and 6.9 million for the Lost City Trek. Of these millions of dollars, the Indigenous peoples get close to nothing, literally only a couple of hundred dollars per year (pers. comm., OGT), to be shared and distributed equitably. None of my informants seemed to know who receives this money or where it goes. Tayrona National Park The Tayrona National Park (TNP) covers approximately 8,000 hectares of land –​extending from breath-​taking beach coves up to forested peaks, along ancient Tayrona stone paths. OGT has been proposing to the national government that the resguardo manage the TNP, including the revenues, for it to be returned to the hands of the traditional Indigenous rights-​holders. Yet the national government once again gave the next four-​year concession of the park management and revenues to a private company, Aviatur, as part of a public–​ private partnership agreement. Jean Claude Bessudo, the CEO of Aviatur, has full and single-​handed power over this enterprise, managing all four entries (and revenues derived thereof) into the NP. Meanwhile, OGT is so under-​ funded that the organization at the time of writing did not even have financial resources to pay the water and electricity bills of its offices in Santa Marta. The Lost City The Lost City (La Ciudad Perdida), which according to archaeologists was built in approximately 800 C E , is believed to have been home to about 2,000–​ 8,000 individuals of the Tayrona culture, before it was abandoned during the peak of violent Spanish conquest and colonization. The Lost City was then “rediscovered” to the outside world by tomb-​raiders in 1972. The Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra knew about it all along, but kept it secret, as one of their most revered sacred sites. Tourism treks to the Lost City were opened up only relatively recently, when Ramon Gil, the then-​Cabildo Gobernador, decided to allow eventually a maximum of six tourism agencies to run the trek, on the condition that

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  73 the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada would receive 50% of benefits (pers. comm., OGT representative). Of the six private agencies currently operating the Lost City Tour trek, only one is owned by Indigenous peoples; however, even this particular agency that claims to be “Indigenous” –​i.e., Wiwa Tours  –​does not in fact represent the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra, as it gives the illusion of. Wiwa Tours is a private for-​ profit organization run by an individual man (of mixed Wiwa and Kogui origin) who set up his own business and hired mostly Wiwa employees to work for him. Rumor says that the plan is to make the business entirely Wiwa, getting rid of and replacing with Wiwas the only four Kogui (of a total of 12) guides that were working for the agency at the time of writing. A representative from OGT shared that Wiwa Tours never consulted OGT or any other governing body or Indigenous representative organization prior to setting up or running the business  –​indicating a total lack of collaboration or agreement between the company and the official representative body of the Indigenous peoples of the resguardo. Who benefits? So, the questions remains: where is all the remaining revenue from tourism going? One speculation by an interviewed informant is that much of the money laundering is associated with the presence of the military up in the Lost City. During my visit, it was occupying a building up in the Lost City run by the Colombian Institute for Anthropology and Archeology (ICAAN), an institute supposedly carrying out research and further excavations, but no signs of such were seen –​only military personnel. Despite this huge discrepancy, the official Kogui representatives of the resguardo are not asking for their fair share from any of the income generated from tourism, nor claiming that the Indigenous peoples should be given any monetary compensation for the growing and destructive tourism.The majority of Kogui, including their official representative body, oppose tourism altogether. They want to be very clear, consistent, and firm in holding this stance, hence not ask for money from something that they fundamentally oppose. That said, if a complete halt to tourism is not reached (and that is unlikely to happen anytime in the near future, based on current trends), then, as one of the young Kogui representatives shared, the monetary revenues and compensation should rather come in the form of Kogui-​owned projects rather than in cash handed out to only a handful of Kogui communities. Tourism at a debated crossroads in the SNSM Tourism in the SNSM, even in the Lost City and the TNP, continues to be highly contentious. The Lost City is deep within the RKMA, whilst the TNP lies within the territorio amplio of ancestral Kogui land. Currently, land titles in the TNP and the Lost City are managed by Parques, the state agency for protected

74  Aili Pyhälä areas. Parques is also proposing to extend the protected area coverage in the RKMA all the way up to the peaks of Tagna, entering the most untouched parts of Kogui territory. Meanwhile, a prominent Wiwa leader lobbying for political power and increased tourism has backing from the Colombian government and the ministry of the interior –​not surprisingly, seeing that the Colombian state benefits hugely from tourism flows (pers. comm., Kogui interviewee).The national government is keen to open up tourism across the entire Sierra all the way up to the peaks. What this would mean for the Kogui communities still living in peace and isolation in the higher altitudes is seriously concerning, as it would open up access to the most sacred parts of Kogui territory: where the four sacred lakes are located, i.e., the origin of the four primary ezuamas and river valleys of the Kogui, the pillars of their governance system, the source of their water, “that where all is born”, as one Kogui put it. These speculations of political deals being negotiated behind closed doors, with the interest of opening up ancestral Kogui lands to even more tourism, is something that the majority of Kogui (officially 42 or the 40 communities) –​ including the Cabildo Gobernador  –​are fiercely opposing. The few Kogui communities and leaders who have expressed their support for tourism (and who oppose the representation of OGT) shared that tourism is alright as long as it is contained in the corridors (Tayrona NP and the Lost City trek) where the tourism agencies have permission. They emphasized that only six tourism agencies have been given permission to work in the Lost City trek, and they are not going to reach the peaks. That said, another representative shared his concern, saying that tourists are increasingly entering without permit into Kogui lands also from Palomino and Rio Hacha axes, heading up the mountains. These tourists pay attractive amounts of cash to local guides who in turn then bribe Kogui leaders with alcohol. The increasing tourism is according to several of my interviewees a source of multiple negative impacts. Tourism is bringing new diseases into the area, and exposing the less resistant Indigenous population to a number of health risks. Even a basic flu –​which Westerners have developed antibodies to –​can easily kill a small Kogui child up in the Sierra (pers. comm., OGT representative). Tourism is also displacing villages, contaminating water sources, and polluting the valleys with plastic and other non-​biodegradable waste. The cultural impacts are perhaps the most urgent and worrying, with some very young children begging for money and candies along tourist paths. These and other negative impacts experienced from the rapidly growing tourism have resulted in the large majority of mamos openly expressing their opposition to tourism in the SNSM. According to OGT (2017), the mamos see tourism as being a continuation of colonization, commodifying the cultural landscape of their ancestral territory. What is certainly and glaringly obvious is that the Kogui (and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra) are not currently benefitting anywhere near their fair, equitable, and agreed-​upon share from the tourism revenues, with essentially all monetary benefits from tourism going into the pockets of private business.

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  75

Kogui views on –​and resistance to –​development Impacts The multiple development interventions detailed above have had serious impacts on the environment, territory, culture, social organization, and spiritual-​political governance of the Kogui, as well as on the interconnections between these. The Kogui have lost their possibility to manage according to traditional systems large parts of their ancestral territory, breaking the socio-​ecological equilibrium that they had established and maintained for generations. They have lost access to many sacred sites, affecting the spatial function that these sites have in maintaining spiritual-​ecological equilibrium. Nowadays, access to many sacred sites has been cut off by highways and other intrusive, destructive large-​scale development projects and infrastructure. As one mamo exclaimed, there are sacred sites that are being colonized and bought up by outside investors (often foreigners), meaning that the Kogui can no longer do their sacred offerings there: “I as a mamo am concerned. In my territory, there is colonization in my sacred sites… I  need help.” Indeed, the Kogui see that humanity is weakening the earth’s ecology due to modern-​day resource exploitation by non-​Kogui societies. The mega-​projects in particular have been very destructive to the environment, polluting the earth, the rivers, and waters sources, again causing disequilibrium not only with Mother earth, but with the spirit of the universe, according to the Kogui (OGT, 2017). The canals and dams that have been built are seen to have negative impacts on many of the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra, whilst benefitting very few. The Kogui have lost their freedom to roam freely in their own ancestral territory, with increased land-​grabbing by private property owners. The decades of encroachment have also brought with them conflict, violence, illicit cultivation (especially of marijuana and coca), tomb-​ raiding, and new diseases previously unknown to the Kogui. Socio-​economically, these interventions have led to what used to be an egalitarian and effectively functioning sharing economy to be replaced increasingly by an individualistic monetary economy, not only on the physical, but also spiritual, planes. Indeed, the Kogui see that one of the main sources of conflict in all these development processes has in fact been the monetization of everything. This regards both resource extraction and environmental products and services (including tourism) –​processes that they see generating immense conflict at the spiritual and ideological level, contradicting their very own Law of Origin that in its essence seeks to protect and conserve the environment through a mechanism of exchange and equilibrium. Resistance For centuries, the Kogui and the other three Indigenous peoples of the SNSM have stayed in refuge in the highlands of the mountain, defending their culture, and resisting invasion by colonizers and armed forces. Despite the magnitude

76  Aili Pyhälä of encroachment, continued colonization, and attempted assimilation depicted above, the mamos have continued to hold on strongly to their traditional roles and institutions, a significant reason why the Kogui are still able to continue practicing their traditional spiritual, political, and cultural authority and identity. To this day, the Kogui continue to maintain and strongly safeguard their culture, traditions, and identity, with very little interaction with people other than their fellow Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada. The highly integrated socio-​ecological and spiritual-​material worlds of the Kogui can be described as highly “resilient”, largely explained by the exceptionally sustainable lifeway of the Kogui due to i) their holistic relations in and with nature, ii) their cultural pride, and iii) their intricately intertwined spiritual-​political governance system (Pyhälä, forthcoming).When I asked some of my interviewees about what it is that enables them and their peoples to so strongly maintain their culture and identity, even in the face of rapidly growing tourism and encroachment on their lands, the answer I  was often given was simply: “well, it is so”. Two of the interviewees, both of them male youth in their twenties, said that it is their own choice:  “Even I, whenever I  get two weeks off from my job [as a tourist guide], I go back to my village”. Another reason for the well-​sustained Kogui culture is the fact that education, according to the Kogui, is entirely voluntary, never forced upon children. That said, more and more Kogui children are choosing to go to school, as explained above. “The youth today are not as they used to be”, said one concerned Kogui elder in our interview. Similarly, until a few decades ago, everyone’s clothes were handmade  –​the cotton self-​grown, then spun, and woven  –​by the men  –​in the village. While the Kogui continue to proudly wear their traditional dress of all-​white cotton garments, nowadays cotton is no longer as commonly cultivated as it used to be, and very few Kogui continue to spin and weave their own cotton. Instead, they are increasingly opting to purchase ready-​fabricated white cotton cloth from the city, of which they sow their clothes. What impacts this has on social organization and gender roles is still unstudied, but an important question to look into. Views on development The Kogui recognize and live according to the intricate interconnectivity amongst and between all human and non-​human elements. According to OGT (2017), the Kogui see that the ways in which Western civilization understands what we call “development” imply a tremendous act on the environment in order to get out from “her” all that can be extracted, not only physically but also spiritually. They see that “development” projects that empty territories of their waters, their plants, animals, air, and stones also imply extracting their spiritual fathers and mothers, resulting in a disequilibrium and breaking the harmony of all of the universe. Of all forms of “development”, the most destructive are the mega-​projects –​which cause extinction and/​or evacuation of pretty much all life in situ.

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  77 When asked what aspirations they have for future “development” and “sustainability”, the Kogui that I interviewed (including youth, elders, mamos, and those working for the resguardo at the OGT) gave pretty much the same set of answers, which I summarize as follows. The absolute number-​one priority, even after long discussions during focus groups, was one commonly shared by all the mamos interviewed, namely: the reclamation of Kogui ancestral territory, in order to conserve it better and in order to have full access to all sacred sites therein. In practical terms, this means financial support for the resguardo to buy back these ancestral lands. The Kogui have already come some way in reclaiming some of their ancestral territory, with the help of the recognition of establishment of the RKMA, through their own efforts, and with the help of national and international organizations. Even the Colombian government has in some instances provided support. To date, the RKMA has been able to purchase back 25,000 hectares, which has helped the resettlement of many Kogui families and communities in their ancestral territory, for their own subsistence as well as to carry out effectively their own processes of nature conservation. In these territories, they have succeeded to regenerate flora and fauna, forests and biodiversity in general, as well as to protect important water sources, re-​establishing the natural equilibrium that once was. Such achievements can be seen for instance in the watershed of the Don Diego River, in which during 1995–​2001  –​in only seven years –​a significant forest cover was re-​established, based on traditional cultural principles and practices. The Consejo Territorial de Cabildos Indigenas (CTCI) is responsible for mobilizing the process of reclaiming the Línea Negra, (the Black Line –​which connects all the sacred sites along the coast), including the Tayrona NP (CTCI, 2015). Yet, despite the strong will, there are still many unanswered questions about the implications this land recuperation will have, both in political and legal terms. As one employee at OGT stated: We need more strengthening, capacity building and collaboration from people who understand the situation and can help us plan how to go about this … We have identified the threats, but now we need to demonstrate and map where these threats are located, and how they are impacting, where and what and who. (pers. comm.) Hence, one useful project identified in our discussions with OGT representatives would be to map the entire area of the Línea Negra –​using GIS and biodiversity monitoring, including socio-​economic and cultural aspects of biodiversity  –​and to update this information onto the map of the resguardo. In addition, they saw as useful to have a map showing the extension plans of Parques, overlaying the hydrological river basins and water management systems with tourism, conservation, and other impacts. This could be done in collaboration with research on the baseline of what is the current state of the

78  Aili Pyhälä environment, incorporating traditional local knowledge, but also forest cover and threats, and one suggestion was to incorporate Kogui youth in carrying out this research using citizen science-​type methods. One OGT representative underscored the importance of an integrated approach.While he said that the priority remains the recuperation of the Kogui sacred sites, he stressed that this should be done involving education, health, territory, and wellbeing, because all knowledge is concentrated in these sacred sites; they are the origin of everything. He said that capacity-​building and strengthening (including infrastructure) is needed in all domains:  education, healthcare, and territorial rights. Another interviewee, a Kogui youth who has been involved in many development projects across sectors, shared his views on what he thinks should be the priority projects for the Kogui. In his opinion, the priorities should involve (in no specific order), general awareness-​raising and capacity-​building on waste management, starting with cleaning up all the garbage in the Sierra (left by tourists), and building awareness on how to reduce garbage in the first place, to replace all mercury batteries and chargers with solar-​powered ones, and to replace all plastic consumable wraps with paper, cardboard, or ideally leaf-​ wrapped ones. He also stressed the importance of medicinal plant knowledge transmission. This is the domain of ancestral knowledge that is perhaps being lost the fastest. Only a few mamos and mujeres sabias still hold this knowledge, and they remain isolated higher up in the Sierra, meaning this knowledge is not being passed on to younger generations, at least not in the mid-​and lowlands. The traditional knowledge and practices around health are further being lost as the villages further down the mountain are increasingly being brought health centres, so when people have an ailment, they go directly to these. One Kogui interviewee stated that there should be a separate and specific project targeted entirely to support the apprenticeship of mamos specialized in medicinal plants. In addition, one mamo said he would like to have support for projects teaching youth to make traditional musical instruments (drums and flutes) and teaching them how to play and sing and dance, as this musical knowledge is also rapidly being lost. He also expressed the will to receive help in transmitting the traditional knowledge of weaving and other handicrafts, but he felt that he cannot do all this alone. These different domains of traditional knowledge, one Kogui youth said, would be best integrated into the education system, such that children in school learn not only according to a Western curriculum and knowledge and value system, but also as much as possible their own traditional, cultural, and spiritual knowledge, beliefs, and practices. For this, it is important to directly incorporate the wisdom and insights of the mamos. Recent community-​led initiatives such as the GEF-​SGP project on “Salvaguardia” hold some promise, but they are not the solution. The aim of that project is to integrate the traditional knowledge of each of the four Indigenous peoples in the Sierra into a common plan, in a process by which youth representatives in each of the selected villages undertake a joint reflection together with the community, including with the mamos,

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  79 elders, women, and youth, stimulating a dialogue on how to go about conserving the ancestral knowledge. The idea is to empower the youth and to see what is needed. Still, one mamo’s reaction to this was: “who do they [the youth] represent? What are they going to do? How are they ever going to know what the mamos know?” Clearly, the knowledge, wisdom, insight, and power held by the mamos is something that cannot be underestimated. The spiritual legacy that the mamos hold, and the function this has on Kogui life and livelihood and what this represents and means to them, is perhaps what is most important, yet is most often overlooked in externally initiated projects. Similarly, one interviewee stressed that women are the key for maintaining culture, and in order for projects to succeed, we need make sure we work with the women. Also, much care needs to be taken in terms of the process of how projects are designed, communicated, planned, and implemented, with one interviewee stressing the importance of dialogue that involves all four Indigenous peoples in the Sierra, and hearing all of their views. In terms of livelihood strategies, there are several potential economic alternatives that the Kogui could pursue, such as cultivation and commercialization of wild coffee, cacao, malanga (a root vegetable), maize, traditional seeds, and native tree species. Wild coffee is an excellent alternative as it has large global demand, but does not replace or displace food grown for nutritional purposes (i.e., like what has happened with quinoa and other traditional health foods that are no longer consumed locally because they are too expensive). Another suggestion given by the mamos interviewed including support in the commercialization of handicrafts. Ideally, the Kogui would most like to continue maintaining their traditional diversified livelihoods –​each sustaining the other –​incorporated into local knowledge transmission and exchange. As one representative at OGT summed up, for Indigenous self-​determination, you need all three of the following determinants: i) autonomy, ii) sovereignty, and iii) security. This applies to all sectors, be it food, knowledge and education, healthcare, or natural resource management. The priority of the official governing body of the Kogui (OGT), in addition to reclaiming back their ancestral land, is to reclaim and strengthen Kogui culture and governance. What is clear from all the above suggestions and priorities given by the Kogui representatives interviewed is the need to a) restore rights and access to ancestral territory, particularly sacred sites, and b) promote the revitalization of traditional knowledge, supporting the existing knowledge holders, both men and women, and recuperate their rightful spaces and institutions. The latter could be done in inspiration by the work that for instance CEMI has carried out with Indigenous peoples elsewhere in Colombia, initiating community-​designed “Planes de Vida” (Life Plans) rather than an externally defined “development plan”. Such a Life Plan is based on the peoples’ own reflections on their own values –​locally and culturally defined –​rather than on values imposed or imported from a society or culture outside. Also, recognizing the local and place-​based “Ley de Origen” –​their own knowledge and customary law –​is crucial for defining the most appropriate governance

80  Aili Pyhälä mechanisms. The sharing of these does not necessarily need to be in written format (as us Westerners tend to automatically assume), but also (or rather) in oral transmission and storytelling –​which can well be incorporated into both informal interaction as well as schooling (for inspirations of such approaches, see for example CEMI, 2014).

Kogui rights to territory, culture, autonomy, and self-​governance The Kogui, with the help of a handful of national and international NGOs, are now trying to reclaim their ancestral territory. And according to international law  –​i.e., the International Labour Organisation’s Convention 169 and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples –​they have every right to do so. These and other forms of international conventions and agreements underscore Indigenous rights to ancestral territory and their own customary law. Despite these international legal agreements, the Colombian state continues to turn a blind eye to many of the –​even illegal –​impositions of economic “development” in the SNSM, disregarding the region’s Indigenous peoples’ rights to self-​determination. Meanwhile, as illustrated above with a number of examples, there is an incoherence between the rules and regulations of the state (and in all its manifestation across policies, planning, programs, projects, and investments), on the one hand, and the traditional form of biocultural governance of the Kogui, on the other. The discrepancy between public policies and Indigenous self-​determination can be seen in the way that large and environmentally destructive development projects are licensed (even on top of sacred sites), whilst state-​run biodiversity and conservation projects prioritize tourism over Indigenous rights. Indeed, the entire land-​use planning scheme of the SNSM is currently driven based on Western formats of land entitlement, privatization, and commodified use of natural resources, instead of emerging from and being based on traditional forms of land and natural resource management.The imposed economic development prioritizes a vision based on Western economic development, monetization, and employment, capitalizing on the wealth of resources still available in the area, but severely compromising the culture and wellbeing of the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra. These external investors have prioritized economic interests over any impact that these are clearly having in the area with respect to the environment, the Indigenous peoples, and their ancestral territory, thus overlooking national and international human rights law. Those actors planning and imposing “development” in the area lack the knowledge and understanding of the principles by which the actual owners of the territory –​the Indigenous peoples –​have for generations managed their own autonomy, territory, and society. This incoherence, superimposition, and lack of understanding on the part of external actors inevitably leads to an inherent contradiction in terms. Even mechanisms of free, prior and informed consent (FPIC) and other forms of

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  81 consultation have been misused, seeing that they have been applied to legitimize the actions and decisions of external actors, rather than guaranteeing the fundamental rights of the Indigenous peoples, as is their actual purpose. The Colombian state has failed to facilitate any intercultural dialogue, consultation, deliberative processes of dialogue, or other rights-​based approaches. The Kogui, despite these challenges, continue to practice their own form of self-​governance based on the Law of Origin (see Witte 2018), which has principles of order established and developed according to the sacred spaces, as well as the spaces administered by their own authorities, the mamo, and the authorities of the community, the júgukwi. The Law of Origin tells them how they should educate their children and organize themselves as a community, what they should and should not do, how to resolve problems and disorder, how to give offerings, how to heal nature when they have not complied with the norms. The knowledge of, and compliance with, the Law of Origin is overseen by the mamos, the highest-​ranked spiritual leaders and the principal knowledge-​ holders amongst the Kogui. One chief mamo told me that the mamos, too, need support to keep doing the work they do, particularly in the continued training of apprentices. The apprentices and their families need support –​in the form of clothes, mochilas (bags), food, and other necessities. While the apprentices are learning to become mamos (rather than helping their families in the cultivation, harvesting, hunting, and other livelihood activities), the families need support. Back in the days, the entire community would contribute. They would bring food, clothes, and other donations to the apprentices and their families. This is no longer the case, and there are fewer and fewer apprentices carrying on with the training, sometimes none. “If we had this community support then I would have young boys here now learning with me”, said one mamo, who expressed his concern for the broken transmission of this age-​old wisdom. Externally, the Kogui are represented by one governing chief, the Cabildo Gobernador (Chief Governor), based at the Organisación Gonawindua Tayrona (OGT). OGT is the most prominent organization representing and working on Kogui rights to self-​determination and territory and is the main representative body of the Indigenous peoples in the Sierra Nevada. According to one of the OGT representatives interviewed, the organization focuses its work on “regenerating and recovering the ancestral territory, and to do this in a cultural manner” (pers. comm., 2018). Despite their close cultural and historical proximity and interwoven social relations, there are some political tensions between the four Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada. For instance, there are some jealousies on the part of some Wiwa representatives with regards to the Kogui. One of the reasons for this tension is that the Cabildo Gobernador is always a Kogui, for historical reasons, seeing as the resguardo is traditionally Kogui territory. From the Kogui perspective, these tensions stem from the rumor of a Wiwa leader wanting to place himself as the next Cabildo Gobernador of the resguardo, a position that has always belonged to the Kogui. There are also political disagreements and tensions amongst the Kogui themselves. Of the 49 Kogui communities in the resguardo, 42 communities are officially members

82  Aili Pyhälä of OGT, while seven communities have withheld, for political reasons. One mamo interviewed said that the problem is that OGT no longer represents all the Kogui. Many of these tensions relate to disagreements on whether or not to allow tourism in the resguardo, a highly contentious and delicate issue that is still being debated, as has been detailed above.

Recommendations Based on the above priorities and demands voiced by the Kogui, I outline below some recommendations as to how external actors could either take action or disengage to best support the Kogui, rather than continuing with assumptions and impositions of externally driven and defined development programs that may in fact be causing more harm than good to the biocultural sustainability of the Sierra Nevada. The fact that the Sierra Nevada remains as ecologically intact as it is, even after multiple generations of inhabitancy by the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples, goes to show that the local management of natural resources and community-​conservation has worked for generations, and continues to be effective. There are even several cases of the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra reclaiming degraded pockets of their ancestral territory in the foothills, and within a decade, these reclaimed areas are already thriving with biodiversity (pers. comm., National Parks representative). Several studies elsewhere are now coming to the same conclusions –​i.e., to acknowledge the importance of Indigenous territories in terms of their conservation value (Ross et al., 2011; Garnett et  al., 2018). Therefore, contrary to compromised modes of collaboration as suggested by Lin and Liu (2016), I  argue that the ancestral territory of the Kogui be handed over to the full governance of the local Indigenous peoples in the form of an ICCA (a territory conserved by Indigenous peoples and local communities) or other effective conservation mechanism. In terms of getting assistance in reclaiming and getting back their ancestral territory, the Amazon Conservation Team (ACT) has already helped the Kogui purchase back some of their ancestral land, in collaboration with the Tayrona Heritage Trust (THT, set up by Alan Ereira) and Tchendukua (a French NGO) (THT 2008; ACT 2017; Tchendukua –​Ici et Ailleurs 2017).Yet only a fraction of the ancestral territory has been recuperated, and the Kogui are calling out to anyone willing to help them purchase back their land so that they can better care for it and continue with their spiritual practices, particularly with their offerings at sacred sites. For the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra to be better able to claim and communicate their biocultural rights, locally led knowledge and resource-​mapping processes such as biocultural protocols (BCPs) (see Bavikatte and Jonas, 2009), Indigenous-​led codes of ethical conduct (e.g., using Akwe:  Kon Guidelines; see CBD 2004), and tools for dialogue (e.g., with the help of the Whakatane Mechanism (2018)) would be important. Such processes would help ensure

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  83 the full and effective involvement of local Indigenous rights-​holders in all dialogues concerning them and their territory. With regards to tourism, seeing that the large majority of Kogui communities in the resguardo oppose tourism, steps should be taken to at least avoid any further expansion of tourism in the area, both in terms of quantity and extension, whilst negotiations are underway about whether tourism should even be allowed in the resguardo in the first place. Key to this is setting and adhering to the carrying capacity according to carefully defined limits based on local knowledge and ecological and socio-​cultural values in those areas impacted in one way or another by tourism. Meanwhile, sustainable locally based healthcare calls for an urgent restoration and revival of the traditional knowledge –​and its sustained transmission –​ on health, provision, and healing agents (including medicinal plants), whilst ensuring that there are at least a handful of doctors in Western medical centres that are of Kogui (and other local Indigenous) origin, to allow for healthcare in native languages. In terms of education, the sporadic one-​off visit of a few mamos to a handful of schools once a year –​as is currently the case –​is not enough to maintain the wealth, depth, and richness of traditional knowledge and beliefs. For Kogui culture and cosmovision to persist, it needs to be integrated much more holistically and thoroughly into the entire schooling system and curriculum. These elements of “development” cannot and should not be treated apart or separately, as has been found to be the case also elsewhere. For instance, ethnobotanical knowledge in Indigenous societies has been found to be significantly associated with child health (McDade et al., 2007). In terms of governance, the knowledge, skills, and beliefs along traditional practices, territory, health and medicinal plant use, knowledge of native plant and animal species, small-​scale cultivation techniques, and reverence to what is sacred and in aluna, needs to be returned to locally governed management and transmission along the asuanos.

Conclusions As this chapter illustrates, decades of colonization, domination, and imposition under arguments of economic development have had negative impacts on the socio-​economic, cultural, spiritual, and political integrity of the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada, putting their autonomy, traditional knowledge, and wellbeing at risk. The rights of the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra to live in autonomy and self-​govern their territory has in fact not been taken into account in the planning of so-​called development; on the contrary, many of the mega-​projects and tourist hotspots have been installed on top of primary sacred sites, violating their spiritual, cultural, and material significance. It is remarkable that despite the extent of external interventions, the Kogui continue to maintain their culture and identity. This is enabled largely by their continued voluntary isolation, self-​governance according to their own over-​ arching nature-​based cosmovision, strong-​held culture and identity, and a highly egalitarian and effective system of spiritual leadership.Yet, the external pressures

84  Aili Pyhälä of so-​called “development” in the forms of extractivist mega-​projects, assimilation, and tourism are not likely to cease anytime soon; if anything, they may take a turn for the worse. What, then, is needed for Indigenous self-​determination and long-​term sustainability in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta? How can the Kogui be enabled and supported in gaining access and rights over their ancestral territory? What can be done to help the Kogui revitalize their social, cultural, spiritual, political, and economic identity, knowledge, and livelihood practices that are being rapidly lost? What should be done about the rapidly growing tourism, extension of protected areas, infiltration by Western healthcare and education, and other (often destructive) development interventions? Essentially, the Kogui want to regain their ancestral land and just want to be left in peace. That said, at least those Kogui mamos and representatives that I spoke to are willing to receive support to realize these and other rights. Key to this is to support Kogui authorities to serve their functions in accordance with their own structure of social organization, based on their own principles of ezuama and nikuma. Rather than imposing external modes of governance, representation and knowledge transfer, the outside world should simply allow and support the Kogui to revitalize the traditional practices to comply with their own mandate of the Law of Origin, which they believe is necessary to re-​ establish the social and natural order. Moreover, external institutions should act accordingly to allow the Kogui to re-​gain their own autonomous management over their own territory, as well as their own spaces and forms of governance, re-​affirming the cultural identity in children and youth with the help of their own traditional learning and livelihood (including food production) systems. Seeing that all these domains –​territory, spirituality, culture, and knowledge –​ are in the Kogui case intricately interwoven and interconnected, it is difficult (if not inappropriate) to decide what is priority or most urgent. In fact, the very interconnectedness should determine the approach, whilst always remembering that what may seem to “make sense” according to the Western mind frame and externally defined “development checklist” may simply not work in the context of the Sierra Nevada and its Indigenous peoples. The intention with this chapter has been to provide some updated information and insights  –​based on recent interviews in situ  –​as to where to prioritize future efforts, which I hope have helped answer (or at least better inform) some of the above posed questions and challenges. I  believe that Indigenous peoples and local communities across the globe could get a great deal of inspiration from the Kogui in terms of considering alternatives to development, whilst maintaining culture, identity, and socio-​environmental sustainability. Supporting the Kogui and other Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada to reclaim their territorial rights and self-​determination, and facilitating processes of sharing and exchange with communities elsewhere, is something us outsiders can help to do. Meanwhile, there are many aspects that we have lost in our modern path of development that we now –​in our desperate need to redirect our own path toward a sustainable one –​could do well in listening to and learning from our older Indigenous brothers and sisters.

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  85

Acknowledgments I would like to give my sincere thanks to both FINCEAL+ and CICADA for funding my field visits. My deepest gratitude goes to Daniel Garavito and Lorenzo Malo, both of whom served as my translators, for their invaluable support and assistance not only during my interviews and focus groups, but throughout my fieldwork. I would also like to give heartfelt thanks to Carolina Amaya and German Zuluaga for highly inspirational conversations, their warm hospitality in Bogota, and for connecting me to OGT. Profound thanks also to Mauricio Blanco for all his logistical support, for being so generous with his time and availability, and for all the long, informative, and emotional conversations. Last but not least, heartfelt thanks to Antonio Briceño, whose work and friendship led me to the Sierra Nevada.

References Altman, J.C. and Kerins, S. 2012. People on Country, Vital Landscapes, Indigenous Futures. Sydney: Federation Press. Aluna the Movie. 2011. Aluna –​There is No Life without Thought [online]. Available at: www.alunathemovie.com/​en [Accessed 2018]. Amazon Conservation Team. 2017. Water, Wildlife and Hope:  Rejuvenating a Kogi Sacred Site [online]. Available at: www.amazonteam.org/​water-​wildlife-​and-​hope-​ rejuvenating-​kogi-​sacred-​site [Accessed August 2018]. Arbeláez Albornoz, C. 1994. 1997. El lenguaje de las burbujas: Apuntes sobre la cultura médica tradicional entre los Kogui de la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. In A. Colajanni (ed.), El pueblo de la montaña sagrada. Tradición y cambio, 149–​172. La Paz, Bolivia: Gente Común. Bavikatte, K. and Jonas, H. 2009. Biocultural Community Protocols: A Community Approach to Ensuring the Integrity of Environmental Law and Policy. Nairobi and Cape Town: UNEP and Natural Justice. Berkes, F. 1999. Sacred Ecology: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resource Management. London: Taylor & Francis. Briceño, A. 2007. Gods of America:  Natural Pantheon. Orinoco y Amazonas Editores. Venezuela: Caracas. CBD. 2004. Akwé:  Kon Voluntary Guidelines for the Conduct of Cultural, Environmental and Social Impact Assessment Regarding Developments Proposed to Take Place on, or Which Are Likely to Impact on, Sacred Sites and on Lands and Waters Traditionally Occupied or Used by Indigenous and Local Communities (Secretariat of The Convention on Biological Diversity, Montreal, 2004). CEMI. 2014. Gestores Legales Interculturales: La ley es de origen. Centro de Estudios Medicos Interculturales. Bogota: CEMI. Corntassel, J. 2008. Toward Sustainable Self-​ Determination:  Rethinking the Contemporary Indigenous Rights Discourse. Alternatives, 33: 105–​132. Corntassel, J. and Bryce, C. 2012. Practicing Sustainable Self-​Determination: Indigenous Approaches to Cultural Restoration and Revitalization. Brown Journal of World Affairs, XVIII(11): 151–​162.

86  Aili Pyhälä CTCI (Consejo Territorial de Cabildos Indigenas de la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta). 2015. Documento Madre de la Linea Negra –​Jaba Séshizha-​de los cuatro pueblos indígenas de la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Convenio TDTG-​SCTO –​ 24-​210-​05-​15. de la Cadena, M. 2011. Earth Beings: Ecologies of Practice Across Andean Worlds. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Ereira, A. 1992. The Elder Brothers. New York: Knopf. From the Heart of the World. 1990. [Film] Directed by Alan Ereira. BBC. Garnett, S.T., Burgess, N.D., Fa, J.E., Fernandez-​Llamazares, A., Molnar, Z., Robinson, C.J., Leiper, I. et al. 2018.A Spatial Overview of the Global Importance of Indigenous Lands for Conservation. Nature Sustainability, 1(7), 369–​374. Gudynas, E. 2017. Post-​Development and Other Critiques of the Roots of Development. In H.Veltmeyer and P. Bowles (eds), The Essential Guide to Critical Development Studies, pp. 84–​93. New York: Taylor & Francis. Heinrich, J., Heine S.J., and Norenzajan, A. 2010. The Weirdest People in the World? Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 33: 61–​135. Johnson, J.T., Howitt, R., Cajete, G., Berkes, F., Louis, R.P., and Kliskey, A. 2016.Weaving Indigenous and Sustainability Sciences to Diversify our Methods. Sustainability Science, 11: 1–​11. Kohn, E. 2013. How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology Beyond the Human. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Lin, P.-​ S.S. and Liu, Y.-​ L. 2016. Niching Sustainability in an Indigenous Community:  Protected Areas, Autonomous Initiatives, and Negotiating Power in Natural Resource Management. Sustainability Science, 11: 103–​113. Lindroth, M. and Sinevaara-​ Niskanen, H. 2015. The Biopolitics of Resilient Indigeneity and the Radical Gamble of Resistance. Resilience. DOI:  10.1080/​ 21693293.2015.1094243. McCarter, J., Gavin, M.C., Baereleo, S., and Love, M. 2014. The Challenges of Maintaining Indigenous Ecological Knowledge. Ecology and Society, 19(3): 39. McDade, T.W., Reyes-​Garcia, V., Blackinton, P., Tanner, S., Huanca, T., and Leonard, W.R. 2007. Ethnobotanical Knowledge is Associated with Indices of Child Health in the Bolivian Amazon. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 104(15): 6134–​6139. OGT. 2017. La Organización, Pueblo Kággaba, Territorio Ancestral. Afectaciones. Nuestro trabajo. Website of the Organisación Gonawindúa Tayrona:  Available at: https://​gonawindua.org/​ [Accessed August 2018]. Orrantia, J.C. 2002. Matices Kogi: Representaciones y negociación en la marginalidad. Revista Colombiana de Antropología, 38: 54–​75. Ortiz Ricaurte, C. 2004. Resistencia y procesos de integración indígenas: El caso de los Kogui de la Sierra Nevada. Boletin Antropológico, 22(60): 73–​88. Reichel-​Dolmatoff, G. 1950. Los Kogi:  Una tribu indígena de la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Colombia. Tomo 1.  Revista del Instituto Etnológico Nacional (Bogotá), 4 (1–​2): 1–​319. Reichel-​Dolmatoff, G. 1976.Training for the Priesthood among the Kogi of Colombia. In J. Willbert (ed.), Enculturation in Latin America:  An Anthology, pp. 265–​288. Los Angeles, CA: Latin American Center, University of California. Reichel-​Dolmatoff, G. 1982. Cultural Change and Environmental Awareness: A Case Study of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Mountain Research and Development, 2(3): 289–​298.

Resistance to ‘development’ in the SNSM  87 Reichel-​Dolmatoff, G. 1987. The Great Mother and the Kogi Universe:  A Concise Overview. Journal of Latin American Lore, 13(1): 73–​113. Rodriguez-​Navarro, G.E. 2000. Indigenous Knowledge as an Innovative Contribution to the Sustainable Development of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Colombia: The Elder Brothers, Guardians of the “Heart of the World”. Ambio, 29(7): 455–​458. Ross, A., Pickering Sherman, K., Snodgrass, J.G., Delcore, H.D., and Sherman, R. 2011. Indigenous Peoples and the Collaborative Stewardship of Nature:  Knowledge Binds and Institutional Conflicts. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Tairona Heritage Trust (THT). 2008. Tairona History and Tairona Culture [online]. Available at: http://​tairona.myzen.co.uk/​index.php [Accessed August 2018]. Tchendukua –​Ici et Ailleurs. 2017. Les peuples de la Sierra [online]. Available at: www. tchendukua.org [Accessed August 2018]. Uribe, C. 1998. Un relato de encuentros y desencuentros:  La sociedad y el poder entre los Hermanos Mayores de la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. In María Lucía Sotomayor (ed.), Modernidad, Identidad y Desarrollo Construcción de Sociedad y Recreación Cultural en Contextos de Modernización, pp. 73–​83. Bogota: Instituto Colombiano de Antropología e Historia. Whakatane Mechanism. 2018. About. Available at:  http://​whakatane-​mechanism.org [Accessed August 2018]. Witte, F.X.P. 2018. Living the Law of Origin: The Cosmological, Ontological, Epistemological and Ecological Framework of Kogi Environmental Politics. PhD dissertation submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge.

4  Consultation or free, informed and prior consent? A comparative legal analysis of Indigenous consultation during natural resource activities in Australia and Canada Madeline E. Taylor1

Introduction Extraction and exploitation of natural resources provides an enduring legal hurdle for the negotiation of Indigenous Land Use Agreements in Australia and Canada. In both countries, natural resource extraction historically forms a primary basis of their respective economies as former British colonies (Russell, 2005).This trend is likely to continue during the transition to renewable energy. For example, the natural gas industry is touted as a ‘transition fuel’ for both countries to achieve carbon-​free energy. Natural resource development has certain features which demonstrate significant impacts on the environment and the land, including:  the widespread landscape footprint across thousands of square kilometres; ongoing construction of wells and pipelines; and the potential impacts of hydraulic fracturing on underground aquifers. As a result of these resource extraction activities, Indigenous land rights are increasingly under scrutiny. The Australian right to negotiate and the Canadian duty to consult provide two comparative regulatory approaches which aim to facilitate ‘good faith’ negotiations between Indigenous peoples and the Crown. The aim of both consultative processes is to obtain agreement from Indigenous title holders, to access Indigenous lands to extract and explore for natural resources. This chapter will provide one of the first legal comparative examinations of differing regulatory approaches to traditional lands negotiation and agreements in two Commonwealth jurisdictions. This chapter commences with an examination of self-​determination within the framework of international law, before conducting an analysis of specific domestic regulations governing Indigenous consultation. In so doing, the chapter provides a comparative analysis of similarities and differences between Australia and Canada, before a more detailed analysis of Indigenous consultation in both jurisdictions. The chapter examines the commonalities between state sovereignty over natural resources, Indigenous title and consultation to create Indigenous Land Use Agreements. This analysis then demonstrates how

Consultation in Australia and Canada  89 both countries have sufficient political, economic and legal ‘likeness’ (Monateri, 2012: p. 201) to enable an effective comparison of functions, namely Indigenous consultation, undertaken in their respective regulatory systems. In the latter half of the chapter, the administration, regulation and governance of Indigenous title is analysed in detail, providing a comparative analysis of both systems. Finally, the duty-​to-​consult model in Canada to preserve and protect Indigenous rights is reviewed in a functional comparative analysis with Australia’s right to negotiate. The need for more equitable, democratic and precautionary approaches to energy policy and Indigenous land rights is highlighted with the goal of strengthening Indigenous peoples’ own self-​determination, decision-​making over their affairs and, crucially, their ability to withhold their free, prior and informed consent.

A global legal context of the right to self-​determination Within the international legal framework, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination do not refer to, or recognise, Indigenous legal rights.The right to self-​determination, without specific reference to Indigenous peoples, is found within Articles 1 of both the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR, 1966) and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and Convention No. 169 Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries provide the most explicit and comprehensive international law instruments affording the protection and rights of Indigenous peoples. The agreements recognise the fundamental rights of Indigenous peoples. For example, Article 26 of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples recognises ‘Indigenous peoples have the right to own, use, develop and control the lands, territories and resources that they possess by reason of traditional ownership or other traditional occupation or use, as well as those which they have otherwise acquired’. Despite the enactment of these agreements, at an international level there is a lack of binding standards recognising Indigenous peoples’ rights, leaving regional and domestic treaties and/​or Indigenous title legal systems to regulate the relations between Indigenous peoples and nation-​states. Within the legal context, natural resource extraction has presented a vital opportunity to examine the paradigm of self-​determination as nation-​states and natural resources companies seek to ‘consult’ and agree upon terms of resource exploitation extraction. In international law, self-​determination is defined and enshrined within common Article 1 of the ICCPR and ICESCR as a right for all peoples: the ‘right of self-​determination. By virtue of that right they freely determine their political status and freely pursue their economic, social and cultural development’. The Brundtland Report (1987: p. 49) also emphasises the importance of effective participation by local communities in making resource development decisions. Indeed, the Brundtland Report found that in Australia

90  Madeline E. Taylor particularly, Indigenous or tribal peoples remain isolated due to physical barriers and larger socio-​economic barriers, leading to the loss of the preservation of the ‘traditional way of life in close harmony with the natural environment’.2 More specifically, the Brundtland Report advocated for the empowerment of vulnerable groups –​namely Indigenous peoples –​in determining the future of the world’s natural resources, as Indigenous knowledge and traditions are largely based on the principles of sustainable development as well as the preservation of the environment (Sillitoe, 2017). The right to self-​determination is deemed customary in nature, with some commentators considering it jus cogens3 within international law (Anaya, 2004: p. 97). The right to self-​determination contains both external and internal elements –​that is, external rights of a people to be free from external command and control of other nations and peoples, and internal rights of peoples to freely choose their political governance regime while maintaining autonomy (Alfredsson, 1993). This chapter focuses on internal self-​determination, that is, intra-​state relations between governments and Indigenous peoples based on regulatory models governing natural resource regulation to realise the rights and interests of Indigenous peoples (Pereira and Gough, 2013).The right to self-​determination in the Western liberal political tradition is the right of sovereignty, conquest and annexation, as shaped by the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America (1776)4 and the French Revolution (1779).5 Self-​determination further evolved in its interpretation by nationalist movements championing the independence of nation-​states from outside political inference, which gave rise to the ‘principle of nationalities’ as a platform for the formation of a number of new states (Summers, 2007, 2013). The legal and political drive towards self-​determination traversed a historically turbulent political era post-​World War II which witnessed the redrawing of the geo-​political map in Europe and the breakdown of empire. The British Empire in particular ceased to exist in its original form but was re-​structured into a Commonwealth of countries linked together by a common political and legal tradition, headed by the Crown (Kochin, 2016). Former British colonies demanded the right to self-​determination and sovereignty over their own political system, including the right of sovereignty to exploit their respective natural resources for domestic economic gain. Hence, independence, self-​ determination and sovereignty were interlinked in the new political era post-​ World War II.This first appeared in the Covenant of the League of Nations (the first international peace treaty after World War I). Although the Covenant did not expressly preserve the right to self-​determination, Article 22 mandated all colonies and territories which had ceased to be under the sovereignty of former governing states to apply the ‘principle that the well-​being and development of such peoples form a sacred trust of civilisation and that securities for the performance of this trust should be embodied in this Covenant’ (Article 22, 1919). This confirmed self-​determination as a political rather than a doctrinal legal concept granting autonomy to former colonial states.

Consultation in Australia and Canada  91 It was with the advent of the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) and International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) that self-​determination was fully constructed as a concept to protect not only nation-​states, but ‘all peoples’, as found within Article 1 of ICESCR. Prior to this, there had been no general agreement on what the term ‘people’ meant in international law. For example, within the Kosovo Report, the International Commission noted the duty of the international legal community to ‘extend(s) to the realization of the right of self-​determination for the people of Kosovo’ and ‘[t]‌he people of Kosovo must take over the running of their affairs’ (Independent International Commission on Kosovo, 2000). Therefore, the international legal community recognised the right of self-​determination as being applicable to the protection of specific communities. Comparatively, and from the perspective of intra-​nation self-​determination, the Supreme Court of Canada in Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998)6 denied Quebec the ability to invoke a right of self-​determination to claim a prepossessed secession from the other provinces of Canada. The Supreme Court authoritatively construed the definition of ‘a people’ under international law as being in reference to where ‘a people is subject to alien subjugation, domination of exploration, and possibly where “a people” is denied any meaningful exercise of its right to self-​ determination within the state of which it forms a part’.7

Domestic implementation of Indigenous self-​determination International law and the right to self-​determination for Indigenous peoples is affected by an evolving legal framework, coupled with international norms and ‘soft’ law, being non-​binding legal mechanisms. The application of self-​ determination in a domestic law context for Commonwealth nations is usually found in treaties with Indigenous peoples. These treaties seek to preserve Indigenous autonomy and legal rights over land, with the specific regulatory aim of promoting limited self-​governance, as Indigenous peoples do not maintain a right of veto in relation to natural resource exploitation due to national sovereignty over natural resources. These agreements are often found in former European colonial countries including Canada, the United States and New Zealand under constitutional treaty-​making powers (Langton, Palmer, Tehan, and Shain, 2004). In contrast, Australia does not recognise its Indigenous population within its constitution, nor does it afford treaty-​making powers to the state. The regulation of Indigenous land is founded within native title laws as the third pillar of the land law system in Australia consisting of Torrens title, Crown land and Native title. Treaties, unlike Native title, seek to recognise the legal transfer of sovereignty to uphold the independent status and personality of Indigenous peoples in determining their own customary laws (Saul, 2016). However, the concept of an international ‘independent legal personality’ afforded in treaties in a post-​ colonial legal context is not found in the international legal context (Worster, 2016). That is, Indigenous peoples are not afforded a legal status equivalent to

92  Madeline E. Taylor a nation-​state with independent legal capacity to seek redress for breaches of treaties at an international level (Brennan et al., 2004). As highlighted by Gibbs J in Coe v Commonwealth, it is not possible to say … that the aboriginal people of Australia are organized as a ‘distinct political society separated from others,’ or that they have been uniformly treated as a state … They have no legislative, executive or judicial organs by which sovereignty might be exercised. If such organs existed, they would have no powers, except such as the law of the Commonwealth, or of a State or Territory, might confer upon them. The contention that there is in Australia an aboriginal nation exercising sovereignty, even of a limited kind, is quite impossible in law to maintain.8 Hence, while treaties can provide important rights of self-​determination and self-​governance to Indigenous peoples and their proprietary rights in relation to natural resources and land, their enactment and enforcement is often limited. The uncertainty around the regulatory effectiveness of self-​ determination founded within treaties has led to the classification of treaties as ‘grey’ sui generis instruments –​limited in application and legal redress within domestic and international law (Saul, 2016). Treaties can be useful instruments to represent the international legal principle of self-​determination of Indigenous peoples, but are limited in their ability to defend and prosecute Indigenous rights due to the historical basis of coercion and lack of consultation when adopting treaty terms.When adopted effectively and equitably, treaties may represent an opportunity to entrench international law standards of self-​determination in specific binding domestic legal instruments with the state.

Commonalities and differences within legal systems: Australia and Canada The legal origin of British colonialism demonstrates the common legal foundation and similarities between the systems of Australia and Canada (Oliver, 2005). Both countries are constitutional monarchies that place democracy and the separation of powers at the apex of the political and legal framework. The role of the judiciary and a statute-​based legal system represented through state and federal parliaments are similar. The most evident difference between the legal systems of Australia and Canada is in constitutional power (Young, Nielsen and Patrick, 2016). It is the Commonwealth Government in Australia that holds enumerated powers and the states have plenary powers subject to inconsistency with Commonwealth powers. Conversely, Canada has provinces with enumerated powers, the federal government having plenary powers. Consequently, in Canada, the Constitution Act (1867)9 provides additional rights to the provinces with respect to lands, mines, minerals and royalties. Parliament does not have authority pursuant to section 91(24) of the Constitution Act (1867)10 to take up provincial land for solely provincial purposes, including

Consultation in Australia and Canada  93 forestry, settlement or mining. On the other hand, the federal government has a general power to legislate with respect to natural resources upon federal lands. In addition to its general power over sea coast and fisheries, parliament may also obtain jurisdiction over certain provincial works by virtue of its declaratory power (Boughey, 2017). In Canada, the recognition and enforcement of aboriginal rights are founded in Aboriginal title and Indigenous rights.11 Aboriginal title12 can be compared with Australia’s Native title in recognising the existence and occupation post-​ colonisation of Indigenous peoples, while recognising specific rights integral to Indigenous culture. Aboriginal title is understood as being the broader basis of protection of Aboriginal rights within section 35(1) of the Constitution Act (1982) which provides the constitutional protection of Indigenous rights existing at common law and remaining unextinguished from the date the provision came into force in 1982 (Knafla and Westra, 2010). Aboriginal rights existing from 1982 cannot be extinguished by the Crown; rather, consultation will allow the Crown to infringe upon these rights in certain circumstances, such as natural resource extraction (Lawrence and Macklem, 2000). In both jurisdictions, Indigenous title is a burden on the radical title13 of the Crown. Therefore, both Aboriginal title and Native title are a possessory right which is inalienable, that is, it cannot be transferred.14 Proof of Aboriginal title in Canada requires a determination of occupation and possession of an Indigenous group to prove title, rather than the arguably more rigid and stringent requirements requiring proof of Indigenous custom and traditions on the land in Australia (McNeil, 1997: p. 135; McHugh, 2011). However, the ‘occupation’ test does not require an unbroken chain of continuity between current and prior occupation given the ‘unwillingness of European colonizers to recognise aboriginal title’.15 In citing Brennan J in Mabo [No 2], the Supreme Court in Delgamuukw established that the requisite occupation can be demonstrated in the requirement ‘that there must be “substantial maintenance of the connection” between the people and the land16 … Continuity does not require an unbroken chain of continuity between present and prior occupation’.17 The Australian Law Reform Commission, in its analysis of Canada’s Aboriginal title regulation, highlights that ‘Aboriginal title does not therefore rely on the content of aboriginal laws as such, but that content is relevant to determining whether there is exclusive occupation such as to point to “title” ’(2015: p. 275). The most fundamental diver gence in Indigenous jurisprudence between Australia and Canada is the recognition of the fiduciary relationship between the Crown and Indigenous peoples based on the legal principle of the ‘honour of the Crown’ (Grover, 2016). A fiduciary relationship arises when ‘one party reposes confidence in another who is expected to act in the interests of the former party rather than those of the latter’ (Heydon and Leeming, 2011: p. 267). Australia, unlike Canada, does not recognise the existence of a fiduciary duty by the Crown to Indigenous people within its constitution requiring the Crown to consult, and where applicable, accommodate Indigenous interests.18 This is due to Canada’s explicit recognition of Aboriginal rights afforded by section

94  Madeline E. Taylor 35(1) of the Constitution Act (1982). In comparison, Australia’s Aboriginal rights are afforded by the legislative enactment of the Native Title Act (1993) (Cth), rather than within its Constitution and a common law fiduciary duty. Nonetheless, some cases in Australia have recognised and raised the possibility of a fiduciary duty between the Crown and Indigenous peoples of Australia being recognised in the future, as stated by Kirby J in Thorpe v Commonwealth (No 3) (1997): ‘whether a fiduciary duty is owed by the Crown to the Indigenous peoples of Australia remains an open question’.19 Due to the constitutional recognition of its Indigenous peoples, Canada has developed the treaty system to provide Indigenous legal rights, rather than a major statutory regime for Native Title claims resolution, as is the case with Australia. Gummow J in Wik Peoples v Queensland (1996)20 also recognises the fundamentally different development of Canada’s Aboriginal laws. His Honour recognises the historic ‘assumption of responsibility by the Crown in respect of Indian land ownership [in Canada] under which the Indian interest in land was inalienable except on surrender to the Crown … [this] fiduciary relationship rested upon the nature of the Indian title to use the land and the restricted surrender provisions of the Indian Act which placed the Crown in the position of protector of the Indians’ commercial interest’.21 In Canada, the fiduciary duty of the Crown was expropriated in R.  v Sparrow in upholding ‘the relationship between the Government and aboriginals is trust-​like, rather than adversarial, and contemporary recognition and affirmation of aboriginal rights must be defined in light of this historic relationship’.22 While section 35(1) of the Constitution Act (1982) protects and affirms all existing aboriginal and treaty rights in Canada,23 section 211 of the Native Title Act (1993) (Cth) (NTA) in Australia protects limited rights, including: hunting, fishing, gathering, a cultural or spiritual activity, where they are carried out for ‘personal, domestic or non-​commercial communal needs’ (section 211(2)(a)). Despite evident differences in the recognition and preservation of Indigenous rights in Australia and Canada, the regulatory framework that preserves the international legal right of self-​determination in relation to natural resources has been constructed in both jurisdictions as the need to provide ‘good faith negotiations’. Thus, while Indigenous titleholders in both Australia and Canada are entitled to remain on and maintain spiritual and cultural ties to their ancestral lands, this possession is vulnerable to the realisation and exploitation of natural resources, as controlled by the Crown. Constitutional reform recognising the fiduciary duty of the Crown in attesting to the vulnerable position of Indigenous landholders during Indigenous consultation, and seeking to redress the current imbalance of bargaining power, may provide an affirmative step towards self-​determination in Australia (Davis and Langton, 2016).

A comparative context of Indigenous title In Australia, the basis for the recognition and protection of Indigenous peoples and Torres Strait Islanders is within the NTA. The NTA was intended to satisfy

Consultation in Australia and Canada  95 Article 1(4) of the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination in recognising the importance of ‘protecting the full enjoyment by native title holders of their rights and interests’ (Perr and Lloyd, 2018:  p.  1). The Racial Discrimination Act (1975) (Cth) in Australia was cited in Mabo v Queensland (No 2) (1992)24 as operating as the legislative basis upon which the Commonwealth can extinguish or reduce native title as a ‘special measure’.25 Within the Racial Discrimination Act (1975) (Cth), ‘special measures’ are provided for the Commonwealth to enact regulation to ‘secure the advancement’ of ‘human rights and fundamental freedoms’ as per section 3(1).The decision of Mabo (No 2) recognised the Meriam Islanders’ Indigenous rights, as against the whole world, to possess, occupy, use and enjoy the lands of the Murray Islands. Mabo (No 2) represents the landmark decision whereby terra nullius (the land of no-​one) was abolished and recognises the laws and customs of Indigenous communities with a corollary that Indigenous rights in land existed when sovereignty was acquired by settlement over Australia and these rights continue to exist thereafter (Brennan et  al., 2015). These Native title rights are recognised and defined in section 233(1) of the NTA. In broad terms, the NTA seeks to enforce and protect native title rights by protecting these rights from extinguishment in the future pursuant to section 11. Second, the NTA establishes the ‘future acts regime’ within Pt 2 Div 3 regulating the way in which future dealings may proceed, and be consistent with, Native title rights (Bartlett, 2015; Finlayson, 1997). The regulatory tool in which future acts may affect Native title are in accordance with the ‘right to negotiate’ procedures contained within Subdivision P in order to create Indigenous Land Use Agreements (Perry and Lloyd, 2018). Indigenous Land Use Agreements (ILUAs) bind all native title holders, upon registration within the Register of Indigenous Land Use Agreements,26 concerning the rights over their lands and waters and any acts done pursuant to such agreements are prima facie valid.27 The Native Title Tribunal holds a number of functions in relation to inquiries and mediations with respect to Native title agreements, and includes the jurisdiction to determine whether a future act covered by the ‘right to negotiate’ attracts the special expedited procedure in section 237, and the determination of whether a future act can or cannot be done where the parties have been unable to reach agreement. (sections 75 and 139)28 The right to negotiate procedures apply to certain future acts done by the Commonwealth, a state or territory of Australia, including some mining grants and compulsory acquisitions. The right to negotiate is recognised in the preamble to the NTA in stating, ‘whenever appropriate, every reasonable effort has been made to secure the agreement of the native title holders through a special right to negotiate’.

96  Madeline E. Taylor In Canada, the Constitution Act (1982) re-​affirms autonomy from British authority of Canadian law and Canada’s commitment to the protection of its minority, Aboriginal, equality, legal and language rights and fundamental freedoms as set out within the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.29 Specifically, section 25 of the Constitution Act is interpreted as a non-​ derogation clause guaranteeing that the Charter will not abrogate or derogate from ‘any aboriginal, treaty or other rights or freedoms that pertain to the aboriginal peoples of Canada’. The Supreme Court of Canada proclaims the ‘tradition of respect for minorities’ as being ‘as old as Canada itself ’.30 The rights of Aboriginal peoples of Canada are recognised and affirmed in section 35. This provision came under scrutiny in R. v Sparrow (1990).31 The case recognised the ancient occupation of land by aboriginal peoples and a ‘promise’ within section 35 for the Crown to not unjustifiably infringe upon an Aboriginal right. In determining whether an interference of Aboriginal rights is justified32 the Supreme Court in Sparrow posed a two-​step test: 1) construing whether there has been a valid legislative objective in authorising the enactment of regulations interfering with Aboriginal rights; and 2) The ‘honour’ of the Crown in construing whether the Crown has enacted regulations consistent with section 35(1). This fiduciary-​based second test can be satisfied by posing a sub-​set of questions. These include: whether there has been as little infringement as possible in order to effect the desired result; whether, in a situation of expropriation, fair compensation is available; and whether the aboriginal group in question has been consulted with respect to the conservation measures being implemented.33 Importantly, once Aboriginal title is established in Canada, as affirmed by Tsilhqot’in Nation,34 infringements upon Aboriginal rights are permitted only if the duty to consult is met and there is ‘consent of the Aboriginal group’35 or where the government can justify a ‘compelling and substantial public purpose and are not inconsistent with the Crown’s fiduciary duty to the Aboriginal group’.36

Consultation during natural resource activities As previously examined within this chapter, the duty to consult in Canada is grounded in the fiduciary duty between the Crown and Indigenous peoples and the principle of the ‘honour of the Crown’.The ‘honour of the Crown’37 is understood generously as ‘the Crown, acting honourably, cannot cavalierly run roughshod over Aboriginal interests where claims affecting these interests are being seriously pursued in the process of treaty negotiation and proof ’.38 The duty to consult arises where ‘the Crown has knowledge, real or constructive, of the potential existence of the Aboriginal right or title and contemplates conduct that might adversely affect it’.39 This fiduciary duty to consult necessitates

Consultation in Australia and Canada  97 the equitable principle of negotiations taking place in ‘good faith’ in order to ensure meaningful consultation in an individual and flexible manner according to Haida Nation v.  British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004). As Canadian provinces regulate natural resources, this duty must be discharged by the provincial government and cannot be delegated to third parties, such as mining companies. The duty to consult is a process that does not provide a right of veto for Aboriginal title holders, but represents the regulatory process to satisfy and discharge the fiduciary duty of the Crown (Newman, 2014). Against this background, Indigenous ‘consent’ is only appropriate in cases of established Aboriginal rights and does not provide a right of veto over what can be done with traditional lands (Bains and Ishkanian, 2016). This is a balancing process40 of collaboration between the interests of the Crown and Indigenous titleholders by seeking to compromise in an attempt to harmonize conflicting interests and move further down the path of reconciliation. A commitment to the process does not require a duty to agree. But it does require good faith efforts to understand each other’s concerns and move to address them.41 Therefore, the provincial Crown must only undertake a ‘reasonable effort’42 to inform and consult to discharge the duty in reference to the circumstances of the case, the strength of the existence of the right or title and the seriousness of the potentially adverse effect upon the right or title claimed (Lambrecht, 2013). It is evident that Indigenous title holders that do not consent to development on their land may not exercise the right to prohibit any activities where the Crown demonstrates it has discharged its ‘procedural duty to consult and accommodate; its actions are in pursuit of a compelling and substantial objective; and the action is consistent with the Crown’s fiduciary duty’.43 Many of the cases concerning the sufficient discharge of the Crown’s duty to consult concern natural resources.44 This is due to the triggering of the duty to consult in relation to the grant of a resource licence by the Crown, particularly in relation to drilling licensees with respect to specific Aboriginal lands (Isaac and Knox, 2003). The duty has also been recognised as being applicable where ‘high-​level managerial or policy decisions that may potentially affect the future exploitation of a resource to the detriment of Aboriginal claimants’.45 In relation to natural resource activities, the duty is applicable where potential adverse effects may infringe upon the rights of Aboriginal titleholders due to a ‘causal connection’ of the extraction and infringement of Aboriginal rights.46 In applying the lens of the right to self-​determination, the duty to consult provides an opportunity to minimise risks and respond directly to concerns of Indigenous groups.The duty to accommodate thus seeks to provide a ground to accommodate the needs and interests of Indigenous titleholders when the consultation process suggests the need to amend Crown policy. Accommodation in this context is defined as requiring a balancing exercise between ‘Aboriginal concerns reasonably with the potential impact of the decision on the asserted

98  Madeline E. Taylor right or title and with other societal interests’.47 Satisfying the Crown’s duty to accommodate during the consultation process requires a regulatory tribunal, such as the National Energy Board, to make a decision in relation to energy project approval treated as ‘Crown conduct’ for the purpose of satisfying the duty to consult (Bankes, 2018). While this fiduciary duty exists and holds the aim of collaboration and ‘balancing’ of interests between the Crown and Indigenous peoples, it is clear this process does not afford self-​determination and the right of veto. The Supreme Court in Haida states that Indigenous peoples ‘must not frustrate the Crown’s reasonable good faith attempts, nor should they take unreasonable positions to thwart government from making decisions or acting in cases where, despite meaningful consultation, agreement is not reached’.48 Consequently, there is arguably a tacit understanding that Indigenous peoples should not act to frustrate or delay government decisions on natural resources. Reed explains, ‘the existence of non-​negotiable positions or actors with veto power, limits the extent to which the process can empower participants to influence decisions that are important to a participant’s view of the process’ (Reed, 2008: p. 2421). A lack of influence results in cynicism about the process and leads to declining levels of engagement that put the ‘credibility of participation at risk’ (Reed, 2008: p. 2421). The exercising of power within a participatory process can, in this way, significantly affect the relationships within the process but also the effectiveness of the process itself (Reed, 2008). Subdivision P of the Australian NTA provides the statutory, rather than fiduciary, right to negotiate in relation to certain future acts created for the benefit of Native title claimants and Native title holders. The right to negotiate process was created in recognition of the special attachment of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to their land, legislation could provide for enhanced requirements for negotiation with native title holders, including a framework (for example, timetable, arbitration if necessary) for such negotiation. (Commonwealth of Australia, 1993: p. 2280) The right to negotiate is intended to operate as a ‘special’ regulatory measure in satisfaction of the definition in the International Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Racial Discrimination. Special measures are allowed as an exception to the general principle of formal equality (being equal treatment without distinction on the basis of race) because they are designed to advance the human rights and freedoms of persons, such as Aboriginal people and Torres Strait Islanders, who have been historically disadvantaged groups (Australian Human Rights Commission, 2011).49 The right to negotiate is thus not a broad duty applicable to any intervening legislative act of the Crown in infringing upon Aboriginal title rights, as is the case in Canada. Rather, the right to negotiate is applicable in relation to grants

Consultation in Australia and Canada  99 or renewals of a right to mine and certain compulsory acquisition of Native title as summarised by Perry and Lloyd (2018: p. 417). 1. Future acts covered by s 24IC and involving the renewal of a lease or licence which creates a right to mine: s 26(1A); 2. Future acts which pass the freehold test in ss 24MA and 24MB and involve the creation or variation of a right to mine: s 26(1)(c)(i) and (ii); 3. Future acts which pass the freehold test in ss 24MA and 24MB and involve the compulsory acquisition of native title: s 26(1)(c)(iii); and, 4. Any other future act approved by the Commonwealth Minister by legislative instrument, subject to consultation with a relevant State or Territory (s 26(1)(c)(iv)). A right to mine includes a right to explore or prospect for resources that may be mined, to extract petroleum or gas or to quarry. However, an approved exploration, gold or tin mining, or opal or gem mining will not be afforded the right to negotiate. A future act may be determined to be an approved exploration activity if it consists of the creation or variation of a right to mine, for example, resource exploration, prospecting or fossicking as per section 26A (2). Similarly, to the duty to consult, the right to negotiate procedure provides Native title parties with the opportunity to make submissions in requiring the Crown to negotiate in ‘good faith’ with a view to obtaining the agreement of the Native title parties. It is interesting to note that the equitable concept of ‘good faith’ is imported in the right to negotiate in Australia, despite its statutory and non-​fiduciary nature, as the fiduciary relationship is indeed afforded under equitable legal principles (Conaglen, 2010). In order to reach this objective, the arbitration body may mediate between the parties according to section 31(1) of the NTA. The failure to negotiate in good faith in relation to the grant of a mining lease includes ‘failure to consider and respond to a proposal by a native title party that the native title parties be entitled to payments worked out by reference to the amount of profits made’ (Perry and Lloyd, 2018: p. 462). Lee J interprets the underlying intention of section 31 and good faith negotiation in Brownley v Western Australia (No 1) as requiring ‘a Government party engage in negotiation with an open mind, willingness to listen, and willingness to compromise, to reach an agreement under which the native title claimant will agree to government doing the act it proposes’.50 For example, the failure to advance negotiations, or the delay of and failure to respond to reasonable proposals, may provide a basis to infer that a party has not conducted negotiations in ‘good faith’. The ‘Njamal Indicia’ created by the National Native Title Tribunal is relevant to determining whether the government party has negotiated in good faith and includes matters such as: 1. unreasonable delay in initiating communications; 2. failure to make proposals;

100  Madeline E. Taylor 3. failure to contact or communicate; 4. failing to respond to reasonable requests for relevant information within a reasonable time; 5. stalling or postponing negotiations; and, 6. refusing to agree on trivial matters and adopting a rigid non-​negotiable position).51 However, a refusal to negotiate about matters unrelated to the effect of the act on registered Native title rights and interests of the Native title parties will not, in itself, be evidence of a failure to negotiate in good faith.52 In the event of dissatisfaction with the right to negotiate procedure, a party may apply to the National Native Title Tribunal for a determination when six months have passed since the date of negotiation of the future act and no agreement has been made in relation to the doing of the future act.53 The 1998 amendments to the NTA have been said to severely reduce the bargaining position of Native title holders, thus limiting the bargaining position that Native title holders under the ILUA scheme (Bartlett, 2015).This is due to the 1998 amendments providing the ability of parties to validate previously invalid future acts where the parties to an Indigenous Land Use Agreement so agree, and their resulting agreement is registered on the Register of Indigenous Land Use Agreements.54 Low-​impact prospective natural resource activities can take advantage of the NTA by avoiding the observance and applicability of the right to negotiate procedures by requiring a notice to be served on Native title bodies and claimants.55 Therefore, the future act will attract the expedited procedure and will not entitle Native title bodies to attract the right to negotiate where it is unlikely that it will: 1. interfere directly with the carrying on of community or social activities of the Native title holders; 2. interfere directly with areas or sites of particular significance; or, 3. involve major disturbance to any land or waters.56 The renewal and variation of a low-​impact exploration permit, or a low-​impact mineral development licence, is also an approved exploration act.57 In making a determination, the minister must invite and consider submissions from Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander representative bodies.The Commonwealth Minister has made determinations of approved exploration acts in New South Wales and Queensland. Hunt (2001, 19) outlines the many categories in which future acts will be granted an exception for the right to negotiate process. 1. titles granted under Indigenous Land Use Agreements (ILUAs); 2. the renewal or extension of valid permits and licences granted before 23 December 1996; 3. the grant of a ‘right to mine’ or the compulsory acquisition of Native title rights to land for purpose of an infrastructure facility such as a pipeline;

Consultation in Australia and Canada  101 4. the ‘expedited procedure’ which permits the grant of a title where the grant would not interfere directly with the community or social activities of the Native title claimants nor any areas or sites of particular significance and would not be likely to involve any major land disturbance; 5. activities and dealings in relation to valid reserves, made prior to 23 December 1996, which are consistent with the purpose of the reserve; 6. the management of water resources; 7. a ‘low impact future act’; 8. an ‘approved exploration act’; and 9. activities in offshore areas. In passing bill 41, Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act, British Columbia recently affirmed its commitment to align its duty-​to-​consult regime with the international law standard of free, prior and informed consent as required under Article 10 of the Untied Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. However, neither the right to negotiate regime, nor the duty to consult at a national level, adopt the free, prior and informed consent standard. In lieu of this, ‘good faith’ is the universal standard of consultation adopted. It is argued that adopting the international standard for consent is needed in Australia in order to move towards self-​determination for Indigenous peoples.

Free, prior and informed consent The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples provides the customary international law standard of free, prior and informed consent (FPIC; Rombouts, 2014). While Article 32 is not binding upon signatory nations, including Australia and Canada, per se, it represents a principle to guide states in their commitment to the development of international legal norms. According to Sawyer and Gomez (2012), the concept of FPIC is linked to the concepts of self-​determination and autonomy and has been adopted by a number of natural resource companies as a form of corporate social responsibility as a more tangible policy goal, as opposed to the attaining the elusive ‘social license to operate’ (Doyle, 2015). However, FPIC has not been utilised as a legal norm or ‘yardstick’ by either Australia or Canada in their Indigenous consultation processes prior to natural resource activities. In order for the FPIC to be adopted effectively in regulation, a number of ‘conditionalities’ must be met including ‘a functional regulatory framework, freedom from coercion, a serviceable land tenure system, parties that are willing to engage in a public process about land access and economic participation’ (Owen and Kemp, 2014: p. 93). This has led to commentators highlighting the ‘degree of difficulty’ in implementing FPIC in regulation (Szawblowski, 2011). Despite this, FPIC must be seen as a vital international legal norm standard in which states seek to reform consultation processes with Indigenous peoples and the natural resource sector in affirming self-​determination (Anaya, 2013). Conflicting

102  Madeline E. Taylor interests of Aboriginal and Native title holders, the Crown and private natural resource companies has led to pressing legal challenges to address the imbalance of bargaining power between parties. While the right of veto over natural resources will never be a legally valid possibility for states which hold ownership and sovereignty over natural resources, FPIC represents a legal principle to afford the ability to withhold consent, and build a regulatory framework for integrating the rights and entitlements of Indigenous peoples with internationally enshrined legal norms. It is against this background that the concept of ‘good faith’ negotiations found in both Australia and Canada falls short of achieving self-​determination in natural resource consultation. Given the complexity of the cumulative impacts of natural resource exploitation, some of which are not evident until decades after activities have ceased such as aquifer contamination, the early identification of issues, rights and interests of parties is crucial to attaining informed consent. At a minimum, this would require a move from basic social impact assessments and environmental impact assessments towards new approaches with specified roles for community elders and leaders to inform affected communities (Gibson and O’Faircheallaigh, 2010). Although the legislative NTA framework in Australia and the constitutional duty to consult in Canada do not align with international law to attain FPIC, the process for recognition of Indigenous rights by the Crown provides a workable framework to implement the standard. Indigenous peoples who are willing and able to assess the scope and impact of potential resource activities on traditional lands are, according to Owen and Kemp (2014), prime candidates for the effective implementation of FPIC. A substantive engagement and comprehensive characterisation of the concept of FPIC is needed in legislation in order to counter enduring forms of marginalisation and oppression during the right to negotiate and duty to consult in order to bring accountability and bargaining power to Indigenous populations. As argued by Papillion and Rodon (2017), FPIC ‘is a collective right that requires substantive Indigenous participation in decision-​making anchored both in community deliberations and the reconciliation of interests through negotiations’ (p. 217). While consultation in its current form focuses on economic incentives and mitigating cumulative environmental impacts, it falls short of addressing broader, more complex questions of the social acceptability of projects and their long-​term cultural and social impacts. The FPIC provides a collective decision-​making process rooted in equality and transparency to empower communities to provide the opportunity to withhold consent and re-​balance bargaining power in order to self-​determine land use agreements. Although FPIC may be a difficult and elusive legislative standard, it is a significant regulatory tool that is available to Indigenous peoples to ‘mobilize in order to establish some degree of agency in relations with promoters and governments’ (Papillion and Rodon, 2017: p. 217). The duty to consult and right to negotiate require ‘good faith negotiations’. Despite this, Indigenous consent is not needed if a ‘compelling and substantial’ public purpose justifies the infringement of Aboriginal or Native title.

Consultation in Australia and Canada  103 However, if the FPIC were to be introduced into regulation, this could provide legal standing for Indigenous peoples to demand projects be cancelled if it is established that the natural resource project would unjustifiably infringe on their right of self-​determination now and into the future. Whether bill 41 will result in such legal standing within British Columbia, following its embedment of the free, prior and informed consent standard, is yet to be tested. Currently, the lack of adequate regulation to foster deliberation and encourage transparent negotiations provides an opportunity to adopt FPIC.This framework will allow parties to focus on the legitimacy of negotiation processes by encouraging Indigenous leadership in deliberations early on in negotiations and, crucially, to provide the right to consent, or withhold it. As stated by Barelli, ‘ “consent” should be intended as a process of which consultation and participation represent the central pillars’ (2012: p. 2). FPIC represents a balance between the Crown’s interests and Indigenous peoples’ broader role in finding common ground in the consultation process which moves beyond the concept of ‘good faith’.

The next step towards self-​determination It is recognised within the Charter of Economic Rights and Duties of States that ‘(the) state can use its territory to cause serious environmental damage to other states or to areas beyond national jurisdiction. This is enshrined in major declarations outlining principles of international environmental law, as well as in treaties’.58 Self-​determination, as enshrined in international law, provides autonomy of people (including Indigenous peoples) with the capacity for limited self-​determination and authority over activities on traditional lands. This is particularly relevant to Indigenous peoples who have traditions and strong cultural bonds to land and a spiritual significance attached to the use of land. However, the state has sovereignty over natural resources, with the right to exploit its natural resources for the common benefit of all citizens. It is relevant to revisit the concept of self-​determination to determine its specific meaning in relation to the state’s right to natural resource development. In order to balance competing international legal norms, the regulatory tool of free, prior and informed consent is applied as an outcome of good faith consultation. Both Australia’s right to negotiate and Canada’s duty to consent, although divergent in nature and execution, have the same intent  –​to balance the interests of the state and Indigenous peoples with respect to natural resources. Interestingly, both consultation processes require good faith as the underpinning principle in order to create equitable negotiations. With the exception of British Columbia, neither country expressly recognises the international legal standard or requires fully informed consent. That is, good faith implies a fluid process of compromise back and forth between parties within agreed statutory parameters, whereas consent is an absolute –​an outcome that represents the state’s uncontested right to natural resource exploitation.

104  Madeline E. Taylor While fully informed consent does not offer unabated autonomy, it provides a benchmark to attain greater influence over natural resource governance and decisions made by government which should reflect the interests of Indigenous peoples and their connection to land. The Supreme Court of Canada in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia59 recognises Government incursions not consented to by the title-​holding group must be undertaken in accordance with the Crown’s procedural duty to consult and must also be justified on the basis of a compelling and substantial public interest, and must be consistent with the Crown’s fiduciary duty to the Aboriginal group.60 It is evident that both Canada and Australia have established processes to manage Indigenous interests in natural resource extraction. However, both systems fall short of the international legal standard of prior, fully informed consent. The next step in attaining self-​determination involves recognising the right to consent, or not consent, to a proposed state action at a national level, as enshrined in international law.This would also require a review of the state’s control and sovereignty over natural resources and the public interest to exploit them.

Conclusion Canada and Australia are resource-​ r ich states and the drive to exploit resources for domestic and export purposes shows no sign of abating. Exploitation of natural resources increases the likelihood of conflict between state interests and Indigenous peoples’ ownership and stewardship of traditional lands. This throws into sharp relief the requirement to revisit and re-​ evaluate the meaning and application of self-​determination as defined under international law. The current regulatory framework adopted by Australia in the right to negotiate and in Canada in the duty to consult has been examined throughout this chapter as a process to achieve ‘good faith’ negotiation. Free, prior and informed consent provides an international norm and standard that must be adopted to afford more equitable step towards self-​determination in negotiating Indigenous Land Use Agreements for natural resource activities.Yet, this is not the practice under the Canadian or Australian legal systems. Instead, if consent is not given, then the state has the right to undertake the natural resource activity if ‘good faith’ negotiations are proven to have taken place.This approach is unlikely to change. However, to move forward towards Indigenous self-​determination and ultimately self-​ governance, it is proposed that in accordance with the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, resource extraction should not occur on lands subject to Indigenous claims without

Consultation in Australia and Canada  105 adequate consultation with and the free, prior and informed consent of the Indigenous peoples concerned. Following the implementation of the free, prior and informed consent standard in British Columbia, Canada and Australia should endeavour to put in place a regulatory framework for implementing the duty to consult that allows for Indigenous peoples’ genuine input and involvement at the earliest stages of project development. Indigenous peoples have knowledge and customs to preserve traditional lands spanning many centuries. It is proposed in this chapter that this expert knowledge of sustainable land use and preservation is more fully integrated into Australian and Canadian natural resource negotiation processes as the first step towards a more fully articulated expression of the right to self-​ determination and self-​governance.

Notes 1 With many thanks for the helpful comments and suggestions of Susanne Taylor. The author acknowledges the tradition of custodianship and law of the Country on which the University of Sydney campuses stand. She pays her respects to Elders past, present and emerging and to those who have cared and continue to care for Country and acknowledges that sovereignty was never ceded. 2 As stated within the report, ‘But some communities –​so-​called Indigenous or tribal peoples –​remain isolated because of such factors as physical barriers to communication or marked differences in social and cultural practices. Such groups are found in North America, in Australia, in the Amazon Basin, in Central America, in the forests and hills of Asia, in the deserts of North Africa, and elsewhere’ (Brundtland Report, 1987: p. 300). 3 Meaning a preemptory norm that is accepted by the international community of states. 4 The Declaration of Independence of the United States of America of 4 July 1776, which proclaimed that governments derived ‘their just powers from the consent of the governed’ and that ‘whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it’. 5 As critiqued by Thürer and Burr (2008), ‘The principle of self-​ determination was further shaped by the leaders of the French Revolution, whose doctrine of popular sovereignty, at least initially, required renunciation of all wars of conquest and contemplated annexation[s]‌of territory to France only after plebiscites’. 6 Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998) 2 SCR 217. 7 At pinpoint [222] Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998) 2 SCR 217. 8 Coe v Commonwealth (1979) HCA 68 [129]. 9 Constitution Act (1867) (IMP), 30  & 31 Vict, c 3.  A  fundamental principle of law in Canada is the supremacy of the Constitution, which is enshrined in the Constitution Act (1982). All laws, whether common or legislative, must comply with the Constitution. The Constitution Act (1982), being Schedule B to the Canada Act (1982) (UK), c 11. 10 Constitution Act (1867) (IMP), 30 & 31 Vict, c 3. 11 R v Van der Peet (1996) 2 SCR 507.

106  Madeline E. Taylor 12 Delgamuukw v British Columbia (1997) 3 SCR 1010; Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) SCC 44. 13 Radical title is discussed and defined by Brennan J in Mabo v Queensland (No 2) 175 CLR 1 [58], ‘The radical title is a postulate of the doctrine of tenure and a concomitant of sovereignty. As a sovereign enjoys supreme legal authority in and over a territory, the sovereign has power to prescribe what parcels of land and what interests in those parcels should be enjoyed by others and what parcels of land should be kept as the sovereign’s beneficial demesne. By attributing to the Crown, a radical title to all land within a territory over which the Crown has assumed sovereignty, the common law enabled the Crown, in exercise of its sovereign power, to grant an interest in land to be held of the Crown or to acquire land for the Crown’s demesne’. 14 Delgamuukw v British Columbia (1997) 3 SCR 1010. 15 Delgamuukw v British Columbia (1997) 3 SCR 1010 [153]. 16 Ibid. 17 R v Van der Peet (1996) 2 SCR 507 [65]; Delgamuukw v British Columbia (1997) 3 SCR 1010 [153]; Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) SCC 44 [46]. 18 The fiduciary duty of the Crown is reaffirmed in Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) SCC 44. 19 (1997) 71 ALJR 767 at 774. In Bodney v Westralia Corporation Pty Ltd (2000) 109 FCR 178 at [66], Lehane J recognised that the lack of recognition of a fiduciary duty between the Crown and Indigenous populations ‘does not mean that circumstances will not arise in which the Crown has fiduciary duties, owed to particular Indigenous people, in relation to the alienation of land over which they hold native title. Nor does it mean that where, in particular circumstances, a duty of that kind is breached (or a breach is threatened) a constructive trust might not appropriately be imposed’. 20 (1996) 187 CLR 1. 21 At [39]. 22 At [165]. 23 Aboriginal rights in Canada include broader rights than Native title rights in Australia and include ‘aboriginal rights: practices, customs and traditions integral to the distinctive culture of the group claiming the right; site specific rights to engage in particular activities on particular land; and aboriginal title: akin to a possessory title to the land’. See Australian Law Reform Commission (2015). 24 175 CLR 1. 25 Mabo v Queensland (No 2) (1992) 175 CLR 1 at [15], per Mason CJ and McHugh J stating, with the authority of the other members of the Court, that ‘The main difference between those members of the Court who constitute the majority is that, subject to the operation of the Racial Discrimination Act (1975) (Cth), neither of us nor Brennan J, agrees with the conclusion of Deane,Toohey and Gaudron JJ, that, at least in the absence of clear and unambiguous statutory provision to the contrary, extinguishment of native title by the Crown by inconsistent grant is wrongful and gives rise to a claim for compensatory damages. We note that the judgment of Dawson J supports the conclusion of Brennan J and ourselves on that aspect of the case since his Honour considers that, native title, where it exists, is a form of permissive occupancy at the will of the Crown’. 26 The Register is created and enacted in accordance with Pt 8A.

Consultation in Australia and Canada  107 27 Sections 24EB (2), 24EA (1) Native Title Act (1995) (Cth). 28 Native Title Law, 10. 29 Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998) 2 SCR 217 [46]. 30 Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998) 2 SCR 217. 31 (1990) 1 SCR 1075. 32 The Supreme Court of Canada held that in determining whether Aboriginal rights constitute a prima facie infringement of section 35(1), the following questions must be asked: is the limitation unreasonable? Does the regulation impose undue hardship? Does the regulation deny to the holders of the right their preferred means of exercising that right? The onus of proving a prima facie infringement lies on the individual or group challenging the legislation. 33 (1990) 1 SCR 1075 [1077]. 34 (2014) 2 SCR 257. 35 [2]‌. 36 [2]‌. 37 As recognised in Haida at pinpoint [21], ‘This duty to consult is recognized and discussed in the jurisprudence. In Sparrow, supra, at p. 1119, this Court affirmed a duty to consult with west-​coast Salish asserting an unresolved right to fish. Dickson C.J. and La Forest J. wrote that one of the factors in determining whether limits on the right were justified is “whether the aboriginal group in question has been consulted with respect to the conservation measures being implemented” ’. 38 Haida Nation v British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004) 3 SCR 511, 2004 SCC 73. 39 Haida Nation v British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004) 3 SCR 511, 2004 SCC 73. 40 Sparrow raised the concept of accommodation, stressing the need to balance competing societal interests with Aboriginal and treaty rights. 41 Haida Nation v British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004) 3 SCR 511, 2004 SCC 73 [49]. 42 R. v Nikal (1996) 1 SCR 1013 110. 43 Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) SCC 44 [80–​84]. 44 Taku River Tlingit First Nation v British Columbia (Project Assessment Director) (2004) 3 SCR 550 and Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) 2 SCR 257. 45 Rio Tinto Alcan Inc v Carrier Sekani Tribal Council (2010) 2 SCR 650 [87]. 46 Rio Tinto Alcan Inc v Carrier Sekani Tribal Council (2010) 2 SCR 650 [51]. 47 Haida Nation v British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004) 3 SCR 511, 2004 SCC 73 [50]. 48 [42]. 49 Section 253 of the Native Title Act (1993) (Cth); in Hale v Western Australia (2015) 233 FCR 96 at [63], per Barker J:  note, however, that ‘mine’ does not include ‘extract, obtain or remove sand, gravel, rocks or soil from the natural surface of land, of or the bed beneath waters, for a purpose other than: (d) extracting, producing or refining minerals from the sand, gravel, rocks or soil; or (e) processing the sand, gravel, rocks or soil by non-​mechanical means’. 50 Brownley v Western Australia (No 1) (1999) 95 FCR 152 [162–​163] per Lee J. 51 Western Australia v Njamal People (1996) 134 FLR 211. 52 Native Title Act (1993) (Cth), section 31(2). 53 Ibid., sections 29(4), 35(1)(a). 54 Div 3 Subdivs B, C, D and E. 55 Petroleum (Onshore) Act (1991) (NSW), section 45D.

108  Madeline E. Taylor 56 Native Title Act (1993) (Cth), section 237. 57 Mineral Resources Act (1989) (Qld), Schedule 1A. 58 United Nations Conference on Environment and Development, Rio Declaration on Environment and Development:  Application and Implementation, 7–​25 April 1997, Permanent Sovereignty, Article 457, U.N. Doc. A/​CONF. 151/​5 (1992). 59 (2014) 2 SCR 257. 60 (2014) 2 SCR 257 [88].

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Consultation in Australia and Canada  109 Coe v Commonwealth (1979) HCA 68. Commonwealth of Australia (1993) Mabo: The High Court Decision on Native Title. Discussion Paper (June) Appendix, p. 102. Commonwealth of Australia (1867) Constitution Act 1867 (IMP), 30 & 31 Vict, c 3. Conaglen, Matthew (2010) Fiduciary Loyalty:  Protecting the Due Performance of Non-​ Fiduciary Duties. Oxford; Portland, OR: Hart Publishing. Davis, Megan and Langton, Marcia (2016) It’s Our Country:  Indigenous Arguments for Meaningful Constitutional Recognition and Reform. Carlton,VIC: Melbourne University Press. Delgamuukw v British Columbia (1997) 3 SCR 1010. Doyle, Cathal (2015) Indigenous Peoples, Title to Territory, Rights and Resources:  The Transformative Role of Free Prior and Informed Consent. New York: Routledge. Finlayson, Julie (1997) The Right to Negotiate and the Miner’s Right: A Case Study of Native Title Future Act Processes in Queensland. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research. Gibson, Ginger and O’Faircheallaigh, Ciaran (2010) IBA Community Toolkit: Negotiation and Implementation of Impact and Benefit Agreements. Ottawa: Walter & Duncan Gordon Foundation. Grover, Kristy (2016) The Honour of the Crowns:  State-​ Indigenous Fiduciary Relationships and Australian Exceptionalism. Sydney Law Review, 38(3): 339. Haida Nation v British Columbia (Minister of Forests) (2004) 3 SCR 511, 2004 SCC 73. Hale v Western Australia (2015) 233 FCR 96. Heydon, J.D. and Leeming, M. (2011) Cases and Materials on Equity and Trusts. Chatswood, NSW: LexisNexis. Hunt, Michael (2001) Native Title and Aboriginal Heritage Issues Affecting Oil and Gas Exploration and Production. Monarch University Electronic Journal of Law, 8(3). Independent International Commission on Kosovo (2000) The Kosovo Report: Conflict, International Response, Lessons Learned. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Isaac, Thomas and Knox, Anthony (2003) The Crown’s Duty to Consult Aboriginal People. Altanta Law Review, 41(1): 49. Knafla, Louis A. and Westra, Haijo (2010) Aboriginal Title and Indigenous Peoples: Canada, Australia and New Zealand.Vancouver, BC: University of British Columbia Press. Kochin, Michael (2016) Nations Unchained: Revolution, Empire, and the Collapse of the Westphalian Order. Perspectives on Political Science, 47(1): 38. Lambrecht, Kirk (2013) Aboriginal Consultation, Environmental Assessment, and Regulatory Review in Canada. Regina, SK: University of Regina Press. Langton, Marcia, Palmer, Lisa,Tehan, Maureen and Shain, Kathryn (2004) Honour Among Nations? Treaties And Agreements With Indigenous People. Carlton, NSW: Melbourne University Publishing. Lawrence, Sonia and Macklem, Patrick (2000) From Consultation to Reconciliation: Aboriginal Rights and the Crown’s Duty to Consult. Canadian Bar Review, 79: 254. League of Nations (1919). Covenant of the League of Nations. www.unhcr.org/​refworld/​ docid/​3dd8b9854.html (accessed 2 February 2018). Mabo v Queensland (No 2) (1992) 175 CLR. McHugh, Paul G. (2011) Aboriginal Title: The Modern Jurisprudence of Tribal Land Rights. Oxford University Press. McNeil, Kent (1997) The Meaning of Aboriginal Title in Michael Asch (ed.), Aboriginal Treaty Rights in Canada: Essays on Law, Equality and Respect for Difference. Vancouver, BC: University of British Columbia Press.

110  Madeline E. Taylor Monateri, Pier Giuseppe (2012) Methods of Comparative Law. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Newman, Dwight (2014) Revisiting the Duty to Consult Aboriginal Peoples. Saskatoon, SK: Purich Publishing Limited. Oliver, Peter (2005) The Constitution of Independence: The Development of Constitutional Theory in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Owen, John and Kemp, Deanna (2014) Free Prior and Informed Consent, Social Complexity and the Mining Industry:  Establishing a Knowledge Base. Resources Policy, 41(1): 91. Papillion, Martin and Rodon, Thierry (2017) Proponent-​Indigenous Agreements and the Implementation of the Right to Free, Prior, and Informed Consent in Canada. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 62: 216. Pereira, Ricardo and Gough, Orla (2013) Permanent Sovereignty over Natural Resources in the 21st Century:  Natural Resource Governance and the Right to Self-​ Determination of Indigenous Peoples under International Law. Melbourne Journal of International Law, 14(2): 451. Perry, Melissa and Lloyd, Stephen (2018) Australian Native Title Law (2nd edn). Pyrmont, NSW: Thomson Reuters. R. v Nikal (1996) 1 SCR 1013 110. R v Sparrow (1990) 1 SCR 1075. R v Van der Peet (1996) 2 SCR 507. Reed, Mark S. (2008) Stakeholder Participation for Environmental Management:  A Literature Review. Biological Conservation, 141: 2417–​2431. Reference re Secession of Quebec (1998) 2 SCR 217. Rio Tinto Alcan Inc v Carrier Sekani Tribal Council (2010) 2 SCR 650 [87]. Rombouts, Sebastian Johannes (2014) Having a Say: Indigenous Peoples, International Law and Free, Prior and Informed Consent. Oisterwijk: Wolf Legal Publishers. Russell, Peter (2005) Recognizing Aboriginal Title: The Mabo Case and Indigenous Resistance to English-​settler Colonialism. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Saul, Ben (2016) Indigenous Peoples and Human Rights:  International and Regional Jurisprudence. Oxford: Hart Publishing. Sawyer, Suzana and Gomez, Edmund (eds) (2012) The Politics of Resource Extraction: Indigenous Peoples, Multinational Corporations and the State. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Sillitoe, Paul (ed.) (2017). Indigenous Knowledge:  Enhancing its Contribution to Natural Resources Management. Wallingford: CABI. Summers,James (2007) Peoples and International Law: How Nationalism and Self-​Determination Shape a Contemporary Law of Nations. Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Summers, James (2013) Peoples and International Law (2nd edn). Leiden: Brill. Szawblowski, David (2011) Operationalizing Free, Prior, and Informed Consent in the Extractive Industry Sector? Examining the Challenges of a Negotiated Model of Justice. Canadian Journal of Development Studies, 30(1–​2): 111. Taku River Tlingit First Nation v British Columbia (Project Assessment Director) (2004) 3 SCR 550. Thürer, Daniel and Burr, Thomas (2008) ‘Self-​Determination’ entry in Max Planck Encyclopedia of Public International Law. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the Max Planck Institute.

Consultation in Australia and Canada  111 Tsilhqot’in Nation v British Columbia (2014) SCC 44. United Nations (1966) International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights Adopted by General Assembly Resolution 2200 (XXI) of 16 December 1966. United Nations (2007) United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, GA Res 61/​295, UN Doc A/​RES/​61/​295 (2 October 2007, adopted 13 September 2007). Western Australia v Njamal People (1996) 134 FLR 211. Worster, William Thomas (2016) Relative International Legal Personality of Non-​State Actors. Brooklyn Journal of International Law, 42(1): 207. Young, Simon, Nielsen, Jennifer and Patrick, Jeremy (2016) Constitutional Recognition of First Peoples in Australia:  Theories and Comparative Perspectives. Leichhardt, NSW: Federation Press.

5  Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability Merging vernacular and modern knowledge Maor Kohn, Meidad Kissinger and Avinoam Meir

Introduction In recent years, interest in measuring population welfare, quality of life and sustainability among various societies has grown as a basis for policy and planning. Formulating indicators and indexes enables the generation of significant information from various observations and directing it into action (Bossel, 1999). It involves, inter alia, examining place sustainability, environment or space as a holistic complex system that takes into account social, ecological and economic aspects, and mutual changes and influences of the components. But these measurement systems are seldom produced through public participation or gathering local knowledge in setting policy (Bell and Morse, 2008). Often these systems are developed in a top-​to-​bottom method through think-​tanks to formulate indicators and determine weights without sufficient attention for representing the local people. This is mainly due to the difficulty in collecting data from the “bottom” and analyzing non-​quantitative data (OECD, 2017). The United Nations, the European Environment Agency (EEA), the World Bank and the OECD have all been measuring the quality of life and sustainability of societies and countries in order to examine their socioeconomic status and environmental stress, indicating areas of intervention and producing forecasts. Although these indexes can provide a comprehensive assessment of Western and modern countries and societies, they restrict research among other societies, mainly Indigenous ones, where many indicators are irrelevant, while lacking subjective relevant ones that supplement the picture by understanding “Indigenous sustainable place”. Hence the need to deal with measuring Indigenous sustainability as a basis for improving their physical, social and cultural conditions, adapting them to living conditions in a modern state without compromising Indigenous views of their quality of life and welfare. The purpose of this paper is to propose a new indicator system adapted to societies with unique characteristics such as Indigenous societies. It is based on combining objective available indicators with subjective, Indigenous knowledge.

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  113

The Indigenous sustainable place The interaction with modern Western states compels Indigenous peoples into cultural transition. This process has quite often failed due to the application of modern planning tools that lack local Indigenous knowledge required for developing a “sustainable place”, resulting in marginalization, poverty and dependence on the state’s welfare (Distasio et al., 2013; Grenier, 1998; Sheehan, 2009). Backwardness has developed also when, hoping for a better life, these groups move to modern cities, but there they pay a high cultural and social price that compels many to return to their original localities (Deruyttere, 1997; Walls and Whitbeck, 2012). In the Indigenous spaces in which modern culture is imposed upon the traditional way of life, with a lack of proper treatment of garbage, sewage, water and electricity, health services and decent housing, the environmental condition has been a source of disease and epidemics, psychological stress and low self-​esteem (Kryzanowski and McIntyre, 2011). The significant changes in the situation of the Indigenous groups began only when modern countries understood that Indigenous culture was not an obstacle but a vehicle for growth, and only by understanding the need for imparting meaning to the Indigenous tradition of tribalism and ethnicity through understanding what “Indigenous sustainability” is (Lertzman and Harrie, 2005). This brings to the fore the issue of Indigenous sustainability. Indigenous sustainability is perceived in different ways among different Indigenous groups, but almost always involves the spiritual connection to nature and its perception as sacred place that satisfies existential needs (Reid et al., 2013). It is based on local Indigenous knowledge, which enables maximization of yields from the ecological environment and increased production in various areas of life, mainly food production. This is done by minimizing risks, effectively exploiting the work force and natural resources and minimizing damage to the environment (Nakashima and Roué, 2002). In recent years, it has also become apparent that Indigenous knowledge enables the understanding and preservation of biodiversity threatened by progress and industrialization (Senanayake, 2006; Spiller et al., 2011; Meir, 2017). Countries that preserve the use of this knowledge contribute to the ecological balance as well as to the prosperity of Indigenous people and society as a whole. The attempts of Indigenous populations to produce an Indigenous sustainable place against the background of global warming, globalization and occasions of national disintegration such as with the USSR are surfaced in many cases. Modernization, which enables efficient health services, modern agricultural knowledge and coping with various challenges, also poses new challenges for Indigenous peoples. In all these cases, Indigenous knowledge has been accumulated, through which social, economic, land and environmental policies can be created that are compatible with local society and space. A study conducted in Russia by Crate (2005) examined the Indigenous community of Viliui Sakha, located in Siberia, against the background of the

114  Maor Kohn et al. Russian government’s interests in the production and transportation of natural gas and oil as well as developing industries in the Arctic. The study presented a model of a sustainable Indigenous community based on a stable local economy integrated into this industry, strong local leadership, local Indigenous knowledge, restoration of land rights and natural resources to the Indigenous and the definition of common objectives in the economy, society and the environment. This Indigenous minority was exposed to a wide variety of modern tools in a variety of areas of planning, development, agriculture, health and education, all in parallel with the use of local Indigenous knowledge to manage the resources and cultural preservation of tribal tradition. At the same time, the Indigenous people managed to develop a community-​ based management system that links traditional Indigenous culture and modernity, thus assimilating environmental values of native culture into those components of sustainability based on modern economics, modern society and a modern conception of environmental values. In settling the relationship between the state and the Indigenous minority in Russia, and constituting the basis for production of the sustainable place, priority was given to property rights in the land and regulation of the use of subsistence resources. Thus, in this case as well as in others, the authorities succeeded in mobilizing the Indigenous people to promote national and international projects and safeguard the values of the environment for the common good (Caulfield, 2000). In Greenland, too, the state reached agreements with the Indigenous people regarding Indigenous land rights and Indigenous management using Indigenous knowledge for their integration into modern social and economic systems (Sejersen, 2002).The Inuit in Quebec, Canada, have been suffering poor economic, environmental and social conditions against the backdrop of climate change, large industrial development and quarrying of minerals in their district. The state places emphasis on developing employment and income alongside preservation of Indigenous economic culture based on subsistence agriculture, as part of the construction of a sustainable place for them. At the same time, the educational, health, community, housing, transportation and environmental needs of this minority group are addressed. In all these cases, the state combines modernity with local knowledge in order to create sustainable places for this population (Rodon and Schott, 2013), and to deal with additional challenges of Indigenous groups that have been transferred or have moved themselves to large cities (such as high crime rates, suicide, low self-​esteem and slums) (Gibson, 2006). These examples demonstrate the complexity of Indigenous sustainability and the need to create a scientific platform for measuring Indigenous sustainability, based on Indigenous knowledge systems that emphasize interdependence between ecological, socioeconomic, cultural and spiritual domains. In this way, it is distinct from sustainability in a modern society. The great significance of Indigenous culture is the basis for respecting the ecological environment and the fabric of life (Hall, 2008). Indigenous societies are collectively identified with a place/​land/​territory and spirituality that have a central role in social

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  115 relations as well as human and natural relationships and intergenerational continuity (Reid et al., 2013). Hence, understanding the environment as a sustainable Indigenous environment and the place as a “sustainable Indigenous place” must be first and foremost related to observation from an Indigenous point of view: culture, spirituality and tradition combined with the circles of sustainability and the perception of the Western place as presented in the welfare indices of the OECD and the geographical “place” (Deruyttere, 1997; Hernández et al., 2007; Lewicka, 2011; OECD, 2017; Relph, 2000; Smith, 1996). In light of all of the above, we propose the following scheme: Indigenous sustainable place = sustainable physical space with clean, safe and healthy environment + sustainable social and economic space with social relations + sustainable mental space that maintains a positive sense of place, indicating place attachment.

Towards measuring Indigenous sustainability Many countries are still failing to manage Indigenous space and create sustainable places for these populations. The difficulty stems, inter alia, from an inability to produce a comprehensive understanding of their situation and to define the various indicators that should constitute an “Indigenous sustainable place”. This difficulty stems itself from the absence of unique indicator systems for measuring the sustainability of Indigenous societies as well as the construction of space, which is a significant component of their identity, making it difficult to understand their distress and needs. However, given the sensitivity of these populations to climatic changes, environmental influences, neo-​colonialism and the spatial distress of the modern state and the distress created by the nature of life in a modern state, there is a need to measure the sustainability of their places while understanding also the traditional and spiritual contexts of their place and the environment. However, there are stumbling blocks. The first is the understanding that modern research is deficient in local Indigenous knowledge (Bawaka Country et al., 2016). Indigenous knowledge is capable of helping modern countries to understand the environment differently, not only in economic and self-​interest terms, which has led, in the perception of the natives, to the greatest environmental destruction in world history (Larsen and Johnson, 2016), but also in terms of geographical structure, ecological balance and respect for nature. The development of indicator systems for measuring sustainable society, place and environment among societies with unique characteristics has been carried out in some countries with Indigenous groups, such as New Zealand, Australia and Canada (Chair and Refshauge, 2014; Drew, 2015; Kryzanowski and McIntyre, 2011; Spiller et  al., 2011). The United Nations has also been concerned with measuring the welfare of Indigenous peoples. However, it is

116  Maor Kohn et al. evident that emphasis in measurement is given to objective Western indicators based on published data such as life expectancy, mortality, access to health services, education, accessibility to public services, physical environment and economy (employment, poverty, income and housing) (Chair and Refshauge, 2014; Cooke et  al., 2013; Jahan, 2015; Keleher and Hutchson, 2015; Maru and Chewings, 2011; Mehrotra, 2011; Stankovitch, 2008; Strategic Research Directorate Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada, 2015), and less to subjective indicators that examine the identity of a place, spirituality, tradition, tribalism and patriarchy that are characteristic of these societies. The understanding that the needs of Indigenous peoples are not reflected in the indicator systems for countries or international bodies has led to the fact that during international conferences dealing with measuring countries’ development, attention has been drawn, albeit marginally, to the situation of the natives in those respective countries. Beyond the objective indicators that deal with the level of development, such as GNP, national debt, inflation, population growth, education and unemployment (Reichmuth, 2009), unique, subjective indicators identified with these societies have begun to be examined too. For example, a conference held in the Philippines in 2008 on Indigenous sustainability and biodiversity proposed unique indicators to examine Indigenous societies that reflect the needs of these populations in a comprehensive manner.The “International Forum on Indigenous Biodiversity” was established to collect material and compile a local sustainability index (Stankovitch, 2008). The forum was attended by representatives from around the world who decided on a list of 48 socioeconomic indicators listed in the Human Development Index (HDI). These indicators were used to measure country development levels, and were supplemented by indicators that focus on measuring Indigenous societies. In each country that participated in the forum and provided research data on its population, emphasis was placed on relevant indicators but in a trend-​oriented manner; a specific set of indicators was examined in all the countries dealing with Indigenous–​state relations in the following social and economic areas. 1. The number of political parties engaged in national legislation aimed at protecting Indigenous tradition and culture. 2. Land. The rate of Indigenous people under full legal control over land inherited and owned by the founding fathers of the community; the extent of state recognition of Indigenous ownership of these lands; and the involvement of the natives in determining a land policy on their territories. 3. The rate of consuming natural resources by Indigenous groups without direct state supervision, relative to their proportion in the population. 4. The percentage of land used for self-​production of food. 5. The percentage of individuals based on subsistence food with diet-​related illnesses. 6. The percentage of Indigenous individuals studying in Indigenous tradition-​ based educational frameworks. 7. The percentage of females in the various education systems.

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  117 8. The infant mortality rate among Indigenous people relative to their share in the population. 9. The suicide rate in the population (this figure has also been examined among Aboriginal populations in Canada who moved to city slums (Smith et al., 2010). 10. The availability of and access to clean water, electricity, sanitation and technology among Indigenous populations not living in a developed modern environment. Maru and Chewings (2011) examined this rate as well as the poverty rates among native Australians that moved to the cities. 11. The percentage of the population wandering within state borders in search of resources. 12. Indigenous rights granted by the state in:  the use of traditional knowledge, the expression of tradition-​based ideas and the recognition of an Indigenous language as an official language. These fields were broken down into indicators that quantitatively measure various aspects. For example, in education, the number of students integrated into the education system, ages, genders, grades, graduates (elementary, high school, academic degree) are measured.This system of indicators, as well as other systems such as Cooke et al.’s (2013), are based on the Human Development Index (HDI) and are trying to measure how Indigenous people are integrated into the modern state while preserving traditional and cultural values. In practice, in most of these systems, no measurement was actually conducted on Indigenous populations due to lack of data and disagreement over the weight of the various indicators. Disagreements revolve around internal and international political debates and are related to the situation of the Indigenous people in the country, the degree of Indigenous integration into internal politics and the degree of state democracy. In countries where measurement was carried out, this was at the macro state level and based on a comparison between various societies within the country. Therefore, it lacks the Indigenous local knowledge required for formulating appropriate policies. In forums in Guatemala, the United States and China, other indicators were also examined:  the rate of AIDS, malaria and schistosomiasis among natives living near untreated freshwater sources, the proportion of workers in modern jobs versus the rate of unemployed or those engaged in traditional agriculture and the rate of hunters (Reichmuth, 2009; Stankovitch, 2008). Larsen et  al. (2010) presented an index to examine the level of development of populations living in the Arctic Circle in Greenland, Canada, the USA, Russia, Norway, Denmark and Sweden, with an emphasis on Indigenous populations. This index is based on indicators that can be measured from a budgetary point of view, in terms of data availability, ease of measurement, scalability and inclusion, with maximum reference to traditional and cultural issues that characterize Indigenous people. In the research process, after selecting the indicators for comparison, the population was given the possibility of self-​ evaluation (i.e., how they perceive and grade their situation in various social

118  Maor Kohn et al. areas such as education, health, housing and employment).The Subjects assessed themselves on a five-choice scale: excellent, very good, good, fair and bad. The reference to the human perception of one’s situation and the comparison to the international indicators as perceived in the Western world allowed researches to examine gaps between societies with different characteristics. This required reusing the usual indicators for examining level of development, such as income per household, unemployment rate, poverty rate and the proportion of smokers suffering various diseases. In this case too, indicators that characterize Indigenous needs were not examined, and indicator weights within the index were determined in advance by the researcher. Nevertheless, obviously the link between Western concepts and social needs was made. Against this background, an indicator that examines the use of a native language or dialect in relation to the use of the national language in a country has emerged. The measurement also focused on the use of a native language at different levels: comprehension, speech, reading and writing (Larsen et al., 2010). In studies on developing countries such as India, Nepal and Pakistan, three indicator systems were adopted from the HDI. Each system receives one-​ third of the overall weight in the index: the health index, the education index and the household income index (Mehrotra et  al., 2011). These studies also examined the degree of use of agricultural machinery by a family unit, the number of buildings per tribe, access to fresh food and the percentage of children underweight (a measure characterizing populations that are not necessarily Indigenous). A study conducted in Australia examined the causes of poverty and lack of prosperity among Aborigines. It introduced a list of indicators for examining the well-​ being of this population, combining social and Indigenous values with Western-​ anchored government frameworks of poverty (Maru and Chewings, 2011). This is one of the few studies that, while conducting the index, has assigned weights to the indicators and compared Indigenous and non-​Indigenous populations in the country. Among others, the following indicators were selected. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Neglected and injured children: rate per 1,000 children under age 16. Rate of prisoners per 1,000 persons. Birth rate among youth under age 17. Number of hospitalized native patients having harmed themselves. Number living in a home with a significantly higher density than the average.

In general, there is a gap between populations with Indigenous characteristics and modern and Western populations in measurement forms. It seems that the various measurements prioritized indicators that reflect modern societies over Indigenous ones. This can be seen from Table 5.1. This paper attempts to propose a new measurement tool, a set of Indigenous sustainability indicators, which will attempt to provide a quantitative response

newgenrtpdf

Table 5.1  Comparison of indicator areas among studies examining Indigenous sustainability Indicators

Human Development Index 2015 (Jahan, 2015)

India Human Development Report 2011 (Mehrotra, 2011)

Aboriginal People in Canada (Cooke et al., 2013)

Indicators Relevant for Indigenous Peoples: A Resource Book (Stankovitch, 2008)

Population

Life expectancy at birth mortality rate (+ malaria, HIV/​infant) population growth fertility rate crime rate (homicide/​ drugs/​ violence) Suicide rate Hunger

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+ +

+

+

+

+ +

+ +

Measurement and Causal Analysis of Indigenous Poverty and Disadvantage in Remote Australia (Maru et al., 2011)

Key Indicators and Data for Aboriginal Health and Wellbeing, Australia (Keleher and Hutcheson, 2015)

+

+

Determinants of Wellbeing for Indigenous Australians (Chair and Refshauge, 2014)

Community Well-​Being Index: First Nations Communities, 1981–​2011 (Strategic Research Directorate Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada, 2015)

+

+ (continued)

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  119

Area

120

newgenrtpdf

Area

Indicators

Human Development Index 2015 (Jahan, 2015)

Culture (tradition, proudness, way of life, language) Children’s + condition (health, vaccination, underweight) health (access + to services + diseases + mental)

India Human Development Report 2011 (Mehrotra, 2011)

Aboriginal People in Canada (Cooke et al., 2013)

Indicators Relevant for Indigenous Peoples: A Resource Book (Stankovitch, 2008)

Measurement and Causal Analysis of Indigenous Poverty and Disadvantage in Remote Australia (Maru et al., 2011)

+

Key Indicators and Data for Aboriginal Health and Wellbeing, Australia (Keleher and Hutcheson, 2015)

Determinants of Wellbeing for Indigenous Australians (Chair and Refshauge, 2014)

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

Community Well-​Being Index: First Nations Communities, 1981–​2011 (Strategic Research Directorate Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada, 2015)

120  Maor Kohn et al.

Table 5.1 Cont.

 121

Environment

Access to Perceptions of government individual services well-​being (feeling safe, freedom) Perceptions of government Security of rights to territories, lands and natural resources

+ + + +

+

+

+

+

+

+ +

(continued)

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  121

Carbon dioxide emissions per capita Forest area Natural disasters Population living on degraded land (in general) Safe, healthy and supportive environments with strong communities

122

newgenrtpdf

Area

Indicators

Human Development Index 2015 (Jahan, 2015)

India Human Development Report 2011 (Mehrotra, 2011)

Aboriginal People in Canada (Cooke et al., 2013)

Integrity of Indigenous cultural heritage Access to infrastructure and basic services

Indicators Relevant for Indigenous Peoples: A Resource Book (Stankovitch, 2008)

Measurement and Causal Analysis of Indigenous Poverty and Disadvantage in Remote Australia (Maru et al., 2011)

Key Indicators and Data for Aboriginal Health and Wellbeing, Australia (Keleher and Hutcheson, 2015)

Determinants of Wellbeing for Indigenous Australians (Chair and Refshauge, 2014)

Community Well-​Being Index: First Nations Communities, 1981–​2011 (Strategic Research Directorate Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada, 2015)

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

Education

years, literacy, quality

+

+

Economy

GNI per capita in USD poverty

+

+

+

+

+

122  Maor Kohn et al.

Table 5.1 Cont.

 123

Work (skills, + employment, labor force) Income + Housing/​ + homeless people/​ households Access to resources

Access to food

+

+

+ +

+

+

+

+

+

+

+ +

+ +

+

+

+ +

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  123

Primary energy + supply/​ electrification rate Accessibility to + fresh water Access to natural resources

+

+

124  Maor Kohn et al. to the shortcoming of various approaches to measure the sustainability of Indigenous places.

The Negev Bedouin as a conceptual basis for formulating the set of Indigenous sustainability indicators In our study, which examined Bedouin society in two unrecognized villages in the Negev, it emerged that despite the planning of modern towns for this society, many Bedouin remained as squatters in unrecognized localities that lack the quality of life available elsewhere in Israel. The Bedouin are an Indigenous minority living in a modern ethnocratic state. Their uniqueness is evident in their traditional way of life, anchored in past nomadic culture and tribal structure (Ben-​David, 2004). Therefore, rather than development, their clustering into modern state-​ built towns has often led to negative social impacts, mismanaged urban space and the continued position of the Bedouin at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder (Abu Bader and Gradus, 2010; Ben-​Israel and Meir, 2013). This situation has deterred many Bedouin who live in dozens of unrecognized villages with no basic services or infrastructure from moving to towns, who claim that the urban structure does not serve their unique needs (Alami, 2007; Meir, 2005). The situation even worsened in light of environmental changes and various risks created by living in these squatter frameworks as well as development of nearby polluting industrial centers, landfills, phosphate mines and military installations. The absence of an efficient measurement to examine the components of Bedouin “sustainable place” as a basis for formulating a planning policy in these localities is evident. Measuring Bedouin assessment of various aspects of their localities enables the creation of connections that are not obvious in studies dealing with modern culture. For example, the establishment of a modern Bedouin settlement based on traditional agriculture can promote women’s employment without compromising the highly cultural Islamic value of their chastity and hence male honor. Thus, the total employment rate in the village may increase significantly, with more sources of income. This may reduce the poverty rate, raise the rate of acquisition of education for offspring, the socioeconomic status of the villages may rise, the rate of the population dependent on supportive state systems may decline and the level of violence may decrease. Thus, the unrecognized villages, designed by the Bedouins informally and free from any external planning, may reflect a society with unique, Indigenous characteristics struggling to preserve its identity and existence in a changing world (e.g., by maintaining land transactions pursued only internally within tribes). It is a society in transition, from an Indigenous tradition of semi-​ nomadic pastoralism, tribalism and patriarchy towards an urban economy and its position as a society within a modern state. In our study of two villages we concluded that the Bedouin live in spaces loaded with social and spatial constraints, where they attempt to develop a sustainable place, despite the squatter nature of their unrecognized localities

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  125 and the many environmental risks (Kohn, 2017). The materials collected in the field study allowed the formulation of a list of Indigenous sustainability indicators that can serve for understanding Indigenous space and the applicability of accumulated Indigenous local knowledge and spatial understanding for planning sustainable localities for this population, as well as other Indigenous populations around the world. Spatial and social phenomena raised in interviews with village residents enabled the formulation of indicators that measure welfare and quality of life from an Indigenous perspective. Tribalism, tradition, patriarchy, gender, the sanctity of land and its being an element of identity –​all were expressed in the formulation of the indicators and in our decision to classify them into different spheres. The field study was conducted in two unrecognized villages: Wadi-​al-​Na’am and Al-​Fur’a in the Negev. We identified internal social constraints and environmental risks. The village of Wadi al-​Na’am is located near the Neot-​Hovav industrial compound, which has a high concentration of chemical plants. The village of Al-​Fur’a is located nearby a planned open-​pit phosphate mine. Despite all risks and threats, the Bedouin living in these villages refuse to leave them and possibly have developed a “sustainable place” for themselves in spite of pressure from the state to move the Bedouin into urban frameworks. Most of the Bedouins testified that the rural, traditional environment in which they live is better than the failed urban alternative. The study conducted observations, field trips, document reviews, and 31 in-​depth interviews that explored sense of space, place identity, fears of place, personal stories and socio-​tribal-​family-​class structure. In addition, published statistical data were collected on environmental conditions and socioeconomic circumstances. In order to maintain the interviewees’ confidentiality, only their first and last initials are given, together with initials representing village name (e.g., WAN = Wadi-​al-​Na’am or AF = Al-​Fur’a).

Indigenous sustainability indicators The goal of a sustainability index is to adapt the use of Western research tools to examine cases of Indigenous populations, and to understand the components of the Indigenous place according to their perception.This is in order to enable the formulation of a planning policy that corresponds with reality. The uniqueness of the index lies in the merger of objective indicators based on existing literature measuring welfare and development, and subjective indicators that are unique to this population (i.e., that emerged from interviews) such as polygamy, women’s status and patriarchy, tribalism, untreated water-​related diseases, mental space, spiritual connection to place, place identity etc. Therefore, several criteria were taken into account in formulating the indicators. 1. A sustainable Indigenous environment depends on the land and natural resources, not only as a subsistence resource that provides soil for agriculture,

126  Maor Kohn et al.

2. 3.

4.

5.

6.

clean and available drinking water and watering/​feeding animals, but as a territory immersed within Indigenous culture and traditions. Preservation of traditions must be based on tribe, culture, language and custom. A sustainable Indigenous environment needs the combination of a modern economic base with a self-​sustaining culture of tilling and livestock grazing (providing access to natural resources without being priced in Western capitalist terms). It needs independent autonomous leadership that does not conflict with the mechanisms of political power but includes legal independence on a tribal basis, a dominant paternal figure in determining tribal policy and resolving intra-​tribal or inter-​tribal disputes such as the Bedouin sheikh (or as in Bolivia and Colombia where governments work hand-​in-​hand with the Indigenous leadership; Deruyttere, 1997). A sustainable Indigenous environment needs the ability to cope effectively with existential risks and a dynamic environment based on social resilience  –​the perception of risks depends on a positive sense of place and cognitive repression (dissonance) of environmental and social risks; the existence of conditions that improve quality of life: health services, education, employment. There must be correspondence between spatial ideology, management and emotion (based on the formation of territorial endogenous identity) and the economy, society and environment of a certain locality. This includes educational programs adapted to language and tradition, improving Indigenous health in their reserves or territories while respecting tribal traditions.

Hence, the Indigenous sustainable place consists of three spatial facets. Physically sustainable space. The physical needs of the population  –​ land and natural resources (housing and agriculture:  water, grazing land), clean environment (air, land, water) and infrastructure (public facilities, roads, electricity). Socially and economically sustainable space. Sources of income, education, culture and leisure, health, interactions with other groups (tribes, state) and with state’s political mechanisms. Mentally sustainable space. A  positive sense of place, place identity (connection to place), environmental identity (how much the community cares about the environment), resilience and ignoring spatial risks (dissonance). The mental space (the psychological and emotional space) traces the effect of the population and examines the extent to which the place is sustainable (the sense of how sustainable the place is).

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  127 The examination of place in modern Western scientific analysis may conclude that by all criteria, a place is not sustainable. But this does not necessarily engage the sense of the locals. Conversely, according to Western criteria a place may be sustainable, but the population will not sense it as such.This is due to the appropriation of social and cultural barriers, or alternatively because of the adoption of a particular way of life, which can be viewed differently and given a different importance depending on identity, sense of place and social resilience (Moberg, 2014; Norris et al., 2008). Indicators and measurement In our approach, based partially on field research, the proposed Indigenous Sustainability Index is to be based on a set of indicators (41 indicators in our particular case) in three different areas, including objective and subjective indicators. The objective indicators are to be based on already-​existing measurement tools such as the United Nations Human Development Index (HDI) –​ for example, the percentage of unemployment in the locality. The subjective indicators are to be based on our field research, and should be measured by scaling the affect and attitudes of participants. After explaining to participants the meaning of sustainability, they are to be asked, as was partly done in our particular study, what the components are that make their place a “sustainable place”, and how important are its specific variables. All indicator scores should be transformed into a unified scale (e.g., 1–​100), whether originally described as a percentage value, as for the objective indicators, or as a Likert scale value (on a 1–​10 scale) for the subjective ones. Indicators that examine presence or absence of a facility shall be dichotomically specified as 0 = absent, 100 = present. “Measurement direction” for each indicator should also be specified too, i.e., whether its higher value adds to or subtracts from its sustainability score. For example, a higher crime rate means lower sustainability, while a larger length of paved roads results in higher sustainability. The score of those negative indicators should be inverted so all indicators receive the same direction. In certain cases, as we encountered ourselves, correction of the score in relation to the general population is required. For example, among the Bedouin, women’s employment in the free labor market is almost impossible. Women are confined to the household economy and livestock grazing or domestic farming, and are formally considered unemployed. Thus, the actual total employment rate may be less than 50%, which affects this indicator’s score and hence creates a distorted total sustainability score, because women still contribute to household income. Careful consideration of the indicator is therefore required in relation to the percentage of unemployed women in the general population or alternatively regarding grazing as formal employment.

128  Maor Kohn et al. Weighing the indicators The entire index produces a combined score for place sustainability, yet groups of indicators and specific indicators may carry different weights (degrees of importance) that should produce weighted scores. Local subjects may not be able to understand the external objective measurement tools presented to them, or may encounter difficulties assigning weights to the various variables (indicators). Therefore, the composition of the specific index variables (indicators) and the weights may be assessed by the researchers only as a last resort, as in our case study, based on in-​depth analysis of interview contents and interpreting meanings given by participants to various issues presented to them or raised by them, which were then translated into the indicators that may compose the index. As is common in such cases, the list of such indicators should be presented to the participants for final approval of its relevance for assessing the degree to which their place is sustainable. In our study, the Bedouin were asked about the importance they attach only to each of the three groups of indicators but no weights have as yet been assigned to individual indicators.This is planned for an upcoming research, based preferably on a respondent’s recommendation for weighing each subjective indicator or, when this is impossible, a researcher’s decision based, again, upon a detailed analysis of interview content. In our research the objective areas of the “physical space” and “socioeconomic space” were given a relative weight of 30% each. A 40% weight was assigned to the realm of the “mental space”.The decision to give greater weight to this area was due to the fact that research on mental space assumes that a high population resilience and a positive sense of place in a non-​sustainable space can compensate for low scores in other spatial indicators (Johannesdottir and Gisladottir, 2010; Miller, 1995). The Bedouin lifestyle can be perceived as a hindrance to outsiders, while the Bedouin spoke repeatedly about love of the place, the importance of tradition and the adherence to such a way of life. The community is based on tribalism and provides psychological resilience to the population (despite the objective difficulties it creates). Their sense of cultural and social cohesion is strong, and their spatial isolation forces them to join forces and stand together. Tradition is dominant and serves the communal discourse as a constant reminder of the dangerous environment within which they live (Kohn, 2017). Their perception of risk is high but they feel the risk occurring outside their place is more dangerous. This situation, like in other Indigenous communities, attests to high social resilience and can alter the sustainability of a place for good (Johannesdottir and Gisladottir, 2010, Moberg, 2014; Norris et al., 2008).

Physically sustainable space This group covers indicators that examine the range of physical variables of a place, mainly natural resources and access to infrastructure. In light of our study the weight of this group should be about 30% of the general score because of

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  129 Table 5.2 List of Indigenous sustainability indicators

Physical sustainable space

Area

Weight 30%

Social and economic sustainable space

30%

Mental (psychological) sustainable space

40%

Indicator 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

Access to drinkable water Prevalence of diseases related to a proven environmental pollution Access to national power grid Prevalence of paved roads Garbage disposal Air quality Using agricultural land for subsistence Prevalence of legal landowners Natural environmental risks Connection to public sewage grid Polluted soil, streams and aquifers Unemployed Women’s employment Presence of community center/​sports facility Presence of health services/​clinic Presence of playground/​park High school education Women with high school education Men with higher education Women with higher education Average wage Traditional lifestyle-​related diseases Delinquency and crime Marital motherhood under age 18 Polygamy Infant mortality rate Use of native language Underweight children Suicide rate Illegal homes Sense of place Place identity Risk perception Economic importance of the place Social place identity Indigenous–​state land struggle Sensing the place as sustainable The place as a component in individual resilience Place and Indigenous tradition preservation Local leadership Willingness to leave for compensation

the great importance Indigenous people assign to natural resources and the land. The land, as in the Bedouin struggle against the state of Israel, is at the heart of conflicts between Indigenous societies and modern states, and it has a special role in creating their place identity.

130  Maor Kohn et al. 1. Access to drinkable water. Untreated water is a source of infection and disease. Dependence on local wells may, in underdeveloped areas based on irrigated agriculture, cause hunger. According to our study, in the Bedouin unrecognized villages there is difficulty in irrigating unrecognized farming fields and maintaining sanitation. This increases the risk of viral and bacterial diseases as well as thirst. Lack of piping compels residents to haul water and store it in containers, causing various infections. Even in buildings connected to the central grid, water pressure is low and makes for difficult use: “Low water pressure causes high psychological stress” (A., M., A-​F,  2016). Measurement. The percentage of households connected to water infrastructure. The relevance of this indicator among the desert Bedouin is higher than that of Indigenous peoples living near a water source (river), and therefore its weight for the latter may be negligible, indicating the relative significance of indicators among different Indigenous groups. 2. Prevalence of diseases related to a proven environmental pollution. Air pollution resulting from proximity to industrial zones, polluted water or farming land. Measurement. The number of hospitalized persons due to environment-​ related diseases/​all patients. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and should therefore be inverted. 3. Access to the national power grid. Lack of connection to the power grid does not necessarily indicate poor living conditions, due to the availability of cheap photovoltaic cells and generators. But these alternatives are not reliable since they are not permanent and can become an environmental hazard. Electricity is a resource that attests to quality of life, thus accessible power is an indicator of the sustainability of the place. Even among the traditional Bedouin in the unrecognized villages, power generation is an essential existential basis and they produce it themselves. Measurement. The percentage of households connected to the formal power grid. 4. Prevalence of paved roads. In most Bedouin unrecognized villages there are no paved roads and the residents are forbidden to build them. Most traffic in the village uses dirt roads and many Bedouin see this as an indicator of poor development conditions. The relevance of this indicator varies among different Indigenous groups and therefore its weight will be determined in relation to the investigated population. Measurement.The percentage of paved roads mileage/​total road mileage. 5. Garbage disposal. This indicator reflects the environmental situation as well as the relationship between the natives and the state. This is one of the

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  131 most prominent characteristics of Bedouin–​state relations in the unrecognized villages. Some of the villages have garbage containers. Some of the residents dispose garbage themselves, and some bury or burn it in the village or nearby wadis, causing pollution and health problems. Measurement. Present/​absent garbage disposal. Presence of garbage disposal = 100; absence = 0. 6. Air quality. Air quality can be investigated objectively according to the Environmental Protection Agency’s index or various environmental standards, and subjectively (odor nuisances). The US Environmental Protection Agency sets an air quality index with six levels of air quality based on the extent of its impact on humans (Environmental Protection Agency, 2016). A  similar one, with ten levels, is proposed by the Canadian government (Government of Canada, 2015). The studied Bedouin villages suffer a number of air pollution sources:  the chemical industry compound, desert dust, garbage burning and heating and cooking bonfires. These factors are also prominent among other Indigenous populations due to traditional ways of life or their social and economic marginalization. Measurement. Low air quality according to EPA standards = 1; high air quality = 100. 7. Use of agricultural land for subsistence. The perpetuation of agriculture is connected to tradition, to importance accorded to the land and labor structure of the family or tribal unit. Agriculture is characteristic of many Indigenous peoples, hence the importance of its development. Low agricultural land use indicates the economic situation. Measurement. Percentage of households engaged in agriculture. 8. Prevalence of legal landowners. This indicator is used in studies of Indigenous populations in Australia, New Zealand and Russia (Crate, 2005; Rodon and Schott, 2013; Stankovitch, 2008). In many cases a dispute exists between Indigenous populations and the state regarding land ownership. Unresolved disputes, such as between the Bedouin and the state of Israel, are liable to deteriorate the environment and health into neglect. State recognition of Indigenous land rights is necessary for constructing an Indigenous sustainable place. Measurement. Percentage of legal and regulated landowners. 9. Natural environmental risks. Tropical storms, desert dust, floods, earthquakes, volcanoes and others. Measurement. The quantitative impact of this hazard on the life and health of the residents is measured on a dichotomous basis:  in case of a hazard, the score will be 0 and vice versa.

132  Maor Kohn et al. 10. Connection to public sewage grid. Like other infrastructure, presence of sewage infrastructure attests to the level of development of the settlement and the relationship between the population and the state. Its absence also harms quality of life and health. When missing, sewage is discharged through septic tanks, but polluted water seeps into the aquifers and is pumped as drinking water in local wells. In other cases, sewage is discharged into rivers, harms water quality and creates a hazard of malaria and odors. Measurement: Percentage households connected to sewage in the locality. 11. Polluted soil, streams and aquifers.This indicator is a function of other variables such as air and water pollution, and sewage and waste treatment. It complements the environmental picture with data that is not related to the activities of the village residents or the natural environment, for example, an industrial area or open coal/​phosphate mines. Measurement. Presence of pollution that endangers the residence  =  0. This is due to the difficulty in measuring its effect on the population.

Socially and economically sustainable space Most of the sustainability indicators are measured on a national scale and against international comparison. This group of indicators uses Western and modern variables that do not necessarily reflect Indigenous societies, such as roads, public facilities and even electricity, especially when it comes to pastoralists. Indicators in this category that yield a low score for natives can attest to their lack of integration into the greater society and state, abandonment or exclusion, but they do not necessarily indicate that a place is unsustainable. For example, the employment rate of Israeli Bedouin women is low. Therefore, an indicator that tests this against Western criteria may be misleading, as shown above. Examination of women’s employment in native concepts may indicate that for them the place is sustainable. Various indicators, such as higher education, may be misleading since their absence or low prevalence does not necessarily indicate an unsustainable place from the natives’ perspective, but rather sub-​development. Therefore, these Indigenous locality indicators are examined in relation to the particular national situation. 12. Unemployment. This indicator is usually based on national official data. Amongst Indigenous societies, these data are often lacking, incomplete or non-​representative, because the types of employment are different, and many maintain subsistence economy without creating economic interaction with the state or market. Those engaged in subsistence agriculture, grazing and petty trade are regarded as unemployed although in practice they generate

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  133 income. Among the Bedouin, women are registered as unemployed even though they actually work. Therefore, this indicator should be based on official data, as well as in-​depth surveys that also examine the characteristics of the group itself.Women’s employment is examined separately because of their uniqueness and social role. Measurement. Percentage of working-​age unemployed men. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. The figure can be examined in relation to the unemployment rate in the country. 13. Women’s employment. Due to absence of data from official sources, this indicator will be based mainly on field surveys. Women’s employment will be examined both in domestic traditional fields such as shepherding, agriculture (including subsistence agriculture) and other non-​gainful employment types and external employment. This indicator is mainly associated with pastoralist (semi-​nomadic) societies in which women are an important labor force in the domestic household economy, but their contribution cannot be measured by modern economic means. While this indicates the locality’s level of development, the number of employed women is a measure that combines economic with social issues and is therefore more relevant in Indigenous societies such as the Bedouin. Measurement. Percentage of working women of working age. 14. Presence of community center/​ sports facility. In permanent settlements of over 3,000 residents, the presence of these facilities could attest to their sustainability. Their absence may indicate a low standard of living relative to other localities. Even among the Bedouin undergoing urbanization, the motivation to compare their living conditions with the conditions of the Jewish cities increases, in addition to preserving Bedouin tradition. Measurement. Absence = 0; presence = 100. 15. Presence of health services/​ clinic. Indigenous populations are constrained to their local territories due to tradition, immobility of women, lack of transportation and road infrastructure or inability to purchase vehicles. As a result, it is difficult to obtain health services elsewhere, thus impacting sustainability. The absence of a clinic constitutes a daily difficulty and a significant challenge. Measurement. Absence = 0; presence = 100. 16. Presence of playground/​park. Due to operational feasibility, this indicator is relevant in communities of over 3,000 residents. Its absence reflects a low standard of living in relation to leisure time. It is possible that in tribal

134  Maor Kohn et al. societies it is difficult to establish communal recreation areas for members of different tribal rivalries, hence its absence. Measurement. Absence = 0; presence = 100. 17. High school education.This indicator examines the level of formal education, indicating the level of development, extent of exposure to Western education and possibly also the degree of integration into this society. Measurement. Percentage of high school graduates. 18. Women with high school education. Among Indigenous societies such as the Bedouin, women’s education is not trivial because of the social barriers that are also related to the status of women. Therefore, this indicator should also be examined separately. Measurement. Percentage of high school women graduates. 19. Men with higher education. The rate of higher education attests to the development level of the population and its integration into modern society. Higher education is a key to employment in tertiary rather than secondary or primary employment that characterizes poorer societies. Because of gender differences in traditional roles in Bedouin society (Abu-​ Rabia-​Queder, 2013) as well as in other Indigenous societies, we saw it fit to treat gender separately, reflecting additional trends of women’s integration into modern society and place sustainability. Measurement. Percentage of men holding academic degrees/​all men. 20. Women with higher education. The percentage of Bedouin women who acquire higher education is still low, despite some recent increase (Abu-​Rabia-​Queder, 2013). Women’s education attests to the hegemony of tradition and religion in society, the employment of women and their being a source of income for the family unit.Women are catalysts for social change in a closed, segregated society. Measurement. Percentage of women holding academic degrees/​ all women. 21. Average wage. Like unemployment, this indicator may also be misleading. Indigenous people often engage in subsistence agriculture or petty trade, with lack of official data on income. Nevertheless, as part of the general picture, this indicator can contribute to understanding the standard of living in the locality, assuming that it takes into account wage gaps within the group and in relation to the national average wage. Measurement. Average wage in the locality/​ national average wage, transformed into a 1–​100 scale. 22. Traditional lifestyle-​ related diseases. The Indigenous lifestyle leads to exposure to a variety of diseases related to water quality, sewage and

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  135 contaminated soil, consumption of unprocessed or non-​refrigerated food, use of bonfires for heating or cooking near residential buildings and burning garbage. Living in a modern country, in frameworks that do not fit the traditional character of the Indigenous society, can create psychological stress, encourage smoking among children and even increase suicidal rates (Walls and Whitbeck, 2012). Among the Bedouin, endogamy is one of the causes for genetic defects and serious illnesses that increase infant mortality (Abu-​Rabia-​Queder, 2008). High morbidity rates due to the temporal and traditional lifestyle attest to an unsustainable place as well as to deeply rooted social problems. Measurement. Percentage of patients hospitalized or permanently treated for a disease associated with the traditional lifestyle/​ total number of hospitalized patients in the locality (the list of relevant diseases will be defined based on studies of the particular Indigenous public health). The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 23. Delinquency and crime. High crime levels among Indigenous people in the modern era are identified mainly with their socioeconomic status in nature reserves, permanent settlements and city slums (Distasio et al., 2013; Sheehan, 2009). In Israel, criminal activity by the Bedouin is directed mainly against the majority-​Jewish society. Crime levels are also reflecting the state of this group as well as its attitude towards the state and its laws. Therefore, we find it appropriate to examine all criminal offenses including traffic violation, serious property crimes, violence and so forth.   In Bedouin society, violence is often due to conflict between tribes, violation of a woman’s dignity or of male honor. All these, as well as blood feuds in which the clan protects the murderer, are included: “Many suffer from violence and talk about the takeover of Bedouin towns by drug organizations, drug trafficking, robberies and murders that make it difficult for them to sell land and defend themselves” (G., M., WAN, 2015). Therefore, it is not a sustainable place if the crime rate is high. Measurement. All reported criminal cases of or from the locality/​local population size, or percentage of criminal cases in the country. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 24. Marital motherhood under age 18. This indicator is relevant mainly to the Bedouin, but it may be examined in other Indigenous societies as well. Its significance lies in connection to the native tradition, with normative early-​age marriage and birth-​giving. These social phenomena influence women’s status and social roles, acquisition of education and employment and poverty circles, widening the gap with the modern state.

136  Maor Kohn et al. Measurement. Number of young mothers aged 18/​number of mothers in the locality or number of married women. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 25. Polygamy. Polygamy, which characterizes Bedouin tribal society, is a social expression of Indigenous culture. It also characterizes the status of women and their social role. Measurement. Number of households with more than one wife/​number of married women. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 26. Infant mortality rate. This indicator generally reflects the health status of the population and has the potential to indicate the environmental situation, the availability of national health mechanisms and tribal tradition that often allows intermarriage, which may lead to post-​natal defects. The indicator is also related to life expectancy in the locality and lifestyle. Measurement. There are two possible measurable values:  direct infant mortality rate or infant mortality relative to national infant mortality. The comparison to the national level enables a numerical indication of the situation in the locality. Therefore, it is possible to determine that if the local rate is lower than or equal to the national, the score will be 100. If the figure is higher than 50%, the score will be set at 0. A score of 50 will be determined in between. 27. Native language use. Many Indigenous peoples, being a minority, are “bilingual”. Among the Bedouin, there are many who speak their mother’s tongue only. This may indicate the degree of the population’s segregation. Language has a spatial aspect and humans tend to group around the “linguistic” spaces with which they are identified (Pinto, 2006). Measurement. Percentage of those who use their native language exclusively.The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 28. Underweight children. Our research among the Bedouin shows that infant mortality is only a partial indicator, because it is biased by the marriage of relatives and congenital malformations and does not deal with the health condition of the children living in the community. Disconnected from regular food sources and health services, underweight or malnourished children can attest to poverty and failure to compensate for environmental poverty in the traditional way of life –​that is, low social resilience. The same may apply to Indigenous tribal societies. Measurement. Percentage of children underweight/​children up to age 18. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted.

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  137 29. Suicide rate. This indicator is concerned mainly with Indigenous people living in large cities against their will. A high suicide rate is the result of social, economic and psychological conditions, but studies have shown that natives have a higher suicidal tendency due to deep frustration and inability to control their own fate (Distasio et  al., 2013; Karplus and Meir, 2010; Kirmayer et al., 2007; Sheehan, 2009). In Israel, the suicide rate of Arabs is significantly lower than in the Jewish sector. However, young male Arabs aged 15–​24 tend to commit suicide more than young Jews of the same age and gender. The main risk factors in Arab society are social changes, rising unemployment and poverty, drug use, divorce, sexual orientation, anorexia, stress, depression and loneliness. All these are explained by the pressure of the large family or the tribe or because of the gaps created through exposure to Western culture. Arab women tend to commit suicide due to domestic violence, humiliation or status. Many feel they have no way out of their situation and are trapped in their lives (Sheleg-​Mey-​Ami, 2010). Measurement. Per 1,000 suicidal cases in the past 30 years/​national rate per 1,000 suicidal cases. Since the number of suicides is small, it is necessary to examine this over a long period of time. The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted. 30. Illegal homes. Illegal construction, which is a by-​product of a land dispute with the state, reflects the situation of the individual and not only the group as a whole (unlike access to electricity or water). A land dispute is often expressed in impermanence of home structures (Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Russia). In Israel, the unrecognized Bedouin villages are a problem both for the state and their residents for their lack of infrastructure, house demolitions and their environmental situation. Measurement. Percentage illegal or unrecognized homes (marked for demolition). The relationship of this measurement to sustainability is negative and it should therefore be inverted.

Mentally (psychologically) sustainable space As noted, indicators of the physical sustainable space and the human sustainable space were based on Western, rational and material measurement tools. The absence of Indigenous local knowledge is evident in these tools. A review of the arguments raised by the Bedouin in the various interviews reveals the difference in perception of the place between interviewees, villages, women and men, tribal groups and generations, each with his/​her/​its own emphasis on what is perceived as a sustainable place. Each has a different view of the significance of indicators with various ways of coping with the difficulties posed by the place, community, the state and the majority encompassing society. Therefore, a mental sustainable place is not only a social phenomenon. It is personal, individual, conceptual and psychological and is subject

138  Maor Kohn et al. to examination from different perspectives. Western “sustainability” tools are very weak, as they lack Indigenous local subjective knowledge (Davidovitch, 2012). Local knowledge adds local variables and characterizes their influence in different areas of space. It contributes to understanding spatial and environmental issues and serves as a planning tool for policymakers (Eyong, 2007; Negev, 2012). Since it is very difficult to quantitatively assess the subjective psychological emotions of an interviewee, the values for some indicators will be measured on a Likert scale between 1 and 10, where 1 describes a negative feeling and 10 describes a positive feeling. The score of each indicator will be calculated as the local respondents’ mean value. The indicators presented in this section were raised by Bedouin interviewed for studying Indigenous Bedouin sustainable place (Kohn, 2017). 31. Sense of place. This indicator refers to positive emotions towards the place, a collection of meanings, symbols and qualities that a person or group attributes to a certain place, love of the place. A positive sense of place is a sense of home. The place is perceived as calming, lowering psychological pressure, filling the individual with happiness, with peace of mind (Smith, 1996); “Every time I  enter the village after a day’s work, I  feel I  am moving from the storm outside to an island of quiet …” (G., M., AF, 2015).   A positive sense of place is an indication of social psychological strength because it enables coping with various challenges. Indigenous people may easily cope with environmental challenges in nature reserves. It is the challenges of modern society which make it difficult for them, creating a negative psychological social reaction, which is reflected in a high percentage of suicide, for example, as presented above. A person can live in an unsustainable environment, but can have a positive sense of place because of his/​her social connections, religion, tradition and culture. Measurement. Percentage of all respondents indicating a positive sense of place. 32. Place identity. This element of place is part of the individual and group identity, and part of their personality (Schnell and Mashal, 2005). Place identity is expressed, inter alia, in the creation of personal space by building a house, delineating routes and marking boundaries (Karplus and Meir, 2010).The importance of the individual’s place identity is in creating resilience. A person who lives under daily threat will explain to themself the reason for his/​her presence in a hostile space by ideological or religious rationales, and accordingly will define him/​herself as part of that space (Schnell and Mashal, 2005). Even among the Bedouin, being in the hostile desert space will be justified by mental means based on culture, tradition, religion and identity. A Bedouin identifies himself with the desert,

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  139 with the place where they grew up and lived, and where their forefathers lived: “Tel-​Arad is us” (K., F., AF, 2016). Measurement. Strong place identity = 100; no place identity = 0. 33. Risk perception. Risk is the probability of an incident and its consequences (Miller, 1995). Different individuals perceive risk differently, depending, among other factors, on psychological state, which also stems from economic and social condition. Perception of risk is the extent to which a person understands risk. In a cognitive dissonance situation, a risk is not necessarily perceived as tangible and immediate, hence spatial behavior ignores or diminishes it in relation to its real meaning. Cognitive dissonance creates irrational behavior that affects individual and group vulnerability as well as the determination of spatial policy (Johannesdottir and Gisladottir, 2010). A highly resilient society can better cope with risks so that the sense of risk will be lower. Therefore, a low sense of risk can indicate one of two possibilities: low risk awareness and a suppression of risk intensity, or high coping ability due to social cohesion, belief, ideology etc. Sense of risk among the Bedouin is low due to their harsh living conditions: “Our whole family lives here, all our brothers, I want us to continue to live here together, no matter what happens with the phosphate mine, this is our home, and if we have to go, we will go together” (A.G., interview, 2015).The gray nature of the space in which they live (Yiftachel, 2009) does not necessarily entail their equating the environment or social constraints as risky. Perception of risk is therefore a mental psychological indicator, reflecting “Indigenous knowledge” of their ability to cope with risks, to manage space, and as a result to manage their community (extended family, tribe or village). Measurement. Low sense of risk = 10; high sense of risk = 1 because, as explained above, a population with a low risk perception has the potential to experience the place as sustainable. 34. Economic importance of the place. The place is an economic basis for Indigenous peoples in terms of farming, grazing, proximity to work place, hunting, commerce and tourism. Therefore, in many countries their insistence to hold onto to the land at any cost is reflected in land disputes. The place, and the land, have emotional value, and many, like the Bedouin, refuse to leave it, even in exchange for high compensation. Measurement. Percentage willing to leave the place in return for compensation (inverted score), or percentage indicating that the place constitutes a significant source of income for them. 35. Social place identity. This indicator reflects tribal and extended familial behavioral characteristics that allow natives to define their place identity (Azmon, 2013). This is another aspect of resilience. Bedouin, for example, living in tribal frameworks tend towards endogamy, patrilocality and joint

140  Maor Kohn et al. rearing of children from several mothers in polygamous households. Bedouin interviewees note the influence of the father figure, the extended family and the tribe on their choice of place of residence: “No one leaves, not even the young, we are looking for the tribal and family connection, and the family connection is very precious to us, and it is easy to maintain it in the community” (A.A., A.,WAN, 2015).Whether perceived as positive or negative, this effect is intergenerational, and inter-​gender-​based, and is found in all tribes. Measurement. This effect should be examined in two steps: percentage identifying themselves with the place due to family/​tribal/​clan ties. Nil identification implies a score of 10, because there is no negative effect on the social connection on the sustainable Indigenous place. If the answer is yes, it is necessary to determine whether the social impact on choosing the place of residence is positive or negative. A  negative consideration will give a category a score of 1.  A  positive consideration will award a score of 10. 36. Indigenous–​ state land struggle. Land struggles with the state are a trigger to stay in a place and cause a strong place identity. The natives feel a need to protect the land because of its sanctity, its being part of their lives and their family lives. Many perceive the land as a mother (Lertzman and Harrie, 2005). Struggles are liable to affect resilience on the one hand, but to strengthen the place identity on the other hand.The land becomes a tool of battering against the process of exclusion. Spatial intensity prevailing in their consciousness (Meir and Karplus, 2018), the struggle and the degree of its success, as well as the price that Indigenous peoples are willing to pay for remaining on the land are indicators of the stifling connection between them and the land. Measurement. If a struggle over land exists, its influence will be measured under the consideration of remaining in the place. High influence = 0; low influence = 10. 37. Sensing the place as sustainable.This indicator refers to the degree individuals feel subjectively that the place is sustainable in all possible respects despite its constraints. A person can testify that he/​she has a negative sense of place, a weak identity, a tribal background that does not influence his/​ her decisions, and does not use the place as a source of livelihood (more than any other place of residence). The choice to live in a certain place is the result of various circumstances such as low socioeconomic status, inheritance, ideological struggle or marriage. In spite of all this, one can feel that the place is sustainable (in various aspects such as the traditional way of life, the nature of the population, raising children in the place etc.). Measurement. Percentage viewing the place as sustainable, or how sustainable the place is: not sustainable = 1; sustainable = 10.

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  141 38. The place as a component in individual resilience. This refers to resilience against environmental risks. Living in a place with high social cohesion, tradition and tribalism gives the individual a positive sense of place and a low sense of risk. Thus, in Australia (social crisis) and Canada (climate crisis), these populations often prefer to continue living in their ancestor’s land even if under risk. Hence, this indicator measures the psychological strength of the population (Distasio et al., 2013; Sheehan, 2009; Smith, 2010). Measurement. Percentage of people preferring to stay put despite an environmental threat due to positive sense of place. 39. Place and Indigenous tradition preservation. The place can serve as a platform for preserving Indigenous culture and tradition. Thus, for example, among the Bedouins, the place is used to build a hospitality tent, perform ceremonies, establish a residential structure that reflects the unique extended family structure and to differentiate between tribes: “We have a lot of rituals.You have to set up a tent, separate the groom’s party from the bride.Where in the city can I open a wedding tent? It is a matter of honour” (D., H.M., AF, 2014). Women’s chastity and dignity is better preserved in a spatial organizational structure such as the village in its traditional form. Measurement. Percentage indicating that the place contributes to preserving tradition. 40. Local leadership. Local leadership of an Indigenous group in a modern nation-​state can influence policymakers in decision-​making regarding the future of a native locality. Supporting local leadership reduces some of the country’s strategic assets and harms its sovereignty, but in the long term creates trust relations by delegating authority to the group. In the United States local leadership helped reduce disputes with the Indians as they gained a kind of autonomy (Biolsi, 2005), and similarly in New Zealand (Stevenson, 2008), where the Maori gained self-​management of space, in Guatemala and Ecuador, as well as in Siberia, Russia (Crate, 2005). Measurement. Presence of a significant and independent local leadership = 10; absence of leadership = 1. 41. Willingness to leave for compensation. In cases where the sense of place and place identity are weak, willingness to leave the place in return for monetary compensation may exist. In Israel, we assume that Bedouin who consider the place an economic basis for their existence (through agriculture, grazing and the possibility of land exchange, and also due to proximity to employment centers) will prefer not to leave the place in exchange for monetary compensation. Measurement. Percentage of people willing to leave the place in return for compensation.

142  Maor Kohn et al.

Conclusion and further research The set of Indigenous sustainability indicators is an initial attempt to provide measurable values of sustainability with both objective and subjective indicators that characterize Indigenous societies. For each of the indicators, the explanation for using it, its meaning and its method of measurement were presented in general terms. In the course of studying the Israeli Bedouin, gaps were found between conventional scientific thought and the discourse emerging from the Indigenous group. Unfamiliar with the measurement tools presented to them, the Bedouin tended to nullify their importance by claiming they were irrelevant to their culture and found it even difficult to assign weights to external objective variables. Therefore, the significance given by the Bedouin themselves to various issues presented to them or raised by them in interviews was given appropriate consideration and translated into internally originating qualitative variables that were supplemented to the external objective ones. The process of measurement and evaluation will enable us to determine the integrated degree of sustainability of the place, both from the point of view of modern objective knowledge and from the internal perspective of the Indigenous group. In addition, it will be possible to put the focus on the failure points of the construction of the Indigenous space and to deal with them during the planning of a sustainable place. This will enable the advancement of a planning solution to the problem of many Indigenous peoples around the world. In the next steps, it will be necessary to establish weights for the indicators and offset coefficients for values where differences are expected with non-​ native populations for reasons that are not relevant to the measurement. A  study will be carried out among the Bedouin in which the indicators will be measured and weighed and an overall sustainability score will be given to their locality. The final index will follow the recent indexation procedure developed by Stossel et al. (2015, 2016, 2017) for measuring general sustainability. The approach adopted in the proposed index, that of integrating external objective indicators with internal subjective ones, is generally appropriate for Indigenous groups elsewhere with necessary adjustments based on the specific local and national conditions. As is revealed from the above description of the indicators of the third group, substantial field work is required for deciding on the particular indicators and gathering the necessary data for measurement in order to yield a most representative Indigenous sustainability index. In numerous cases these groups prevail within developed or developing states, with various degrees of integration. Such an approach will allow them to more appropriately come under the umbrella of national and international attempts at sustainable environment society and place.

Measuring Indigenous sustainability  143

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6  The Inuit Sustaining themselves, the Arctic and the World Peter Hough

Introduction They are few, disparate and inhabit some of the world’s most powerful and wealthy states but the Inuit have proved remarkably successful in advancing on the international stage both their self-​determination and a model of environmental sustainability. Whilst globalization threatens their livelihoods, through the encroachment onto and degradation of their environment, the Inuit have managed to use this phenomenon to their advantage. Skilful, cooperative diplomacy has highlighted their plight, secured significant political gains and given them an improbable new prominence in international affairs. In doing so this Inuit campaign has showcased a distinct political and economic model for the sustainable management of land and resources with relevance well beyond the Arctic. However, whilst this Inuit model of sustainability has enriched global discourse and governance on climate change and other environmental issues, the complexities inherent in sustainable development have produced a broad range of challenges for the ‘original ecologists’. On the one hand, Inuit sustainability has not always been in tune with all of the ecological norms that have come to be promoted by green non-​governmental organizations (NGOs) from outside of the Arctic. The stigmatization of hunting, for example, jars with the sustainable continuation of this traditional practice by the Inuit, creating both tensions and hardship. Similarly, the gradual movement away from common to sovereign resource management in mainstream environmentalism since the 1960s has brought this into collision with Inuit traditions. On the other hand, internal challenges for advancing this Inuit model of sustainability have also emerged from within the Arctic’s Indigenous communities themselves by those tempted by new opportunities for a ‘dash for growth’ as the ice retreats and the multi-​ national corporations (MNCs) advance. This chapter explores the evolution and impact of this unique Inuit voice for sustainability, paradoxically increasing in global influence at the same time as this lifestyle has come to be most threatened.The sustainability inherent in Inuit culture is first explored before proceeding to consider how this came to inform their political awakening and drive for self-​determination from the 1960s. The

148  Peter Hough chapter then considers the paradox that climate change, whilst making the Inuit message more relevant than ever, also threatens to undermine it by presenting new economic opportunities. The allure of the ‘quick buck’ has inevitably attracted some Inuit and served to challenge their solidarity and long-​nurtured cultural norms. The Indigenous rights of the Inuit have advanced and look set to continue to do so, but at what cost to their own lifestyle of sustainability?

Sustainability in Inuit culture Sustainability has been central to Inuit culture from the outset of their settlement in the Arctic sometime between 4,000 and 2,000 B C . In particular, the sustainable hunting of bowhead whales was, from early on, at the heart of this lifestyle. The next major migration into the High North, in the tenth century, stands as a stark lesson on the sustainable management of resources. The Viking colony on Greenland, established by Erik the Red, was abandoned sometime in the fifteenth century due to the Nordic settlers running out of resources. Historical sources are thin but it appears that the Vikings failed to adapt to lowering temperatures that came with the onset of the Little Ice Age and, refusing to trade with or learn from their un-​Christian skraeling (wretch) neighbors, left them to the giant island (McGovern, 1980). Unlike the Vikings, the Inuit have always been economically and socially cooperative and Greenland’s other settlers were open to trade whilst at the same time being largely self-​sufficient. Also, in contrast to the Vikings, Inuit societies have long eschewed violence. Experience taught them that aggressive conflict was an impractical solution to political or legal problems in the face of resource scarcity. Instead, novel methods of conflict resolution emerged in Inuit society, such as settling scores through sarcasm and the organization of song duels between rivals. Even such non-​violent forms of dispute resolution are designed to be non-​confrontational. Sarcastic jokes are designed so as to be ignorable by the ‘victim’ and the song duels –​which are only used if the sarcasm is deemed insufficient –​are carried out in the context of wider festival activities rather than specifically used to shame an individual (Briggs, 2000). Consequently, legal custom in Inuit societies is based far more on rehabilitation than punishment and this has informed their emergent political culture (Loukacheva, 2012). An illustration of this can be seen in the case of the first premier of Nunavut, after its inauguration as a Canadian territory in 1999, Paul Okalik. Okalik was imprisoned as a teenager for delinquency born of sudden exposure to alcohol and his elder brother took his own life in similar circumstances. This horrific exposure to the lifestyle and legal code of ‘the South’, which Okalik felt had not recognized the devastating effects of alcohol on the Inuit, drove him to a career seeking to reform Canadian law and politics through devolution (Johnson, 2001). Traditional Inuit societies are also marked by their equality and a high degree of social cohesion, although this has come to be challenged by cultural globalization. They are comparatively non-​sexist even though, at face value, they appear conventionally patriarchal. Men are traditionally the primary hunters

The Inuit  149 and women the domestic child-​rearers and home-​keepers but this sexual division of labor arose out of practicality and biology rather than subjugation. In particular it is noted by anthropologists that there is a lack of social stigma for those men who do become ‘househusbands’ or women who have the strength and inclination to become hunters (Billson and Mancini, 2004; Chance, 1990). Women have always played prominent roles in Inuit societies and have come to figure strongly in contemporary political affairs. The young home-​ rule governments of Greenland and Nunavut have both had female heads and a majority of the chairs of the Inuit Circumpolar Council (ICC)  –​which represents the nation on the international stage –​have been women. The tradition of societal non-​sexism, allied to women being less prone to the alcoholism and depression that has blighted Inuit societies, goes some way to explaining this phenomenon. Between 2000 and 2011 the suicide rate amongst male Inuit on Greenland was nearly three times that for women and, for people in their twenties, was over four times greater (Bjerregaard and Larsen, 2015).Traditional Inuit family structures are looser than most but societal bonds are stronger. For example, there is no sense of ‘illegitimate’ children in Inuit societies and infants are routinely looked after by adults other than their parents and easily re-​homed if orphaned. Overall, the societies are non-​hierarchical and egalitarian save for a degree of reverence for the wisdom of ‘elders’, of either sex (Minor, 2002:  pp.  71–​72). Elders are respected for their experience but not blindly obeyed and can be challenged in generationally inclusive social and political discourse. The absence of a culture of ownership or possession in societal terms is also evident in the Inuit relationship with land and resources, where common ownership and a sense of stewardship have long been the norm. A ‘right to roam’ and access resources traditionally prevails over exclusive legal control. Allied to this notion of shared responsibility is a oneness with and respect for nature that is intrinsically ecocentric (Stern, 2010:  pp.  83–​85). Elders have passed down through the generations the need to share food and minerals equitably, sustainably and without waste. Food acquired through hunting is shared out through the whole society, rather than accumulated by the hunter, and it is understood that there are seasonal and numerical limits on what can be trapped. Hunting is central to traditional Inuit life but has always been carried out communally in direct contradiction to that traditional allegory used to justify selfishness in economics and politics: the Stag Hunt. In this popular metaphor a group of primitive hunters have a strong motive to cooperate since it is agreed that catching a stag will give them enough meat to feed them all, but achieving this will require all of their efforts to entrap and kill the animal. One of the hunters, though, breaks ranks and instead traps a hare, knowing that this will be enough to satisfy his own hunger. In doing so he effectively allows the stag to escape and the rest of the group to go hungry. Cooperation among all of the hunters could have led to an optimal solution where all were fed. However, the hare-​hunter faced a dilemma because he could not be sure that another member of the group would not break ranks in pursuit of the smaller prey if

150  Peter Hough he did not, in which case he would have gone hungry for his loyalty to the group. In the context of this uncertainty, realists in international relations and mercantilists in economics argue that it is rational to behave in a self-​interested manner, since you cannot afford to trust others. Thus, it can be seen how the Inuit’s successful, sustainable culture of hunting and living flies in the face of the pessimistic ethos of ‘looking after number one’, epitomized by the realist/​ mercantilist ‘hare-​hunter’, which has prevailed in most of the world but never yet succeeded in the Arctic.

Sustainability and the political awakening of the Inuit In the late 1960s, when issues of resource security and sustainability long apparent in Inuit culture came to inform global politics, the Arctic’s Indigenous peoples suddenly found the need to assert themselves politically. Having largely been left to their own devices as citizens of the US (Alaska), Denmark (Greenland), Canada and even the USSR, the Inuit came to be thrust into the political spotlight in the face of encroachment from the South by their overlords in pursuit of their resource security. Fish stocks within the Arctic Ocean and oil and gas reserves below came to be seen as food and energy security solutions for states that had largely forgotten about this environment since exhausting whale and seal stocks in sporadic previous incursions. Encroachment into the Arctic over the last 50  years has challenged ecological balances in the region and, with this, common ownership and other traditional societal norms. In particular, the most profound form of environmental change has come to be felt in the High North. Climate change has seen average Arctic temperatures increase at nearly twice the global average rate over the past century, transforming the environment by melting the giant ice sheet that covers most of the Arctic Ocean (IPCC, 2007). In addition, persistent organic pollutants (POPs), almost exclusively arising from long-​range pollution from the South, have increasingly found their way into Arctic ecosystems and have instigated environmental changes most keenly felt in the North. The persistence of hazardous chemicals, such as organochlorine pesticides, and their tendency to bioaccumulate through food chains has led to the contamination of Arctic fish and seals thousands of kilometers from where these substances where used. Such remotely induced environmental changes are continuing and are coming to be accompanied by more direct ecological impacts from increased human activity within the Arctic, such as damage and waste from tourism. Such environmental changes are already having a huge impact on the health of the Arctic’s Indigenous human population. People are consuming less of their traditional foodstuffs through fears of poisoning by POPs, or other long-​ range pollutants like mercury. Consequently, a rise in rates of ‘lifestyle illnesses’ has occurred from many people switching to Western consumption patterns (Sharma, 2010). Problems like diabetes, obesity and cancers have flourished due to the sudden availability of ‘Western’ products such as tobacco, sugary foods, narcotics and alcohol. For example, native Alaskans are now nearly nine

The Inuit  151 times more likely to die of alcohol-​related health problems than the average US citizen (Seale, Shellenberger and Spence, 2006). Cancers were nearly non-​ existent in the Arctic until the last 100 years but have soared due to social change, with lung cancer rates in the Canadian Inuit now the highest in the world (Friborg, 2008; Krummell, 2009: p. 515). Social change has also manifested itself in a shocking rise in depression and suicide in Inuit communities. A Canadian report found that suicide rates amongst male Nunavut Inuit between the ages of 19 and 24 were around 50 times that found in the equivalent demographic group in rest of the country. Although stereotypically explained by cold, dark and lonely lifestyles, this phenomenon is actually a product of globalization. Suicide was a phenomenon barely known in the Arctic in the pre-​modern age. There was only one suicide in Nunavut in the whole of the 1960s but the rapid social change since then has seen young men suddenly and unpreparedly exposed to the sources of alienation and anxiety linked to depression in the developed world: educational failure, unemployment, alcohol and narcotics (Nunavut 2008).

The take-​off of Inuit self-​determination The discovery of oil off the north coast of Alaska in 1968 prompted the local Inupiat Inuit to launch a campaign to have their rights to land in the region legally recognized in the face of the huge social and economic changes occurring with the arrival of petroleum companies and workers. The 1971 Alaska Native Claims Settlements Act (ANCSA) produced a compromise over this issue and granted ownership of 12% of land in the US state to native groups by creating regional and village corporations through which they would be guaranteed a share of future profits. The Arctic Slope Regional Corporation hence became a significant benefactor from the subsequent oil boom around Prudhoe Bay and, in the following year, the North Slope Borough was established giving significant local governance powers to the Inupiat. Taxes raised on oil and gas revenues in the borough have since been utilized in schemes advancing Indigenous housing, schooling and employment. Northwest Arctic Borough followed suit in 1986 in order to utilize some of the profits from Red Dog, the world’s largest zinc mine. Native Alaskans have gained economically from these deals secured by the Inupiat, although, as illustrated earlier, rapid industrialization and modernization have also come with social costs. In Canada a campaign for self-​determination by the Inuit dating back to the 1960s culminated in the creation of Nunavut (Inuit for ‘our land’) as a new federal territory of Canada in 1999. The Inuit had been essentially ignored until encroachment into the northeastern parts of Canada increased during the 1950s, when the government sought to modernize and demonstrate sovereignty over the Arctic hinterland by establishing permanent settlements. Most notoriously, between 1953 and 1955, 92 nomadic Inuit were relocated to new towns in the frozen reaches of Ellesmere and Cornwallis Islands (including the world’s northernmost settlement, Alert) from the relatively temperate climes

152  Peter Hough of Northern Quebec with some dire health and social consequences. False promises were used to induce families to relocate, who then endured an outbreak of tuberculosis alongside various physical and mental difficulties arising from social dislocation (Canada, 1994). As a consequence of this traumatic relocation exercise, the federal government in 1969 appointed a Commissioner of Native Claims to consider grievances voiced by Aboriginal groups.Two years later the Inuit Taprisat of Canada (ITC) was formed to articulate Aboriginal land rights in the manner of their Alaskan brethren.This campaign was boosted in 1973 when a landmark judgment by the Canadian Supreme Court (Calder v British Columbia) established the principle of an Aboriginal title to land predating British colonization. Following up on this, the Berger Commission was set up by the Canadian government in 1974 to consider Indigenous rights in relation to the proposed Mackenzie oil pipeline set to run through the Northwest Territories. In 1977 the Commission’s landmark report stated that this major project could only be considered lawful once Indigenous land rights had been resolved. A year before this report the ITC had presented the ‘Nunavut proposal’ to Ottawa under which Inuit offered to end their land claims in exchange for financial compensation and political autonomy. The 1984 Inuvialiut Agreement reached a similar agreement for the Inuit of the Northwest Territories. In 1992 an Inuit plebiscite then gave 85% backing for Nunavut home rule and a land claims settlement, prompting the Canadian parliament to pass an Act implementing this the following year. The Nunavut Act created a new territory of the federation and the accompanying Nunavut Land Claims Agreement Act gave the Inuit financial compensation and a share in future profits from economic activities in a similar manner to that seen in Alaska. Greenland is also a home-​ruled Inuit territory whilst remaining under the sovereign jurisdiction of Denmark. Although it had been a colony of Denmark from the middle ages it took the visible and social colonization of ‘Danization’ in the twentieth century to create the first real incarnation of Greenlandic nationalism. In 1953 Copenhagen fully annexed Greenland –​in striking contrast to the granting of independence to Iceland  –​and gave incentives to Danes to relocate there. The provincial council of Greenland complained about this and lobbied the government in Copenhagen for greater powers, prompting it to set up a commission to consider the proposition. This commission recommended home rule, which was then put to the islanders in a 1979 referendum, which was backed by 70%. Twenty-​one years on, 76% then voted for more extensive ‘self-​government’, establishing a new parliament, the Landsting, and government, the Landsstyne, with far-​reaching powers including authority over taxation, fishing and education. Since 2009 Inuit self-​determination has been fully established with the further acknowledgement by Copenhagen that, although it retains formal sovereignty, full sovereign independence will be a decision to be taken by the Greenlandic people alone. Whilst predictably less empowered than their compatriots in Alaska, Greenland and Canada, Russian Inuit have also managed to secure a surprising

The Inuit  153 level of economic and political influence. The Russian Association of Indigenous Peoples of the North (RAIPON) was a product of Gorbachev’s reforming glasnost program of the 1980s and, in the subsequent break-​up of the USSR, it helped secure economic and political influence for the Inuit and others in semi-​autonomous oklugs and have this written into the 1993 Russian Constitution. In spite of the more centralizing and authoritarian rule of Putin in recent years, Russia’s Inuit and other Indigenous Arctic peoples have held onto a share of the spoils of oil and gas extraction in the region and, with support from the Nordic states and their brethren abroad, have been emboldened to occasionally resist and criticize some damaging forms of industrialization emanating from Moscow (Wassendorf, 2011). Whilst RAIPON might not be an independent grassroots NGO comparable to the Indigenous movements in North America, it has still been able to offer something of a centrifugal counter to Putin’s centralization. The sheer existence of RAIPON and the 1993 Constitution, particularly on the international stage, ensures that the genie is out of the bottle and able to grant some, albeit limited, Native wishes. The Inuit Circumpolar Council and Danish government came to allocate funding to RAIPON’s Moscow office and subsidise the production of events and materials advancing Indigenous rights. Between 2000 and 2002 three federal laws concerning northern Indigenous peoples were enacted after RAIPON campaigns, dealing with rights, natural resources and community organization.1 Whilst these laws have hardly transformed Russia into a fully fledged multi-​cultural federal democracy, RAIPON’s presence at Arctic and global intergovernmental fora has allowed them to hold the Kremlin to account and secure some victories against the carve-​up of Siberia. Moscow has persisted with several controversial initiatives, such as the construction of the Yakutia–​ Khabarovsk gas pipeline without consulting local opinion, but RAIPON has blocked others. For example, in 2010 its campaign succeeded in postponing the construction of a dam and hydroelectric power station on the Lower Tunguska River in Krasnoyarsk because it would have entailed the relocation of many Evenk people (Wessendorf, 2011). That RAIPON is no Kremlin poodle is evident from considering the stinging rebukes it has conferred on its government through the platform provided by its role within the United Nations. Russia has enacted new laws and regulations that serve to undermine indigenous people’s subsistence rights, restrict their access to sources of food and income and allow their territories to be put under the control of third parties and therefore must be considered retrogressive measures. (RAIPON/​IWGIA, 2011: p. 26) Possibly as a consequence of this criticism, the Putin government in 2012 ordered the closure of RAIPON. A  law enacted the previous year had made it illegal for Russian NGOs to be externally funded and RAIPON’s Nordic links gave Moscow a basis to close it down. However, this move was firmly criticized in the Arctic Council (where RAIPON had been unable to be present

154  Peter Hough for the first time) and by other international organizations and, after six months, Moscow saw fit to permit it to reopen. RAIPON did amend its charter as a condition of reopening, to demonstrate its independence from foreign influence, but it does appear that the international presence of the organization saved it. The survival and influence of RAIPON does not correspond with the overall impression of Russia’s retreat from the democratization and decentralization of 1990s and illustrates how globalization can sustain these ideas even in the face of a powerful government. The people of the Russian north may be tiny, remote communities in a huge country but they are now sufficiently well-​known to the rest of the political world that the Kremlin do not feel that they can simply ignore them. To do so would incur a reputational cost whilst, at the same time, the bald truth is that Russia is simply too big a country to be run exclusively from Muscovite offices. The awakening of Inuit political consciousness in Alaska, Greenland and Canada soon also manifested itself in international cooperation, previously barely apparent in spite of their ethnic ties. The 1973 Arctic People’s Conference in Copenhagen brought together Canadian and Greenlandic Inuit, along with representatives of other Canadian Indigenous peoples and the Nordic Sami. Pan-​Inuit cooperation was then furthered in 1975 when the World Council of Indigenous Peoples was founded with a conference in Port Alberni, British Columbia. At that event the mayor of the recently empowered North Slope Borough in Alaska, Eben Hopson, announced that the first Inuit Circumpolar Conference would take place in Barrow (Alaska) in two years’ time, to be attended by 18 delegates each from Alaska, Canada and Greenland (ICC Canada, 2012). The 54 delegates present at Barrow in 1977 passed 18 resolutions, the first of which unanimously agreed to make permanent their cooperation through the creation of the Inuit Circumpolar Council to ‘study, discuss, represent, lobby and protect’ them on the international stage (Resolution ICC-​77-​01). Other resolutions promoted the rights of Indigenous peoples to:  access resources; access healthcare; roam across national boundaries; and continue whaling. Further resolutions called on Denmark to grant home rule to Greenland and the USSR to permit the Siberian Inuit to participate in future ICC conferences. The Soviet government had previously been approached on this via the US and Danish embassies but had never replied (Lynge, 2012). Whilst Inuit unity was the underlying theme of the conference, linguistic differences between the various groups presented a major obstacle in discussions, prompting them to later rely on English (Wrenn, 1978). This, allied to judicial differences between the three states, served to delay the launch of the ICC Charter until the 2nd General Assembly at Nuuk in 1980, formally inaugurating the organization (Lynge, 2012). The Russian Inuit were finally brought into the ICC family in 1989, in the spirit of glasnost and a process initiated by a 1985 visit to Moscow by ICC diplomat Aqqaluk Lynge. As an added consequence of this interaction with the changing Soviet Union, Gorbachev’s 1987 Murmansk speech  –​which initiated intergovernmental

The Inuit  155 environmental cooperation in the region as a means of reaching out to the West –​was influenced by the ICC’s Regional Conservation strategy launched two years earlier (Lynge, 2012). Most notably, the Murmansk speech sowed the seeds of the Arctic Council (AC). The AC was formed in 1996 initially as a loose intergovernmental forum between the eight Arctic Circle states2 to discuss common maritime and environmental issues. Since then, though, the AC has evolved into a fully fledged intergovernmental organization with a permanent secretariat (at Tromso, Norway) and some binding regulations (such as a commitment to carry out search-​and-​rescue missions across the Arctic Ocean). The Arctic Council (AC) is, without doubt, the intergovernmental organization (IGO) of most significance to the ICC and in the 2010 Nuuk Declaration it reasserted that the organ should be seen as ‘the central forum for international cooperation in the Arctic’ (ICC, 2010). The ICC (and other representative bodies for Indigenous peoples such as the Sami) have permanent participant status at the AC alongside the eight Arctic states (four of which they also wield national lobbying influence over), giving it a useful political platform that it, predictably, cherishes. In particular the AC, as a result of this, has been informed more by Inuit notions of sustainability than the hunting-​adverse environmentalism that has come to dominate global discourse. Notably, the EU and environmental NGOs  –​other than the more conservative Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF) –​have not been able to secure permanent observer status at the AC, even though this roster has expanded over recent years to include, for instance, China. The ICC and other Indigenous representatives are particularly influential in the Arctic Council Working Groups, most clearly demonstrated by the impact of the Inuit Regional Conservation Strategy on the AC’s Arctic Climate Impact Assessment (ACIA). The ACIA came to be widely cited both by the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change and in the negotiations of the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change. Hence, we can see a symbiotic relationship between the ICC and Arctic Council both empowered by their mutual endorsements, which serve to keep non-​Arctic states and NGOs at a distance. In 1980 the ICC Charter set out the aims of the organization, which remain today to (Lynge, 2012): • strengthen unity among Inuit of the circumpolar region • promote Inuit rights and interests on an international level • ensure adequate Inuit participation in political, economic and social institutions • promote the greater self-​sufficiency of the Inuit • ensure the endurance and the growth of Inuit culture and societies • promote long-​term management and protection of Arctic and sub-​Arctic wildlife, environment and biological productivity • promote wise management and use of non-​renewable resources, taking into account other Inuit interests

156  Peter Hough An ICC General Assembly is held every four years, at which a chair and eight-​ member Executive Council are elected to work on implementing new resolutions that have been announced in a declaration. For example, the declaration from the 2002 Kuujjuaq Assembly directed the ICC to make use of an array of international organizations to promote the rights and interests of the Inuit. This, though, was really a reaffirmation of a strategy it had long employed to good effect. In the United Nations the ICC gained consultative status with the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) as far back as 1983 and has subsequently played a prominent role in many UN conferences on environmental and human rights issues, including assisting in the drafting of the Universal Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People.The Kuujjuaq Assembly declaration also cited the importance of developing relations with the European Union (EU), the Organization of American States and other Intergovernmental Organizations (IGOs). In spite of this recognition of the importance of the EU, relations with Brussels have sometimes been fraught for the same reasons that have strained Inuit–​Western NGO relations: the latter’s antipathy to the hunting of seals and whales. EU directives prohibiting the import of seal meat came to be particularly resented.The Inuit, though, have managed to wield influence through the EU even though they are not EU citizens. Decades before ‘Brexit’, Greenland had the notoriety of being the first country to exit the European integration process as part of the 1979 home rule referendum. However, remaining under Danish sovereignty has allowed ICC Greenland to employ the diplomacy of ‘post-​colonial embarrassment’ to push the Danish government to negotiate an ‘Inuit exemption’ to the EU’s seal products imports ban. Greenlandic diplomats present at negotiations in Brussels publicly raised the ‘C word’ (colony) in order to push the Danish delegation into a position uncharacteristically out of step with their global environmentalist instincts (Adler-​Nilssen, 2012). This Inuit exemption for Greenland has subsequently been secured also by Nunavut (in 2015) and Canada’s Northwest Territories (in 2017). The 2010 Nuuk Declaration also reasserted the ICC’s desire to work with rather than resist external economic forces in appealing that, ‘Inuit be educated and trained to participate significantly in the ownership, management and employment associated with those initiatives [development of non-​renewable resources] and that royalties and other revenues derived from resource development be shared equitably with Inuit’ (ICC, 2010). Whilst there are notable differences amongst its members, overall the ICC wants the Inuit way of life respected but not necessarily preserved in pre-​modern form. It is not averse to change if it is a change for the better but whether its changing circumstances are for the better is becoming increasingly contentious.

Inuit sustainability on the global political stage The land rights won by the Inuit from the late 1960s and their subsequent transnational cooperation led them to influence the growing global discourse

The Inuit  157 on sustainable development that emerged from the mid-​1980s. Again, this influence emerged from working constructively with governments and IGOs, particularly in the areas of persistent organic pollutants (POPs) and climate change. Long before this, though, the Inuit appreciation of sustainability came to inform global policy on whaling.The Alaskan Eskimo Whaling Commission (AEWC) was established after the Scientific Committee of the International Whaling Commission (IWC) in 1977 voted to end the ‘aboriginal exemption’ to hunting certain species that had been written into the 1946 International Convention for the Regulation of Whaling. Alaskan Inupiat elders disputed the IWC evidence that bowhead whales were being hunted unsustainably in their waters and used this to convince the US government to lobby for a reinstatement of the exemption. Hence in 1982, despite a moratorium on all commercial whaling being agreed, a technical report submitted by the US delegation led not only to the reinstatement of the Inuit exemption but the future inclusion of Indigenous representatives at IWC meetings (Shadian, 2013). By the late 1980s, the Inuit were already acknowledged as being at the forefront of emerging sustainable development thinking, as evidenced by the ICC receiving the UNEP Global 500 award in 1988 in recognition of the  contributions of the Inuit Regional Conservation Strategy (IRCS) to global environmental policy. The IRCS is rooted in the ethos of sustainably utilizing resources that came to define global environmental discourse from the mid-​1980s but also includes assertions of the right to continue traditional hunting practises controversial to many global ecologists. In another notable input into global environmental understanding by the Inuit, the discovery of high concentrations of POPs in Arctic foodstuffs, and the long-​distance transportation that takes them there, was a key finding of the Northern Contaminants Program set up by the Canadian government with considerable contributions from Indigenous groups. The program was chaired by the Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC) set up in 1991 and included representatives of the ICC, Inuit Tapirisat of Canada (ITC) and other Indigenous representatives alongside relevant arms of the federal government. Fenge notes that this pitched many of these Indigenous representatives in at the deep end of technical international environmental diplomacy but, in doing so, served them well in later international POPs negotiations (Fenge, 2003: p. 193). The Inuit have also influenced the evolution of sustainable development on the global stage by seeking to put a human face on the sometimes turgid and highly technical discussions that characterize this arena of politics. At the second meeting of the negotiations for a POPs treaty in Nairobi, Sheila Watt-​ Cloutier, then president of ICC Canada, presented the chair and executive director of UNEP, Klaus Topfer, with a carving of an Inuit mother and child which he placed on his desk for the delegates to consider during debates (Watt-​ Cloutier, Fenge and Crowley, 2005: pp. 66–​67). Topfer himself is unequivocal about the influence of the ICC on the POPs regime.

158  Peter Hough Among the chief bell ringers was Sheila Watt-​Cloutier. The Stockholm Convention on POPs is, in large part, testament to her tireless campaign on behalf of the Inuit people and the world to get POPs banned. It is a tribute to the power of civil society. (Topfer, 2007) This combination of advancing local knowledge and shedding light on the human dimensions of environmental change has also been prominent in climate change diplomacy. At the 2000 Conference of the Parties (COP) of the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) in the Hague, Inuvialuit from Banks Island in Canada presented a video recording showing the effects of warming on their local environment and community. Similarly, since 2005 ICC Greenland has been running the ‘Sila-​Inuk’ project, which documents findings from Inuit hunters around the island on changes in the availability of resources and ‘Siku-​Inuit Hila’ (sea ice-​people-​weather) which monitors sea ice changes. The ICC have also proved effective at networking with other Indigenous groupings both in the Arctic context and beyond. Building on contacts established through the UN Forum for Indigenous Peoples, the ‘Many Strong Voices’ program on climate change was established in 2005 linking the ICC with the Small Island Developing States (SIDS) –​containing many low-​lying tropical islands vulnerable to sea level rises and, hence, fellow ‘barometers’ of global warming.The ICC and Sami Council together presented an ‘Arctic Day’ at the landmark 2015 Paris UNFCC COP 21, featuring songs, films and other cultural activities, two days before the momentous global pact to limit rising temperatures. Again, this aimed to move the debate beyond abstract science and show the human face of climate change or, as the president of Nunavut Tunngavik (the legal body representing the province’s native peoples) Cathy Towtongie expressed, ‘this is not a textbook for us’ (Kaljur, 2018). Despite this the Inuit and Sami were disappointed that Arctic Indigenous people were not given more explicit recognition in Paris and continued to lobby for this at subsequent COPs. Hence at COP 22 at Marrakesh in 2016, two Arctic Days were held, and then at COP 23, in Bonn in 2017, formal recognition of ‘Indigenous climate activists’ as delegates was finally achieved. In perhaps the most high-​profile international political initiative of the ICC to highlight the effects of climate change, it attracted global attention in 2005 when Watt-​Cloutier served a petition against the US government with the Inter-​American Human Rights Commission for its negligence in addressing the problem. The legal case unsurprisingly came to nothing but still served its purpose in highlighting the human consequences of climate change through wide media coverage of the story. There is little doubt that the transforming Arctic has come to epitomise climate change for much of the world and this is in no small part due to the efforts of its Indigenous peoples (even though the popular focus on polar bears over people is sometimes resented).

The Inuit  159

Inuit sovereignty In 2009 the ICC released a declaration proclaiming its ‘right to self-​ determination in the Arctic’. For Inuit living within the states of Russia, Canada, the USA and Denmark/​ Greenland, issues of sovereignty and sovereign rights must be examined and assessed in the context of our long history of struggle to gain recognition and respect as an Arctic indigenous people having the right to exercise self-​determination over our lives, territories, cultures and languages. (ICC, 2009) The catalyst for this ICC initiative was concern aroused by another declaration the previous year at a summit in Ilulissat, Greenland by the ‘A5’ states. This more exclusive club of five Arctic Ocean –​as opposed to Arctic circle –​ governments (the US, Canada, Russia, Norway and Denmark) appeared to attempt to usurp the authority of the Arctic Council in the region in this declaration. The A5 group asserted that it had the right to determine how to extend maritime governance in the Arctic Ocean according to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) principle of claiming a Contiguous Continental Shelf beyond the 200-​mile Exclusive Economic Zone. In doing so the A5 group denied that its aim was to supersede the AC but the fact that this and other A5 summits were not open to Indigenous representation gave the impression of exclusive, old-​school great-​power diplomacy. However, in an unexpected turn of events, at a 2010 A5 summit in Canada, the US emerged as the champion of the Indigenous peoples when Secretary of State Hilary Clinton admonished the other four Arctic Ocean governments for side-​lining the AC. Until this point the US had always been the least committed member of the AC but the A5 did not represent a preferable vehicle for it as it alone in that grouping could not claim extended maritime rights since it had never ratified UNCLOS. The Inuit and other A5 excludees praised Clinton for her intervention and, whilst the A5 group continues to meet, the AC –​with a uniquely strong Indigenous presence –​is now established as the primary forum for Arctic governance. It may have been US national interests that ultimately dictated this turn of events but the Inuit were a key factor in the decision and major beneficiaries. Contrary to initial appearance and the assumptions of most observers, the ICC sovereignty declaration was not about exclusive Inuit national autonomy and, in fact, revealed a nuanced and critical approach to this multi-​faceted and evolving concept.The declaration was not a call by the Inuit to replace existing state sovereignty in the Arctic with their own equivalent rule so much as an appeal to redefine the concept in a way that would, ultimately, serve the interests of both sides. The declaration predictably asserts that, ‘states are obligated to respect and promote the realization of our right to self-​determination’ but also

160  Peter Hough makes it plain that ‘Inuit are citizens of Arctic states’, with all the rights and responsibilities that this carries. Unlike most nationalist movements, the Inuit are not asking to join the Westphalian system but are calling on the Westphalian system to join them by evolving and adapting to a form more appropriate to a globalizing world (ICC, 2009). Sovereignty for the Inuit is not a zero-​sum game and the Arctic states are not their enemy. The Arctic powers need their Northern folk onside in order to be able to project and reinforce their sovereign claims in the region and the Inuit have used this as a bargaining chip to secure more rights and autonomy. The plight of the Arctic’s Indigenous peoples exemplifies the general fears engendered by globalization but their response to such threats emphasizes how the ill-​effects of global change are best remedied by working with rather than futilely opposing global forces. Hence the Inuit have embraced and also come to epitomize the need for global citizenship. They have actively contributed to the evolving global discourse that is slowly empowering individuals and Indigenous peoples and moving us away from a purely state-​centric world. The need for Indigenous rights, the ‘right to health’ and environmentally sustainable living are both exemplified and articulated by the Indigenous people of the Arctic. For the Inuit sovereignty is also defined more in external than internal terms. It serves as a means of contributing to global political discourse and the formulation of international laws. In addition, these are sovereign claims not based on the notion of exclusivity of control of land in line with the (traditional) Inuit culture of common ownership and grazing. Far from romanticizing the ‘primitive’ knowledge of the traditional hunter-​gatherer, however, this represents a postmodern cutting-​edge appreciation of the limits and realities of sovereignty in the twenty-​first century. As asserted by Zellen, this collision between Westphalian sovereignty and common land ownership represents a ‘clash of the civilizations’ actually more profound than the supposed Western–​Islamic confrontation (Zellen, 2010). Islamists and the West each want to assert control of land and resources vis-​à-​vis each other but are not disputing the whole concept of land ownership. This is a clash seen many times in the history of domestic politics, from ‘the Enclosures’ of seventeenth-​century England to the collectivization of communism to the development of countries of the ‘Third World’, but not one that has ever manifested itself in this way on the international political stage. The Inuit themselves, though, have come to be divided on the wisdom of their sustainable culture as the general ‘pollution or profit’ paradox, apparent elsewhere in the world for several decades now, confronts them in the Arctic in a more pronounced fashion. Globalization is coming to the Arctic, environmentally, socially, politically and culturally at a rapid pace, bringing the region literally and metaphorically in from the cold. However, as with the globalization that has already affected most of the world, this is a two-​edged sword bringing many new problems and challenges as well as great opportunities for some. Of course, many of the social changes brought about by industrialization,

The Inuit  161 urbanization and mass tourism are broadly welcomed by many people where they have occurred in the world and in the Arctic too there are great opportunities opening up as a result of these changes. Even climate change, the exemplar of global environmental catastrophe, opens up some great opportunities as well as threats, as articulated by Greenland’s first female prime minister, Aleqa Hammond. I want Greenland to take advantage of the new opportunities  –​which are also consequences of climate change –​by utilising its mineral and oil resources, which are now available to us … We are also keen to find new solutions in adapting our fisheries to the new possibilities of climate change. (Hammond, 2014) One ultimate expression of Inuit empowerment would be Greenlandic independence, something the Danish government has indicated that it would not stand in the way of. Ironically, though, such a development might serve to undermine the sustainability built into traditional Inuit culture. Danish experience in international trade, diplomacy and administration might be too easily abandoned in the face of huge economic and political changes arising from a sudden influx of multi-​national corporations and foreign government interest. Home rule has not been plain sailing in Greenland (nor in Nunavut) and internal divisions on future governance have emerged. Notably, one-​ time Greenlandic ICC colleagues Aqqaluk Lynge and Kuupik Kleist became estranged when the latter became prime minister (2009–​2013), prompting the former to assert that the premier had ‘sold out’, literally and metaphorically, by allowing in MNCs to buy up land and so undermining the Inuit tradition of common land ownership. There is no tradition of private ownership of land in Greenland but the Kleist government came to challenge common ownership (as the Danes had previously tried unsuccessfully). Controversies have emerged from this such as the arrest of several Inuit for hand-​collecting rubies on sites sold by the government to MNCs. Many of the younger generation and ‘urbanites’ of the capital Nuuk buy into Kleist’s vision of bringing in MNCs to modernize and enrich the country. Lynge, on the other hand, has cautioned about the dangers of the ‘resource curse’ making Greenland some sort of dysfunctional ‘Nigeria of the Arctic’; ‘When I’m lying awake at night, I pray we don’t find oil’ (Kucera, 2009). This is a view shared by many elders and rural Greenlanders who tend to be more cautious and fearful of the consequences of rapid social and economic change.The Kleist government was voted out in 2013 (and replaced by Hammond) over concerns of selling out to Chinese companies but foreign investment has continued and the country has remained divided in the ‘struggle between indigenousness and modernization’ (Gad, Jacobsen and Strandsbjerg, 2017) since then.

162  Peter Hough

Conclusions The Inuit have made their presence felt in the Arctic at both a national and international level. Despite being tiny, remote minorities in the US, Russia, Canada and Denmark they have managed to secure significant political, economic and legal rights from these governments through reason, clever diplomacy and the force of example. The political and economic culture with which the Inuit have sustained themselves in the High North has also come to be widely recognized by outsiders as optimal not only for the governance of the Arctic but for the world. Sustainability is deeply ingrained in Inuit culture and they have made a huge contribution to increasing global awareness of this much-​needed political, social and economic model. In particular, this Inuit model of sustainability is built on a much more nuanced version of the concept that has come to dominate politics for half a millennium and temper environmentalism over recent decades: sovereignty. The exclusive control of land, resources and people by a state government that characterizes sovereignty in most of the world, though, is a political tradition that is itself no longer sustainable. Some of the global ecological movement who have previously clashed with the Inuit over hunting are coming to recognize that it is they who have compromised their green credentials. Most notably, Greenpeace has come to admit that the Inuit have shown ‘higher ecological integrity’ and commended the: [V]‌ital contributions of indigenous science and knowledge towards human understanding of ecological health, human well-​ being and sustainable relations with the land, the water and other species. (Greenpeace, 2017) Unfortunately, though, this recognition has come from observing this model being undermined by unsustainable practices in most of the rest of the world. Ironically also, at the same time as the world is coming to learn from the Inuit, they themselves have come to be divided on the wisdom of sustainable living. The people that the original ecologists are finding it hardest to reach are those once so receptive to their elders, their own next generations.

Notes 1 ‘On the Guarantee of the Rights of the Numerically Small Indigenous People of the North 2000. 2. On Traditional Natural Resource Use of Indigenous Numerically Small People of the North 2001. 3. On Basic Principles of Organizing Communities of Indigenous People of the North, Siberia and Far East 2002’. 2 Russia, Canada, the US, Denmark, Norway, Finland, Sweden and Iceland.

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References Adler-​ Nilssen, R. (2012) ‘Diplomacy as Impression Management:  Strategic Face-​ Work and Post-​Colonial Embarrassment’, CIPSS Working Paper Series 38. Center for International Peace & Security Studies, McGill University, Montreal. Billson, J. & Mancini, K. (2004) Inuit Women: Their Powerful Spirit in a Century of Change (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield). Bjerregaard, P. & Larsen, C. (2015) ‘Time Trend by Region of Suicides and Suicidal Thoughts among Greenland Inuit’, International Journal of Circumpolar Health 74(1). www.tandfonline.com/​doi/​full/​10.3402/​ijch.v74.26053 (accessed 24 March 2018). Briggs, L. (2000) ‘Conflict Management in a Modern Inuit Community’, in Schweitzer, P., Bielsle, M. & Hancock, R. (eds), Hunters and Gatherers in the Modern World: Conflict, Resistance and Self-​Determination (New York: Berghahn). Canada (1994) The High Arctic Relocation, Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (Ottawa, ON: Canada Communications Group). Chance, N. (1990) The Inupiat and Arctic Alaska (San Diego, CA: Harcourt Brace). Fenge, T. (2003) ‘POPs and Inuit:  Influencing the Global Agenda’, in Downie, D. & Fenge, T. (eds), Northern Lights Against POPs:  Combating Toxic Threats in the Arctic (Montreal, QC: McGill-​Queens University Press). Friborg, J. (2008) ‘Cancer Patterns in Inuit Populations’, Lancet Oncology 9(9): 892–​900. Gad, U., Jakobsen, U. & Strandsbjerg, J. (2017) ‘Politics of Sustainability in the Arctic:  A Research Agenda’, in Fondahl, G. & Wilson, G. (eds), Northern Sustainabilities: Understanding and Addressing Change (New York: Springer). Greenpeace Canada (2017) Policy on Indigenous Rights, May 12. www.greenpeace. org/​canada/​en/​About-​us/​Greenpeace-​Canada-​Policy-​on-​Indigenous-​Rights/​ (accessed 24 February 2018). Hammond, A. (2014) ‘New Year’s Reception 2014 Speech’, Brussels, 15 January 2014.     http://​ n aalakkersuisut.gl/​ ~ /​ m edia/​ N anoq/​ F iles/​ A ttached%20Files/​ Naalakkersuisut/​DK/​Taler/​2014_​BXL_​New%20Years%20Reception.pdf (accessed 10 February 2017). ICC (2009) Declaration of Sovereignty, Inuit Circumpolar Council, 28 April. ICC (2010) Nuuk Declaration, 2 July. www.inuit.org/​index.php?id=409 (accessed 4 August 2012). ICC Canada (2012) ICC’s Beginning. www.inuitcircumpolar.com/​iccs-​beginning.html (accessed 17 February 2017). IPCC (2007) Fourth Assessment Report Climate Change, Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. Johnson, W. (2001) ‘Condemned and Redeemed: the New World of Inuit Law’, The Globe and Mail, 1 September. Kaljur, L. (2018) ‘Arctic Day at COP21’, Arctic Journalism, 10 December. Krummel, E. (2009) ‘The Circumpolar Inuit Health Summit: A Summary’, International Journal of Circumpolar Health 6(95): 509–​518. Kucera, J. (2009) ‘Oil on Ice’, Atlantic Magazine, November. www.theatlantic.com/​ magazine/​archive/​2009/​11/​oil-​on-​ice/​307716/​ (accessed 23 March 2018). Loukacheva, N. (2012) ‘Indigenous Inuit Law, “Western Law” and Northern Issues’. Arctic Review on Law and Politics 3(2): 200–​217. Lynge, A. (2012) personal communication, 9 September 2012. McGovern,T. (1980) ‘Cows, Harp Seals, and Churchbells: Adaptation and Extinction in Norse Greenland’, Human Ecology 8(3): 245–​275.

164  Peter Hough Minor,T. (2002) ‘Political Participation of Inuit Women in the Government of Nunavut’, Wicazo Sa Review 17(1): 65–​90. Nunavut (2008) Nunavut’s Health System. A Report Delivered as Part of Inuit Obligations Under article 32 of the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement 1993 (Iqaluit, NU: Nunavut Tunngavin). Seale, P. Shellenberger, S. & Spence, J. (2006) ‘Alcohol Problems in Alaska Natives: Lessons from the Inuit’, American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research: The Journal of the National Center 13:1: 39–​55. Shadian, J. (2013) ‘Of Whales and Oil:  Inuit Resource Governance and the Arctic Council’, Polar Record 49(251): 392–​405. Sharma, S. (2010) ‘Assessing Diet and Lifestyle in the Canadian Arctic Inuit and Inuvialuit to Inform a Nutrition and Physical Activity Intervention Programme’, Journal of Human Nutrition and Dietetics 23, special supplement, September 7: 5–​17. Stern, P. (2010) Daily Life of the Inuit (Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood). Topfer, K. (2007) UNEP Executive Director, ‘Foreword’ in Citizen’s Guide to the Stockholm Convention Civil Society Works to Eliminate Persistent Organic Pollutants (POPs) (Berkeley, CA: International POPS Elimination Network). Wassendorf, K. (2011) The Indigenous World 2011 (Copenhagen:  Copenhagen International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs). Watt-​Cloutier, S., Fenge, T. & Crowley, P. (2005) ‘Responding to Climate Change: The View of the Inuit Circumpolar Conference on the Arctic Climate Impact Assessment’ in Rosentrater, L. (ed.), 2º is Too Much! Evidence and Implications of Dangerous Climate Change in the Arctic (Oslo: Oslo WWF International Arctic Programme): 57–​70. Wrenn, S. (1978) ‘First Inuit Circumpolar Conference’, Polar Record, 19(118): 64–​66. Zellen, B. (2010) ‘Clan, the State and War, Lessons from the Far North’, Joint Force Quarterly 58 (July): 20–​21.

7  Self-​gentrification as a pro-​active response to tourism development Cases of Indigenous entrepreneurship in mainland China and Taiwan Jin Hooi Chan, Shih-​Yu Chen, Zhongjuan Ji, Ying Zhang and Xiaoguang Qi

Introduction Globally, tourism has commonly been recognized as an important tool for economic development in many communities. Tourism businesses generate much-​ needed employment especially in rural and remote regions. Tourism holds the potential to empower marginalized communities socially, economically and politically (van den Berghe, 1992). In Indigenous communities, tourism can also play a key role in the protection and revitalization of Indigenous cultural heritage.Tourism activities in Indigenous communities are not a new phenomenon, and can be traced back to the mid-​nineteenth century in Asia, Africa and Scandinavia, where Indigenous people served as guides, porters, interpreters and servants (WINTA, 2014) to travelers, migrants, Christian missionaries and academics. Later, tourism businesses appeared in the early twentieth century, targeting wealthy European ‘elites’, travelers seeking ‘exotic cultural experiences’ in the distant Indigenous lands (Craik, 1994). Indigenous culture continues to be seen as a unique differentiator for many destinations, for international and domestic tourists and Indigenous tourism has attracted substantial government attention and private-​sector interest after the mid-​twentieth century (Whitford and Ruhanen, 2016). The impacts of tourism on Indigenous peoples have gained substantial attention within academia. Ethnographic researchers have identified the issues pertaining to acculturation and commodification of Indigenous culture (Fletcher et al., 2016). Tourism development in Indigenous communities can have negative impacts on the socio-​cultural fabric of the local community as well as raise issues of economic, social and political justice. Other challenges emerging from tourism involving Indigenous communities include the destruction of the local environment, exploitation, racism (United Nations, 2009), distractions from tourists and the intrusion of foreign cultural and business products. The ‘ownership’ of Indigenous heritage is often at the heart of the debate on Indigenous tourism as during the development of tours and attraction, Indigenous peoples’ sacred and non-​sacred stories may become compromised

166  Jin Hooi Chan et al. or shared with outsiders, such as governmental organizations, planners and other businesses in the tourism industry.The use of culture in tourism becomes complicated particularly when Indigenous cultures are commercialized. In Canada, for example, Graburn (1976, 1989) argues that with the consumption of Indigenous souvenirs, Canadian Indigenous culture has become an ‘appropriated identity’ and a national symbol for Canada. Todd (1990) argues that Indigenous peoples face the challenges of retaining authentic culture in the face of a dominant culture that appropriates Indigenous identity, cultures or symbols as national symbols. In addition, with the arrival of tourists, and thereby businesses and in-​migration of workers serving the tourism industry, competition for space in the communities increases, leading to the increasing pressure of gentrification. Gentrification Gentrification (Glass, 1964) will lead to the displacement of the long-​term residents (including the marginalized Indigenous people), who are either forced to leave or voluntarily leave their community and their places. They are usually priced out of their space and dwelling, unable to support themselves as a consequence of higher living costs, and feel unable to cope with the overwhelming presence of foreign social behaviors of tourists. They may also succumb to the market tendency to sell or rent out their properties as the value rises. Gentrification can be either unorganized-​gentrifier-​led or government-​and big-​business-​led as residents are relocated to less expensive areas. In extreme cases, tourist gentrification is described as ‘museification’, where local residents in urban areas have been hollowed out (Chan et al., 2016a). While gentrification usually occurs in urban settings, it can be just as acute in cases with rural context (e.g., Chan et al., 2016a; Nelson and Hines, 2018). The hollowing-​out of rural settlements has been an ongoing phenomenon for a long time due to modernization efforts by colonialization agents  –​particularly foreign and national governments –​but also the Church and the modern education system. In addition, space competition could extend beyond living space to traditional dwelling in Indigenous communities, groups of buildings with historical architectural features and agricultural and other types of land use. Even without considering the arrival of tourists, rural Indigenous communities have been challenged by the pressures of modernization, with some individuals having to leave their communities to seek job opportunities and education in nearby townships or cities. This hollowing-​out has resulted in significant challenges for Indigenous communities and individuals, and thereby their culture and heritage (Chan et al., 2016b). While economic pressure is a key motivation for out-​migration, cultural changes follow over time, which lead to the loss of Indigenous heritage. As with many tourism developments, sustainable tourism scholars have attempted to theorize tourism development, implementation and management in Indigenous communities (Hinch and Butler, 1996; Carr et al., 2016). Carr et al. (ibid.) advocate that it is necessary

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  167 to enhance ‘governance, collaboration and embedding Indigenous values and world-​views in tourism development’. It is, nonetheless, crucial to ask who is to decide, and how to represent, these values and worldviews. Whitford and Ruhanen (2016) call for more open and exploratory research into the voice and experience of Indigenous people –​for their views, challenges and responses to be documented, analyzed and assessed. Researchers, and wider global communities, should respect and support Indigenous peoples’ rights to self-​determination, be it political, economic or socio-​cultural. This leads to the question: what aspects of Indigenous culture should be ‘modernized’ and what aspects should be ‘preserved’? What lifestyle should be maintained and what should be modified? Entrepreneurship as a pro-​active response In much of the gentrification literature, Indigenous or long-​term local residents have been viewed as passive victims needing protection from the insurmountable gentrification pressure coming from the external world. Instead of being viewed as ‘victims’ of tourism gentrification, Indigenous self-​determination should be encouraged and supported –​for communities to have the ability to improve their own socio-​economic and political standing in response to the pressures of change on their community. There are a few studies (e.g., Ocejo, 2011; Chan et al., 2016a) that explore pro-​active responses to gentrification by communities for their own advantage. Entrepreneurship could be a means to this end. Chan et al. propose the concept of self-​gentrification to describe the phenomenon of this type of self-​determination and progress by Indigenous/​ long-​term residents facing the pressure of gentrification as: Under the threat of other forms of gentrification, the long-​term residents adopt a proactive approach to become the ‘gentry’ themselves. As such they are able to benefit from the positive aspects of gentrification whilst avoiding many of the negative effects, particularly displacement. (2016a: 1265) Entrepreneurship has long been seen as a tool for self-​determination and this concept has been applied to Indigenous people (Peredo et al., 2004) and their communities. Studies in the Americas and Australasia have demonstrated that involvement in starting up businesses is ‘the key to building a more vibrant economy’ model and community for Indigenous people (Stevens, 2001; Anderson and Giberson, 2004 as cited in Peredo et  al., 2004). Literature in rural development has advocated for a more sustainable development model with a stronger involvement of communities in entrepreneurial activities. Bramwell (1994) proposed that attention should be ‘given to the role of local communities and local businesses’. Due to prolonged historical disadvantages and their marginalized economic status in society, Indigenous communities have been vulnerable to private investors and collaborators external to their

168  Jin Hooi Chan et al. communities that dominate the market that features Indigenous culture (Wu, 1997; Lee, 2003). Similarly, Indigenous tourism in other parts of the world, such as Canada, Australia and New Zealand, suffers from the extensive involvement of external private businesses, which may not have a sufficient understanding and appreciation of Indigenous culture, thereby leading to misrepresentation and the loss of authenticity (van den Berghe, 1992). ‘Authenticity’ is a critical factor for the success of Indigenous tourism, as Dicks (2004) argues, instead of just observing the scenery; Indigenous tourism is often associated with ‘experience-​led’ tourism, which would attract visitors. Therefore, the participation of Indigenous peoples is critical to developing Indigenous tourism initiatives (Cohen, 1988). Lane and Kastenholz (2015) suggest that better management is required to challenge fragmented and poorly organized operations. Similar concerns have been voiced in studies of Indigenous tourism enterprises in many parts of the world.They are identified as being comprised mainly of micro-​businesses whose viability can be threatened (Fuller et al., 2005) by problems such as land tenure issues, low literacy, lack of access to capital, weak social capital and networks, insufficient business skills or a lack of training opportunities and a lack of knowledge about market trends (Cachon, 2000;Weir, 2007; Jeremy et al., 2010). While scholars have warned against excessive external influence in Indigenous businesses, sustainable partnerships and a good network of Indigenous and non-​ Indigenous partners can be beneficial (Fuller et al., 2005; Cornell, 2006). Many theorists question whether a small business owner involved in Indigenous tourism could be classified as an entrepreneur; therefore, it is important to revisit the definition of entrepreneurship. There is little consensus on the definition of entrepreneurship among management scholars (see Gartner, 1988, 2008; Ramoglou, 2013). The most common definition of entrepreneurship, found in popular press and dictionaries, is ‘skill in starting new businesses, especially when this involves seeing new opportunities’, as in the Cambridge Dictionary –​an entrepreneur is identified as someone who creates and runs a commercial enterprise. Many Indigenous enterprises share similarities with small businesses but vary substantially from individual ownership to collective forms (Frederick and Henry, 2004) as well as featuring strong social goals.While the definition of Indigenous entrepreneurship usually shares the common perspective, Hindle and Lansdowne (2005), for example, define it as ‘the creation, management and development of new ventures by Indigenous people’; this does not mean that Indigenous entrepreneurs do not explore opportunities, take risks, innovate or produce transformative results for themselves and their communities (Schumpeter, 1934; Stevenson, 1983; Santos and Eisenhardt, 2009; Shane and Venkataraman, 2000; Drucker, 2014). The following sections in this chapter provide an analysis of two detailed case studies of tourism entrepreneurship within Indigenous communities in Taiwan and mainland China.The case in mainland China focuses on individual entrepreneurs while the one in Taiwan examines community efforts in tourism development. These two cases in East Asia demonstrate sustainable responses

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  169 of Indigenous communities toward pressure that arises from tourism development. This chapter discusses the opportunities, approaches and challenges faced by Indigenous communities under the wave of tourism development, and how they respond to it. In the second section, we provide information about the methods and data sources. The third section is a brief introduction to ethnic entrepreneurship in tourism in mainland China, followed by the case of the Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site in Yunnan province in the fourth section. After a brief background on Indigenous entrepreneurship in Taiwan (the fifth section), the sixth section examines the roles of external organizations and their interactions with the Indigenous community of the Amis Tribe in Taiwan. The final section provides some key conclusions derived from these two cases.

Methods and data This chapter draws on primary and secondary evidence collected from a number of research projects spanning from 2013 to 2018 at the two case study sites. Primary data came from various data collection methods including structured questionnaires, semi-​ structured interviews and unstructured in-​ depth interviews. The researchers have also written ethnographic diaries that noted down observations on the surroundings, non-​verbal interactions between individuals and researchers’ own opinions and reflections on the case. As the researchers are aiming to understand the development of Indigenous enterprise in Indigenous communities and the interactions within the community and with outsiders, qualitative research methods were considered to be more appropriate as they would provide richer data for the examination of the unique context in these case studies as compared to quantitative methods (Denzin and Ryan, 2007). Secondary data were collated from government statistics and data from a state-​owned tourism park operator. In addition, the authors have also reviewed historical documents, policy documents, news reporting and other narrative accounts.To understand a complex social phenomenon,Yin (2009) and Miles and Huberman (1994) propose that combining these different sources of data will enable researchers to produce more convincing findings and reliable conclusions. The researchers met with owners and employees of tourism-​ related businesses in the sites, ranging from small guesthouses to museums and large state-​owned corporations and their subsidiaries. The targeted guesthouses were mainly located in the most visited villages, which are susceptible to a greater degree of gentrification. We interviewed local residents and community leaders from different villages, and also government officials at the village, town and county levels, who have portfolios related to tourism, environment or development at the sites. The interviews were mainly conducted in Mandarin Chinese (putonghua), but on some occasions our local guide helped as an interpreter for local languages, particularly amongst older villagers who often had difficulty in speaking Mandarin. The interviews were transcribed into text files and were

170  Jin Hooi Chan et al. analyzed in NVivo. During the analysis, categorization was conducted on the data by themes, for example, community history, commercial development and conflicts.

Overview of ethnic minority entrepreneurship in Mainland China The People’s Republic of China (PRC) identified 56 ethnic groups based loosely upon territory, language and other cultural features (Harrell, 1995). historically, the ethnic Han have been the predominant group and currently represent more than 91% of the total population in the country, based on recent census data (2010).The other 55 minority ethnic groups, with a total population of slightly more than 100 million, occupy a vast territory primarily in the southwestern and western regions of China. The term ‘Indigenous’ is not in use in mainland China, whose government prefers the official use of ‘ethnic’ terminology. Even though the PRC adopted the 2007 United Nations Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous People, ethnic minorities in China are not officially considered Indigenous peoples, which particularly avoids any connotation of colonization. The mainland is a vast country with enormous tourism resources, both natural and cultural, but these resources are not evenly distributed. Ethnic minority regions are in remote areas that are difficult to access and feature challenging landscapes and underdeveloped communities. They are, however, usually well-​ endowed with an abundance of natural and cultural tourism resources. These communities are generally poorer compared with their counterparts in the eastern coastal provinces. Therefore, governments at various levels often attempt to promote ethnic tourism development in rural regions as a means of socio-​ economic regeneration (Su, 2011) to address regional challenges in developing the economy through other industry sectors (Li, 2014). Consequently, tourism has become increasingly important in many provinces, with a high number of ethnic minorities in Yunnan, Guangxi, Guizhou and Tibet etc., where tourism contributes to more than 5% of the GDP (Li, 2014). For instance,Yunnan province has a substantially higher population of ethnic minorities and is experiencing rapid growth of tourism. In 2017, the revenue from tourism in Yunnan was more than 1 billion USD.1 Chinese ethnic tourism is a distinctive activity under an authoritarian state that practices market-​socialist economic governance. The Chinese government has established many ethnic minority autonomous regions and districts throughout the country.The local officers, even though they may be from the local (ethnic) group themselves, do not necessarily exert any control or decision-​making over their region’s resources and development (Swain, 1989; Xie, 2001). Development planning is predominantly top-​down under this centralized control system (Harvey, 2005), but is increasingly incorporating private or quasi-​ private corporations under neo-​liberal market reforms that have occurred since 1978. This is very much in contrast with Western Indigenous counterparts who enjoy greater control over any development planning and activities including tourism in their communities (Hinch and Butler, 1996). As ethnic tourism in

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  171 China continues to rapidly grow, there are concerns of economic leakage out of the ethnic region leading to unsustainable development or even to ‘inharmonious’ community relationships (Chinese terminology). Gentrification in ethnic minority tourism destinations is a concern in mainland China with threats coming from both large-​scale organized state-​led and unorganized gentrifier-​ led activities (Su, 2012; Chan et al., 2016a; Zhang et al., 2016). Many tourism entrepreneurs in the ethnic minority regions are of Han Chinese origin, recently migrating from other parts of the country, while the involvement of the local ethnic minorities is limited (Walsh and Swain, 2004; Yang and Wall, 2008). The representation of ethnic minority people at top and middle managerial levels in the tourism-​related enterprises is also low (Chan et al., 2016b). Despite challenges in promoting tourism entrepreneurship within ethnic minority communities in China, this field is under-​researched. A  literature search in CNKI, the Chinese key journal database, using three keywords (i.e., ethnic, tourism and enterprise) yielded only 11 articles. Besides Fu (2006) and Liang and Zheng (2007), all articles were published between 2010 and 2014. In this literature, the key focus is on the impact of non-​ethnic minority enterprises on the communities and culture, advocating that those enterprises should be tasked to protect the culture and heritage of minorities (Fu, 2006; Liang and Zheng, 2007, Wei, 2012). Challenges faced by tourism enterprises in ethnic minority regions have also been identified, for example, growth-​related (Long, 2010; Wen, 2013; Li, 2014) and funding barriers (Li, 2011; Wu, 2012).

A case on Hani and Yi Indigenous communities in the Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site On 22 June 2013, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) awarded the Honghe Hani Rice Terraces status as a Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site (WHS) (UNESCO, 2013). This WHS is located in remote and mountainous terrains in Yuanyang County, Honghe State in the south of China’s Yunnan province. It encompasses some 16,603 hectares of core area and 29,501 hectares of buffer zone  –​around latitude 102.40’ E, longitude 23.05’ N (UNESCO, 2013) –​where there is an extensive concentration of magnificent rice terraces along the northern slopes of the Ailao Mountain. The area is an autonomous prefecture of the Hani and Yi ethnic minority groups, with socio-​cultural practices and religions readily distinguishable from the Han ethnic majority. There are 82 villages with a total population of around 50,000 within the WHS. The main ethnic group, the Hani, build their villages and terraces at the highest altitude, from 1,400 to 1,800 meters above mean sea level, while the Yi ethnic group occupies middle-​ altitude mountains, mostly below 1,600 meters (Chan et al., 2016b). The UNESCO designation is in recognition of its breath-​ taking rice terraces under centuries of sustainable agriculture supported by local cultural concepts. The balance achieved in this harmonious relationship between the

172  Jin Hooi Chan et al. environment and ethnic communities is strongly linked with their unique cultural and religious practices. In the core area of the Honghe WHS, the upper slopes of the mountain, at over 1,800 meters, are forested while the terraced rice fields are distributed in the valley down to 700 meters above sea level with, at times, gradients of 15–​20°. The Hani build their villages between their sacred forests at the top of the mountain, which has very significant religious meanings (Bouchery, 1996) still in practice today, and the earthy rice terraces further down the slopes. Hani villages have distinctive traditional mushroom-​ like dwellings, commonly two-​and-​a-​half-​story houses with thatched rooves, which have become a tourist attraction (Figure 7.1). The Hani religious practice of forest and water worshipping helps to maintain the harmonious relationship and sustainable practices in the mountain slopes. Logging within the sacred forest is prohibited, helping the local micro-​ climate in moisture trapping and groundwater storage, delivering a sustainable water supply to the villages and rice terraces (Mao, 1991; Wang, 1999; Lu, 2011:  p.  121). The forest supplies ever-​running streams via a complex web of natural and man-​made drainage channels. The Hani have a traditional social system for building sluice gates to apportion water resources throughout the terraces, which is managed by an elected irrigation headman, yiroharapo (Shimpei, 2007). In 2008, years before the UNESCO designation,

Figure 7.1 Pugaolao village and the magnificent view of rice terraces at the Honghe World Cultural Landscape Heritage Site.

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  173 the government established a tourism development company to develop and manage tourism. Yunnan Shibo-​Yuanyang Hani Rice Terraces Cultural Tourism Limited (the Company) is a joint venture of Yunnan Expo Tourism Group Holdings Ltd. (66.7%) and the county-​level government sovereign fund (33.3%).2 Yunnan Expo Tourism Group Holdings Ltd. is a prominent state-​owned corporation with substantial involvement in tourism in Yunnan province. It is a joint venture between central government (51%) and a provincial government (49%) sovereign fund.3 The registered capital is about RMB 132 million (approximately USD 20 million). The UNESCO designation boosted the likelihood that tourism will become a significant force of change at the WHS. These changes will probably be witnessed in the economic, socio-​cultural and physical environments in Yuanyang. In the two years preceding the designation, tourist arrival had already experienced an explosive increase, and the trend continued over the following five years after the designation. The Company, which collected entrance fees to the site, recorded an increase in annual tourist arrival from 32,000 in 2009 to over 140,000 in 2012, which was about three times the local population. This trend is predicted to accelerate following UNESCO designation, just as in other UNESCO sites worldwide (Herbert, 2001; Hall and Piggin, 2003; UNESCO, 2010; Yang et al., 2010). The Company has since collected a total of RMB 6.7 million in entrance fees.4 From 2013 to 2017, five years after the designation, the total tourist arrival in the county of Yuanyang nearly surpassed 1 million.5 Improper planning could also lead to the phenomenon of a so-​called ‘fantasy city’ (Hannigan, 1995) or ‘museification’ (Bouche, 1998), where gentrifying projects turn space into ‘tourist bubbles’. Under the wave of increasing tourist arrival in the WHS, gentrification has been creeping in over time. The increasing number of visitors in the WHS also generates more demands on the infrastructure, for instance, fresh water (competing with irrigation requirements particularly during dry season, which coincides with the annual peak tourist season), the road network and living and entertaining space. Individual tourists may be transient, but continuous streams of tourists, as Clark (2005) noted, may lead to an impression of ever-​present outsiders, who compete for space and resources. These could also lead to the increase of property prices and living costs. There have been complaints from local residents of the scarcity of fresh water during the annual drought season and solid waste management, particularly blaming tourists. While land might be plentiful in rural settings, competition and thereby gentrification do occur on some specific types of land in rural areas (e.g., Nelson and Hines, 2018). The local government and the WHS site management company are well aware of potential negative impacts on the WHS under any large-​scale government-​led gentrification, i.e., relocation of ethnic villages for tourism development purposes, as witnessed in other tourist destinations in the province (Su, 2012; Chan et  al., 2016a). The steep topography of the Honghe WHS restricts the availability of suitable land for new buildings and

174  Jin Hooi Chan et al. new villages. In addition, there are cultural and hydrological significances of the locality of Hani village in between the sacred forest and the rice terraces. Nonetheless, an unplanned gentrifier-​led gentrification could also lead to competition for land and traditional dwellings as well as the destruction of the beauty of the landscape. Other than the threats of any large-​scale government led-​gentrification, individual gentrifiers are newcomers such as owners and employees of establishments catering to tourists, as well as tourists themselves. With the increasing popularity of this WHS and the tourists’ thirst for an authentic experience, traditional mushroom-​type dwellings are therefore highly sought-​after (Chan et  al., 2016b). The number of small bed-​and-​breakfast-​ type accommodation businesses has increased from about 50 in 2013 to 230 in 2018.6 In this process of tourism gentrification, space is transformed into affluent enclaves to accommodate better-​off tourists. With the new built restriction imposed on the core zone, villagers have been approached to rent out their dwellings to individuals and businesses, mostly non-​ local entrepreneurs spotting on this blooming accommodation market. Long-​ term lease (15 to 20 years) with a flat rent rate is very common, as reported by Chan et al. (2016b). Even during the early days of the designation, there were numerous guesthouses in the small traditional Hani village of Pugaolao –​some under construction, some locked away waiting for the peak season to arrive. A small number of newcomers and converted guesthouses might add a new flavor to a small traditional agricultural village. However, uncontrolled conversion and an attractive stable income from renting out mushroom dwellings could drive villagers away from their natural habitat and risk the loss of traditional livelihoods and skills in rice terrace farming and maintenance. Nonetheless, it is the choice of the villagers.Their self-​determination counts. Here, we provide a few examples of good efforts made by the local individuals of the Yi and Hani ethnic minorities to counter the negative effects while taking advantage of the tourism development in the WHS. Any involvement in the tourism sector no doubt will have some implications on one’s culture and lifestyle. But it could also promote the conservation of cultural heritage. Chan et al. recorded the intention and love of locals and emigrated ethnic individuals to return to their communities. [A]‌lthough many young people are going away to work in the city, we will still return to tend the rice terraces … The rice terraces cannot be deserted, they are the bedrock of our society, inherited from our ancestors. (2016a: 1272) This section will provide further examples and cases of self-​gentrification in the WHS. Young people are returning [from emigration] … Many people are coming to ask about how to start a guesthouse and restaurant. (A local officer)

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  175 There is no need to leave here. I just want to remain in this beautiful place … if I were to leave, I would miss home so much. My ideal is to follow the development of tourism here. (A young ethnic entrepreneur who runs multiple tourist establishments in the WHS) Let every villager have a little more income, everyone learns to do business … As we develop the tourism sector, there are more opportunities. It is not necessary to go to the city as a migrant worker; one has a future in our home community. (A Hani entrepreneur in the WHS) Emigration to nearby cities has been a great challenge that might bring the communities to their knees. This problem is not confined to ethnic communities, but rural and small townships in China as well as globally. For instance, urbanization growth in China has been at an unprecedented speed since the economic reform in 1978. Between 1978 and 2012, the proportion of the population dwelling in cities had increased from 17.9% to 52.6% (Bai et  al., 2014). In addition, the residual but dreadful impact of adult emigration on rural China is the left-​behind population, which amounted to 58  million children, 47  million women and 45  million elderly people in 2015 (Ye et  al., 2009). The consequence of this growth is the massive problem of depopulation in small cities, towns and rural areas, bearing down on the local commerce and livelihood. Local industries are hollowed out and agricultural land is left uncultivated. This can disintegrate communities and destroy their culture and heritage, particularly small ethnic communities. The development in tourism could help to reverse the trend (Chan et al., 2016a), if concepts of sustainability are well-​embedded in the planning and execution of the development. Many local people believe that their future is still in the WHS as their involvement in tourism is an opportunity to improve their socio-​economic status and income. During the time of this research fieldwork, there were numerous cases of local ethnic entrepreneurs who ran restaurants and guesthouses, provided transport services –​as minivan drivers or owners –​ and offered services as tour guides.The Company, which manages the WHS, has also employed local ethnic minorities to work as low-​skill workers, office-​based clerks and mid-​managers, as well as those who work in the Company-​owned hotels and restaurants (various interviews with the chairman and directors of the Company). She has purchased a new minivan to run her tourism business … a very good business. Now she is the main bread earner in her household … her current status and the way she behaves and talks, she definitely enjoys a better independence. (An office worker of the Company reflecting on a former colleague)

176  Jin Hooi Chan et al. I was a migrant worker in Mengzi City [a small city not far from the WHS] after I graduated primary school. Now I am glad to be able to return to my village to work in a new hotel … but the pay is very low, about RMB 1,200 per month [approximately USD 325]; it is insufficient. I still need to help on the farm, and do some weaving and sewing jobs in the evening. (A hotel waitress in the WHS) I have the ability to earn money; I  do not need to be at his disposal. Previously, men decided everything because they controlled the money … now, you go out to work; you receive your own pay. It is at your own discretion if you want to let him know … for me, when I receive my salary, my bonus, I do not need to let my husband know. (A former worker in the Company) Self-​gentrified through their involvement in the tourism sector, local ethnic residents have improved their household finance and social status. This is more prevalent among ethnic women whose family and social status have improved due to the increase in earning power. Nonetheless, there can be a clear income gap, and thereby social status, between successful small business entrepreneurs and low-​skill tourism workers, as articulated by the interviewees as above. His decision to become a tourism entrepreneur was by no means a carefully planned out one, but rather highlighted several key points in his life where interactions with others helped him become more aware of the entrepreneurial way of life and inspired him to follow this course of action … A key diffusing agent of touristic knowledge are the visitors themselves, who bring with them into the WHS sets of expectations and requirements garnered from touristic experiences that they have had elsewhere. (Chan et al., 2016b: 201) Nonetheless, ethnic minorities do not usually have the appropriate resources and skills required for business venturing and involvement in the tourism sector. They also need finance, knowledge and a network to kickstart their ventures and continue to innovate. Chan et al. (2016a) have advocated that capacity building through support networks and direct training are necessary to ensure the community benefits from tourism development, in both social and economic respects. For instance, the government provides grants under the ‘Beautiful Home’ program to encourage refurbishment of tired dwellings in the WHS. The Company encourages us … if you go to get a diploma, the Company will help to cover tuition fees. Now, it is better. The Company collaborates with an external college; the Company will sponsor the full fees … the course will begin in this September. (A female worker in the Company)

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  177 About 95% of middle managers are locals … we continuously provide training … take them to other tourist destinations to observe and learn, as well as share our experience with them. (A top non-​ethnic manager in the Company) I am happy to help them to succeed in the tourism business. Everyone also wants to get involved in tourism business and earn a little bit more. (A young and successful ethnic entrepreneur) Provision of these resources and capabilities has been made by the Company and the local government over the last few years. For instance, the Company does provide the workers with opportunities to obtain diplomas in tourism management and hospitality.The local government has organized eight sessions with a total of 514 attendees on hotel management and hospitality training, 27 sessions (730 attendees) on tourism management skills and 46 sessions (1,267 attendees) of prefecture or provincial-​level training events.7 The ethnic entrepreneurs themselves are also willing to share their knowledge and experience in conducting tourism operations with the rest of the community.

Overview of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Taiwan Indigenous entrepreneurship has been supported by the Taiwanese government since 1999, with the main objective of narrowing the economic gap between metropolitan cities and rural countries.The importance of developing Indigenous entrepreneurship has been well recognized despite there being no official statistics on the economic size of the Indigenous cultural industry. Compared with the policies that aimed at the ‘Han-​ization’ of Indigenous peoples over the course of history in Taiwan, in particular in the middle of the twentieth century, the distinctiveness of the Indigenous culture has become an asset for developing Indigenous cultural industry and a key resource for Indigenous entrepreneurs. The Council of Indigenous Peoples (CIP) was set up in 1996 for the strengthening of Indigenous rights and overseeing Indigenous affairs. Indigenous enterprises commonly build upon resources derived from Indigenous traditional music, dance, craftworks and visual art that features Indigenous traditional cultural elements (Chen, 2011). In addition to individual entrepreneurs, there are some Indigenous artists who would choose to work with business partners and license out their works. Liu (2007) comments that by licensing out their art works, it not only increases the business profit but also the social and cultural value as this increases the visibility of the works. Liu (2007) also points out that, for Indigenous cultural products to survive in the creative industry, it is important to acquire the knowledge and skills of branding and marketing; one of the biggest challenges that Indigenous entrepreneurs encounter is insufficient business experience, and professional designers are able to transform Indigenous artworks into business products; there have been similar findings in other parts of the world.

178  Jin Hooi Chan et al. Many of the CIP-​supported projects focus on empowering Indigenous villages through transforming traditional crafts into cultural products. For instance, the project ‘Challenge 2008: National Development Focus Project –​ New Village Development’ focuses on encouraging traditional art development by organizing workshops on Indigenous craftworks in order to further cultivate Indigenous talents, as well as providing training on business management. It aims to revitalize rural Indigenous towns and raise the awareness of Indigenous cultures (Chen, 1995).Three main areas have been identified for the cultivation of Indigenous entrepreneurship:  i) assisting in developing the overall sector and promoting Indigenous traditional craftworks; ii) developing Indigenous tourism with a focus on Indigenous towns and their natural surroundings; and iii) providing training courses for individual craftsmen or artists (CIP, 2013). Since 2006, there have been government projects that support several Indigenous communities in Eastern Taiwan. In particular with the project ‘East Coast Community Tourism Development Discovery’ (the Discovery Project) in 2012, the development of Indigenous tourism has been emphasized. However, heritage preservation is a continual process; cultural transformations can occur while interacting with outsiders, some of whom may be welcomed but others of whom may cause the loss of traditions (Dicks, 2004). Therefore, taking the consequences of disturbing community residents and interrupting traditional practices in the past into consideration, the Discovery Project chose nine Indigenous communities to support and develop in tourism and related businesses. Tourism is one of the most common industries to nurture Indigenous entrepreneurship in Taiwan as well as in other Indigenous societies, such as in Australia, New Zealand and Canada (Whitford et al., 2017; Ryan and Aicken, 2005). It is not uncommon for Indigenous communities to develop tourism in order to achieve social aims, such as educating the younger generation, creating job opportunities and raising cultural awareness in the wider society. Therefore, Indigenous entrepreneurship is often organized in a collective approach, as it requires efforts from all elements of the community in building a community-​ based tourism industry (Lin, 2002). However, as is the case in many Indigenous communities in the world, Indigenous communities in Taiwan are facing many difficulties such as local people migrating out to cities for better job opportunities and education as well as the risk of losing traditional cultures and languages. As a result, increasing the awareness of Indigenous cultures and financial income has been the main purpose for developing Indigenous tourism in Taiwan. Especially since the late twentieth century, with the emphasis of localization in Taiwan, Indigenous villages have become popular destinations for domestic tourism. Along with the commoditization of ethnicity, Indigenous tourism started to develop significantly and brought a large number of tourists into Indigenous communities (Ji, 1998; Chiang, 2008). It is popular, especially with funding from the Ministry of Culture and CIP, for Indigenous communities to adopt the concept of community development on managing their neighborhood, developing local cultural

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  179 heritage and improving the connections between Indigenous communities and outsiders. With the advantages brought by the distinct cultures and traditions as well as the natural surroundings of Indigenous communities, which are mostly situated in mountainous areas, developing Indigenous tourism is considered to have great potential for Indigenous communities (Wu et al., 2011).

The case of the Chi-​mei Indigenous community in Taiwan Different from the gentrification that Glass (1964) observed in inner-​ city London, gentrification is happening in Hualian county due to the growth in the private tourism sector. According to Lee and Cheng (2007), the number of people participating in rafting has been increasing, especially in Hualian county with its unique geographical environment. Hualian has become one of the most popular destinations for rafting and thereby many rafting businesses have been set up to take advantage of the opportunities of the growing market. Although there are many Indigenous residents in Hualian county, most of the rafting businesses have not been established by them (Huang, 2009); as the result, Indigenous communities are not really benefitting economically from the growing rafting activities. It is more common to see them being employed by these businesses. Recognizing the potential opportunities of the rafting business, there are Indigenous communities who were motivated to have a stronger participation in the sector; however, they are unable to compete with the existing businesses run by outsiders. This case of the Chi-​ mei community, where the rafting businesses are solely established and run by local Indigenous people, is an exception rather than a norm. Chi-​mei is one of the communities belonging to the Amis tribe, also known as Kiwit in their Indigenous language. Chi-​mei is considered to be one of the oldest Amis communities and the village was the last among Taiwanese Indigenous villages to be connected to the electricity supply. Due to the villages being relatively isolated in the high mountains of Hualian county, they are able to preserve their traditions and culture (Lai, 2015) such as age hierarchy and ritual dances, especially compared to the Indigenous people living on the plains, who have been well integrated with Taiwanese society since the sixteenth century. Assisted by the government project of setting up local Indigenous cultural centres, the Chi-​mei Indigenous community started community-​based tourism. This has been seen as one of the most popular ways for Indigenous people to actively participate in tourism, and to create opportunities and provide incentives for their out-​migrated community members to return to the village. Case analysis The development of Indigenous tourism in Chi-​mei community started from the government project of building cultural centers in Indigenous villages. The

180  Jin Hooi Chan et al. CIP proposed the reclamation of idle buildings that were built in 1996 in order to be the bridge between cities and small towns in rural areas in their new use as local cultural centers. These centers play the role of connecting the communities with leading museums and build Indigenous exhibitions on the local communities. With government support, the Chi-​mei community has been able to reduce the difficulty of seeking funding for running the cultural center. However, because the cultural center is owned by the local government, the relationship between local government and other groups in the area can be very complicated. Nonetheless, the cultural center in Chi-​ mei functions as a community museum that has been highly regarded among other cultural centers because of its success of collaborating with national museums and motivating community members into further development. In 2007, the project ‘Big Museums Lead Small Museums’ was established in order to provide training to Indigenous communities and job opportunities as well as to further assist Indigenous communities to strengthen their self-​recognition in representing themselves. Collaborating with leading museums in temporary exhibitions is not only popular among Indigenous communities, but also for local governments, as it can attract outside visitors. The cultural center in the Chi-​mei community is a well-​known example, not only because past exhibitions in collaboration with National Taiwan Museum have allowed the community to re-​examine its past, but because it has also become an initial step to initiate other businesses in the community. As the curator stated (in an interview with the authors in 2015), the initial intention was to help those who were having difficult experiences in cities, starting by bringing them back to work in rebuilding a traditional house and refurbishing the cultural center. Later, the project expended to cover other aspects of community development. The exhibitions in the cultural center play different roles in the community; they have been described as a trigger point for the community elders to tell history that was not known. In Indigenous society, the ownership and the right of telling history and memory can only be accessed by people with status equivalent to elders (based on an interview by the authors in 2015). Furthermore, exhibitions have also become a ‘window’ for the community to represent itself to outsiders. Particularly, in the development of Indigenous tourism, the community has been holding camps for group visitors. Organizing activities for visitors is a popular approach in attracting tourists into Indigenous communities and interacting with them. For example, in the camp, the community introduces visitors to traditional Indigenous cooking and cuisine as well as traditional techniques of weaving and making art. A cultural rafting business has been established by the community. It allows outside visitors to experience the culture and history of the community by rafting along the river that the community’s lives survive on. Unlike the existing rafting businesses in the area that aim to excite tourists with fast speed, the cultural rafting business in Chi-​mei aims to show visitors the history of the

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  181 community, such as how they supported themselves with natural resources and their relationship with nature.With the concept of environmental sustainability in mind, they illustrate the approaches and rules of using natural materials that were set by their ancestors. The idea of ‘the whole community is a living museum’ is used by the community.The idea is developed from a cultural center that contributes in building self-​recognition for its community members. It also further solves challenges that the community faces, such as unemployment and the emigration of younger generations. By developing Indigenous tourism, the community members have the chance to represent themselves to tourists. The community has become united and more appealing for members who choose to stay as it provides job opportunities in the village. In the case of the Chi-​mei community, the establishment of Indigenous tourism relies on key actors (Abbott, 1995), the cultural center curator and his team, who may occupy influential positions in the community and have more social capital to initiate any plan and to motivate others to support the plan and even become part of it. However, as Kung et al. (2014) observe, the success of developing tourism in an Indigenous community relies on the willingness of community members. In the Chi-​mei community, initially there was no universal consent for developing the community. Similar to any community, it is not uncommon for people to have different opinions, political stances or priorities. In Chi-​mei, as the curator admitted, there were some members against changes who questioned the intention of developing the community. Because the perspectives of developing Indigenous tourism in the community may not be shared by everyone, there are conflicts between different groups in the community. However, key actors may also have better opportunities to convince others with their influence, and to unite the community to work collectively toward development. Later in its development, disagreements were resolved, and the agricultural products also became part of the business. As the result, the scale of development has been increased and more members are involved and benefit from it. Conflicts can also be found between outside visitors and Indigenous communities that develop Indigenous tourism. Indigenous tourism development invites visitors into Chi-​mei, not only helping to increase the awareness of the village and its traditions and culture but also bringing the community members more job opportunities and increasing the economic capital of the community. Nevertheless, there may be some consequences, such as visitors being disrespectful toward Indigenous culture, or interrupting festivals or residents. In addition, as mentioned in the above paragraphs, the Chi-​mei community also has complicated relationships with the local government and other businesses in the area. Prior to the establishment of the cultural rafting business in the Chi-​ mei community, the rafting industry had been developing for decades in the area and the existing rafting businesses had also built connections with local politicians. Therefore, although the Chi-​mei community has been working

182  Jin Hooi Chan et al. closely with CIP and enjoys support from national cultural organizations, its own cultural rafting business is not particularly welcomed in the local area and has to face severe competition and pressure. The development of Indigenous tourism in the Chi-​mei community in Taiwan is not a rare case, especially, as Murphy (1985) states, because developing tourism within Indigenous communities not only brings in job opportunities and financial income, but also empowers Indigenous communities to have the power to control their own development and further to retain the benefits that come from displaying their cultural uniqueness. In those that do not have a featured activity, it is common to see Indigenous communities making the most of their neighborhoods, from decorations on entrance gates to community maps and village-​made crafts or products. To include the entire village as a whole destination in developing Indigenous tourism, there are some common approaches, which can be found in other examples of Indigenous community tourism (Chen, 2017). As mentioned before, a village map is used not only to inform visitors about directions and locations but also to illustrate and highlight the aspects a community wishes to display to outsiders, for example, the tribal house or the cultural center in the Chi-​mei community.With a guided tour from the community, interaction with tourists is encouraged; maps can be used to tell stories, explain concepts that can only be found in the community or the significance of certain places. With narratives, there is more chance that tourists will leave with vivid impressions of their visit. A community map is also helpful when the community is having a festival, which is the period that attracts the most tourists, most of whom may not be very familiar with the community. Indigenous tourism shows the flexibility of playing various roles at the same time. For the Chi-​mei community itself, it plays a social role in preserving the tradition and culture, educating the younger generations and solving the issues of unemployment and losing its members. On the other hand, it also represents the community in its interaction with tourists, taking the expectations of tourists into consideration, being responsive to the market and balancing the tensions of preserving traditions and building facilities that satisfy the needs of a modern life. Commercializing Indigenous heritage in tourism also allows Indigenous people to reclaim the right to tell their own stories, to increase the awareness of their traditions, cultures and rights in the wider society and to further to resolve the issue of maldistribution, such as unbalanced or unjust resource distribution among different groups of people (Debes, 2011). Maldistribution is often connected with misrecognition, especially for marginalized groups such as Indigenous communities. As Fraser (2003) points out, misrecognition may not be the definite cause of maldistribution, but solving misrecognition could be helpful in solving maldistribution. Since the vicious cycle has been formed, Indigenous communities have been suffered from the consequences of negative labeling that could be the reason for maldistribution. As a result, it is not surprising that Indigenous tourism can play different roles in Indigenous communities; it gives the opportunity to re-​examine the existing understandings

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  183 of Indigenous peoples and it also provides the potential to improve their economic status. Challenges facing Indigenous community entrepreneurship It is still too early to conclude whether the Chi-​mei community is a case of a successful community entrepreneurship model that may be replicated in other Indigenous communities. Lai (2015) comments that there are some areas that could be improved for the tourism in the Chi-​mei community to become more sustainable and make long-​term profit. For instance, the main existing activities in tourism include only visiting the cultural center and traditional buildings, tribal experiences and cultural rafting. With further innovation necessary to improve contents and distinctive products, the number of return customers can also be increased. Considering the difficulties in accessibility, increasing the opportunities for visitors to revisit is key for the success of Indigenous tourism in Chi-​mei. Similar to other Indigenous communities, tourism development in Chi-​mei is based on the distinctive characteristics of Indigenous cultures from the mainstream society.Tokenism is one of the common risks for developing Indigenous tourism, as it emphasizes the differences between the visited cultures and the cultures of visitors, who might be interested in the exoticism of the culture. In order to stand out from other cultures, the aspect of cultural adaptation is dealt with lightly in Indigenous tourism. However, over-​emphasizing the traditional aspects of Indigenous cultures would minimize representations of how the culture has changed by interacting with outsiders and could further lead to tokenism. As Hsu (2012) states, ethnic food is one of the biggest selling points in Indigenous tourism; however, through interaction with the wider society, ethnic food culture might also lose its place in Indigenous communities. It could result in the mere performance of a culture when ethnic food is included in Indigenous tourism. The risk of tokenism will need to be considered carefully, especially when the selling of Indigenous artworks, crafts and products is a component. As Lin (2004) observed, strategies are needed to encourage visitors to consume and purchase within Indigenous villages, as the tags ‘native’ or ‘authentic’ play important roles in Indigenous tourism, showing outside visitors how the Indigenous weaving techniques or the process of making traditional crafts can be useful. However, the common challenges Indigenous communities face are the high cost of these products and the competition of other similar but low-​ cost products from China (Chen, 2014). In order to modify the expectations of visitors, a further strategy is to demonstrate the techniques in order to increase the consumption. The relationship with other stakeholders is also one of the key issues when developing Indigenous tourism (Changpin, 2004). As mentioned before, apart from business competition, the conflicts between the Chi-​mei community and the local government also involve several other aspects, for example, the

184  Jin Hooi Chan et al. bureaucratic difficulties that can be caused by the conflicting power relationship between different governmental organizations. Especially when financial resources are involved, conflicts can also happen between different communities within a local government administration (Huang, 2000). Instead of fully supporting a particular community, administration policy needs to take every community into consideration and balance the distribution of resources (Huang, 1995). Therefore, it would be particularly useful to establish a positive relationship with local government or local politicians, since their support may also lead to a better position for negotiation as well as further collaborations and resources. Furthermore, although the development of Indigenous tourism has been increasing the employment rate and economic capital in Indigenous communities, it is important for Indigenous tourism to be self-​sustainable. By empowering Indigenous peoples with better training in the techniques and knowledges they need in the industry, they can come to depend less on the government and themselves sustain development.

Conclusions The case in the Honghe UNESCO WHS demonstrates that Indigenous entrepreneurship can be a proactive means to counter tourism gentrification. Some long-​term ethnic minority residents have responded to gentrification by discerning for themselves ways to improve their own socio-​economic standing in accordance with their own aspirations, which often include their desire to conserve their own cultural heritage and the sustainability of the rice terraces. With sufficient encouragement, support and development of a network, we witness innovative and entrepreneurial activities initiated by individual local residents and returning ethnic emigrants. When the ethnic minority residents feel empowered to appropriate tourism development, social equity will be served  –​and so will the sustainability of the community and its natural and rice terrace ecosystem. The case in Taiwan focuses on the collective and community-​centered approach to economic development regarding a remote Amis Indigenous tribe in the mountains of Taiwan Island.The case demonstrates a remarkable success of community-​based Indigenous tourism development under an appropriate level of support provided by external institutions, roles played key actors and the mobilization of the entire community. It should be noted that both cases demonstrate a reverse trend of emigration when opportunities for economic activities have improved in the land of Indigenous communities. The majority of Indigenous tourism destinations, but not exclusively, are similar to those of rural tourism, which are often typified as being ‘built upon the rural world’s special features of small-​scale enterprise, open space, contact with nature and the natural world, heritage, “traditional” societies and “traditional” practices’ (Lane, 1994: p. 14). The sustainability of Indigenous tourism is often contingent on the conservation of

Self-gentrification in China and Taiwan  185 its cultural heritage as well as the related built and natural environments (Lane and Kastenholz, 2015; Chan et al., 2016b). For a successful conservation, the Indigenous people, who embody the culture and whose life depends on the land and nature, are the foremost pre-​condition. Nonetheless, tourism development might flourish or even become sustainable regardless of the level of ‘authenticity’ or the rampant commodification of performing culture, for example, the extensive constructed authenticity of an ethnic Naxi homestay in the deeply gentrified Lijiang UNESCO WHS (Wang, 2007; Xu et al., 2012) and the popularity of staged events and festivals in Xishuangbanna (Yang and Wall, 2008), which are both also ethnic minority destinations located in Yunnan province. Therefore, the key questions should not be merely about tourism development, but also: who are the key beneficiaries? The involvement of the Indigenous people themselves has to be an integral component for the success of this process. The intentions of the Indigenous people should be respected in any planning, design and implementation of Indigenous tourism. Colbourne (2017) even goes further in advocating self-​determining rights of Indigenous people in shaping the nature, types and development of tourism and tourism enterprises.

Notes 1 Yunnan Lvyou Fazhan Weiyuanhui [Yunnan Province Tourism Development Committee], 2017. Provincial Tourist Arrival Statistics. www.ynta.gov.cn/​Item/​ 36181.aspx (accessed 19 August 2018). 2 Webpage of Yunnan Shibo-​ Yuanyang Hani Rice Terraces Cultural Tourism Development Ltd. www.yyhntt.com/​aboutus.html (accessed 18 August 2018). 3 Webpage of Yunnan Expo Tourism Group Holdings Ltd. www.ynexpogroup.com/​ index.html (accessed 18 August 2018). 4 Unpublished data from the park management company, Yunnan Shibo-​Yuanyang Hani Rice Terraces Cultural Tourism Development Limited. 5 Yunnan Lvyou Fazhan Weiyuanhui [Yunnan Province Tourism Development Committee], Yuanyang Tourism Industry Development. www.cczql.com/​Item/​ 38436.aspx (accessed 19 August 2018). 6 Ibid. 7 As reported by Yunnan Lvyou Fazhan Weiyuanhui [Yunnan Province Tourism Development Committee], Yuanyang Tourism Industry Development. www.cczql. com/​Item/​38436.aspx (accessed 19 August 2018).

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8  What is a river? Cross-​disciplinary and Indigenous assessment Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff

Introduction In this chapter we will document and explore the notion of what constitutes a river from multiple scientific materials and the Indigenous Sámi worldview.The river in discussion is the Näätämö and its catchment area located in present-​day northeastern Finland and Norway.1 Generally, in English a river is understood to be a large natural stream of water flowing in a channel to the sea, lake or another river.We complement and challenge this overall understanding by presenting a range of information about the Näätämö River using science and Indigenous knowledge. The population on the Finnish side consists of the Indigenous Skolt Sámi and Finnish peoples. On the Norwegian side the present-​day local population is a national minority of Kvens, a Finnish-​speaking community. Our working hypothesis in the chapter is that rivers have not yet been understood in their entirety. Of particular importance are the direct, real and robust links that Indigenous peoples have with their home rivers. We may go as far as to point out that tangible, physical relations exist between Indigenous peoples and their rivers. These relations are expressed in a range of cultural and oral as well as other cultural expressions. Through these voices, the river speaks to us. The spiritual identities of rivers have been reflected in recent times through the legal recognition of rivers as persons under a range of juridical rulings, which include the Aotearoa New Zealand Whanganui decision from 20172 as well decisions from India on the river Ganges. In our chapter, we do not review these international cases per se; rather, we point to a growing and emerging global discussion on the evolving status and being of rivers. Some critical voices have argued, for example, that in the context of the Whanganui decision the river has been granted the same rights as a human person when it should have been elevated higher than humans, not lowered to the same level as people. Rather, given who rivers are, in all of their manifestations, should there not be an Act that recognizes the spiritual or divine characteristics held by and embodied by the river?3 We answer the river question by presenting a selected range of scientific materials that convey indicators of a relatively pristine river in the middle of climate change impacts.

What is a river?  193 Second, we present key results from a co-​management process that has allowed Sámi to express their visual and oral histories and participate in new models of monitoring of the ecological situation, fish health and water levels of a river. Yet, this process has been more of a half-​way point, a jointly agreed meeting place where knowledge has been shared to achieve an understanding between science and Indigenous knowledge. It has not conveyed the deep relations and beings of a river that the Sámi know about. Most of these issues will remain as they should under Indigenous internal governance. Yet a set of key examples of how the river speaks through her peoples and some of the wisdom traditions of the Skolt Sámi have been highlighted in our chapter to convey that there is much, much more to river–​human relations, even though mainstream science and populations may have forgotten them or are ignoring such relations. In short, they point to the profound being that is a river. International examples suggest increased understandings, as is the case in Aotearoa/​New Zealand with the recent Whanganui river decision.4 Even these words put on chapter diminish the essence, being and relational entity of a river, but they are an example of a change underway. Key to the whole chapter is a question: if Sámi Indigenous knowledge is a central source of management in the case of the Näätämö watershed and it receives a full expression through the various oral and visual histories as well as Indigenous presence, where does this lead us in terms of governing the river? Since well before the establishment of modern nation-​states, the Näätämö basin has been the homeland of a Skolt Sámi community. We will trace the events of the Sámi in the catchment area using a historical account and position the contemporary Sámi population in the context of the macro-​historical changes and re-​established presence along the river. The materials in this chapter are derived from the long-​running Näätämö River catchment area collaborative management project (Feodoroff and Mustonen 2013) that was initiated by the Skolt Sámi, the United Nations Indigenous Peoples Climate Change Assessment and the Snowchange Cooperative in 2011. Näätämö is a sub-​Arctic river and the site of the first full co-​management project in Finland. Central to this co-​management work are measures by which climate change impacts are detected and monitored and then subsequently responded to.While the results of the project have been reported elsewhere at length (e.g., Feodoroff and Mustonen 2013; Mustonen 2015; Arctic Council 2015; Pecl et al. 2017) our purpose in this chapter is to explore deeper into a scientifically cross-​ disciplinary and Sámi knowledge inquiry into how we know about a river. We do not claim to produce a comprehensive view of the Näätämö and its catchment area. Nor do we aim to produce a status and trends report of the river. Rather, our purpose and mission is, by utilizing the two knowledge streams of science, including social sciences and limnology, and Indigenous knowledge, to argue for a perspective on understanding the river and what we should learn

194  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff from such a combined view. We believe it can have wide-​reaching implications globally to understand the ways the river communicates with people, especially her Indigenous people. We will accomplish this by assessing the historical context, conducting an analysis of governmental administration of the river, through field visits including those looking at bird and other species stocks and through a review analysis of main water quality indicators over a period from 1980 to 2015. We will then combine this approach with Indigenous Sámi knowledge methods that include oral and visual histories, both static and moving, catch and weather diaries and, finally, written accounts of the relations, beings and assessments of change of the Näätämö written from a Skolt Sámi position. To address a sub-​text in our chapter, critical reviewers, such as Indigenous scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999), assert that diverging knowledge streams can be related to gendered ways of knowing, that science is predominantly a male exercise through its paradigm history as a part of the conquest and annexion of new lands to European empires. In contrast, Indigenous knowledge, such as that of the Sámi, can be characterized as being female-​oriented, offering counter-​ narratives to the male-​driven and -​guided scientific assessments of ecosystems.

On Skolt Sámi traditional land use and culture In 2011, the Eastern Sámi Atlas (Mustonen and Mustonen 2011) was published, capturing baseline information on Indigenous governance of water bodies that the Sámi practiced during the period prior to large-​scale colonial presence. In the following section, we summarize the main aspects of this system and its context from the Atlas. Fishing in the fresh waters of northern Eurasia has been the central activity that has enabled Indigenous Nations of the region to survive through harsh winters and short summers. The oldest archaeological net finding, a 10,000-​ year-​old seine net from the Karelian Isthmus, discovered by Finnish scholar Sakari Pälsi in 1913 in the Antrea community, confirms the age-​old role of communal fishing in the area (ibid. 2011). Net ice fishing, in particular, has been a crucial food-​gathering practice. The Indigenous Nations of northern Eurasia consider their territories to be homelands. Through the millennia, these cultures have developed systems of interaction with their landscapes, icescapes and dreamscapes. Hunting and fishing are at the heart of these systems of reciprocity. It is important to identify the key elements of such systems so that they can be understood when questions of biodiversity change, land use and fishing are discussed. We can explore this through the family territories and Indigenous governance structures in Suonikylä/​Suõʹnnʼjel Skolt and other Skolt Sámi Nations. The Skolts call themselves Sä’mmlaž, the Sámi. Their community is called siida, sit, sijt or sijdd in Sámi. Suonikylä was the last of the Eastern Sámi communities that continued their traditional practices, until 1944, when the Second World

What is a river?  195 War ended this way of life for good. As described elsewhere, these Skolts were relocated to Finland and resettled in various communities, such as Sevettijärvi. The Skolt Sámi situation prior to 1944 offers the clearest documentation of the Sámi society in these parts of the world and, while each of the Eastern Sámi Nations has their own social and culturally specific systems, the Suõʹnnʼjel stories and knowledges shed a light on land-​use and occupancy and practices that are similar to other communities of the region. In the community of Suõʹnnʼjel prior to 1944, the family-​controlled territories formed the basis of social organization. Skolt leader Matti Sverloff writes that decision-​ making by the Skolts happened in family and village meetings during life in Suõʹnnʼjel. This community administration guaranteed an Indigenous sovereign decision-​making body for the Skolts. Waters, lands and hunting territories were family-​controlled areas. If one family received less and another more, the community administration or council transferred some territories to the family in need. The family ceding some of its territories to the family in need did so through oral agreements. This was a mechanism by which the community controlled the resources it possessed and tried to even out any disparities that might occur. No individuals owned territories in Suõʹnnʼjel; they were owned communally. The highest body of decision-​making was the community council, called sobbar. Sverloff remembers that the administration of the council rested on the headmen of each family, called norrõs/​norraz or sijddsovenj. The council demarcated fishing territories for each family. In previous times, deer hunting territories had also been decided upon in a similar fashion. Adult males and the headmen of the community could speak up, widows with children could also speak during the meetings and women could be present at the meetings. These councils made decisions related to all issues, and these family territories produced all that was needed for the families. The role of norraz started to collapse after the settlement to Čeʹvetjäuʹrr (Sevettijärvi), and the current, modern Skolt Sámi Act of Finland concentrated on enabling individual Skolt Sámi to build houses or fishing huts. However, the way the Skolts have arranged the huts along the contemporary Näätämö River reflects the surviving elements of the family governance of a water body. The borders of family territories were formal and well-​established but could be changed through oral agreements. Their borders mostly followed water bodies but also along the crest of fell5 areas. They could be considered to be ‘temporal borders’. The fishing culture and seasonal rounds of the Skolt Sámi Nation within their traditional territories of Suõʹnnʼjel and Peäccam at the Finnish–​Norwegian–​ Russian borderlands demonstrate one of these systems in a clear manner. The Skolts, like other Indigenous Nations of Eurasia, practice their systems of reciprocity with their landscapes. These systems renew their knowledge regarding the land through the seasons.

196  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Relationships with specific lakes and rivers are encoded in the oral traditions of a given culture. These spiritual and cultural relationships contain taboos and rules of behavior and conduct regarding both the seen and the unseen. One example of this in connection to the Skolts is the set of rules of behavior regarding Lake Reksjavr in the Suõʹnnʼjel territory.The spirit of the lake is very observant and should be kept in mind at all times. One cannot make noise on this lake. There are rules on how the nets and seining should be put into the water. On this lake, special words outside of everyday Skolt language must be used, and in this way the lake imposes its own place-​specific vocabulary. This exemplifies just how closely the Indigenous Sámi languages are tied to their landscapes. Conservational Skolt fishing practices take, for example, the form of the autumnal harvest for spawning whitefish and other species. Many families had fishing traps on spawning rivers in the autumn, but great care was taken regarding the resources. A fishing trap would be set on a creek for two to three nights in a given autumn. After that, the creek would be left alone for three years. On the fourth autumn, the fish trap would be set for two nights. This was an Indigenous conservational fishing mechanism to insure the dispersal of fishing over many different water bodies, and at the same time it ensured that individual creeks and the fish inhabiting them could spawn and not be over-​harvested. The same practice was applied by the Skolts to all water bodies in the Suõʹnnʼjel area. Individual lakes were also under Indigenous governance and conservation mechanisms. Scholars (summaries in Mustonen and Mustonen 2011) describe how family fishing areas were strictly observed. As a matter of principle, each Skolt family would have at least one productive lake under its control. For example, on lower Lake Äkkjäuʹrr (Akka), the Skolts had a quota of three fish per day per family. Indigenous systems of governance and harvest have been changing throughout the past 400  years in the Eurasian North. Colonization and the imposition of nation-​state rule over Indigenous territories and resources have caused great changes and inflicted much damage. Adaptation mechanisms have been successful in some regions, and in others, e.g., the Skolt-​inhabited territory of Suõʹnnʼjel, forced relocations and territory loss have caused almost irreparable damage to both the lands and water bodies, as well as to the people. Even today, however, subsistence fishing is still one of the key place-​based knowledge repositories. Subsistence ice fishing across the Fennoscandian North and into Siberia is a crucial source of food, culture and tradition for many families. In terms of ecosystem biodiversity, Indigenous subsistence fishing is also a key monitoring system for scientists interested in the health of these water bodies. In Suõʹnnʼjelsijdd (Suonikylä) women played a very active role in seining on the lakes. Seining was the main method of catching and each lake would have seining harvest site place names; for example, Lake Källjäuʹrr (Kallajavr)6 would have ‘hundreds’ of sites and Lake Kuotsjavr only ten sites. The Skolts have traditionally used seining during winter up until Christmas.

What is a river?  197 The Kildin Sámi fished for salmon with vahtuu/​ootto seines on the Kola Fjord. The other end of the seine was attached to the shoreline and required continuous observation when the salmon would come to it. Great skill was required to be able to spot, even in the midst of heavy wind, the ripples on the water that marked the arrival of the salmon into the seine. Usually salmon weighing 10–​25  kg were harvested. The Paaccjokk Skolts had a dozen apaja seining catch sites along the ocean coast. These sites were called laapp in Skolt.They rotated the sites between families, and this cycle was called pirrâs. The cycle lasted 12 years, during which each family would fish in one spot in a given summer. At the end of the cycle, all the catch sites would be redistributed by way of casting lots, allowing each family the same chance in the distribution of sites and cycles. In Suõʹnnʼjelsijdd territory on the Kolgmasjoki River, trout was harvested from August to October with a fish weir. Whitefish was also harvested through this method. Njuõttjäuʹrr and Suõʹnnʼjel siidas had a common fishing weir from the 1500s at Patunankoski Rapids on the Tuållâm (Tuuloma) River. Salmon was distributed to the families of the community. Additionally, salmon was used in the payment of taxes to the monasteries. Storå estimates that up to 65,000–​ 80,000  kg of fish would have been caught on this weir. All of this was destroyed when in 1935–​1938 the Soviet Union constructed a power dam on Kallipoga Rapids. Skolts had fished for salmon using a weir on the Tuållâm (Tuuloma) River as indicated in historical documents from 1574 and 1657. According to the official Russian land register from 1574, the Tuållâm (Tuuloma) Rapids were owned by both the Nuortijärvi and Suonikylä Skolts. They lost their ownership of this stretch in the Tartu Peace Treaty of 1920. There was a system of self-​regulation, for example, at Ponoi, to avoid over-​ fishing of autumn salmon, similar to the Skolt system. In October the Kola Sámi would begin ice seining at their autumn sites. This ended in November when the trip to the winter village was made. At the winter village, people would fish for whitefish, pike and burbot with nets under the ice. Sergejeff (in Mustonen and Mustonen 2011) discusses the Peäccam (Petsamo) Skolts’ small-​scale salmon fishery during the 1920s and 1930s in Kiʹǩǩernjargg (Kalastajasaarento) on the Barents coast. In the spring, members of this Skolt Nation would start to fish for Atlantic salmon with harv or large-​ meshed sea nets. The main base for fishing operations was in Jierni on the Peäccam Fjord. According to Sergejeff the Peäccam Skolts had over ten productive fisheries along the fjord during the times that Russians controlled the territory. Each family would occupy one spot. People would live in turf huts along the coast. The fishing spots would be determined through a ‘lottery’ system every three to five years so that different families would have different spots. This fishery ended in 1942, when Dormidon Jefremoff was the last Skolt to fish there using the harv nets (ibid. 2011).

198  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff During the early Soviet period, between 1917 and the purges of the 1930s, Indigenous fishing systems and the newly established Soviet structures co-​ existed.The establishment of kolkhozy7 in the 1930s destroyed the ownership of lakes and discouraged traditional Sámi fishing. The immense impacts of the Soviet system naturally transformed Eastern Sámi fishing as well. The command economy provides some records of fishing since 1917. The 1927 statistics report that in Kola half of the freshwater catch was whitefish, 12% perch and 9% pike. The lakes were owned by families and divided between people. In Jokanga8 the siida owned the lakes and sold the rights to fish on a lake for one year at a time. The money generated was used to support the siida and take care of community elders. Seine nets were still used by the siidas in the 1930s. They were used in winter seining between two to three families in commercial fishing. Volkov (ibid. 2011) provides a rare view into the fishing of the 1800s and early Soviet period. He mentions that the Kildin Sámi had a similar lake fishing system to the Skolts. They fished on lakes Chudzjavr, Akkjavr, Kontsesjavr, Sivnjavr, Luvnjavr, Fadeev’s javr, Unjavr, Korgjavr, Ovdlumbal, Paldos Lumbal, Chorrjavr, Leipjavr, Elchjavr and Chevchesjavr in 1877. Volkov9 writes that inside the settlements the fishing areas like the hunting territories were shared between families. The unit of measurement was called kuddas in Nuorttijavr Sámi. A half-​unit was pial-​kuddas. A salmon-​share was called esse amongst the Jokanga Sámi. Related to this, the practice of kuddas is worth exploring. Volkov10 writes that this family fishing area consisted of two equal parts. The head of each family could determine the use of his half of the territory. Another part was held in reserve. When the son of the family grew up, the reserve was given to the son. Father and son could still fish together in the same lake system though. Volkov spoke to the Sámi elders in the Kildin, Notozero and Semiostrov areas about this system. He mentions that the community provided the kuddas places to the families. If somebody passed away, the territory would become vacant for re-​allocation. Kuddas included fishing in lakes and streams. In salmon fishing powerful families were given territory in exchange for catch. Traditional fishing techniques, according to Volkov, included use of a communal seine, a nukht. The size of the seine could be from 213 to 426 meters in length and 2–​3 meters in height. In one household there usually would be two seines. Zakol (“zabor”) fish traps were used from earlier times as dams in the streams for spawning fish. Saim ‘nets’ were popular with yarn purchased in Kola town or Ponoi. Nets were boiled in alder bark to make them durable and less visible. Fish spears and lures were also among the tools used. Skolt Sámi Presence and Other Human Societies of Näätämö Traditionally the areas of the Näätämö watershed were governed by the Njauddâm Skolt Sámi siida. However, by the 1900s these people had become

What is a river?  199 assimilated to a great extent with the surrounding Finns and Norwegians due to a number of assimilative practices in those countries; however, some individual Skolt families stayed on. Prior to the 1940s the amount of net fishery on the Näätämö River was low. The watershed was used at this time by some North and Inari Sámi; inter-​Sámi conflicts remained low when the Skolts resettled here, even though some reindeer disputes emerged (Aikio 2013).11 The Näätämö watershed is home today to Skolt Sámi, Kven, Finnish and Norwegian residents. The full multi-​layered histories of the river cannot be expressed adequately here. However, the Skolt Sámi are considered to be the Indigenous peoples of the river, even though the modern-​day population of Sevettijärvi Skolt Sámi12 are the descendants of those Skolts who had to flee traditional Suonikylä territories in 1944. Many members of the original Näätämö Skolt had, for the most part, assimilated with the surrounding populations from the late 1800s onwards. However, descendants of these Skolts in Norway have retained knowledge of their cultural heritage and family lines to a certain extent. The Kven are a national minority in the Norwegian part of the Näätämö. They descend ethnically from arriving Finns, many of whom still speak Finnish. Kvens are from a Finnish population that moved to the Varanger area in the 1800s from the Karelia, Sodankylä, Kittilä and Kainuu areas. In addition to these peoples along the watershed there are local Finns, Norwegians, Inari Sámi and North Sámi peoples. Marriages have today created many multi-​ethic families on both sides of the river. The Norwegian part of the Näätämö belongs to the Syd-​Varanger municipality, Finnmark Province.The Finnish part of the Näätämö belongs to the Inari municipality, located in the Province of Lapland. Some tributaries are located in the municipality of Utsjoki.The Neiden Fjord in the Barents Sea has a status of a ‘national fjord’ in Norway, which carries certain land-​use priorities and guidelines. The Sevettijärvi, Näätämö and adjacent habitat zones belong to the ‘Skolt Sámi’ territories in Finland, which are subject to special Skolt legislation. It was in the 1940s, after the re-​settlement of the Suonikylä Skolts to Sevettijärvi, that the subsistence economy regarding Atlantic salmon really began. Meanwhile the Kvens, descendants of Finnish-​Karelian settlers on the Norwegian coast, continued the käpälänuotta13 small seining on the Skoltfoss Rapids. From 1944 the nation-​states and their conflicts in the area disrupted the capacities of Eastern Sámi peoples to exercise their traditional Indigenous governance practices regarding natural resources. But this did not mean the end of Sámi knowledge or actions regarding their lands. From 1944 into the 2000s the Skolts maintained some elements of their village governance bodies as well as communicating their opinions regarding the Näätämö fishery to state bodies in Norway and Finland. ‘Endemic’ decisions communicated to state bodies reflect the Skolt Sámi governance that continues inside the modernity of natural resources management. Most visible of these is the system of fishing cabins along the Näätämö River following

200  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff a family, clan and collective system, similar to the governance employed in Suonikylä (Hankesuunnitelma 2003). All in all, in 2003, 15 cabins existed.These processes constitute important building blocks for the revitalization of governance built on traditional knowledge and practices.

Contemporary Näätämö catchment area in Sápmi, Finland and Norway The Näätämö River begins on the lake Iijärvi on the Finnish side and flows into the Neiden Fjord on the Norwegian side.The total watershed area is 2,962 square kilometers (Niemelä et al. 2001: 2). On the Finnish side the river flows for approximately 50 kilometers. Iijärvi Lake is 193 meters above sea level, and at the fjord 130 meters above sea level. During its course, the river forms lakes such as Kaarttilompolo,Vuodasluobal and Opukasjärvi. The fish in the river include (Tossavainen 2013; Niemelä et al. 2001: 4) (Latin names in parentheses): • • • • • •

Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar) lake trout (Salmo trutta) sea trout (Salmo trutta trutta) grayling (Thymallus thymallus) northern pike (Esox lucius) whitefish (Coregonus lavaretus sp.), including stocks that migrate to the Barents Sea, 40 kilometers from the river. • Arctic char (Salvelinus alpinus) • burbot (Lota lota) • perch (Perca fluviatis) • pike (Esox lucius) • three-​spined stickleback (Gasterosteus aculeatus) • nine-​spined stickelback (Pungitius pungitius) • common minnow (Phoxinus phoxinus) • flounder (Platichthys flesus) (below Skoltfossen) • occasional species including escapee pink salmon from the Russian side, which are spawning on the river, as well as European eel and European river lamprey For fish stocks, Niemelä et al. (2001: 1) conclude that the growth of salmon juveniles in the Näätämö River is slow and the life cycle is long, so the impact of fisheries takes a long time to manifest itself. All spawning of salmon in the Näätämö is natural and stocking has been forbidden by law. The total area of salmon habitats in the Näätämö watershed is 220 kilometers of river course, with 110 kilometers enabling sanctioned salmon fishery (Niemelä et al. 2001: 3). The longest migratory distance of a salmon is from the river mouth to Tsiegnalisjärvi Lake. Scientists have identified the different spawning locations of the salmon along the watershed (Niemelä et  al. 2001:  3). In the

What is a river?  201 Finnish-​Norwegian treaty on Näätämö the area of fishery is defined to cover the ‘whole range of salmon migration’ (Länsman 2010: 14–​15). More precisely, now on the Finnish side the salmon fishing zone ends at Iijärvi Lake and on the central lompolo pond on the Silisjoki River, marked with stones (Länsman 2010: 14). Scientific view on Näätämö water quality In order to widen multiple ways of knowing of what a river constitutes, first we offer selected key indicators of water quality and other drivers of change (temperature).These constitute scientific understanding of the river system. Later we will contrast and discuss the Sámi view of the river. Scientific monitoring of the Näätämö River took place throughout the 1900s. Since the 1980s results on the Finnish side have been digitized and are publicly available. We have used the latest results from the water measurements to offer a sample and a selected summary of current trends and issues between 1980 and 2018 (Tossavainen 2013; Snowchange Cooperative Näätämö Science Records 2018). Water temperature ranges within the analysis period have been summarized into a chart (see Figure  8.1). In the 1990s and the mid-​2010s, we can see the peaking of both autumn and winter/​spring water temperatures in the

Water temperature March May August October

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Figure 8.1 Water temperatures in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

202  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Neiden Nr: 244.2.0

24 22 20

°C

18 16 14 12 http://www2.nve.no/h/hd/plotreal/WT/ 0244.00002.000/plot.gif

10 8 6 June 2018

July Tid Data fra siste to måneder

August

Figure 8.2 Water temperatures in Näätämö river during summer 2018.

catchment area. The early 2000s were another period of warm summers and autumns. Summer 2018 marked an all-​time record warm throughout the Sámi territory.This is reflected in the seasonal weather measurements on Näätämö by the Norwegian measurement station. Of particular concern are the high peaks over 22°C in first week and end of July. These are extremely dangerous temperatures for the salmonid fish, especially Arctic char and trout species in the catchment area. The alkalinity of the Näätämö is generally between 0.12 and 0.231 mmol/​l, which indicates a very good buffering capacity. The pH of the water ranges from 6.74 to 7.25 with an average of pH 7.01, almost neutral. On the monthly chart we can see the impact of spring overflow with a recorded low of 6.4–​6.5, especially for 1996. Overall levels of calcium (in general 1.9–​3.5 mg/​l), magnesium (0.6–​1.0 mg/​l), iron (72–​220 µg/​l, with seasonal peaks for May–​June) and aluminium (19–​45 µg/​l) are very low and harmless to various benthos and fish, while individual peaking occurs in some years. These charts provide an overall view but future assessments will include cross-​referencing and analysis of the impact of the spring peaking in the system.

What is a river?  203 Year

Alkalinity

0.3

2010 0.25 2005

mmol/l

0.2

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0.15

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0.1

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0 Jan

1985

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Figure 8.3 Alkalinity in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

8

pH

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pH

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Figure 8.4 pH in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

204  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff pH

8

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7.2 7 6.8 6.6 6.4 6.2 6

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Figure 8.5 pH in Näätämö river system between 1980 and 2015.

5.5

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Figure 8.6 Calcium in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

What is a river?  205 Magnesium

2

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mg/l

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Figure 8.7 Magnesium in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015. 1200

Iron

Year 2010

1000 2005

ug/l

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Figure 8.8  Iron in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

206  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff

550

Aluminum

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500 450

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400

ug/l

350 2000

300 250

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200 150

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Figure 8.9 Aluminium in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

30

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25 2005

ug/l

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Figure 8.10 Total phosphorous in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015.

What is a river?  207 Phosphate as phosphorous

12

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Figure 8.11 Total phosphate as phosphorous in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1980 and 2015. Nitrite-Nitrate as Nitrogen

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Figure 8.12 Nitrite-Nitrate in Näätämö river system in seasonal cycles between 1990 and 2015.

208  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Total amounts of phosphor (2–​27 µg/​l), phosphate phosphor (1–​10 µg/​l) and nitrogen (160–​240 µg/​l) are very low and around 30–​40% of national averages. Levels of oxygen, humus and organic matter are also far below national averages. Overall the following conclusions can be drawn from the data. The quality of water measurement data is excellent and the results are reliable and certified. Water levels of the Näätämö have remained for the most part excellent. The variation of water quality between 2010 and 2012 was quite modest, indicating no sudden changes. On the other hand, of concern are i) the peak temperatures in 2018 and ii) the spring flood peaks especially for iron and other metals, which will need to be investigated in the future. To summarize, the water quality of the Näätämö watershed is premium, with low human impacts (Tossavainen 2013; Snowchange Cooperative Näätämö Science Records 2018). Preliminary results of new bird surveys in 2018 A team of ornithologists surveyed early-​and late-​summer bird stocks using field visits. Some of the preliminary results indicate that the Näätämö catchment area has been mostly under-​monitored in the past in the context of status and trends of birds as a cross-​border region. The northern Kaldoaivi part of the catchment area is more plentiful in terms of species numbers whilst the southern Vätsäri parts of the catchment area seem to point to lower levels of species. Locations of the high-​priority co-​management survey have included parts of the main course of the Näätämö River, key areas of the sub-​catchment area such as Vainosjoki, Vätsäri and the delta of Näätämö in Norway, and early efforts include detection, habitats and range of a set of key indicator species, including, for example, common loon (Gavia arctica), red-​throated loon (Gavia stellata), smew (Mergellus albellus), golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos), waders (especially in the delta), ptarmigan (Lagopus), forest grouse (Lyrurus tetrix), Siberian jay (Perisoreus infaustus) and pine grosbeak (Pinicola enucleator). The monitoring efforts have benefitted from the uses of oral histories and local records of bird stocks. A full database is expected in 2021. The key bird indicator species documented so far point to a fairly intact habitat both for aquatic and terrestrial birds. However, some stock such as the ptarmigan are under rather heavy tourist hunting pressure and will be further investigated.

State governance of the Näätämö: selected examples from the post-​war era Natural resource management in the Näätämö watershed is built on science-​ based expert knowledge and participatory measures of local and national stakeholders.The defining frame is the Finnish-​Norwegian treaty that addresses the river. The treaty was agreed in 1964, 1978 and in 1984 (Niemelä et  al.

What is a river?  209 2001:  1; Länsman 2010:  13). In the mid-​2000s, the financial framework for the Finnish side of all Skolt fisheries, not just Näätämö, was around €60,000 (MMM 2004). There is some economic value of salmon mainly for the Skolts in Finland. Scientists studying the river in the 1800s had already identified a concern for the amount of fish going upstream in Näätämö (Niemelä and Erkinaro 1999). In the 1940s, the Norwegian government initiated a plan for hydroelectric development at Gandvik, and for diversion of the direction of the Kallojoki River, belonging to the Näätämö watershed (Niemelä et al. 2001: 2; Länsman 2010). This would have impacts on the water flow of the main stream. Eventually the lakes Garsjöen and Kjerringvatn were diverted to flow to the Varangerfjord (ibid.). This caused the watershed of Näätämö to diminish by 2%. Due to these plans Norway expressed its willingness to improve the salmon capacity to bypass the Skoltfossen Rapids and improve possibilities of Finns and Skolts to harvest salmon upstream. Scientists (Niemelä et al. 2001: 3) have raised concerns regarding the capacity of salmon to pass the Skoltfossen and argue that the majority of salmon stop at this place to wait, opening opportunities for increased harvest as the fish rest. This event is subject to the water flow in the river too. Notably, when the plans to construct the fish ladder with explosives to ‘improve’ parts of the Skoltfossen emerged, the Skolts strongly opposed these plans (Norway 1999:  1). The first explosions on the Skoltfossen, in direct opposition to the local fisheries body, were carried out in 1956 (Länsman 2010: 13). In 1999, the government of Norway stated that these measures had ‘failed completely’ (Norway 1999). The käpälä seining on the Norwegian side was discontinued for five years due to the impacts from the explosions, but continued after conditions improved in 1961 (ibid. 1999: 2–​3). Local people in Näätämö also resisted the construction of these fish ladders on the southern side of the river.The ladder, originally conceived to be a three-​ step piece, was finished as a one-​piece system in late 1967 (Länsman 2010: 13). Compensation from the 1956 explosions and damage was paid to the local fisheries body in Näätämö. Scientific monitoring seems to indicate that the 1967 ladder is functioning. However, the majority of the salmon accessing the ladder are below 3 kg. Larger fish tend to steer toward the käpälä seine spot. The maintenance and time of opening of the gateway may also influence the amount of fish passing the ladder. In times of low water, the fish may have trouble finding it (Niemelä 2013). Niemelä and Erkinaro (1999) assessed the impacts of the Kallojoki developments. Mean flow amounts decreased around 1.6 cubic meters per second. They argue that impact to fisheries upstream is hard to assess due to the low number of nets before the 1940s. Then by the mid-​1970s the net fishery had become more effective, but there is no scientific indication of the Kallojoki River development having impacted the amounts caught. Niemelä and Erkinaro (1999) note the concern local people have had regarding this issue and impact.

210  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Scientists argue that there is ‘not enough’ information about the behavior of salmon as it comes up the river (ibid. 1999). On the other hand, it has been determined that bigger salmon can use rapids as before (Norway 1999; see also Niemelä 2013). Closure and limitations for net fishery was raised as a management option at the time. In 1999 Finland proposed that ‘local peoples’ knowledge’ should be a key source of information regarding the functioning of the ladder (UM 1999: 6). Orell (2012: 16) argues that the ladder is an important aid for the salmon in their migrations. Scientists are monitoring salmon migration at the ladder using video cameras and new technologies (ibid.) In 1973 the Finnish state called together a Committee on Skolt Affairs (Kolttatoimikunta), which released a report in 1973 (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 1). In this document, far-​ranging reforms and policies were proposed to the lives of the Skolts –​including fisheries. The report argues that the relationship between the Skolts and the Finnish state is based on exclusive rights of use of forests, reindeer herding, fishing and hunting; ‘These rights were recognized and agreed on by the Finnish state when the Petsamo region was joined with Finland in 1920’ (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 1). So juridically, in 1973, the state of Finland re-​confirmed the Indigenous rights to land use of the Skolts. This recognition included the understanding and acceptance of family-​and clan-​based uses of the lands and waters. Here the focus is only on fisheries even though the land allocations, hunting, herding and other land uses also require their own analysis. More comprehensive views and policies were discussed in the post-​World War II times. The 1973 report documented that during the re-​location of the 1940s the state purchased 20 seines and 1,500 nets for the Skolts to support their fishery (ibid. 1973: 6). Within the Skolt legislation there are specific rights to establish a network of fishing cabins and storage areas for fish and to establish boat harbors and drying racks for fishing nets (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 12). The report identified that due to the remoteness of the Sevettijärvi and Näätämö areas, the subsistence and ‘wilderness’-​ based economies of the Skolts have been preserved there the longest. Fishing was mentioned to consist of both main and supplementary economic activity for the Skolts in 1973 (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 34). At the end of 1972 there were 1,300 nets for 90 families in the region; 180 boats were used. According to the state committee views, the overall the loss of fishing capacities was derived from low amounts of fish, non-​existent knowledge of fish stocking, the poor condition of fishing equipment and the hydroelectric regulatory impacts in the Inari Lake watershed (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 34). Most importantly, in the early 1970s the different zonings for water areas had not been completed in Lapland. This allowed some discussion on how and to what extent the Skolt rights to land and water uses could be implemented. It is very relevant, from the viewpoint of investigating how the Skolts exercised their rights in modern times after 1944, to look more closely at their demands in the context of the 1973 report.

What is a river?  211 The committee identifies that as the zoning has not been completed in Inari, Enontekiö and Utsjoki municipalities, land owners have been able to conduct ‘all kinds of fishery’ without control. The situation has been the same with those people engaged in reindeer husbandry. In effect, the time from 1944 to 1973 has been therefore a temporal space where the Skolts to some extent have been able to influence their own fishery and uses of the land in the new context of Näätämö area. However, the report identifies (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 35) that while Skolts have had in theory the capacity to fish in all water bodies of their settlement area, the fishing pressures from the other residents of Inari municipality have caused a situation where there is not enough fish for the Skolts. Therefore, in 1973, the Skolts made the proposal to the state that a zone of exclusive Skolt fishery would be established, inside which only they could fish (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 35). The state responded to this proposal by saying that: ‘such an arrangement is not yet possible, as the zoning of water areas has not been completed and there is resistance from the other local fishermen, at this time’ (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 35, 43, italics by the author). The committee identified that it does not possess the sole rights for this kind of decision, but when the zoning proceeds, the Skolt demands should be taken into consideration. More precisely: If the Skolts will not receive enough waters for their fishery in the zoning, then the state could provide, from the territories it will receive as a result of the zoning process, areas for the exclusive use of the Skolts. (ibid.) Effective management, training and restocking programs should be targeted at such areas if this actualizes. In the meantime, while the zoning is on-​going, the Committee report suggests, an exclusive use of waters for the Skolts should be investigated for some water bodies in the settlement area, by using compensatory mechanisms to pay funds to other fishermen to allow the Skolts their rights of harvest (ibid.: 35, 43). Last, the possibility of assigning a harbor and fishing rights to the Skolts from the Norwegian side of the border should be explored (Kolttatoimikunta 1973: 36). The Committee report is an important document of different ways of organizing Skolt rights within the nation-​state of Finland in the post-​war period. More importantly, the Skolts, represented by Matti Sverloff on the Committee, made consistent proposals reflective of their own Indigenous governance and harvesting within the system. It seems the Skolts preferred their fisheries-​based system even in the new conditions of post-​1944 settlement areas over reindeer herding.

212  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff How did the state respond to the problem identified in 1973 as a ‘lack of stocking’? With a strong stocking campaign. Today this can be re-​ phrased as a biomanipulation action. Niemelä et al. (2001: 5) identify that during the 1970s a large governmental fish stocking program was initiated in the Sevettijärvi and Näätämö areas. This caused fish diseases and impacts to the quality and sizes of fish, and eventually by the end of the 1980s all stocking was forbidden in the Näätämö watershed. In the 1980s, the stockings included Ivalojoki River whitefish that were put to several lakes in the region as well as different stocks of char (ibid.). In the 2010s, seining was practiced on Sevettijärvi Lake to remove undersized whitefish populations (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). Still in the 1990s the state company Metsähallitus conducted stockings of grayling and whitefish to the lakes Sevettijärvi and Kirakkajärvi using roe from the Näätämö watershed (Niemelä et  al. 2001). Small additional stockings of char have been conducted within the watershed. Salmon stocking has taken place in: 1. 1984 in the river Silisjoki with 50,000 juveniles 2. 1984 in the lake Sevettijärvi and attached lakes with a connection to the Näätämöjoki River 3. 1985 in the river Silisjoki with 3,000 juveniles 4. on the Norwegian side, where records indicate that salmon stockings in the 1960s and 1970s, for example, 40,000 fish in 1965, mostly derived from the roe of the fish from the käpälä-​seine and fjord fisheries (ibid.) In the 1990s, during the negotiations for the management improvements between Finland and Norway regarding the Näätämö, Finland identified the salmon fish farms as a source of concern for the wild salmon stocks (UM 1998). Negotiations for the renewal of this ‘salmon treaty’ were launched in May 1998 when Finland issued a statement of concern to Norway for the Näätämö watershed fisheries (ibid. 1998a). In October 1998, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (UM 1998b: 2–​4) documented various grievances of local people, including the Skolts, in preparation for the negotiations with Norway in 1999. Several prominent Skolts from Sevettijärvi expressed their opinions in this hearing.These key issues included that: • • • •

income should be guaranteed based on the fish caught on the Näätämö the target should be that salmon would expand their spawning territories on the upper part of the river the prevention of salmon parasites is very important the question should be explored whether disinfected roe could be taken from Inari Lake to the Näätämö River

What is a river?  213 • boats arriving from other watersheds need to be disinfected • float planes may also provide a problem • negotiations regarding the river and its management should involve the local people, especially on issues to do with restrictions (on net fishery, season or number of nets) • on the Finnish side representatives of both villages, Sevettijärvi and Näätämö, should be included as well as the local business community (UM 1998b) In the negotiations in Oslo in late October 1998 between Norway and Finland, again the Skolts made the following observations and recommendations (UM 1998c). •

On the Finnish side of Näätämö the catches are very low and fish are small despite the fact that spawning territories reside here. • Given the special legislation of Skolts regarding Näätämö it is a more important tool than fishery laws of the river. Spawning sites and their production should be maximized. • Net fishery on the Finnish side should be regulated and reduced too; there is a need to discuss this option. Also, the stocking closure on the watershed puts more fishing pressure on the river. As the negotiations proceeded in 1999 Finland raised further concerns for the increased fish farming in the fjord close to Näätämö and asked for its closure (UM 1999: 3, 6). Norway on the other hand identified the impacts from seals and mergansers on the salmon stocks in the river (UM 1999). Finland proposed that a ‘problem-​based approach’ should be adopted regarding the watershed as opposed to regulatory framework that was important to Norway. Finland also stressed the rights of the local people as being important in the region, guaranteed in international treaties and the constitution of Finland. To a certain degree the state of Norway agreed, saying in 1999 that ‘close cooperation of local and border region populations is very important’ (Norway 1999). As the negotiations wound towards their end in 1999, the Sámi parliament stressed the need to pay special attention to the Näätämö (UM 1999). Protective zones for the Näätämö River in Norway were created and no fish farms would be in these regions. Norway considers the Näätämö/​Neiden Fjord to be a ‘national fjord’. In the early 2000s, different community reports (Jefremoff 2005: 27) identified subsistence fisheries to be very relevant (over 70%) to all Skolts living in the Näätämö River area. In 2003, a proposal was suggested for a new project emphasizing the importance of the Näätämö watershed to the Skolts and development of the watershed (Hankesuunnitelma 2003). It emphasized the importance of cultural fishery to Skolts as opposed to other Sámi groups historically. This plan, reflective of local concerns, identified four problems: i) tourist fishing spots become overcrowded during the peak of the season and conflicts exist between the net fishery and lure/​fly-​fishing; ii) grayling stocks have been

214  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff impacted especially on the Lower Näätämö; iii) tourist groups that occupy the same spots for weeks cause environmental degradation along the river; and iv) there is a risk of spreading the salmon parasite Gyrodactylus salaris as fishing equipment comes from outside the watershed (ibid.). In the mid-​ 2000s, various state authorities provided general development recommendations to the watershed and tourism (Länsman et  al. 2005). Specifically for the Skolts, in 2005 Jefremoff (2005:  70–​71) published recommendations for the development of fisheries in the Sevettijärvi–​Näätämö  areas. They included, for example, the understanding that the role of subsistence fishery remains high and is significant for the Skolts and the need for new fishing cabins is relevant and should be guaranteed. Cabins allow the expansion of the fishery to include additional revenue and incomes. The report also argued that the rights to build a cabin should be guaranteed even though no financial compensations would be received for the actual construction work. This section has reviewed different cases where the Skolts have exerted their views and ideas of a fishery management during times of modernity and strong state control over natural resources. In summary, while each development was assessed separately, consistency was ensured through the strong relationship the Skolts have with their water bodies over these decades. The governance of natural resources and Näätämö itself has been, as demonstrated by a sample of historical documents, a state-​led enterprise since 1944. This has created a range of equity issues and grievances that prompted the Skolt Sámi organizations and, eventually, after 2015, the Skolt Sámi Council itself, to explore an alternative –​the collaborative management of the Näätämö Basin using science and Indigenous knowledge.

Attempts at shared governance: Näätämö and Skolt Sámi co-​management is established The Näätämö Basin is the first co-​management regime in Finland. In order to position the actions, success and reflections of this work in context, a view of co-​management and its characteristics is needed. Collaborative or co-​management (Carlsson and Berkes 2005:  65–​ 66) of resources has been defined in a number of ways, including the following. a. Co-​management is a situation in which two or more social actors negotiate, define and guarantee amongst themselves a fair share of the management functions, entitlements and responsibilities of a given territory, area or set of natural resources. b. Co-​management of common-​pool resources, such as fisheries and forests, is depicted as a form of power-​sharing arrangement between the state and a community of resource users. c. Collaborative management, co-​management, is defined as the sharing of power and responsibility between the government and local resource users.

What is a river?  215 d. According to the World Bank, it is the sharing of responsibilities, rights and duties between the primary stakeholders, in particular, local communities and engagement that involves the local users in the decision-​making process as equals with the nation-​state. e. It is an association between natural resources management and climate change actions. Co-​management is a partnership between public and private actors; it is not a fixed state but a process that takes place along a continuum. Co-​management therefore is an approach to governance. It is governance that, if properly designed, addresses the concerns identified by Ettlinger (2011) with the notions of governance, governmentality and (ab)uses of power. Carlsson and Berkes (2005:  66–​67) identify the organization with which arrangements are made to be usually an agency with jurisdiction over an area (usually referring to a state agency) and local communities. Communities are rarely ‘coherent and homogenous units’ (ibid.). They are constantly changing, multidimensional, cross-​scale social-​political units. In terms of investigations of time-​space, they may contain and produce non-​European or power narratives of a place (Luotonen 2006; Mustonen 2009; Ettlinger 2011). Carlsson and Berkes (2005: 66–​67) interpret co-​management as a continuum from the simple exchange of information to formal partnership. It supposes that parties have agreed on an arrangement, but the actual arrangement often evolves.They emphasize that it is a dynamic and iterative system, a process which is constantly re-​adjusted because ecosystems’ response to resource exploitation may be highly unpredictable (2005: 67–​68). According to Carlsson and Berkes (2005:  68), ‘nature is seldom linear. Command-​and-​control kind of resource management is a poor fit for ecological uncertainty. Evolution of co-​management networks is the substantial result of ongoing processes of problem-​solving’. Last (Carlsson and Berkes 2005: 71), there are an identifiable number of tasks for well-​functioning co-​ management, which include: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

data-​gathering logistical decisions: who harvests and where allocation decisions protection of resources from environmental damage enforcement of regulations enhancement of long-​term planning more inclusive decision-​making

For the Näätämö watersheds some discussion on terminologies of knowledge is defined in the following manner. Indigenous knowledge means here specifically Sámi knowledge. It differs from local ecological knowledge in quality and reciprocal relationships that the Eastern Sámi peoples have with their landscapes and ecosystems. According to international scholarship it is expressed in a myriad

216  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff of ways (Sheridan and Longboat 2006), including oral histories, toponymic place knowledge and non-​Euclidean time-​spaces and scales (Mustonen 2009; Ettlinger 2011). Some North Sámi scholars assert that the Sámi have their own time-​ space terminologies and concepts that do not translate outside the culture (Helander 1999). In accordance with international and various national laws, here the Indigenous knowledge refers to knowledge of those individuals, families and other communities and collectives that have been inhabiting their current localities prior to the establishment of European governance and states in the region. Often the acronym TEK (traditional ecological knowledge) is used to refer in general to such Indigenous knowledges of ecosystems. Local (ecological) knowledge is possessed by all local people inhabiting the watershed. TEK is by nature practical, experience-​based and provides crucial ecosystem observations on the fisheries practice. It may contain elements that are similar to Indigenous knowledge, but needs to be surveyed as its own set of principles because the international legal framework contains categories and dimensions that separate local knowledge from the Indigenous peoples and their knowledges. However, it is of no less importance as a source of information for the health of ecosystems and watersheds in this plan. The co-​management framework, for example, has collected Indigenous and, in some cases, relevant local knowledge through conducting interviews with other Sámi in the Skolt language about the salmon, place names and environmental change. Additionally, this knowledge has been collected by recording Skolt Sámi observations with purchased digital cameras. This provides an exciting new field of ‘visual histories’ (Mustonen 2015), some of which were caught ‘on film’. Such a practice has future methodological implications. Other data streams have included a recording of Skolt Sámi catches and catch statistics from other users. Key knowledge holders have participated by keeping a weather diary, including monitoring of water levels and winds, mapping crucial spawning sites, lost spawning sites, family-​and clan-​use territories and other culturally relevant sites on maps. On the community level organization of community workshops in the villages to expand the range of observations in cooperation with other Sámi groups has been effective. Likewise, the Sámi have looked at cross-​referencing impacts of river change to reindeer herding.

Conveying results from the co-​management work: salmon and fish stocks In this section an overview of monitoring and oral history work will be provided. The Skolt Sámi have embraced the latest Arctic methods of community-​based monitoring (CBM) such as the PISUNA method. However, they have also offered a critical view.

What is a river?  217 As demonstrated by the range of oral history samples below, the Sámi views on change and fish begin only to emerge through contextualized and culturally appropriate communications, including intergenerational narratives and cultural indicator species and events. Season 2012–​2013 is a good indicator year of the self-​monitoring of the salmon catches to provide a view on the Sámi observations. During the season of 2012, Skolts took 443 salmon with nets and angling on the Näätämö. The biggest fish were around 17 kg, with several fish in the 10-​kg range. Some individuals took over 130 fish, but the majority of Skolt catches were 5–​15 individual salmon. Local people, Finns, took around 255 salmon with nets. This net fishery license is based on municipal residence in the territory of Inari. Overall observations included that the fish sizes decreased in 2012, fish were not as round anymore and the small salmon, titti, increased in numbers (Skolt Catch Statistics 2012). The self-​monitoring continued in other seasons as well. In 2020, we expect materials to provide enough data for a robust summary view. The PISUNA method This catch statistic documentation has been maintained since 2012 as one of the mechanisms to monitor the development of the salmon stocks and their health by the Sámi. In 2014 this method was expanded to include the PISUNA forms and method that had been previously been tested in Greenland. It has been internationally considered to be a successful method of community-​ based monitoring (CBM). Two groups of local fishermen14 documented observations of fish resources, harvest, uses of the Näätämö Basin and other cultural indicators during the season by using a simplified form adapted from the Greenlandic PISUNA project.15 Local fishermen and women added to the data through interviews conducted in their Skolt language about the salmon, place names and past environmental change, helping to record indigenous knowledge.16 After the season the forms were collected and data and observations discussed in informal group interviews. Furthermore, space was provided in the form to allow for observations considered important by the Skolt Sámi. Here unusual observations about weather, water quality, new species and so on could be recorded. The Skolt Sámi found the forms useful and welcomed the cooperation to further document their observations and catches. However, the Skolt Sámi fishermen stressed that the forms alone cannot convey their deeper relationships and interaction with the river. Additionally, they suggest that the local governance of resources also include uses of workshops, interviews and mapping. The CBM project has led to the detection of new species, expansion of the range of caught fish and documentation of sites of erosion on Sevettijärvi Lake and river banks, a sign of potential climate change impact. The PISUNA

218  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff method has resulted in capacity-​building both in the Skolt Sámi community, who now are responding to the negative impacts of climate change and past ecological damages, and the authorities, who gained insights into the mutual advantages in collaborating and co-​management. Skolt Sámi visual histories The Skolt Sámi have pioneered a peer-​reviewed method of monitoring ecosystem change that is called visual history. Also known as communal optic histories, these can be defined as processes, descriptions, cultural texts, photos and other means of communication that refer to events observed by residents of a northern ecosystem that position, frame and interpret them using their own cultural concepts. To frame an optic history in context, some examples can be used to illustrate how they manifest in their multiplicities. Rock art and pictographs (Autio 1981) of the northern societies are most likely the oldest forms of human visual expression and can be seen as optic histories. Experienced northern photographers such as Murtomäki (2008: 91) have written about the concept of totally new visual methods, such as ‘circular photography’, rooted in Sámi tradition. Luhta (2009) positions the images of the Northern Lights in a long continuum of boreal cultural traditions. In modern times, Indigenous authors such as Sámi Nils-​ Aslak Valkeapää (1991) have combined art, historical photographs, poetry and cultural rock art motifs to provide visual histories for a people, which at the same time offer a culturally relevant positioning of change, animals and northern nature. Pitseolak (Eber 1975) provides the same for the Baffin Island Inuits, and the Inuit woman artist Kalvak correspondingly does so for the Inuvialuit people of the Western Arctic (Umholtz 1987) in Canada. Outsiders, such as Vuorelainen (1990) and Puranen (1999) have, in their turn, provided visual materials that have had a role in forming optic history for the Sámi, a Eurasian Indigenous community. Classical anthropological photography, where Indigenous and local peoples and their landscapes are the targets of visual documentations, is shifting to a re-​assessment and use of old photographs to review change (Kendall et al. 1997; Savard 2010). A success of the Skolt Sámi visual histories has been the detection of the early presence of incoming insect species in the catchment area (Mustonen 2015; Pecl et  al. 2017). Insect communities can respond rapidly to changes in local climatic conditions, providing a sensitive indicator of climate change (Saarinen et al. 2003; Wilson and Maclean 2011). For example, butterflies and moths have witnessed an impressive expansion of southern species in the expense of montane and boreo alpine species all over Europe. In Finland, butterfly and moth species such Aparatura ilia and Catocala fulminea have expanded their range over 500 kilometers northward in the last two decades (Hyönteistietokanta 2013). In the project work, the

What is a river?  219 Skolt Sámi reindeer herders and fishermen were equipped with digital cameras to document their observations during the field season. First, strange or new observations are easily recorded in this way and the people can reflect on the observation themselves. For natural sciences, this has advantages too. Some conspicuous large insects, such as butterflies and some beetles, can be reliably monitored also by non-​specialists, enabling their use in local information collecting. An example of such is the observation of the Potosia cuprea scarabaeid beetle by a Näätämö Skolt Sámi field team documented in summer 2012. This is the most northernmost record of this large beetle species in the Nordic countries. Similarly, local people are key observers of fluctuations in insect populations such as outbreaks of aphids or defoliating looper moth larvae. Similarly, in the summer of 2018 the Skolts detected and documented a large outbreak of diatoms or microalgae17 in the Vainosjoki sub-​catchment area. Most likely the outburst of algae had resulted from the record-​high temperatures and a heatwave lasting for weeks in the region. In parts the algae covered small pools to the depth of 40–​50 cm. Skolts worked with a team of scientists to identify the species, confirming the observation and contemplating a range of responses to the phenomena. Since the first applications of the visual history method it has widened and deepened to include moving images, i.e., the uses of participatory and Skolt Sámi digital video recording of change and events in the river system. These materials will be included in a ‘Living Maps’ database due to be completed in 2020.

Oral history observations of the Näätämö, Skolt Sámi cultural relations with the river and recent changes In the following section, river-​specific observations and memories from between 1947 and the 1980s are shared. This begins to outline the dialogue towards Sámi-​owned and -​guided ways the river is speaking through her Indigenous peoples. This section captures some of the oral histories of the river and Skolt Sámi to provide a historical context for the deeper relational discussion. A central cultural indicator species is naturally the Atlantic salmon. A strong fishery for the salmon existed from the late 1940s, when Skolts arrived in the Sevettijärvi area, to the 1980s. Skolts know the best fish were caught in the older times right after Midsummer through to mid-​July when the fish came up the river. According to the fishermen these salmon were ‘clean’, meaning the flesh was red and healthy (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020: Tape 2012-​1). Towards August the fish went ‘black’ from spawning; in the 1970s this took place around 10 September (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). Skolts would end their fishery on 20 August. Other seasonal subsistence activities happened in rhythm with the fishery until the 1980s. Some of them go on today too. These included the

220  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff collection of hay, berry-​picking and fisheries on the lakes in the Sevettijärvi region. Around 30  years ago the fishery for the Skolts was a part of the everyday diet, and that is why the salmon was fished. Now with some employment opportunities, freezers and shops the fishery has developed towards cultural and subsistence catches (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020: Tape 2012-​1). Seasonal use of the land and waters defined the human activities during 1947–​1980. Skolts exported their clan-​and family-​based use of land and territory to the Näätämö River watershed, distributing cabin sites, netting areas and other uses accordingly. This included the use of lakes too. This lake fishery in the 1950s lasted for the whole summer with seasonal migration to the various family-​and clan-​controlled cabins along the Sevettijärvi watershed, especially on Opukasjärvi Lake. A 62-​year-​old Skolt remembers how he spent his summers with his grandmother and then, once Autumn arrived, he would continue the fishery with his father until the spawning times of the whitefish, especially around Solmusjärvi Lake (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020:  Tape 2012-​1). A  66-​year-​old Skolt man firmly stated that ‘everybody fishes their own spots along river. For example, I will get lost if I go to lake Iijärvi, it is a strange place for me’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​5). A set of new toponymic place names since 1947 has emerged along the catchment as a result of the arrival of the Skolts. They reflect traditional ownerships, trails, good catch sites, spawning locations and other events in the Skolt Sámi society and harvest along the river. One toponym is, for example, in Finnish, Riitakivi  –​‘stone of arguments’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020:  Tape 2012-​ 4). On this spot some people argued over who could put their nets there. The place names have not been made public in this report as they are communally and family-​owned. One of the powerful visual histories, relayed here using oral history, has to do with an account of a spawning moment of a salmon witnessed by an older Skolt. [Salmon choose] a sandy or a gravel bottom for spawning. I  have seen when they swim around during the spawning. If there is low water, you can see it. During floods you cannot.There needs to be some flow; it cannot be still water. That is the spot they choose. They move in, one fish at a time. It does not take too long for all of them to spawn in one place. First the big kojamo [male salmon] comes.Then the female fish start to swim in. Big fish spawn first. Slowly they travel up the river. Others take their time, come later. It depends when they enter the river. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2) According to the Skolts the floods bring much-​needed new sands to the spawning spots, renewing and maintaining them. Ice carries bigger rocks which reshape the stream too. The river changes a little bit every year, but the main spots stay (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​5).

What is a river?  221 A younger Skolt made the comment that: Some of the salmon arrive already during the ice cover period, others come as late as in August.Towards the end of the season it is the smaller fish that arrive.The male fish comes first, traveling in the midst of ice to prepare the spawning. He lies there for many months, preparing for the spawn. He kills the burbot, and when the small salmon comes, he drives them away too. He is patrolling his area, making sure all is alright. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) The salmon was preserved by being salted prior to spawning in the Autumn. If spawned salmons were used, their roe was the only tasty part according to the Skolts (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). While salting allowed the salmon to be harvested through the winter, taste was affected by the amounts of salt used. If salmon is salted on a given day, nowadays the fish caught and salted first needs to be stored separately from the ones caught later in the day (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2). Many of the Skolts in the older generation preserved the notion of distributing their catches communally, whether it was a butchered reindeer or salmon, to make sure that everybody got their part. A catch should be always divided into three parts (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). This practice ended in the 1970s. The concept of ‘luck’ was discussed in the oral history work –​a personal gift with the fish, catching birds and or handling reindeer that was given and recognized by the others.18 Behind this issue lie deep cultural and ancestral laws and traditions of connections to the land according to families, clans and individuals. Space here does not allow us to explore this theme more (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020:  Tape 2012-​1). Other Sámi Nations also have this notion, including the North Sámi. Most importantly, according to tradition, the river provides the salmon that is caught. Therefore, the Skolts have a responsibility for the river and its health. Or, as a 41-​year-​old man says, You cannot muck around on the river. The river used to be sacred before. You needed to thank her, if you received something. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) Today the contemporary Skolts position their role as subsistence fishermen.The salmon is still a source of food and has importance in their lives (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2). As one younger Skolt says, It is an important part of the summer; we need to go to our fishery. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) An older Skolt born in 1947 says: ‘If there is no salmon we run out of food’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​5).

222  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Most parts of the salmon are still used  –​only the intestines are left and sometimes the liver is not used. Roe and milt are used. The older fishermen remember how in their childhood the intestines of whitefish and trout were boiled too, along with the head and bones (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020: Tape 2012-​2). When the salmon is caught, blood is let and the roe taken, as blood ruins it. The head is not removed and is eaten together with the fish as well as the bones. Even on smaller fish which are filleted the head and bones are boiled. The broth is used too, often with a piece of bread (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2). On recent water quality changes new observations have been reflected in the oral histories. Small-scale forestry exists around Sevettijärvi and in Kaamanen in the headwaters of the river. This potentially brings organic loading and affects the river according to the Skolts (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). Skolts have renewed some high-​ land marshes (jänkä) which have been dammed by the local border patrols. This has helped in the catchment of nutrients flowing into the river (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). One of the main observations of change that the locals have made has been the arrival of tourism fishery since the 1950s. It impacts the river and adjacent areas. People arrived with float planes and left large amounts of garbage along the river (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020:  Tape 2012-​ 1). Especially plastic materials were totally alien to the Skolts in the 1950s and 1960s and were observed for the first time from the litter. In the 2000s, the Skolts were also responsible for trashing the vicinity of the river. The old moral codes of keeping nature clean and undisturbed are being lost (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). A 62-​year-​old Skolt man feels that the Skolts have become like the rest of the people in Finland, making the same mistakes along the river, and not paying attention anymore (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). This is reflected in the net fishery. The rules of the river state that 50-​meter zones are to be left around nets. Now people are fishing with their flies and lures next to the nets out of envy (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). A 62-​ year-​ old Skolt man defines his reasons for the fishery in the following way. When I was a little boy, I received the urge to fish. I also harvest because it is our food. There is always a purpose of coming to the river, for our visit. In former times it was our survival, our food source. I was taught by my father and grandmother to do always something, never come in vain. Here on the river we catch fish, collect berries, hunt for ptarmigan and then we take them home. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1)

What is a river?  223 Skolts have observed that the river course and the water levels have stayed fairly intact in recent years. The changes in course that have been observed were due to human use. The summer of 2012 was especially cold. According to them, if salmon reaches the upper parts of the river and spawns, then it returns successfully to the river (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). Changes start on the fourth year, when the fish return to their natal streams. An older Skolt in his 50s observed that 2012: had especially many small salmon. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2) According to him, since his childhood in the 1950s the fish have become smaller; they used to be ‘longer, the titti [small returning salmon] used to be 1.5 kilos, now they are 1 kilo in weight. Also, the female fish dominated in those days’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2). He has been fishing on the river since he was 10  years old, at first with nets with his grandfather. Overall the fish in the 2012 season ‘were not as good as before as the fish is smaller; it seems they do not have enough to eat’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2). This is confirmed by observations of a 41-​year-​old Skolt. He says that ‘the small salmon are smaller now. They used to be bigger. There are less big fish around too. Milt fish used to be the biggest before’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) He continues to say that: I have also noticed the salmon is softer now. It is not so solid and strong as before.When you boil the fish, the flesh goes soft in a new way.The salmon is whiter and the flesh softer. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) But in general, 2012 was a strong salmon year for the salmon run, as a Skolt born in 1947 says: ‘There have not been as many fish in my time’ (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​5). According to the Skolts, some of the tributaries of the Näätämö River have smaller salmon, such as the river Silisjoki ( Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020: Tape 2012-​1). They affectionately call the Silisjoki salmon ‘Eurofish’. The Kuosnijoki Tributary used to be a spawning stream but is no longer. Silisjoki is a very crucial spawning tributary and the year 2012 was a very good one (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). The Vainosjoki River has been ‘spoiled’, according to a 62-​year-​old Skolt (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020:  Tape 2012-​ 1). The stream and the associated trout lakes have been lost, and no young salmon come from there anymore. Also, trout have stopped spawning there.The lake was dredged and this impacted the fish, including grayling spawning sites.Vainosjoki has emerged as a

224  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff pilot ecological restoration site, guided and coordinated by the Skolts following this observation. Vainosjärvi Lake was famous for its graylings (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020:  Tape 2012-​ 1). The activities in Vainosjärvi Lake have affected Kirakkajärvi Lake and Sevettijärvi Lake. Similar observations have been raised regarding the Kuosnijoki River. Dredging and alteration of stream characteristics there was done to improve boat access and this may have damaged salmon and trout spawning areas. Growth of water plants in Opukasjärvi Lake has increased compared to the 1960s. Skolts think human urine has caused eutrophication on the river. A 62-​year-​old Skolt man remembers that during his childhood in the 1950s there were no water plants at all on the lake (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020: Tape 2012-​1). Preventive measures such as seining and clearing of these water plants should be initiated as a counteraction. Sevettijärvi Lake is no longer a spawning area. The associated Kuosnijoki cannot be accessed and the former spawning sites have been covered with mud. Dredging took place there too. On the river Kallojoki the Norwegians created a hydroelectric power station which, according to the Skolts, affected water flow there (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​1). Scientists have determined these impacts in 2001 to be ‘estimated to be very little’ (Niemelä et al. 2001: 2). The hydroelectric company Varangerkraft19 has the obligation to annually investigate the impacts to the salmon from this tributary. Catch-​and-​release methods trigger many reactions from the Skolts. In the following oral history, the core Skolt relationship and ways of being with the salmon emerges. A 41-​year-​old fisherman says: I do not like it at all. It is not good that already tired fish are further worn out. With dirty hands people are handling them, and in the worst case the salmon bites another fly, and gets even more worn out. Fish can die from it. It is alright for catching grayling or pike, but not for salmon. If the skin of the fish is damaged, it can get diseases more easily. It does not live that long. Pictures are also taken, and it means the fish cannot get enough oxygen. The salmon travels a long distance to perform its most important task –​ to spawn. We should not disturb them with such things on their journey. Another thing that really gets me is that people go with their long wading boots to the middle of the stream. This releases the ‘slimes’ and algae from the bottom. It should be forbidden totally. If you have your nets out, and people are wading upstream, your nets get dirty. They do not follow the 50-​meter zoning rule [distance between nets and angling spots]. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) In terms of how the fishermen articulate their observations, of note in this material is that in the original Sámi-​language tape most of the fishermen speak of the salmon using the third-​person singular pronoun, as if they would speak of a person. The interconnected relationship manifests in this way.

What is a river?  225 Skolt fishermen have a concern for the Syd-​Varanger Gruv mine located in Kirkenes. The mine can discharge its waters to the sea. As one experienced older Skolt said: I am sure it impacts the salmon. I have not heard what the researchers say. I do not know what poisons it is releasing, but for sure it is releasing poison. They do not clean the [discharge], they just dump their shit in the sea, and the amounts must be double what they have permits for. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2)

Local fishery in Neiden village, Finnmark, Norway The lower part of the Näätämö River is in Norway.Today this is the home area of the Finnish-​speaking national minority, the Kvens. While Sámi still owned the area in the 1800s the subsequent socio-​historical changes have resulted in the population patterns of today. They live for the most part in the village of Neiden. Of special relevance is the käpälänuotta (bear paw seine), which is a collective fishery on the Skolt Rapids on the Näätämö.The co-​management has included oral history and monitoring work to include the local voices of the Kven in the river studies. Statistics indicate that the local käpälä seine produced 800 kg of salmon on the Norwegian side. Tourists and locals caught with rods around 5,500 kg of fish in 2012 (YLE 2013). All in all, 6.3 tons were caught on the Norwegian side. Karl-​ Magnus Arvola, born 1957, works in Customs at the Finnish-​ Norwegian Border and is the head of the local fiskefelleskap, the Association of Neiden Fishermen. The Arvola family arrived in the region in the 1840s. The grandmother of Karl-​Magnus’s mother arrived from Kittilä, Finland, from the Sodankylä area. He belongs to a national minority of Kvens in Norway whose language has the status of a ‘minority language’. There are approximately 270 residents of Neiden; the river flows 20 kilometers on the Norwegian side. Käpälä seining involves about 41–​42 people in the organization Neiden-​Elvas Fiskefelleskap. It has an annual budget of 1.3 million Norwegian kroner. Approximately 10,000 kroner is paid annually by each member. It pays for the fishery control, and 25% of the funds derived from the permits go to the state. Local observations regarding the river including flooding and high-​level water that lasted a long time in 2012, with normal water levels for summer being reached at the end of July. Ice break-​up was normal at the end of May, and then waters started to rise. Usual freeze-​up is in November, when the permanent night frosts arrive. It is hard to say whether the climate has really changed. It may be that it is warmer; there is more algae. Waters have become muddier in the Näätämö Fjord.You can still drink the water of the Näätämö, and the village takes its water from the river. The end of

226  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff August was very good in terms of weather conditions. There was a lot of rain and wind in the early summer, with stronger winds than before. Käpälä seining began on 16 July 2012, which was later than usual; usually it begins on 1 July; 30 people were involved in the season of 2012. Some stakeholders as they age hire a helping hand for the seining. Annual catch is around 1,000 kg, and there are five groups practicing this seining, with around 200 kg given to each group. Cooperation is good with the Finnish Game and Fish Research Institute and Metsähallitus, the state forestry and land management agency, as well as the Skolt Sámi. Forty kg of salmon are enough for one year per person. The permits for käpälä seining are given by the fiskefelleskap, and they have decided there is no net fishery on the Norwegian side. Öivin Arvola made the current käpälä seine; he passed away in 2011. There is one käpälä seine in use and one in reserve. The width of the seine is 5–​6 meters and its length is 1.80 metres; both the lower and upper ends of the net are pulled while seining. It exists only in Neiden. The rules on granting rights to use the käpälä require that you live in Neiden; you must rent or own land of 5 hectares. There are not many young people involved in the fishery, and 90% of the tourists who come to Neiden are Finns. There are not too many tourists, but the area for them and their fishery is too small, too concentrated. It looks like many people are fishing there due to this. Around 3,000 permits for tourists are sold every year. According to the local fishermen, 2012 was a good salmon year, when the whole catch was around 6,300 kg, with 1,000 kg from käpälä seining. There were many small salmon at around 2 kg. Big salmon were released back into the river for spawning; the biggest salmon ever caught was around 20 kg, and also this year a 20-​kg fish was released from the seine. The release of these fish helps the spawning. Other fisheries can take two big salmon or four small salmon per day. It may be that a transfer to a system of 10–​15 fish per season is to be expected. Neiden opinions on the Finnish net fishery included that researchers have said the smolt production is better on the Norwegian side of Neiden; there is a wish to have more spawning fish on the Finnish side. In 2012 one escapee salmon from the farms was caught. Others were ‘Neiden’ stock, characteristically long and slender. Otherwise there were very few escapees. Some have been caught just outside the Neiden Fjord. There are some sea lice on salmon, but there was more in 1960s. Scale samples are delivered to the Natural Resources Institute of Finland and authorities in Norway. As for the coastal fishery, there are about ten professional fishermen in Norway with Krogarn nets, and the open season of fisheries has been cut in recent years. Fjord fishery has been quite good in the recent years and involves Norwegian and Kven fishermen. In the 2000s, the fishery in Näätämö fluctuated around 1,000 kg. There was not a bad year in the 2000s for salmon. On the Norwegian side there are no

What is a river?  227 fisheries conflicts. Net fishermen could consider cutting their season shorter in Finland. There are natural stocks of pike and grayling. Some years ago, in the spring, many pike fish were caught to manage the numbers. In older times there existed a net fishery for pikes in the spring, but as it has now stopped, pike numbers are up. Sea trout is doing well.The biggest grayling was 2.5 kg, caught in the summer of 2012. Sea trout enter the Näätämö River later than salmon. One wish for improvement is that sea trout could be fished for a longer period in the autumn. Regarding the management of the river, the Näätämö needs to be removed from the same administration as the Tana, because of the disagreements there. Neiden could have its own negotiations between Norway and Finland. FFS can make rules stricter if needed. According to the Neiden fishermen, the role of Sámi special rights needs to be explained carefully and in a thorough manner. They may have rights to fish, but these cannot replace other local peoples’ rights regarding the fishery, so it should not be only for the Sámi. In Neiden, the Skolts and their descendants are directly involved in the fiskefelleskap activities, also in leadership positions, and there have been no conflicts. Skolts in Neiden have also been involved in the development of the rules for the river. Käpälä seining would have been lost without the other local people than the Sámi. Finnmark Law does not apply in Neiden. Impacts from Murmansk region contain a danger of atomic explosion on the Kola Peninsula. Effects from the Novaya Zemlya explosions may have caused cancer. The mine in Kirkenes (Syd Varanger Gruv) released some toxins into the fjord in 1996 and it is unknown how these substances travel in the fjord ecosystem and food chains. Neiden, however, is away from the Kirkenes mine and its direct impacts. According to Arvola, ‘we need to trust the authorities that they know what they are doing’. There is a plan for a railroad from Finland to Kirkenes, and perhaps also to Nikel. In Ristivuono Fjord, plans have also been made for an oil terminal. Arvola feels that ‘we cannot conserve nature in all areas; we need jobs too’. The relationship with researchers has been mixed. In earlier times results were not released to local people. Now things are better, especially with LUKE20 and Norway. FFS believes in the scientific recommendations; what can be saved will be saved in Neiden. The role of researchers is very important in managing the river. Observations about birds include that there used to be more Arctic terns in the village. Now there are more seagulls, smaller ones especially. They have specialized in catching smolts. Their nesting times are protected, which impacts on the salmon. Mergansers are also catching a lot of salmon. Loon and red-​ throated loon are more common in upstream waters. Mink has appeared and some trapping for it has taken place. Seals reside in the delta of Näätämö, sometimes coming up to Skoltefossen Rapids. Norwegian law allows the shooting of seals in a salmon river. In the lower part of the

228  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Näätämö there is a nature protection area, where there is no hunting at all. Finnmarkes Fylke gives a conservation method for 500 meters from the mouth of the river inland. Seal numbers have increased. There can be over 50 residing at the mouth, which can be counted from the ice, so are easy to observe. King crab numbers have not impacted on salmon.

The Sámi view on a river The above materials on the ‘second stream’ of a co-​management system have highlighted examples of shared Sámi knowledge and observations of the river change. Some scientific indicators and analyses have been reviewed on the situation of water quality, temperature and birds as well as management history, building on science in the catchment area. Yet we have not really ever heard how the Skolt Sámi belong to their river. Many of these materials are essentially internal issues but for the sake of this chapter and the attempt to discuss a wider engagement of human societies with their rivers, some aspects of a ‘deeper’ relationship are explored here. Skolts feel that despite the many changes, they still have their fish stocks here. All resources have been directed therefore to prevent further damages and, on the other hand, prepare for the further warming. Skolt Sámi feel they have a responsibility for the river and its health. Or, as the 41-​year-​old Skolt man quoted above says, You cannot muck around on the river. River used to be sacred before.You needed to thank her, if you received something. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​3) Other cultural sides of the fishery include that you should not show the individual catch, or brag over the amount of fish.Very strict observational laws were followed up until the 1980s (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​ 1). Such laws included that you could not speak aloud anything negative along the river and you could not shout or yell. Nature has her own dignity that needs to be respected. Skolt laws ruled that you could not fish at night; the river needs to rest (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​ 2020:  Tape 2012-​ 2). Many Skolts cannot understand the tourists who fish through the nights. Older Skolts are still remembering and try to use the Indigenous governance systems of letting waters ‘rest’, and to avoid over-​harvesting. If there were more fish available, they were taken, but if the stocks were down, no harvests took place (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020:  Tape 2012-​2). They have witnessed that other users of the river do not follow these laws. Even if there is little salmon or other fish, all is taken as a principle. This is against the strict law of the river (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2012-​2).

What is a river?  229 An oral history dialogue and exchange between elderly Skolt Sámi family members captures the river essence further. MAN: We

never felt unsafe. It was especially my mother who always said that let us not yield, we have survived so far and we will survive through these times too.21 This was prominent and shone from these older people –​they always reaffirmed their belief in the survival of our people. Today there are not many people who have this kind of courage to believe that everything will be ok. A  person needs to possess this internal trust that everything will manage somehow. A human needs to be also honest towards others and should not conduct any harm. Everybody should learn to respect each other.This is how relationships will be solid and permanent –​no other way. WOMAN:  One of the things that grandmother always did, especially when out net fishing, was to thank the lake. Same for the picking of Arctic cloudberries –​she always thanked the marsh. MAN:  I remember this grandmother Anna saying, because I  used to fish on the river with her. We discussed the salmon. She said that if salmon ceases to exist, we would no longer be humans either. She was from a fishing family, including coastal and marine fisherfolk. Salmon fisherwoman. And she said we will die with the salmon if there is no more salmon arriving here. Therefore, we needed to harvest a few salmon to maintain this relationship. When grandmother got a salmon, she felt alive and proud to be able to still harvest the salmon. She would cease to exist when she could not go to the river any more, she said. Then a human being ceases to exist. We’d say to the river: Spä’sseb ääkkas –​thank you grandmother for giving us this fish. The salmon has grown in the same manner as you, here, this is its home. The life of salmon has just been ranging over wider areas than yours. Even though, of course, we do not know where you might go, growing up and doing everything yourself.The salmon travels to the other side of the world in the ocean –​all the way to the areas with warm waters. It is swimming and swimming and eating shrimp. Still she is longing towards the home stream, to make her own babies, towards the home stream. No matter how far out in the salty waters she might be, she still smells her home and heads towards it. There are big nets out in the open ocean, drift nets and fish traps and normal standing nets to avoid. Those are the kind of fishing gear she needs to navigate to get to the home fjord. Then she smells the home stream and starts to go up. Again, there are nets and fishing rods, trying to capture her. If all goes well, she can make it to the same place where she was born. This is how attached the salmon is to her home. And humans are attached to the salmon. And therefore, you need to be aware when you are catching her of the difficulties she has passed to become our food. When the salmon have traveled so long on their way to the most important act, the spawning, we should no longer disturb them then. What you will eat,

230  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff you can take, but you cannot kill any more. It is another’s spirit you’ll take when you eat salmon. (Snowchange Cooperative 2010–​2020: Tape 2015-​3) Pauliina Feodoroff, the second author of this chapter, a Skolt Sámi leader and an accomplished artist and playwright, has worked as the coordinator of the co-​ management work for over a decade. She reflects on the work. A self-​ portrait is a representation of an artist that is drawn, painted, photographed or sculpted by that artist. Although self-​portraits have been made since the earliest times, it is not until the Early Renaissance in the mid-​ fifteenth century that artists can be frequently identified depicting themselves as either the main subject, or as important characters in their work. She continues. The colonial processes imposed to those young graylings and their habitats are doings of my own kind, then humankind. [At the advent of the ecological restoration of lost streams and] realizing the abovementioned, my self-​image bends, reshapes and at least the possibility for a new alliance, new continuation with balanced relationships with the grayling is born.

Success in co-​management: ecological restoration of the Vainosjoki area In summer 2017, the Vainosjoki River restoration project began.22 A team of around ten Skolt Sámi together with a restoration consultant and Snowchange manually restored the flow of the river by relocating rocks and boulders in the river.

Figure 8.13 Pauliina Feodoroff on a restored site with a fish.

What is a river?  231 Afterwards, spawning gravel was distributed at suitable locations. The restoration work covering the entire length of the Vainosjoki area will continue into 2019. The restoration project has already demonstrated indicators of success, when in early October 2017 an approximately 3-​kg lake trout23 was observed potentially spawning and residing in the ‘new’ area. The restoration measures are something the local people have hoped for for many years. In the 1960s, the Finnish Forestry Agency24 widened part of the river channels in the catchment area using explosives. One of these areas was the Vainosjoki sub-​catchment area. The alterations of the river flow had a drastic impact on the area, which lost suitable spawning grounds. This had effects on the culture of the Skolt Sámi, who through millennia have fished as part of their culture and subsistence. In 2015–​2017 baseline information (in cooperation with scientists) from the co-​management work led to the ecological restoration of those spawning areas and habitats that had been altered by the state in the post-​war context. These sites can be seen as cultural indicators of resilience. They have also proven the first ‘real’ physical changes for the better in the Näätämö Basin by following the method and persistence of co-​management actions. Unfortunately, while this has motivated the Skolts in carrying out restoration and produced concrete results, this has not translated, as of yet, to a reform or a serious transformation of those state agencies and officials who form the power levels of river governance (Apgar et al., 2016). Ecological restoration of habitats and mitigation of past damages from the 1950–​1980 time period are difficult issues for these agencies, as they challenge the ‘pristine wilderness’ narrative of the basin and provide a socio-​historical baseline of habitat alterations, including the hydropower development and diversion of the stream flow of the Kallojoki River on the Norwegian side (Feodoroff and Mustonen 2013).

Conclusions: maintaining good relations with a river The co-​management process on the Näätämö has been able to convey a scientific view of water quality, biodiversity, bird habitats, fish stocks and status and trends of the overall ecosystem health. Samples of water quality data and bird observations have been included in this chapter to offer a view of the natural state of the catchment area. Equally, so we have heard of the visual and oral histories and other observations made by the Sámi and the local community of Kven. They have expanded and refined the scientific view. Detection of southern species arriving in the river system, algae blooms and fish health are all examples of relevant materials that have been secured through the inclusion of Sámi knowledge in the monitoring work. The divergent view emerges on a twin context of morals and ethics on the Näätämö and the historical ecosystem health changes that science has not been able to capture.

232  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Sámi knowledge of alterations has recounted actions that have been conducted in the post-​war landscape of the Näätämö. They have included industrial forestry and planting programs, forest burning, for example, around lake Opukasjärvi, and channeling, dredging and biomanipulation of natural streams such as the Kirakkakoski, Vainosjoki and Kuosnijoki and the diversion of the Kallojoki for hydropower, to name some examples. These are of utmost importance now that ecological restoration of the Näätämö catchment is underway for climate resilience. The last context, unable to be captured using scientific methods, is the question of how to maintain good relations with the river. This has been best conveyed by the Sámi using their customary and Indigenous governance, ethics and morals. The ecological restoration of the Vainosjoki, which had been completed by 2019, is the most significant demonstration of the power and resilience of a new approach that has been achieved through the Skolt Sámi efforts. Not only do we know that Njâuddam/​Näätämö/​Neiden is a profound entity as a river. We also know that she wants to heal from the past damages, to survive and provide for today and for the times to come, like a mother, as before, for now and forever.

Notes 1 The river is known to the Skolt Sámi as Njâuddam, to Norwegians as Neiden and to Finnish-​speaking peoples as Näätämö. We are using Näätämö unless otherwise stated in the chapter. 2 www.legislation.govt.nz/​act/​public/​2017/​0007/​latest/​whole.html. 3 Informal exchanges between Maori and other participants during the Festival of Northern Fishing Traditions, held in Tornio, Finland in September 2018. 4 www.legislation.govt.nz/​act/​public/​2017/​0007/​latest/​whole.html. 5 A high and barren landscape feature. 6 Means both a human skull and the frontal part of the traditional hat of a Skolt Sámi woman. 7 Soviet collective farm, basic economic unit of the country. 8 Another Eastern Sámi group, not Skolt Sámi, but living along the easternmost part of the Kola Peninsula. 9 In Mustonen and Mustonen (2011: 73). 10 Mustonen and Mustonen (2011). 11 The Ivanowitz family maintained a Skolt presence fishing in the area until the 1970s and they were from the ‘original’ Näätämö Skolt population. 12 On the Finnish side. 13 Käpälänuotta is a special seine and a practice on the rapids, based on the way the Skolts perceived the bears to harvest salmon from the stream. Literally translated, it means ‘[bear]paw seine’. 14 The first team led by a male elder in his mid-​60s, the second team led by a reindeer herder-​fisherman in his mid-​40s. 15 The forms have been modified to be suitable for the Näätämö work which focus on fish and aquatic ecosystems as opposed to oceans containing several more species.

What is a river?  233 16 Feodoroff and Mustonen (2013). 17 More precisely the species were Frustulia crassinervia as well as Navicula, Encyonopsis, Eunotia and Gomphonema. 18 This is connected with the act of recognizing one’s own part and skills in the living community and the meaningfulness arising from this awareness. 19 In Norway. 20 The Finnish Institute of Natural Resources. 21 Modern times. 22 https://​thebarentsobserver.com/​en/​life-​and-​public/​2017/​09/​sami-​traditional​knowledge-​used-​waterways-​restoration-​inari. 23 Salmo trutta. 24 Metsähallitus.

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234  Tero Mustonen and Pauliina Feodoroff Murtomäki, Eero. Kameramme luonnon rippeillä. Jyväskylä: Lumo. 2008. Mustonen, Tero. Karhun väen ajast aikojen avara. (Never-​Ending Life World of Peoples of the Bear). Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Joensuu. 2009. Mustonen, Tero. Communal Visual Histories to Detect Environmental Change in Northern Areas:  Examples of Emerging North American and Eurasian Practices. Ambio, 44: 766–​777. 2015. Mustonen, Tero and Mustonen, Kaisu. Eastern Sámi Atlas. Kontiolahti:  Snowchange Cooperative. 2011. Niemelä, Eero. Personal Communications. 16 March 2013. Niemelä, Eero and Erkinaro, Jaakko. Näätämöjoen Kolttakönkäässä olevan kalaportaan rakentamisen historia. Muistio. 19 January 1999. Niemelä, Eero, Erkinaro, Jaakko, Kylmäaho, Matti, Julkunen, Markku, and Moen, Kjell. Näätämöjoen lohen poikastiheys ja kasvu. Helsinki: Natural Resources Institute. Riistan-​ ja kalantutkimus. Kalatutkimuksia 2001: 176, 2001. Norway. Yhteistyön vahvistaminen Tenojoen ja Näätämöjoen kalakantojen sääntelyssä. Näätämöjokea ja Tenojokea koskevien sopimusten uudistamisneuvottelut. 23 February 1999. Orell, Panu. Video Monitoring of the River Neidenelva Salmon and Sea-​Trout Migrations in 2006–​2011. Helsinki: Natural Resources Institute. 2012. Pecl, Gretta et  al. Biodiversity Redistribution under Climate Change:  Impacts on Ecosystems and Human Well-​Being. Science. DOI:10.1126/​science.aai9214. 2017. Puranen, Jorma. Imaginary Homecoming. Oulu: Pohjoinen. 1999. Saarinen, Kimmo, Lahti, Tapani and Marttila, Olli. Population Trends of Finnish butterflies (Lepidoptera:  Hesperioidea, Papilionoidea) in 1991–​ 2000. Biodiversity and Conservation 12: 2147–​2159. 2003. Savard, Dan. Images from the Likeness House.Victoria: Royal BC Museum. 2010. Sheridan, John and Longboat, Dan. The Haudenosaunee Imagination and the Ecology of the Sacred. Space and Culture, 9(4): 365–​381. 2006. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonising Methodologies. London: Zed Books. 1999. Snowchange Cooperative. Skolt Catch Statistics 2012–​2018. 2018. Snowchange Cooperative. Näätämö Science Records. 2018. Snowchange Cooperative. Sevettijärvi Oral History Archive. 2010–​2020. See individual tape codes in text. Tossavainen, Tarmo. Näätämö-​joen (Suomi) veden laatu 2010–​2012 ja Ponoi-​joen (Venäjä) veden laatu vuosien 1960–​ 2012 mittaustulosten perusteella [Water Quality Based on Measurements on the Rivers Neiden 2010–​ 2012 and Ponoi 1960–​ 2012]. Scientific Analysis Report. Joensuu: Snowchange Cooperative. 2013. Umholtz, David. Kalvak/​Emerak Memorial Catalogue. Holman, NT: Canada Council.  1987. Valkeapää, Nils-​Aslak. Beaivi, Áhcázan.Vaasa: DAT.  1991. Vuorelainen, Marja. Lapin kuvat. Helsinki: SKS. 1990. Wilson, Robert J. and Maclean, Ilya M.D. Recent Evidence for the Climate ChangeThreat to Lepidoptera and Other Insects. Journal of Insect Conservation, 10: 259–​268. 2011. YLE. Näätämöjoen saaliit kasvoivat. http://​yle.fi/​uutiset/​naatamojoen_​lohisaaliit_​ kasvoivat/​6452959. 2013.

9  Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs) in Galiza Indigeneity or peasanthood? Joám Evans Pim

Introduction On the morning of May 1, 2016, villagers in Frojám sensed from the strong northeasterly wind that had just begun to blow an emerging forest fire. Quad bikes had been heard moments earlier in the northeastern zone of the Commons, and as soon as the first clouds of smoke were seen, villagers rushed toward them equipped with basic firefighting gear. The immediate intervention of the villagers and the fire extinguishing services―which joined in soon after―managed to halt a quickly advancing fire that the wind was pushing toward the small community. A dense oak wood that serves as a living firebreak reduced the damage to just about 10 hectares (10,000 m2) of the Commons’ 100 hectares of ancestral lands. Even before the last flames were put out, people in Frojám realized that the fire had been set intentionally in the most favorable conditions and best locations for causing maximum harm and damage. Just months before, a delegation of villagers from Frojám and the contiguous Commons had met with the managers of an encroaching mining operation, demanding that the integrity of their land be respected. Sarcastically, the mining engineers responded:  “Don’t worry, we’re already leaving!” Administrative claims followed and word about the conflict spread. For decades, fire has been used in rural Galiza to retaliate and keep people scared and silent.1 Almost a year later, representatives of the Frojám Commons were sitting nervously in a large room in the Spanish National Environmental Education Centre (CENEAM), in Valsaín (Segovia). For the first time, two local communities were going through a national peer-​review process to be formally declared Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCA).After hearing the reports from evaluators and listening to the commoners, the committee of experts adopted the decision to approve both proposals.2 In October 2017, a light-​ green color representing the Frojám Commons entered the World Database on Protected Areas (WDPA) managed by the United Nations Environment Programme World Conservation Monitoring Centre, making it the first ICCA to be added after going through a national peer-​review process.3 Almost 200 km eastwards, in the foothills of the Iríbio mountain, the small community of Vilar was simultaneously facing a similar struggle against an

236  Joám Evans Pim open-​pit limestone mine that encroaches several village commons and the notorious “Cova Eirós”, a cave featuring remains of the last Neanderthal populations and the first populations of anatomically modern humans in northwest Iberia, as well as a number of panels with paintings and engravings that represent the earliest-​known examples in the region (Steelman et  al., 2017; Rey-​Rodríguez et al., 2016). In May 2015, the “Homem de Acordo” (“Man of Agreement”, a traditional honorary elected position) of the Vilar Commons was tried at the Courts of Justice in Vigo for alleged libellous comments against the multinational Votoratim mining corporation, owner of the Cosmos limestone mine, which demanded 45,000 euros in compensation in addition to a large bill for legal expenses. This was just the first of a long chain of litigation involving commoners and the recently re-​established Vilar Common Land Community with the mining company and local cacique power-​brokers aligned with its extractivist interests. Personal threats, continuous land seizures and destruction of sacred natural sites of great cultural importance have been constant since a contested 1971 decree of Franco’s cabinet that enabled the seizure of the traditional common lands of the surrounding communities.4 A year before the “Homem de Acordo” of the Vilar Common was standing before the court, the community had become the first full member of the international ICCA Consortium, an international association “established to promote the appropriate recognition of, and support to, indigenous peoples and community conserved areas and territories (ICCAs) at local, national and international levels.”5 The October 2014 issue of The ICCA Consortium Newsletter (8: 42) described Vilar as “a genuine community organization in charge of an ancient body of natural resources held as ‘commons’ ”, also alerting that “As the collective property is under the impending threats of mining and other forms of destructive developments, the Consortium will likely be solicited to support them to maintain control of their commons in years to come”. The community charter adopted in Vilar has been presented as a ground-​breaking example (Abella, 2016) and reflects the reclamation of “indigeneity” by Galizan traditional rural communities: The role of territories managed by local and indigenous communities is key to preserve biological diversity and both its ecological functions and the well-​being of human groups historically responsible for their custody, as acknowledged in international law. The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples recognizes the rights of peoples to own, use, develop and control the lands, territories and resources that they possess by reason of traditional ownership (Article 26), and to maintain and strengthen their distinct political, legal, economic, social and cultural institutions (Article 5), as part of the exercise of their right to self-​determination and self-​government (Article 4). This Charter, on the basis not only of the Community’s territory and resources, but also its consuetudinary forms of self-​government, represents the realization of that right of

ICCAs in Galiza  237 communities to “keep and develop their social, economic and political systems or institutions” (Article 10). (From the Preface of the Charter of Vilar, March 2015) After over a century of state-​driven protected areas that marginalized human communities traditionally living and interacting with such spaces, ICCAs emphasize the relevance of these communities in the conservation of biodiversity and ecosystem services. But beyond their practical relevance in conservation, the international recognition of ICCAs has become a new tool for communities (from Mesoamerica to the Philippines) to challenge threats to traditional lands (commons), extractivism and other projects that degrade and destroy the land that sustains them. In the face of an ever-​encroaching capitalist modernity, rural and Indigenous communities like Frojám or Vilar have been forced to expand the set of available tools to defend their land, lives and livelihoods, which now include the development of wider and international alliances for synergy and solidarity and direct engagement in the development of international legal instruments such as “No-​Go Zones”, “free, prior and informed consent” and ICCAs as such. “We exist to support communities that simply want to say no”, explained one of the coordinators of the international Yes to Life No to Mining coalition when asked in Frojám about their raison d’être.6 In recent years, Galizan rural communities have spearheaded some of the largest movements and protests that have echoed around the region, and have also built new global alliances. Dairy farmers, fishing and mussel gathering communities and entire areas affected by destructive projects such as the Corcoesto gold mining project or the Touro copper mining project, have challenged the cliché about the passivity and contempt of Galiza’s rural population that had emerged since the 1936 Civil War. From cracks in the political architecture that perpetuates local cacique power-​brokers (immortalized by Vicente Risco’s O porco de pé) that serve as the backbone for destructive extractivist projects such as those of Frojám and Vilar, such movements have also emerged to contest the sometimes veiled and sometimes obvert authoritarian populist politicians of the Galizan hinterlands. Most interestingly, these shifts in emancipatory rural action (Scoones et al., 2017) have also revitalized Common Land Communities, a remnant of non-​ state community self-​managed institutions that has surprisingly survived into the twenty-​first-​century Galizan society. Common land was once the most extensive form of property—or rather land stewardship―in Europe and elsewhere in the world but has almost disappeared in most regions after centuries of enclosures and land seizures. Galizan montes vizinhais, Portuguese baldios, Italian partezipanzas, Norwegian allmenning and similar institutions are present too in almost every European country, which is akin to other forms of Indigenous land stewardship throughout the world. But, within Europe, it is in the northwest corner of Iberia where its vitality and extension appears to have better survived the transition into capitalist modernity.

238  Joám Evans Pim About a quarter of Galiza’s total land mass (29,574 km2) is officially classified as common land that belongs to 3,300 Common Land Communities (Comunidades de Montes Vizinhais). Commons vary in size from a few hectares to several thousand―the average being around 200 hectares―and from just one or two “open houses” (casa aberta)―with people living in them―to hundreds or even thousands, the average being around 40 houses. All in all, approximately 15% of Galizan population lives in commons “open houses”. There are also considerable differences in terms of how active these communities are. A  fair number have been dormant for decades, abandoned as the land they are entitled to is under the direct control of the government or extractivist companies under contractual arrangements or factual occupation. Others suffer the same chronic corruption and authoritarian control that is endemic in the local structures of the state, often becoming subservient to the latter. However, because of their relative freedom from the political control of the state, Common Land Communities have also become fertile ground for the development of emancipatory alternatives that challenge rural depopulation, suppression of public services and extractivist dynamics. Most Common Land Communities maintain traditional practices of direct-​assembly democracy and are also responsible in many cases for basic services such as water supply, playing an important role in distributing forest commodities and income among commoner “open houses”. Galizan common land also exemplifies the immemorial ties between people and territory, an intimate connection that has sustained contemporary reclamation of “indigeneity” by Galizan traditional rural communities, that increasingly feel threatened by encroaching capitalist interests and challenged in sustaining traditional governance and land practices that are increasingly foreign to mainstream Galizan society. Both Frojám and Vilar fit in this context, even if they fall under the average sizes both in terms of population and territory, managing 1 km2 of common land―about the size of the Old City of Jerusalem. In Frojám, this territory was recognized in 1977 and includes an additional 50 hectares of privately owned land that forms an inner circle with family homes, food gardens, fields and smaller patches of woodland. In Vilar, the situation is more complex, as out of the approximately 1 km2 of traditionally managed and claimed common land, only 60 hectares have been recognized in 2014, with current litigation taking place over the remaining territory against the backdrop of continuing land seizures. Frojám and Vilar are considered in this paper as case-​studies for exploring “Galizan indigeneity” and the protection of ancestral lands as Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCA). The study was carried out between June 2017 and June 2018 on the basis of participatory action research, an approach to understand change by becoming actively engaged in bringing it about (Reason and Bradbury, 2008). Participatory action research (PAR) promotes collective and community involvement in the process of (self-​)experimentation and (self-​)reflectivity with an emphasis on social and intermingled history of lands and lives. Following such an approach, commoners and other villagers have acted as co-​researchers

ICCAs in Galiza  239 in this study. Experiential developments during the study period are presented in the chapter in connection with past events and future perspectives offered by participants. An initial historical and socio-​ political contextualization is offered at first to provide a wider understanding of the “Galizan indigeneity” and its relation to ancestral common lands. Although some recent developments may seem peculiar or extraordinary, Frojám and Vilar can still be considered as valid examples of the challenges, shifts and possibilities currently underway and Galizan Common Land Communities. These two communities were selected on the grounds of in-​depth access, which is frequently the greatest barrier for research conducted in small collectives. Other Common Land Communities with commensurable processes indeed exist and are good candidates for future research; these include the other two ICCAs in place at the time of writing (Teis and Covelo) but also others across the Galizan territory.

Indigeneity and peasanthood: the self-​determination of Galizan communities in history A usually understated fact is that―as in most of the world’s regions―98% of human history in what today is Galiza (if we use the 118,000-​year-​old Homo sapiens neanderthalensis remains in Cova Eirós, in the proximity of the Vilar Commons) or 93% (if we use a more conservative 30,000-​year record) is that of societies actively engaged in collectivist activities. It can be assumed that during most of this period Galizan Indigenous communities lived as simple hunter-​ gatherers or nomadic foragers (Giorgi, 2010; Fry, 2013) in relatively small groups with non-​segmented and non-​hierarchical forms of social organization based on self-​sufficiency, personal autonomy, absence of formal leadership and egalitarian and cooperative practices (Fry, 2006). Transitions from non-​segmented hunter-​gatherer societies to new forms of social organization began between 4500 and 2700 BCE , although group size remained small. Parcero Oubiña and Criado Boado (2013) suggest that since the early Neolithic period just prior to the Roman invasion, social dynamics that limited or inhibited the development of hierarchical/​non-​egalitarian forms of socio-​political organization were firmly in place in the area of northwest Iberia. In contrast to mainstream understandings of the Galizan Iron Age, alternative explanatory models (Currás, 2014; González García et al., 2011; Sastre Prats 2011, 2008; Parcero et al., 2007; Parcero Oubiña, 2002) have been articulated that challenge the traditional view that characterized societies during this period as being hierarchical, stratified, with increased inequality and proto-​state forms of political-​territorial organization. Inspired by Clastres (1989 [1974]), historians and archaeologists identify that during the Iron Age Gallaecian Indigenous communities actively worked to prevent hierarchization and social inequity, through inhibiting the development of segments within the population that could take over the means of production and surplus. In other words: a society as opposed to the state. Currás (2014:  256) characterized communities in this historical horizon as social systems structured on the basis of segmentation in self-​sufficient and

240  Joám Evans Pim independent agricultural collectives. Each community within itself was composed of autonomous domestic units that exercised control over the means of production and had no differences in terms of class inequality. The Galizan landscape was divided in such a way that each community had an equivalent access to resources, which guaranteed independence, self-​ sufficiency and non-​hierarchization.The pattern of Gallaecian socio-​political organization was a myriad of small, autonomous, equidistant units; while internally an equivalent access to the means of production was determined by common land ownership, access to resources was determined by community membership. According to Currás (2014: 535), such a decentralized and egalitarian structure was the concrete manifestation of an “active strategy to construct socio-​political equality and its history is that of a struggle to prevent the seeds of hierarchy”.The non-​existence of a political center, class or institution that appropriates power and the means of social control explains why communities remained small, with an average of 200 individuals distributed in some 4,000 settlements, with decision-​making direct and collective “on the basis of consensus, interaction and interpersonal relations determined by face-​to-​ face communication” (Currás, 2014: 603). When a community surpassed its demographic threshold, a split occurred and a new community, equivalent to those in existence, was created.This splitting mechanism continued to operate up to modernity, as the case of Vilar exemplifies―historical documents place the origin of the village in the 1208 split of Vila Velha de Triacastela and the creation of new coutos in the common lands of the former settlement. Currás (2014: 444) offers a population estimate of 750,000 for the whole of Gallaecia that, if compared with the estimate of 729,600 for 1552 C E ―two millennia later―evidences an astonishing continuity and also the capacity of the territory to hold a large population without the need for hierarchical state structures. This political-​territorial model was disrupted by Roman military action between the second and first centuries BC E , which led to increased hierarchization, stratification, social exploitation, the emergence of native warrior elites and large settlements of over 1,000 individuals. A snapshot of this later period of decline of traditional Gallaecian structures has usually been presented by historians as a characterization of the whole Iron Age. Although such changes were slow, with greater influence in the southern Atlantic area and greatly diluted in the hinterlands and northern areas, they eventually led to the formal integration of Gallaecia into the provincial structures of imperial Rome at the time of Augustus. This first subjection of Galiza’s territory into a state structure is indeed an extraordinary period, as no such structure would re-​emerge until centuries later. Effective Roman control was pronounced in areas of direct influence of the imperial road system but looser in more remote areas that remained isolated from Roman influences. Examples include the Bocelo highlands where settlement continuity is evidenced in the archaeological record from the Iron Age to the High Medieval period (Criado, 1992: 254). Although the Roman

ICCAs in Galiza  241 colonial period fostered the development of an Indigenous aristocracy that was crucial to imperial extractivist aims (extensive gold mining), the pre-​existing segmentarian dynamics fostered internal population shifts toward areas were Roman control was weaker, allowing the continuity of non-​state societies. The immaturity and limited extent of cities and villae and their latifundia―spearheads of feudal society―stands in sharp contrast with the dynamism of free rural communities during the imperial period. In much of the territory, these communities preserved pre-​Roman Indigenous forms of social organization, including collective land ownership and low levels of social differentiation. During the Low Roman Empire period (third to fifth centuries C E ) the reality of cities such as Lucus Augusti (today’s Lugo) is not that of focal points for centralized control but rather as enclaves under siege by a surrounding and hostile stateless Indigenous rurality (the bagaudas), leading to the construction of its famous walls (López Carreira, 1997: 100).The emergence of Priscilianism―a deviation from state-​sanctioned Christianity based on rural Indigenous spirituality that minimized hierarchies and accepted the full liturgical participation of women and also condemned slavery―is a significant manifestation of the confrontation between these antagonistic systems of values. Galiza entered into the Middle Ages with a second, and also partial, attempt at creating state structures:  the Kingdom of the Suebi. Although the establishment of this “kingdom” by new Germanic settlers has frequently been presented as the fulfilment of an independent state in Galiza―indeed the first of its kind in Western Europe after the fall of Rome―in reality it was initially a limited jurisdictional monarchy with powers over the newly arrived Suebi settlers (estimated to have been fewer than 30,000), but not over the autonomous rural communities (or over Romanized villae enclaves) that stuck to their own socio-​political systems, especially in the more isolated Conventus lucensis. Suebi rulers exercised control exclusively over a discontinuous fraction of territory and a minority of the population. The idiosyncrasy of the Suebi, who promptly converted from swords to ploughshares, led to the establishment of newly created rural communities that did not alter the territorial structure of Galizan Iron Age settlement, based on equivalent access to resources and community governance. The abundance of Germanic place names is evidence of such newly established rural settlements aside from persistent Indigenous communities. The virtual disappearance of the incipient state organization after the eighth century gave these autonomous communities―respublica ingeniorum or Indigenous republics―de facto control over most of Galiza’s territory and population (López Carreira, 1997: 109; 131). Umayyad conquest led to the disorganization of villae and the destruction of emergent local aristocracies, in turn fostering the political development of community social organization. farmers remained in villae but were no longer dependent on the authority of nobles. There were no more lords but collective problems still had to be solved … Small matters that concerned everyone but nobody had more

242  Joám Evans Pim authority than the others to solve them.That is how people’s assemblies are born and the collective authority of dwellers established. (Saraiva, 1978: 37) As Saraiva explains, the term vizinhos (neighbors, dwellers of a common place) comes from the Latin vicus (small populated place) and from its genitive form vici evolved to the vernacular term vizinho. This was first applied to those working in the Roman villae (vilanus, servus, meaning slave) but the new vernacular use reflects the membership of an emancipated rural community that again self-​ organized around its conventus publicus vicinorum―rural public assembly. Although most historians recognize that in both political and economic terms, it was these free communities that were not only the most active but also the hegemonic actors in Galizan society until the turn of the millennium, scarce attention is given to them in history books, which are filled with the battles and litigations of bishops and monarchs. But the continuity of Iron Age Indigenous social structures in the ninth and tenth centuries C E is evidenced through these respublicae ingeniorum and the numerous fortifications of the Early Middle Ages associated with this form of political organization (López Alsina, 2013 [1988]). Communities even built alliances with Viking raiders to assault local lords, as the Orkneyinga saga describes in relation to a 1165 incursion (Almazán, 1982: 9; Ferreiro Alemparte, 1999: 68). The Late Middle Ages was a period of intense conflict in which the power and freedom of egalitarian rural communities was progressively lost to the feudal proto-​state, signalling the decay of Indigenous social structures. Two parallel realities coexisted in tense conflict:  a manorial reality that strived to impose the feudal proto-​state; and the commons, which struggled to maintain the autonomy of thousands of Indigenous republics based on assembly governance (López Carreira, 1997: 264–​265). The breaching point of the conflict took place in the fifteenth century during the “Irmandinhos” Wars (1467–​ 1469), in which manorial relations were unilaterally broken by communities that declared their will to live without lords or castles (no tengamos sobre nos señor ni fortaleza ninguna [“to have above us no lord nor castle”]). The “dream of dispensing the feudal regime” earned the Irmandade (a term meaning both brotherhood and sisterhood) the nickname of “insane” (Barros, 1993), a consideration eventually shared by moderates within the movement (namely the low nobility and bourgeoisie) in the face of “total anti-​manorial action” by rural communities that wanted to become “lords”. But these communities “did not conceive being lords of vassals, but rather lords of themselves”, reflecting their collective tendencies and the antiauthoritarian nature of the Irmandade. In spite of the ultimate defeat of the movement and subsequent repression from the returning lords and the emergent state, Galizan communities never abandoned the vision of becoming “lords of themselves”. Three centuries later, the Floridablanca 1787 census reveals how at the end of the Early Modern period some 26,500 commoners remained self-​governed (de senhorio próprio dos seus vizinhos), including 53 parishes in 20 jurisdictions and the town of

ICCAs in Galiza  243 Caldas de Reis (Eiras Roel, 1997: 17). For the less fortunate majority that were under manorial rule, the continuity of the parallel institution of the Indigenous communal assembly helped minimize the negative impact and effective direct control of the manorial jurisdiction as well as the increasing pressure from the state (Saavedra Fernández, 2007: 364). The authority of communal assemblies (concelhos, from conventus publicus vicinorum, a term later appropriated by the state to label closed municipal councils) sustained the Indigenous ethos of solidarity and egalitarianism, for example, by reassigning taxes in relation to each house’s means regardless of the state’s criteria (Tenorio, 1982 [1914]; also see Saavedra Fernández, 1994: 74), and often placed it in direct conflict with the new powers and interests. The 1798 revolt and destruction of the Sargadelos ammunitions factory by 4,000 commoners in reaction over the depletion of communal forests―to be converted into coal mines―is one significant example. The Marqués de Sargadelos survived the 1798 uprising but was publicly executed by commoners in 1809 during the confusion following the French Napoleonic invasion. Small community constituencies (aldeia, couto or paróquia) had up the twenieth century particular arrangements that made the territories confined by their traditional borders, in one historian’s words, “truly a state of their own” (Ferro Couselo, 1952: 53, 60). In Jorge Dias’ ethnographic accounts of Vilarinho da Furna―a former village on the Portuguese border that was subsequently flooded to create a dam―and Rio de Onor, a similar comparison is made to explain the nature of community self-​governance in the middle of the twentieth century: “Vilarinho represents a kind of independent state, with its own government and laws” (1981:  80); “This kind of small state [Rio de Onor], between Portugal and Spain, adopted what could be called a representative democracy” (1984:  82). The Couto Misto, a territory that maintained de facto independence until the 1864 Treaty of Lisbon that established rigid borders between the Kingdoms of Spain and Portugal, has been considered unique by many authors (García Mañá, 2000), but its form of governance was in reality no different to other Galizan coutos. Spanish authorities, calling in 1845 for its suppression, argued:  “These three miserable villages with no more than 160 houses are currently an independent state within Spain … without any kind of dependency or subjection to any superior authority” (García Mañá, 2000: 69). Communal institutions have been described as “states” in an attempt to explain the power of rural popular assemblies that could only be compared to the competing state authority. García Ramos (1912), in his account of one such assembly government, the “Junta dos Homens de Taboadelo”, described its power as “absolute in the sphere of its attributions, territorially defined by the geographic boundaries of the parish and in terms of scope by everything of common interest”, with no “laws, ordinances or written rules that could limit its sovereignty”. Another Galizan historian, Murguía (1892: 3–​4), pointed out how the institution of the rural popular assembly was a continuity of the self-​governing bodies of antiquity, although the almost exclusive oral nature of its procedures and the autarchic focus of its decisions―on matters such as

244  Joám Evans Pim common grazing, mutual aid, communal buildings and livestock, irrigation etc.―has led to generally undermining its legislative, executive and judicial powers. However, in the context of community self-​sufficiency, full control over the most crucial aspects of rural life in fact translated as community sovereignty with reduced external interference. The full extent of the power of Galizan rural communities and their capacity for rhizome articulation, to use Deleuze and Guattari’s (2004 [1980]) image (also see Vail, 2004) is clearly manifested during the periods of (proto-​) state fragility, such as the fifteenth-​century Irmandinho revolts, the nineteenth-​ century Napoleonic invasion or the twentieth-​century Agrarian movement. In all three cases, coordinated action by rural communities was instrumental to the successes of emancipatory movements. For example, the decentralized Galizan rural guerrilla was ultimately responsible for the defeat of the Napoleonic forces after the collapse of hierarchical political-​military structures in 1809. In spite of the crucial role of community rural guerrillas in defeating the invaders, the subsequent emergence of the Spanish liberal state specifically targeted the autonomy of rural communities, leading to what Balboa López (1999: 20) called a “confrontation between a vigorous traditional rural civilization and a State that was still in construction during the 19th century”. An illustrative example is the Royal Order of May 22, 1848, in which it is declared as “inadmissible that rural communities by themselves and with absolute independence of municipalities and the Government can pervasively control lands called commons [del común de vecinos]”. The fact that today, in the twenty-​first century, these commons still represent a quarter of Galiza’s territory reveals the incredible persistence of rural communities in defending their lands in the face of an encroaching state.

The Frojám Commons: “An oak forest lies under the eucalyptus” Although usually hidden from strangers in the safest compartment of the rural homestead (casa), in many communities, original parchments of up to 500 years of age are still kept as a treasure that provides testimony of a history of struggles and hardships, but also collective rights hard-​fought by generations. Lawyers and judges dealing with civil law cases involving land rights or disputes over Galizan common lands or common buildings such as mills or baking ovens are continuously astonished by how communities can produce as evidence documents that have been kept in villages, within families, for centuries. During the second half of the twentieth century, in the renewed plunder of the commons initiated by Franco’s regime, documents that provided testimony of hundreds of years of community rights over the land became a prime target of the State Forest Services that sought to deprive communities of the written evidence of their past and rights.Today, the “spoils of war” of that campaign is still scattered across state archives, as Rico (2000: 122) attests, pending an unlikely restoration. Lack of written evidence often led to communities losing legal battles over lands

ICCAs in Galiza  245 seized over the past centuries.With an aging and dying population, the destruction of written evidence in the 1940s to the 1960s is followed in the present by the loss oral memory of the history of the land and its Indigenous peoples. The Frojám and Vilar Common Land Communities serve as an illustrative example. Frojám is one community that was able to circumvent state agents seeking to steal and destroy its written records, which has enabled it to better understand its past and defend its future. One such document reveals that on May 20, 1527, the Abbot of the monastery of San Martinho Pinário, in Santiago de Compostela, signed a manorial deed over the couto et lugar of Frojám that was under its jurisdiction. A  previous deed from March 6, 1409, confirmed that Frojám was already under this monastery’s jurisdiction at the turn of the fifteenth century.While manorial deeds established certain obligations―including, in the 1527 document, to provide “one good fattened sow” (una buena marrana cebada) every year –​they also secured the autonomy of the community within its territory; although considered irrelevant by most historians of manorial systems, community sovereignty over daily life in the context of Galizan rural autarchic communities is no small achievement. Through this sovereignty, the commoners of Frojám built communal watermills in the fifteenth to sixteenth century,7 established autonomous irrigation ordinances, kept communal flocks of sheep and other cattle, operated an autonomous school (escola de ferrado) and sustained a collective system of village solidarity and mutual support until the twenty-​first century. The dream of the fifteenth-​century Irmandade, “to have above us no lord nor castle”, was momentarily achieved in 1928, when the commoners of Frojám collectively extinguished the manorial ties that obliged them to provide the Viscount of San Alberto every month of September with 12 ferrados of wheat, 72 ferrados of rye, 2 rams, 2 kids (goat juveniles) and 6 cuartillos of lard (all valued at 23 pesetas of the time). After paying 6,049 pesetas, Frojám finally belonged to its commoners, including the then over 100 hectares of common lands. The joy did not last long as in 1930 the State Forestry Services issued a notice declaring that all common lands of the municipality were designated as “Public Utility Forests”, i.e., exclusive property of the state. The consequences were soon to follow. The western portion of the Commons was split between two mining companies extracting tin and tungsten ores that fuelled the rearmament of Europe leading to the Second World War. Extensive operations transformed the whole area into a lunar landscape of pits and shafts, producing acid mine drainage that devastated river life. Mining operations came to a standstill in 1990 and it was left to the Frojám Commons community to carry out remediation work, filling up pits and shafts and reforesting the area. The Eastern portion of the Commons was taken over by the State Forestry Services in November 1940 as “Patrimonio Forestal del Estado” and forcibly reforested following industrial forestry practices from 1947 onwards. Commoners were forbidden from taking the village sheep flock and feral horses (bestas) to the newly planted areas, effectively ending thousands of years of traditional communal silvopastoralist practices (in 2017, a five-​hectare stone

246  Joám Evans Pim enclosure to keep cattle dating back to the Early Middle Ages was identified by archaeologists in Frojám) (Grove et al. 2020). Heavy fines were imposed by forest officers in response to ongoing breaches by villagers and they were even required to pay the state to allow them to build their own fresh-​water supply from a spring in the seized common lands. As a resistance strategy, certain areas of common land were enclosed by villagers in the early 1930s in an attempt to pretend it was individual private property and keep the state away. On April 14, 1975, seven months before the death of Francisco Franco, the heads of all the houses of Frojám, men and women, signed a petition to the Civil Governor of the Province of Corunha requesting that the common lands usurped by the state be returned under the provisions of Law 52/​1968. This petition and similar ones from neighboring villages infuriated the municipality that formally held the legal property of seized lands on behalf of the state. On June 21, 1977, the municipal council unanimously approved a motion to be sent to the civil governor expressing that returning the Commons to the villages would be “very harmful in economic terms and extremely dangerous in social and political terms” and asking “Why should they now be returned and their dividends distributed among the villagers?”, described as “poor and ignorant people”. The devolution of the property of these lands to the villagers will find them without organization, capacity, or experience, many egoisms and passions; the resources, prestige [sic], and authority of the Local Council cannot be improvised by such village communities, and without such resources the administration [of the commons] will prove catastrophic.8 In spite of municipal resistance, the Frojám Commons was formally recognized as being collectively owned by the village on March 4, 1977, but direct control would take years to be achieved. Mining operations continued until 1990 and even after closure mine directors threatened to cut down trees planted over former mining grounds (“You plant them, but we’ll see who fells them”, threatened the mine director, as commoners recall). The 1940 State Forestry “Consorcio” contract was replaced in 1995 by a formally consensual agreement with the Galizan Forestry Services, finally repealed on May 8, 2002. Full control did not prove catastrophic as the municipal council foretold in 1977. But commoners regained control in 2002 of a land very different from the one usurped from their grandparents in the 1930s. Communal pastures were now forested with exotic Monterrey pine and eucalyptus, both highly flammable species that bring fear of forest fires every dry season. Old-​g rowth native forests were reduced to a few dispersed trees memorialized in the names of the land (microtoponymy): “Devesa” (deciduous forest), “Carvalhal” (oak forest), “Castinheiros” (chestnut trees), “Carvalhinhos” (small oak trees), etc. Gazing on a clear day from the top of the Frojám Commons range, at mount Gironha, the view is impressive, stretching out to the Cies and Ons

ICCAs in Galiza  247 islands to the south and the “Costa da Morte” to the north. Most of what is in sight looking at the Barbança peninsula is common land managed by hundreds of small communities. In fact, in most of the surrounding municipalities approximately half of the territory is commons (i.e., Porto Doçom, 54%; Boiro, 48%; Lousame, 45%; Muros, 42%; Dodro, 41%; Rianxo 39% etc.). But if we look more closely at the different shades of green, the landscape appears to be dominated by eucalyptus forest monocultures. Many of these are forestry plantations, but an increasing percentage is attributed to uncontrolled expansion after successive waves of forest fires. This exotic pyrophyte9 species, introduced to feed the industrial cellulose pulp mills, now dominates much of the Galizan landscape expanding over 725,000 hectares and being a key driver for wave after wave of fires. It has also become a symbol of the environmental and spiritual destruction of Galiza by capitalist modernity, both in terms of biodiversity and Indigenous rural socio-​cultural practices, displacing collective understandings of alternatives. Eucalyptus is a visible metaphor that represents a half-​century of colonial extractivist economy that ignored the social and environmental effects of depriving a land of its traditional stewards and displacing stewards from the land. With a closer look under the canopy, the effects of this species are evident, with layers of fallen bark turning the soil infertile for other forms of life (Becerra et al., 2018). But, walking through patches of eucalyptus trees in Frojám, one cannot avoid spotting native oak species (Quercus robur, Q.  pyrenaica and Q. suber) that struggle to survive, seeking to reclaim their territory. Commoners in Frojám realized that if logging was done carefully and selectively, instead of the usual clear-​cutting, eucalyptus trees could be felled while keeping most of the small native trees on the ground intact, and that if eucalyptus sprouts were repeatedly trimmed from stumps, the trees would eventually dry out or rot by fungi attack, leaving way for a thriving oak forest that would help to retain water on the ground, provide refuge to an immense biodiversity of creatures and open up new opportunities for multifunctional use by commoners and society. From 2017 onwards, this forest succession-​based approach has been applied in Frojám, including in riparian areas with high ecological value, with notable success. The notion of the Frojám commoners that Sob o eucaliptal está a carvalheira (“an oak forest lies under the eucalyptus”) is also a strong metaphor of community reawakening to the land and an ancestral relation that was interrupted by state seizures and state-​sanctioned degradation during most of the twentieth century. It is also a strategy that connects the struggle of small villages like Frojám with the wider society, much of which feels outraged with the environmental and social destruction of rural Galiza. If the eucalyptus has become a symbol for such destruction, the oak is its antagonist. And just as Murguía explained how ancestral oaks provided shelter for communal outdoor assemblies, oaks have again become a meeting point for those seeking to articulate emancipatory resistance in rural Galiza.

248  Joám Evans Pim The Vilar Commons The Barbança peninsula where Frojám is located has a rare density of common lands, considering the average for the province of Corunha, where most commons were extinguished or usurped during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In the eastern part of Galiza, where Vilar is located, community land ownership is extensive, including “common hand” lands but also a blurred diversity of consuetudinary arrangements such as montes de varas, which share intermediate characteristics with Roman private property as each homestead has defined percentages of land use rights that can be transmitted or inherited regardless of actual residency. In Triacastela,Vilar is one of the most recently acknowledged commons among the municipality’s nominal 17 that occupy over 30% of the council’s territory. But throughout Galiza many new common lands are being formally claimed and officially recognized after decades of neglect or de facto use. Reasons for reawakening include threats of destruction and land seizure, as in the case of Vilar, but also a reconnection between local communities and their ancestral lands that can be understood as part of the growing sense of Galizan indigeneity, in which community territories have origins sometimes going back to the Neolithic (as attested in the continuous boundary role of burial mounds for millennia). In many communities, this reconnection is only now becoming possible, several generations later, after the traumatic and many times brutal dispossession of the majority of communities in the early 1940s during the dictatorship.Vilar and its surroundings are an example of brutal repression during and after the 1936–​1939 Civil War that paved the way for dispossession of the commons and the general destruction of Indigenous forms of community political organization. Vilar likely emerged around 1208 from the split of a former settlement, Vila Velha de Tricastela, into smaller rural communities that maintain their ties through a common parish. The creation of the new settlements was sanctioned by a royal order that enabled them to maintain communal autonomy in the face of encroaching ecclesiastical and noble powers. Conflict erupted during the Irmandinho wars, in which the commoners of the region in which Vilar is located destroyed the castle of the powerful Count of Lemos in Sárria. With disruption to the hierarchical powers of nobles and clergy, local coutos such as Vilar became de facto independent entities although the final defeat of the Irmandinhos and the return of Pedro Álvares Osório, Count of Lemos, put an end to their short-​lived freedom. The new political scenario materialized through a manorial deed (foro) signed at the end of the fifteenth century by the commoners of Vilar and the Count of Lemos in which traditional community arrangements were maintained in exchange for an annual tribute of 20 ferrados of wheat (220 kg). The arrangement was strongly symbolic, as the tithe represented less than 5% of wheat produce of the couto of Vilar. In fact, the Counts of Lemos would soon relinquish this tribute to the nearby Samos Monastery and a 1587 inventory revealed a new arrangement consisting of 18 fanegas of rye (48 kg), 2 pigs and 2 goat kids.

ICCAs in Galiza  249 The nominal head of the community is the “Vereador”, who is usually the oldest man or woman in the community and has the tasks of calling and moderating the village assembly (concelho), overseeing community decisions and contributing to settling disputes. The Commons of Vilar is measured not only in lands and tributes but mostly in terms of heads of cattle, with a large community herd that survived until the 1936 Civil War. Cattle served to satisfy the community’s needs but were also used for trade and once a year 50 heads were taken to the markets of Nadela or Vila Franca do Bérzio (both approximately 60 km away) to exchange for tools and other items needed in the community.The community herd was cared for through vezadas, a system of turns to take cattle to graze in common lands. This was usually done by both children and elders and was a crucial to ensuring inter-​generational transmission of knowledge. During winter months, the community of Vilar also kept a escola de ferrado, a form of communal-​schooling where both children and adults learned how to read and write, skills considered increasingly important in the context of constant conflict with surrounding authorities that used literacy as a weapon. Being nominally a property of the Samos Monastery, during the nineteenth century Vilar had to face the threat of seizure through the ecclesiastical confiscations of Mendizábal. These repeated attempts of expropriation and privatization failed as the commoners resisted and public auctions for the lands could never be organized. In the 1930s, a century after the desamortización process of ecclesiastical confiscations had begun, the state still could not take hold of the ancestral lands of Vilar. This also partially explains why the lands of Vilar were never declared “Public Utility Forests” or subjected to forced reforestation by the “Patrimonio Forestal del Estado” during Franco’s dictatorship, as happened in Frojám and in many common lands contiguous to Vilar. Although in 1956 the State Forestry Services attempted to forcibly seize the ancient deeds from the commoners of Vilar they finally gave up. However, this did not mean that, just as in Frojám and other locations, common lands were nominally assumed by the municipality as council property, as consuetudinary forms of collective ownership were not recognized by law or the state. Although de facto control continued in the hands of the community, in 1972 the municipality sold the common lands of Vilar and another two contiguous communities to a mining company without the knowledge or consent of the Vilar community.The mining company intended to start an open-​pit limestone mine and the government supported repressive measures against local communities to facilitate their disintegration―a necessary step toward their eventual destruction. While during the 1970s Vilar had partially lost the battle against the mining company and the municipal administration, the conflict regained intensity in 2005, when the company sought to extend the area of its mining rights, and turned into overt hostilities in 2012, when the mine’s machinery was transported to the common lands of Vilar. Commoners placed themselves in front of bulldozers, ignoring police forces and local cacique political power-​ brokers attempting to enforce the mine’s “rights” over the seized commons that

250  Joám Evans Pim had been continuously used by Vilar in spite of the secretive arrangements made in 1972. The community’s actions and resistance catalyzed the reawakening of the Vilar Commons. The formal recognition of the Vilar Commons came 37 years after that of Frojám, with a resolution on July 16, 2014, that only acknowledged two-​thirds of the community’s traditional territory. Formal recognition was sought by the community to secure legal rights over a territory that had been used and managed since time immemorial, regardless of the particular circumstances of each historical moment. Just as the formal state seizures were ignored during Franco’s dictatorship, so was the continuing municipal ownership after 1975 and the contested sale of part of the lands by the municipality to the mining company in 1972. In 1993, the commoners of Vilar had created the Monte Caldeirom Community Association (“Associação Vizinhal Monte Caldeirom”), which provided legal personhood to traditional self-​government and exercised de facto (but not legal) control over the territory until the body was replaced in 2014 by the Vilar Commons Community. Self-​government involved not only land management but many other aspects of communal life:  from acquiring agricultural machinery to holding traditional annual festivities. And with renewed conflicts stemming from encroaching mining operations, it served a crucial role in organizing community resistance against the extractivist threats. The strength of village communalism in Vilar and neighboring communities and their stubbornness in their resistance against state seizures together with the active involvement of the local populace with agrarian and trade union movements during the first third of the twentieth century (including the 1934 revolts in Asturias) invited severe repression during the 1936–​1939 Civil War and subsequent dictatorship. The municipality of Triacastela lost a quarter of its population during the decade after Franco’s victory, which is locally attributed to exile and repression. The forced eviction and confiscation of those punished by the victors created a caste of nouveau riche fascist local lords that sought to further disintegrate communalist structures that were refractory to their influence. The accumulation of capital enabled by this new position facilitated the implementation of developmentalist ventures that further alienated communitarian social and customary arrangements. In such a context emerged Cementos Noroeste (1958), which started an open-​pit limestone development in the Mao Valley aimed at feeding its nearby Oural cement factory. This first deposit was depleted by 1980 after extracting 10 million tons, which signaled the move into nearby Triacastela, where limestone reserves were then estimated at 100 million tons. Close relationships with the regime were instrumental to obtain the necessary permits and land seizures but were also mutually beneficial, as cement was a critical material for the accelerated industrialization program pushed by the regime and its economic elites in Galiza. The construction of dams, factories and other infrastructures together with the monumental expansion of cities from the late 1950s to the 1980s profoundly shifted the nature of Galizan society, rapidly transforming its Indigenous culture. Gandhi’s renowned statement, “The blood of the villages

ICCAs in Galiza  251 is the cement with which the edifice of the cities is built” (1998 [1946], vol. 91: 56–​57), has a fully literal meaning in the case of Vilar and its neighboring communities. The power structures created during the dictatorship permeated political, economic and even judiciary institutions after Franco’s death, allowing the continuation and further expansion of such projects. Having initiated limestone extraction in 1978, the company was able to paralyze the recognition of the Vilar Commons in 1979 by continuously placing obstacles along the way. The situation of Vilar is not unique and hundreds of thousands of hectares of communal lands throughout Galiza are still pending formal recognition, in many cases out of illegal usurpations brought about by Franco’s regime. Although eucalyptus does not thrive in Galiza’s eastern mountains were Vilar is located, the whole area is targeted by open-​pit mining, particularly for slate but also limestone, turning whole valleys into lunar landscapes and killing river life for miles. Other extractivist megaprojects have been strongly contested by local communities, including the Iríbio wind farm, and it is Indigenous forms of common land ownership that pose one of the greatest obstacles for extractivist enterprises. Social desertification of the whole region has become a target for corporations―with the tacit involvement of the administration―as it has become a prerequisite for depredation. This has been intensively challenged by local communities like Vilar over the past decades, fighting against projects such as hazardous waste landfills, massive wind farms or new open-​pit mines that were to destroy not only the lands, but their spiritual heritage, which exists in intimate communion with the local communities that have cared and nourished them for generations. Destroying the lands, the communities have no future.

“I have a tree in my heart”: broadening circles of concern It remains to be seen if those igniting fires such as the one set in Frojám on May 1, 2016, or destroying ancestral sacred sites as the caves in the proximities of Vilar, are outmanoeuvred by those who are restoring fire-​resistant native forests and building resilient communities that are constantly willing to put themselves at risk to defend their natural and cultural heritage. Extractivist corporations have a veiled interest in “liberating” rural Galiza from its native population, which is often the sole obstacle preventing their projects from having the smooth development promised to investors. Galicia es una mina (“Galiza is a mine”) was the slogan of a governmental PR campaign to attract destructive mining prospectors under the promise of a “friendly” administration and “relaxed” regulations. The Spanish 1973 Law for Mining dates back to the dictatorship period and enshrines the “right” of usurpation. The subsoil belongs to the state and the state, if asked to do so by corporations, can forcibly evict communities from the land above the subsoil to extract the so-​ called “resource”. Ancestral rights or “free, prior and informed consent” are irrelevant. Forced eviction for “public interest” purposes is not restricted to mines, but has been repeatedly used in Galiza to deprive communities of their

252  Joám Evans Pim lands, allowing electric power corporations to erect dams and wind farms, and investment funds to build shopping malls. The same regulations prohibit communities from installing microhydro facilities for electric self-​sufficiency (even operating the 1565 Frojám water mill would today be illegal) or accessing wind farm concessions. Between 2007 and 2011 the commoners of Vilar were able to block through legal litigation and social mobilization a mega-​wind farm project that would have destroyed the Iríbio mountain range and unique ancestral forests theoretically protected within the “Ancares -​O Courel” Site of Community Importance. In Frojám, the Treito wind farm site was one of the first to be installed in Galiza and resistance was ill-​prepared to face the challenge under constant threat of forced expropriation. While the three wind turbines installed in the Gironha range in Frojám generate an annual income of over 1  million euros, the community receives an annual compensation of under 8,000 euros. Manorial ties may have broken in 1928, but the subsequent submission to the state has almost extinguished community sovereignty. Corporations and government alike are aware that small, aging, economically deprived populations present very little or no resistance, while local caciques (political power-​brokers) pave the way for social disengagement and contempt. The history of Galizan Indigenous communities is a history of rhizomatic networks that enabled dispersed and geographically isolated communities to work as a whole in the face of a political antagonist. Keeping communities socially isolated and unconnected to each other and the wider society while fostering internal conflict and conflict among neighboring communities has been a prime strategy to minimize social contestation. And so, the green eucalyptus monocultures, open-​mine pits and landfills take over the land that was once a mosaic of shifting seasonal tones and shades. When the last flames of the May 2016 fire in Frojám were put out and when commoners in Vilar discovered in 2012 the mining company’s plans to advance toward their village’s ancestral lands, a decision needed to be made: contempt or contestation. On January 20, 2018, the view from mount Gironha looking at Frojám’s eastern boundary is no longer that of a burnt land full of eucalyptus sprouts. Hundreds of volunteers with hoes and spades fill the landscape with holes bearing oak trees and other native specimens that will grow into a dense temperate broad-​leaf forest. They come from all walks of life:  50 three-​to-​ six-​year-​olds with 60 of their parents, from a nearby city; a women’s rugby team from another city, 145 km away; a dozen environmental activists from an environmental NGO; and the list goes on. Most of them donated in a flash crowd-​funding campaign that gathered over 10,000 euros in just two weeks from more than 300 benefactors. The campaign sought to replace areas dominated by eucalyptus in the Frojám Commons with native trees, but also―perhaps more importantly―to create a place for people to assemble and work together. In the same week, the Vilar and Frojám Commons, together with other collectives promoting the initiative, received a letter from the United Nations University Institute for the Advanced Study of Sustainability officially

ICCAs in Galiza  253 acknowledging a Galizan Regional Center of Expertise (RCE) on Education for Sustainable Development. The proposal of establishing such a center with a focus on common lands and their custodian communities stems from the perceived need of communities like Vilar or Frojám to develop new tools to defend their territories and customary governance in the face of destructive threats that are often backed by the apparent technical and academic legitimacy of state universities and research institutions. One of the five key goals of the UN University-​acknowledged Center is to “Empower Galizan society, particularly Galizan youth, to participate in Common Land Community governance and socio-​political processes, moving their local communities and Galizan society toward a sustainable and resilient future”. Through such a focus, communities like Vilar and Frojám are reconnecting with the escolas de ferrado tradition of self-​managed education aimed at defending the collective rights. Many generations learned to read in these community schools using the only written documents available at the time: parchments conserved in villages for centuries that many times featured in writing the ancestral boundaries that had existed for millennia and successive legal battles to defend them (Gabriel Fernández, 2009: 71). Through this work, communities like Vilar and Frojám seek to reclaim their right to generate and convey knowledge in a self-​managed and emancipatory approach that reaffirms their own educational institutions of the past. Compulsory state education and its private counterparts have been increasingly questioned by wider segments of society as a continuing instrument to spread cultural uniformity and social disengagement and contempt. In 2019 the Galizan mining lobby (Cámara Oficial Mineira) and the Galizan government launched a massive campaign targeting kindergarten, primary and secondary-​education schools with pro-​mining books, videos and curricular activities promoting uncritical views of extractivism that suppress its social and environmental consequences. On the contrary, self-​managed initiatives such as the Galizan Semente schools―that have been actively engaged in Frojám’s Montescola project―and rural home-​schooling or unschooling family-​based alternatives where collective solutions are not yet viable illustrate how communities are determined to end the continuing cycles of infantilization that perpetuate the logics of capitalist modernity and authoritarian populism in Galizan society. The main perceived obstacle of small rural communities facing large, sometimes multinational, corporations is “it’s only us against them”. The feeling of impotence and fear of reprisals is often paralyzing. By choosing contestation immediately after attacks, Frojám and Vilar sought to reconnect and rebuild the rhizome. In both cases several strategies were followed under the guiding vision of “broadening the circle of concern”. In Frojám, as the conflict with the mine peaked in 2016, the idea of opening the commons to schools and families from around the area was raised, seeking to engage children and their parents with how Galizan communities feel and relate to their land. The interruption of inter-​generational continuity in the land stewardship relation of

254  Joám Evans Pim Common Land Communities is as threatening as dispossession, and eventually leads to the factual extinguishment of communities. In March 2017, the first two schools (approximately 150 participants) initiated the “Montescola”10 program in Frojám, restoring an area previously degraded by acacia and eucalyptus trees and mining shafts. Each child and his or her parents planted a tree and were provided with a map indicating its precise whereabouts, so that it can be easily located in future visits. Children and their families returned in January 2018 and again in March 2019 to tend to their trees and supress acacia and eucalyptus sprouts while proudly wearing a badge with the phrase Levo no coração uma árvore (“I have a tree in my heart”). In fact, most of them knew the location of their tree by heart, and also related it with the trees of other children around it. Several children had already left the school after completing the last year, but still returned with their parents to keep the connection with the trees, the land and their friends. Also, in March 2017, Frojám had other visitors from around the world. The international Yes to Life No to Mining network was interested in visiting communities in conflict with encroaching mining operations, and delegates from Australia, Finland, the Philippines, New Zealand, Nigeria, Colombia and the UK exchanged views and facilitated a discussion among a dozen groups in the Lousame area. As in the traditional Hawaiian ahupua‘a mountain-​to-​sea ecosystems, a sense emerged that a watershed rhizome needed to be nurtured, from the headwater forests as Frojám to the beaches and mussel gathering sand banks in the estuary. The circle of concern had already widened significantly, exercising pressure and support. In Vilar, great emphasis was placed in the recognition and international acknowledgement of the Cova Eirós and other caves with Palaeolithic art in the surroundings of the village that are at threat of destruction by mining operations. Being in the immediate proximities of the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage route, unexpected support was found in pilgrim organizations that in turn helped bring the struggles of those fighting to save their ancestral lands in the mountains to those earning a living from providing services to pilgrims in the valley. Unthought-​of alliances and synergies have helped amplify the voices of small communities and their struggles, reaching wider audiences and helping them preserve a unique heritage for the whole of humanity.

“To change mountains we must first change minds” Para mudar os montes há que mudar primeiro as mentes (“to change mountains we must first change minds”) is a statement by one of the villagers in Frojám that is full of meaning and that is equally shared by the commoners of Vilar. The “re-​education” of society in the quest for contempt and collaboration was one of the crucial battles of the Francoist regime that emerged out of the 1936–​ 1939 Civil War aiming at the political infantilization and political sterilization of communities that had struggled for centuries and that had learnt to organize replicating the innovations of trade unions and other social organizations. The

ICCAs in Galiza  255 success of developmentalism and extractivism were dependent on the rupture of traditional dynamics of autarchy and solidarity: to spare the rod is to spoil the child. In this sense, eucalyptus monocultures and open-​pit mining throughout the territory are also a silent outcropping of decades of cultural conditioning to shift inter-​generational solidarity and land stewardship for quick cash gains. Not only did State Forestry engineers direct the plantation of thousands of hectares of seized forest lands with this species, but also struggled to impose the eucalyptus = progress association into the rural mentality―in parallel to its oak  =  backwardness counterpart. The same equation was preached with equal intensity by mining contractors and engineers that quickly disappeared after the mines closed, leaving behind degradation and critical environmental problems to the local communities that had been promised a bright future, as well as the radical transformations of agriculture through the forced introduction of agrochemicals and industrialized processes that created critical dependencies and impoverished the land, or the proliferation of dams destroying rivers, valleys, mountains and whole communities, which literally disappeared from maps. Such transformations were instrumental for the advancement of the state and to make up for Galiza’s late accession into capitalist modernity. In 1889, the chief mining engineer for the government’s mining district of Ourense and Ponte Vedra, Mr. Antonio Eleicegui, complained of the inability of the state to confront natives in their opposition to a British mining prospector: “although the civil governor has addressed the complaints [of the prospector], the truth is the Indigenous people are able to foil the mandates of authority” [note the term indígenas is used in the original Spanish Estadística Minera publication].Two years later, the peoples of Carbia set fire to the house of the British prospector, initiating a campaign of harassment that would continue until 1906, when the roof of his house was blown up―ironically―with dynamite. Popular resistance to this specific mine motivated the first known environmental legal suit in Galiza over river pollution and ecological damage in 1914. In one of the first known appearances of Frojám in the modern press, a small notice in the May 21, 1901, issue of La Correspondencia Gallega indicates that The majority of the peoples of the villages of Frojám, Silva Redonda and Vilas, in the district of Lousame, are opposed to the water concession requested by Mr. Henry Winter Burburi [sic] to use the waters of the Frojám and Silva streams. Mr. Burbury is, of course, the same mining prospector that the chief mining engineer referred to in 1889 and the mining concessions granted to him in the Frojám Commons in 1884 are today still in force and under exploitation by a large Spanish corporation. However, after more than a century of uneasy relations, new generations become deprived of the collective experience gained through centuries of struggle. In July, every summer since 2016, people get together in Frojám to remember, retell and share stories of a history that is not

256  Joám Evans Pim in the books but that is crucial to read the present and to write the pages of the future. In Vilar, the conflict with Cementos del Noroeste mining company started in the 1970s, together with two other struggles setting the context for community action. In 1972, the municipal government established a “tax on rain” through which a fee was to be collected on the basis of the roof surface area of every household, under the excuse that water collected by roofs was to be evacuated through municipal water systems. The mayor and the regime were ridiculed and civil disobedience dominated, leading all villages to stop paying any municipal tax in spite of threats and police repression. Civil disobedience extended to another tax (quota empresarial) imposed by the state on all those registered in the agricultural social security regime―at that time the majority of rural homes in Galiza―and that were declared as “businesses”. From the villages of Triacastela, the movement extended to the rest of the province of Lugo and to the whole of Galiza in 1974, becoming a mass movement that mobilized hundreds of thousands and eventually led to the end of the tax. During this time, the secretive actions of the mine went unnoticed and by the time the project became known to the local population, the company had secured its administrative and legal basis for operations. Subsequent legal battles were lost due to manipulation and corruption of acting lawyers and a subservient local political elite. Demobilization and social fracture imposed a veil of silence over the issue and the stories of such struggles go untold to younger generations. However, when the mining company sought to extend its area of operations in 2005, obtaining “usurpation rights” over Vilar and another five villages ―including lands, houses, water courses etc.― a new opposition movement exploded, led by the sons and daughters of the earlier generation that had initiated the struggle in the 1970s but had kept it hidden from the newer generation. Having failed to learn from the mistakes of the past, only in 2012 did they learn that ―as in the 1970s― the company had surreptitiously gained its expansion permits by 2008. In 2012, the company responded by sending its bulldozers to the Vilar Commons, which were confronted by the commoners and followed by a legal and administrative offensive that paralyzed mining development. In this context, the generational bridge was rebuilt through learning about the past and reengaging the older generation (now in their late 60s) in the struggle. Transparency and communication among participants was sought to prevent and stop attempts at manipulating and dividing the movement. Fear was lost and the mechanisms of repression and intimidation of the past ceased to function. Just weeks after the May 2016 fire in Frojám, the Galizan Director General of Mines and Energy was questioned in parliament regarding common land seizures by mining operations. The Partido Popular politician (and creator of the Galicia es una mina slogan) played the card of fear and issued a clear warning, stating that in the face of land claims, mining operators had the “right” to demand as much land as they needed and the state had mechanisms in place to

ICCAs in Galiza  257 ensure forced expropriation. Although there are theoretical limits to conflicting “public interests” (a private destructive project versus biodiversity, cultural heritage, ecosystem services etc.), the state prevails. Only the state can determine what is to be protected and what can be destroyed and Galizan commons are frequently targeted for destruction and degradation. To challenge this, the Frojám and Vilar communities reaffirmed their right not be destroyed or degraded by pursuing recognition as an Indigenous and Community Conserved Area (ICCA) and to be included in the World Database on Protected Areas (WDPA). Although these initial instruments are currently non-​binding in legal terms, they strengthen and support the position of both communities and their social perception. The experience in Vilar also brought about a shift in thinking and on how the community sees itself in the world. The claim of “indigeneity” explicitly presented in its 2015 Charter and tacitly recognized by Galizan authorities that acknowledged the community’s basic rules and norms signifies a shift in the way communities like Vilar understand their connection and natural, cultural and spiritual heritage with the land and water and, above all, with their own collective past.

“If you don’t like eucalyptus being set on fire in the forests, burn it in your fireplace” Far away from Galiza, in India, Gandhi had labeled the socio-​political structure that would support his envisioned society as a “Village Republic” or “Village Swaraj” following the traditional Panchayat local government (see Gandhi, 1962). Gandhi’s definition of Swaraj, self-​government, involves a “continuous effort to be independent of government control, whether it is foreign government or whether it is national”, as no government should take care of the regulation of everyday life (1998 [1925], vol. 32: 258). This is something most Galizan communities learnt after the so-​called “manorial redemption” when they ceased to have a lord and experienced previous lords being replaced by the state. Following Gandhi, in the face of renewed state authoritarianism: Independence must begin at the bottom. Thus, every village will be a republic or panchayat having full powers. It follows, therefore, that every village has to be self-​sustained and capable of managing its affairs even to the extent of defending itself against the whole world. (1998 [1946], vol. 91: 325) Emphasis on the rural village as a platform for emancipation is not based on an idealistic representation of communitarian existence, but on a deep understanding of the extractivist logics of capitalist modernity. Gandhi argued that two divergent schools of thought challenged each other to move the world in opposing directions: that of the rural village, based on handicrafts, and that of cities, dependent on machinery, industrialization and war (1998 [1944], vol. 85:  233). Gandhi considered modern cities to be an

258  Joám Evans Pim “excrescence” with the sole purpose of “draining the life-​blood of the villages”, being “a constant menace to the life and liberty of the villagers” (1998 [1927], vol. 38: 210). As Thoreau and Tolstoy marked Gandhi’s vision of politics, his correspondence with Edward Carpenter, author of Civilisation, Its Cause and Cure (1921), influenced the opposition established by Gandhi between Satyagraha and industrial civilization, understood as a “malady which needed a cure”. Industrialism, developmentalism and extractivism are based on the “capacity to exploit” and the “cure” for such maladies is to “become truly village-​minded” (1998 [1946], vol. 91:  390). When Frojám and Vilar focused on “changing minds”, perhaps Gandhi’s emancipatory prescription was being followed but also a deeper sense that connects these struggles with the Indigenous past of Galizan rural communities. We currently confront some of the most complex problems that we have faced as a species. With the confluence of peak oil (also applicable to coal, gas, phosphorus and other crucial resources for the industrial society), climate change, economic instability and a global population of 7.6 billion, the magic wand of capitalist modernity has again turned to enhanced extractivism over the “blood of the villages”. Civil society efforts, such as the transition towns, degrowth, permaculture or integral revolution movements, have called for the need to radically shift the way we relate to the environment and fellow humans. This same message has been conveyed by Indigenous Peoples and organizations for the past decades, rightfully claiming their right to self-​determination as part of the power to bring about change while honoring relationships with the lands and the gifts of the ancestors. Emerging forms of Indigenous governance and resistance (see, for example, Cherán in Michoacán, Mexico) and intentional rural communities can be illustrative of future arrangements. Galizan Common Land Communities illustrate a different kind of reawakening by rural collectives that no longer replicate the fads of the cities but instead reengage in the politically significant roots, histories and forms of Indigenous governance and self-​ management of their own emancipatory past. When confronting political, social and economics dynamics―be it direct political control from distant municipal, provincial, regional or state capitals; rural depopulation and demographic desertification; or control of economic resources by multinational corporations digging for gold, copper, tin or tungsten―emancipatory rural movements in Galiza have also come to see today’s cities as part of the problem. In a recent occasion, a dweller of Compostela’s suburbia visited Frojám. When complaining of the ubiquity of eucalyptus in the vicinity, the rarity of old-​growth oaks and the responsibility of rural communities for the continuous forest fires, a villager asked him what kind of wood he burned in his fireplace. After a moment of doubt―and perhaps self-​inquiry on the traceability of the neatly packed pallets of logs―he responded “oak”. The villager concluded: “If you don’t like eucalyptus being set on fire in the forests, burn it in your fireplace and leave the oak trees for your grandchildren”.

ICCAs in Galiza  259

Acknowledgments Most of this chapter was written through a research grant of the Emancipatory Rural Politics Initiative (ERPI) and the Political Economy of Resources, Environment and Population (PER) research group, at the International Institute of Social Studies, Erasmus University Rotterdam. I  am indebted to ERPI for its support and for accepting an earlier version at the “Authoritarian Populism and the Rural World” 2018 ERPI Conference. Participatory action research (PAR) implies that whole communities become active co-​researchers in common experimentations. The findings presented in this paper were made possible through the openness and active engagement of the people of the Frojám and Vilar Commons. I am especially indebted to Marcos Celeiro, Homem de Acordo in the Vilar Commons, and the commoners of the Casa de Cau in Frojám for their trust and unrestricted access to precious historical documents and memories. Finally, I wish to thank the openness and patience of the editors for their careful guidance and comments and for considering the inclusion of this chapter in the present volume.

Notes 1 See Cabana (2009). Specifically, on the Frojám 2016 fire, see YLNM. “Attack to Common Woodland in Galicia.” May 5, 2016. URL:  www.yestolifenotomining. org/​que-​hai-​detras-​do-​lume/​ (archived by WebCite at www.webcitation.org/​ 6wNRoeLt5). 2 CENEAM. “Froxán is first ICCA to go through national peer-​review process in order to be added to WDPA.” 2017. Available at: www.mapama.gob.es/​es/​ceneam/​ grupos- ​ d e- ​ t rabajo- ​ y - ​ s eminarios/​ c onservacion- ​ c omunal- ​ e n- ​ e spana- ​ I CCA/​ conservacion-​comunal-​espana1.aspx. (archived by WebCite at www.webcitation. org/​6wNKmukdM). 3 Protected Planet. “Froxán is first ICCA to go through national peer-​review process in order to be added to WDPA.” 2017. Available at:  https://​twitter.com/​ protectedplanet/​status/​917312982740238336 (archived by WebCite at www. webcitation.org/​6wNKUXz0L). 4 www.lavanguardia.com/​local/​20120529/​54300809710/​adega-​y-​una-​asociacion-​ cultural-​acusan-​a-​una-​cantera-​de-​usurpar-​un-​monte-​comunal-​en-​triacastela. html. 5 www.iccaconsortium.org/​index.php/​movement/​mission/​. 6 YLNM. “Resistance, Exchange, (Post)Extractivism:  YLNM Coordinators Meet in Galicia.” 2017. Available at:  www.yestolifenotomining.org/​ylnm-​coordinators-​ meet-​in-​galicia-​in-​photos/​ (archived by WebCite at www.webcitation.org/​ 6wOoBUKZH). 7 The “Avelán Mill” of Frojám already appears in a 1565 document (Arquivo Histórico Universitario de Santiago, Protocolos, N-​50, N.º 41) and remained in operation until the 1930s, when it was replaced by a new mill called “New Mill” or “Ínsua Mill”. 8 Arquivo Municipal de Lousame, 706.12. Municipal resolutions of May 16, 1975 and June 21, 1967.

260  Joám Evans Pim 9 Plants that have adapted to tolerate fire and/​or benefit from fire in terms of propagation. 10 “Montescola” is a made-​up word uniting monte (mountain, but also forested and pastoral lands in general) and escola (school). The chosen designation also resonated with the well-​known “Montessori” educational approach, that also emphasized child–​nature interaction.

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ICCAs in Galiza  261 Gandhi, Mahatma (1962). Village Swaraj. Ahmedabad:  Navajivan Publishing House. Available online at: www.mkgandhi.org/​ebks/​village_​swaraj.pdf. Gandhi, Mahatma (1998). The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi [Online]. New Delhi:  Publications Division, Government of India. Available online at:  www. gandhiserve.org/​e/​cwmg/​cwmg.htm. García Mañá, Luíz Manuel (2000). Couto Mixto. Unha república esquecida. Vigo: Universidade de Vigo. García Ramos, Alfredo (1912). Arqueología jurídico-​consuetudinaria-​económica de la región gallega. Madrid: Jaime Ratés. Giorgi, Piero P. (2010). “Not Killing Other People: The Origin and Other Future of Homo Sapiens,” in Evans Pim, Joám (ed.), Nonkilling Societies. Honolulu: Center for Global Nonkilling, pp. 83–​98. González García, Francisco Javier, Parcero Oubiña, César, and Ayán Vila, Xurxo (2011). “Iron Age Societies Against the State: An Account on the Emergence of the Iron Age in the NW Iberian Peninsula,” in Moore,T. and Armada Pita, X.L. (eds), Atlantic Europe in the First Millennium BC:  Crossing the Divide. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, pp. 285–​301. Grove, Richard, Evans Pim, Joám, Serrano, Miguel, Cidrás, Diego, Viles, Heather, Sanmartín, Patricia (2020). “Pastoral Stone Enclosures as Biological Cultural Heritage: Galician and Cornish Examples of Community Conservation,” Land, 9(1): 9; https://doi.org/10.3390/land9010009 López Alsina, Fernando (2013 [1988]). La ciudad de Santiago de Compostela en la Alta Edad Media. Santiago de Compostela: Universidade. López Carreira, Anselmo (1997). “Idade Media,” in Calo Lourido, Francisco et al. (eds), Historia Xeral de Galicia.Vigo: A Nosa Terra, pp. 93–​204. Murguía, Manuel (1892). “Orígenes y desarrollo del regionalismo en Galicia. Conferencia dada en la Lliga de Catalunya,” La Patria Gallega, 2 (2ª época): 1–​4. Parcero Oubiña, C. (2002). La construcción del paisaje social en la Edad del Hierro del Noroeste Peninsular. Ortigueira: Fundación Ortegalia. Parcero Oubiña, C., and Criado Boado, Felipe (2013). “Social Change, Social Resistance:  A Long-​Term Approach to the Processes of Transformation of Social Landscapes in the NW Iberian Peninsula,” in Cruz Berrocal, María, García Sanjuán, Leonardo and Gilman, Antonio (eds), The Prehistory of Iberia. Debating Early Social Stratification and the State. London: Routledge, pp. 249–​266. Parcero Oubiña, César, Ayán Vila, Xurxo, Fábrega Álvarez, Pastor, and Teira Birón, Andrés (2007). “Arqueología, paisaje y sociedad,” in González García, Francisco Javier (ed.), Los pueblos de la Galicia céltica. Madrid: Akal, pp. 131–​258. Reason, Peter, and Bradbury, Hilary (eds) (2008). The Sage Handbook of Action Research: Participative Inquiry and Practice. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Rey-​Rodríguez, I., et  al. (2016). “Last Neanderthals and First Anatomically Modern Humans in the NW Iberian Peninsula:  Climatic and Environmental Conditions Inferred from the Cova Eirós Small-​Vertebrate Assemblage during MIS 3,” Quaternary Science Reviews, 151: 185–​197. Rico, Eduardo (2000). “Política forestal y conflictividad social en el Noroeste de España durante el primer franquismo (1939–​1959),” Historia Social, 30: 117–​140. Saavedra Fernández, Pegerto (1994). La vida cotidiana en la Galicia del Antiguo Régimen. Barcelona: Crítica.

262  Joám Evans Pim Saavedra Fernández, Pegerto (2007). “Las comunidades campesinas en la Galicia moderna,” in Rodríguez, Ana (ed.), El lugar del campesino: en torno a la obra de Reyna Pastor.Valencia: Universidad de Valencia, pp. 359–​390. Saraiva, José H. (1978). História Concisa de Portugal. Lisboa: Europa-​América. Sastre Prats, I. (2008). “Community, Identity, and Conflict:  Iron Age Warfare in the Iberian Northwest,” Current Anthropology, 49: 1021–​1051. Sastre Prats, I. (2011): “Social Inequality during the Iron Age: Interpretation Models,” in Moore,Tom, and Armada Pita, Xose-​Lois (eds), Atlantic Europe in the First Millennium BC. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 264–​284. Scoones, Ian, Edelman, Marc, Borras Jr., Saturnino M., Hall, Ruth, Wolford, Wendy, and White, Ben (2017). “Emancipatory Rural Politics:  Confronting Authoritarian Populism,” Journal of Peasant Studies, 45(1): 1–​20. Steelman, Karen L. et al. (2017). “Cova Eirós: An Integrated Approach to Dating the Earliest Known Cave Art in NW Iberia,” Radiocarbon, 59(1): 151–​164. Tenorio, Nicolas (1982 [1914]). La aldea gallega.Vigo: Xerais. Available online at: www. ezaroediciones.com/​wp-​content/​uploads/​2008/​01/​15-​g1_​la-​aldea-​gallega.pdf. Vail, Jeff (2004). A Theory of Power. New York: iUniverse.

10  Sustainable development through Indigenous community-​based enterprises Mario Vázquez-​Maguirre

Introduction Indigenous people represent 8% of the population, but they also constitute approximately 14% of the poor and 17% of the extremely poor in Latin America (World Bank, 2017). In Mexico, poverty rates among Indigenous communities reach 70% (CONEVAL, 2016). Poverty is a multidimensional phenomenon that prevents individual development through different mechanisms of exclusion, which makes its eradication difficult.The efforts made by governments and private entities to fight poverty in Latin America have not had the expected results (Karnani, 2011).The paternalistic nature of many of these programs (Peredo and Chrisman, 2006) and the large amount of resources they demand make them unsustainable in the long term. In the last decades, other top-​down approaches have also contributed in this sense: the emergence of social enterprises, corporate social responsibility, inclusive business, the bottom of the pyramid, public–​private partnerships etc. These ventures have produced better results, mainly because the solutions have included concepts like social innovation, inclusion and sustainability. At the same time, some local solutions have proved their ability to create sustainable value and overcome poverty. Community-​ based enterprises are one example; they embody local values and culture into a market-​oriented organization that promotes well-​being among the community.These local solutions have not been as documented and promoted as other approaches, especially in Latin America. The objective of this chapter is to examine how successful Indigenous community-​based enterprises in Latin America promote sustainable development. To this end, the next section examines the literature about Indigenous community-​based enterprises, then each case is presented and analyzed based on a case study methodology with primary data. Final remarks are presented in the last section.

Indigenous community-​based enterprises Indigenous enterprises may differ from traditional theories and models of entrepreneurship because there are differences in personal values, culture and

264  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre traditions (Dana ​​ and Anderson, 2007), and also in the level of marginalization and development (Vázquez-​Maguirre, 2012). Indigenous paradigms that privilege ecological balance, solidarity, the preservation of culture, a holistic point of view and social and economic equity may also be in conflict with contemporary Western economic paradigms of development and entrepreneurship (Curry, Donker and Michel, 2016). Indigenous people create their enterprises with a perspective based on their culture and traditions, which generally aims to benefit the community. Sustainability (the simultaneous creation of economic, social, environmental and also spiritual value) is a concept that most Indigenous groups incorporate when they start a venture (Vázquez-​Maguirre, Portales and Velásquez, 2018). An important dimension of the economy in Indigenous communities is based on reciprocity and subsistence (Inter-​American Development Bank, 2006). These groups also share an entrepreneurial orientation since these communities usually live in remote rural areas where they face a certain degree of marginalization, far from job opportunities, which force them to produce an income on their own (Peredo et al, 2004; Hindle and Lansdowne, 2005); Santos (2012) adds that the neglected positive externalities that these communities usually face end up promoting the creation of social-​oriented ventures that ultimately represent a sustainable solution to the issues of the community. Peredo and Christman (2006) define a community as a local group that shares geographic location, local culture, ethnicity and other relational characteristics. Indigenous communities build their social networks within their own ethnic group, so their clients, suppliers and other stakeholders usually belong to the same group and community. Indigenous people support each other and create opportunities for cooperation (Hindle and Lansdowne, 2005), so they tend to sell their products and services in markets located in the community itself; they negotiate prices not based solely on quality, but on the kind of relationship they have with the buyer. They also work collectively, in families or communes oriented toward cooperation rather than competition (Dana and Anderson, 2007). One of the preferred vehicles for productive activities is the community-​ based enterprise. This enterprise is created and managed by the community, which cooperates for the common good; it is independent, endogenous and autonomous. While the members of a cooperative share an interest in the activity (e.g., coffee, cattle, textiles), community-​ based enterprises share an interest in the community (Peredo and Christman, 2006). Collective ventures with a social mission such as social enterprises and community-​based enterprises can be considered a useful vehicle for Indigenous people toward self-​determination and self-​managed development, as they gain control and management of natural resources and their territories (Michela Giovannini, 2012). However, not all communities can create community-​based enterprises. They require collective knowledge, capacity to organize, governance and social capital, which allow the social organization to become an economic organization (Vázquez-​Maguirre and Portales, 2014). Examples of

Indigenous community-based enterprises  265 successful community-​based enterprises are scarce in the literature, let  alone cases from Latin America. An exploratory methodology has been recognized as being particularly useful for researchers interested in examining phenomena in emerging economies (Hoskisson et al., 2000). Community-​based enterprises are complex to isolate since they are embedded in the community, so a case study strategy may be convenient to explore the experience within their actual circumstances (Eisenhardt, 1989). Both cases in this chapter were selected based on their success, which was determined by interviews with experts, size, visibility and the impact generated. These criteria may be uncommon, but traditional performance measures may not be adequate in assessing the relative success of Indigenous social ventures (Toledo-​López et al., 2012). The richness of the context in case studies like the ones analyzed in this work usually rely on more than one data collection method (Yin, 2003); 70 semi-​structured interviews in the case of Grupo Ixtlán and 20 in Granja Porcón are the main instrument of data collection. The protocol of initial questions included four dimensions:  social, economic, environmental and personal aspects (family, career path, role in the community, personal expectations etc.). The criteria for selecting the interviewees were, in order of importance, visibility, expert knowledge and reference. Observation was the second method of data collection. It included more than 100 hours in the facilities of each community-​ based enterprise. Also, secondary data analysis in the form of documents for internal and external stakeholders allowed data triangulation in both cases. Data analysis followed the process of categorization, abstraction, comparison, dimensionalization, integration, iteration and refutation proposed by Spiggle (1994).

Grupo Ixtlán Ixtlán de Juárez is the main community of a municipality with the same name located in the mountains of the Sierra Norte, 62 kilometers north from the capital of the state of Oaxaca, in the south of Mexico. Oaxaca is the third-​poorest state in the nation. On average, a household in this region has an income that represents 60% of the national average (INEGI, 2016). In 2016, the country had a per-​capita GDP of 8,200 USD (World Bank, 2016), with urban households earning on average twice the income of rural households (INEGI, 2016). Ixtlán has an area of 19,000 hectares at an average of 2,030 meters above sea level. It has a variety of climates that promote biodiversity, from oak and pine forests in the highlands, to evergreen rainforests in the lowlands.The community of Ixtlán has approximately 3,000 inhabitants, while the municipality, which includes 19 other small communities, has 8,268 inhabitants (CONAPESCA, 2015). Before Grupo Ixtlán was created, the municipality was ranked among the most marginalized regions of the country. According to the 1993–​2003 Forest Management Program of Ixtlán de Juárez, the municipality of Ixtlán had 1,426 households (6,230 inhabitants); almost two-​thirds were built mainly of mud

266  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre and one third was built of wood. The community’s underground drainage reached 20% of the households, 11% use septic tanks and the rest had latrines or practiced outdoor defecation. Garbage was mostly burned in the backyards and a minority of households threw their garbage in a truck that drove through the main blocks of the community. Approximately 80% of the households had electricity, 20% had water piped inside their house, 46% had water supplied outside their house but on their land and the rest had to get fresh water from public locations. Although a foreign company supplied gas tanks, most homes burnt oak wood as fuel. Governance Indigenous communities represent 14.3% of the surface of the country (Freshwateraction, 2012) and they are mainly organized under communal property. This minority enjoy special protection of their customs and territorial integration. Articles 4 and 27 of the Mexican Constitution provide social guarantees that aim to protect interests of certain disadvantaged groups like Indigenous people. Zapotecs, the predominant ethnic group in Ixtlán, represent the third-​largest Indigenous group in Mexico, after the Nahuas and Mayas, with over 440,000 people (Lewis, 2009). The Zapotecs are deeply religious; polytheism has mixed with the Catholic religion in a unique form. Community participation involves hierarchical-​religious codes of conduct, implying strong luxury-​ ceremonial expenses. Subsistence production of Zapotec families is based on ancient primary activities (cultivating corn, beans and squash; hunting deer and turkey), which allow them to have food for only three to five months of the year. They complement their economy with the commercial production of handicrafts and remittances from migration (Vázquez-​Maguirre, 2012). Communities with communal property are called ejidos or comunidades, and they are governed by three bodies: the General Assembly (GA), the Commissariat Communal Property (CCP) and the Supervisory Council (SC). The GA is the highest authority, and it is formed by every comunero or ejidatario (member of the communal land ownership scheme). This body meets at least twice a year and has the faculty to regulate matters such as procedures, profits distribution, land distribution, exploitation of resources, boundaries and purpose of each plot. Therefore, it is also the highest authority governing community-​ based enterprises in Mexico. Every community elaborates a communal statute (a formal written procedure that governs communal life) based on the Agrarian Law, the Mexican Constitution and the environmental laws that may affect the community. One of the objectives of this statute is the implementation of effective sustainable activities at the community level while preserving the group’s culture and self-​determination. Every community is responsible for the modification and enforcement of this statute (SEDATU, 2017). The CCP, instead, is the body responsible for implementing the GA’s agreements, enforcing the communal statute, as well as representing the community in land-​related issues. The CCP consists of a president (who is also the

Indigenous community-based enterprises  267 head of any communal productive enterprise), a secretary, a treasurer and their respective alternates or substitutes; it also may count with auxiliary secretaries and form special commissions. The third governance body that Agrarian Law designates is the SC; it consists of a president, two secretaries and their respective alternates. Its main function is to supervise the CCP compliance with legal procedures and accountability. Every member of the CCP and SC is elected by the GA for a three-​year term (SEDATU, 2017). In this sense, the democratization of natural resources in Mexico through agrarian reform created a common structure and form of governance for the rural areas. This structure has significantly influenced the country’s community-​based enterprises (Bray, Antinori and Torres-​Rojo, 2006). In some communities of southern Mexico, this traditional form of governance has provided the organizational capacity needed to take advantage of remittances for the economic development of the community as a whole (VanWey, Tucker and Díaz McConnell, 2005). The first enterprise of what would become Grupo Ixtlán was created in 1988. After decades of foreign exploitation by the Canadian-​owned Fábricas de Papel Tuxtepec (a company that was nationalized in 1965), in 1974 the federal government unilaterally created a locally managed venture to exploit the forest. Four neighboring communities were granted rights to exploit the land where they have lived for generations. As each community later established its own community-​based enterprise, they decided to split in 1988. Thus, the Unidad Comunal Forestal Agropecuaria y de Servicios (UCFAS) was established in 1988, and to this day it remains fundamental for Ixtlán’s community development. UCFAS was managed by the CCP and had the mission to provide decent jobs for the community and generate conditions of prosperity that would prevent people from migrating to the United States.The core business of this enterprise was the production of wood furniture, doors and windows that were later sold in the capital of the state, Oaxaca City. As the community demanded more products and services, the GA asked the CCP to open more departments: transportation, cattle, agriculture, a gas station and a hardware store. Later, the enterprise built eco-​touristic facilities and a larger furniture factory for 120 employees. In 2007, the size and complexity of the enterprise prompted a discussion about disincorporation. UCFAS’ manager at that time and the CCP agreed that the organization was getting too large and highly diverse. The president of the CCP explains the problem: “we did not know which project was profitable and which was not, they [the managers] all said that they were generating profits when perhaps one or two covered the losses of all the others” (personal communication, March 3, 2012). As a result, they decided to split it into four independent entities:  Servicios Técnicos Forestales (STF, forest management), UNFOSTI (forest exploitation), UCFAS (furniture factory and other services) and Tienda Comunitaria Ixtleca (hardware store). In order to improve decision-​making, the CCP also formed an advisory committee to analyze the specific problems of the enterprises before presenting them to the General Assembly. In 2012, four more enterprises were also independently managed (Figure 10.1): Gasolinera Comunidad Agraria (gas station),

newgenrtpdf

268  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre

General Assembly

C.C.P.

Advisory Committee

Board of Directors STF General Manager STF

Board of Directors UNFOSTI General Manager UNFOSTI

Board of Directors UCFAS General Manager UCFAS

Board of Directors Gasolinera General Manager Gasolinera

Figure 10.1 The structure of Grupo Ixtlán after 2012.

Supervisory Council

Borad of Directors Tienda Ixtlán General Manager Tienda Ixtlán

Board of Directors SOFOM General Manager SOFOM

Board of Directors Ecoturismo General Manager Ecoturismo

Board of Directors ICOFOSA General Manager ICOFOSA

Indigenous community-based enterprises  269 SOFOM Ixtlán (productive micro-​lending), Ecoturixtlán SPR de RI (eco-​ touristic facilities) and ICOFOSA Integradora Comunal Forestal de Oaxaca (furniture retail stores and commercialization). Grupo Ixtlán is still managed by the CCP and the GA, but each manager has more independence regarding decision-​making and management style. Empowering mechanisms Environmental awareness The Zapotec worldview, similar to other Indigenous groups in Mexico, considers the environment and natural resources to be sacred elements that need to be preserved from one generation to the next. Therefore, they do not think about the forest as a resource to be exploited for profits, but a place to be managed responsibly in order to ensure that the ecosystem stays unaltered. This perspective has resulted in Grupo Ixtlán being extremely conscious of its environmental impacts, to the point that it has created innovative mechanisms to reduce the negative impact of its operations. Grupo Ixtlán has a greenhouse with capacity for half-​a-​million pine trees, enough to reforest 100% of the hectares it annually exploits. In addition, there is a plan to forest grazing areas traditionally used for cattle, and thus extend the available area of harvest. ​​ The CCP organizes tequios (free community work) where the community witnesses how the different enterprises take care of the environment, the reforested areas and the methods used to preserve the natural resources. The president of the CCP adds that, during these tequios, a special emphasis is placed on explaining the forest management program to the children, as they are going to be the main beneficiaries of these actions. The pine trees planted today will take an average of 40 years to grow; therefore, the next generation will enjoy these resources. Additionally, the GA decided initially that only 17.9% of the 19,000 hectares of Ixtlán’s territory is subject to exploitation, while the rest is under conservation and protection. These activities help to legitimize the activities of Grupo Ixtlán with the community and other stakeholders. Additionally, the organization is looking for alternate sources of income from the forest. Two examples are a project to harvest mushrooms and another that explores the forest’s potential to absorb CO2. Both initiatives are led by the first employee to have a master’s degree (a young woman from the community). One of the policies of this community-​ based enterprise is not to use fertilizers or pesticides in the forest. Workers believe those chemicals will leach into the water supplies of the community, so they prefer not to do so. Under these circumstances, bacteria and insect plague control units have developed innovative techniques to combat fires and plagues (e.g., the team uses ropes to climb the trees instead of using shoes with metal spikes, and they usually climb from tree to tree using adjacent branches, rather than climbing down and then back up). They have been so successful that they now provide training to other

270  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre communities. The enterprise also preserves forest paths in perfect condition and has a team of forest rangers to combat fires and illegal hunting and logging. These measures would not be possible if Grupo Ixtlán did not provide the financial resources to preserve the ecosystem. Profits distribution policy Grupo Ixtlán has a policy of profits distribution that contributes to the achievement of sustainable operations: 30% is invested in productive projects for the growth and survival of each enterprise (the economic dimension), 30% is destined for the construction of public facilities and infrastructure in the community (the social dimension), 30% is investment in forest management and other green projects (the environmental dimension) and the rest (10%) is invested in a social welfare fund for the workers. Every year the GA decides what social, economic and environmental projects it is going to support with the profits generated. For example, the money designated to the economic dimension can be invested in one or two enterprises (larger facilities, technology or new product development). Regarding the social dimension, recurrent investments are the purchasing of agricultural equipment for the benefit of the community and the sponsoring of public facilities. Finally, the environmental investment usually focuses on paths and roads maintenance, reforestation (including greenhouse operation) and plague eradication (equipment and salaries). This policy, which has remained unaltered over the years, helps Grupo Ixtlán to avoid privileging one dimension over the other two. They assert that all three dimensions are equally important to achieving a better quality of life and ensuring future generations have a better place to live. Lifetime jobs and entrepreneurial skills Grupo Ixtlán has a policy of lifetime employment where permanent workers cannot be fired (seasonal workers are fired and hired back according to commercial demand and forest management). One of the managers comments about this policy that if the mission of the enterprise is to generate decent jobs and prosperity, then firing a worker would contradict this mission (personal communication, March 2, 2012). One of the side effects of this policy is that the workers have decided to create their own businesses. To promote these ventures, Grupo Ixtlán grants interest-​free loans up to 1,500 USD, and opens its supply chain to companies from the community. In addition, SOFOM (a micro-​finance company), which is part of Grupo Ixtlán and operates under principles similar to those of ethical banking, grants loans of up to 5,000 USD at a monthly interest rate of 1.3%, much lower than the cost of micro-​credit in Mexico. Among the funded projects are taxis, motorcycle taxis, a company that sells purified water, an internet cafeteria, a video club, trout farms and the building of rooms for rent (mainly for foreign students that come to study at a state university campus recently created in Ixtlán).

Indigenous community-based enterprises  271 Two of the cultural features that have permeated the organization are the horizontal or flat structure and democratic participation. The structure of each company is flat, with three main levels: a manager, a department or team leader and the workers. Primary data suggest that the ratio between the top manager and the employee with the lowest income is approximately 3:1. Members of the CCP and CB are elected democratically, and workers are encouraged to participate in decision-​making.They are also encouraged to learn different jobs and a system of promotions tries to make sure the best worker is chosen to lead the organization. Grupo Ixtlán has a gender equality policy, which means that salaries are determined by position and that women can end up leading an enterprise. This is not common in male-​dominated cultures such as Mexico’s, and this phenomenon is exacerbated in rural areas and Indigenous communities. In 2012, three out of eight enterprises of Grupo Ixtlán were led by women under 40 years old. This community-​based enterprise also hires young people with no experience. One of the workers at the gas station agrees with this policy: “how are they going to gain any experience if no one gives them the chance to work?” (personal communication, March 6, 2012). Sustainable development The policies described above have empowered workers to create businesses, employment and a stronger economy that benefits everyone in the community. Some workers have quit their jobs to focus entirely on their ventures. As more jobs are available, the average salary has raised to twice what neighboring communities usually pay a worker with similar skills. Other economic impacts include an increasing number of workers from other communities that rent rooms in Ixtlán and demand services and goods. Also, Grupo Ixtlán provides machinery and equipment for a small fee so people from the community can plant their crops or build their homes more efficiently and at a lower cost. It also donates firewood for cooking meals or heating water, although most of the households already have stoves and gas water heaters. Hence, Ixtlán has become the regional trade center in the last decades. People from small communities (and merchants from the capital of the state) travel to Ixtlán once a week to trade goods. An informal market that covers five or six blocks near the main plaza shows the importance the community has achieved for the development of this region; the community now has the infrastructure to generate economic growth. Regarding the environmental dimension, there have been positive impacts such as those described above. One proof is the Forest Stewardship Council accreditation. Grupo Ixtlán earned this as a result of sustainable management practices both in the forest and in the furniture factory. In addition, World Wildlife Fund also awarded the eco-​ tourist facilities for their sustainable operations and waste management. Finally, in the social dimension, the GA has asked the CCP to build public infrastructure with the profits generated by Grupo Ixtlán. Equipment and

272  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre financial resources are destined annually to build and improve parks, schools, streets and street lightings, the main plaza, the government building, the municipal dump, a water treatment plant and roads. Some of these projects are co-​financed with government authorities, but Grupo Ixtlán usually leads every venture since it can allocate resources more efficiently than municipal authorities. The community-​based enterprise also helps to organize the community religious celebrations, which traditionally demand important financial resources. Zapotecs in this region are deeply religious, so these celebrations are the most important events of the year. Grupo Ixtlán is also sensitive to religious traditions; most of the workers have vacations on those days of celebrations, and there are small altars inside the facilities of some enterprises where workers can worship the Guadalupe Virgin and local saints. There is religious tolerance across the community and in the organization. One of the workers of the furniture factory comments: “it is not an issue like in other communities; religion is a private matter” (personal communication, March 2, 2012). The role of women has changed since they had the opportunity to work. A third of the almost 250 workers are women. They have taken more positions since the first women demanded a seat at the GA in the early 1990s. Women usually do not participate in general assemblies in other communities, but in Ixtlán they represent 10–​15% of the GA. A male worker points out: “Women do not just sit at the meetings, they participate and everybody listens to them” (personal communication, March 6, 2012). A retired worker adds: “women are smarter than men in many jobs … they do some work better than us” (personal communication, February 28, 2012). Ixtlán has also a male-​dominated culture, but the role of women has slowly changed from being at home taking care of the children to being the household’s main source of income. Almost a third of the community’s households are led by women (an unusually high percentage when compared with neighboring communities). This has also had a positive effect in general well-​being since social programs in the region have demonstrated women usually spent their income on activities that lead to higher household prosperity and well-​being. Data from CONEVAL indicate that, in 2015, the municipality had on average a mid-​level degree of marginalization, which is lower than in surrounding municipalities. Regarding public services, piped water reached 99% of the households, and 99% had electricity and drainage (CONAPESCA, 2015). Social welfare is also evident; 74% of the inhabitants have social security, and 96% of the children between 6 and 14 years old go to school. Most of the streets are paved; 93% of the households have a television, 39% have a car or truck, 34% have a computer and 18% have internet (INEGI, 2010). The community has a sanitary landfill wherein the municipal authority has also created a recycling center and a water treatment plant. Grupo Ixtlán has become a community-​based enterprise that constitutes a model of sustainable development for Indigenous communities in México. Government agencies have a program where other Indigenous communities from the nation get to visit Ixtlán for a week. They stay at the eco-​tourism

Indigenous community-based enterprises  273 facilities, where the general manager of each enterprise teaches them how the enterprise works and shares the best managerial practices.The government hopes that these talks can motivate other communities to create their own community-​ based enterprises to promote sustainable development in other regions. The relative success experienced by the community of Ixtlán in promoting sustainable development through a community-​based enterprise suggests that some Indigenous communities in Mexico have developed productive capabilities based on their culture, governance, local knowledge and spiritual beliefs. But there are also successful cases in other countries of Latin America, such as Peru.

Granja Porcón One fifth of the population of Perú lives in rural areas (World Bank, 2016a). These rural areas are mainly located in the highlands and jungle region. The GDP per capita is approximately 6,050 USD (World Bank, 2016); however, in rural areas this number is 49% less than the national average. Ethnic origin also has a significant influence on poverty; those identified as Indigenous people observe higher rates of poverty than those classified as white or creole. A total of 76 Indigenous groups co-​exist in the country, most of them heavily mixed (INDEPA, 2010). Granja Porcón is located in the region of Cajamarca, in the northern highlands of Peru. Cajamarca is mainly a rural region, considered one of the poorest in the country despite the high economic growth that mining has brought to the area. According to the National Statistics Institute (INEI), in 2016, 43.8% of Peruvian households in these areas were poor, and between 16.6% and 23.3% of them lived in extreme poverty (people with a per-​capita expenditure that is less than the cost of a basic food basket). The main economic activities in Cajamarca, as in the rest of rural areas, are agriculture, livestock and mining. Many of its inhabitants end up migrating to the coastal cities in search of better employment opportunities. Granja Porcón has 1,200 inhabitants, mainly descendants of the Canari-​ Cajamarca ethnic group. This group practiced polytheism and polygamy and based its economic activities on agriculture and trade with ethnic groups on the coast of Peru. They were conquered by the Inca ethnic group in the in the fifteenth century. The origin of the community dates back to the mid-​ nineteenth century. As the flora of the region consisted mainly of grassland, during the early years there was investment in acquiring livestock breeds to complement the agricultural activities.The first pine tree plantations also began (Carton, 1996), as the future leaders of Granja Porcón decided that, in the long term, planting pine trees could provide the resources the community needed to generate jobs. Over the next two decades the Baptist religion began spreading into the region, and Granja Porcón was one of the places where the first mass conversions of peasants occurred. The land reform division coincides with the adoption of these new religious patterns.

274  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre Peru had a military-​led agrarian reform in 1970; as consequence, a new form of land tenure was created:  the Agricultural Society of Social Interest (ASSI). ASSI Atahualpa was created in Porcón. It worked as a cooperative, but without the traditional subsidies from the government; therefore, farmers were left with a minimum of resources by which to carry on with their subsistence economy and with little knowledge of how to commercialize their products (Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2003). In the early 1980s, the ASSI Atahualpa changed its name to Agricultural Cooperative Atahualpa Jerusalem, better known as Granja Porcón, in order to focus on productive activities. This community-​based enterprise was initially composed of 53 members who adapted Baptist religious values to operate the enterprise. The mission of this organization is to provide decent jobs and a better quality of life to the community. To this end, Granja Porcón continued forestation activities in the region with the help of external organizations that supplied them with pine trees. It did this activity through a process of free voluntary worked called minga. The general manager of Granja Porcón recalls the story: Based on Isaiah 41:19 in the Bible, which says: in the solitudes I planted cypresses and pines. Then I tell you that we must forest … that is the only way we are going to have enough jobs for all of us. (Personal communication, May 1, 2013) Currently, it owns approximately 7,000 hectares of forest lands. Until the 1990s, Granja Porcón was focused on timber exploitation, but it started a process of diversification as it engaged in productive alliances with neighboring mining companies. The organization expanded into different departments: forestry, tourism (a zoo, wood cabins, handcrafts, camping facilities, restaurants with regional meals and horse-​riding tours), dairy (a project in alliance with Nestlé), aquaculture (trout), agriculture and livestock (cows, sheep, vicuñas). Tourism and forestry constitute more than two-​thirds of the organization’s income. By 2014, Granja Porcón had 200 permanent jobs and the same number of temporary jobs. Temporary employees usually come from neighboring communities and are hired seasonally to work in forest harvesting activities. Governance The highest authority in the community is the General Assembly (GA), which meets twice a year in ordinary meetings and, on average, four times in extraordinary reunions. The GA, originally constituted of 60 members, has grown to approximately 85 members. It has four committees: the Board of Directors and the Supervisory Board, both formed by a president, a vice president, secretary, members with specific functions and their alternates; an Electoral Committee for the renewal of the committees; and an Educational Committee to promote education of children in the community (see Figure 10.2).

Indigenous community-based enterprises  275 General Assembly Board of Directors Educational Committee

Electoral Committee

Supervisory Board

General Manager

Department of Tourism

Department of Livestock

Deprtment of Forestry

Department of Agriculture

Department of Fish Farming

Department of Dairy Products

Figure 10.2 Organizational structure of Granja Porcón in 2013.

The governance of the organization follows a scheme similar to that of the community, which is dictated by law. The GA democratically elects a general manager every five years. Unlike Ixtlán, unlimited terms are possible for this position. This is an important feature because it allows managers to gain expertise and promote long-​term projects. The general manager hires the head of each department and other employees without asking for the approval of the GA. Among the principles that lead Granja Porcón are democratic control of the enterprise and its members, self-​determination and independence, training and transparency and cooperation with stakeholders, especially the community. These principles are based, partially, in its Christian values. One of the managers quoted the Bible (Acts 4:32) as part of the philosophy: “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had” (personal communication, April 30, 2013). He also believes other communities have not been able to create successful community-​based enterprises because they are managed for personal gain, with corruption, and unethically. Granja Porcón, influenced by Indigenous values, is also a flat organization. There is a general manager, the head of each department, and the workers, who sometimes are organized in teams with a leader. The general manager recalls that, in the 1990s, he earned as much as a regular worker, but now the spread between salaries suggests that the ratio between the general manager and the worker with lowest salary may be 5:1. Cajamarca is a department with deep conflicts between communities, government and mining companies. Mining incidents, misinformation and the idea that the profits derived from mining activities have not produced well-​being in the region have generated strikes, protests and violence. Under this scenario, Granja Porcón has had to develop collaborative and productive relation

276  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre with each stakeholder: mining companies, neighboring communities, government, suppliers and clients. Dialogue, in the words of the general manager, has been fundamental for the peaceful coexistence of different ethnic groups in the region. He adds: “There are places that live in conflict, we do not have any, they [external stakeholders] take care of us and we of them … we do not lose our time on strikes, violence, we prefer to dialogue” (personal communication, May 1, 2013). Empowering mechanisms Environmental awareness The sense of being one with nature is also part of this Indigenous community. Granja Porcón diligently takes care of the recently planted forest and the ecosystem that developed around it. Although the organization has a greenhouse that replenishes harvested areas, it has developed alternative projects to timber extraction: mushroom harvesting, horse riding paths, camping and other tourist-​related activities. Also, one of the projects with Newmont Mining involves a trout farm that also functions to monitor the water quality of the nearby river. Granja Porcón has built alliances with tourist agencies in Cajamarca (the state capital) in which it offers daily tours to Porcón. The organization has the capacity to receive between 200 and 300 tourists, who usually stay in the facilities for five or six hours. They usually visit the zoo, eat regional meals, buy dairy products and handicrafts and go hiking or horse riding. Regarding the operation of restaurants and other touristic activities, the use of plastic is limited only to the dairy products that tourists take home; the inputs needed for daily operation are mostly produced locally (fruits, vegetables, cereals, meat, dairy, firewood, blankets, wood, wool, alpaca etc.); also, workers educate tourists about sustainability and forest management so they can understand the effort the organization undertakes in the environmental dimension. Job stability and entrepreneurial skills Although there is not a specific policy of lifetime employment, the average employee has worked in the organization for many years. People interviewed recall having been in different departments as Granja Porcón grew in size and number of activities. Workers are encouraged to find a position that they love, so they can be productive and creative, and part of this effort is taking advantage of their expertise. Granja Porcón has practiced intrapreneurship through the development of people’s ancestral cultural skills and capabilities. The strategy has focused on creating new departments within the organization for activities that used to be done individually or in small groups, with limited resources and access to markets. One example is the recently created department of handicrafts, where women artisans manufacture alpaca and wool articles. This is a common

Indigenous community-based enterprises  277 practice among Indigenous communities in the region.These products are then sold locally to visitors and exported abroad. The manager of Granja Porcón comments: “When tourists came in higher numbers, we had sheep wool and alpaca fibre, so we made fabrics to create jobs and add value to these raw materials” (personal communication, May 1, 2013). The company has provided logistical, financial and strategic support so artisans can develop their activities from within the organization. They are hired with a fixed salary, benefits, plus a commission per unit sold. This has significantly increased artisans’ productivity. The general manager recalls the number of jobs created: “It’s usually about 60 [artisans], because we were supplying Holland and the U.S.” (personal communication, May 1, 2013).There are similar schemes with cookers, experts in dairy products (yogurt, cheese and butter), wood, cattle breeding etc. By taking advantage of local talent, Granja Porcón has created a better entrepreneurial environment within the organization, generating jobs (mainly for women) and diversifying activities. In this sense, the role of women has been fundamental to generate new ventures, as one of the managers describes: “at home they even seemed sick, but when they got out and worked, they now seem stronger, younger, they even acknowledge: I’m happy working” (personal communication, April 29, 2013). The role of women has changed since the creation of Granja Porcón. They used to be excluded from the labor market, but when the organization started to grow, they earned a place. One of the early workers recalls that a group of men opposed women working at Granja Porcón, so the manager asked men to compare their own work and that of women. When men realized the women had done a better job, they stopped complaining (personal communication, April 30, 2013). Currently, women represent 30% of the labor force and they work in every department except forestry (this activity is physically more demanding). Sustainable development Granja Porcón is a community-​based enterprise that has managed to combine Indigenous and religious values with​​a long-​term vision to acquire the resources needed to provide decent jobs, better life quality and a sustainable ecosystem. Furthermore, it also contributes to breaking down the barriers that prevent regional development and prosperity. For example, it provides the community with transportation to Cajamarca (the state capital) and other communities, promotes public infrastructure and tourism in a region that lacks both and commercializes local products through self-​owned stores in Cajamarca. Life has improved dramatically in Procón from the 1970s land reform, “when the government abandoned the community to its fate with nothing but grasslands, some cattle, and a tractor” (personal communication, May 2, 2013), as one worker remembers. “We used manure to cook … we got nothing” (personal communication, May 2, 2013)  recalls another worker. Currently, Granja Porcón donates wood to members of the community so they can improve their homes and build schools and churches. It also donates wood to

278  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre build public infrastructure in neighboring communities, and provides education to every child in the community and the children of temporary workers who do not have access to a school in their communities. Most households in Porcón are made of wood and have piped water, satellite TV, home appliances and electronic devices. Granja Porcón is a profitable organization that is growing. It has become an important stop for tourists who travel to Cajamarca. The organization has also become a model of community-​based enterprise. It has received national awards for being a successful example of sustainable community development. It also stands out for the effort and leadership of the community to overcome its conditions of exclusion and lack of resources.

Conclusion This chapter presents evidence of two community-​based enterprises created locally by Indigenous people that wanted to provide better living standards to their community. Both organizations have created economic, environmental and social value creation mechanisms that promote community well-​being. These empowering mechanisms are based in cultural and spiritual values that have led these communities through the process of starting, growing and consolidating a venture that ultimately has reinforced their self-​determination. The cases illustrate how these empowerment mechanisms have been designed to create conditions for inclusive growth, cooperation and participatory management, which are also a reflection of their values. Although some of these mechanisms may seem simple and lacking in novelty, their simplicity contributes to their understanding and alignment with core values, an element that is often missing in some profit-​maximizing organizations. When mechanisms such as lifetime employment, interest-​free loans, equal gender policies, training and promotion, environmental awareness, a local supply chain and community involvement are combined in an organization, they often produce synergies that promote value creation and sustainable development. They also strengthen cultural and spiritual values, since the prosperity brought by community-​based enterprises has also convinced Indigenous people that their values do not necessarily conflict with development, prosperity and sustainable growth. Furthermore, the mechanisms generated by both entities constitute sustainable practices that might be replicated in different contexts, making their documentation more valuable. The cases also suggest how local governance practices can also be adapted for productive purposes. In this sense, Granja Porcón and Grupo Ixtlán have kept community governance bodies like the GA and the CCP and they have incorporated traditional managerial figures like general managers, a structure based on departments by industry and by function, and production lines. The resulting scheme has been responsive to market forces in order to generate the resources to achieve the mission of the organization; it has also included cultural and spiritual values in the form of participatory democracy, a flat structure,

Indigenous community-based enterprises  279 leadership based on religious teachings, accountability and a sense of community and common good. Regarding the entrepreneurial orientation that each organization built, both cases have developed an entrepreneurial ecosystem, albeit differently, that promotes a stronger local and regional economy. Granja Porcón and Grupo Ixtlán demonstrate the importance of providing Indigenous communities with mechanisms and tools that generate new ventures. This has particularly benefited and empowered women, who seem to be more entrepreneurial in these particular cases. Also, evidence suggests that women need to have a more active role in community-​based enterprises for them to generate a higher positive impact within the community. In this sense, both organizations have overcome sexist cultural patterns to achieve an egalitarian workplace, where women can also develop their potential and self-​determination. Latin America is one of the regions with more inequalities, but these cases also demonstrate that productive organizations can help to shorten this growing gap. In both cases, the ratios between managers and workers contribute to a more egalitarian society. A 5:1 or 3:1 pay ratio may seems small compared with current CEO pay ratios in companies, but workers in each case still have the motivation to strive for managerial positions since they are going to earn more money and they also have the opportunity to produce a higher impact in the community. Porcón and Ixtlán are communities with high levels of security and trust, with a homogeneous landscape where it is hard to notice different socio-​economic strata. Although the improvement in the quality of life of the inhabitants cannot be entirely attributed to a community-​based enterprise, Ixtlán and Porcón have now higher living standards than neighboring communities that lack this type of organization (before the creation of these entities, living conditions were similar to those in neighboring communities).

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280  Mario Vázquez-Maguirre Eisenhardt, K.M. (1989). “Building Theories from Case Study Research”, Academy of Management Review, 14(4), pp. 532–​550. Freshwateraction (2012). Freshwateraction. Available at:  www.freshwateraction.net/​ sites/​freshwateraction.net/​files/​comunidades_​indigenas_​illsley.pdf (accessed May 2, 2014). Hindle, K. and Lansdowne, M. (2005). “Brave Spirits on New Paths: Toward a Globally Relevant Paradigm of Indigenous Entrepreneurship Research”, Journal of Small Business & Entrepreneurship, 18(2), pp. 131–​141. Hoskisson, R.E., Eden, L., Lau, C.M. and Wright, M. (2000). “Strategy in Emerging Economies”. Academy of Management Journal, 43(3), pp. 249–​267. INDEPA (2010). “Mapa etnolingüístico del Perú”, Revista Peruana de Medicina Experimental y Salud Pública, 27(2), pp. 288–​291. INEGI (2016). Encuesta nacional de Ingresos y Gastos de los Hogares (ENIGH) 2016. Available at:  www.beta.inegi.org.mx/​contenidos/​proyectos/​enchogares/​regulares/​ enigh/​nc/​2016/​doc/​presentacion_​resultados_​enigh2016.pdf (accessed June 15, 2018). INEGI (2010). Compendio de información estadística y geográfica municipal. México: INEGI. INEI (2016). Evolución de la pobreza monetaria 2007–​2016. Available at: www.inei. gob.pe/​media/​cifras_​de_​pobreza/​pobreza2016.pdf (accessed May 5,  2017). Inter-​American Development Bank (2006). Operational Policy on Indigenous Peoples and Strategy for Indigenous Development. Washington, DC: Inter-​American Development Bank. Karnani, A. (2011). Fighting Poverty Together: Rethinking Strategies for Business, Governments, and Civil Society to Reduce Poverty. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Lewis, M.P. (2009). Ethnologue: Languages of the World. Dallas: SIL International. Michela, Giovannini (2012).“Social Enterprises for Development as Buen Vivir”, Journal of Enterprising Communities: People and Places in the Global Economy, 6(3), pp. 284–​299. Peredo, A.M., Anderson, R.B., Galbraith, C.S., Honig, B. and Dana, L.P. (2004).“Towards a Theory of Indigenous Entrepreneurship”, International Journal of Entrepreneurship and Small Business, 1(1/​2), pp. 1–​20. Peredo, A.M. and Chrisman, J.J. (2006). “Toward a Theory of Community-​ Based Enterprise”, Academy of Management Review, 31(2), pp. 309–​328. Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Peru (2003). Proyecto Granja Porcón  –​Historia. Available at:  http://​facultad.pucp.edu.pe/​comunicaciones/​cursos/​porcon/​historia. htm (accessed March 10, 2016). Santos, F.M. (2012). “A Positive Theory of Social Entrepreneurship”, Journal of Business Ethics, 111(3): pp. 335–​351. SEDATU (2017). Ley Agraria. Available at: www.pa.gob.mx/​(accessed June 22, 2018). Spiggle, S. (1994). “Analysis and Interpretation of Qualitative Data in Consumer Research”, Journal of Consumer Research, 21(3), pp. 491–​503. Toledo-​López, A., Díaz-​Pichardo, R., Jiménez-​Castañeda, J.C. and Sánchez-​Medina, P.S. (2012). “Defining Success in Subsistence Economies”. Journal of Business Research, 65, pp. 1658–​1664. VanWey, L.K., Tucker, C.M. and Díaz McConnell, E.D. (2005). “Community Organization, Migration and Remittances in Oaxaca”, Latin American Research Review, 40(1), pp. 83–​107. Vazquez-​ Maguirre, M. (2012). Indigenous Social Enterprises in Subsistence Economies. Monterrey: Tecnológico de Monterrey.

Indigenous community-based enterprises  281 Vazquez-​Maguirre, M. and Portales, L. (2014). “La Empresa Social como Promotora del Desarrollo Rural Sustentable”, Pensamiento y Gestión, 37, pp. 255–​284. Vazquez-​ Maguirre, M., Portales, L. and Velásquez, I. (2018). “Indigenous Social Enterprises as Drivers of Sustainable Development: Insights from Mexico and Peru”, Critical Sociology, 44(2), pp. 323–​340. World Bank (2017). Latinoamérica indígena en el siglo XXI. World Bank. Available at:  www.bancomundial.org/​es/​region/​lac/​brief/​Indigenous-​latin-​america-​in-​the-​ twenty-​first-​century-​brief-​report-​page (accessed June 16, 2018). World Bank (2016). GDP per cápita. Available at:  https://​data.worldbank.org/​indicator/​NY.GDP.PCAP.CD (accessed June 16, 2018). World Bank (2016a). Población rural (% de población total). Available at: https://​datos. bancomundial.org/​indicador/​sp.rur.totl.zs (accessed June 16, 2018). Yin, R.K. (2003). Applications of Case Study Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

11  Andean enterprises A case study of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs Tamara Stenn

Introduction Entrepreneurship is defined as, “the process of doing something new and something different for the purpose of creating wealth for the individual and adding value to society” (Kao, 1993). Indigenous entrepreneurship is understood as,“an activity focused on new venture creation or the pursuit of economic opportunity or both, for the purpose of diminishing Indigenous disadvantage through culturally viable wealth creation” (Kindle and Moroz, 2007: p. 7). I argue that indigenous entrepreneurship is in fact a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of a community. It differs from Western entrepreneurship in that is it not self-​focused but rather community-​ focused and it differs from Kindle and Moroz’s definition in that its purpose is not to “diminish disadvantage”; rather, it is to benefit the community in a new and different way. This is a subtle, but significant difference. By having a communal perspective, an element of spirituality and ceremony also arises that is intrinsically tied to the concept of community that involves membership, customs and a collective identity. A goal of “betterment” goes beyond narrow monetary gains but also looks at social, political, environmental and cultural gains as well. Linked directly to global markets and at one time earning more than Bolivia’s middle class, Bolivia’s once impoverished Indigenous quinoa farmers are today’s Indigenous entrepreneurs. They work together in massive cooperatives and associations, own and manage sophisticated multi-​million-​dollar export enterprises, and for a period of time set world market prices for quinoa from the dusty streets of a small Altiplano town. Here we will explore how Bolivian farmers’ development of the quinoa market was a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of a community; we will understand the cultural, political, social, environmental and spiritual elements that made this possible, and the consequences such an undertaking has had on the Indigenous people themselves. To do this, we first must understand the context in which quinoa was developed and the history of the farmers themselves, in their own terms.

Andean enterprises  283

Terminology The word “entrepreneur” translated into Spanish is empresario or comerciante. When asked to define themselves in either of these terms, Bolivia’s Spanish-​ speaking Indigenous quinoa farmers scoff at both, feeling they are too related to simplistic, capitalist models that reflect the goal of making money and do not adequately address all they are (Stenn, 2015–​2018). They also reject the term “farmer”, feeling it relates too closely to campesino, a term that is now seen as a derogatory reference to Bolivia’s not-​so-​distant colonial past. Instead Bolivian farmers call themselves “producers and members” (productores y miembros). This reflects their equal role in producing products just like anyone else would, including an urban industrialist, and shows their collective identity as a member of a cooperative or community organization, which is important in their cosmovision, or worldview. The term “Indigenous” is considered inadequate because it does not clearly identify Bolivia’s people as being the first ones, the original people, so the term “originating” (originarios) is preferred. In this chapter the terms “farmer” and “entrepreneur” will be used in alignment with literature and theories that address rural producers in such ways; however, original research in the case study presented here will use the terms “originating producers” and “members” in respect to the people studied. Using proper terminology, this chapter explores how Bolivia’s originating producer members became modern-​day entrepreneurs bringing a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of their community and the consequences of it.

Methodology The following is a case study of the intersection of traditional beliefs and modern global markets as the trajectory of Bolivian quinoa –​a “Gift from the Gods” that originating Bolivians believe their ancestors were directed to share with humankind  –​is followed to the multi-​million-​dollar commodity it is today. The case study is based on the author’s 20 years of living and working in the Bolivian Andes as a US Peace Corps volunteer, private Fair Trade business owner and most recently a US Fulbright researcher. The quinoa data was collected in a multi-​modal, ethnographic, mixed-​methods process that includes a literature review coupled with participant observation, workshops and surveys conducted from 2015 to 2018.The title of the economic study was, “The Well-​ Being of Bolivia’s Indigenous Women Quinoa Farmers” (Stenn, 2015–​2018).

Part I: a renewal Bolivian leader Evo Morales Ayni, an originating member of the Aymara people, rose to power and was eventually elected president in 2007, on the

284  Tamara Stenn campaign slogan No Mas (no more) to 500 years of colonial oppression (Postero, 2010). He paved the way for the decolonization of Bolivia and “Indigenous nationalism” and begin immediately addressing and dismantling the long-​held hierarchical traditions and beliefs that isolated Bolivia’s Indigenous majority and placed them at the bottom of society (ibid.). In his inaugural address, given symbolically at the ruins of the temple at Tiahuanacu, a once-​great pre-​Incan empire, Morales declared,“We are the Indigenous blood of Mother Earth. Until now Bolivia has been ruled by a few families that have all the political and economic power. They despise, humiliate, marginalize and hate the majority of the indigenous population”. He added, “After 525  years of colonization, we Indigenous peoples are part of the construction of a new Plurinational State and we have full participation in international political organizations and forums” (Smith, 2018). To build a plurinational state that recognized and honored Bolivia’s 36 different ethnic groups, Morales began looking back to his ancestral roots and those of the other originating groups, inviting discussion and creating places where ideas, customs, legends, traditions and collective memory could be shared and re-​imagined into a modern governance and new way of being.This he called a “cultural democratic revolution” (Howard, 2009). It resulted in an insurgence of native pride, traditions, dress, language and a collective reconciliation with the past (Stenn, 2015–​2018). People who traditionally measured their status by how “white” they were, were suddenly looking back to family roots to see if they were more Aymara or Quechua (ibid.). Urban Bolivians began re-​tracing recent lineages to forgotten lands and communities, re-​learning their native languages through education reform that required originating languages to be taught in public schools and reuniting with communities they had lost touch with over the years (Howard, 2009). There was a rebirth of rural culture in this return to the land. The new 2009 plurinational state of Bolivia’s Constitution, Part IV, Title II, solidified this by making it mandatory for families to spend time living in their ancestral rural communities and working the land in order to regain and retain land rights.This resulted in the transference of one third of all Bolivian land, 86 million acres, to Indigenous, rural communities, benefiting 800,000 low-​income farmers and for the first time granting land rights to women (Smith, 2018). Education and healthcare became national priorities. Morales had his ministries build and staff 4,500 new schools, 47 hospitals and 3,000 health centers (ibid.). New roads were built, transportation services expanded and electricity and cell phone service were extended to the most remote corners of the country (World Bank, 2013). The development was funded by the privatization and renegotiation of Bolivia’s vast natural gas contracts, putting millions of new dollars into the state coffers. The result was a revitalization of local economies and a four-​fold jump in GDP from $9 billion in 2009 to $36 billion in 2018 (Smith, 2018). The country underwent a 5% annual growth rate, making Bolivia the fastest-​ growing economy in Latin America (ibid.).

Andean enterprises  285 Bolivia was able to undertake this rapid, radical transformation because its collective Indigenous identity was still intact, isolated by poverty and rural places. Bolivia’s poorest never had the chance to “modernize” in the cities and engage in neoliberal economies, Spanish language and Western identities –​and they were the country’s majority. “Evo”, as Bolivia’s president is often called, was able to tap into this collective identity and, with some difficulty and resistance from the former ruling “mestizo class”, create a unified front for the country to reform under (Kohl and Bresnahan, 2010). This shared indigeneity, sometimes spelled out in specific policies like land reform, but at other times in more subtle ways of being that were not outwardly recognized, had deep ancestral roots. Understanding these originating roots will help us to understand the new, different entrepreneur routes that the Bolivian quinoa producers took that enabled them to build a multi-​million-​dollar export enterprise and rise to the top of the world commodity market. Inca and pre-​Inca trade South America’s pre-​Hispanic civilizations did not operate with market economies. They had interdependence and a complex connectivity but no central market or trade structure (Jennings, 2011). For almost 500 years, the Tiawanaku civilization, a first-​ generation state marking the early development of the Andean region, grew and flourished. Set up as an ever-​expanding grouping of self-​sufficient colonies, some of the closer colonies provided surplus production and labor to the city of Tiawanaku, the spiritual and political center located in the northern Altiplano region of Bolivia (Stanish, Vega, Moseley et  al., 2010). Many other autonomous and semi-​ autonomous groups maintained contact with the Tiawanaku through loosely integrated social and economic relationships (ibid.). At its height in the year 800, the Tiawanaku civilization had a population of 20,000 (Janusek, 2004). Local trade took place in vertical economies that integrated mountainous highlands and tropical lowlands in trade in the form of food, raw materials for making tools and new technologies. The mountainous, tree-​less region and geographic landscape made the development of the wheel and cart, sea-​faring vessels or other ways of transporting large amounts of goods difficult, thus preventing the development of large central markets or a market-​based economy (ibid.). In the remote Royal Quinoa growing region, along the shores of the Uyuni salt flats, these ancestral trade routes and methods continued until the 1950s, with some still existing today (Stenn, 2015–​2018). It is believed that overexpansion exasperated by a severe, extended period of drought led to the collapse of the Tiawanaku Empire around 1000 A D (Brandy, 2013). A  period of economic decentralization and formation of small community centers of subsistence farming followed (Siller, 2016) until the 1400s and the emergence of the Inca Empire, with its spiritual and political center in Cusco, Peru, 350 miles to the north of Tiawanaku. The Incas appeared as both

286  Tamara Stenn invaders and unifiers, bringing together a vast region of semi-​isolated communities extending almost 2,000 miles along the South American coast and the spine of the Andes from Quito, Ecuador to central Chile and encompassing 10 to 20 million people (D’Altroy, 2003). To accommodate their rapid expansions and movement, the Incas built a complex road system and food storage network locating 2,400 storehouse clusters (collcas) along thousands of miles of stone roads, connecting communities and centralizing communication (ibid.). In the Inca Empire no one was far from a road, and long-​distance runners, called chaskis, sped along this vast road network bringing news and instructions, like electrical impulses delivering data on today’s internet (ibid.). Despite extensive and sophisticated trade and communications networks, currency and formal trade markets never developed under the Inca rule, much to Spanish surprise when they arrived in 1550 to witness this vast, sophisticated civilization, which was undergoing its own internal power struggles as two half-​ brothers vied for empire leadership. Within 20  years of the Spanish arrival, the Inca Empire had been dismantled by the devastating spread of smallpox, the Spanish strategy of pitting disgruntled elites against each other in various alliances, the fragmentation of ethnic groups and the destruction of the kipus and roads, the Inca governance and central communication system (Williams, 2002). Ancient entrepreneurs The Inca and pre-​Inca Empires, though vast and complex, were not engaged in the burgeoning global trade happening around them at that time, largely in Europe and Asia. In agriculture, they focused on research, seed development, growing methods, food security and local and regional trade. In engineering and handicrafts, motivated not by markets and sales but by a spiritual calling, they built complex and elaborate temples and created art in precious metals, textiles and ceramics dedicated towards ceremonies and celebration of their sacred earth deities, such as Tata Inti, father Sun, Pachamama, earth mother, and the stars, moon, mountains, rivers and ancestors. They learned from the animals and plants around them, building a complex pharmacy of medicinal plants for physical and spiritual healing and ceremony. In this way Bolivia’s ancestors, the originating people, were entrepreneurs –​bringing new and different responses to opportunities for the betterment of their communities –​but they were not global traders. The colonial era The Spanish adopted some of the same distribution guidelines the Incas had used –​requiring farmers to produce food for them, the new rulers, while also supporting themselves. However, instead of storing the food for community celebrations and security, the Spanish sold it, creating city markets and distribution channels for themselves, but not the producers. Very little was re-​invested

Andean enterprises  287 back into the rural areas. Bolivia’s rural life and innovation stagnated for 400 years, preserving many of the ancient ways of living and producing. There were no rural schools and when farmers came to work for the patrons in the cities, they were prohibited from speaking Spanish or dressing in colonial-​ style clothing, instead being required to wear handwoven pants and leather sandals and speak their native Quechua or Aymara language. These restrictions prevented ideas from flowing and contributed to the Indigenous farmers’ isolation. A few regional pop-​up markets (ferias) existed in the highlands where farmers could purchase and trade for needed goods such as cooking oil, noodles, cooking pots, salt, kerosene for lamps, matches, sugar and woven cloth for making clothes. Normally 75% of purchases were made with cash earned from the sale of the family’s own animals, eggs or crops and 25% by trading these goods for others in a barter system called trueca (Williams, 2002). These colonial-​era agricultural markets functioned from the late 1500s until the land reform of 1953. They were not particularly innovative, consisting of traders sitting on woven blankets with their wares, and little was invested back into the markets to make them more profitable, productive or modern. Any Indigenous entrepreneurship at this time was taking place in the homes and markets mostly in the form of hand-​spinning wool and weaving blankets, making clothes, farm instruments, rope and sandals using leather and hair from their own butchered animals. Life was simple but tough. Though there was not much Indigenous entrepreneurship, there was a clear need for the betterment of the communities. This changed in 1953 when a rural uprising led to the end of the hacienda system and the delivering of land to the farmers. Many of today’s producers of Bolivia’s export quinoa began their lives as children on haciendas where their parents had worked as indentured servants. Though now entering into a place of greater power being able to vote, own land and openly engage in monetary trade and markets, Bolivia’s Altiplano farmers did not flourish. They were Bolivia’s poorest of the poor, with little education, healthcare, market access or chance for social mobility (Vargas and Garriga, 2015).This slowly began to change as development projects and studies began trickling into the area, opening new opportunities for the emergence of Indigenous entrepreneurs to create new and different economic responses for the betterment of their communities. Rediscovery Quinoa grows in select regions of Bolivia’s Altiplano region. It had been known for 2,000 years that the quinoa specifically grown in a zone that extends out 50 miles from the shores of the vast Uyuni salt flats was distinct from all other types, having a larger, creamier and more flavorful seed (Lozano, 2013). This quinoa earned the name Quinua Real (Royal Quinoa), a name that has stuck for centuries. Within the Royal Quinoa, and all quinoas, are the colors white, red and black, with the hundreds of varieties within each color having distinct biological, medical and culinary properties (ibid.). In 1834, the Spanish also

288  Tamara Stenn took note of the superior quality of the quinoa in the salt flat region, naming it Rica Quinua (Delicious Quinoa) though over time the name returned to Quinua Real, as it continues to be referred to today (ibid.). It is good to note that the Spanish name for this seed is quinua, while the English name is quinoa. In this chapter, we will use the English term for the seed, quinoa, and the translated name, “Royal Quinoa” for Quinua Real. By the second half of the twentieth century, a new Bolivian quinoa market was slowly starting to open. In 1973, the first monographic study of Royal Quinoa proclaimed Salinas de Garci Mendoza, the capital of the Ladislao Cabrero province in Bolivia’s Department of Oruro, as the “Royal Quinoa Capital” (Mamani, 1976). The second half of the twentieth century marked the beginning of the rise of quinoa to national and international recognition and an interest in its social and nutritional value. Overall, very little was known about quinoa, but by the 1980s government-​ sponsored and private research was following two paths:  the technical-​social nature, where traditional methods of production and consumption were studied, and the medicinal and nutritional properties of the plant. Slowly quinoa production and knowledge grew. In 1970, 1,600 tons of Royal Quinoa were produced for markets outside of the family home (Lozano, 2013). That number slowly grew until, by 2007, hundreds of farmers collectively exported 7,750 tons of quinoa, valued at $8.9 million (ibid.). This slow but steady increase was spurred on by new research findings, including Felix Patzi’s study of recipes leading to the development of quinoa noodles by Bolivian food company Ferrari Guezzi, and the global “health food” movement (ibid.). Also helping to bring Bolivia’s rural quinoa to the world stage was the 1993 US National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) report naming quinoa as a new crop selected for the Controlled Ecological Life Support System (CELS) to support human life in space. NASA chose quinoa because of its “high concentration of protein (12–​18%), ease of use, versatility in preparation, and potential for greatly increased yields in controlled environments” (Schlick and Bubenheim, 1993: p. 1). A few years later, a cookbook, Quinoa, the Golden Grain of the Andes, created a way for urban dwellers far from the salt flats to bring quinoa into their modern kitchens and launched the novo-​Andean cuisine movement (del Solar, 2005). Rural pride and confidence began to grow amongst Bolivia’s most disadvantaged producers as their Royal Quinoa became more valued, found new markets and gained international attention (Stenn, 2015–​2018). The slow trickle of quinoa development became a deluge upon the 2007 election of Evo Morales as Bolivia’s president. President Morales re-​imagined Bolivia as a plurinational state, driving renewed interest in and support of Indigenous ideas and traditions that the quinoa region was flush with. For quinoa growers, bioindicators such as the number of eggs laid in a bird’s nest, the formation of frost next to a rock or the appearance of the stars guided planting and harvesting decisions. Planting and harvesting were also pre-​empted by a ceremonial giving of thanks to the ancestors and Pachamama and an invoking of protection and luck (ch’alla) performed by hired medicine men and women

Andean enterprises  289 (watiri) and attended by family members. These traditions suddenly became celebrations of pride. Indigenous wisdom was sought and valued. Quinoa, which had been transported in the 1950s by llama trains and in the 1970s by rickety busses, was now moved by SUVs and large trucks in the 1990s. New processing plants with customized machinery to clean the quinoa and remove its tough outer coating of bitter saponins were also constructed. The new Morales government provided education, medical posts, roads and electricity to the quinoa region while foreign governments, non-​government organizations and the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) provided agronomists, funding and market networks (Stenn, 2015–​2018). USAID and the Bolivian government helped to establish organic certifications and the European Union brought in Fair Trade organizations and guidelines. Bolivian farmers, with their historic underdevelopment and poverty, dressed in traditional handwoven pants and skirts, hand-​growing quinoa using Indigenous knowledge and working high in the mountains in a visually breathtaking environment, made for the perfect economic development scenario: an originating person lifted out of poverty and into modern world markets. The FAO dug in, determined to grow markets for the Bolivian quinoa and lift producers from poverty. Even better, quinoa’s high-​protein properties and ability to grow in marginalized, dry soils made it a viable food product for other food-​insecure people worldwide who were facing devastating droughts and starvation. FAO Director-​General José Graziano da Silva called quinoa an “ally in the fight against hunger and food insecurity”, because of quinoa’s nutritional qualities and adaptability to different agro-​ecological conditions (FAO, 2013). Quinoa would be the new product to feed the world and help move forward UN Millennium Development Goal # 1, ending extreme poverty and hunger. By 2012, quinoa export production had skyrocketed to 26,252 tons, valued at $84.5 million, with an expansion of quinoa cultivation from 242,000 acres to almost 400,000 acres (Lozano, 2013). The flurry of recent development efforts came to a head in 2013, which the United Nations (UN) General Assembly declared as the “International Year of Quinoa” (IYQ). They stated that this was done, “in recognition of ancestral practices of the Andean people, who have managed to preserve quinoa in its natural state as food for present and future generations, through ancestral practices of living in harmony with nature” (FAO, 2013). Here through a collaborative network of governments, UN agencies, research and development agencies, non-​governmental organizations, producers’ associations, rural communities and Indigenous peoples, academia and the private sector, global events in Italy, Chile, the US, Peru, France, Ecuador, Colombia, Morocco, Uruguay, Argentina, Indonesia and Panama celebrated the Bolivian quinoa and its producers; recipes were shared and tours of the quinoa lands led by President Morales plus buying meetings and market development took place (ibid.). The FAO was determined that the IYQ would be a, “catalyst to enable the exchange of information and to start to generate medium and long-​term programmes and projects for the sustainable development of the cultivation of quinoa nationally

290  Tamara Stenn and globally” (ibid.). Suddenly, Bolivia’s humble farmers were now world figures; many of them traveled to conferences and trade shows in these countries too –​being given opportunities to talk about their experiences and the properties of quinoa and seeing examples of a global marketplace they had never even considered before. The objective of the IYQ was to, “utilize quinoa’s biodiversity and nutritional value for food security and the eradication of poverty” (ibid.). It was also recognized that quinoa had properties, such as its saponins, that could benefit private-​sector businesses in the food, cosmetic and pharmaceutical industries. Once illiterate, indentured servants, Bolivia’s elder quinoa producers became rich, educated, worldly landowners practically overnight. The doors to entrepreneurship were thrown wide open. New originating producer entrepreneurs emerged in the form of massive farmer cooperatives and associations such as ANAPQUI, CECOAT, APQUISA and AIPROCA.These organizations sold quinoa to global buyers in Challapata, a small, dusty town located midway between the remote salt flats and the urban export center of Oruro. From here quinoa was purchased to fill shipping containers sent to Europe, Asia and the US. In 2017, 1,391 shipping containers of quinoa left Bolivia. Nationally there was an upsurge of quinoa production, as it became a health fad that the elite classes wanted to participate in too. Soon Bolivia’s finest hotels and restaurants were serving quinoa and for the first time it appeared packaged on grocery store shelves, instead of simply being sold out of sacks in local open-​air markets. Producers, themselves used to the tradition of working together in communal organizations and equipped with new literacy skills from recent rural education programs, empowered by a resurgence in national pride for originating identity and equipped with new tools and powers for local governance, were free to direct their own development, taking the initiative to be modern-​day entrepreneurs bringing a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of their community. The new cash flow and global attention enabled innovations to take place rapidly. Massive meetings of cooperative members resulted in days-​long discussions and solid forward progress. Soon producers collectively owned multi-​million-​dollar processing plants, and began transforming their tiny seed to popped quinoa, quinoa flakes, quinoa flour and providing goods for bakery sales, cereals and snacks for school breakfasts, and ingredients and finished products for export markets (Stenn, 2015–​2018). This massive shift to entrepreneurism and the push out into world markets came at a price. A conflict with originating beliefs The originating quinoa farmers of today needed to imagine their production and processing of quinoa in a way that was new and different. It required more efficient and scaled production, the development and construction of state-​of-​ the-​art processing plants, plus a desire to serve export markets.This was contradictory to originating thinking, which values a balance between feeding the

Andean enterprises  291 family, community and mother earth, Pachamama. The mass-​market demand for quinoa and ever higher prices, which the producers themselves set and the world paid as Bolivia originally was the largest and practically only provider of quinoa worldwide, led to more and more quinoa being produced, with distant family members coming in from afar to benefit. By 2015, the quinoa lands were unrecognizable from the tiny, timeless adobe outposts they once were. Paved highways, gas stations, sturdy two-​story brick buildings with shiny new tin roofs, SUVs parked out front loaded with kids dressed in the latest Western styles playing cell phone video games replaced the shy, dusty children dutifully watching over the family’s llama herds just ten years earlier (Stenn, 2015–​2018). The careful balance of land use was forgotten. Newly purchased tractors quickly turned fallow land to rich quinoa cash. This did not happen unnoticed, though. Quinoa has a long growing season, expanding over nine months. There was plenty of time for the ever-​expanding quinoa communities to get together, reflect over their decisions, listen to the elders and learn from each other. Contradictions and strife ensued and remained unresolved but held in communal recognition by the community. Contradictions are a part of origination thinking with differences being valued as different parts of a whole, for example, light and dark, the sun and the moon, man and women. It is believed two different sides come together and create something more than either side alone, and either side does not have the power without the opposing other to be whole. In this way, the originating ideas of respecting the land and cultivating just enough quinoa for the local community could also combine with a larger goal of producing even more for the world, and further benefitting the community. Even so, not everyone was convinced in this high-​growth model being pushed by the Bolivian government and development supporters. Producers wanted control of their quinoa seed. Seed sovereignty was important to them especially as they saw so much of the country’s riches leave with no benefit to the Bolivians themselves: the Inca gold, their native potatoes, silver from Potosi and now quinoa. Many did not want quinoa being shared so openly with the world, even if it could lead to a reduction in world hunger (Stenn, 2015–​2018). The Bolivians themselves knew hunger and did not want another precious product, their sacred seed of gold, taken from them. But it was, and in time Peru began out-​producing Bolivia, developing a mechanized, agro-​industrial, double-​season quinoa with higher yields and a lower cost of production. Soon France, Canada, Japan, China, the US and other countries began producing and harvesting their own quinoa. By 2015, quinoa had become a commodity and the Bolivian market dropped out. Quinoa prices dived from a 2014 high of $5,345 per ton to just $2,950 by 2016, and stayed there (Rocha Gallardo, 2016). The Bolivian producers no longer set the world quinoa prices and even the Fair Trade price did not cover Bolivia’s high production costs for its low-​yield, carefully hand-​grown, sacred and blessed seed. Families stopped selling their quinoa, choosing instead to store it until prices rose again or eat it themselves (Stenn, 2015–​2018).They reduced their cultivation by 30% in 2017, leaving the quinoa

292  Tamara Stenn lands in droves to return to new homes in the cities or former places of work overseas. Bolivia’s fragile soils could not sustain prolonged, intensive farming; they needed to lay fallow to recuperate and llamas needed the surrounding desert scrublands for grazing. Though quinoa families in general had ample amounts of land, in order for production to be sustainable there needed to be a careful three-​year rotation. During the boom, farmers had become greedy and lazy, lamented the few –​mostly elderly –​farmers who stayed in the quinoa lands. Now the Pachamama and the ancestors were taking notice. They were not happy and it showed in the low rainfall, early frosts and devastating market prices, explained producers. The originating Bolivian quinoa producers and innovators were torn. There is an originating belief that quinoa was a gift from the Gods given to producers in ancient times as a food to save humanity. Producers passed that responsibility through the generations, each one instilling in the other the importance of preserving and saving the “sacred grain”, the “grain of gold”, for the world. It was foretold by Inca prophets that the world would enter into a time of pachakuti (earth change), and the quinoa would be important in that era. Resistant to radiation, evening needed a degree of solar radiation for optimal production, it is believed quinoa could survive a nuclear holocaust, which some producers believe humankind may be moving towards (Stenn, 2015–​2018). It is largely believed that today’s world is already in pachakuti, as is evidenced by increasing political turmoil, resource wars and climate change. The belief that quinoa was meant for the world and the Bolivian producers had the responsibility to share it created much strife as originating farmers interacted with foreign development workers intent on helping to expand quinoa production and promote it as a world grain and solution to world hunger. This tension culminated in angry producers burning Bolivia’s quinoa seed bank in the Altiplano town of Patacamayo in 2015, destroying hundreds of varieties of quinoa known only to the people of Bolivia. The Bolivian agronomist who created the seedbank, unknown to the producers, had a second bank. This bank is now the property of the Bolivian government and is housed in Cochabamba, a region far from the producers’ Altiplano. So goes the story of the ancient, sacred quinoa seed and Bolivia’s originating producer members –​propelled by development goals and opportunities as they became modern-​day entrepreneurs bringing a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of their community –​resulting in a bittersweet ending as producers, historically living on less than $2 a day, suddenly were earning more than the country’s middle class, only to have that market bottom drop out as fast as it had appeared, leaving the families with the taste of gold in their mouths but dirt on their hands, wondering what would come next.

Part II: the impact of being an originating producer (Indigenous entrepreneur) During a 2015–​2018 post-​boom study of the impact that quinoa had had on originating producers, 284 Royal Quinoa producers were surveyed by community members (Stenn, 2015–​2018). This study is part of a larger “Circles of

Andean enterprises  293 Sustainability” project originating in Australia and shared amongst members of the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) (James, 2015). The Circles of Sustainability approach “provides a way of achieving sustainability and resilience that combines qualitative with quantitative indicators by setting up conceptual and technology-​supported frameworks with guiding tools for investigating problems faced by communities” (Circles of Sustainability, 2018). This is done in a flexible way so the different contexts of cities, communities and organizations can be compared, contrasted and learned from. The following is a detailed analysis of the 2015–​2018 Bolivia survey findings coupled with the author’s participant observation research, which entailed living and working with quinoa producers in their remote communities, and “talking stick” workshops where women producers spoke freely about what sustainability meant to them in relation to quinoa production. Ecology Though pleased with their vast natural resources, abundant wildlife and clean natural environment, climate change and unregulated growth from the quinoa boom is taking a toll on Bolivia’s originating Royal Quinoa producers. Climate change is causing unpredictable weather patterns, ones no longer understood by elders who seek bio-​indicators to foretell frosts, rains and future farming

Figure 11.1 Circles of Sustainability model for Bolivian quinoa producers, 2015–2018 (n = 284). Source: Stenn, 2015–2018.

294  Tamara Stenn conditions. Farming is now more guesswork, and with a nine-​month growing period guesswork is risky; a lot can happen to a quinoa plant in that time. The largest concern for farmers is organic pest control. A healthy quinoa seed head provides 2 pounds of cleaned seed.Worms eating developing seed heads and wild non-​native rabbits chewing succulent seed stalks in search of water are the greatest threats to these valuable seed heads, with birds and mice also being an annoyance. In ancestral times there were no worms or rabbits, so these recent pests are perplexing originating producers who rely on their knowledge passed down through the centuries. Academically trained agronomists attribute the worms to weakened plants caused by nutrient-​starved soils from over-​farming and under-​fertilizing, the closer proximity of plants to each other as quinoa farming expanded and climatic changes creating more favorable conditions for the moths to thrive. An effective organic pesticide that works well with the Altiplano’s dry, delicate volcanic soils has yet to be found. The following is more detailed information about the sustainability challenges experienced by originating producers –​Royal Quinoa’s Indigenous entrepreneurs. These entrepreneurs live in a monoculture, meaning that there is not much variance in people’s belief systems and how they live socio-​ economically. We found there to be no significant differences in how people responded to the survey demographically by gender, age, education or place they lived, though producers who were members of cooperatives were slightly more optimistic than those who were not. Natural environment The first question about ecology asked respondents how they thought the state of the natural environment was. Most people responded that they were “satisfied” with their environment. Interestingly, respondents’ degrees of satisfaction became progressively more positive, raising 25% in satisfaction over a three-​year time period, even though there have been increasingly devastating effects of climate change in the form of erratic weather conditions leading to early and late frosts, droughts and wind erosion of soil. The study found that much of this positive attitude is from the slowing of the cultivation of the quinoa lands, led by a drop in market prices and international demand for Bolivian quinoa. As the countryside emptied out with producers moving to urban centers and other countries for better work, the devastating effects of over-​farming slowed too. The slow-​down enabled communities to think more of the consequences of their actions and to pause and reconnect with the Pachamama and mountain spirits in honoring the earth and regaining balance. Habitat and settlements The next question was about one’s community well-​ being in relation to the climate and how they were feeling impacted by climate change. Again, respondents were satisfied and though climate conditions have worsened,

Andean enterprises  295 people’s feelings of satisfaction grew by 8%. This can be explained by producers feeling more connected to and guided by their environment. Indigenous knowledge is highly respected in the Bolivian countryside. After the quinoa boom ended in 2015, the funding for agronomists, agriculture projects and quinoa development also ended.What was left were the elders and their knowledge of traditional planting methods. Relying on the use of bio-​indicators, such as the position of a bird’s nest, number of eggs laid or movement of wildlife, producers were able to reconnect with their land and build resilience and flexibility in their methods of production. This resulted in people feeling more connected to the land and trusting in their abilities to withstand change. Water and air The third question about ecology focused on community access to clean drinking water, which respondents were generally satisfied with even though there have been recent droughts and water shortages in the arid high desert region where quinoa producers live. Access to water was viewed 10% more positively over a three-​year period because of recent development work and personal investment made by both the government and local communities.This was supported by Bolivia’s new 2009 Constitution, which guaranteed water as a “basic human right” for all. This continues to reflect the positive hopefulness producers continued to feel despite ecological challenges. Flora and fauna Community wildlife was the focus of the next question, which respondents also felt generally satisfied with, though there was a wider range between tolerance of beloved animals (satisfied) and the naming of them as pests (dissatisfied). A recent decrease in the abundance of biodiversity in the quinoa region as well as more interaction by the wildlife with quinoa farming caused people to be 3% less optimistic about the well-​being of their wildlife. Droughts and the ploughing over of delicate, slow-​g rowing, life-​sustaining high desert plants such as tola have caused wild animals such as mice, vicuña and a non-​ native rabbit to invade the quinoa fields, snapping succulent young quinoa stalks for the water inside and eating seeds and leaves. For the first time in over a decade, the timid, once-​endangered Andean vicuña, a relative of the llama and a sacred spirit animal, is being hunted. This time it is not for its world-​famous wool, as before; it is because it is considered by some to be a pest in the quinoa fields. Built-​form and energy The fifth question about ecology focused on energy  –​hydroelectric power for light and natural gas for cooking. Here people felt very satisfied with their energy access and over the three-​year study, satisfaction with the energy

296  Tamara Stenn infrastructure grew by 23%. Bolivia’s overall commitment to rural development along with private investment by rural quinoa producers, starting in 2007, has transformed the rural areas. Women, who traditionally cooked food over smoky fires fueled by burning brush, now had much cleaner propane stoves with portable gas tanks.Villages have electricity, newly paved roads and quicker, more reliable private bus transportation. In addition, many quinoa producers purchased their own vehicles with their quinoa earnings. New gas stations were built for the growing demand for fuel in the rural areas, though not any banks. Access to parks and recreation The next-​to-​last question about ecology focused on people’s access to parks and recreational areas. Here respondents agreed that they were satisfied at the moment and even more so as time passed, with a 16% increase in satisfaction over the three-​year study period. Though there already is an abundance of communal and open land in the quinoa region, the growing satisfaction could be due to the efforts of communities and local mayors in rebuilding their town plazas by planting new gardens, putting in lighting and benches, fixing old fountains and creating a more tourist-​centered presentation for visitors. This recent focus on tourism comes from government incentives to create a “tourism region” in the quinoa zone, inspired by the government’s successful Quinoa Tour in Bolivia in 2013, created in response to the United Nation’s General Assembly declaration of 2013 as the International Year of Quinoa and Bolivia’s president, Evo Morales, its ambassador. Emission and waste The last section of ecology looked at communities’ access to a clean, uncontaminated environment, which respondents reported being wholeheartedly “satisfied –​good” with, a stronger response than simply “satisfied”. In addition, over the course of the study participants’ satisfaction grew by an additional 30%. The majority of quinoa producers studied were members of large cooperatives often with organic and Fair Trade certification. Fair Trade principles include the caring for the natural environment. Organic certification also requires a degree of care for the natural environment. Places in the quinoa zone that traditionally had no recycling or trash disposal infrastructure began developing it in response to their certification requirements. One benefit Fair Trade brought farmers was technical assistance. In addition to requiring a cleaner environment, they also had models of how this could be achieved. In addition, as the markets grew for quinoa and cash flowed into the historically impoverished quinoa region, more commercial products such as soft drinks, disposable diapers and snacks were purchased with packaging that needed disposal. Having the recycling and trash removal infrastructure develop at this time was important in preserving the fragile environment of the Royal Quinoa zone.

Andean enterprises  297 Cultural sustainability Cultural identity is a new source of pride for originating producers. After centuries of discrimination, Bolivia’s cultural heritage was revitalized by the election of Aymaran leader Evo Morales as president of Bolivia. New constitutional laws protect and celebrate local culture, including requiring the native languages to be taught in public schools and outlying steps communities can take to establish Indigenous autonomy and self-​governance. Besides constitutional protections, the government has created new ministries and programs to further support cultural development such as a certification for traditional medicinal healers (watiri), and beauty contests for those identifying as originating people. The nation also regularly embraces pre-​colonial traditions, ceremony and art in everyday life. Like in ecology, there was much agreement in the survey responses in the area of culture. Unlike in ecology, people felt very satisfied (“satisfied –​good”) in this area, a higher rank than simply “satisfied”. However, this strong satisfaction was on a slow decline, perhaps due to the pressures of urban migration, Westernization and the emergence of seasonal rural communities. Identity and engagement The first question about culture asked respondents how they thought the community valued the individual’s culture. Almost all respondents indicated feeling “satisfactory –​good”, meaning they were quite happy with their culture within the larger community. However, that was eroding over time. Although still robust, participants expressed a 30% decline in satisfaction with cultural value over the three-​year study period. Bolivia is one of the most Indigenous (originating) countries in the Americas and the Royal Quinoa zone is one of the most Indigenous (originating) regions in the country. Made up of Aymara and Quechua descendants of ancient pre-​Inca civilizations, many can trace their roots back to the colonial era and beyond. A revival of native wisdom and pride arose when Evo Morales was elected president in 2007. Hailing from the edge of the quinoa region himself, his roots are both Aymara and Quechua.The new Constitution of 2009 declared Bolivia a “plurinational state”, recognizing its dozens of native groups, languages, customs and heritage. Overall cultural identity and pride is robust in Bolivia; however, recent migration to cities by quinoa farmers has caused this to erode. In this short three-​year study, the quinoa countryside has already lost 66% of its permanent families. In the cities, Spanish language and Western culture is the mode, resulting in a devaluing of rural Aymara and Quechua traditions, especially by younger people. Dress and traditions The next question was about one’s use of traditional clothing, which respondents were proud of and reported being “satisfactory  –​good”. Over

298  Tamara Stenn time, that enthusiasm diminished a little with the pride of acceptance of traditional dress falling by 8% over the course of this study. The traditional dress for women in the quinoa zone is a full colorful skirt layered with several petticoats and topped with a fitted blouse, hand-​knitted cardigan and woven shawl, while men wear handwoven wool pants, a white shirt and woven jacket. Both wear wide-​brimmed hats made of felted wool or woven grasses. In the countryside older men and women dress traditionally while younger people save their traditional clothing for festivals and parades, preferring to dress instead in Western-​ style jeans, sweaters and sweats, with baseball caps to protect themselves from the harsh Andean sun. School uniforms reflect this too –​with students being required to wear navy polyester dresses or pants with white cotton blouses and polyester cardigans or a simple white smock. This preference for Western styles can be why the strong pride in traditional dress is starting to fall slightly. Belief and meaning The third question about culture focused on participation in religious observances. Here there was a wide range of responses. Most felt very satisfied though a growing minority were dissatisfied, as seen in the 11% drop in people’s satisfaction with their religious participation over the three-​year time span of this study. Bolivia is 76% Catholic, 8% Evangelical and Pentecostal and 8% Protestant, with the remaining 8% being of miscellaneous or no religion (CIA World Factbook, 2018). The Catholic religion in Bolivia is mixed with Indigenous traditions dating back to pre-​colonial times such as the sacrifice of animals and spilling of blood to feed and honor the Pachamama, ancestor worship and the naming and evoking of mountain and river spirits in everyday events and important times such as quinoa planting and harvesting. The more traditional Catholic-​ Andean ceremonies include drinking alcohol together with the Pachamama by sharing alcohol with each other and spilling it on the ground for the Pachamama. This is an important part of Andean culture and the percentage of people who report using traditional ceremony in their quinoa production grew from 78% to 84% over the course of three years. The newer Pentecostal and Evangelical religions prohibit these Indigenous customs and use of alcohol. This often causes divides and strife in families and communities as Evangelist members no longer participate in traditional religious observances. There is not as much Evangelism in the quinoa region as in other places in Bolivia, such as the tropics, but it has had an effect along with urban migration in taking families further away from traditional religious observances. The newly Evangelist community members also do not always feel respected by non-​Evangelist members. Memory and projection Participation in community festivals was the focus of the next question, with respondents responding overwhelmingly “satisfactory  –​good” to this, even

Andean enterprises  299 though there has been an 8% decline in families’ overall enthusiasm for participating in community festivals. It has been observed that as rural children spend more time in the cities, they lose interest in rural events, especially when there is limited Wi-​Fi or cellular service for their smart phones –​as often happens in the countryside. There has evolved a name for the 66% of families who now live full-​time in the cities, returning to the rural homesteads for planting, harvesting and festivals. The term is visitante (visitor). It is not a negative term; rather, it distinguishes those families from the residantes (residents), the families who spend the majority of their time in the rural communities and send their children to school there. Gender and generations The fifth question about culture focused on one’s participation in family traditions, which had a range of responses, with most people agreeing they were well satisfied with this (“satisfactory –​good”). This satisfaction grew 16% over the three-​year study period. This question was difficult for many participants to answer; they did not see a difference between their family traditions and those of the larger community. One family tradition that many focused on was birthday parties. The celebration of individual birthdays with parties, cake and clowns is a newer phenomenon for rural families and one that comes from the cities. Others saw their private blessings in their quinoa fields as a family tradition since it is done within the individual family, even though the entire community is doing it at around the same time. Enquiry and learning The next-​to-​last question about culture focused on individuals’ use of their native language. Here there was a slight divide, with older people being more positive than younger ones. Overall, people were satisfied, but this satisfaction was in slight decline with an 8% decrease over the three-​year study period. Spanish is a second language for many rural Bolivians. The quinoa region in this study is almost equally divided by Quechua and Aymara speakers. Quechua and Aymara are two distinct Andean language families with different origins, though a long history of being spoken in neighboring regions. Speakers of both Aymara and Quechua tend to think of Quechua as “sweeter” than Aymara and have a fondness for the softer sound of the language. However, there is no hierarchy nor preference for either language. It is also not unusual to have mixed families where, for example, an Aymara man may marry a Quechua woman. The language spoken by the family will depend on the region where they reside. Traditionally, women lived in their husband’s communities though new land laws make it possible for women to maintain ownership of their family land too. In the 2015 study it was found that all participants were bi-​lingual with Spanish and a traditional language (Quechua or Aymara), and 10% were tri-​lingual, speaking Spanish, Quechua and Aymara. In 2017, however, 8% of

300  Tamara Stenn participants only spoke Spanish while 69% were bi-​lingual and 23% tri-​lingual. This might have been because the 2017 study took place during the summer vacation, new year’s celebrations and the quinoa planting season. Since school was out, more urban families (visitantes) were in the countryside –​celebrating and tending to their crops. Today, children of quinoa farmers who grew up in the cities say they can understand, but not speak, the traditional Quechua and Aymara languages.This is because Spanish is the dominant language in Bolivia’s schools and urban centers. Well-​being and health The last section of culture looked at individuals’ sharing of Indigenous knowledge or beliefs, which respondents felt very positive about, reporting it as “satisfactory –​good”; however, this was in decline, with a 15% drop in satisfaction over the course of this study. Indigenous knowledge and beliefs are an important part of Bolivian life with state-​certified medicine men and women being a regular part of the healthcare system, providing physical, mental and spiritual support. Indigenous wisdom is also a part of a family tradition, with elders regularly using medicinal plants and herbs to rid crops of pests, cure illnesses in people and animals and ward off bad energies. Farming and family/​ community life is governed by bio-​indicators such as the placement of stars, frost formations and other clues read with indigenous knowledge and beliefs. The Bolivian government strongly supports Indigenous knowledge and beliefs, regularly including Indigenous ceremony and beliefs and in its everyday operations and ways of being. Nevertheless, as fewer people are regularly in the countryside listening and learning the Indigenous knowledge, the transfer of knowledge and beliefs is breaking down. Political sustainability Though the 2005 elections that brought President Morales and the MAS (Movement Towards Socialism) Party to power in 2006 led to an economic and cultural transformation of Bolivia, with an unprecedented revitalization of rural areas and sustained, long-​term economic growth, people are growing increasingly uncomfortable with Morales’ terms of leadership, which have already been extended three times, beyond the traditional four-​year term. Bolivians cite party corruption and personal self-​interest as reasons to mistrust Morales, though others call this “fake news” and a ploy by others to divide the Bolivian people and take down the Morales government, which is openly critical of the US and neoliberal trade policies. A controversial vote took place in in 2018 that, by a small margin, granted Morales the power to seek a fourth term in power. Today people are divided in their support for the president, with those expressing dissatisfaction talking in hushed voices and code words, to not draw attention to their dissent. This is not done out of fear of confrontation from neighbors who may be in favor of the current government, but out of fear of

Andean enterprises  301 retaliation by government forces. In a country with a strong history of coups and a region where “disappearances” are not unknown, people like to keep a low profile when expressing individual political discontent. In addition, many people are reliant upon the MAS government to bring social and development programs to their regions, and benefit from current programs. It is complicated. In the quinoa zone studied, there was strong support of the MAS government in 2006, though now former MAS leaders in the region are distancing themselves from the party so as not to be seen as corrupt or manipulative. Overall, people are pleased with their political situation, though it is delicate. Organization and governance The first question about politics asked respondents how they thought the political environment was.This had a wide range of responses from bad to great with the center being “satisfactory”. People’s feelings about their political situation remain neutral, with just a 3% decline over the three-​year timeframe.The political environment is a delicate conversation to have in Bolivia.The current president Evo Morales is Aymara and grew up just outside the Royal Quinoa zone of the Oruro Altiplano. He was democratically elected in 2005 for a four-​year term, which began in 2006. Morales won the 2010 re-​election after helping to craft the nation’s new 2009 Constitution recognizing Bolivia’s Indigenous communities. He renegotiated gas contracts and redistributed wealth to the country’s rural and poor inhabitants, building stronger infrastructure  –​roads, electricity, schools and hospitals. However, Morales’ development plans have come under attack especially by Indigenous populations from the tropical regions and his MAS Party has been losing support. Despite Morales’ request to extend his term for another four years being voted down, he managed to have Congress approve this extension. Morales’ approval ratings hover around 35% (Stauffer, 2018). There is a general atmosphere of nervous fear permeating the country with a tightening of access to the press, less freedom to organize and the inability of new ideas and leaders to be heard. Amongst the quinoa producers there is a mix of disappointment, resentment, anger and defensiveness at the current political situation. At one time strong supporters of the president’s MAS Party, many leaders in the quinoa region have stepped away from their association with it. Criticism of the government is whispered, and women sadly shake their heads at the shortcomings of the person they once lovingly called tata or “father” in Quechua and Aymara. Overall people feel Morales was a true Indigenous leader of the Indigenous people who became corrupted by power and has let them down. They are fearful about what comes next.The government is building up the military and police and some claim dissent is suppressed or quieted down by manipulation of the press. Bolivia has a long history of political turmoil, violence, coups and unrest. The quinoa entrepreneurs studied here are better off now than before Morales and the success they achieved with the quinoa in part was supported by government-​supplied infrastructure.

302  Tamara Stenn Law and justice The question “How well does the dominant legal system work?” was not asked due to the way the Bolivian survey was translated and interpreted from the original Circles of Social Life instrument developed by Dr Paul James of Western Sydney University in Australia. More info is available at:  www. circlesofsustainability.org/​tools/​social-​life-​questionnaire/​. Communication and critique The third question about culture focused on the community’s ability to make decisions. Here respondents varied in their replies ranging from bad to great with a larger grouping in the center reporting feeling satisfactory towards decision-​ making. Over time, participants felt increasingly positive about their decision-​ making abilities, with this category increasing by 21%. This is due to the highly participatory culture of the quinoa producers and recent events that support it. Bolivia’s new 2009 Constitution decentralized government and returned power and resources to the local people –​using Indigenous, pre-​colonial models dating back 500 years to the era of the Incas and Tiawanaku.There are once again aynis or communities, mallkus or elected community representatives, minkas or community service and other traditional forms of organization and rule. Different regions of Bolivia accepted these changes in different ways. The quinoa region, being more isolated and connected to ancient Indigenous roots and traditions than other areas, quickly embraced the new political structure of the constitution and implemented it in a very literal, exacting way. The result is that people are very engaged in their own development, decision-​making and representation. In addition, the cooperative model used by most quinoa producers is an inclusive model that enables members to collectively direct their market access, industrialization and development via democratic process, which is in line with Indigenous beliefs and practices. Representation and negotiation The quality of education was the focus of the next question, with respondents reporting feeling poorly about the state of their rural education, though their satisfaction with the quality of education did have a 2% increase over time. Bolivia’s “Yes, I  can” program of 2011–​2014 dropped illiteracy rates from 13.28% in 2001 to 3.8% in 2014 (UNESCO, 2018). This greatly benefitted quinoa farmers during the quinoa boom of 2011–​2014 when it was necessary for them to direct their own contracts and trade agreements with foreign buyers and work with a new system of collective governance. However, though the six-​month “Yes, I can” rural education program worked well, sustaining it has not. Some people who learned to read and write are once again forgetting it due to a lack of use and practice. In addition, the quality of rural education has not improved much –​classrooms continue to be overcrowded with 20 to

Andean enterprises  303 30 pupils per teacher, with limited teaching resources beyond small workbooks or notebooks for copying lessons into. There is no Wi-​Fi even for teachers, no libraries and limited computer access, if any. Teachers are often absent –​preferring to stay in the cities even though rural teachers are paid more as an incentive for them to withstand the isolation of the countryside. In addition, with a drop in quinoa prices and a trend for quinoa families to live full-​time in the cities, there are fewer children in the rural areas. Because of this, many rural community schools have closed –​forcing the few children in the community to walk more than an hour to the nearest town where there still is a school. In addition, one of the main reasons that families leave the quinoa region for the cities is for better access to education for their children –​both primary and secondary. There are no universities in the rural areas though a few technical schools are just starting to open.There also is growing concern with the quality of education in Bolivian cities and universities overall plus a lack of professional jobs for newly educated students to move into. All in all, the quality of education is a growing concern in Bolivia, even though there is some hopefulness expressed by rural participants. Peace and security The fifth question about politics focused on healthcare access, which people rated from poor to somewhat good in their responses, with the average being “satisfactory”. They reported a 4% decline in their satisfaction with healthcare access over time, mostly due to a lack of services for women. Bolivia has universal healthcare but it is not always accessible or of good quality. The good news in the Bolivian countryside is that there are hospitals and clinics. The bad news is that there are not always doctors and certainly no specialists, gynecologists or equipment needed for more complete analysis or care. Doctors are required to make their rounds serving rural health posts and clinics hours away, leaving minimal staff in the region’s few hospitals. As a result, people are often transported to city hospitals many hours away for anything more than the most routine care. Aging hospital buildings with leaky roofs, mismanaged funds, a shortage of doctors and a lack of standards have prevented rural hospitals and clinics from being able to fully serve their communities. Dialogue and reconciliation The next-​to-​last question about politics focused on how trusted people felt in their community. Again, there was a wide range of responses from poor to great, though most respondents tended to cluster around “satisfactory”. Over time there was a 15% raise in people’s confidence in community trust. Trust is growing in the countryside as people continue to work together during difficult times with a lowering of quinoa prices, lack of confidence in national government, the uncertainty of climate change and the maturity of the massive farmer cooperatives and community governance. In addition, the boom and new land

304  Tamara Stenn ownership requirements from the Bolivian constitution brought back many educated professionals to the rural areas. Professors, lawyers and migrants to other countries returned presenting new ways of thinking, working and tools –​ resulting in more sophisticated and informed development and governance. Ethics and accountability The last section of politics looked at the community’s health, which respondents overwhelmingly reported as “satisfactory –​poor” mostly due to colds and upper respiratory infections people were getting from the dust storms that the wind erosion was causing and the cold weather of winter, when colds were more common. People did feel that with better roads and access to urban centers, the community was faring better and reported a 4% increase with satisfaction in community health –​though overall people were still being cautious in their optimism. Health is considered a measurement of ethics and accountability as communities are responsible for the well-​being of their inhabitants. Economic sustainability The quinoa boom was bittersweet. It provided Bolivia’s most disadvantaged producers with new resources, industry and innovation, helping them to become leaders in a multi-​million-​dollar export market, but it also left them defenseless in a global commodity market they had no experience in or training or resources for. Today producers are struggling to differentiate their product in a mature commodity market by creating value-​added transformations through food processing making puffed quinoa, quinoa flakes, pre-​toasted quinoa and quinoa flour. They are also working with legally developing a “Certificate of Origin” for their Royal Quinoa, which cannot be grown outside of the 50-​ mile salt flat zone and has distinct, measurable biological and cultural qualities that cannot be replicated. Language, cultural, financial and knowledge barriers exist, making is difficult for Bolivia’s remote, originating producers to actively grow clientele and loyal customers in a globalized, English-​speaking, Western capitalist market they are neither a part of nor understand. Production and resourcing The first question about economics asked respondents about the opportunities to improve their life economically, to which people overwhelmingly responded “bad”, and it is getting worse, with a 5% decline in confidence over the three-​ year study. Though the quinoa boom momentarily put thousands of dollars of wealth into the hands of people who did not have it before –​Bolivia’s poorest producers living on less than $2 a day –​it was not sustained. After a few years of earnings, farmers are now operating at a loss with no real change in sight. The quinoa crops they carefully cultivated on delicate dessert soils were commodified in the world market with other countries developing their own quinoa

Andean enterprises  305 industries with better funding, technology and agricultural conditions. Bolivia could not compete. In addition, Bolivia continues to struggle with comprehensive development seen in a lack of industrialization, infrastructure and technology. Though many children of quinoa farmers are now in high school and college, there is a feeling that there are not many employment options for them even though government data shows a low 5% unemployment rate for college graduates (ILO, 2018). Besides quinoa, llamas are raised in the quinoa lands too. Drought and desertification –​the loss of grazing bushes due to intensive quinoa farming –​ threatens the well-​being of the herds. Families used to live in the rural areas full-​time, tending llamas and growing quinoa; now with many living in cities, the few remaining families are hired by other community members to care for the llamas. Llama manure is an important, and increasingly expensive, input for good quinoa production. Exchange and transfer The next question was about investments, which respondents also overwhelmingly reported as “bad”. Before the quinoa boom of 2011, most producers lived poor. They had little cash for consumer goods and lived a simple, subsistence lifestyle with little contact or access to cities, healthcare, communications, electricity, education or commerce. Many families had abandoned the countryside altogether, migrating to Chile, Argentina and Spain in search of work in factories and as housekeepers and nannies. With the quinoa boom, and Bolivian laws requiring family representation in the countryside in order to claim ancestral lands, many families returned to the countryside. Quinoa earnings were invested into re-​building old, adobe houses in towns and communities, SUVs for easier access to remote communities, tractors for tilling more land, apartments and homes in the cities for access to better schools, cell phones for communications and, in some cases, inventory and machinery for new stores and businesses. There were no banks or bank accounts and few loans, though millions of dollars flowed through the lands. In 2015, just 10% of farmers polled reported having loans through banks, with a median value of $7,000. Most of these were short-​term loans with a crop guarantee that after the boom would be hard to collect on. Producers reported that interest rates varied from 12% to 21% depending on the type of loan and the guarantee. By 2017, 24% of the respondents reported having taken out loans with a median value of $5,000. These loans were largely to cover losses from the previous year. Quinoa takes nine months to grow and months more to sell. Costs for labor and supplies are incurred long before the crop is sold and often when prices are higher. By the time the quinoa was grown, harvested, processed and ready to sell, market prices were already many times lower than anticipated. The loans helped to smooth over the differences. With no sight of quinoa prices returning to the highs of the boom –​300% higher than current prices –​it is

306  Tamara Stenn difficult to imagine how these loans will be repaid. Leaders report that Bolivian law prohibits banks from repossessing agricultural land or rural houses, though there have been rumors of tractors being repossessed when farmers default on equipment loans. Farmers now have less use for their tractors as overall quinoa acreage in production has declined 30% to 50% due to the low market prices and climate change. Many farmers now share or rent tractors. Most loans came from Banco Prodem, SA  –​a private rural development bank in Bolivia. In 2016, Moody’s withdrew its rating on the bank after giving a negative outlook when its deposit ratings fell (Moody’s, 2016). Banco Prodem continues to make loans and operate today. Accounting and regulation The third question about economics focused on market access for goods, which respondents also reported as “bad”, with a few people being more optimistic. Despite being the homeland for quinoa and producing the finest quinoa in the world –​the coveted Royal Quinoa, the largest, most creamy and nutritious of all quinoa –​producers feel they have poor market access, and it is worsening. Over the time of the study satisfaction with market access dropped 9% even though quinoa consumption and demand worldwide was on the rise. Since the 1980s the United National Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) and international NGOs and government organizations such as USAID targeted the impoverished farmers of Bolivia’s southern Altiplano for development projects. Living on less than $2 a day in a desert environment with fragile, salty, volcanic soils, the only food producers could produce was llama meat and quinoa. Even potatoes, a staple that grew in the northern Altiplano, would not grow in their bare, rocky soils. Development organizations focused on improving the quinoa production as a way to build food sovereignty and security in the region. Over time, with much trial and error, new methods were developed to increase yields and better clean the seed. However, there was little market value for this food. The Spanish conquerors in the 1500s banned quinoa, requiring instead that wheat be grown and cows grazed, which took place in other, better-​ suited regions of Bolivia. Though consumed almost daily in local pensiones or restaurants, quinoa, mostly in the form of quinoa soup, a chicken-​based vegetable broth, was not highly valued by Bolivians. It was consumed out of habit and necessity, while scorned by the upper classes as “peasant food” and “chicken scratch”. Quinoa was largely produced for household consumption, though throughout the 1990s quinoa could be found for purchase at about $0.25 a pound in open-​air markets. The market quinoa was not well processed, containing natural bitter saponins, and needed to be washed many times before being consumed. This kept quinoa out of many Bolivian kitchens –​especially those outside of the highland regions. Development changed this through increased yields and new ways of harvesting and processing the quinoa. It was not easy and came at a cost. Bolivia

Andean enterprises  307 placed a lawsuit against the University of Colorado when it tried to patent Bolivia’s quinoa seeds (Nobel, 2014). Bolivia, home to the potato, already had its crop propagated around the world, with no financial return to its people. A county rich in minerals, it had also had its silver and tin taken by foreign traders –​once by Spain in the 1500s and again by the US in the 1940s, with little momentary benefit. Quinoa producers were wary of development, which they equated with exploitation, and saw a sensitive balance with nature being disrupted. They preferred to have a closed, slow development with few outside interactions  –​especially in the remote regions of the southern Altiplano. In 1988, a seed bank containing 1,900 varieties of quinoa, the largest in the world, was burnt by angry Altiplano farmers. A duplicate of the collection had been saved off-​site and still exists today. Commercial quinoa developed slowly and in fits and starts, until its properties as having a complete protein –​not found in any other plant –​and ability to grow in poor, arid soils made it appealing to protein-​seeking vegetarians and food-​insecure people worldwide. Its gluten-​free properties made it appealing to people with gluten intolerance. Quinoa became popular, useful and important –​ and has even been used in the NASA space program. In this manner, quinoa started appearing in global markets. By 2013 and the United Nations’ “Year of Quinoa”, Bolivia’s dominance and management of the quinoa market was in full swing. Large producer cooperatives formed around industrial processing plants that had specialized quinoa processing equipment for better cleaning and drying of the delicate seeds. Fair Trade organizations created market access and supplied technical assistance. The originating producers themselves were shrewd business people, managing the rural Challapata quinoa market, which for three years was the international trading floor for the world’s quinoa. This they managed with tight fists, raising quinoa prices 20% a year, year after year, because they could. The market demanded the seed production and the Bolivians were the largest commercial producers in the world. They had the market cornered. For a moment. Soon the Peruvian government began investing in quinoa production in non-​traditional quinoa lands, as did other countries such as France, China and Canada as well as private companies worldwide. Quinoa, a highly adaptable seed, grew well in these other environments, producing two harvests annually with double the yields of Bolivia’s carefully hand-​cultivated, slow-​growing, organic varieties. However, in non-​native growing regions, the quinoa seed quality diminished and chemical use soared. Quinoa is a highly absorptive bio-​ accumulator, concentring chemicals in the seeds. This is how Royal Quinoa is so nutritious:  the seed absorbs and accumulates the minerals of the salt flats. Care needs to be taken so elevated levels of lead and cadmium, food contaminants associated with chemical farming, are not stored in the quinoa seeds. This is known by few consumers. Many consumers purchase cheap non-​ organic quinoa, assuming all quinoa is natural and native-​grown. Food processing companies also prefer to use the cheaper, lower-​quality quinoa in their products since there is little consumer awareness of the difference, less spent on

308  Tamara Stenn inputs helps create healthy profit margins and there exists the assumption that all quinoa is “good and healthy” (Stenn, 2016–​2017). Other things not well known about Bolivia’s quinoa is that Royal Quinoa has higher nutrition rates than other quinoas and there exist many distinct varieties. As a bio-​accumulator, organic production is important for keeping the food safe for consumption and within the white, red and black colors are hundreds of varieties of quinoa, each with distinct culinary properties and uses not known outside of Bolivia’s rural highland kitchens. Though Bolivian producers have been working for years to have their Royal Quinoa recognized internationally with a Certificate of Origin, such as with Rooibos tea and Champagne, it is still in legal process and is a costly and difficult undertaking. Consumption and use Access to consumer goods was the focus of the next question, which most people responded to as being “satisfactory”. More specifically, respondents reported satisfaction with their access to goods such as packaged foods, soft drinks, clothing and household items. As a result of the quinoa boom, more corner shops and dry goods stores opened in the quinoa communities making these goods more accessible. Producers also had access to more currency for exchange  –​due to their export quinoa sales. Increased use of cash for purchasing, instead of the traditional ayni or barter system, has made consumer goods more accessible to rural households. Labor and welfare The fifth question about economics focused on the commercial production of quinoa. Producers varied in their responses, with some feeling it was quite poor, but overall respondents felt the production was satisfactory. The reason why the response was not more positive was because quinoa yields have been declining at a rate of about 14% a year as a result of climate change with more droughts and wind erosion affecting young seedlings, less investment in inputs such as expensive realizers and pheromone traps resulting in less robust plants, and fewer acres being farmed due to the low return on investment –​returns that often do no cover production costs. Nevertheless, the producers point out, there is quinoa and there are markets. Prices are double than what they were before the quinoa boom. Quinoa stores well for up to 12 years and there are quinoa surpluses from previous years’ harvests that farmers refused to sell at low market prices, preferring instead to wait for prices to rise again. All in all, producers remained cautiously positive about their commercial production. Technology and infrastructure The next-​to-​last question about economics focused the community’s economic return on quinoa sold in national markets. This was also reported as

Andean enterprises  309 “satisfactory”, with some variation amongst responses ranging from “bad” to “satisfactory  –​good”. The overall low feelings of satisfaction, very close to being “bad”, have not changed much over time. Producers are dismayed, angry and resentful. They feel the government can be doing more to help by investing in the quinoa industry, buying more quinoa foods for school lunches and other programs and helping to industrialize quinoa production by investing in equipment and training to make quinoa noodles, cereals and snacks. Current market prices cause farmers to lose on their overall investment but to gain cash on short notice if they need it. It is not unusual for a family to have 20 or more bags of quinoa valued at $80 each in storage on their property. When they need cash for a doctor’s appointment, children’s uniforms or school fees, they break rank with their community cooperatives and sell a bag of quinoa in the common market of Challapata. Wealth and distribution The last section of economics looked at the community’s economic return on quinoa sold in international markets, which respondents overwhelmingly reported as being bad. Feelings towards quinoa market returns have not changed over time. The expenses of growing organic, Fair Trade quinoa are not covered by current market prices. The nine-​month process includes times of intensive labor –​planting and harvesting –​plus pest management and inputs such as organic fertilizer in the form of increasingly more expensive llama manure. When large Fair Trade orders come in, a shipping container at a time, farmers are able to sell an average of 12 to 20 bags of quinoa each, earning several hundred dollars at once. In a region where the average family lives on $500 a month, this can be several months’ worth of earnings.The lag, often one year or more, between farming costs and product earnings makes the low returns and losses less apparent.

Capura, Bolivia: the happiest quinoa producers Despite the bleak outlook quinoa farmers have for themselves, their communities, production and future, there is one community, Capura, in the Ladislao Cabrera providence in Bolivia’s Department of Oruro, which is different. This small community of about 80 families is home to the “Integral Association of Organic Producers, Capura” (AIPROCA), a highly cooperative, well-​ organized Fair Trade-​certified quinoa producing association. Though few of the 150 members live in Capura full-​time –​many have primary houses in the cities of Cochabamba, Oruro and Santa Cruz –​they are active, engaged and wholeheartedly embrace the commercial development of quinoa. Networked with Oxfam, CLAC (Latin American Small Famers Fair Trade), they sell directly to Sindan, a large privately owned Bolivian food processing company that produces Fair Trade, organic quinoa noodles, soups, cereals and granolas for sale in upscale Bolivian supermarkets and European markets. The quinoa growers

310  Tamara Stenn of Capura are essentially satisfied with their market access (a score of 2.92 out of 5) as well as their investments (3 out of 5) and opportunities to improve their lives economically (3.03). In all they are 18% more satisfied with their economic well-​being than the other quinoa farmers in their region. The Fair Trade difference Fair Trade is a US-​and European-​based certification system where producer organizations pay to become members and follow guidelines around safe harvesting, fair wages, gender equality, cultural respect, long-​term contracts and environmental standards. Fair Trade was found to have a statistically significant positive difference for originating producers across the quinoa region –​though the overall feeling towards economic well-​being remained “bad”, just not as bad as that of the non-​Fair Trade producers. What benefitted producers was Fair Trade’s work with associations, and the provision of market access, pricing and training. Bolivian quinoa Fair Trade facts 1. Bolivian quinoa’s Fair Trade price is an average of 30% more than open-​ market prices, though still not high enough to cover production costs. 2. Fair Trade premiums  –​amounts beyond the sales price received by organizations and based on total annual sales  –​have helped to provide better storage, irrigation, harvesting equipment and organic inputs such as pest control. 3. Consistent export market access has helped producers to feel more positive in their well-​being, even though only about 20% to 30% of their total production is sold at the Fair Trade price. 4. Fair Trade’s inclusion of culture and environment in production compliments producers’ traditional beliefs and values. 5. Organic production is difficult with climate change, damaged soils, weaker plants and large, connected tractored fields attracting more highly damaging seed-​ eating worms. Fair Trade helps to support organic production methods with the use of pheromone traps to capture moths before they fertilize eggs from which hatch the seed-​eating worms, and organic sprays, though these methods still need further development and improvement.

Conclusion Entrepreneurism cannot be isolated from sustainable development and world and local events impact the role, responses and options for any entrepreneur. Using the Circles of Sustainability model, the impact of the natural environment, culture, governance and economics can be taken into account when understanding entrepreneurship development. The past also shapes current

Andean enterprises  311 thinking and ideas of the future, especially amongst originating people who have long histories that inform distinct worldviews. Bolivia’s originating producers are modern-​day entrepreneurs bringing a new and different economic response to a perceived opportunity for the betterment of their community. They work collectively, guided by ancient principles passed down generationally and preserved by the gross underdevelopment of Bolivia’s rural areas until recently. Contrary to other development trajectories, the recent development of Bolivia’s rural areas led to a renewal of originating beliefs and systems rather than their replacement. Bolivia’s recent rural development led to greater market access, opening the doors for Royal Quinoa to be shared with the world. The originating producers, banded together in well-​developed cooperatives, rapidly took advantage of the new market opportunities, skillfully managing growth and development to their advantage –​raising prices, reinvesting earnings into improved technologies and maintaining tight controls on quality and access. However, the power of global development forces and open markets, spurred on by the FAO’s “Year of Quinoa”, resulted in Bolivia’s originating producers losing their seed sovereignty and market exclusivity. What once seemed to be a development success turned into a market tragedy as competition from foreign countries and producers with greater resources and training caused the quinoa market to crash and spiral out of the original producers’ control. Nevertheless, like any resilient, determined entrepreneur, Bolivia’s originating producers have not given up and continue to forge forward, seeking new and different economic responses and opportunities to better their community and the world.

References CIA (2018). World Factbook, Bolivia. Retrieved from:  www.cia.gov/​library/​ publications/​the-​world-​factbook/​geos/​print_​bl.html. Circles of Sustainability (2018). About Our Approach. Retrieved from:  www. circlesofsustainability.org/​about/​about-​our-​approach/​. D’Altroy, T. (2003). The Incas. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Del Solar, R. (2005). Quinoa: Golden Grain of the Andes. La Paz: Editorial Pisces. FAO (2013). The International Year of Quinoa, A Future Sown Thousands of Years Ago. Retrieved from: www.fao.org/​quinoa-​2013/​en/​. Howard, R. (2009). Education Reform, Indigenous Politics, and Decolonisation in the Bolivia of Evo Morales. International Journal of Educational Development, 29(6): 583–​593. International Labour Organization (ILO) (2018). Unemployment with Advanced Education. The World Bank. Retrieved from:  https://​data.worldbank.org/​indicator/​SL.UEM.ADVN.MA.ZS?locations=BO. James, P. (2015). Urban Sustainability in Theory and Practice. London: Routledge. Janusek, J. (2004). Identity and Power in the Ancient Andes: Tiwanaku Cities through Time. New York: Routledge. Jennings, J. (2011). Globalizations and the Ancient World. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Kao, R.W. (1993). Defining Entrepreneurship:  Past, Present And? Creativity and Innovation Management, 2: 69–​70.

312  Tamara Stenn Kohl, B. and Bresnahan, R. (2010). Bolivia under Morales. Part  2:  National Agenda, Regional Challenges and the Struggle for Hegemony. Latin American Perspectives, 37(4): 5–​20. Lozano, D. (2013). La Quinua Real del Altiplano Sur de Bolivia. La Paz:  Fundacion FAUTAPO. Mamani, R. (1976). Salinas en marcha,Vol. 1. Salinas de Garci-​Mendoza: Quelco. Moody’s (2016). Rating Action:  Moody’s Withdraws Ratings of Banco Prodem S.A. December 6.  Retrieved from:  www.moodys.com/​research/​Moodys-​withdraws-​ ratings-​of-​Banco-​Prodem-​SA–​PR_​358862. Nobel, C. (2014). Bio-​Piracy:  When Western Firms Usurp Eastern Medicine. Forbes. April 21. www.forbes.com/​sites/​hbsworkingknowledge/​2014/​04/​21/​bio-​piracy-​ when-​western-​firms-​usurp-​eastern-​medicine/​#66fc21dc4ade. Postero, N. (2010). Morales’s MAS Government:  Building Indigenous Popular Hegemony in Bolivia. Latin American Perspectives, 37(3): 18–​34. Rocha Gallardo, A. (2016). Comercio Exterior, un mundo de posibilities. Instituto Boliviano de Comercio Exterior, Ano 24, No. 239. Schlick, G. and Bubenheim, D. (1993). Quinoa:  An Emerging “New” Crop with Potential for CELSS. NASA Technical Paper #3422. NASA. November. Smith, S. (2018). Eleven Years of the “Process of Change” in Evo Morales’ Bolivia. Council on Hemispheric Affairs. January 3.  www.coha.org/​eleven-​years-​of-​the-​ process-​of-​change-​in-​evo-​morales-​bolivia/​. Stanish, C., de la Vega, E., Moseley, M.,Williams, P.R., Chavez, C. et al. (2010).Tiwanaku Trade Patterns in Southern Peru. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 29: 524–​532. Stauffer, C. (2018). Angst in the Andes. Reuters Investigates. August 24. Retrieved from: www.reuters.com/​investigates/​special-​report/​bolivia-​indigenous/​. Stenn, T. (2015–​2018). US Fulbright Study of the Well-​Being of Bolivia’s Women Quinoa Farmers. Unedited Field Notes. Retrieved from:  www.tamarastenn.com/​ category/​blog/​. Stenn, T. (2016–​ 2017) Wholesale and Retail Consumer Study of Bolivia’s Royal Quinoa. University of Massachusetts Entrepreneurship Class & SIT Graduate Institute Marketing Class, Brattleboro, VT. UNESCO (2018). Data for the Sustainable Development Goals. Bolivia. Retrieved from: http://​uis.unesco.org/​country/​BO. Vargas, M. and Garriga, S. (2015). Explaining Inequality and Poverty Reduction in Bolivia. IMF Working Paper. D63, I32. December. Williams, P.R. (2002). Rethinking Disaster-​Induced Collapse in the Demise of the Andean Highland States: Wari and Tiwanaku. World Archaeology, 33(3): 361–​374. World Bank (2013). Reducing Poverty in Bolivia Comes Down to Two Words: Rural Development. World Bank feature story. July 6. Retrieved from: www.worldbank. org/​en/​news/​feature/​2013/​07/​06/​desarrollo-​rural-​para-​reducir-​pobreza-​bolivia.

12  Relational and social aspects of Indigenous entrepreneurship The Hupacasath case Irene Henriques, Rick Colbourne, Ana María Peredo and Robert B. Anderson

Introduction In May 2015, the Lax Kw’alaams band in northern British Columbia, Canada rejected a CDN$1.15-​ billion package from Malaysia’s Petroliam Nasional Bhd after the community unanimously voted against the US$30-​billion project in three polls. The offer would have compensated each band member CDN$319,000 for the right to build a natural gas export terminal on ancestral lands (Donville and Penty, 2015). Garry Reece, mayor of the town of Lax Kw’alaams, indicated that opposition to the plan was overwhelming and a spokesperson for the community opined that the Canadian public need to recognize that ‘this is not a money issue:  this is environmental and cultural’ (Donville and Penty, 2015). Winning the support of Lax Kw’alaams was critical to advancing the Pacific NorthWest liquid natural gas (LNG) project and other gas export plans in Canada and despite cash incentives on offer, the community cited environmental and cultural concerns as central to the community’s decision to opt out of participation in the project. Manitobah Mukluks is an Indigenous-​owned Canadian footwear design and manufacturing firm that is widely acclaimed for its innovative designs of mukluks and moccasins. Since its founding by Sean McCormick, the company has emphasized its mission to support Indigenous artisans and Indigenous peoples in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Manitobah Mukluks’ roots are grounded in his community, where he started by selling leather and furs to Aboriginal artisans as a high school student (Pauls, 2015). McCormick is Métis and grew up wearing mukluks in a community that was characterized by a rich culture, traditions and practices but marred by a legacy of poverty, drug abuse and other socioeconomic challenges that marginalized and disadvantaged many community members. He describes Manitobah Mukluks as a private business that acts on social values to facilitate positive change in his community while still capturing economic value (Pauls, 2015). Together these two examples demonstrate how social and cultural values embodied in a community (Lax Kw’alaams) and/​ or in an entrepreneur (McCormick) are central to determining what is a genuine opportunity and

314  Irene Henriques et al. how an enterprise might address complex social issues through prioritizing, balancing and blending social, cultural, economic and/​or environmental value creation activities in its business model (Douglas, 2010; Russo et al., 2015; Mair, Battilana and Dacin, 2011; Wilson and Post, 2011). Entrepreneurship is a process of extracting and contributing value that is anchored within a community’s particular socioeconomic conditions, within which the enterprise is embedded (Colbourne, 2017; Jack and Anderson, 2002; Kenney and Goe, 2004). Community-​based entrepreneurial ventures and social entrepreneurs both apply market-​based approaches to addressing pressing socioeconomic challenges to initiate social change. The manner in which enterprises are organized directly reflects the motives and objectives of entrepreneurs across a continuum that ranges from economic-​centric entrepreneurial enterprises to values-​centric social entrepreneurial enterprises (see Table  12.1) (Alter, 2003; Khieng and Dahles, 2015). On the left side of the continuum, the purpose of a purely for-​profit enterprise is in the control and deployment of resources to facilitate economic value creation (profit taking) and/​or growth (Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Dollinger, 2008). On this side of the continuum, the entrepreneur is the key player in the enterprise that has identified an opportunity and actively builds a market-​based network of stakeholders to support them in achieving growth and profit (Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011). In contrast, social entrepreneurship is a process that addresses social value and social change through the development of enterprises that not only earn a profit, but also advance solutions that address social concerns or act on social problems (Bornstein and Davis, 2010; Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011). This involves mobilizing socially embedded resources, transforming them into market-​ centric resources and re-​converting these socially valued resources to initiate and sustain the social change an entrepreneur or community-​based entrepreneurial venture has identified as being important to the community within which the enterprise is embedded (Colbourne, 2017; Dees, 1998; Steyaert and Hjorth, 2006; Stryjan, 2006). In contrast to mainstream entrepreneurs, social entrepreneurs seek to draw on a network of stakeholders to enable them to maximize the social benefits of the enterprise by acting on their values and realizing social goals such as poverty reduction, improvement of education, addressing environmental issues or combatting social injustice (Bornstein and Davis, 2010; Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Dacin, Dacin and Matear, 2010; Dees, 1998). Indigenous social entrepreneurship is posited inside each end of the continuum. We define Indigenous social entrepreneurship as the pursuit of Indigenous ventures that have multiple goals based on collective action to ameliorate the social, economic and environmental aspects of their communities. We argue that Indigenous social entrepreneurs draw on community resources to maximize blended value creation to address a community’s economic, social (spiritual and social justice) and environmental issues and challenges produced by a legacy of racism and colonialization. As a result of

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Table 12.1 Continuum of organizational diversity with social enterprises For-​profit enterprise

Value creation objectives Motives Methods

Accountability

For-​profit CSR

Hybrid Social, cultural, spiritual, environmental as well as economic Self-​interest Mixed –​ self-​interest, community interest, stakeholders and/​or shareholders Market-d​ riven Mission-​/​values-​ and market-​driven Stakeholders Reinvested in mission-​/​values-​ and owners related activities or operational expenses and/​or retained for business growth and development (for-​profit may distribute a portion to community) Shareholders Accountable to shareholders, community and/​or other stakeholders

Socially responsible enterprise

Social enterprise

Non-​profit and income generating

Non-​profit enterprise

Philanthropic Social, cultural, spiritual, environmental and/​ or economic Social change Mission-​/​values-​driven Reinvested in social programs or operational costs

Community and other stakeholders

The Hupacasath case  315

Income distribution

Commercial Economic

Indigenous social entrepreneurship

316  Irene Henriques et al. land loss and severe limitations set by the various levels of government on the free use of and continuing benefit from their natural resources, Indigenous people have become increasingly dependent on government transfer payments (United Nations, 2009:  24–​25). We argue that these transfer payments have increased the disparity between Indigenous and non-​Indigenous peoples and, consequently, Indigenous peoples are proactively responding to socioeconomic challenges by developing social enterprises that address two central issues: i) how to create and foster economic opportunities for their members (employment, entrepreneurship, subsistence etc.); and ii) how to fund and develop Indigenous government and civic institutions (legal, judicial, social services, education etc.) (Begay et  al., 2007; Cornell, 2006; Corntassel, 2008) that reflect and act on their social, cultural, environmental, economic and spiritual values (Colbourne, 2017; Peredo and McLean, 2013; United Nations, 2009). Indigenous social enterprises have emerged to address social issues as diverse as poverty, healthcare, economic development, infrastructure development, education, housing, culture and language revitalization. These enterprises provide Indigenous peoples with diverse opportunities to pursue economic decolonization or economic reconciliation through leveraging the growing global support for Indigenous rights and self-​determination to facilitate Indigenous-​ centric economic development focused on social, cultural, economic and environmental value creation activities (Gladu, 2016; Sengupta, Vieta and McMurtry, 2015). This chapter seeks to examine the role that financial institutions, governments and businesses comprising the entrepreneurial ecosystem play in encouraging or discouraging Indigenous social entrepreneurs. Using stakeholder theory (Freeman, 1984, 2004), social entrepreneurship theory (Anderson, Honig and Peredo, 2006; Bornstein and Davis, 2010; Dees, 1998, 2001) and stewardship theory (Hernandez, 2008, 2012), we argue that the stakeholders within the mainstream entrepreneurial ecosystem, financial institutions, governments and businesses often fail to properly consider the values of Indigenous peoples and Indigenous social entrepreneurial enterprises. We describe the case of the Hupacasath First Nation’s rejection of the construction of a natural gas plant in their community that resulted in the development of a successful social venture that respected their values, culture and traditions (Sayers and Peredo, 2017; Jones, 2007). Financial institutions were asked to fund a small run-​of-​the-​r iver hydro project led by the Hupacasath First Nation in British Columbia that respected the community’s values with respect to the waterways, air and fisheries within their reserve and traditional territories. In the end, the project was rejected by major banks but supported by the community’s own bank, the government of Canada, a government funding agency and a syndicate of credit unions in British Columbia (Jones, 2007). Using the lessons learned from this case, we suggest ways in which financial institutions, governments and businesses can improve their assessment of Indigenous social entrepreneurial projects as well as identify future directions for research.

The Hupacasath case  317

Indigenous peoples and social entrepreneurship Historically, Indigenous peoples suffered colonization, subjugation, integration and assimilation by merchants, traders, states and churches aimed at diminishing and/​or eradicating Indigenous cultures, practices and identities (Colbourne, 2017; Russell, 2009). The effects of colonization deprived Indigenous peoples of access to and collective ownership of the natural resources of their traditional territories, undermined unique cultures, languages and religions and delegitimized their social economies. Post-​colonial governments exacerbated these negative effects by supporting and advancing non-​Indigenous interests over those of their Indigenous peoples (Colbourne, 2017; Russell, 2009). According to the United Nations State of the World’s Indigenous Peoples report, Indigenous peoples in industrialized economies such as Canada, the United States, Australia and New Zealand consistently lag behind the non-​ Indigenous population in education and endure higher unemployment rates. Indigenous peoples face many challenges such as poor health, discrimination, substandard education, the loss of traditional livelihoods and restricted access to work and other socioeconomic opportunities (Dhir, 2015; UNDP, 2012). Moreover, those Indigenous people who do have full employment earn significantly less than their non-​Indigenous counterparts (United Nations, 2009). Indigenous identity Many countries have been reluctant or have failed to develop clear determinations of ‘Indigenous’ and ‘Indigenous peoples’ within their areas of jurisdiction (Lama, 2013). The most respectful approach to articulating indigeneity is to identify, rather than define, Indigenous peoples through recognizing the fundamental criterion of self-​identification (United Nations, 2015). Table 12.2 summarizes the various criteria developed by a host of organizations. While there are a number of approaches to identifying Indigenous peoples, all approaches display three common characteristics: i) the recognition of the diversity of Indigenous peoples and the right to self-​identification; ii) the recognition of Indigenous peoples as descendants of those who inhabited a geographical region at a time before people of different cultures or ethnic origins arrived and became dominant through conquest, occupation, settlement or other means; and iii) the recognition and legitimation of pre-​ existing Indigenous traditional cultural, economic, social or political values and institutions (Asian Development Bank, 2015; International Labour Organization, 2015; Peredo et al., 2004; United Nations, 2015; World Bank, 2015). In Canada, the Indian Act defines ‘Aboriginal’ peoples as Indians (First Nations), Métis and Inuit. As with Indigenous peoples internationally, Canada’s Aboriginal population is culturally and linguistically diverse, characterized by unique values, beliefs and traditional knowledge systems based on a strong relationship to traditional lands.

318  Irene Henriques et al. Table 12.2 Identification of Indigenous peoples Organization

Indigenous identification factors

International Labour Organization (2015) Convention 169 does not define who are Indigenous and Tribal peoples; provides criteria for describing the peoples it aims to protect The United Nations (2015) Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues considers the diversity of Indigenous peoples, therefore an official definition of ‘Indigenous’ has not been adopted by any UN-​system body

• traditional lifestyles • culture and way of life different from the other segments of the national population, e.g., in their ways of making a living, language, customs etc. • own social organization and political institutions • living in historical continuity in a certain area, or before others ‘invaded’ or came to the area

• self-​identification as Indigenous peoples at the individual level and accepted by the community as their member • historical continuity with pre-​colonial and/​or pre-​settler societies • strong link to territories and surrounding natural resources • distinct social, economic or political systems • distinct language, culture and beliefs • form non-​dominant groups of society • resolve to maintain and reproduce their ancestral environments and systems as distinctive peoples and communities World Bank (2015) • self-​identification as members of a distinct recognizes the varied Indigenous cultural group and recognition of this and changing contexts identity by others in which Indigenous • collective attachment to geographically distinct peoples live and that there habitats or ancestral territories in the project area is no universally accepted and to the natural resources in these habitats and definition territories • customary cultural, economic, social or political institutions that are separate from those of the dominant society and culture • an Indigenous language, often different from the official language of the country or region Includes: • a group that has lost ‘collective attachment to geographically distinct habitats or ancestral territories in the project area’ because of forced severance Asian Development Bank • self-​identification and identification by others as (2015) recognizes diversity being part of a distinct Indigenous cultural group and of Indigenous peoples and a display of desire to preserve that cultural identity refers to the characteristics • a linguistic identity different from that of the displayed by Indigenous dominant society peoples • social, cultural, economic and political traditions and institutions distinct from the dominant culture • economic systems oriented more toward traditional systems of production than mainstream systems • unique ties and attachments to traditional habitats and ancestral territories and natural resources in these habitats and territories

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The Hupacasath case 319 Indigenous peoples’ economic, social and legal status often limits their capacity to defend their interests in and rights to traditional territories and resources. It also limits the potential to benefit from entrepreneurial activities on or near their communities, resulting in Indigenous peoples being frequently among a country’s most marginalized and vulnerable population (Colbourne, 2017). Despite the fact that Aboriginal and treaty rights are recognized in the Canadian Constitution, Aboriginal peoples in Canada continue to suffer the effects of colonization that deprived them of access to and collective ownership of the natural resources of their traditional territories, undermined unique cultures, languages and religions and delegitimized their social economies (Colbourne, 2017). Encouraged by court rulings affirming and clarifying rights, however, Aboriginal communities across Canada are redefining the nature of their participation in economic development opportunities that occur on or near their traditional territories based on rights to the land, values and resources that are foundational to developing sustainable Indigenous social ventures. This presents an unprecedented opportunity for improving Aboriginal economic outcomes and unlocking Canada’s full potential for economic development (Anderson et al., 2012, 2014; National Aboriginal Economic Development Board, 2015). Indigenous entrepreneurship Indigenous peoples have proven their resilience time and time again and are developing entrepreneurial initiatives to improve their conditions, and this has attracted growing scholarship aimed at understanding the conditions within which Indigenous peoples engage in entrepreneurial activities. Peredo and Anderson (2006) in their review of the Indigenous entrepreneurship research identified three dimensions that differentiate Indigenous entrepreneurs from mainstream entrepreneurs. The first dimension is the pursuit of multiple goals. Through creating, managing and developing enterprises by and for Indigenous peoples, social ventures i) act as a mechanism for asserting inherent rights, sovereignty, self-​determination and self-​governance and ii) address the community’s values, traditions, culture and socioeconomic needs and objectives (Anderson et al., 2004, 2006; Colbourne, 2017; Hindle and Moroz, 2007; Lindsay, 2005; Peredo et al., 2004). The second dimension involves Indigenous entrepreneurs adopting a collective perspective regarding the structure, ownership and outcomes of the enterprise. Indigenous social entrepreneurs are embedded within communities that recognize that collective and individual rights are mutually interactive rather than in competition (Holder and Corntassel, 2002; Ritsema et al., 2015) and, therefore, they favor collective approaches to entrepreneurship that result in the creation of social enterprises (Anderson et al., 2005; Anderson, Dana and Dana, 2006; Colbourne, 2017; Frederick and Henry, 2004; Galbraith and Stiles, 2003; Lindsay, 2005; Peredo and McLean, 2013). Anderson (1999) maintains that the Canadian Indigenous approach to economic development is predominantly collective, centered on the community or ‘nation’, focused on ending

320  Irene Henriques et al. dependency through asserting economic self-​sufficiency, controlling activities on traditional lands, improving socioeconomic conditions, strengthening traditional culture, values, languages and education, training and institution building. Peredo and Chrisman (2006) draw on the experiences of Indigenous communities in diverse geographical settings to highlight the role of ‘community orientation’, traditional values and practices and the pursuit of multiple goals in the creation of ‘community-​based enterprise’ (CBE). They observe that CBE recognizes the capacity and processes by which communities can be entrepreneurial agents and build upon their culture and values. It is defined as a community acting cooperatively as both entrepreneur and enterprise in pursuit of the common good (Peredo and Chrisman, 2006). Colbourne (2017) identifies that Indigenous entrepreneurs worldwide have developed hybrid ventures as vehicles to address community wellbeing through acting on their sovereignty and inherent rights to promote self-​governance and self-​determination over the social, cultural, economic and environmental resources contained within their traditional territories. He asserts that Indigenous entrepreneurship and hybrid venture creation facilitate economic development initiatives that reflect a community’s particular culture, values, traditions and worldview as well as support struggles for self-​determination and self-​governance. The third dimension involves a respect of the sacred relationship with the land. Many Indigenous peoples experience a profound connection to their land of origin (traditional territory) and to the interdependent ecosystem of fauna and flora within which they interact and live as a result of worldviews that are founded on the active recognition of the interconnection, interrelationship and interdependency of people and the natural and spiritual realms (Colbourne, 2017). This dimension recognizes that the identities and cultures of Indigenous peoples are inextricably linked to their traditional lands and practices. Indigenous entrepreneurial ventures often reflect the values, traditions, traditional knowledge, access and proximity to lands and resources, and these understandings in turn influence what is viewed as an opportunity and how a venture is structured to achieve the particular blend of social, cultural, environmental and economic value creation important to the community (Colbourne, 2017; Curry and Donker, 2009; Dana, 2007; Spiller et al., 2011;Wuttunee, 2004). For the Aboriginal peoples of Canada, claims to their traditional lands and the right to use the resources of these lands are central to achieving self-​determination and self-​governance in two respects. First, traditional lands are the ‘place’ of the nation and are inseparable from the people, their culture and their identity as a nation. Second, land and resources are the foundation upon which Canada’s Aboriginal peoples intend to rebuild the economies of their nations and so improve the socioeconomic conditions of their communities and nations (Anderson et al., 2005). Indigenous social entrepreneurs as stewards Indigenous relational worldviews stress that Indigenous peoples are stewards of the land mandated with a responsibility to ensure that all of their actions are

The Hupacasath case  321 sustaining and respectful. In this, they are obligated to care for, respect, conserve and promote wellbeing for all people, fauna and flora residing within their traditional territories (Colbourne, 2017; Kuokkanen, 2011; Spiller et al., 2011; Wuttunee, 2004). Consequently, many Indigenous entrepreneurs and community-​based enterprises take this responsibility seriously and, therefore, tend to favour socioeconomic ventures that recognize the interdependency of all life and pursue objectives that promote sustainability and reciprocity between the human, natural and spiritual realms (Kuokkanen, 2011;Walters and Takamura, 2015). According to Hernandez (2008: 122), persons who take on a stewardship role tend to look at ‘the long-​term best interests of a group ahead of personal goals that serve an individual’s self-​interests’. Given this, stewardship theory, which emphasizes greater long-​term utility of the whole, in contrast to agency theory, which foregrounds self-​serving opportunistic behavior, can be posited as an important driver of behavior and values (Hernandez, 2012). Acting as stewards of their lands, Indigenous communities across Canada and elsewhere have successfully challenged governments and companies that have failed in their duty to consult or failed to obtain free, prior and informed consent or have not respected community values and treaty rights and, in so doing, have managed to either stop projects completely or have them re-​designed to address the Indigenous community’s issues and concerns (Kopecky, 2012; Mickleburgh, 2012 [2018];Verbos, Henry, and Peredo, 2017). The duty to consult In Canada, the duty to consult is a continual and reciprocal process that requires that the federal or provincial governments engage in consultation that is responsive to Aboriginal interests for situations in which proposed projects or activities might negatively impact a community. When this duty is initiated by the government, Aboriginal communities have the reciprocal duty to consult in good faith and not frustrate government attempts to consult (Murphy, Duncan and Piggott, 2008). The Crown must fully inform Aboriginal communities about the proposed action, learn about their interests and concerns and must be honest in its intentions in seeking to address Aboriginal interests and concerns (CIER, 2007; Murphy et al., 2008). Consequently, any land-​based or resource-​based project or activity initiated by the federal or provincial government triggers the reciprocal duty to consult. Free, prior and informed consent The notion of free, prior and informed consent (FPIC) posits that governments must obtain the consent of Indigenous peoples before making decisions that impact them within their traditional territories (United Nations General Assembly, 2008). FPIC does not supersede a sovereign country’s law with respect to its legislative and decision-​making responsibilities. The principle that Indigenous peoples have the right to give or withhold their free, prior and

322  Irene Henriques et al. informed consent is not only recognized and strengthened as a legal right by the UNDRIP but it is reinforced by other international bodies as well. For example, the International Labour Organization Convention 169 Article 14 calls for the recognition of Indigenous peoples’ ownership rights over the lands that they have traditionally occupied and usage rights over lands ‘to which they have traditionally had access for their subsistence and traditional activities’ (Anderson, 2011). Treaty rights Early treaties gave recognition to the nation-​to-​nation relationship between Canada’s First Nations peoples and the Crown/​ federal government. Since the imposition of the Indian Act in 1876, however, while First Nations were infantilized and treated as wards of the state, their inherent and treaty rights were never relinquished (Murphy et al., 2008; Nickerson, 2017). Canadian law, through section 35 of the Constitution Act 1982, now recognizes and affirms the treaty rights of Canada’s Indigenous peoples and, as a result, the federal government cannot extinguish these rights. Section 35 offers significant protection in the exercise of those rights by Indigenous peoples and the specifics of these rights and the legal obligations for the federal and provincial governments and corporations that flow from them continue to be defined, expanded and clarified, mostly through Supreme Court of Canada cases (Murphy et  al., 2008). In response, Indigenous communities in Canada have become more effective at asserting and exercising these rights, placing increased pressure on the federal and/​or provincial governments to acknowledge their responsibilities to Indigenous peoples and to come prepared to listen to and accommodate their interests and concerns (Murphy et al., 2008; Nickerson, 2017). From a stakeholder theory perspective, the duty to consult, the need to obtain free, prior and informed consent and respect Indigenous treaty rights combined with increased world demand for Canada’s natural resources serve to increase Indigenous peoples’ power, legitimacy and urgency (Mitchell, Agle and Wood, 1997). Consequently, governments and companies have sought more effective ways to be successful in engaging and accommodating Indigenous communities in Canada. In a speech Quebec Associate Secretary-​General of Aboriginal Affairs Pierre Cadieux, for example, described the historical Paix des Braves Agreement, a 50-​year agreement between the Quebec Government and the Cree Nation signed on February 7, 2002, as being based on four main principles: i) respect for Cree values and traditional way of life as well as the preoccupation for sustainable development of both parties; ii) greater Cree autonomy and self-​determination regarding their economic development; iii) establishment of a partnership between Quebec and the Cree Nation; and iv) mutual cooperation for the systematic follow-​up of the agreement and settlement of disputes through dialogue and mediation (2005: 13).While the benefits to the government and businesses include the expansion of hydroelectric

The Hupacasath case  323 projects by Hydro Quebec and access to new forest lands, Cree Nation benefits include possibilities for participating in and undertaking environmental impact studies into projects that affect their lands and the provision of guaranteed jobs for Cree Nation members and contracts for Cree businesses in both the electricity and forestry sectors. Long-​term agreements such as these, however, are rare as there are many more examples of situations in which governments and companies failed to consult with Indigenous communities or accommodate Indigenous values in decisions to access resources or expand businesses operations such as oil and gas or mining onto reserve and/​or traditional land (Gray, 2012). This leads us to propose the following proposition. Proposition 1. The inability of businesses and governments to understand, respect and integrate the economic, social and environmental values of Indigenous peoples into their decision-​making and operations will give rise to greater opposition by Indigenous communities to projects that ignore their rights and values. In practice, however, the duty to consult has often been presented to Indigenous communities as a take-​it-​or-​leave-​it decision (Henderson, 2013). As the perceived power, legitimacy and urgency of Indigenous peoples’ demands increases, take-​it-​or-​leave-​it consultations will be met with contempt. Accordingly, such consultations are being replaced by what Henderson (2013) calls respectful, comprehensive, proactive, interactive, resourced and substantive community engagement processes in which project developers are not leading the discussion but rather listening to community voices and responding to concerns and issues in a culturally sensitive and respectful manner (Nickerson, 2017). As Indigenous peoples exercise and sustain their rights to design, develop and maintain political, economic and social systems or institutions that secure their own means of subsistence and development and enable community members to engage in traditional, cultural and/​or economic activities occurring on or near their traditional territories, Indigenous entrepreneurs and community-​led enterprises will seek to create ‘value networks’ or entrepreneurial ecosystems of key stakeholders to support their efforts (Colbourne, 2017; Mair and Schoen, 2007; Peredo et  al., 2004; United Nations General Assembly, 2008). They will seek to create, manage and develop new ventures; they will seek out government agencies, Aboriginal finance organizations, universities, not-​for-​profit and for-​profit enterprises and other supporting stakeholders who share their values in addressing the community’s socioeconomic needs and objectives (Anderson et al., 2004, 2006; Colbourne, 2017; Hindle and Moroz, 2007; Lindsay, 2005; Peredo et  al., 2004). Therefore, we propose the following proposition. Proposition 2. Greater opposition by Indigenous peoples and their supporting stakeholders to projects that ignore their economic, social and environmental values and objectives will give rise to Indigenous entrepreneurs and community ventures by and for Indigenous peoples that address their economic, social and environmental issues and objectives.

324  Irene Henriques et al.

Social entrepreneurship and the role of financial institutions Social entrepreneurs create enterprises with business models that are designed to contribute social value to their communities through enacting creative solutions to complex socioeconomic and environmental challenges (Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Zahra et al., 2009). They are change agents focused on value creation that de-​centers economic value creation in favor of social, cultural, spiritual or other relevant values in order to address intractable social problems in a sustainable and scalable manner by working through alliances of NGOs, citizens and the private and public sectors. According to Dees (1998, 2001), social entrepreneurs play the role of change agents in the social sector, by i) adopting a mission to create and sustain social value (not just private value); ii) recognizing and relentlessly pursuing new opportunities to serve that mission; iii) engaging in a process of continuous innovation, adaptation and learning; iv) acting boldly without being limited by resources currently in hand; and v) exhibiting a heightened sense of accountability to the constituencies served and for the outcomes created. Whereas mainstream entrepreneurs are able to more easily attract financial resources from financial institutions, angel investors and venture capitalists better able to assess risk and the potential for returns, social entrepreneurs face more challenges in identifying funding sources as they need to identify potential funders that understand and share their interest in creating social value and facilitating social change (Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Certo and Miller, 2008). Stakeholders seeking to fund social entrepreneurial ventures struggle to understand the nature of the risk involved, let alone estimate the level or degree of social change or value creation that would justify committing resources to the venture (Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Certo and Miller, 2008; Dees, 1998). In Canada, issues in funding social ventures by Indigenous entrepreneurs and community ventures are exacerbated by i) location –​are the ventures located on-​or off-​reserve, and are they rural or urban-​based? ii) Constraints of the Indian Act, which prohibits the use of reserve land for collateral. (iii) The lack of access to a robust entrepreneurial ecosystem that includes but is not limited to other entrepreneurs, financial institutions and educational institutions.As a consequence, Indigenous social entrepreneurs and community-​led ventures face increased challenges in trying to identify financial institutions, angel investors or venture capitalists that understand the risks and constraints faced by Indigenous enterprises while maintaining their social value creation strategies. This is exacerbated by financial accounting methods that rely on measuring success using the traditional bottom line (profitability), which lacks a clear counterpart when the success of the enterprise depends on creating social value such as increased health, reduced poverty or environmental improvements, rather than economic value (Adamowicz et al., 1998; Bygrave and Zacharakis, 2011; Kirsch, 2001; Randall, 1983). Potentially, this can be addressed through accepting social accounting

The Hupacasath case  325 methods in the evaluation of funding proposals or in the assessment of the enterprise’s performance whereby the Indigenous social entrepreneur works with the lending body to identify, evaluate and assign value to the social benefits resulting from the enterprise. Here the higher, short-​term economic costs faced by the social enterprise due to its focus on achieving its social and environmental missions, for example, can be balanced by the long-​term social and environmental benefits (Morgan, 2009; Morgan and F’aui, 2014; Morgan, F’aui and Bennett, 2015; Walters and Takamura, 2015). Although there may be disagreements as to how to weigh and measure social, environmental, spiritual and/​or economic outputs, the effort of assigning value to such factors foregrounds the enterprise’s social change activities and legitimizes the community’s value structure (Mook, Quarter and Richmond, 2007; Morgan et  al., 2015). The change of focus from a profit-​oriented bottom line to an integrated economic, social and environmental values-​ based bottom line provides an opportunity for governments, corporations and communities to think about social impacts in a much broader and more relevant manner (Mook et  al., 2007:  131; Morgan, 2009; Morgan and F’aui, 2014; Morgan et al., 2015; Walters and Takamura, 2015). Proposition 3. Organizations that employ an integrated economic, social and environmental bottom line are more likely to address the needs of Indigenous social entrepreneurs. In summary, our theoretical framework suggests that the increased legitimacy, power and urgency of Indigenous peoples as a result of to the duty to consult, the need to obtain free, prior and informed consent or to address and accommodate treaty rights in combination with increased natural resource scarcity globally have combined to create a context in which Indigenous peoples are moving from being consulting stakeholders (proposition 1)  to proactive Indigenous social entrepreneurs (proposition 2)  who are seeking to establish and work with an entrepreneurial ecosystem or value network of multiple stakeholders (Mair and Schoen, 2007) that understand and employ an integrated approach to assessing an economic, social and environmental values-​ based bottom line (proposition 3). Below we draw on the China Creek case to illustrate our theoretical arguments.

Methodology The China Creek story was presented at a Joint Public Advisory Committee Meeting entitled ‘Engaging Indigenous Communities in the Work of the CEC’, held on September 24–​26, 2007, in Winnipeg, Canada. One of the authors, Dr Irene Henriques, was the Chair of the Joint Advisory Committee for the Commission for Environmental Cooperation (CEC) at the time and helped organize the meeting, which sought to engage Indigenous peoples from Canada, the United States and Mexico and began following the China Creek project and all organizations involved.

326  Irene Henriques et al. A content analysis (Krippendorff, 1980; Weber, 1985) was undertaken to build the case, which included analysis of: 1 the Hupacasath website (http://​hupacasath.ca/​history/​) 2 Hupacasath Executive Director Trevor Jones’ presentation of the China Creek story given at the JPAC meeting on September 25, 2007; the Centre for First Nations Governance website on best practices (http://​ fngovernance.org/​toolkit/​best_​practice/​hupacasath_​first_​nation) 3 the Vancity website (www.vancity.com); 4 the Vancity business website (www.vancity.com/​BusinessBanking/​) 5 Axel Christiansen, Vancity Investment Manager of subordinated debt’s presentation to the ‘Reversing the Tide’ Conference in Prince George, British Columbia on October 7, 2008 (www.refbc.com/​userfiles/​Vancity_​ Community_​Foundation_​RTT_​presentation_​Oct_​08.pdf) Results from the content analysis were then triangulated by a subsequent paper written by one of our authors, Dr Ana María Peredo, and Judith Sayers, the Hupacasath Chief who led the China Creek project (Sayers and Peredo, 2017). We now turn to the China Creek story.

Case: the China Creek story –​Hupacasath as social entrepreneurs Hupacasath First Nation peoples are part of the larger Nuu-​chah-​nulth Nation on the west coast of Vancouver Island and have inhabited their unceded territory, which encompasses what is now known as the Alberni Valley for several thousand years (Sayers and Peredo, 2017:  157). The Hupacasath have never ceded rights and title to their traditional territory of 232,000 hectares and have stated that they will not do so in a modern treaty. Their 350 members live on five reserves that occupy a land base of 232 hectares, equivalent to 0.1% of their traditional territory (see Figure 12.1). In 2001, British Columbia (BC) Hydro proposed the construction of the Duke Point natural gas-​fired generation plant for the City of Port Alberni, a waterfront community on the west coast of Vancouver Island (Sayers and Peredo, 2017; Jones, 2007). The local population, environmentalists, the Hupacasath First Nation and many others opposed the plan on the grounds of its environmental impact and successfully blocked the proposal.1 The Hupacasath Nation takes it stewardship responsibilities very seriously and they were concerned that the facility would damage their land, air and waters  –​contrary to the community’s deeply held values that any resource-​based projects proposed for their traditional territories should not be driven by economics, but by resource sustainability for all people of the lands (Hupacasath First Nation, 2004:  4). While the Hupacasath opposed this energy project, they were also aware the region remained in need of power and began searching for an environmentally friendly alternative solution. Ten possible run-​of-​the-​river power opportunities were identified and the Hupacasath determined that China Creek was the

The Hupacasath case  327

Figure 12.1 Map of the Hupacasath reserve in Port Alberni, British Columbia.

best option that would respect the community’s environmental values (Sayers and Peredo, 2017). In proposing their own community-​owned power project, the Hupacasath moved from being a consulting stakeholder to an Indigenous social entrepreneur (that is, from proposition 1 to proposition 2). They were centrally involved in the planning, decision-​making and development processes to minimize any negative effects and ensure that First Nations communities would share in the benefits. In initiating this community-​based social venture, Chief Judith Sayers, the Hupacasath council and Hupacasath Executive Director Trevor Jones became Indigenous social entrepreneurs. The Hupacasath rejected the traditional energy methods being proposed by BC Hydro. Instead they undertook a process that involved developing effective and reciprocal alliances of NGOs, citizens and private-​and public-​ sector organizations and enterprises (Bornstein and Davis, 2010). Working in collaboration with the Pembina Institute, Synex Energy, Natural Resources Canada, Indian and Northern Affairs Canada and the City of Port Alberni, the Hupacasath defined the cultural and resource values of their territory and undertook an assessment of wind and water resources (Hupacasath First Nation, 2004). In 2003, with help from researchers at the Pembina Institute and Sigma Engineering (a wholly owned subsidiary of Synex Energy), the Hupacasath council identified that China Creek did not have sacred sites, that there were no issues that could affect the salmon, that it would create a very small footprint on

328  Irene Henriques et al. the land and had an adequate flow of water for at least eight to ten months of the year, making the project economically, culturally and environmentally feasible as having run-​of-​the-​river hydro potential (National Centre for First Nations Governance, 2013; Sayers and Peredo, 2017; Jones, 2007). For this project, water from China Creek is diverted out of a creek into a penstock pipe and then run over a vertical drop through a turbine generator and returned to the creek downstream without significantly affecting the local water resource or natural environment. According to Trevor Jones, Executive Director of the Hupacasath First Nation, the run-​of-​the-​r iver hydro approach was chosen because it complied with the Hupacasath community’s values, satisfied the need for more power on Vancouver Island, was an energy source that did not increase greenhouse gases, provided opportunities for partnerships and community benefits, required no storage reservoir, was non-​consumptive (did not take away from Mother Earth) and had minimal environmental impacts (Jones, 2007). More specifically, the China Creek run-​of-​the-​r iver project minimized environmental impacts because China Creek has falls that are difficult to access, there were no salmon spawning issues and the project minimized environmental issues by locating the powerhouse in an existing industrial gravel pit.The end result was a run-​of-​the-​r iver 6.5 MW low-​impact Hupacasath First Nation-​inspired green energy project that during peak operations powers up to 6,000 homes (Sayers and Peredo, 2017; Jones, 2007) while ensuring that China Creek continues to be Port Alberni’s main water source. Most importantly, the City of Port Alberni was involved and cooperated in all stages of planning, financing and development and the Hupacasath First Nation signed a 20-​year power purchase agreement with BC Hydro. In 2004, the Upnit Power Limited Partnership was formed to run the China Creek run-​of-​the-​r iver power project; Upnit is the Hupacasath name for China Creek, which means ‘calm place’ (Sayers and Peredo, 2017: 163). The financing of China Creek The Hupacasath believed strongly in the China Creek project and moved ahead with decisions despite not having certainty over licenses, financing and equity partners. The Hupacasath chose their partners based on the need for strong strategic alliances, expertise and knowledge, opportunities to strengthen relationships and training, those with the ability to work well together and, most importantly, partners that shared the Hupacasath’s values. The Hupacasath First Nation are the majority shareholders of the Upnit Power Corporation at 72.5% ownership, with Synex Energy holding a 12.5% share in ownership, the Ucluelet First Nation with 10% and Port Alberni with 5% ownership in the project. The operating board has four Hupacasath First Nation members and one member from each of the other shareholder groups (Sayers and Peredo, 2017; Centre for First Nations Governance, 2013). The City of Port Alberni partnership enabled the Hupacasath First Nation to gain access to CDN$90,335 in grants from the Green Municipal Enabling Fund (GMEF) to undertake the comprehensive fisheries and geotech surveys required to secure financing for the overall project. The city also showed a willingness to train the Hupacasath First Nation

The Hupacasath case  329 members. The Ucluelet First Nation were chosen as a strategically aligned partner because the Hupacasath First Nation already had experience collaborating on the Eagle Rock Materials business with them (Sayers and Peredo, 2017). The Ucluelet First Nation are located on the west coast of Vancouver Island on the northwest side of Barkley Sound, and this collaboration enabled them to share expertise, build capacity, develop First Nation alliances, network with other First Nation businesses and lobby the governments for change together. Synex Energy Limited, the engineering arm of Upnit, was with the project since its inception because it had significant knowledge and experience in building and operating other run-​of-​the-​river projects (Sayers and Peredo, 2017). Another very important factor was Synex Energy’s belief in the project and its support of First Nations and their values in the region. Trevor Jones, Executive Director of the Hupacasath First Nation, stressed that the involvement of these stakeholders increased funding opportunities, opened doors to the community and helped them obtain needed financial, business and governmental support (Jones, 2007). As mentioned previously, raising funds is a significant challenge for Indigenous social entrepreneurs and community-​based social ventures. This case was no different, wherein the Hupacasath needed to raise CDN$14 million and needed the support of a financial institution. The Hupacasath First Nation wrote many proposals and lobbied for grants and received CDN$250,000 from the Aboriginal and Northern Climate Action Program (ANCAP), a CDN$1-​million loan from the Nuu-​chah-​nulth Economic Corporation, which accepted the Hupacasath First Nation’s financial transfers from Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC) as security (which a bank would not have done), and obtained a low-​ interest loan of CDN$945,000 from the Western Economic Diversification Fund (WED), which resulted in a matching equity grant of CDN$2  million from INAC’s matching equity program (Sayers and Peredo, 2017).While many of the most important Canadian financial institutions were approached for funding, only Vancity Credit Union agreed. Vancity is Canada’s largest credit union with 525,506 members and CDN$26.4 billion in assets. It is a member-​ owned, community-​based, full-​service financial institution that operates 59 branches in Coast Salish and Kwakwaka’wakw territories and is headquartered in Vancouver, British Columbia (Vancity, 2018). Vancity employs a triple-​bottom-​line business model (Vancity, 2018: 25) ,which is driven not only by a commitment to financial value creation but to environmental and social value creation as well.Vancity Capital worked intensively with the Hupacasath First Nation to bring financial information to other prospective partners, helped to promote and support the China Creek project and led efforts to organize a syndicate of credit unions and other investors to provide debt financing of CDN$8.9  million for the Upnit Power Corporation (Sayers and Peredo, 2017).Vancity Capital has since used the Upnit Power project as an example of how it applied the blended-​value approach in making the final funding decision (Christiansen, 2008). Christiansen (2008: 9) presented a figure (see Figure  12.2) depicting how a financial institution can increase the investment plane by using a blended-​value approach whereby the economic, environmental and social returns on investment (ROI) are examined (Emerson, 2000, 2003; Emerson and Bonini, 2003).

330  Irene Henriques et al.

Traditional Philanthropy

Venture Philanthropy

Pure Social Outcomes

Community Debt Financing

Community Development Equity/VC

Angle Investors & Social VC

BLENDED VALUE

Socially Responsible Investment Funds

Traditional Capital Institutions (Banks, VCs)

Pure Financial Outcomes

-People (Social ROI) -Planet (Environmental ROI) -Profits (Financial ROI)

Figure 12.2 Decision Making Approach used by Vancity Capital to expand the Investment Plane. Presentation made by Axel Christiansen, Vancity Capital Investment Manager, Subordinated Debt entitled ‘Investing in Change: Development Opportunities within the Non-​ profit Sector’, Reversing the Tide Conference, Prince George, British Columbia, October 7, 2008. Retrieved from www.refbc.com/​userfiles/​Vancity_​ Community_​Foundation_​RTT_​presentation_​Oct_​08.pdf.

For other financial institutions considering blended-​ value investing, Christiansen (2008) identifies that the institution must meet six requirements. First, the financial institution needs to be ready to provide upfront investment in business development/​investment readiness. Second, the financial institutions require a high level of engagement and capacity building to help applicants succeed. Third, the financial institution needs to have an integrated, flexible and long-​term approach to evaluating projects. Fourth, the financial institution needs to build and legitimize the business case using a blended approach or using multiple bottom lines. Fifth, as with the Hupacasath First Nation run-​of-​ the-​r iver project, financial institutions should not only welcome and leverage collaborative partnerships, they should promote such collaborations. By leveraging their partnerships, the Hupacasath were able to obtain significant federal funding from INAC, ANCAP and WED. Last, the financial institution’s role as intermediary must be extended to include other potential stakeholders and financial collaborators. In the case of China Creek, Vancity led efforts to organize a syndicate of credit unions and investors to finance the project and acted as a social champion for the blended investment enterprise. By employing an integrated economic, social and environmental bottom-​ line approach, Vancity was the financial institution chosen by the community to address their entrepreneurial needs (proposition 3).

Discussion and lessons learned Table  12.3 provides a synopsis of the actors, the type of involvement in the project and their ability to assess the economic, social and environmental

newgenrtpdf

Table 12.3 Synopsis of the actors, type of involvement and ability to assess First Nation values Actor

Financial institutions Energy companies

Type of involvement

Vancity Credit Union

-​ provided funding -​ championed project to other equity investors Major Canadian banks -​ refused to fund BC Hydro -​ signed a 20-​year power purchase agreement with the Hupacasath

Synex Energy Limited Government

Canadian federal British Columbia provincial

NGOs

Pembina Institute

Indigenous peoples

Ucluelet First Nation

-​ grant from the provincial Environmental Assessment Office -​ allowed the Hupacasath to complete a study on alternative energy -​ 5% owner and key supporter -​ provided backing to obtain financial support and licenses -​ collaborated to examine alternative energy options -​ in partnership with BC Hydro erected a wind tower whose year-​long testing proved disappointing -​ carried out a hydrological survey of the territory -​ investigated ten best sites for micro-​hydro -​ 10% owners who provided continuous support

-​ yes, used a blended-​value approach -​ no -​ proposed gas plant project did not meet Hupacasath values -​ worked with the Hupacasath and their partners to test alternative energy options including wind (which failed) -​ provided expertise to assess the environmental and economic impacts of the project -​ INAC’s role is to improve Aboriginal peoples’ social wellbeing and economic prosperity -​ to develop healthier, sustainable communities -​ provided the Hupacasath with expertise on environmental aspects of alternative energy projects -​ had a decade of data on China Creek’s water flow -​ supported the Hupacasath values -​ focused on developing innovative sustainable energy solutions -​ provided the Hupacasath with expertise on green electricity scenarios -​ yes

The Hupacasath case  331

Port Alberni City

-​ 12.5%  owner -​ provided services, network alliances and support -​ provided some funding

Ability to assess First Nation values (economic, social and environmental)

332

332  Irene Henriques et al. values of the First Nation. Clearly the stakeholders chosen to participate in the project were or became strong supporters of the China Creek project. The Hupacasath were also very much aware of the fact that opposing parties of Port Alberni would expect high environmental standards from them given that the Hupacasath had spoken out against previous energy developments in the past. This disparate group of stakeholders worked together to find a solution. Our theory on the importance of an integrated economic, social and environmental approach to Indigenous social entrepreneurship has important implications for social entrepreneurship and stakeholder theory. For social entrepreneurship, Indigenous social entrepreneurship combines elements of both the creation and power of small enterprises with the desire for broader social and environmental development within the community (Anderson, Honig and Peredo, 2006), suggesting that Indigenous social entrepreneurial projects require an integrated economic, social and environmental assessment. Current literature on social entrepreneurship, more often than not, assumes that partnerships must be created with companies that share the social vision of the social entrepreneur (Mair and Schoen, 2007). This need not be the case. In the Hupacasath case, social, environmental and economic values can be targeted without all actors sharing the exact same values (e.g., BC Hydro and government). With regards to stakeholder theory (Freeman, 1984, 2004; Frooman, 1999; Mitchell et  al., 1997), our analysis suggests that if and when stakeholders’ legitimacy increases and responses to their concerns by those with power decrease, opportunities arise in which the stakeholder will not only challenge powerbrokers by opposing the projects that ignore their concerns but they may also challenge the status quo by becoming social entrepreneurs to address their economic, social and environmental concerns. Our framework suggests that across time, as Indigenous people become more frustrated with business proposals that impact their economic, social and environmental values, opposition will increase and opportunities will arise for Indigenous social entrepreneurs to partner with organizations who employ an integrated economic, social and environmental bottom line. The Idle No More grassroots movement, for example, is a call for Indigenous and non-​Indigenous peoples to join together in revolution to honor and promote Indigenous sovereignty that protects the land and water (CBC, 2013). Consequently, Idle No More has leveraged social media to give Indigenous peoples a prominent voice and to enable them to communicate and share their increased frustration with Canadians and the world. Idle No More’s Facebook group, with over 45,000 followers, states its objective as being ‘to support and encourage grassroots to create their own forums to learn more about Indigenous rights and our responsibilities to our Nationhood via teach-​ ins, rallies and social media’ (CBC, 2013). Future research would examine how this social movement has affected Indigenous social entrepreneurship. The financing of Indigenous social entrepreneurs still remains a problem. The main objective of most financial institutions is the provision of financial capital and risk management products to projects and enterprises that seek

 333

The Hupacasath case 333 profit and promote economic prosperity. The weighing of whether a project promotes (a benefit) or harms (a cost) environmental protection and social change requires financial leaders to define and measure these aspects. More often than not, current laws are used as proxies that these harms will not occur or are minimized. As a result, no attempt is made to ascertain the environmental and social benefits of projects that go beyond the minimum standards set out in regional laws or attempt to deal with social issues such as poverty and lack of education. A financial institution’s inability to value a project’s environmental and social change contributions will lead the institution to favor projects that make no such contributions. Using our case as an example, an electricity generating project that harmed the salmon spawning grounds or increased air pollution would be funded over the run-​of-​the-​r iver hydro project proposed by the Hupacasath if the banking institution could realize a higher economic return on investment. An economic return on investment, however, does not represent the ‘full return on investment’ since it ignores the social and environmental costs. Future research would seek to examine how financial institutions who use a triple-​bottom-​line approach weigh the three values. What lessons can we take away from this case? First, all stakeholders in a project must consider and anticipate an Indigenous community’s economic, social and environmental values and be able to address those values in a holistic fashion for a solution to be found.The ability to assess a project’s economic, social and environmental performance provides an opportunity for organizations and society to think about impacts in a much broader sense. Second, those institutions or organizations that were invited to participate by the Hupacasath were not simply bystanders once their services were delivered; they were passionate advocates of the project. These institutions used their social networks to increase the project’s viability.They also did not attempt to control the project. Control always remained with the Hupacasath First Nation.Third, the Hupacasath First Nation themselves did not possess the technical or managerial capabilities to undertake the project on their own; rather, they were able to leverage the abilities of others by bringing together stakeholders who possessed these expert skills and capabilities and who shared their values. These stakeholders included governments (federal, provincial and municipal), NGOs, businesses and financial actors (a credit union and syndicated investors). Finally, the biggest hurdle, financing, requires a financial institution that is able to assess the project’s social, environmental and economic value. Unless more financial institutions adopt a blended-​ value approach to assessing social and environmental values into their calculations, such institutions will continue to bypass valuable and important Indigenous social enterprises. Such failures will create opportunities for other institutions to fill this need. Indeed, there are a host of examples of financial institutions that cater to the needs of social entrepreneurs, including the Grameen Bank, BRAC, Ashoka and Shore Bank in the United States to name a few (Bornstein and Davis, 2010). Banks seeking to engage with Indigenous communities whose power is increasing will need to adopt new values and lenses that will enable them to understand the values and returns on investment in their projects.

334  Irene Henriques et al.

Conclusion The Hupacasath First Nation Upnit Power Corporation case is just one example of many that demonstrates the difficulty that Canada’s major banks, governments and businesses have in assessing the social and environmental benefits/​costs of projects. This inability presents a tremendous obstacle for Indigenous social entrepreneurs and community-​based enterprises that seek to address social, cultural and/​or environmental issues. In the late 1990s, the Hupacasath First Nation’s opposing stakeholder position to BC Hydro’s gas plant development provided the impetus for them to find their own solutions that reflected their worldviews and values. As Indigenous social entrepreneurs, the Hupacasath, together with their partners, developed a successful social enterprise that aligned with their economic, social and environmental values. The case demonstrates how the Hupacasath sought control of the run-​ of-​the-​r iver project in order to achieve their social and economic objectives, which included increased self-​sufficiency and respect for their land, air and waters. Although the Hupacasath First Nation did not have the technical skills necessary to undertake the project on their own, they sought out partners who possessed the necessary skills and who shared their values. Only Vancity Credit Union agreed to take on this project and, despite the uncertainty, extra risk and costs associated with developing the hydro project according to the Hupacasath First Nation’s community values, Vancity was able to weigh these costs against the social and environmental benefits, now being partners in success with the community. In 2008, Hupacasath Chief Judith Sayers received the 2008 Canadian Environmental Award. In her acceptance speech she pointed out that the Hupacasath First Nation had worked very hard to ensure China Creek had no negative impacts on the surrounding land or fish habitat and that despite being told that a run-​of-​the-​r iver project would be too hard for them, people now come from all over the world to learn the best practices from their success in identifying, guiding and aligning the power project to the values and needs of the Hupacasath First Nation and other stakeholders in the broader community (National Centre for First Nations Governance, 2013). Currently, the Hupacasath First Nation has two other projects for waterways in their traditional territories that are in the planning stages: Corrigan Creek (6.5 MW; CDN$14 million) and Tsable River (6.25 MW; CDN$15  million), which every major bank in Canada stepped up to offer to fund. The Hupacasath First Nation, however, chose to stay with Vancity.

Note 1 See http://​fngovernance.org/​toolkit/​best_​practice/​hupacasath_​first_​nation.

The Hupacasath case  335

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures and in bold indicate tables on the corresponding pages. Abrams, D. 24 agricultural land 131 air pollution 130 air quality 131 Alaska Native Claims Settlements Act (ANCSA) 151 Alaskan Eskimo Whaling Commission (AEWC) 157 Anderson, R. 319–​320 aquifers, polluted 132 Arctic Climate Impact Assessment (ACIA) 155 Arctic Council (AC) 155 Arvola, K.-​M.  225 assimilation 70–​71 Atleo, R. 16 Aviatur 72 Barelli, M. 103 Bedouin, Negev 124–​125 Berkes, F. 215 Bessudo, J.-​C.  72 biodiversity, loss of 11–​12, 15 Bolivia see Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs, Bolivia Bramwell, B. 167 Briceño, A. 64 Brundtland Report 89–​90 buffalo: in Coyote story 60–​61; songs of hunting 25–​26 Calder v British Columbia 152 Calls to Action 19, 29 capitalism 46 Carlsson, L. 215 Carpenter, E. 258 Carr, A. 166–​167

Chan, J. H. 167, 174, 176 Charter of Economic Rights and Duties of States 103 children, underweight 136 Chi-​mei Indigenous community, Taiwan 179–​184 China: Hani and Yi Indigenous communities in 171–​177, 172; Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site 171–​177, 172, 184–​185 China Creek story 325–​333, 327, 330, 331 Chrisman, J. J. 264, 320 Christiansen, A. 326, 329 Civilisation, Its Cause and Cure 258 clash of values 28 Clastres, P. 239 climate change and natural law 23 code of conduct 29 Coe v. Commonwealth 92 Colbourne, R. 320 Colombian Institute for Anthropology and Archeology (ICAAN) 73 colonialism/​colonization 13, 34, 38; assimilation and 70–​71; in Bolivia 286–​287; commonalities and differences between legal systems under 92–​94; Kogui people and 65, 67–​74, 83 co-​management 214–​216; conveying results of 216–​219; ecological restoration of Vainosjoki area with 230–​231 command-​and-​control resource management 215 commerce, Native American: capitalism and entrepreneurship terms in 46; Coyote learns 46–​61; long history of 45–​46

342 Index community-​based enterprises, Indigenous Latin American 263–​265, 278–​279; Granja Porcón 273–​278, 275; Grupo Ixtlán 265–​273, 268 community-​based sustainability 113–​114 community centers 133 Conference of the Parties (COP) 158 Consejo Territorial de Cabildos Indigenas (CTCI) 77 Constitution Act 96 consumer society 13, 15; meaning substituted for 37, 40n15 Cooke, M. 117 Council of Indigenous Peoples (CIP), Taiwan 177–​178 Couto Misto 243 Coyote (story): Badger and 54–​57; Bobcat and 58–​60; Buffalo and 60–​61; Javelina and 51–​52; learns commerce 46–​61; mouse introduces money to 47–​51; Rabbit and 57–​58; revisits Bird 61–​62; Tortoise and 52–​54 Crate, S. A. 113–​114 Creator and Creation stories 19–​22; affirming 27; consequences of denying 33; honoring ‘sanctified kindness’ and 24; songs of 25; see also Ginmapiipitsin (sanctified kindness) Criado Boado, F. 239 crime and delinquency 135 Crowshoe, R. 10, 34; dialogue on shared ethical space 18–​31 Currás, B. X. 239–​240 Dees, J. G. 324 Deleuze, G. 244 Dias, J. 243 Dicks, B. 168 Doyle, C. M. 14 duty to consult 321 Earth: human ecological footprint on 11, 36, 39n1; as living source 17, 34, 36 Eastern Sámi Atlas 194 ecological footprint 11, 36, 39n1 Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) 156 economic importance of place 139 education levels 134 electricity, access to 130 Eleicegui, A. 255 emancipatory participation 257–​258

employment: unemployment and 132–​133; women’s 133 entrepreneurship, Indigenous 46; challenges facing Indigenous community 183–​184; ethnic minority, in Mainland China 170–​171; Hupacasath case 313–​334; as pro-​active response 167–​169; Royal Quinoa 282–​311; in Taiwan 177–​184; see also community-​based enterprises, Indigenous Latin American environmental pollution 130, 132 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) 131 Erkinaro, J. 209 Ermine, W.  10 Estadía Minera 255 ethical space: dialogue on 18–​31; imperative of sustainability and reconciliation in 11–​17, 24; invitation to 37–​39; natural law and 32–​33; shared 10–​11 ethical values 29, 231–​232 European Environment Agency (EEA) 112 extractive industries see natural resources extraction Fair Trade  310 farming, subsistence 131 Feodoroff, P. 230, 230 Franco, F. 246, 251 Fraser, N. 182 free prior informed consent (FPIC) 13–​14, 80–​81, 101–​103, 321–​322 Frojám Commons 244–​251, 257 Fu, J. 171 Gaia Hypothesis 17, 34 Galiza, Spain see Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs), Galiza Gandhi, M. 257–​258 garbage disposal 130–​131 García Ramos, A. 243 genocide 15, 39n4 gentrification 166–​167; entrepreneurship as pro-​active response to 167–​169 Gil, R. 72 Ginmapiipitsin (sanctified kindness) 11, 20–​21; code of conduct and 29; Creation and 22; honoring 23–​24; invisible concept and 22; principle of 31–​32; shared space and 23 Glass, R. 179 globalization 151, 160–​161

Index  343 Gomez, E. 101 Graburn, N. H. 166 Granja Porcón 273–​278, 275 Graziano da Silva, J. 289 Greenpeace 162 Grupo Ixtlán 265–​266; empowering mechanisms of 269–​271; governance of 266–​269, 268; sustainable development by 271–​273 Guattari, F. 244 Haida Nation v. British Columbia 97–​98 Haiyupis, R. 15–​16 Hani Indigenous community, China 171–​177 health services/​clinics  133 Henderson, C. 323 Hernandez, M. 321 higher education 134 high school education 134; women with 134 Hindle, K. 168 Honghe Hani Rice Terraces UNESCO Cultural Landscape World Heritage Site 171–​177, 172, 184–​185 housing, illegal 137 Hsu, C. S. 183 human adaptation 13–​15 Human Development Index (HDI) 116–​117, 127 human identity 26, 33–​34 hunting: in Inuit culture 149–​150; songs of buffalo 25–​26 Hupacasath case see social entrepreneurship identity: human 26, 33–​34; place 138–​139; social place 139–​140 illegal homes 137 Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC) 157; Frojám Commons and 244–​251 Indigenous and Community Conserved Areas (ICCAs), Galiza 235–​239; broadening circles of concern in 251–​254; emancipatory participation and 257–​258; re-​education of society on 254–​257; self-​determination of Galizan communities and 239–​244 Indigenous Land Use Agreements (ILUAs) 88, 95, 100 Indigenous peoples 1–​8; attempted assimilation of 70–​71; comparative context of Indigenous title and 46,

94–​96; disproportionate impact of industrial extraction of natural resources on 12, 13, 39–​40n5, 96–​101; diversity of 12; gentrification effects on 166–​167; oral history practices of 30, 219–​225; resistance to development among 75–​80; treaty rights of 322–​323; see also community-​based enterprises, Indigenous Latin American; entrepreneurship, Indigenous; self-​ determination, Indigenous; sustainability, Indigenous Indigenous-​state land struggles 140 Indigenous tradition preservation and place 141 industrial society 13, 35–​36; Kogui ancestral land and 68–​70; see also natural resources extraction infant mortality rate 136 International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination 89, 95, 98 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) 89, 91 International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR, 1966) 89, 91 International Labour Organisation Convention 169 80, 89, 322 Inuit Circumpolar Council (ICC) 149, 154–​161 Inuit culture 147–​148, 162; global political stage and sustainability in 156–​158; hunting in 149–​150; self-​determination in 151–​156; sovereignty and 159–​161; sustainability and political awakening of 148–​151 Inuit Taprisat of Canada (ITC) 152 Jefremoff, D. 197 Jones, T.  326 Kee Mamano 16–​17 Kemp, D. 102 Kleist, K. 161 Kogui people 82–​84; ancestral territory of 65–​67; attempted assimilation of 70–​71; damned development interventions and 67–​74; encroachment, extractivism, and land-​g rabbing effects on 68–​70; long tradition of resistance and resilience of 63–​65; rights to territory, culture, autonomy, and self-​governance of 80–​82;

344 Index tourism among villages of 71–​74; views on and resistance to development 75–​80 Kosovo Report 91 La Correspondencia Gallega 255 Lai, L. Y.  183 land acknowledgment 27–​28 land ownership 131 land struggles 140 Lansdowne, M. 168 Larsen, J. N. 117 Latin America see community-​based enterprises, Indigenous Latin American Law of Origin 66, 75, 81, 84 Lax Kw’alaams 313 leadership, local 141 legal landowners 131 Lertzman, D. 10, 16; dialogue on shared ethical space 18–​31 Liang, E. 171 life is environment and environment is life 32–​33 Lin, H. C. 183 Lin, P.-​S.S.  82 Little Red River Cree Nation 16 Liu, C. B. 177 Liu,Y.-​L.  82 Lloyd, S. 99 local ecological knowledge 215–​216 local leadership 141 Lost City (La Ciudad Perdida) 72–​73 Lovelock, J. 17 Luhta, J. 218 Lynge, A. 161 Lyons, O. 15 Mabo v Queensland 95, 105–​106n13, 106n25 MacDonald, M. B. 16 Manitobah Mukluks see social entrepreneurship marriage, polygamous 136 McCormick, S. 313 meaning, consumption substituted with 37, 40n15 mentally sustainable space 126, 128, 129, 137–​141 men with higher education 134 Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 11 Morales Ayni, E. 283–​284, 288, 289, 300 Murguía, M. 243 Murtomäki, E. 218

Näätämö River: contemporary catchment area of 200–​208; human societies of 198–​200; local fishery in Neiden village, Finnmark, Norway 225–​228; morals and ethics of relations with 231–​232; oral history observations of 219–​225; preliminary results of new bird surveys of 208; scientific view on water quality of 201–​207, 201–​208; state and shared governance of 208–​216 native language use 136 Native Title Act (NTA) 94–​95, 98–​101 natural disasters 131 natural law 22; climate change and 23; ethics and 32–​33; Thunder  and  23 natural resources extraction 12–​13, 39–​40n5, 40n6, 88–​89; consultation between the Crown and Indigenous peoples during 96–​101; free prior informed consent (FPIC) and 101–​103; next step towards self-​determination in 103–​104 Negev Bedouin 124–​125 Niemelä, E. 200, 209 Niitsitapi (Blackfoot) people 18 Nuu-​ chah-​ nulth people 15–​16 Nuuk Declaration 156 OECD 112 Onondaga Turtle Clan  15 oral history practices 30, 219–​225 Orell, P. 210 Organisacion Gonawindua Tayrona (OGT) see Kogui people Owen, J. 102 ownership of Indigenous culture 165–​166 Papillion, M. 102 Parcero Oubiña, C. 239 participatory action research (PAR) 238 paved roads 130 Peredo, A. M. 264, 319, 320, 326 Perry, M. 99 physically sustainable space 126, 128–​132, 129 Piikani (Blackfoot) First Nation 10–​11, 18; band songs 24–​25; self-​determination and 35–​36 Pimachihowan lifeway 16 PISUNA method 216–​219 Pitseolak, P. 218 place: as component in individual resilience 141; economic importance of 139;

Index  345 Indigenous tradition preservation and 141; sensed as sustainable 140; sense of 138 place identity 138–​139; social 139–​140 playgrounds/​parks 133–​134 political awakening and sustainability 150–​151 pollution, environmental 130, 132 polygamy 136 poverty, causes of 118 power grid, access to 130 Priscilianism 241 public sewage grid 132 Puranen, J. 218 Quinoa,the Golden Grain of the Andes 288 Racial Discrimination Act 95, 106n25 Rees, W. 36, 39n1 Reference re Secession of Quebec 91 Resguardo Kogui-​Malayo-​Arhuaco (RKMA) 66–​67; tourism and 73–​74 resilience, place as component in individual 141 resistance to development 75–​80 Rico, E. 244–​245 Risco, V.  237 risk perception 139 rivers, Skolt Sámi and see Skolt Sámi roads, paved 130 Rodon, T.  102 Royal Quinoa entrepreneurs, Bolivia 282–​283, 310–​311; of Capura 309–​310; colonial era and 286–​287; conflict with originating beliefs 290–​292; cultural sustainability and 297–​300; ecology and 293–​296; economic sustainability and 304–​309; Inca and pre-​Inca trade and 285–​286; political sustainability and 300–​304; rediscovery and 287–​290; renewal campaign and transformation for 283–​292 Ruhanen, L. 167 Russian Association of Indigenous Peoples of the North (RAIPON) 153–​154 R v Sparrow 94, 96 Sagawinawak philosophy 16 Sámi people see Skolt Sámi sanctified kindness see Ginmapiipitsin (sanctified kindness) Santos, F. M. 264 Saraiva, J. H. 241–​242

Sawyer, S. 101 Sayers, J. 326 self-​determination, Indigenous 13–​15, 26–​27, 34–​37, 65, 88; consultation during natural resource activities and 96–​101; domestic implementation of 91–​92; free prior informed consent (FPIC) and 13–​14, 80–​81, 101–​103; in Galiza 239–​244; global legal context of right to 89–​91; Inuit 151–​156, 159–​161; next steps toward 103–​104 self-​gentrification: Hani and Yi Indigenous communities and 171–​177, 172; introduction to 165–​169; methods and data on 169–​170; overview of ethnic minority entrepreneurship and 170–​171; overview of Indigenous entrepreneurship in Taiwan and 177–​184 sense of place 138 sensing of place as sustainable 140 sewage, public 132 Sewepagaham, C. 16 shared ethical space 10–​11, 22; dialogue on 18–​31; invitation to 37–​39 Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta (SNSM) 65–​67, 83–​84; encroachment, extractivism, and land-​grabbing in 68–​70; recommendations for 82–​83; resistance to development in 75–​80; tourism in 71–​74 Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy 15 Skolt Sámi: conveying results of co-​ management of salmon and fish stocks by 216–​219; morals and ethics of river relations of 231–​232; Näätämö watershed and 198–​216; notion of rivers and 192–​194, 228–​230; oral history observations of 219–​225; shared governance of Näätämö by 214–​216; traditional land use and culture of 194–​200; visual histories of 218–​219; water quality of Näätämö River and 201–​207, 201–​208 Smith, L. T.  194 Snowchange Cooperative 220–​225 social entrepreneurship: characteristics of 314–​316, 315; China Creek story of 325–​333, 327, 330, 331; Indigenous peoples and 317–​323, 318; research methodology on 325–​326; role of financial institutions in 324–​325, 332–​333, 334; as stewardship 320–​323 socially and economically sustainable space 126, 128, 129, 132–​137

346 Index social place identity 139–​140 soil, polluted 132 Spanish National Environmental Education Centre (CENEAM) 235 sports facilities 133 stakeholder theory 332–​333 stewardship through social entrepreneurship 320–​323 Stossel, Z. 142 streams, polluted 132 subsistence farming 131 suicide rate 137, 151 sustainability, Indigenous 18–​31, 142; community-​based 113–​114; as ethical imperative 11–​17, 24; indicators of 125–​128, 129; Indigenous sustainable place and 113–​115; in Inuit culture 148–​150; land acknowledgment in 27–​28; measurement of 112, 115–​124, 119–​123; mentally sustainable space 126, 128, 129, 137–​141; of the Negev Bedouin 124–​125; 100 years analog 26–​27, 29, 33; physically sustainable space 126, 128–​132, 129; political awakening and 150–​151; self-​determination and 26–​27, 34–​37; shared ethical space and 10–​11; socially and economically sustainable space 126, 128, 129, 132–​137 Sverloff, M. 211 Taiwan: Chi-​mei Indigenous community in 179–​184; overview of Indigenous entrepreneurship in 177–​184 Tayrona National Park (TNP) 72 territory, entering of another's 28 Thoreau, H. D. 258 Thorpe v Commonwealth 94 Todd, L. 166 Tolstoy, L. 258 Topfer, K. 158 tourism 71–​74; in China 170–​171; self-​gentrification in response to 165–​185; in Taiwan  178 traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) 216 traditional lifestyle-​related diseases 134–​135 treaty rights 322–​323

Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Canada 19 Tsilhqot'in Nation v. British Columbia 96, 104 underweight children 136 unemployment 132–​133 UNESCO designated site, Honghe Hani Rice Terraces 171–​177, 172, 184–​185 UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) 158 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) 159 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) 2, 29, 89, 101, 104–​105 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 89 Vainosjoki River 230–​231 Valkeapää, N.-​A.  218 values: clash of 28; ethical 29, 231–​232 Vilar Commons 248–​251, 257 Viliui Sakha community, Russia 113–​114 visible/​invisible concept  21–​22 visual history 218–​219 Vizenor, G. 46 Vuorelainen, M. 218 wages, average 134 water: access to drinkable 130; Näätämo River 201–​207, 201–​208 WEIRD (Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and developed) world 63 Whitford, M. 167 Wik Peoples v Queensland 94 willingness to leave for compensation 141 women: education of 134; employment of 133; in Inuit society 149; motherhood under age 18, 131–​136; in polygamous marriages 136 World Bank 112 World Database on Protected Areas (WDPA) 235, 257 Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF) 155 Yes to Life No to Mining coalition 237, 254 Yi Indigenous community, China 171–​177 Zheng, J. 171